A Haunting In Wisconsin

by Michael Richan

“What room was it?”

  “Room?”

  “The one you were cleaning when you saw her.”

  He thought. “Room 6.”

  “The ghosts all said that Martha and Wanda were in Room 5. They said Room 6 was never rented out, that it was needed to buffer the smell from Room 5.”

  “I don’t know,” Milton replied. “I’ve never shied away from renting it.”

  “Is it possible that the reason you didn’t see her when you went to the doorway, was because she had entered Room 5?”

  Milton considered the suggestion. “I would have heard the door.”

  “Not if she was a ghost.”

  “Oh, right,” he replied. She saw him shiver again. “Jesus, this is creeping me out.”

  “What room are your guests in now?”

  “You mean the ones who just arrived? I put them in number 9, upstairs.”

  “Perfect,” Eliza replied. “Do you mind if I take Room 5 tonight?”

  She saw Milton gulp again. “Are you sure? Christ, the idea of her being in that room all this time…”

  “Yes,” Eliza replied. “That’s where I want to spend the night. Can we take a look at it? Now?”

  “Sure,” Milton said shakily. “Let me get the key.”

  They walked to the entryway, and Milton opened a drawer in a sideboard, removing a small metal box. He rummaged through it, locating the key he wanted, and they continued down the hallway, stopping at number 5.

  Milton slid the key into the lock, twisted it, and pushed open the door. They walked in.

  “Do you smell it?” Eliza asked.

  Milton stopped and took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve deodorized this room.”

  “It’s not strong,” Eliza said, “not like before. It’s much more faint.”

  Milton walked around the room, sniffing, trying to locate the source.

  “All this time, I thought the smell was coming from Wanda,” Eliza said, sitting on the bed. “First it was because the ghosts had said she smelled; after we found her, I assumed the smell was because of the cesspool. Wanda is free of this place now. Maybe what we’re smelling hasn’t been Wanda all along.”

  She glanced around the room. It was laid out exactly like the room she shared with Robert, room 7. She looked at the doorway, replaying the events from the dream, finally turning to the spot on the wall where she’d seen the face emerge.

  Rising from the bed she walked to the spot, placing her hand delicately upon the wallpaper. Slowly, she positioned her ear next to it, listening.

  Breathing. The faint rasping sound of air going in and out of lungs.

  She stepped back, looking at the spot.

  “What?” Milton asked, coming up behind her. “Is something there?”

  “I think so,” Eliza replied, taking another step back.

  “In the wall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck,” Milton muttered. “What do we do?”

  Eliza looked at the wallpaper. It wasn’t stained or otherwise marked in any way; no one would have known that something was behind it, something alive. She dropped into the River, but the darkness that had dissipated elsewhere in the building was still intense and cloudy here; at her feet, a blue mist gathered, swirling between her ankles.

  She dropped out. Milton had backed farther away, clearly spooked by what she had identified.

  “Do we cut it out?” he asked.

  Eliza felt hair rise on her arms; it was as if alarm bells were going off. Whatever was behind the wall had picked up on Milton’s words.

  “No, we don’t,” she said. “Come on, Milton, let’s go back to the kitchen, and leave this room in peace.” She walked to the door and waited for Milton to follow.

  As they walked down the hallway, Milton grew more anxious. “If there’s something behind that wall, I want it gone! I’ll get an axe and we’ll cut the wall open!”

  “No!” Eliza said. “Keep your voice down!” She grabbed Milton by the arm, and instead of walking back to the kitchen, she guided him to the entryway and out the front door. They walked until they reached the driveway.

  “Where are we going?” Milton asked.

  “What you were saying was upsetting it,” Eliza whispered.

  “Upsetting it?”

  “It heard you talking about cutting it out,” she replied. “I could feel it reacting. No more talk about removing it, alright?”

  Milton stopped walking. “But I want it gone! Isn’t this it? Isn’t this the core of the problem?”

  “It might be,” Eliza replied. “But I need your patience just a little while longer.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, if we want answers, I think we need to go about this a little differently than just ripping out whatever is behind that wall. It might make things infinitely worse.”

  “Oh,” Milton replied, his anger rapidly deflating. “Worse?”

  “Very possibly,” Eliza said.

  “So, what do we do, then?”

  “I’ll sleep in that room tonight. I want to see how the land lies within the dream.”

  “And you’ll communicate with it?”

  “I’m going to try. I’m guessing that if I need to tear down wallpaper, you don’t have a problem with that.”

  “Not if it’ll help.”

  “Alright,” she replied, and they started to walk back. “Just go about things normally. Let’s not talk about it, at least not anywhere near that room. I’ll let you know when I have more information.” She stopped at her car, digging her keys out of her pocket.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” Milton asked. “Going to Room 5, to sleep?”

  Eliza looked up; twilight was upon them. “Too early for that,” she said. “There’s something I want to check on first. I’ll be back.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  She stopped her car along the side of the road and turned off the lights. Dusk was just settling in; she was grateful she’d reached the cemetery before it was completely dark, like last time. It would make maneuvering through the headstones easier.

  She walked to its edge and stepped over the collapsed fence, headed toward the back corner where they’d discovered Horace Lyons. She suddenly remembered the other figure they’d seen in the cemetery, and stopped in her tracks; she dropped into the River and turned to look for the wandering man who had been ranting and grasping at the air.

  He wasn’t there.

  Maybe he only rouses at night, she thought. Or maybe he can surface anytime. Either way, let’s make this quick.

  She dropped from the River and began walking, moving rapidly around the headstones. The more graves she passed, the more she thought about Granger, and how it wouldn’t be long before he’d be buried like this — unless Robert decided to cremate him. She felt alone again, cut out from what Robert was going through. It made her think of the families of all the buried people to her right and left, and a sudden avalanche of emotion hit her, stopping her in her tracks.

  All this loss, she thought. All the pain and anguish this tiny little cemetery represents. It overwhelmed her for a moment, and she felt tears arrive again. She reached up to wipe at them and continued walking, wondering if what she was feeling now was what Horace had meant about understanding.

  In the far corner she found Horace’s marker, and she stopped to better look at the headstone. It wasn’t as weathered as the other stones around it, but it was beginning to show signs of age and neglect.

  She considered sitting down, but chose instead to stand. No one to watch over me, she thought, wanting to be able to make a quick getaway if she needed to. She closed her eyes and dropped into the River.

  It appeared the same as before; she turned to look around the cemetery — there were no signs of ghosts, so she returned her gaze to the grave in front of her. It seemed quiet and still.

  Allowing herself to drop deeper, she tried to enter a trance. Anxiety about being alone with no one keeping an eye out
for her seemed to retard her progress. She felt frustration at not being able to get there quickly enough, and the frustration was slowing things down even more.

  She dropped from the River and took a deep breath. I need to focus, she thought. Concentrate. Block everything out.

  She closed her eyes and slipped into the River once again. This time she felt things deepen more quickly, and she allowed herself to sink into the trance, hoping to see Horace and his casket, thinking of nothing else.

  After several minutes the casket appeared. She walked to it and raised the lid. It was empty.

  Horace! she called, looking up. Horace! I want to talk to you!

  She waited, and after a while called again. She repeated the call over and over, hoping he’d return. After several minutes had passed, she looked down at the empty coffin and closed the lid.

  He’s not here, she thought. He’s moved on.

  She dropped from the trance, and while still in the River, turned to examine the graveyard. Still no ghosts, no unusual activity. She left the flow entirely and turned to walk back to the car.

  Of course he’s not here anymore, she thought. He got what he wanted. Now he’s gone.

  She reached the car, got in, and drove back to the B&B.

  ●

  She found Milton in the kitchen once again, nursing a beer. He was looking at something on the table.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “Unfruitful,” Eliza replied. “Other than to confirm that Horace is no longer there. Did Robert call?”

  “No, sorry,” he replied. She could tell it wasn’t his first beer.

  “What’s that you’ve got?” she asked.

  He slid the item across the table, and she took it. It was an old photograph. It showed a woman in profile. She stood tall, and had a long, thin face. Dark hair fell from her head, past her shoulders.

  “That’s her!” Eliza said. “I thought you threw the pictures out!”

  “I thought I did, too,” Milton replied. “I found that sitting in my key box. Right on top.”

  Eliza felt a chill go down her back. “It just showed up?”

  “Uh huh,” Milton replied. “Materialized out of thin air.”

  “And it’s the same photo you saw before?” she asked, turning it around so he could see it.

  He glanced at it briefly and then looked away. “Yes.”

  “Well, this is the only lead I’ve got left, so I’m glad to see she wants to be found.”

  “Is that what it means, appearing like that?”

  “That’s how I take it. Appearing to you in the hallway, ripping through wallpaper to show herself to me, now this — I’d say she wants to be found. Either that, or she wants to scare the shit out of us.”

  “Scared the shit out of me when I found it!”

  “I’m sure it did. Tonight’s a big night. If she’s willing to talk, we might get some answers. This might all be over by tomorrow.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Milton said, and raised the beer to his lips. He took a long swallow, finishing it off. “I’m turning in. On the off chance the guests decide to stay for breakfast, I want to be fully operational, and I think I need a long night’s rest to get there.”

  “Goodnight,” Eliza said, and watched as he walked the empty bottle to the trash can and then left the room.

  She glanced down at the photograph. As Milton had said, the image was arresting. It almost seemed as if she was striking a pose for the photographer; her gaunt cheek and thin lips still vivid in the old snapshot. She turned it over; there was no writing on the back. When she turned it back around, she thought the image had changed slightly, but she couldn’t tell how.

  She dropped into the River, and watched as the woman’s head slowly turned from profile to face her directly. Her eyes pierced through the photo, giving Eliza the impression that she was seeing her, catching her.

  She left the River, a little frightened at the photo’s transformation, and dropped it on the table. The image was as before; a profile shot, with no movement.

  She felt the skin on the back of her neck crawl, and the hair on her arms stood, sending a tingling sensation through her body. It felt like a warning, like her body reacting defensively to a threat.

  “Let’s see if you have something to say,” she muttered to the photo, rising from the table. She walked to a cabinet, retrieved a mug, and filled it with hot water; then returned to her room. Once inside, she ripped open a packet of chamomile tea from a selection in a basket on the dresser, and dropped it into the mug to steep.

  A quick shower rinsed away the day. Exiting with a towel, she removed the tea bag and sipped at the chamomile, feeling it slowly relax her body as she prepared for sleep. She removed fresh underwear from her bag and slipped them on, then pulled back the large duvet from the bed. Within seconds she had crawled inside, pulling the covers to her chin, feeling the clean, soft sheets against her skin.

  Robert. He had been here the last time, and she realized she’d come to rely on him being there. Now, with his spot in the bed empty, she recognized she was going in alone. She thought back on all the time she’d spent in the River, and it seemed as if Robert had always been there, from the beginning. In addition to being a lover and boyfriend, he’d always been a solid ally she could rely upon. Granger too.

  Now she was alone. On her own.

  She hoped he was OK. Part of her wanted to reach out and make sure he was fine, but she’d tried that already. Another part of her was beginning to wonder if what she thought their relationship had been was really what it was.

  Had been, she thought. Past tense.

  He’ll call, she repeated for the hundredth time. Sooner or later, he’ll call.

  But it won’t be tonight. I’m on my own with Martha.

  She took a final sip of the tea and placed it on the nightstand, then turned off the lamp. Little red lights on the alarm clock read 10:03. She let the darkness of the room — Martha and Wanda’s room — settle in around her.

  ●

  When she awoke, she turned to look at the clock. Its lights weren’t working, as though the power had gone out.

  She sat up. Am I dreaming now? she wondered, looking around the dark room. She reached for the lamp and turned its switch — it didn’t work either.

  When she threw the covers off her, the cold of the room hit her like a ton of bricks. She shivered and swung her legs to the floor. There, bubbling off the ground was the blue mist she’d seen since that first night.

  I am dreaming, she thought.

  She stood, her feet feeling like blocks of ice within the mist, and shuffled across the floor to the spot on the wall. She looked at it in the darkness, and tried dropping into the River. She couldn’t do it.

  Definitely dreaming.

  She pressed her hand gently against the wallpaper that covered the spot. She felt something move under it, as though there was no plaster on the other side, and whatever was inside the wall was right there, ready to rip through. She pulled her hand away and felt a sliver of terror race down her spine as a finger pierced through the dark surface where her hand had been just seconds before.

  She stepped back.

  The finger slipped downward, tearing at the paper. A hand appeared, quickly widening the opening, and then another hand. The hole in the wallpaper grew, lengthening from top to bottom. The hands withdrew, and she stared at the dark gash, realizing she was holding her breath, waiting for the face to emerge. Instead, blue mist began to spill from the fissure, falling down the wall to join the mist already at the floor.

  She stepped forward again. “Martha?” she asked.

  She saw the eyes first, opening in the darkness of the hole. They moved slowly until the face crested the edges of the wallpaper and pushed its way through, like an obscene birth. Once the entire head had emerged, long dark hair followed, flowing into the room, hanging from the head, obscuring features.

  She was about three feet away, and it felt too close. She st
epped back. “Martha?” she repeated.

  Martha’s mouth opened, but her lips didn’t move. The voice came from somewhere else, deep in the wall: You found it?

  “Found it?” Eliza repeated. They had discovered so many things the past few days, she wasn’t sure what Martha was referring to. It didn’t help that the ghostly image in front of her was terrifying.

  Wanda hid it; you found it?

  “The kaleidoscope?” Eliza replied. “Yes, we found it.”

  Where is it?

  “I don’t know,” Eliza answered. “It was stolen.”

  Martha’s eyes closed, and a look of disappointment spread across her face. Was it stolen by your friends?

  “My friends?” Eliza asked. “No. Why would you think that?”

  They were here with you before, Martha replied. Now they’re not.

  “One of them died,” Eliza said. “The other one…” She paused, not knowing how to finish.

  The other one you thought you loved, Martha said.

  Eliza considered arguing with Martha; her feelings were much more complex than the simple statement Martha had put forward, but she didn’t want to go down that path. “Yes,” she replied.

  Men can be so disappointing, Martha said.

  “Your daughter stole the kaleidoscope from Horace Lyons. Why?”

  I urged her to. She was always obedient.

  Eliza was surprised. “I thought she just wanted to play with it. That’s what she said to me.”

  You talked to her?

  “Wanda appeared to me as we were rescuing her bones from the cesspool.”

  The cesspool? Martha repeated. You found her in the cesspool?

  “Yes,” Eliza replied. “As I was removing her, she told me she had stolen the kaleidoscope.”

  The cesspool! Martha repeated. I knew he was corrupted, but I never considered he’d do such a thing. She died there?

  “Yes.”

  Martha’s eyes looked down; the disappointment she’d seen earlier was replaced with sadness.

  “Horace Lyons was responsible, I presume. Do you know who he was?”

  The eyes looked up. Horace Lyons? Oh, yes. I know what he was. Is.