A Haunting In Wisconsin

by Michael Richan

  Do you hear that? Eliza asked, cocking her head.

  Robert listened with her. I do. It sounds like someone grunting.

  Eliza stood; in the distance was a figure, hunched over, moving among the headstones near the spot where they had entered. He was expelling words randomly, occasionally shouting one, as if he was deranged. His hands extended in front of him as though he wanted to grasp something, but nothing was there. He moved from grave to grave, ranting.

  That’s not good, she said, sitting back down.

  Did he see you? Robert asked.

  I don’t think so, she replied.

  We’ll have to keep any eye out for him, Robert said. Are you sure you want to continue?

  If we both trance, Eliza said, we’d both be vulnerable if that guy made his way over here, wouldn’t we?

  Maybe, Robert replied. It might be a good idea if one of us stays out of the trance, and keeps an eye on that guy.

  I’ll do it, Eliza said. You trance.

  No, I’ll stay out, Robert replied. I think you’ll have a better chance of rousing him than I. I’ll alert you if we need to move.

  Alright, Eliza replied, and settled back into her body as she sensed Robert leaving the River. She closed off her thoughts and began to focus entirely upon the corpse that was lying six feet below them.

  Input from the outside world slowly diminished as her focus increased, and she felt herself start to enter a trance state, a deeper level of access within the River. After several minutes, she was able to visualize the casket below her. More minutes of concentration passed, solidifying the vision. She approached it.

  Horace? she called within her trance. Horace Lyons?

  What did you say? she heard from within the casket. She reached for the lid and pulled on it; the wood was heavy and solid. A thin man sat up, turning to face her. She stepped back. He was bald, and the skin on the sides of his face sagged a little, as though he had been much fatter at some point before his death. His mouth opened. What did you say? he asked again.

  I asked if you were Horace, Eliza replied. Horace Lyons.

  Lyons, he repeated. Lyons. Yes. I’m Lyons.

  You sure? Eliza asked.

  Horace looked down at his body. He held up an arm, examining it. It was pale white, with flesh hanging off the bone. Yes, he said. I’m sure. I’m Horace Lyons. He turned to her. Who are you?

  I’m Eliza. I’d like to talk to you.

  Talk, Horace repeated. Talk. Alright.

  She watched as his head turned. He slowly extricated himself from the casket. Tattered, insect-eaten clothes dangled from his body, allowing her a view though to his skin. He stood, looking over every square inch of himself as though he was completing an inspection. He was thin and frail.

  You stayed at a boarding house not far from here, Eliza said. In 1957. Do you remember?

  He looked up at her. His eyes seemed hollow and glassy, but she saw pupils roll to center on her. Yes. I remember.

  A little girl stole something from you, Eliza continued. Do you remember that?

  Her words caused a change in the man. His initial state of confusion seemed to leave him, and it was replaced with recognition and hatred. His eyes thinned and his lips pursed; he looked down at the ground. Wanda! he said.

  That’s right, Eliza replied, a little frightened by the man’s sudden change in demeanor. She watched as his eyes rose, coming to stop on her. Then he softened again, looking concerned.

  Do you understand loss? he asked.

  Loss? Eliza repeated. What do you mean?

  You’ve had some, Lyons continued, but you don’t understand it, am I right?

  I’m asking you about Wanda, Eliza said, hoping to avoid a diversion. You obviously know her.

  You probably think it’s an accident, Lyons replied. Randomness. Inevitability, like fate.

  What are you talking about? Eliza said.

  Loss, Lyons replied. You don’t have a clue. You’re a young thing, aren’t you? He began to drift toward her, and she took several steps back.

  And afraid, he said, stopping. Young and afraid.

  Wanda, Eliza said. How did she wind up in that cesspool?

  Lyons paused again, his head cocking as he seemed to assess things. You found her, he said. Yes, things have shifted. He smiled.

  How did she get there? Eliza asked again. I doubt she fell in.

  That’s exactly how she got there, Lyons replied.

  Not by her own volition.

  No.

  You? You pushed her?

  Loss, Lyons replied. Loss pushed her.

  That doesn’t make any sense.

  Because you don’t understand. You’re immature. Your knowledge is basic, unsophisticated.

  You pushed Wanda into the cesspool, Eliza continued, wanting to cut through Lyons’ enigmatic answers. Why? Because she stole the kaleidoscope from you?

  The kaleidoscope! Lyons said, his eyes widening as though he had suddenly remembered something important. He turned from her. Yes, yes! he whispered, growing excited.

  Is that why you pushed her down the cesspool? she asked again. Lyons didn’t turn around.

  What is it about the kaleidoscope? she asked. Why would you care so much? It’s just a toy.

  Lyons wheeled back around, staring at her, his eyes flaming with eagerness. So naïve, he said, moving once again toward her. She backed up. So perfect. Do you have it?

  The kaleidoscope? she replied, not sure if she should answer him. Lyons seemed impossible to read, flipping from one emotion to another in a split second.

  You have! he said, taking another step, his eyes wide, his mouth curled into a tight smile. It’s finally happened! You have found it, haven’t you?

  Eliza decided not to answer. Lyons closed his eyes, once again seeming to perform some kind of assessment. When he opened them, he looked confident.

  Where is it? he asked.

  Tell me why you’d kill a small child over it, Eliza replied, and I might return it to you.

  I’ve already explained all that, he said, turning away and moving slowly toward the casket. If I was still alive, I think you’re someone I would have liked to have known. I could have taught you things about life you need to know, transformed you from a naïve little girl into a woman with knowledge of the world.

  I am not a naïve little girl, Eliza said, bristling at the accusation.

  Lyons reached the coffin and began to settle back into it. You’re worse than naïve, he said. You’re dangerous, like a dull knife. Perfect.

  She walked toward him, watching as he lay down. No desire to get the kaleidoscope back? she said, sensing he was about to end their conversation.

  Every desire, he replied, his head hitting the remnants of a rotted pillow.

  I’m the only way you’ll get it, she said. I want to know what it does, why it’s so important that you’d kill Wanda over it. Tell me, and I’ll return it to you.

  She saw him close his eyes and shake his head slightly from side to side. She couldn’t tell if he was communicating a final “no” or if it was a sign of pity — as though he thought she was ridiculous, irrelevant.

  Then she felt the trance begin to weaken, and she sensed she was alone. She called out for Horace, hoping he might return, but everything was silent. The image of the casket in front of her began to fade, and she felt herself being shaken. She dropped from the River to find Robert, a hand on her shoulder, rocking her.

  “He’s close,” Robert said, nodding to her right. “We need to either move, or deal with him.”

  Eliza dropped into the River and turned to look where Robert had indicated. The ghost was only a few headstones away, seemingly unaware of their presence, ranting and grasping at the air in front of him. She dropped out of the flow and stood. “We can go,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll be getting any more from Horace.”

  They walked toward their car, giving the wandering ghost a wide berth. “So you reached him?” Robert asked.

  “Y
es,” Eliza replied. “I believe he did it. He’s why Wanda died in the cesspool.”

  “And the kaleidoscope?” Robert asked.

  “Oh, he lit up over that,” she replied. “Until then, the conversation was like he was waking up. Once I brought up the kaleidoscope, he changed.”

  “Did he say why he killed her?”

  “No. He kept going on about loss and how naïve I am. I’m not naïve, am I?”

  “No,” Robert replied. “Of course not.”

  “That sounded a touch patronizing.”

  “OK, well, maybe sometimes you’re a little naïve. But no more so than anyone else. And it’s charming, when you are.”

  “He seemed pleased that we’d found the kaleidoscope,” she continued. “Once he learned that, he just walked back to his casket and shut down. I thought he wanted it; it’s the only motivation I can find for what he did to Wanda. He asked me where it was, but I told him I wanted answers. Then he just stopped, like he didn’t care anymore. It was weird. It feels like a dead end.”

  Robert opened the car door for her. “Let’s see where my dad’s investigation leads,” he said as she got in. “We may not need Lyons to figure out what the kaleidoscope does.”

  Eliza sat in the car while Robert walked around to the driver’s side. Am I naïve? she asked herself, unsure how to answer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eliza woke with a start, sitting up in bed and feeling a tremendous sense of déjà vu. Light was streaming in the windows. She glanced around the room; all the little signs were there. It wasn’t the present. She had woken up into the past once again, just as they had every time they tried to sleep at the bed and breakfast.

  She decided not to arouse Robert, and quickly dressed. She made her way out the door and down the hallway, to the breakfast room. Abbey and Teresa were seated at a table just like always, and she sat next to them.

  “Good morning,” Eliza said.

  A rasping sound came from the ladies. She turned to look into their faces.

  Abbey’s skin had wrinkled and creased, caving in upon itself. Teresa was no better off, her pale visage looking like a much older version of herself.

  Dead, Eliza thought.

  Abbey raised an empty cup of tea to her lips. The edge of the cup tilted awkwardly at her mouth. Had there been anything in it, it would have spilled all over her face.

  “Can either of you hear me?” Eliza asked.

  She heard the crack of bone as Teresa’s head swiveled slightly on its spine, attempting to turn and look at her.

  “Stop,” Eliza said. “Don’t.”

  Teresa’s head returned to its previous position. She watched as Abbey slowly lowered the tea cup, missing the saucer by several inches.

  “I’m sorry,” Eliza muttered. “I truly am.”

  She rose from the table and left the room. In the hallway she encountered the woman from the kitchen, coffee pot in hand. She was moving slowly, her eyes glassed over. Each step required a monumental effort from the corpse.

  She walked around the woman, coming to the entryway. From there she went to the front porch and looked out into the yard. It seemed just like the other mornings where she, Robert, and Granger had sat in the Adirondacks, observing the ghosts.

  Something has changed again, she thought.

  Smelling a faint whiff of cigar, she walked down from the porch and around the side of the building. There was Ivan, leaning against the side of the house. He had a cigar in his mouth. His torso jerked as he tried to inhale.

  She walked closer to the man. While his face still looked whole, the skin on his hands and arms had begun to deteriorate, exposing bone.

  She turned away, wishing she could leave, but wanting to see Wanda before she awoke. She walked to the front porch and sat in one of the chairs, waiting, allowing the sun to lull her into a restful state despite her horror at her surroundings.

  She thought about getting up and walking upstairs, to see if Horace was there. If he is, he’s a corpse too, she thought, and let the relaxing rays of the sun keep her in the chair.

  Soon two small, emaciated children appeared from the side of the house. They were too far gone to recognize, but she did see the rusted garden shears in the hands of the second child, which she assumed to be Mack. The two ran clumsily over the grass of the front yard, reenacting the scene she’d witness the night before.

  She heard the door open to her left as Abbey and Teresa came onto the porch. Rasping came from Abbey’s throat once more, dust puffing from her open mouth. Eliza knew what she was asking: if she wanted to go riding.

  “No, not today,” Eliza said. “But thank you for the invitation.”

  The corpse pair creakily descended the steps of the porch and began to make their way down the walk, away from the house.

  Eliza stood to watch them leave, and noticed the flowerbeds.

  Not disturbed, she thought, watching the fat, colorful heads of the tulips swaying gently.

  She sat back down in the chair and felt the sun working its magic. Sleep quickly overwhelmed her.

  ●

  “He didn’t answer,” Robert said, returning to the kitchen where Eliza and Milton were eating breakfast. “Probably sleeping in. I left a message asking him to call.”

  “Now what?” Milton asked. “Are you really at a dead end?”

  “Not sure,” Eliza replied. “Kind of feels like one.”

  “It does,” Robert replied. “We could go through the materials Don gave us once again.”

  “Sure,” Eliza sighed, not really enthused at the idea. “I suppose.”

  “I’d enjoy seeing them again,” Milton said. “What she dug up about the history of this place is fascinating.”

  “I’ll get the packets,” Robert said. “They’re up in the room.”

  “Give me twenty minutes,” Eliza replied, standing. “I want to take a walk and clear my head before we jump into it.”

  “Alright,” Robert said. “I’ll get in a shower and meet you back here.”

  They left Milton in the kitchen and split in the hallway; Robert returning to the room, and Eliza continuing out to the entryway and the front door. She walked down the steps Abbey and Teresa used to go riding, and followed their path down the road.

  The forest was quiet except for the occasional sound of a chickadee. She strolled along the dirt road, wanting to hit a reset button inside her head, something that would allow her to look at things with a fresh perspective. Try as she might, she kept replaying events.

  Loss, she thought, surprised how the conversation with Horace Lyons still bothered her. What did he mean by all that?

  She walked, and instead of relaxing and allowing herself to reset, she dug more deeply into the words Horace had used.

  Who lost something? she wondered. He did, Horace did. He lost the kaleidoscope. Wanda, too; she lost her life. Milton, and the previous owners…they lost business.

  She walked farther, not sure how far she’d gone or how much time had elapsed. She ran through the other ghosts of the house.

  Abbey and Teresa? They didn’t lose anything. Ivan and Mack? No, they didn’t either. The whole event of Mack’s stabbing was made up, I’m sure of it. Who does that leave? The woman who served breakfast.

  And Martha, Wanda’s mother.

  She lost her child, Eliza thought. Next to Wanda, she lost the most.

  She stopped and turned, sure that she’d been gone more than twenty minutes, wanting to walk back and join the others. I never saw Martha. They talked about her, but she never appeared in any of the dreams. She’s still a mystery.

  She hurried her pace, hopeful that Martha might prove an avenue worthy of exploration, eager to run the idea past Robert and Milton.

  ●

  “There you are,” Robert said, seated at the kitchen table. He and Milton were looking over documents that had been spread out over the surface, covering nearly every square inch.

  “Martha,” Eliza said. “Wanda’s mother. They
talked about her, but we never saw her. She’s the only one we’ve not met.”

  “Interesting that you should mention her,” Robert said, picking a piece of paper off the table. “Milton and I were going over the previous owners. You remember Don said it was built by a couple in the ’50s who ran it as a boarding house?”

  “Yes,” Eliza replied, joining them at the table.

  “They were named Smet,” Robert said, reading from the page. “Ernest and Freda Smet. They sold it to a woman in 1958, the year after the events.”

  “Yes, I remember Don mentioning that,” Eliza said.

  “They sold it to an M. Williams,” Robert said, picking a different piece of paper off the table.

  “Martha?” Eliza asked.

  “Robert and I were just speculating what the M might stand for,” Milton said.

  “Martha bought the place?” Eliza repeated. “Didn’t Don say it was bought and eventually shuttered?”

  “That’s what I remember,” Robert replied.

  “Why, I wonder? Because her daughter disappeared?”

  “Maybe,” Robert answered. “Maybe she searched for her, and eventually gave up and shut the place down.”

  “We need to know if that M was really Martha,” Eliza said. “I wonder if Don could confirm that.”

  “My dad had his contact info,” Robert replied. “He hasn’t returned my call yet.”

  Eliza began rummaging through the packet materials. “He might have left something with his phone number on it,” she said, checking each of the documents.

  “Here!” Milton said. “I saw this earlier.” He lifted a small sticky note from the back of the packet envelope and handed it to Eliza.

  She took it from him. There was Don’s name, and next to it, a phone number. “What a thorough guy,” Eliza muttered. “I’ll give him a call.”

  Eliza left the room and walked to the phone in the entryway. She dialed Don. A woman answered the phone.

  “Is Don there?” Eliza asked.

  “Can I tell him who’s calling?”

  “It’s Eliza. Don had been helping me with some information from his father’s archives.” She waited while the woman sat the phone down.