Stillwell: A Haunting on Long Island

by Michael Phillip Cash

  He shot up out of bed. “Jesse,” he whispered, rushing out into the hallway. He peered through the gloom. “Is that you?” He moved to the kids’ rooms and they were each fast asleep. Nothing had disturbed their slumber.

  He walked through the long dark corridor. There was a strange mist that dampened his shirt so that it clung to his body. It was cold and his skin pebbled. He heard noise, a strange growling, that got louder as he walked through the narrow passageway downstairs, his back hugging the wall. He peered into the living room. The light had a strange glow that pulsed with a life of its own. He heard laughter, recognizing it at once to be Allison. He started to run toward the sound, but each time he felt he was close by, the sound came from a different room. He caught a glimpse of something in the living room, a shadow, hairy and foul, its wickedness a palatable thing. Allison hovered before him, her hair restored, blonde locks floating behind her, her cheek dimpled. Alabaster arms reached out to him; her lips moved, but he could not hear her voice. He ran recklessly toward her, his feet slipping, moving but getting nowhere. He was stuck. He gripped the carpet and tried to propel himself but couldn’t gain any ground. He rolled toward a chair and crashed into it, taking it down along with a beautiful Waterford lamp. As the crystal shattered, it broke into tiny shards of glittering glass. He got onto all fours, and mustering all his strength, he leaped far, flying toward her. He realized out of the corner of his eye, something was catapulting toward him, a greasy ball of matted fur, huge and catlike. It collided with him. Powerful arms grabbed him, but his sweat-drenched body slid painfully out of its viselike embrace. The impact sent him crashing onto the living room floor. Allison floated away; her face turned toward him in a mute appeal, the musty odor of something evil creating a wall of interference.

  He came awake with a start, his heart beating wildly, sweat soaking his body. He got out of bed and ran to the hallway. The night was silent and all the kids were asleep. He rushed downstairs to see the living room. There was no sign of any struggle. The lamp was lit and whole; no glass carpeted the floor. No Allison. No freakishly big apish thing trying to rip him to shreds. He shook his head and went back upstairs. Acid bathed the back of his throat.

  Reaching for the water by his bedside, he groaned at the pain, clasping his hand to his rib cage. His fingers came away red with blood. Three long tracks scored his skin. It looked as if a bear's claw had grazed the smooth skin of his side.

  Shaken, he stumbled to the bathroom and examined his side. On closer look, it wasn’t bad or really even that painful. It was just there. Paul stared at his white face, trembling with fear, for his wife, his children, and himself.

  chapter 3

  Tuesday

  Paul woke up with a start. He never expected to fall asleep after that nightmare, but exhaustion had claimed him, and he slept for the remainder of the night. Glancing at his weary face in the bathroom mirror, he shaved and wondered if he should speak to somebody about it. He pulled his wife’s ring from under his tee shirt then stared at the inscription, missing her, wondering what she would tell him to do. Should he get the kids into counseling? Did he need a shrink? Was he going crazy? Hearing things on the radio, seeing bloody crimes scenes, fistfights with Sasquatch in his living room. If he shared these things with a doctor, the authorities would take the kids away. He shuddered thinking of the ramifications of them being separated. No one was going to take his kids away from him, not ever. “Get a grip, Paul,” he told himself in the mirror.

  “Who you talking to?” Stella stood on her toes, her face level with his sink, her brown eyes searching. Holding her doll in her arms, she looked up pleadingly. “Are you talking to Mommy?”

  “Stell…” He picked her up, resting her against his hip. “You know Mommy’s gone. I’m giving myself a pep talk.”

  “What’s a pep talk?”

  “Well, it’s like I’m missing my teammate, so I’m giving myself a little talk to snap out of feeling sorry for myself and get the day moving.”

  “Dad.” Stella touched his unshaven cheek with her grubby hands. “Mommy is here. I know it. Just ask her what to do and she’ll tell you. You have to listen.”

  He stared into her serious brown eyes, so much like his own, and kissed her button nose, told her not to be such a silly, and to get dressed. After she left he rested both his hands on the sink and looked at his reflection, muttering, “If it was only that easy.”

  Breakfast was an easier affair this morning. Paul seemed to get all their demands correct. Through heavy eyes, they all had a moment of giggles when the syrup opened and flooded the freezer-ready French toast. He introduced Roni to the wonder of peanut butter-covered French toast and was satisfied by the amount she ate. Even Jesse cracked a smile at his twin’s delight. He had prepared oatmeal for himself; his spoon stuck straight up in the thick gruel. It was the heart healthy stuff Allison insisted he eat. Only hers was rich and creamy like velvet. A touch of sweetness—he had no idea what she used—kept him full the whole day. Choking it down, he wondered briefly what he missed on the directions. But there was one thing he certainly wasn’t going to mention this morning…He wasn’t going to say two words about the three scratch marks on his rib cage. Hell, he was so on edge every second of the day, that was all he needed to exacerbate the never-ending headache and freak out the children. Kids, Daddy saw Mommy’s ghost last night; Stella, you were right. She’s there, but before I could say anything to her, a hairy monster attacked me. He sort of resembled King Kong. Wouldn’t go over well. All they had to do was share that with Mrs. Overzealous Principal. They’d have me locked up and on meds, the kids in foster homes, and pretty soon they’ll all be peeing in their beds. He sat there, eating oatmeal, not tasting anything, thinking about what happened. This stuff happened in the movies. Whatever happened in your dreams, couldn’t happen in real life. Could it? He was thinking about it too much and shook his head. He didn’t notice, but the kids were staring directly at him.

  “Dad?” asked Stella. “You OK?”

  “You look strange,” added Jesse.

  “I’m fine. Everything is fine. Just thinking about how I’m going to sell this new listing.”

  “What is it?” said Stella.

  He didn’t want the kids knowing about Stillwell or its sordid reputation. He didn’t think they would even know what he was talking about. “An old friend asked me to sell his parents’ home.”

  “Who?” the ever-inquisitive Stella demanded.

  “You wouldn’t remember them.” Paul dismissed the subject.

  “I would,” Roni offered. “Who, Dad?”

  He never questioned his parents when he was young. Why did they make him feel like he had to report to them. The words left his mouth before he could stop them, “The Andrewses. Craig Andrews.”

  “Stillwell Manor?” Jesse asked with awe.

  Paul’s throat swelled shut. “How did you know about Stillwell?” he managed to sputter.

  “Everybody in school knows about Stillwell. I go to school with Robbie Andrews.”

  “We both do,” Veronica added. “That’s Mr. and Mrs. Andrews’s son. You know what happened to his grandparents, don’t you?”

  “OK, that’s enough.”

  “The Andrewses were brutally murdered in…” Jesse started.

  “Stop, Jesse.”

  “The old man’s brains were splattered all over the bed—”

  “Stop!” Paul slammed his fist on the table. His hand came a little too close to the oatmeal bowl and it flipped over like a pancake.

  “What’s ‘murdered’?” asked Stella.

  “Nothing,” continued Paul. “I don’t want to talk about it. Do not bring up the name ‘Stillwell’ in this house again. Do you all understand?”

  “What happened at Stillwell, Daddy?” pressed Stella, with the lamentable lack of manners of the very young.

  “Stella, enough. Do not say the name ‘Stillwell’ here. Does everyone understand? I’m not sure if I am even taking the listing
, so we can all forget that name was ever brought up.” The truth was, he needed this listing. All of his credit cards were close to being maxed out. Their savings had evaporated, and he knew deep down, he really didn’t have a choice.

  Mirabelle walked in breaking the uncomfortable silence. The kids got up, pulling on their backpacks without saying a word. Mirabelle placed her belongings in a corner of the kitchen, getting to work on the messy tabletop with her capable hands. Paul wondered who actually did the Stillwell cleanup. Sometimes all the scrubbing in the world would not make a stain disappear.

  ====

  Driving to work, Paul’s chest was sore, and he touched the scratches absentmindedly. They fit the outline of his hand, and he reasoned he must have gored himself in his sleep last night. There was no other reasonable explanation. He stopped at Starbucks and grunted a reply to the barista, and for a minute, wished he could wear a black armband, so people would leave him alone. In the past he knew the custom of wearing a token of a ribbon or an armband let society know the person was in mourning, aching, and brokenhearted and not in the mood for small talk. He couldn’t understand how people didn’t see he was changed. Each line in his face, the weariness of his shoulders, the sadness that surrounded him. Didn’t the distant look give a clue to his mental health; couldn’t they understand he didn’t care who won the game last night? He wasn’t interested in discussing the latest CSI episode.

  He pulled into his office, parked in his new spot, and went to his desk. He had a pile of notes in Molly’s handwriting. She had gotten him an appointment this morning with a young couple looking for a starter house.

  “You’re gonna take it, right, Paul?”

  Molly glanced over her bright pink bifocals. “Jannette told me to give it to Evan. Screw her,” she whispered.

  “I don’t want to take something from Evan.”

  “Screw him too. He don’t need money. He lives with Mommy and Daddy. Take it, Paul. They’re easy. Show them the Simmons place. It’s been on multiple forever. They are desperate for a sale. This is a walk in the park for you. You can nail it.”

  He called them and made appointments for later in the morning. He left a message with Melissa Andrews telling her he planned on a photo shoot with a noted photographer in two days. He asked her to have gardeners clean up the weeds. His day was very condensed as he still hadn’t gotten anyone to collect Stella from the bus. He could leave the twins alone for a short time, but at seven, he didn’t want Stella to be a latchkey kid just yet. He knew Allison would have agreed. Staring at his computer screen, he pressed “escape” to get out of the program. The computer stalled. He banged the keys with frustration and tried to go to the next site and the computer went black then gray and turned on again. Pictures flashed crazily. Paul looked around to see if anyone noticed, but everyone’s head was down, working silently. He heard the drone of conversation, which was normal; nobody appeared to have her or his computer taking on a life of its own. He looked back, and the images were going backward to colonial times. He saw soldiers, ballrooms filled women and men with powdered white hair. There was music that only he seemed to be aware of, and he watched in horrified fascination as the pictures turned murky, cloudily distorted as if looking through a backward keyhole. The montage slowed and finally stopped, leaving a picture of the Stillwell wishing well on his screen. Surrounded by fronds of weeping willows, a light shone from its depths, illuminating the dark sky.

  A cup of hot coffee was placed on his desk, making him jump with fright. Molly was behind him. “Sorry.” She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, her red nails resembling dripping blood. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She bent over and looked at the image on his screen. “Ugh, the Stillwell wishing well. I hate that place.”

  His nerves felt raw as if doused with acid. “I have to meet Melissa Andrews there at ten this morning. Why? Why do you hate that place?” He tasted the coffee, letting it calm him, and the last dregs of his fatigue melted away. She made a face at that. “What? What do you know about it?”

  She rolled her chair closer to him and sat down, her voice a low whisper. “It’s silly.”

  “So what? Come on. I think it might be a white elephant,” he complained then stated it might be a whopper to try and get rid of.

  “Well,” she said then looked around, making sure no one could hear them. “They say it’s haunted.”

  A chill ran up Paul’s back and he shook his head.

  “Come on, Molly, that’s a load of crap. They say that about all the old estates. Sometimes, that even draws the gothic crowd in.”

  “No, listen, I dated one of the Andrews brothers back in the eighties.” When he looked at her skeptically, she retorted, “The uncles of your friend, not his brothers. I could have been a child bride, you know, if it had worked out.”

  “What? Which one, Anthony or Charles?”

  “What do you think?” She winked. “The handsome one, of course. Did you think I would sell out for money?” She giggled.

  There were three brothers, Craig’s dad, Richard, Anthony the middle brother, a big contractor on Long Island, and Charles, the youngest, a hotshot lawyer from Manhattan. They had all since married and moved to different areas of the state, except for Craig’s parents. “They all had money. They bathed in it.”

  She said, “Well, there are different degrees of money. Charles always told of a family ghost. Someone from the Revolutionary War time. She was rather famous, Hannah Andrews. She was beautiful, the daughter of the first Andrews who built the house. She did the unthinkable. She fell in love with the enemy. A debonair captain in Washington’s army.”

  “The George Washington? Dollar bill George Washington? So what, they were American. She should have loved an American.”

  “Ah, but there’s the rub. The Andrewses were Loyalists.”

  “You lost me, Molly.”

  “Loyalists. Supporters of the British. The Andrews family served King George. His daughter was entertaining famous British nationals and meeting her lover in the back by the Stillwell wishing well.” She added as an afterthought, “They housed British soldiers there during the Revolutionary War.”

  “That sounds creepy. I don’t know how I’m going to rehabilitate this house.” His old friend, acid reflux starting making his presence known. Paul rubbed the spot below his rib cage. Molly handed him an antacid after rooting around in her purse.

  “You should see a doctor about that.” Molly nodded to his stomach.

  “It’s nothing. Tell me more.”

  “It gets even worse. He forbid their courtship, so Hannah disappeared. They couldn’t find her for months and hung her American lover as her murderer. They claimed he was a spy for the colonists. They found her remains years later at the bottom of the well. Her ghost and her lover’s ghost have haunted the place for over two hundred years.”

  “I don’t think I want this listing.”

  “Oh Paul, you don’t believe in ghosts, do you? Hey, it’s almost ten. Don’t you have to meet Melissa Andrews?”

  He pulled out of the office, his mind on the horrible story of that house. It would be a massive commission, the house should sell in the multimillions, and the hit would bring him back, but the whole thing made him uncomfortable. “Ally, Ally,” he called to his wife, wishing he could hear her advice. “What should I do?”

  ====

  The landscaping company was already working on the long drive when he pulled in. A crew of ten or twelve guys were taming the wild bushes and trimming trees. The place looked much more inviting. That was fast, he thought, feeling better about the listing. Melissa and Craig waited for him by the front door. He noticed that Craig had ripped off the last of the police tape and had wound it around his hand. They looked miserable. If body language was an indicator, he would guess theirs was not a marriage made in heaven.

  He got out of his BMW and met them on the top step outside of the massive stone entry. “Who first?” Craig held out his hand. “Sorry about Allison
. She was a nice girl.” He was tall, with white blonde hair and dark eyes. Dressed in a golf shirt, he guessed this meeting pulled them out of their country club. Craig was preppy handsome and Paul never quite understood why they became friends. He was everything Craig Andrews was not. Brought up in a Waspy household, Andrews had nothing in common with the very Italian Paul. Where Paul’s house was all warmth and friendliness, the Andrews home was proper and cold. Melissa was wearing a tennis outfit, her skirt just skimming her tight butt. She stood close to Craig, but her eyes drank Paul in.

  “I really liked your parents. Terrible shame.” Paul avoided her gaze, feeling a bit like a sheep in a lioness’s den.

  “Unbelievable. Selfish and just reprehensible to leave us with this scandal. I don’t understand my father.”

  “Do you know what happened?” Paul asked.

  “No, it’s unexplainable. I thought they were happy. He was so proud. Always took the high road, even when he fought over money with his brothers. Nobody can believe this.”

  “Yes.” Melissa shook her head. “He was such a quiet man. Never liked attention of any sort. It’s so strange.”

  “He snapped, Melissa.” Craig turned to his wife.

  She responded, “We thought they were so in love. The police haven’t ruled out an intruder.”

  Craig raised his eyebrows. “There was no intruder.”

  “How about we go inside and discuss a strategy?” Melissa held out a huge round ring with an antique skeleton key on it. Paul took it and felt the heavy weight of it in the palm of his hand commenting, “Is this original?”

  Craig shrugged and said, “My father always held on to tradition and never wanted to change anything in the house.”

  Paul gestured to the painted black door with a huge brass knocker imported from England close to three hundred years ago. He stared at it noticing a gargoyle etched into its surface. It was worn but distinguishable.