Malefic

by Ambrose Ibsen

  On this front, too, I hit a wall.

  His last video upload, only a few days into his thirty-day challenge, was the most recent scrap of FlipperKevin content I could find. He had no website, and no presence on social media, either. After abandoning his challenge—and the house—he'd seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth. There was an email address listed on his VideoTube profile page, but whether he still checked the messages that got sent there was anyone's guess. I decided to shoot him an email, using “889 MORGAN ROAD” as the subject line.

  Kevin,

  My name is Marcel Dubois. My nephew and his family are living in the house at 889 Morgan Road. I understand you owned the house ten years ago, and even shot some videos of its renovation at that time. I have some questions for you regarding your experience with the house and would appreciate anything you can tell me of its history. A million thanks!

  It was a long-shot, but at present I had no other lead to follow. I hoped he'd read my message and get in touch with me. If he was still in the area, I'd happily meet him for a bite—would pay him to talk if I had to.

  Lastly, there was the matter of the corpse Kevin had found. Whose body it had been, as well as the circumstances surrounding its discovery, were impossible to guess, but I decided to look into it. At first, I considered calling the local police and asking some questions about the incident, but knowing how bureaucratic law enforcement could be, I tried my hand at searching the web for some mention of the corpse instead.

  Melissa had told me that she'd made a half-hearted search into this subject; had she only pressed on, she might have found the tidbit I ran across in a local news article, dated from six years previous. It dealt with a number of cold cases, mostly missing persons. A local detective was asking members of the community to come forward with any information they could provide regarding a few specific cases. Among them—a body that had been found in a house on Morgan Road.

  The house number had not been given, but once again the timeline of the find—ten years ago—dovetailed with my expectations, and I knew that the article was referencing the incident in this very house. Little was told of the corpse, but it was revealed to be that of an aged woman, a victim of suspected homicide. She was listed as a Jane Doe.

  Probably, then, the woman in the window and this corpse were one and the same. How she'd died and why she'd lingered on remained to be seen, but this connection felt solid to me. I ran through my notes, looking for someone that might fit the description. Had it been the body of Irma Weiss, who'd died in 1991? I doubted it, since she appeared to have had a proper burial and an obituary written. Could it have been the body of Fiona Weiss, then? That, too, seemed like a stretch; she was close to me in age, and I rather disliked the idea that I myself would qualify in anyone's estimation as a particularly “aged” specimen. It was possible that the body was that of a homeless woman, too, who'd taken up residency during the house's abandonment. There just wasn't enough information for me to go off of. This lead, too, was dead.

  There was a loud creak in the upstairs.

  I glanced at the ceiling, pausing mid-stretch to listen.

  A few moments passed, and then another creak.

  And another.

  Each creak was coming from the direction of the stairs. There were long pauses between them, as of a person creeping down the hallway, then down the stairwell—but slowly, like they were trying to avoid detection.

  Another creak—this one sounding from just around the corner. I heard the characteristic moan of the board upon the bottom step as it buckled beneath a ponderous load.

  I stood, walking around the sofa and craning my neck to look at the stairs.

  In doing so, I couldn't help imagining the spectral-looking figure captured in Kevin's footage, and wondered if she wouldn't be standing on that bottom stair, smiling at me with that immense mouth of hers.

  The stairs were unoccupied.

  “You think you can have fun with me, do you?” I asked aloud, addressing the house itself. “Well, you don't know who you're picking a fight with. You're soon to regret it.”

  I returned to my phone and, using the fountain pen, immediately began jotting a note for Constance in the journal, explaining everything I'd learned.

  I've done some digging. Willard Weiss, his wife Irma and their daughter Fiona were the first to live in this house in the 70's. Ten years ago, a handyman named Kevin Taylor bought it up. He shot some video of the house, and I noticed something strange in it—a ghostly figure in one of the windows. I don't know what to make of it. I've reached out to Kevin for more information. In the meantime, I'm just worried about you. I know you're still here with me, looking after me. But what can I do for you, my love? I want to protect you, if I can.

  If possible, answer me this one question: What is it that's haunting you? What's pursuing you—keeping you from replying to me? Knowing that much would help put me at ease, and perhaps it would get me started down the right track.

  The rest of my afternoon was spent glancing between the open page of the notebook and my email, hoping for a reply from either Constance or Kevin.

  Eventually, the sleeplessness of the night before caught up with me and I began nodding off on the sofa. I hadn't intended to fall asleep in that house again; spending another night there was simply out of the question. Still, tired as I was, I saw no harm in a brief nap and allowed my head to rest on the plush cushions.

  A siesta, that's all it was. Just so that I'd be able to keep my head in the game.

  When I awoke several hours later, it was dark.

  Fourteen

  Waking to find the sun had set was jarring enough.

  The knocking I heard from nearby was still more startling.

  It was sporadic, coming from either the door to my back or one of the walls. On its face, there wasn't anything threatening about it—the knocks were slow and gentle. Patient. How long they'd been going on I was unsure. I cleared my throat and uttered a quiet, “Who's there?” to no avail. The knocking continued.

  Easing myself up from the sofa, I tried to regain my bearings. I peered at my watch but the numbers on it were incomprehensible to me. I cursed myself for my carelessness. Falling asleep in this house, especially after dark, was just about the most idiotic thing I'd ever done. Stranded in the inky living room, I felt out the walls and began to navigate towards one of the light switches.

  The knocking persisted. I tried following it with my ears, which told me it was coming from the direction of the front door.

  When I'd put on the living room light, I waited for my eyes to adjust and then approached the peephole. Finally awake, I glanced down at my watch and saw that the time was in the ballpark of 10 PM; I'd been asleep for six, maybe seven hours. Leaning towards the door, I tried to get a look at the late-night visitor.

  But I stopped short.

  The first thing I noticed was that there were no lights on outside. This may seem like a small, unimportant detail, except that the light on the porch was set to go off automatically at the slightest movement. If there really was someone on the porch, knocking to be let in, then they'd somehow avoided setting the light off.

  The knocking continued, but this time it sounded from further away. I backed from the door and returned to the living room, where I could have sworn it was coming from the inside of the walls. Walking a slow circuit around the sofa and reaching out to touch the wall, I tried to single out the source of the knocking. The raps remained unhurried and staggered, but hearing them come from inside the walls made my throat tighten.

  I'd heard scurrying and tapping from behind the walls before, and had attributed it to a large rat or some such.

  But rats can't knock.

  “W-Who's there?” I called out again, this time directing my voice at the battered living room wall. My gaze sank to the little peephole that had been made there, and the knocking stopped once more. From the hole, I sensed a bit of movement and drew near.

  A single finger, the color
of a serious bruise, emerged from the peephole, and I saw it writhe in a slow come-hither motion. With it came a series of unintelligible mutterings, as of several conspiratorial voices carrying on behind the wall.

  I felt woozy, and knew then that I had to get out. The room was a blur as I turned from the wall, from the beckoning finger, and tried to step into my shoes. I stuffed my things into my messenger bag and prepared to take flight, but was forced to pause as I grabbed the leather journal.

  I'd left it open on the side table, and saw that there was something new written on the page. Constance had left me a message while I'd slept. I glanced over it, eyes unfocused with terror, as I thrust it into the bag.

  I'd ended my last note with a question, asking her point-blank who or what had been pursuing her in the house.

  By way of reply, she'd written a single word.

  FIONA.

  Before I could puzzle over this answer of hers, my attention was called by the noxious tones of a voice, low and seedy in character. It sprang up from nearby, seemingly from thin air, but was difficult to pinpoint. I looked first to the wall, where the gesturing finger had since retreated. Turning, I looked to the dining room, the stairwell, shoulders tightening into shuddering knots.

  Infernal mumblings broke out all around me.

  From below my feet the knocking came again. That was the moment I realized the chatter was coming from under the floors. It was still too low, too muffled to make out what was being said, but the voices seeped through the thin gaps between the floorboards like a gas, fouling the air with horror.

  Slowly, like the hiss of a settling soda bottle, the chorus of mumbling voices began to wane. A different voice—very much distinct from the others—sounded in their stead. From directly beneath me, so close that I could feel the wagging of the unseen tongue against the very floorboards I stood on, came a hideous, croaking laugh. Each chuckle was preceded by a long, soupy inhalation. The mental image that came with such a voice was one of a fat, disfigured toad trying on human speech.

  Suddenly, the front door began to rattle as something pressed against its other side. The knob shook in an unseen hand. Upstairs, I heard a frenzy of whispers, followed by the slamming of a bedroom door. The air, hitherto still and stale, became agitated, giving new dimension to the chaos.

  I yanked the messenger bag up by its strap and hurried for the exit. As I rushed to the door, the voices once again petered out and the upstairs doors stopped their slamming, but I got the distinct feeling that it was only a temporary stoppage; the house was only just getting started, and would soon boom with even greater horrors.

  I charged the door and burst out into the misty night. Even as I reached the porch I heard a batrachian snicker issuing from beneath the floors. From deeper in, there was a terrible rattling inside the walls, as of something spasming behind them.

  I fled into the night, not stopping to call for a ride until I'd left Morgan Road altogether.

  Fifteen

  “Why didn't you say something?” asked Joseph. “Why didn't you just tell me the truth?”

  I shrugged. “I didn't want to worry you. I wanted you to think I had everything under control. And in my defense, I thought I did.”

  “So, what happened?” He threw the car into park and wiped at his eyes, still bleary for the sleep I'd roused him from.

  Rather than call a cab in my flight from the house, I'd chosen to reach out to its owner instead. It was time I leveled with him, revealed just what a nightmare I'd truly lived through since I'd kicked the three of them out. I undid my seatbelt and put the seat back a few notches. Per my directions, he'd parked in the well-lit lot of a 24-hour big-box store. I'd said precious little up to that point, but now that the car was stopped I unloaded on him.

  “Your house is haunted,” I said plainly. “No two ways about it. And I'll be up-front with you, Joseph. The situation in that house is unlike anything I've ever seen. Unlike anything anyone has ever seen, I'd wager. In the past few days, I've spent a lot of time there, conducted some experiments. It would appear that my usual methods won't be enough to chase out whatever's settled there.” I sighed. “I'm sorry.”

  He said nothing for a long while, but his body language spoke volumes. He knotted his hands atop the wheel and fidgeted in his seat. When he did respond, he did so with wide, roving eyes. “So... I was right.” He cleared his throat. “It's hopeless, then?”

  I shook my head. “No, not hopeless. But it is baffling. What I'm saying is that my usual approach won't work here. I'll have to think outside the box. That doesn't mean I'm throwing in the towel.”

  He sighed, leaning into the headrest and closing his eyes. “So... what went on at the house that convinced you? Did you hear the voices? The footsteps?”

  “And more,” I admitted. “I've experienced a greater variety of supernatural phenomena under that single roof in just two nights than I have in the rest of my sixty-five years. I believe this is due to the presence of multiple spirits. I've dealt with one at a time before; your problem is something more complicated.” Rolling down my window to admit a bit of fresh air, I continued, thinking back to the last thing Constance had written me. “I looked into the house's past and learned a bit about its previous owners. Does the name Fiona Weiss ring any bells?”

  “I can't say that it does.”

  “I have reason to believe that the ghost of a certain woman remains in that house. Her name is Fiona Weiss, and she lived in it with her parents in the 70's. There was an episode of estrangement around the time of her mother's death in '91—and I don't know if she ever made up with her father, Willard. What's more, I don't know the circumstances behind her death. In fact, I have no proof she's dead at all. But when I reached out to the spirits, that name came up... which leads me to believe that she may be at the center of all this. Moreover, a body was found in your home a decade ago. I did some digging and found that the corpse was that of an older woman—Fiona might fit the bill, though why or how she died there is anyone's guess.”

  Joseph's brow furrowed. “Wait, so... you managed to speak to the ghost of this person who used to live in the house? This Fiona?”

  I'd told Joseph much, but I wasn't about to tell him everything. It had been Constance who had name-dropped Fiona Weiss, but my correspondence with my wife was something I'd never shared with anyone. Perhaps, at a later date, I'd tell him about the link his aunt and I still shared, but this wasn't the time for that discussion. I replied vaguely enough, “Something like that. Suffice it to say, I think that Fiona's spirit is in the house, and that she might be the one stirring up trouble. And judging by the noise, the multiple footsteps and other disturbances, I believe there are others in the house, too. I have no idea how they got there, but that's the impression I'm getting. A house packed with ghosts.”

  “All right, so... you have a name. What can you do with that?” he asked.

  “More than you might think. You see, ordinarily I'm able to commune with spirits in a different way. I alluded to my automatic writing previously, I think. That skill of mine isn't working in this house, though my need to make contact with the spirits remains. I'll have to find another way, and after giving the matter some thought I think I've found a suitable alternative. I mean to hold a séance in the house, Joseph. I'll buy a talking board, and the two of us will use it to chat with the spirits. All right? We can ask for Fiona directly and find out what's keeping her here.” This was the only path left to me; if I couldn't rely on Constance, I'd have to try and reach out to the spirits on my own. Despite my inexperience with such things, a talking board seemed like a simple and effective option.

  He inhaled sharply, taken by surprise at the suggestion. He'd been happy to let me poke around in the house and combat his ghosts on my own, but at the thought of assisting his hackles were raised. “I dunno,” he blurted, “I don't think I'm really cut out for that kind of thing. Maybe we should call someone else.”

  “I need your help. There's no way around it. Unless
... you'd rather wake your wife and have her accompany me?” I grinned. “If you aren't man enough, maybe she'll step up for the sake of your daughter.”

  I knew I had him when he glanced out the window, scowling. “So, what? We light some candles and play with a talking board like teenage girls at a sleepover? How's that going to help?”

  “I need to find out who's in the house and how they got there,” I explained. “So, I'll ask them, and if they're in a talking mood, they'll tell me what I need to know. Then, I can try and find a way to send them where they belong. Maybe Fiona wants someone to know the truth about her death. Or perhaps there's something special about your house that just attracts the spirits of the dead. Until we know who's listening, there's no telling what's really happening there. And so, we reach out. Let's cast a wide net and see what we drag up from the bottom, yes?”

  “When do you want to do it?” he asked.

  “Tonight, of course. As soon as possible, in fact.” I pointed to the storefront up ahead. “I'm going to head in there and see if they have any talking boards on sale. They should be in the toy aisle if they have them at all. Want anything?”

  Gritting his teeth, Joseph shook his head.

  I stepped out of the car and headed into the store.

  Ten minutes later I returned with a talking board tucked under my arm. “We're living in a mad world,” I said, setting the box on the dash. “For a mere twenty dollars, one can walk into a toy store and buy an instrument with which to contact the dead.”

  Joseph started up the car, glowering at the glossy package. “Sure, but does it work?”

  I combed a hand through my tousled hair. “The literature is divided on that, but there's no reason it shouldn't work. The spirits in the house are very active. I think they're yearning for a chance to speak and will do so through any means.”

  “Are you sure about this?” he asked as he began backing out of the parking space. “Shouldn't we wait till morning? Wouldn't it be safer?”