by Terri Reid
“A twin thing?” she asked skeptically.
He paused for a moment and then met her eyes. “Or maybe a triplet thing?” he asked softly.
Margaret gasped. “How did you know?”
“I guess it’s time to tell my story,” he replied.
It was a hot summer night. The cicadas were buzzing in the trees outside their house. The windows were open with box fans whirring at top speed, trying to move the hot and humid air throughout the house.
Tom O’Reilly lay on the bottom level of the bunkbed he shared with his twin brother, Art. The heat was making it hard for him to sleep and, because Tom was the younger twin, Art got the top bunk where the breeze was better. At eight years-old, Tom’s outstretched legs could just reach the net of wired squares that held the mattress up above him and if he curled his toes through the metal, he could jostle the mattress and kick his brother. He thumped at the mattress once. “Art are you awake?” he called. No response. He thumped it again. Nothing.
With a frustrated sigh, Tom grabbed his pillow and headed out of the room. Maybe sleeping on the back porch would be cooler.
Standing in the darkened hallway outside his bedroom, Tom listened for a moment to the unique sounds of his house at night. He heard the soft whirr of the box fans, the low rumble of the refrigerator, the annoying drip in the upstairs bathroom sink and the rhythmic growl of his dad’s snoring. Tiptoeing down the stairs, he reached the living room and looked around. The soft light from the streetlamps outside cast weird shadows inside the house. Everything looked a little bit different without the light on.
He crept down the hall to the kitchen. The cat clock on the wall, its tail moving in sync with its eyes, freaked him out during the day. He purposely turned away from the soft tick-tock, avoiding its face in the shadowy light. The door to the screened-in back porch was open, another box fan placed in the doorway, directing air from the outside into the house. Tom stepped around the fan and walked over to the canvas-covered green-striped davenport against the wall.
Throwing his pillow down, he climbed onto the couch and lay down, feeling a cooling breeze wash over his body. He stretched and smiled, finally he was going to be able to sleep. He started to close his eyes when a movement caught his attention next to the door. He turned and saw Art standing on the other side of the fan.
“Hey, I thought you were asleep,” he said. “Why didn’t you answer me?”
Art didn’t say a word.
“What?” Tom asked. “You want to sleep here too?”
Art still didn’t answer.
Frustrated and tired, Tom turned away from his brother. “Fine, do what you want to do. I’m going to sleep.”
Tom woke up several hours feeling disoriented. It took him a few moments to realize he was on the porch and then he remembered what he’d done. He rolled over, towards the kitchen door and was surprised to see Art still standing there watching him.
“Why are you standing there?” he asked sleepily.
“You need to come upstairs,” his brother said.
“Why? It’s hot up there,” Tom argued.
“You need to come upstairs now,” his brother replied urgently.
“But…” Tom stopped. Art wasn’t standing there anymore. Had he already gone upstairs without him?
He punched his pillow, but then slid off the davenport and hurried through the house back to the staircase. When he got there, he noticed a funny smell. As he climbed the stairs, the smell got stronger, like a campfire, but a stinky one.
“Art,” he whispered. “Art where are you?”
He reached the top stair and noticed the smoke. He dashed to his room and touched the doorknob, jerking back and shouting in pain. The doorknob was hot.
“Art,” he screamed. “Art are you in there?”
“What’s going on?” his father called from the end of the hall.
“There’s a fire and Art’s in there,” Tom screamed.
Timothy ran down the hall and threw his weight against the door. It crashed open and Tom could see a fire blazing in the corner of his room. Timothy ran over to the bunkbed, grabbed Art from the top bunk and ran from the room.
“What’s wrong with him?” Tom pleaded, his heart filling with dread as he watched his father carry the lifeless body of his brother into his parent’s bedroom. “He was just awake.”
“Sean, take the fire extinguisher and spray the fire,” Timothy ordered his oldest son. “Margaret call the fire department and tell them we need an ambulance.”
Tom hurried over to his brother’s side, holding Art’s inert hand in his own. “He was just awake,” he insisted through his tears. “He wanted me to come upstairs, but he was just awake.”
Timothy leaned over his son and performed CPR, breathing into his son’s mouth, massaging his chest and then listening for a response. “Come on Art,” he pleaded. “Come back to us.”
“Art, you gotta come back,” Tom said. “I need you.”
A moment later, Art coughed and Tom and Timothy met each other’s tear filled eyes. “He’s going to be fine,” Timothy whispered in a broken voice. “He’s going to be fine.”
Several hours later, the house was quiet again. The fire department had been to the house and claimed faulty wiring in the box fan had caused the fire. The fumes from the burning plastic had nearly suffocated Art and if they hadn’t found him when they did...
They had called Tom a hero, but, as he lay back on the davenport in the screened-in porch he didn’t feel like one. His mother and father were at the hospital with Art. Sean was sleeping on the couch in the living room and he was back where everything had started.
“But Art was awake,” he whispered. “I saw him.”
“No, you saw me.”
Tom looked over and saw Art standing next to the kitchen door. He felt a chill run down his spine. “Are you Art?” he stuttered softly.
The boy shook his head. “No, I’m the other one,” he said softly.
“The other one?” Tom asked, his voice shaking. “What other one?”
“The one that died,” the boy replied and then he faded away.
Chapter Seven
Margaret O’Reilly was weeping softly into a tissue. “I had no idea,” she cried. “The three of you were so little when you were born and little Gregory only lived for a few hours.”
“Yes, he told me,” Tom said.
“Told you?” Margaret asked.
“He came back a couple of times,” he replied with an easy shrug. “I thought it was cool to have an angel brother. And it was neat because he looked just like Art and me. It was like he was growing up with us. He checks in now and then to see how his family is doing.”
Margaret reached over and clasped her son’s hand. “Thank you,” she said. “A mother’s heart always yearns for her lost babies. It’s so wonderful to know he’s fine.”
“And I suppose you never know who’s sharing your house with you,” Tom said with a wink.
“Which opens the door to my story,” Mary said. “The part about not knowing who is sharing your house with you.”
Pumpkin was very large, very spoiled and very determined to get his own way. Pumpkin was the O’Reilly’s marmalade cat. Pumpkin chose the O’Reilly family when Mary was three years old. He wandered into the yard, climbed up on one of the chairs Mary had arranged for her tea party and daintily lapped away at the cream-heavy tea. Mary was delighted.
Because Pumpkin had first come to Mary, the little girl had decided that he must be her cat. So poor Pumpkin had been subject to all sorts of indignities the average cat would not have put up with. Quite often, he was adorned with bonnets, ribbons, doll dresses and an occasional barrette encircled a clump of his orange hair. He went for rides in doll carriages, sipped tea from a platter and listened to the endless chatter of an excited toddler. Pumpkin was a good sport and a true gentleman. Not once did he extend his sharp claws and exact revenge for the humiliations he encountered. He took it all in stride.
At night, once Mary had gone to bed, Pumpkin would come downstairs and curl himself up on the back of the couch, closest to the fireplace. He would purr happily, enjoying the warmth from the fire and the soft, calming conversation of the two adults who shared his room.
He didn’t mind the adults at all. After all, the one called Ma would feed him every day and made sure his water bowl was clean and filled. And the one called Da would scratch him in the most delicious ways.
However, once they turned off the lights and locked the doors, Pumpkin knew it was time for him to assume his nighttime post. With his tail waving tall in the air, Pumpkin would march upstairs and over to Mary’s bedroom door. With agility Houdini would have admired, he stood on his back legs, reached up to the doorknob and gave it a slight twist. The door slowly opened several inches under his weight, enough for him to slip through and head to his final destination, Mary’s bed. Hopping up on the bed, he walked around until he found his favorite spot, nestled against her back. With a satisfied sigh, he would close his eyes and fall asleep.
Mary and Pumpkin shared many delightful days, but as the years passed and the toddler grew into a child, Pumpkin found himself spending more time watching out the window for his favorite person to come home. He spent most of his days helping out in the kitchen, making sure Ma knew that she was loved by intertwining himself between her legs. Especially when she was doing some mundane task like carrying baskets of laundry or mopping the floor. He could tell she appreciated his attention and would generally ignore any less than polite comments she offered in his direction.
When Mary came home, he would follow her upstairs and sit on the desk as she worked on her homework. And every night, like clockwork, he would open her door, lay down next to her and go to sleep.
More years passed and Pumpkin got to be an old man. The stairs were harder to climb, Mary had to reach down and lift him up on the bed, and he was often very tired. Worried about her friend, Mary would make sure she took the time to pet him and let him know how much she loved him.
One night, after Mary had gone to bed, Pumpkin lay on the couch soaking in the warmth of the fire. His breathing was shallow and he was feeling so very tired. He knew he needed to get up soon, go up to Mary’s room for the night, but he couldn’t find the energy. Finally, he just closed his eyes.
Ma came into the room and found Pumpkin on the back of the couch. His old body was still and he was no longer breathing. With tears in her eyes, she cradled the cat to her chest and pressed a kiss on his forehead. “Goodbye, my sweet friend,” she whispered hoarsely. “You will be missed.”
Later than night, Mary woke to the sound of her door opening. Half-asleep, she smiled, and started to slip out of the covers to help Pumpkin into the bed. But before her feet touched the floor in the dark room, she felt the familiar weight of Pumpkin on the mattress. “Good boy,” she said, sleepily, laying her head back down on her pillow. “You did it all by yourself.”
She felt him walk across the bed, nestle down next to her and heard his contented purring. Pumpkin was right where he belonged.
Chapter Eight
Once again, Margaret O’Reilly was wiping her eyes with a tissue. “I loved that cat,” she sniffed.
“You called him a bothersome creature,” Timothy reminded her.
“I call you a bothersome creature too,” she replied. “And I still love you.”
Timothy chuckled. “Aye, that’s true,” he said. Standing he leaned over and blew out the Jack O’Lantern. “Another Halloween has passed and another great night of storytelling has occurred. And now, I believe, it’s time for all of you to go to bed.”
Mary gave each of her parents a hug and then climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She quickly washed up, changed into her pajamas and then climbed into bed. She leaned over and clicked off the light on her nightstand, plunging her bedroom into darkness and then she waited. A few minutes later, she heard the sound of her doorknob moving and the door opening slightly. Her head snuggled into the pillow she held her breath until she felt the familiar feline weight on her bed. A moment later, she felt pressure against the small of her back and heard the familiar soft strains of a contented purr.
“Good night, Pumpkin,” she whispered, feeling safe and protected. “Sweet dreams.”
Author’s notes:
I have always loved ghost stories and I hope you enjoyed these six, created just for the O’Reilly family and shared with you. I have a Scottish Prayer hanging in my office that reads, “From Ghoulies and Ghosties and Long-Legged Beasties and Things that go Bump in the Night, Dear Lord, Protect Us.”
I hope your Halloween is filled with treats and not tricks, princesses, superheroes and minions, not ghoulies and ghosties, and wonderful memories for you and your family.
Happy Halloween,
Terri Reid
About the author: Terri Reid lives near Freeport, the home of her Mary O’Reilly Mystery Series. She has always loved a good story. She lives in a hundred year-old farmhouse complete with its own ghost. She loves hearing from her readers at [email protected]
Other Books by Terri Reid:
Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mystery Series:
Loose Ends (Book One)
Good Tidings (Book Two)
Never Forgotten (Book Three)
Final Call (Book Four)
Darkness Exposed (Book Five)
Natural Reaction (Book Six)
Secret Hollows (Book Seven)
Broken Promises (Book Eight)
Twisted Paths (Book Nine)
Veiled Passages (Book Ten)
Bumpy Roads (Book Eleven)
Treasured Legacies (Book Twelve)
Buried Innocence (Book Thirteen)
Mary O’Reilly Short Stories
Irish Mists – Sean’s Story
The Three Wise Guides
PRCD Case Files:
The Ghosts Of New Orleans -A Paranormal Research and Containment Division Case File
Eochaidh:
Legend of the Horseman (Book One)
