by Mark Mueller
I turned on my heel and walked back to my house. The first thing I did when I went inside was to feed the cat, which was in its typical snit from not having any companionship all day. The second thing I did was to turn on the TV for the news. I never watched those opinion shows. I have absolutely no use for them. Just tell me the facts; I’ll decide for myself what I should think about it.
As the local talking head reported the day’s headlines, I went into the kitchen and got myself a diet Dr. Pepper and threw together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My culinary tastes don’t require gourmet cuisine. When I’m hungry, my stomach didn’t care what crossed my taste buds. It just wants to be fed.
When I was done eating and drinking my five-star meal, I walked over to my desk and picked up a cigar. I set it alight and sat down in front of the television. I noticed it was after eight o’clock so I turned the channel to an old NCIS rerun. I closed my eyes for a moment to inspect my inner eyelids.
NCIS must have been boring, because a moment later I opened my eyes and noticed that the eleven o’clock news was on, which was my cue to call it a night. It was fortuitous that my cigar had extinguished itself instead of dropping to the floor and burning down the house.
I went into the bedroom and fell onto the bed still dressed in my clothes. I didn’t care; I was tired. Still, though, I had to count cats. Most people counted sheep but I counted cats. Don’t ask me why.
All I know is that I got to eighty-one before I drifted into the land of Nod.
Chapter Twelve
My beauty sleep was cut short once again by intense, boisterous ringing. And once again I skittered out of bed and careened to the desk in the living room where my two phones held sentry over the house. I picked up the blower on the right.
“Start talkin’.”
“F.O.T.! F.O.T.!”
“Ducky, why do you always insist on calling me when I’m asleep?” I yawned.
“Carpe diem, bro. Seize the day!”
“Seize this,” I grumbled.
“Tisk, tisk, tisk. Still not a morning person, are we?”
“Is there a point to this call, Duck?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. I was wondering if you’d be interested in going to see the fireworks at the V.A. tonight.”
“I’m already going.”
“By yourself?”
“No, with Harry Cassidy.”
“That fossil next door?”
“Be nice, Ducky.”
“It’s about time you had a social life. Mind if I join you?”
“Fine by me. I’ll meet you there, okay?”
“Sure thing. If I don’t show up, just wait longer!”
The line went dead in my hand. Typical Ducky exit strategy.
“Let the wild rumpus start!” I whooped as I cradled the blower.
I looked around the room and noticed the cat staring at me with a hungry look on its mug. I went into the kitchen and filled its bowl with Cat’s Meow and then went back into my bedroom. Since I knew I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, I made the bed and took a shower.
After I dressed, I decided I was hungry enough for a quick road trip into town.
I left the cat in charge.
Chapter Thirteen
Holiday mornings at Mattoon’s meant that I’d have my pick of the tables in the dining room, and I wasn’t disappointed when I arrived. Sam’s mother was minding the store, and I ordered from her my usual pork roll, egg and cheese on a hard roll. While I waited for my order, I grabbed two bottles of diet Dr. Pepper from the refrigerator case and a West Jersey News from the newspaper rack. Five minutes later, Mrs. Mattoon brought my sandwich out to me on a paper plate. Since no one else was seeking her attention, she sat down at my table. Her eyes darted around the room.
“Everything okay, Mrs. Mattoon?” I asked.
“Um, yes, Mac.”
We sat there looking at each other for a moment.
“What?” I asked.
“Well—” She trailed off.
“What?”
“Um, Ruth Lucas called me last night.”
“Yeah? How is the old bird?” Ruth Lucas was the head librarian at the Spruce Run Library. She had hearing and vision problems. She was also obese, about the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. Well, that might be an exaggeration, but legend had it that if old Ruth spent enough time outdoors in the summer sun, she’d sweat gravy.
“That’s not nice, Mac.”
“Sorry.”
“Ruth confided in me that there was another sighting last night.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t believe in that ghost nonsense, do you?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Look, Mrs. Mattoon, Ruth Lucas is an old woman with bad eyesight and too much time on her hands. There have been ghost stories floating around the library for years. I’ve already written two stories about it over the past few years, and between you and me, there’s nothing to this haunted library thing. It’s an old dog.”
“Mac, I just thought—”
“Mrs. M., it’s nothing more than a figment of Ruth Lucas’s need for attention.”
“But what about all the other sightings there? The ones that happened before any of us were born? Can’t you ask Leroy Duckworth’s wife to take a look?”
Ducky’s ex-wife Debbie was a producer the for Scientific America’s cable television Ghost Chasers program. She had offered to investigate the library ghost story a few years back, but at the time Ruth Lucas had declined the offer for fear that her beloved library would suffer some kind of scandal.
Nevertheless, no one in Spruce Run, including Mrs. Mattoon, was aware that years ago, Ruth Lucas had indeed invited a couple of slick pseudo-professionals to her cherished library, on the sly, to investigate the ghost sighting and allegations.
I only found out about the visits because I had, by chance, come across fifty years’ worth of Old Man Letts’ interview notebooks in the Bugler’s basement. Old Man Letts was a hoarder and had never discarded any of his notebooks. He documented everything during his career and his notebooks made for some fascinating reading. I learned about the covert library visits from the notebooks, but didn’t mention anything to anyone. Not even to Ducky.
From the notebooks, I learned that the two charlatans who visited Ruth Lucas had contacted the Bugler ahead of their visits in an attempt to put their names in newsprint. Old Man Letts declined to publish the stories, but I was unable to ascertain why. Maybe he didn’t want to embarrass Ruth Lucas in public. Or maybe he didn’t think the stories were credible. And after reading the notebooks, I had to agree. The stories were sketchy, at best.
“What makes you think Ruth Lucas will allow Ghost Chasers access to the library this time?” I asked, concealing my knowledge of the previous visits.
“Ruth asked me to ask you.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No. Mac, I’m not kidding.”
“What made her change her mind?”
“She’s an old woman, Mac.”
“I see.” I took a bite from my sandwich.
“So you’ll ask Debbie Duckworth?”
“Okay, I’ll ask but I can’t guarantee anything.”
“Thank you Mac.”
Mrs. Mattoon looked relieved, and a moment later got up from the table when another customer came into the deli.
After I finished my sandwich and soda, I paid for it and left. I went to the Bugler and called Debbie Duckworth.
“Hiya, Mac!” she flirted when I identified myself. “I haven’t heard from you in ages.”
Chapter Fourteen
Debbie Roscov Duckworth was another Spruce Run townie I had known since second grade. She and Ducky had begun dating in eighth grade. They got married a month before graduating from Kean and spent the next six years trying to kill each other. Like me, Ducky drank too much, which was why she had left him. She couldn’t take it anymore. Even after their divorce, she and I stayed in touch, albeit from afar. D
ebbie and I always had a mild infatuation with each other, but never acted on it out of respect for my friendship with Ducky.
“Hi Debbie. Yeah, it’s been a while.”
“What can I do for you, Mac?”
“I had a little chat with Mrs. Mattoon this morning. Seems there was a ghost sighting at the library again.”
“Yeah?” She perked up.
“Yeah, and I’ve got some good news for you. Ruth Lucas would like a visit from Ghost Chasers.”
“Don’t tease me, Mac.”
“I heard it straight from Mrs. Mattoon.”
“Mac, this is the best news I’ve heard in a month. I could kiss you!”
“Wow, I wish I told you sooner.”
She giggled.
“So, when do you think your people could pay the library a visit?”
“Hold on, let me look at my schedule. Okay, how about the first Saturday in August?”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll contact Ruth Lucas and tell her to await your call.”
“Thank you, Mac. I appreciate it. You have her number?”
“Sure.” I gave it to her.
“Say, Mac, are you available to meet for lunch on Friday?”
“Sorry, Deb, my dance card is full that day.”
“Oh, okay.” I could hear the disappointment in her voice.
“I’m seeing Maddy on Friday.”
“I didn’t hear that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Why? Have you lost your mind?”
“Nope. I’m all here.”
“What’s going on, Mac?”
“Maddy called to tell me her great-aunt died and my name seems to be in the will. She asked me if I’d like to go with her to the reading.”
Debbie was silent for a moment. “Wait a minute. Maddy called you?”
“Yeah, so?”
“I thought—”
“Me too.”
“Wow. Just don’t get your hopes up, okay?”
“That’s what Ducky said.”
She was silent for another moment. “I see he gave you some good advice for once.”
“Be nice, Deb. Ducky’s a good guy.”
“Sure thing. Hey Mac, I’ve got to go. The other phone is ringing.”
“No problem. You’ll keep me in the loop, right?”
“Sure thing, Mac. Talk to you later.”
The phone went dead in my hand. Like Ducky, like ex-wife.
I cradled the blower and noticed the message light blinking. Harry Cassidy had left a voicemail confirming my presence at the fireworks show. I deleted the message and then pulled up on my computer the most recent Bugler story I had written about the Spruce Run library ghost. It wasn’t much, but I had nothing better to do than give it a cursory look.
GHOST IN RESIDENCE AT
SPRUCE RUN LIBRARY?
By Louis McMurphy, Editor
Spruce Run, New Jersey has been in existence for over two hundred and eighty years and has many interesting historical places to visit. One of the most fascinating, yet macabre relics of Spruce Run’s storied history is its public library. Aside from its age, the library is alleged to be haunted by the ghost of Elizabeth Morris.
During the Revolutionary war, Spruce Run was known as Charlestown and at the time the library was a tavern. Elizabeth Morris was the daughter of Captain John Morris, proprietor of the tavern during the war. The inn was a gathering place for Continental troops traveling between Washington’s headquarters in Morristown and camp in nearby Califon.
It was at the tavern in 1777 where seventeen-year-old Elizabeth met Dr. Robertson, a Tory spy whose real name was Andrew Booth, and fell in love with him. It was also at the tavern where General Zebulon Harding discovered that, during an overnight stay, some secret documents he had went missing. General Harding began investigating, and after seeing a drawing of Dr. Robertson, he recognized the Tory spy despite his having grown a beard.
Troops went in search of the doctor, who was located in nearby Lebanon. He was then followed to Annandale. After the testimony of two soldiers who claimed they had seen him exchange information with British officials near Princeton, he was given a quick trial and hanged as a spy.
Dr. Robertson’s last request was that the Morris’ give him a decent burial. So, after the hanging, his body was sealed in a box and returned to the Charlestown Tavern. Captain Morris requested that the identity of the body be not made known to Elizabeth. But in the dark of the night, the hacking of wood, the creaking of nails being pried free, and the eerie prolonged screams of a woman awakened those in the inn. Elizabeth was found kneeling next to the open box. A look in her wild eyes told everyone “the light of reason had gone from them forever.”
Several tenants have occupied the tavern over the years following that fateful night. But the most sinister episode occurred a hundred years later when Elizabeth and others involved with the hanging returned in full force. On the hundredth anniversary of Elizabeth gruesome discovery, which was on a “cold night in January of 1877,” the tenants were forced to move out in fear because the events of a hundred years ago were reenacted in such a realistic manner.
On that night in 1877, a young woman and her baby were alone in the house while her husband was on business in Princeton. All of a sudden, the sounds of heavy footsteps marching through the kitchen and into the dining room broke the silence of the night. There was a thud, like that of a box being placed on the floor. After a silence, footsteps retreated through the kitchen and out the door. Within minutes, the smash of a hammer and the crack of splintering wood were heard, followed by piercing screams and moans. When the husband returned home, the couple searched the house but found nothing. They moved a short time thereafter.
From time to time the presence of Elizabeth Morris has been “seen,” heard and felt. Through the years there have been many unaccountable sounds of windows and doors closing, creaks, and other inexplicable noises in the building, even after its renovation into a library in 1903.
One of the latest eerie events occurred in 1975. One evening when the library director arrived for work, a high school girl who also worked at the library asked the director why she had not let her into the library when she knocked on the front door. The girl claimed she saw the director sitting in a chair with her back to the front door, dressed in dark clothes. The girl told the director that she even went to one of the side windows to get the woman’s attention. The library director thought that an intruder might be present and inspected the building but found no trace of anyone.
The last “documented” Elizabeth sighting occurred in 1989. Current library director Ruth Lucas reports that a young man saw a lady in white standing by a window in the library’s reading room. He looked away for a moment and when he turned back around, the lady in white had vanished.
Many other long-time residents believe that Elizabeth Morris still resides in the Spruce Run Library. Others find this story as nothing more than a sham. Do ghosts of this nature exist? We may never know for sure. But this story does give some notoriety to the history of Spruce Run and its Library.
I closed the file and shook my head. It always astounded me how people were so quick to believe in ghosts and UFOs. Everyone’s a frigging expert. They’re so quick to believe in drivel like this, but become evasive when you ask them about their belief in God. Why is that? Why do they find it easier to believe in UFOs than God?
And speaking of UFOs, what’s the deal with anal probing? Are you’re going to tell me that after traveling hundreds of thousands of light-years to get here, all ET wants to do is stick a bony finger up my butt? No offense, but I don’t think so.
Then there are those people who say they are “spiritual but not religious.” What’s up with that? I mean, come on. Do you believe in God, or don’t you? It’s not a Mensa meeting question.
I called the library and left a message for Ruth Lucas to expect a call from Ghost Chasers. I then called Mrs. Mattoon to let her know I had followed through with her reque
st. When I cradled the blower, I looked at the digital clock on my computer screen and decided it was time to grab my coat, grab my hat and make the bus in seconds flat. I shut down my computer and left the building with Elvis.
Chapter Fifteen
When I arrived home, the cat wasn’t at the door waiting for me. It was times like this when I wondered what was the point in having a cat. Of course, having a cat wasn’t exactly what’s going on, here. In reality, the cat has me.
Where that was, I wasn’t sure.
I was tired, so I decided to lie down on the bed and inspect the insides of my eyelids. It wouldn’t take long. Besides, I had a few hours to kill before I went with Harry Cassidy to see the fireworks.
* * * *
It was long past teatime when I woke up. I guess I was more tired that I had thought. Before I left the cat in charge of the house, I went to my desk and grabbed a couple of cigars from a box I kept in the bottom left-hand drawer, and put them in a jacket pocket that wasn’t working for a living. A minute later I was out the kitchen door.
Harry was alone when he answered my knock on his door.
“Where’s the family?” I asked.
“They went home.”
“They didn’t stay for the fireworks?”
“Nah, they wanted to get a head start on the traffic.”
I shook my head incredulously. “Their loss.”
Harry ignored my response. “Hey, Mac, would you mind driving?”
“Sure thing.” I was aware that Harry didn’t like to drive at night. As a result, I suspected he preferred having a chauffeur for the evening. Of course, I had to admit I didn’t like the idea of being driven by an old man with the eyesight of Mr. Magoo.
We carried a cooler and some lawn chairs from Harry’s house and put them in the trunk of my car. We didn’t talk much during the thirty-minute ride. It seemed as if Harry’s mind was somewhere else. I didn’t complain. I just listened to Q104.3 on the radio. Classic Rock. I loved it.
