by Steve Lang
Each morning, Stanton entered the plant at seven a.m., nodded to his security guard, and tromped up a metal staircase to his office that overlooked the plant floor. His office windows were covered with blinds, allowing him to hide from public view as he watched his workers toil below. If employees became lazy, or became involved in too much conversation, he would ring the security guard and have the person or persons involved reprimanded. Most of the time punishment meant a half day of pay taken, or termination depending on Nathaniel’s mood.
Nathaniel Stanton had never met anyone like Owen Freemantle, or had ever seen what happens at the tipping point of a man’s sanity, but he was about to find out.
Owen Freemantle had a dark cloud hanging over his life. He had lost his wife to cancer, his home to the bank, and due to the depression, he had no money to care for his three children so, was forced to place them temporarily in the custody of Ophelia Gray’s Orphanage. Owen loved his children more than life, and had planned to take them back once he could secure a residence. The textile mill was the only company hiring, and although he had heard all of the horror stories about the plant’s owner, Owen accepted the job of Firebeater, tending the boilers at Stanton’s Manufacturing’s cotton mill. Three weeks after he began his new job Owen’s life took another drastic, downward spiral, from which he would not return. In a horrifying turn of events, the orphanage caught fire in the night and as Owen’s three children slept they were consumed with the house. The fire department contained the blaze, and kept fire from burning the houses next to it, but could not save his children. All inside perished, and Owen’s soul was crushed. That day he lost himself in the blaze. Owen Freemantle was one paycheck away from renting a house where they could all live. Stanton gave Owen half a day off with pay to bury his children, but expected him back to work that same day.
Owen returned to his job in the boiler room a zombie, a man on the edge, his soul ground into the same dirt he buried his children in. They were all he had left after losing his best friend Sally to that damnable disease, and now Bobby, Tracy, and Delilah were nothing but ashes. Stanton had forgotten all of this when he barged into the boiler room and screamed at Owen for spilling grease on the plant floor. Of course, Owen had not been there all morning, but Nathaniel was famous for making examples of innocent people and could not care less. “You there, Firebeater! What’s the meaning of soiling my plant floor?!” Stanton screamed.
There were only a few workers in the boiler and those outside knew enough to keep right on with their work, if they did not want to be next. Owen remained silent and took the verbal lashing with his head hung low. With a head full of fog, and lost in his sorrow, Owen did not speak until the words “you’re fired” exited Stanton’s mouth, and when he did speak it was just above a whisper.
“Sir, I’m not a violent man, and never have been, but you’ve caught me at a particularly rare time in my life. I believe you’re going to regret your actions. Good day, Mr. Stanton.” Owen mumbled.
“Get the hell out of my plant!” Stanton screamed.
What happened next would become a local legend for some time to come. Owen Freemantle had a complete mental breakdown after his firing, but he knew exactly where Nathaniel Stanton lived in rural Concord. In his rage, Owen decided he might fancy to burn Stanton’s house down. He plotted for several days without sleeping as he daydreamed about seeing his family once more. On a Tuesday morning in June Owen stood up, and began walking toward Stanton manor. His plan had been to set the house on fire and run, but upon arrival Owen noticed Stanton’s wife Carina hanging clothes on the line in the back of the property.
Without a word he grabbed her around the neck with the crook of his arm, and dragged the struggling, terrified woman back inside her home. Owen hit her in the head with a cast iron frying pan that had been lying on the oven, knocking Carina unconscious. The Stanton children were playing down the road while Owen fileted Stanton’s wife like a fish in her kitchen with a butcher knife. After she was dead he began to rummage through the house and located a pistol in Stanton’s study with six rounds in the cylinder. In a more tragic turn of events, the neighbor, Tracey Atwell, happened to be bringing the children back home for their lunch, and as she opened the screen door the kids ran inside.
“Carina! We’re back!” Tracey sang.
Owen stepped around the corner without a word, leveled their father’s pistol and squeezed the trigger four times. The two kids dropped like rocks on the hard wood floor, as a shocked Tracey Atwell stood gawking in the doorway, her body frozen by fear. Owen shot her once in the forehead, and she fell over sideways with a thump. Owen took her by the feet and dragged her body inside, while a crimson pool spread on the porch, and floor.
Warm afternoon sun was setting as Nathaniel Stanton, in his 1889 Mercedes-Benz Wire Wheel, drove up the dirt road to his house greeted by three grim faced police officers, an investigator, and county coroner.
“Carina!” He yelled. The world moved in slow motion.
Nathaniel ran for the house, his face turning pale white as he struggled against the restraining arms of two large police officers. Terror for his family gave Nathaniel super human strength and he broke free from the officers’ grip, and sprinted up the front porch. He threw open the screen door and restrained a wave of nausea from the overpowering odor of death inside his home. The police had not been on the scene long enough to clear bodies, so Nathaniel found Tracey Atwell, his neighbor, and Tommy and Joel his two children lying in the foyer. Owen Freemantle swung from his neck on the hallway chandelier like a demented pendulum. He had used his belt to hang himself, and as Nathaniel’s beleaguered mind took snap shots of his destroyed life he could not help but wonder how Owen had managed to get so high up. He found his pistol on the floor, numbly picked it up and walked into the kitchen. Nathaniel’s end came when he discovered his wife’s body, limp and partially dismembered.
“My dear, Carina…my poor, beautiful babies” He shed a tear, placed the gun in his mouth, and as the officers barged in to stop him, Nathaniel squeezed the trigger.
That summer the grisly Stanton murder suicides were the hot topic of public conversation, but in time the horror of Stanton Manor faded into myth, and then urban legend. Years went by and the house remained empty, fell to disrepair, and became an attraction for local teenagers, who dared each other to drive up to the old house at night. The brave would get out of their car, walk up to the front door and knock. Most would turn and run, but for those who stayed longer than a few seconds there were accounts of a frowning, spectral figure peering through the tattered living room curtains. For generations, kids growing up in Concord called Stanton Manor The Devil’s Playground. The old house also had a local reputation for being possessed by the ghosts of the Stanton family, which had made it unsellable. The house remained empty for over fifty years, until one day Ron James bought the old fixer-upper for a steal.
Ron was a middle-aged man, with graying hair and persistent five o’clock shadow that he hoped made him appear younger. That was difficult since the stubble was as gray as the hair on his head, and most days it only gave him the appearance of needing a shave. The new house place was going to be a gift for his wife and their two young children, and he purchased it for fifty thousand less than the market value.
Stanton Manor sat on twenty wooded acres and as time went on most of the house was absorbed by kudzu and climbing vines sweeping up and over the roof like a blanket. A weeping willow out back had grown so large that it completed the image of a cliché haunted house, but Ron had been a house flipper for years and never ran from a deal, especially in real estate. So, against his wife Adelaide’s protests, Ron purchased Stanton Manor and left his wife and children in Pennsylvania while he traveled down south to fix the house for them. The family was going to move down with Ron as soon as renovations made the house livable again. Ron’s construction crew cleared out the kudzu, put up new wood siding, rebuilt the front porch, and then renovated the kitchen with fresh tile. The o
ld wood flooring had a large, permanent, dark stain running from kitchen to foyer, and even though fifty years had passed, it appeared as fresh as the day Stanton found his family dead.
The bedrooms were next to be renovated, and then the sitting room, library and finally all four bathrooms. Ron’s contractors, run by a man named Joe Casey, would only work during the day due to the house’s reputation, and as soon as the sun began to set they cleared out. Leaving by sundown was a stipulation written in their contract, but Ron was just so happy to get anyone to work on the house that he gladly accepted their terms. The idea that superstition would keep anyone from earning overtime was beyond him, but even with the workers leaving before sundown the entire project was completed in three months. When Ron and his hired crew were finished rebuilding the old manor, Nathaniel Stanton himself would have been proud to move back in. Ron paid the crew their last check as Joe, and his men were leaving on the final day of construction.
“I wish you luck in your new home, Mr. James. I know this place has a wicked reputation, but she looks like new and I think you’ll be fine here.” Joe smiled.
“Thanks, Joe. I’m not too worried about a few ghost stories. Besides, if there are ghosts here, at least they now have a nicer place to haunt. You guys did a great job. Sure you don’t want to stay for a beer?”
Joe smiled, and glanced at the chandelier above their heads. He noticed a slight sway in the breezeless entryway.
“I’m good, sir. Have a wonderful evening.” Joe folded his paycheck and put it in his shirt pocket before jogging to the idling truck outside.
As Joe and his men left, Ron stood in the doorway watching them go. He could begin moving in any day now. He called his wife to tell her the good news as shadows fell across the foyer.
“Hi Adie! They just finished construction; you and the kids can come out here in a few days.” Ron said.
“That’s great news, Ron. The kids and I miss you. We’ve got the car packed and the movers should be here tomorrow.” Adie replied.
“The drive should only take about a day, but I want you to take your time. You know, stay the night somewhere. I hear Natural Bridge is a pretty neat attraction, and the kids would love it.”
“OK, well, we’ll see you in a day or two. I love you, Ron.”
“I love you, too, sweetie.” Ron smiled. When Ron hung up he looked down and realized a painted, wooden child’s ball had rolled against his left foot.
Ron looked around for an intruder, but there was no one in the house and it was almost dark outside. “Hmmm, must have been left here by one of the guys.”
He locked up, and drove back to the rented hotel room where that night in a fitful sleep, his dreams were disturbed by the screams of a woman, and the sounds of gunshots. The next day Ron was eating at the Fast 49 Diner and asked a waitress behind the bar why his crew seemed so freaked out about the Stanton place. She shrugged her shoulders and quickly looked away.
“I can tell you why.” Said a man from down the bar. He moved closer to Ron, and extended his hand.
“Names Victor Washington, pleased to meet ya’.” He said.
“Hi Victor, I’m Ron James. I just fixed the old house up for my family.”
Victor was about the same age as Ron, and had the thin look of a man who survived on caffeinated drinks, cigarettes, and alcohol. He wore an olive drab Army jacket, even though the temperature outside was more than ninety degrees, and when he got close to Ron, the odor of unwashed clothes tackled Ron’s nostrils like an assault squad. Victor sat down beside Ron, and when he opened his mouth the foul stench, achieved only by those who ditched their toothbrush long ago can master, rolled out like a fog.
“Every once in a while, when I was a kid, we’d roll up to the Stanton place and dare each other to go knock on the door. If you stood there long enough you’d see a ghostly figure in the window looking out. If you stayed after seeing old man Stanton peering out at you, you’d hear the screams from inside, and stuff crashing around in the dark.” Victor said.
“That sounds encouraging.” Ron said.
“This boy we used to hang out with every once in a while went missing one day. Johnny Bentwater was his name. He was gone for an entire day before the cops went looking for him. They told his mother Johnny probably just forgot what time it was, and stayed at a friend’s too long. Hah, ha. It was four days before they found him in the basement of the Stanton place, shivering, and naked in the dark.”
“That’s awful.” Ron said.
“It gets worse. My old man was on the force back then and he told me one night what his buddy Tom Peterson found down there. The boy had been chained to a pipe, and his fingernails were torn out with a pair of pliers. They never found out who did it, and although Johnny told them what happened none of the detectives took his story seriously. They said it was trauma from being kidnapped and tortured.”
“Well, what did he say?” Ron asked.
“Johnny told them he was up at the old Stanton place looking for antiques or anything worth a damn to sell at the Saturday flea market. While he searched around upstairs he heard a child’s voice calling for help somewhere in the house. He tracked the sound all the way to the basement, and went down those dark steps into a kind of hell I hope I never see, brother. He said a stair broke, and when he fell his head hit the wall. That was it until he woke up chained to that furnace pipe. Helluva thing really. He said he heard whispers in the dark until the cops showed up to rescue him.”
“Is he…OK, now?” Ron asked.
“Hung himself a few years ago when his wife ran out on him. Bah! He was never the same again after that experience.” Victor shook his head.
“I think I lost my appetite.” Ron replied.
For the rest of the day he tried hard to find his happy place after Victor’s tale, but there were boogiemen running around in his mind. His family would be moving into the house in a few days, and now he was concerned for their safety.
“You want to hear some more stories about that place?” Victor asked.
“Vic, stop being an asshole. You’re freaking Ron out!” The waitress said. Her nametag read Rita Wilcox.
“You know, Ron. They say that the same day Stanton killed himself, the Devil moved into that house.” Victor said.
“Thanks for that wonderful tale, Victor. I’m sure I’ll sleep better tonight.” Ron said.
Several days before his conversation with Victor, Ron had bought new beds for the house to ensure Addie and the kids would be comfortable when they arrived. The deliverymen showed up just before sun down, and after carrying the beds upstairs and helping Ron put them together, they left with a nice tip for their trouble. It was dark outside, and for the first time since purchasing the house he was alone after sun set. Ron walked through the house, stopped in one of the kids’ rooms, and after determining it was move-in ready, he was going to call Addie If for no other reason, to at least hear her voice. The story Victor had relayed earlier in the day had spooked him, and his nerves were a little on edge. Ron had a cigarette case packed with rolled joints, and this seemed like an opportune time to relax a little.
As he lit one up, and took out his phone to call Addie. Then, Ron heard the sound of sobbing from down the hall. He followed the sound, his heartbeat increasing, the smoke slowing his mind. Had someone come in while he was upstairs? He put the phone back in his pocket.
The sobbing was growing louder as he walked toward the master bedroom. Ron began to feel cold, like the air conditioner had been turned on full blast. He flipped on the hallway lights and winced as they flickered like a strobe. Ron rounded the corner to the master bedroom, and flipped the light switch. When the room lit up he saw that his bed had disappeared, and that Stanton’s original bedroom furniture was in its place. Their bed was a four post with Victorian drapes made of silk, and the feet were carved head of lions. Black and white portraits of long dead men and women hung along the walls, pictures of a distant past. A fancy chair adorned with hand carved roses
had been placed beside the bed. Every piece of furniture in the room had been constructed with the same intricate pattern, and Ron felt as if he had stepped out of the twenty-first century and back into the nineteen thirties. A beautiful young woman, with long blonde hair was sitting at a vanity on the far left of the room.
“I can’t get the darned smudges off my face; darling will you come help me?” She asked.
Ron froze in place, too terrified to speak, or move. His mind was blank.
“Darling, can you please help me get the smudges off my face? You are being so silly, standing there with your mouth open like that.” she said.
When the woman turned to Ron, still sobbing, he saw that the right half of her face was missing, the skin cut away to reveal torn muscles, and bone. The other half was snow white from pancake makeup, and streaked with bloody tears. She had a butcher knife lodged in her chest, and a gash running from her neck to somewhere below the dress she wore.
“Nathaniel, come over here and help me, please?” She asked.
Ron backed up so fast that he almost fell down.
“You don’t LOVE ME ANYMORE!” She screamed.
Then, the house was silent again. The lights stopped flickering, and his bedroom returned to the state it was in before the woman at her vanity spoke to him. No more vanity or Victorian era furniture existed and Ron’s new bed had been returned. There were only two entities in the house: Ron, and his fear.
Ron walked downstairs on legs made of rubber to get a glass of water from the kitchen. He was greeted by two large maroon words scrolled haphazardly on the wall: HELP US. The letters dripped slowly toward the floor. Ron’s terror gathered like a storm through his panicked mind. A gas can was sitting in the center of the hall, and beside it lay a box of wooden matches. Ron could smell the distinctive odor of petroleum wafting throughout the room.
