Malefic

by Ambrose Ibsen

Joseph spent awhile wiping the condensation from his beer bottle with the pads of his thumbs, as though he'd earlier recorded the answers to such questions upon it and now sought to find them. Eventually, he delivered the perfectly limp and vague reply of, “Things have been better, to tell you the truth.”

  Any answer was better than no answer at all, and having broken through the surface I grew in frankness. “Not merely as your uncle, but as a physician, I have to say you aren't looking well, Joey. What's going on? I mean, what's really going on? You look absolutely exhausted, like you haven't slept a wink all week.” Grinning, I wiped a drop of beer from my mustache. “Or could it be that you're just not happy to see your dear old uncle?”

  “It's not that,” he replied quickly enough for me to believe him. “Of course I'm happy to see you. It's just that... things have been rough for me lately. The house, it's...” He sighed, started over again. “Moving hasn't been anything like what I expected.”

  I nodded. “They say that moving is one of the biggest stressors we face in life, up there with deaths in the family and grave illness. The disruption to routine is a great strain. Never mind the packing and unpacking. It never ends! I imagine the wife had a lot of boxes for you to haul around, yes?” I smirked, hoping to lighten the mood.

  “I wish it was just the lifting that had me feeling this way. That was the easy part—it's not like we own all that much.” His accompanying laugh was devoid of mirth. “No, it wasn't until we'd gotten everything unpacked that things went sour.”

  The promised chips and salsa arrived, and I eyed them hungrily as I asked, “So, you're pretty well convinced that the house is haunted, then?”

  He only nodded.

  “Let's get down to brass tacks,” I said, rummaging through my messenger bag for a dogeared Moleskine notebook. I fished out my reading glasses and turned to a clean page with a lick of my finger. Around a mouthful of chips and salsa, I prompted him to explain his troubles with the house from the very top. “Don't spare any detail.”

  The dodgy look in Joseph's eye transitioned very quickly into one of seeming protest, as if he didn't think the hashing out of these facts aloud would do any good. The last of his beer—along with the inaugural pull of a second—proved steadying enough to get him started, however. “Well... let's see...

  “The neighborhood is actually really nice. Except for ours, every house on the street is a new construction. When I called before, at the closing, I think I mentioned that this place of ours was abandoned for years—that it's been empty more than it's been lived in—but you wouldn't know by looking at it. We loved it at first sight. And it was affordable, too. We shouldn't have been able to afford a house like this one—not on my salary. But the price was right. It was close to work, had a nice yard for Megan to play in. The kitchen is huge, and there's room for that garden Melissa's always wanted. We jumped on it, and for awhile I felt certain that moving there was the best decision we'd ever made. Saving for the down-payment really did us in, of course. And some of our furniture didn't survive the move, so financially things have been shaky—”

  Believing that I'd just struck upon the true reason for his sulking, I began searching immediately for my checkbook. “Now, is that what's got you so frayed around the edges? You should have told me you were having money troubles over the phone, Joey. I'd have mailed you a check—wired you something. How much do you need?”

  Joseph taught history at a public elementary school, and his wife, Melissa, was a homemaker who sometimes earned money on the side by selling hand-sewn goods at farmer's markets and craft shows. The two of them had never known anything remotely like financial stability, though early on in their marriage this constant lack of funds had concerned them little. It hadn't been until the birth of their only child, Megan, that their costs of living had erupted and they'd begun worrying about money. I'd offered on numerous occasions to lend the family financial support—had even tried to help them with a down-payment as they'd set out in search of their first home. Joseph seldom took me up on such offers however, too prideful to accept handouts.

  He waved his hands in the air, dispelling the subject of money like a foul odor. “Thanks, uncle, but don't worry about that. I stumbled into a new summer gig in town; they'll give me full-time hours until school starts up again in August, so we don't need money right now. What I do need your help with—if this is really something you can take care of—is what's happening within the house itself. I didn't know where else to turn, but when I remembered your interest in these things I thought you might be able to help us. Or, at least, give us some insight into what we're dealing with.”

  “I believe I can,” I replied. “Yours isn't the first instance of 'haunting' I've dealt with over the past few years. It's become quite the hobby for me, ghost-chasing. Tell me more about what you've witnessed, when it all began. I'll devise a plan and we'll get things straightened out over there sooner rather than later, just you watch.”

  The waiter dropped off our entrees. We'd both opted for three carne asada tacos, and I began consuming mine with a swiftness that strained the borders of politeness. They were damn good, wrapped in freshly-made tortillas and topped with ample onion and cilantro; not since a vacation in Puerto Vallarta had I eaten a taco their equal. I hoped that Joseph's ramblings would go a bit long, if only to give me an opportunity to enjoy another three. I listened patiently between bites as Joseph explained his troubles with the new house, pausing now and then to jot down the occasional note.

  “It started with the shadows,” he began, nudging his plate away, untouched. “I noticed it the very day we moved in. There's something up with the shadows in this place, with the way the light behaves. It's more noticeable at night, but even during the day you catch sight of your shadow behaving strangely. For whatever reason, the shadows in this house are long—they stretch. All three of us noticed it, thought it weird. But we let it go. Why obsess over something bizarre but ultimately harmless like that? Had it stopped there, I'd have been happy as a clam with the house. But then I began hearing things.

  “It's the damnedest thing, the noises that house makes. It isn't like any other place I've ever lived. Since college, I've hopped from apartment to apartment. I've lived in good parts of town and bad, I've lived above, below, beside and across from other people. I know what it sounds like to live close to others, and the kinds of sounds that old buildings can make. But where we live, we shouldn't be able to hear much of our neighbors—the houses on Morgan Road are fairly staggered. Kids playing across the street, dogs barking, cars speeding by—sure, fine. We get some of that. But those noises from around the neighborhood aren't the ones that trouble me. I've been hearing things within the house. And they aren't just bumps or creaks. They're voices.

  “You know that feeling when you walk into a loud, crowded room—when you step through the doorway and suddenly the whole place goes silent? That uneasy feeling you get when you realize, deep down, they were all talking about you? That's kind of what living in this house is like. I'll be upstairs, or in the bathroom, and I'll hear someone speaking in a nearby room. A room that ought to be empty. The minute I go to investigate, you know what I find?” Joseph paused.

  Dabbing at a splotch of salsa on my blazer, I shook my head.

  “Nothing,” he continued. “I follow the voices, enter the room and find no one there. Things suddenly go quiet, as if on cue, the moment I pass through the threshold. I only tend to hear them after sundown. Mel and Megan claim to have heard them, too, so I know it's not just me.”

  “What do the voices sound like?” I asked. “And can you tell what's being said? I just want to narrow things down a bit, make sure that you're not hearing one of your neighbors chattering out on the lawn.”

  Joseph shrugged. “I haven't been able to hear what's being said, no. It's kind of muffled. There's something about the voices, though...” He tore off the edge of a paper napkin and rolled it into a ball between his fingers. “It's hard to explain, but they don't
sound right. They don't sound like normal people talking, at least. They're kind of... animal-like, maybe? Like something you'd hear in a horror flick. And I'm certain they're coming from inside the house.

  “There are other sounds I can't explain. For instance, sometimes we hear footsteps in the upstairs when we're all downstairs. And there's a tapping behind the walls. It isn't very loud—in fact, I'd say it's just loud enough to be distracting, just loud enough to get your attention when you're trying to focus on something else. I hear it sometimes when I'm watching TV or reading, usually in the living room. Sometimes, though, I hear it elsewhere in the house. I don't know what the hell it could be. It's kind of repetitive, almost rhythmic, and you get to feeling like someone's drumming their fingers back there—like someone's watching from behind the walls and trying to get your attention.”

  “Mice,” was my response. I flagged down the waiter and ordered a second beer. Treating myself to one of Joseph's neglected tacos, I explained, “This tapping you hear behind the walls sounds like mice to me. They make quite the racket, especially if they're well-established. Since the house sat vacant a long time it's almost certainly rodents. I'd bet on it. No telling what kind of critters might have set down roots during the house's abandonment. I'd recommend mouse traps, the old-fashioned wooden kind. Peanut butter makes great bait. Set them along the baseboards and see if you don't discover a slaughter in the morning. Voila—no more annoying sounds behind your walls.”

  Joseph seemed appreciative of the advice but didn't look convinced. “Well, there's another thing. I haven't seen it, mind you. At least, I don't think I have...” Here, he inserted a nervous laugh. “From the very start of our stay in the house, Megan has claimed to see this figure. She describes him as a man with a mouthful of cotton. Weird, huh? We've started referring to him as the 'Cotton Man'. I wrote it off, of course. Kids make up dumb stories all the time, and Megan's at an age where invisible friends and tall tales are common. But the way she's clung to this, coupled with everything else happening in the house, makes me think there could be something to it...

  “Megan wakes up some nights—most nights—howling. It's always after midnight when this happens. Mel and I both scramble into her room and find her standing on her bed, screaming at the top of her lungs. It takes forever to calm her down, like she's trapped in a low phase of sleep. When she comes to, she always says the same thing, though—that there's someone in the room with us, and that she's seen them on the floor, next to her bed, staring up at her. She always describes him the same way, too. 'A man with no eyes. His ears and mouth are stuffed with cotton.' According to her, this figure crawls around on its belly like a worm and watches her while she sleeps.

  “The first few times, Mel and I had a good laugh about it. We figured Megan just wasn't used to the house yet, or had eaten too much junk before bed and given herself nightmares. Now that it's an almost nightly occurrence, I'm no longer sure it's just her imagination. I should know better... but I think I've let it get to me.” Joseph smiled sheepishly. “Sometimes, I see things in the corner of my eye, or in one of the windows, that I can't readily identify. Things that shouldn't be there. At least, I think I see them. I can never be sure. It always happens when I least expect it, and the instant before I realize what I'm looking at it's already gone from sight.” He sighed, adding, “I know how that sounds, and I realize that the doctor in you will probably think me insane, but...”

  “No, I don't think you're insane.” I ceased my munching. “Over-stressed, under-fed and sleep-deprived, maybe. And possibly witnessing something truly supernatural. But not insane.” I ran through my notes quickly. “Disembodied voices, recurrent nightmares, odd tappings and possible sightings of a strange figure. Now, I could likely explain each and every one of these things naturally, and will strive to do so once I've had a chance to investigate the house in-person. But before all that, I want to know if there's anything else going on in the house that's led you to believe it's haunted. Do you know anything of its history? Anything that jumps out at you and which might have convinced you subconsciously that this place is inhabited by spirits?”

  Joseph suddenly grimaced. “Actually... There is, uh... there is something about the house that I don't think I mentioned over the phone. We didn't put a lot of thought into it initially, but as things have gotten worse, we can't help but return to it.”

  “Well?” I pressed. “What is it?”

  “Ten years ago, a body was found in the house.” Joseph shrank into his seat.

  I set down my pen and loosed a hearty laugh. I soon came to realize that my nephew wasn't kidding, though—he remained slate-faced, mumbled an apology. “Someone died in the house? Why didn't you mention this earlier?” I asked, trading my laughter for annoyance.

  “I'm sorry, it slipped my mind. Truth is, we don't really know much about the incident,” he explained. “The realtor mentioned it in passing—probably had to disclose it by law—but she didn't give us any details. I don't know who was found in the house, or where, or even when this took place, exactly. She only said that a body had been discovered by the previous owner. The person who owned the house back then was apparently trying to fix it up, but he ended up abandoning the house before he completed his work.” Joseph's eyes widened emphatically. “Really, that's all I know. When I called you, I wasn't thinking straight. I should have said something about this sooner...”

  “I wish you had. But at any rate, this isn't proof positive of anything supernatural. It could be a coincidence. People die in all sorts of places, but that doesn't necessarily mean that their souls linger there. I'll bear this in mind as I begin my work.” I wrote down the words “DEAD BODY” in big, honking letters, and circled them a few times. “Anything else you forgot to mention? Was the house owned by a bunch of Satanists, perhaps? Is it built on an Indian burial ground?”

  Joseph picked a piece of onion from one of his tacos. “N-no, I think that about covers it.” Now that he'd discussed the particulars of the situation with me, he slumped in his seat as if relieved of a great weight. “So... what exactly will you do? Is there some kind of ritual? Do you communicate with spirits, or...?”

  “Trade secret,” said I, snapping the Moleskine shut and dropping it back into my bag. “But all shall be revealed soon enough. I can assure you that it'll be completely painless. In previous cases, I was able to resolve things within a single afternoon.”

  He brightened at this news. “So, is this what you do now—hunting ghosts? Since you retired, I mean? Or is this something that you and Aunt Constance used to do together?”

  “It's only in the past few years that I've taken an interest in this field,” I explained. “Though, it does make me feel closer to your aunt in some sense.” Fiddling a moment longer with the fountain pen, I returned it to my breast pocket. “I need to ask you something important before we set off for the house and I begin my investigation. Just one last thing, Joey.”

  Joseph mirrored the graveness in my expression. “Sure, what is it?”

  I pointed at the remaining tacos on his plate, still untouched. “Are you going to eat those?”

  Four

  The restaurant was within walking distance of the house. One had merely to exit the parking lot and take a right to find their way onto Morgan Road. As we set off down the quiet street, flanked on both sides by sharp modular constructions that looked fresh out of the box, I tried to guess which house was Joseph's. It seemed to me that a house so shadow-haunted and unsettling as what he'd described would stand out amongst the rest, and when Joseph pulled into the driveway to 889 Morgan Road, I saw that it did stand out, though not for the reasons I'd anticipated.

  To begin with, Joseph's was an older house—the sole survival of the neighborhood's anterior dark age—and it struck me as rather charming in contrast to the manufactured neatness of those adjacent. Standing at two stories, the house had a look of depth and weight to it, as of something that had been built to last. Age had worn away its sharpest ed
ges, lending it some character, and the refresh performed by the neighborhood developers—new, sand-colored siding, new windows and front door, a re-paved driveway and sidewalk—made the property comelier still. Furthermore, standing with no little distinction amongst the standard-issue oaks and maples rooted in every other lawn, was a lovely Callery pear tree whose white flowers were at that moment in full and odorous bloom.

  Joseph parked the car and pulled the keys into his pocket, staring up at the house through the windshield as if gobsmacked. Brushing a dry tongue over dry lips he rested his hands upon the steering wheel. “Well, here we are.”

  I admired the house from where I sat, patting him on the arm. “It's a lovely house, Joey. It has a fine character to it. Unlike the rest of the houses on this street, it doesn't look like it was punched out of cardboard! I rather like it.”

  My nephew frowned, massaging the back of his neck. Once upon a time he'd probably shared my opinion. Time spent living in the house had changed his tune, however.

  I opened my door and let my legs stretch out onto the driveway. “Don't let recent experiences poison you against the house!” I warned. “It's like I told you before—we don't know what we're dealing with yet. There's every chance that the problems you've mentioned are completely ordinary. Let me be the judge.”

  Joseph sighed, then climbed out. “If you say so...” He retrieved my valise from the trunk and led me up towards the porch. He'd made it only a few steps before remarking on the weight of my bag. “Geeze, what did you pack in here? A bunch of bricks?”

  I laughed. “Just some reading materials. They might come in handy.” A gentle breeze set the Callery pear twitching, and I whistled at it, drawing Joseph's attention. “That's a gorgeous tree,” I remarked. “The most beautiful one on this street, bar none.”

  He chuckled to himself as he dragged the valise behind him. “It's nice to look at, sure. Can't stand the smell, though. Reeks like a urinal cake.”