Mom hands me the bowl of buttery popcorn and I head down the stairs to the basement. Wyatt follows me, carrying two cans of orange soda and some napkins.
We sit down on the couch and in between bites of popcorn I explain some background information. “My brother Clement was away at school, which was good, because I wanted it to be my movie and it would’ve been too tempting to ask him for help.”
“What, exactly, was the assignment?”
“In English class we were reading Hawthorne and Melville and some other boring authors. And then in Mr. Finn’s class we were studying local history. So for the project we had to focus on New England culture, like literature and art and stuff. Suddenly I got this great idea. I decided we should make a movie about the ghost stories of the Hockomock Triangle.”
“I’ve heard all about the triangle from my uncle. Isn’t there an entrance to the Hockomock Swamp right near here?”
“Yes, just a few feet past our driveway. There are miles of swampland in back of our house, on the southwestern corner of the property.”
“According to my uncle, the Hockomock covers about sixteen thousand, nine hundred and fifty acres of wetlands.”
“It’s big.”
He laughs and then turns serious. “So which legends did you document in your film?”
“We narrowed it down to five ghost stories. First we shot some film at the Lizzie Borden Museum, in Fall River.”
“She was found innocent of those murders, right?”
“Yes, but I think if they had forensics and C.S.I.s back then, they could’ve proven she was guilty. Most people think she did it. No one else was ever accused of the crime.”
“Cool. Where else did you film?”
“We visited five main locations altogether; each of them was supposedly haunted. We got some pretty spooky footage at a few graveyards right here in Eastfield. Then of course, we went to the Wild Wood Psychiatric Hospital where we really got freaked out. Our goal was to see a ghost. We wanted to capture evidence of an authentic haunting on film.”
“And did you?”
“I’ll show you the movie so you can see for yourself. A lot of kids skipped out on their classes to sneak in and watch it. Everyone was talking about us. We generated a lot of hype—my fifteen minutes of fame.”
After about a minute of skimming through the titles of the DVDs on the shelves under the TV, I find my film and slide it into the DVD player. Wyatt gets up and turns off all the lights. Then settles into the coziest corner of the couch. I sit back down, as far away from him as possible.
“I haven’t watched this film since last year. It creeps me out too much. Sometimes I still have nightmares,” I confess.
The shimmer of the TV screen casts an eerie glow on Wyatt’s face. He raises his arm up along the back of the couch and gestures to me. “You can sit a little closer if you’re scared. I won’t let any big, bad ghosts get you.”
“Dream on, Silver.”
“Hey, you’re the one with the nightmares. I’m just trying to help.”
When he smiles his teeth flash white in the darkness.
“Thanks, but I’ll be okay. I don’t need anyone’s help.” The only thing that scares me more than the movie is sitting close to Wyatt.
I sneak a quick look at his profile. He looks dead serious even though he was joking around a second ago.
“For the first part of the movie, we decided on a slide show of pictures taken at the Lizzie Borden Museum in Fall River. We downloaded some photographs from the internet and used some pictures we took ourselves, for the other slides.” I point the remote and click “Play.” The images flash in quick succession to the raging beat of “Raining Blood” by Slayer. The heavy metal music matches the gruesome axe murderer’s tale.
Wyatt laughs out loud. “Awesome. Great music! I love it, Annabelle. You’re too hilarious.”
On the screen of our basement TV, the camera zooms in on my face and I begin to narrate. “In June of 1893, Lizzie Borden was tried for the brutal, bloody murders of her father and stepmother. She was found innocent. But was she really?
“Someone bludgeoned her father to death with the blunt edge of a hatchet, while he was napping on the couch one steamy afternoon in August of 1892. The murderer swung the axe with such force that they broke Andrew Borden’s skull and split his right eyeball in half. Then the unknown perpetrator hunted down Lizzie’s stepmother, who was changing the sheets in an upstairs bedroom. They chopped her up, too; right here in this house, on quiet, sunny Second Street, in Fall River, Massachusetts.”
The scene on the screen wobbles a little as Meg steps back and pans the camera around the room. I continue to narrate as she films.
“The museum is also a bed and breakfast-style inn. You can sleep in the second Mrs. Borden’s bedroom for a hundred and fifty dollars a night and in the morning enjoy an authentic 19th century-style hot breakfast just like the one Lizzie Borden’s parents ate on the day they were murdered.”
As Meg moves in a little closer with the video cam, Wyatt and I are treated to a slightly tilted view of me from the waist up.
“These rooms are haunted by the ghosts of the victims, because the violent killings were never avenged. The jury acquitted Lizzie and no one else was ever arrested or tried for the bloody crimes. Welcome to the room where her father died.”
I sweep my arm to the left and point. “Right over there on that scratchy old sofa.”
The large brown couch has lace doilies on the arms and back. I ask the camera lens, “It seems like we’re alone here in this room, but are we?”
I turn to Wyatt and explain, “The Lizzie Borden part was just a warm-up. Nothing scary even happened. When we visited the graveyards at night, it got a lot scarier.”
Chapter 5
The Graveyards
I remember arriving well after dark, on the night when we filmed at the oldest cemetery in Eastfield. Statues of angels and obelisks stood tall, bone-white against the black, moonless sky. The small flags next to the veterans’ final resting places stirred in the silent breeze and it was my turn to be the cameraman. After panning out to show a whole row of worn and crooked headstones, I zoomed in for a close-up of Meg’s face.
Wyatt and I stare at the screen together, as Meg explains the gravestones’ various shapes, sizes and styles. “The oldest markers, from the 1700’s were made of local slate from nearby quarries in North Attleboro and Braintree. Winged skulls and rising suns decorate these grave markers. The suns symbolize resurrection.”
She strolls down a path between two rows of graves.
“From 1810, through the Civil War and on into the turn of the century, white sandstone became popular.” Waving her flashlight in a dramatic arc, Meg continues to narrate. “The traditional willow and urn adorn most of these nineteenth century grave markers.”
I apologize to Wyatt for the boring parts. “We spent a ton of time researching everything, so our movie would at least be kind of educational. If it was too exciting and scary we’d never get the A plus we were hoping for. Fortunately, Mr. Finn and our English teacher ate all that boring crap up with a spoon. Meg and I both got A’s.”
He responds. “Yeah, my uncle loves ‘boring crap’ like History. Probably because he’s a History teacher.”
“No offense. He’s a great guy. Definitely my favoritest teacher ever.”
“Thanks. You should come over to our house some night. Get to know him better, as a person, not just as a teacher.”
“Maybe.”
Maybe on a cold day in Hell. I’m not spending any more time with Wyatt Silver after tonight. I agreed to show him the movie. That’s all. I’m not going over his house to hang out with him and his uncle.
On the big screen, Meg’s face is solemn and she lowers her voice for effect. “In 1796, Edward Jenner discovered that people inoculated with material from a cowpox lesion became immune to smallpox. Before this discovery, smallpox was a lethal and widespread disease that claimed the lives of milli
ons each year.”
The camera, operated by me, points to a cluster of gravestones.
Meg continues. “Thirteen members of Captain Jeremiah Duncan’s family were buried here during three separate smallpox epidemics. Captain Duncan himself succumbed to smallpox on October 23rd, 1757 at the age of 59.
“Some brave midnight visitors to this burial ground have heard children laughing and a sorrowful voice calling out the name Emma. Jeremiah Duncan’s three year old daughter, Emma, died of smallpox on May 22nd in 1750...”
Meg pauses but we hear nothing, other than the eerie hooting of an owl. Big disappointment.
On the saggy old couch in our basement, I stare at the TV and shiver.
Wyatt offers, “It’s warmer over here, next to me.”
“No thanks. I’m fine.” I’d rather freeze to death.
“Here’s the part about the Blue Mist.” I direct his attention away from me and back to the movie.
“I’ve heard of it. Something to do with a plane crash, right?”
“Yes, we filmed this part at the old horse farm, across from Rocky Hill University. A plane crashed in a meadow there, right near the barn. Shh. Listen.”
On the TV, I start the story while Meg films me.
“The ghost we’ll be watching for tonight is called the Blue Mist. On November 6th, in 1932, a small plane flew over this field on its way north, to Boston. Shortly before the aircraft was scheduled to arrive at its destination, the cargo shifted and the plane plummeted toward the earth. The pilot tried to bring it down safely, but his plane overturned during the emergency landing. The impact from the crash killed him instantly. Every year, on the anniversary of his death, if you walk down here after dark, a blue mist descends over the meadow; the plane takes shape in the fog and the pilot climbs out. It’s now 10:30 PM on November 6th. Let’s see what happens.”
Wyatt and I watch a cloud sink down low and settle on the ground. The fog seethes around, just below my thighs, obscuring the camera’s view of my feet. Everything on the screen jostles and shakes as Meg shifts the video-cam so she can hold it with one hand and clutch my hand in her other. For a split second, there’s a skewed close-up of our tightly grasped hands. Then the camera jolts up.
About six feet away from us, an area of mist gathers itself into a ghostly density resembling the wreckage of an old-fashioned airplane. A blurry image, shaped like a man, drifts out and away from the transparent fuselage. I back up and step on Meg’s toe. She yells, stumbles and almost falls. The camera angle goes all crazy and frantic as we run back to my old Chevy Prizm and speed away.
Wyatt turns his whole body sideways on the couch and looks at me. “November 6th, we’re going there together, Annabelle. I gotta see it for myself. Wow. Your cinematography’s kinda shaky but this is an amazing movie. Oliver must’ve loved it.”
Wyatt’s praise pleases me for a moment before I remember that I want nothing to do with him. “Yes, Mr. Finn’s an awesome teacher. I still can’t believe he let us do this for our big junior year project. Most of the other kids chose totally boring topics.”
Up on the flat screen, the last graveyard scene begins. The camera shows me squeezing through a narrow opening in the rusty iron gate at the historical cemetery on Prospect Street. As soon as Meg and I are both inside, I illuminate the first cluster of headstones with the beam of my flashlight. The sounds of nature halt for a second and a quiet voice hisses, “Who are you?”
I scream, squeeze back through the gate and sprint toward the car. Meg stumbles along behind me, still filming.
I turn to Wyatt. “When I peeled out of there that night, my tires left a black mark on the street. You can still see it. I’m never going back.”
Reaching over, he lifts the remote out of my hand and clicks the replay button. Holding his breath so he can listen really hard, he watches the two-minute scene again. We hear the barely audible hiss. “Who are you?”
Turning the volume all the way up, he replays it three more times, so it sounds like a rapid-fire echo. “Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?”
Wyatt pauses the DVD. “Holy crap, Annabelle! What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know. I think it might’ve been a ghost.”
“I think so too.” He lowers the volume, un-pauses the DVD and the movie continues.
“Are you ready for what comes next? It’s the scariest part.”
Wyatt laughs softly. “I think I can handle it.”
“We saved the Lonesome Boy for last.”
I saw the Lonesome Boy for the first time over a year ago. It was late in bleak November. At the Wild Wood Psychiatric Hospital.
I remember the full moon, trout-belly white against the dark sky, casting an uncanny light on our surroundings. Meg and I parked the car on a deserted back road and hiked across a big field and through a stretch of woods. Next, we had to climb a chain-link fence. As soon as we jumped down from the fence, Meg started filming.
Silent and thoughtful, Wyatt watches and listens to my matter-of-fact voice describe the mood set by the weather that night.
“The moon has risen high and pale in the black sky and casts shadows as distinct as those shaped by the sun, but colder; menacing and distorted in the dreary light. The ancient Celts called the November full moon the ‘Dark Moon’. If sunlight is life, then moonlight is death. Something that comes after, a reflection, a phenomenon not possible unless real life and light have existed before it.”
I explain. “My last year’s English teacher loves Poe. She swooned when she heard that part.”
Wyatt smiles. “You’re very creative, Annabelle. I like that part, too. And I like Poe. His work is disturbing, but fascinating.”
Next, Meg hands the camera to me and I pan it around to show off the eerie scenery as she recites the facts we researched.
“We’re on the grounds of the abandoned Wild Wood Psychiatric Hospital. Founded in 1882, by Dr. Raymond Wilde, it quickly became a dumping ground for unwanted members of local families. Later, during the twentieth century, after Dr. Wilde’s death, the government took over the hospital and it continued to serve the same purpose: a conveniently located facility where desperate families dropped off and then forgot about embarrassing relatives who suffered from psychiatric disorders.”
Shining palely in the moonlight, the expression on Meg’s face reveals her disdain for these uncaring relatives.
“We’re walking through the institution’s graveyard now. The stones are almost buried by the surrounding earth. Only names and dates were recorded on them, no epitaphs. Hundreds of patients are buried here.” On the screen the camera sweeps across row after row of small white grave markers, some of them barely visible in the high, untended grass.
“To the left of the graveyard, lies the forest, leading down to the edge of the Hockomock Swamp, where many brave visitors have heard the pathetic sound of a young boy’s weeping. According to a local legend, this sad voice belongs to the famous Lonesome Boy.
“No one knows who he was when he was alive. Everybody assumes he used to be a patient here at Wild Wood before his mysterious death.”
Meg reclaims the camera and we head toward the hospital. She follows me as I climb inside the ruins of the enormous stone structure through an empty basement window frame. Rusted beer and soda cans, cigarette butts, shattered glass and a few candle stubs litter the grimy concrete floor. Graffiti decorates the walls. The smell, I remember, was damp, musty and unpleasant, like someone might have used one dark corner as a urinal.
I explain to Wyatt that we turned off the camera for a few minutes because on the ground level floor we found only offices. “The nameplates for doctors and administrators were still attached to the walls. Inside some of the rooms, we saw some old, rusty file cabinets with files still in them. But I didn’t want to spend any time reading boring old documents. I was looking for realistic action shots of paranormal phenomena. I was looking for a ghost.”
“Did you find one?”
“W
ait and see.”
Meg pokes the camera inside an examining room so our audience can see the high tables with thick, wide leather cuffs and dangling straps—restraints.
A mildewed straightjacket hangs from a hook on the wall of the dismal old room. I pinch a tiny corner of grimy fabric and gingerly hold up one sleeve.
“Some of the more violent patients were restrained in garments such as these,” I report, staring into the lens.
We leave the ramshackle torture chambers and head toward a concrete staircase encrusted with years of filth.
Upstairs, in a dark corridor, lined with doors at regular intervals, I stumble into a wheelchair. There are straps dangling down from the arms, legs and back. It looks like a small electric chair on wheels. A bike helmet is lying next to it. I gesture toward it and stare into the lens, wild-eyed. “The kid who wore this helmet never rode a bike.”
Then I hold up one of the wheelchair straps. “Everywhere the patients went, they were restrained.”
Twisting the doorknobs as we arrive at each door, I demonstrate for the camera that all of the rooms on the second floor are locked. On my tiptoes, I peer into the small windows, while Meg holds the camera and films. Each room is similar to the others. All of the tiny cells contain two beds and no other furniture. A few rooms have padding on the walls. Then we find the door to room 209, the only open door. Because of a detached hinge it rests crookedly on the bare wooden floor.
Meg’s trembling voice announces, “Here is the infamous Room 209. According to the legend, the door is always open; it’s the only open door on the second floor. Curious visitors, brave enough to venture into room 209, have heard all kinds of eerie noises, creeping out of the darkness. But the sound heard most often is the crying of a young boy. Many people believe that the famous Lonesome Boy spent most of his life locked up in room 209. Let’s see for ourselves if this ghostly legend is true. Enter with us if you dare.”
Chapter 6
The Lonesome Boy
Sitting on the couch, Wyatt and I stare goggle-eyed, mesmerized by what’s happening on the TV.
Enter If You Dare Page 3
