Not to be outdone by Nick's knowledge of local folklore, Josh added "I heard she performs these Satanic rituals at midnight where she dances and chants weird incantations to make her pumpkins grow."
A devilish grin appeared on Elvira's face. "If you guys want to raise some real hell on Halloween, you should cruise out to her farm, sneak into her garden, and steal the biggest pumpkin you can carry."
"And then what?" Josh asked, shrugging his shoulders.
"I don't know, bring it back here, carve your names in it, douse it with lighter fluid and push it down Cemetery Hill. It doesn't matter what you do with it, it's just the fact that we stole a pumpkin from a witch on Halloween night."
"We?" Nick asked.
"Hey," Elvira replied, "it was my idea."
The two thrillseekers looked at each other and smiled, silently acknowledging that the pumpkin patch caper sounded like fun.
"Let's roll," Nick said, climbing into the driver's seat of the Firebird. As he turned the ignition key and revved the engine, Elvira opened the passenger door and slid in beside him, followed by Josh who squeezed in next to her in the front seat. The trio left the parking lot in a cloud of dust and flying gravel and headed west down the Old Valley Road.
"Wanna beer?" Josh asked, offering her a Rolling Rock.
"Thanks, but one of us should keep a clear head. I don't want to end up on the wrong side of a witch's spell."
Josh smirked. "It's like I always say, live fast, die young..." he paused to take a final swig from his beer, "and leave a good-lookin' corpse." As if to add dramatic emphasis to his statement, Josh flicked the empty bottle out the window and it crashed onto the road behind them.
"Hey!" Nick yelled, "we gotta drive back this way."
"Just stay on the right side of the road then," Josh retorted with a laugh.
"That's only if we make it out of there alive," Elvira added with a devilish laugh of her own.
As they drove along the asphalt road that led to Kelsie's Woods, they were gradually engulfed by a thick fog that had claimed the entire valley basin. "Slow down or you'll pass it," Elvira said, pointing to an overgrown path to the left side of the road.
Nick screeched to a halt then pulled off the blacktop and onto the dirt drive that snaked back into the woods. A rusted mailbox with the name "WITHERS" was attached to a post right beside a sign that said "NO TRESPASSERS."
Josh smiled and said "Let's go find the great pumpkin."
The three stayed within the shadows of the treeline as they ventured deeper onto the property. After several hundred yards, they could see the pumpkin patch beside an old farmhouse.
"No lights," Nick whispered, "it doesn't look like anyone's home."
"Of course not," Josh replied, "it's Halloween. Ole' Sally's probably out flying around on her broomstick tonight."
The three left the cover of trees and crept through the open field as silently as possible. The fog seemed to grow more dense with each step they took. By the time the teens reached the pumpkin patch, they could barely see one another. A cold breeze swept past them emitting a ghostly moan. A rustling sound from somewhere ahead alerted them to another presence in the mist.
The fog relented for a moment to reveal a tall figure dressed in tattered clothes towering over Elvira. The silent wraith loomed before the girl with its arms outstretched, as if to capture her in its diabolical grasp.
"Look out!" Nick shouted as he leapt to her aid, diving on top of her. The two hit the dirt, landing amidst the pumpkins that covered the ground.
Within seconds Josh had found his way through the fog to stand between his fallen friends and the ominous figure. He quickly assessed the situation, then began to laugh out loud, saying, "Way to go hero. It's just a freakin' scarecrow."
Josh stared at the creepy-looking straw man that had been tied to a tall wooden post, his eyes following the crude stitchwork that held the scarecrow's burlap face together.
"Hey," Nick whispered as he and Elvira picked themselves up off the ground, "these pumpkins ain't so big. They're all normal sized."
"Forget about the pumpkins," Josh said, his eyes still transfixed upon the straw man, "we're takin' Mr. Stitch here."
Josh reached out to grab hold of the scarecrow's raggedy coat, but before his fingers could touch it, he felt something tugging at his ankle. "What the hell..." Looking down, he could see that a pumpkin vine had ensnared his foot, and as he struggled to free himself, another snake-like tendril reached upward and wrapped itself around his other ankle. "Nick... help! The vines... they're alive."
Nick took a step toward his friend and was immediately set upon by the network of vines that surrounded him. They reached up in serpentine fashion, wrapping themselves around his torso and pulling him down to the ground. Before they could wriggle free, both teens were completely entangled in the vines.
Unable to move, they watched in horror as one by one, the pumpkins began to rise up and undergo a sinister transformation into monstrous forms. Black eyes opened from narrow slits and mouths gaped wide to reveal jagged fangs. As they rose, skeletal bodies emerged from the ground beneath them. Their orangish-brown flesh crackled and popped as the things stretched their limbs, and long, bony fingers extended from their wrinkled arms.
The goblin army soon surrounded them. The thick vines had constricted tight around their chests and throats, making it difficult to breathe and impossible to scream. Elvira stood as silent and still as she could amidst the creatures, as if afraid to draw their attention, then she erupted into wicked laughter.
As she stepped toward her entangled friends, the vines parted before her. She knelt between her two comrades and spoke in a calm voice. "Dogs and cats make good fertilizer for my pets, but once they've sprouted, their appetites become much more... demanding."
Josh and Nick writhed in terror as the creatures drew closer and descended upon them, yet the harder they struggled, the tighter the vines became.
"I'm sorry we weren't properly introduced," the girl continued, "My name's Sally. You boys are trespassing on my property, and there's a high price to be paid for that." She wiped her finger across a trickle of blood that seeped from where the course vine had dug into Nick's flesh then held it to her lips and licked it, saying "Mmmm... how sweet."
Sally rose to her feet and resumed her speech. "Human blood is a precious ingredient to many spells from the black books. It can keep a person young forever, especially when it's untainted. Even better when it comes from those who willingly enter unhallowed ground. As you said, live fast, die young..." She stopped and flashed them a sinister grin, her mouth now filled with jagged fangs. "Unfortunately, I'm afraid that neither of you will leave a very good looking corpse once my pets and I are done with you, but you're hardly in a position to protest. And after all, as you said yourself... two out of three ain't bad."
The Westgate Phantom
by Joseph Vargo
They say evil exists in the hearts of men. They say that monsters are merely products of superstition—figments of overactive imaginations. But I know the truth. I've seen things that shouldn't be—spirits of people who died long ago and nightmarish creatures from the blackest depths of Hell. I've stared Death itself in the face, and I've learned a lot about the origins of evil. Trust me, you don't want to know the truth.
My name is Robert Morgan. I'm a reporter and paranormal investigator. I've seen my share of hoaxes in my time, and it's led me to develop a somewhat cynical attitude toward most cases of alleged supernatural activity. But the way I see it, you've got to be skeptical if you intend to dig up the truth. And that's exactly what I dug up at the old Westgate Hotel.
Built in 1886, the Westgate was the epitome of Victorian elegance. Its registry boasted only the wealthiest and most prestigious clientele from America and Europe. Nestled in the foothills of the Adirondacks, the hotel was constructed on a natural plateau overlooking the dense forests of the Manitoa Valley. During the Great Depression, the old hotel was purchased by a wealthy
doctor named Miles Wincott who converted the sprawling estate into a hospital and sanitarium. That's when the Westgate's haunted history began.
In the 1930s, the hospital staff started reporting numerous incidents of strange sounds and shadowy forms in the various rooms and hallways of the hospital. These unexplainable occurrences were followed by a string of disappearances. Patients and staff alike went missing. Investigators chalked up the mounting unsolved cases to stress brought on by strained working conditions in a depressing environment. But the most mysterious disappearance of all was that of Dr. Wincott himself. On the evening of April 30th, 1942, the good doctor finished his nightly rounds, retired to his office and was never seen again. To add to the weirdness, the police investigation shows that his office door was bolted from the inside and there were no other visible means of exiting the room.
One year after Dr. Wincott's disappearance, the deed to the land reverted to the state and the Westgate was purchased by new owners who commenced to convert the old building back into a hotel. The renovations and restorations were completed within two years and the Westgate opened its doors as a luxury resort once more in 1944.
There hadn't been any reports of paranormal activity for nearly thirty years, until a recent development left its deadly mark on the place. One of the guests, a young woman by the name of Theresa Frasier, was found dead in her bed with a look of sheer terror frozen on her face. The police investigators found no signs of foul play. The coroner ruled that she had died of a massive coronary due to internal trauma, but there were no visible injuries on any other parts of her body. When I spoke to the medical examiner he told me that he had never seen anything like it, confiding to me that it was as if her heart had been crushed from the inside.
I had always wanted to investigate the Westgate to see if something unnatural really did wander its halls in the dead of night, but I had a long list of other alleged hauntings that my editor wanted me to look into first. Theresa Frasier's mysterious death moved the old hotel to the top of my list.
I checked into the hotel on March 15th, ten days after the grisly incident, and requested to stay in the same room in which the young woman had died—suite 312. The old man behind the hotel desk squinted and looked me up and down before reluctantly handing me the key to the room. As I signed the registry, he scrutinized my signature, as if looking for some tell-tale sign in my handwriting that would allow him to interpret my true intentions for staying in that particular suite. His suspicions apparently satisfied, the strange old man gave me a wry grin, then snapped his fingers to summon a bellhop.
A lanky young man appeared at my side and picked up my suitcase, saying "Right this way, sir." Then, without another word, he led me across the lobby and escorted me into the elevator.
As soon as the antique elevator doors closed, the bellhop began speaking in a hushed tone. "You're a reporter, aren't you? I can always tell when someone's here to investigate the hauntings."
"What makes you think that the hotel is haunted?" I asked.
"I'm the resident expert on ghosts. My name's Danny. I've always been interested in this kind of thing, you know, the occult and paranormal stuff. Trust me, this place is as haunted as they come."
The elevator lurched to a halt as it reached the third floor and as the doors slid open, Danny stopped talking.
As we exited the elevator, I asked "So what's the deal with the creepy old guy behind the front desk?"
"Oh, that's just Mr. Collins, the hotel manager. He's a little eccentric, but he's harmless. Now her," he motioned his head slightly toward a large matronly woman who was pushing a maid's cart down the hallway, "she's a different story. That's Hilda, head of housekeeping. We call her Broomhilda, you know, like the witch." Danny brandished a smile and a nod as he passed the woman in the hallway and she returned his greeting with a scowl of contempt.
We proceeded to the end of the hall and stopped before the door to 312. I gave Danny a ten-dollar tip and with a wink told him to keep me posted about anything unusual in the hotel.
Inside my room, I opened the case file and examined the coroner's report. A police photo showed the exact position in which Theresa Frasier's body was found. Her arms were straight out to her sides and her hands hung beyond the edges of the bed. It seemed as if her body had been laid out in some sort of ritualistic pose. There were no ligature marks on her wrists and no apparent signs of a struggle in the room, suggesting that she met her death without resistance.
After I unpacked, I spent the next few hours referencing the case file and adding some notes to my laptop journal. Around 9 p.m., I headed down to the hotel restaurant for a late dinner. I had intended to dine alone, but I saw Danny peeking out from behind a column near the kitchen several times while I ate. I waited till I was done with my meal then waved him over to join me at my table.
"What's on your mind, kid?"
Danny's eyes shifted from side to side, as if to check that no one was eavesdropping on our conversation, then he began speaking in a low tone. "You asked me to let you know about anything unusual around the hotel."
"What do you know?"
"Well... no one's supposed to talk about it, and I could get in trouble for telling you, but there have been some other strange incidents over the past few months."
"Like what?"
"Some of the guests have reported seeing a man dressed in an old-fashioned suit standing in their rooms at night. We call him the phantom. They say he doesn't say or do anything. He just stands there watching them in the darkness. One of the people who saw him claimed that he walked right through a solid wall."
"Interesting."
"There's more. Have you heard the stories about the doctor who ran the Westgate when it used to be a sanitarium?"
"Dr. Wincott?"
Danny nodded as he slid an old black and white photograph across the table to me, then leaned in close to whisper, "Well, I showed this photo to one of the guests who reported seeing the phantom in her room and she swore that it was the same man." The aged photo showed a slim man in a top hat and Victorian overcoat posed in front of the doors to the hotel.
"That's Miles Wincott, back in 1927," Danny said.
As I stared at the piercing eyes of the man in the photo I was overcome with a strange feeling—there was something very familiar about his face.
"Do you really believe in ghosts, Mr. Morgan?"
"I never used to," I replied, downing a shot of whiskey, "but I've witnessed some things that have dwindled my skepticism." Reaching a finger beneath my collar, I pulled out the raven's claw pendant that I wore around my neck. "Now you could call me cautiously superstitious."
"What's that?" Danny asked, eyeing the talisman with reverent curiosity.
"Oh, just a little something that saved me from a grisly demise at the hands of a voodoo witch," I said with a wink. While the kid's eyes remained transfixed on the black talon, I asked, "Do you have access to the basement, Danny?"
"Why?"
"What would you say to accompanying me on a little excursion after hours?"
"You mean like a ghost hunt?"
"Yeah, something like that."
Danny's eyes widened. "I could get the master key ring from the manager's office."
"Great. I'll meet you in the lobby at midnight. Bring a flashlight, and don't tell anyone else."
Danny nodded and left the table without another word.
After dinner I explored the hotel museum in an annex off of the main lobby. As I scanned the walls lined with framed letters and photos of famous people who had stayed there, I noticed something odd. There wasn't a single photo of Dr. Wincott on display. A preserved blueprint from 1937 showed the floor plans of the Westgate when it was a sanitarium. Dr. Wincott's office was located in the lower level of the south wing. Interestingly, it appeared that the south wing was never fully renovated when the asylum was converted back into a hotel.
As I studied the antique blueprint, a voice from behind me startled me. "The Westgate
has quite a colorful history, wouldn't you agree?"
I turned quickly to see Mr. Collins, the front desk manager standing behind me in the gallery. "Yes," I responded, "very colorful indeed, but I'm curious as to why there aren't any photos of Miles Wincott on display."
Mr. Collins' eyes narrowed behind his thick glasses. "There are some things that are best left in the past." The old man stepped back into the shadows of the gallery and said, "I do hope you enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Morgan," then he turned and walked out of the room.
A slight shudder ran down my spine. I don't care what the kid said about 'harmless' old Mr. Collins, the guy gave me the willies.
It was around 11 p.m. when I finally retired to my room to get a little rest before the big ghost hunt. I set a blessed gris-gris candle on my nightstand and opened a box of matches and stuck one between my teeth like a toothpick then lay on top of the covers of my bed. I stretched my arms out wide, assuming the position of Theresa Frasier's body, and laid there contemplating the few clues I had uncovered.
After staring at the ceiling for several minutes, I began to think my eyes were playing tricks on me. At first, I began to see a thin layer of green smoke spreading across the ceiling, then the smoke began to slowly creep down the walls and take on sinewy forms that swayed in serpentine fashion. The effect was mesmerizing, and I could feel my body growing numb. I tried to sit up, but I was unable to move. I watched as the ghostly tendrils crept across the floor and up onto the bed beside me. The hypnotic green mist slowly grew darker, forming a large black shadow that blotted out the entire ceiling as I lay paralyzed and completely helpless beneath it. The jet-black form looked like an enormous spider looming over me, encasing me within its writhing legs.
My will to resist began to fade, and I could feel myself growing dizzy and on the verge of losing consciousness. I forced my eyes closed and reached for the matchstick that was clenched between my teeth. As long as my eyes were shut, I seemed to regain some control over my body, although even the slightest movement required all of my concentration. I inched my hand toward my face and grabbed the matchstick then stretched my arm toward the candle on the nightstand. I struck the match on the rough edge of the table and heard the sound of the flame igniting. I needed to see the candle in order to light it, but I dared not open my eyes for more than a split second, for fear of losing my will to the hypnotic monstrosity above me.
The Legend of Darklore Manor and Other Tales of Terror Page 8
