Hauntings

by Lewis Stanek

  Hauntings

  thee Haunting of

  Reuversweerd

  and

  A Gathering of Sparrows

  by

  Lewis Stanek

  Also by Lewis Stanek

  “Angels and Demons,

  A Biblical Introduction to The Supernatural”

  “Faith to Faith,

  A Biblical Guide to Prayer”

  Hauntings

  The Haunting of

  Reuversweerd

  and

  A Gathering of Sparrows

  by

  Lewis Stanek

  Original untitled cover art by Melissa Stanek.

  Copyright 2015 by Lewis Stanek

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

  First Printing 2015

  ISBN-13: 978-1511456265

  ISBN-10: 1511456264

  Dedication

  Hauntings is dedicated to Kilgore Trout, the author who most inspired me to write and not give up.

  The Haunting of

  Reuversweerd

  A Novella

  by

  Lewis Stanek

  “Regard not them that have familiar spirits, neither seek after wizards, to be defiled by them: I am the LORD your God.” Leviticus 19:31

  Preface

  The story “Reuversweerd” is fiction, but it is inspired by an actual abandoned mansion that was owned at least temporarily during world war II by a Dutch Baron. The baron was tragically executed by the Nazi's near the end of the war. The mansion is commonly called Castle Reuversweerd although it is not a castle in the strict sense of the word as there are no battlements, towers, not even a mote or draw bridge to protect the main entrance. The name Reuversweerd fits well though as this mansion stands majestically along the banks of the river Weerd.

  After the baron's execution, his wife, the baroness Theadora had the mansion closed and boarded up, never to be entered again. Over time this home did develop a reputation for being haunted. There may be a few places where facts from the castles' history will be inserted into the story, but only where such facts serve the purpose of helping to set the mood or build suspense. I find that the little factual information available to me is in a sense sadly romantic and perfect for the setting of a supernatural horror story. After studying copies of several photographs of the house from different angles I will certainly use them as inspiration for my descriptions of the castle, however I will not limit myself to those photographs. I have no photographs of the interior of the castle so the descriptions of the rooms the castles' layout and condition will all come from other sources and of course my imagination.

  I am drawn to photographs of old abandoned buildings. I find them to be sadly romantic indicating our loss of generations past. One day a photograph of Castle Reuversweerd posted in Pinterest titled The Haunted Castle Reuversweerd by Tokek Belanda was in my in-box along with a brief history. I was hooked. I knew that at some point in time I would write a supernatural horror story using Castle Reuversweerd as my inspiration. So although The haunting of Reuversweerd is fiction and is not to be confused with historical fact, it is my firm belief that at times truth is best told as fiction.

  Beginnings

  It seemed like only hours ago Randal Carter was driving in convoy searching the roadside for any sign, any indication IEDs were planted along his route. Only hours since he left his friends, bloody, dead and dying within the mangled wreckage of the Humvee. How does one explain the maddening horror of warfare. It is one thing when you have an uniformed enemy facing you in combat, soldier against soldier, it is quite another thing when the enemy hides among civilians and uses hidden roadside bombs to kill indiscriminately.

  Although, he knew it has already been months since he left Iraq, days since his discharge from the army, Iraq still seemed all too near and Holland only a dream. Randal glanced up ans saw looked through the bars Sergeant Schultz was coming with something in his hand. The paper and pencil he had asked for. Schultz brought more than he expected, it looked, that is if he was going to give it to him, like he brought half a pad of yellow legal paper and a ball point pen. Randal stood up and approached the bars facing Schultz. Schultz slid the tablet and pen through the slot usually reserved for meals turned and walked away. He is apparently not worried that I'll sharpen the pen into a shank, Randal thought taking the paper from the floor then sitting back down on the metal cot. Randal glanced around the cell taking it all in. It was no more than eight by six feet, there was a combination commode and sink on one wall, and the metal cot attached and supported by the other wall, one bare bulb protected by a metal cage provided light from the ceiling, no window, only the barred door, with the horizontal slot near the floor where he had been given his meals and now the gift of paper and pen. They probably want me to write a confession, but that will have to wait, Randal thought as he put pen to paper and wrote.

  *

  How do I begin to tell of the monstrous horror that remains within the walls of Reuversweerd? Who would believe me? Certainly not the police, maybe a jury of my peers if peers meant others who remained overnight in a demon possessed castle, I could come to terms, find the right words to describe the unnameable, incomprehensible forces that inhabit and control that evil place. I might be able to explain what happened. I swear the land itself is evil unredeemed, but only contained by the bordering river. A building marked by an antediluvian mound upon which it was built.

  They say monstrous skeletons of gigantic size were unearthed when the foundation for the castle was first excavated, that an archaeologist from the National Museum came to supervise the excavation of the foundation once the first bones were unearthed. Old women in town still tell tales of giants coming back to claim their land consuming those who attempt to stand in their way, surely those are only tales to frighten small children into good behavior, nothing more.

  In town, though, in the pubs and taverns, late in the night, if one of the locals has had enough to drink that he or she is a bit too trusting and they find a gullible audience who might ask about the castle they just may tell. That is how I learned of it. I must have been pretty drunk myself for I believed what they said, but played the skeptic nonetheless.

  “Haunting, Bah. There is no such thing if you ask me.” I said clearly showing my superior American intellect to the local Dutch hayseeds, ” nothing but superstition if you ask me”.

  The bartender refilled my stein with ale, then busied himself wiping glasses with what looked to be the same rag he used to wipe down the bar. No one accepted my challenge. It was as if they felt confident in their knowledge and didn't care what an American doing a walking tour thought or didn't think.

  I sipped my ale then rested my head in my hands, my elbows on the bar and gazed into the dark amber Dutch ale in my stein. I could have let it go at that point in time. I was still free to leave it all alone. No one would know and no one would care. An old hag of a woman sidled up on the bar stool next to mine. I may have been wearing beer goggles by then, but no goggles in the world could hide that this woman was ancient.

  “No such thing as a haunting, you say? Is that what they teach kids in American school nowadays?” She tapped her stein on the bruised wooden counter signaling the bartender she was ready for a refill.

  “It all just seems silly to me. I have never seen a ghost and don't know anyone who has”

  “You do now, don't you? Let me tell you a little story. Her voice cracked with age, her skin was wrinkled and hung loose from her bones. I poured some more of my drink down my throat. The bartender came back with her beer foaming over the lip of the stein
.

  “Pay the man, will you.” she said with a wink. I had to laugh. At one time in her life I am sure men fought over who would have the honor of buying her a drink, now she is hustling a a kid with a ghost story. I slapped a few coins on the bar, enough for her and my refills.

  “A few miles outside of town lies Castle Reuversweerd,” she began, “It's been there for well over a hundred years. The baron lived there during the war right up until he was executed by the Nazis. The baroness boarded up the place after that and left it to rot. No one has been inside since April 1945 when the baron was killed, his blood still stains the walls. Ask anyone in town, at night you can see lights moving about the windows. They say the baron is still there pacing the halls of his castle at night, waiting.” I nodded as I listened to the old woman and sipped my ale.

  “Waiting for what?” I asked.

  “You're a young man, use your imagination.”

  “Have you yourself seen these lights?”

  “I may have, years ago when I was young and bold, I walked to the castle to meet my beau. It was a warm summer night, the moon was full and the sky was clear. I waited for him. I paced in front of the castle between it and the river Weerd. I must have waited thirty minutes, then when I glanced toward the Castle and saw a light creeping out from between the closed shutter slats. My first thought was that Heinrich was inside waiting for me, perhaps trying to scare me. You see the house had an evil reputation even back then. I did not believe in ghosts or spirits back then, I was of a scientific bent, there was no place in my scheme of things for ghosts or spirits. I thought that if he wanted to try and scare me, I would turn tables on him and scare him right back. I walked as quietly as I could up to the front entryway. Stealthily, I climbed the steps between the double pillars. I heard something rustling inside the house and I stopped dead I even held my breath, not wanting to make a sound. Just beyond the doors an amber light seeped through the shutter slats like warm liquid flowing out onto the porch. Standing motionless, waiting for Heinrich to open the doors. I was prepared to jump up and scream like murder to terrify him. I waited in silence.

  Then out of the darkness I hear my name. “ Ingaborg, Inga where are you?” I looked in the direction of the sound and there stood Heinrich calling me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What do you think I did? I ran out of there as fast as my legs would carry me, screaming all the way to Heinrich's arms. I let him hold me tight and I cried. I was so horrified I asked Heinrich to walk me home and I never went back to that evil place.”

  “Probably was just the caretaker locking the place up for the night.” I offered.

  “There is no caretaker at Reuversweerd! No one looks after that evil place not then and certainly not now since the baroness has died.” The old woman's eyes were intense, she clearly believed what she said. I was tempted to believe her tale myself, but she is so old and so drunk. Dementia may have begun it's own evil crawl through this woman's brain for all I know. I gulped the last of my ale and swallowed hard.

  “Sounds like a night to remember.” I replied trying to sound jovial and light.

  “That it was, young man, that it was.” She grabbed her stein in her blue vein marked pale hand, lifted it to her lips, took a sip and walked away. At first glance she looked too frail to carry the stein of ale by herself, but obviously looks in her case were deceiving. I watched as she half walked and half staggered back to the chair she had left to come to the bar. She poured herself into the chair barely spilling any of the ale on the table. A barmaid quickly wiped the little spillage from her table with a rag, obviously this lady is a regular customer.

  “Inga, I think you should consider calling it a night.” The barmaid said presumably out of concern for the old woman's safety. “You can stay in the back again if you can't make it home.” Inga was obviously well known and well liked around here. It wasn't long before her head rested in her crossed arms on the tabletop.

  I caught the bartender's eye with a lift of my stein. He sauntered over.

  “That old woman over there told me a story about a castle near town….”

  “Don't let Inga's stories bother you son. Want that refilled?”

  I glanced back to the old woman, sleeping at her table, a small pool of drool forming on the table near her half open mouth, and thought it was about time I find a place to sleep myself.

  “Is there a hostel, a rooming house, or someplace I can rent a cot for the night in town nearby?”

  “We've got a cot in the back for the regulars, but it looks like it's claimed for tonight. There is a hostel across town a few blocks. It seems to be popular enough with the younger set.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “It's just a few blocks east of here, but if you want more than floor space for a sleeping bag you better get going.” I thanked him and left a modest tip on the bar.

  “Keep it, you look to need it more than I do.” He said sliding the coins back across the bar in my direction. I'm not proud, I scooped the change back up and slipped it in my pocket.

  Walking out I past the old woman asleep at her table. I took one step past her table and her voice crackled. “Don't do it” The sound of her brittle voice raised the short hairs at the back of my neck and I could have sworn the temperature in the pub dropped a few degrees. Turning to looked back at her, she was sound asleep, snoring loud enough to hear over the juke box. Must have been my imagination.

  I decided it would be wise to make one last pit stop before leaving, so I needed to back-track past the old woman to make my way to the latrine. I sidestepped by her table and thankfully she didn't stir. Something about her was wrong, not just wrong as incorrect, but it was as if she was misplaced, as if she didn't belong here with the living. I made it to the back of the tavern, and found a Que had formed for the restrooms. I got in line. It was a busy place for such a small town.

  “You're a new face here.” said a man getting in line behind me. His eyes were bleary from too much to drink.

  “Yep, just passing through.” I replied.

  “American are you? I can tell by your accent.” His breath reeked of stale beer.

  “You look awfully young, you're not one of those exchange students are you?” I had to look away for a moment to clear my sinuses from the stench of his breath.

  “ I just got my discharge from the army, thought I'd take a little look around what my grandparent's called the “old country” before going back to the states. Thought I'd take a walking tour and see what I'd find.”

  “Walking tour, eh.”

  A blink of amber light as the mens room door opened and we all edged a step closer to relieving the strain on our bladders.

  “ My great-grandfather took a walking tour after the war.”

  “ And, which wars was that sonny boy?”

  “World War I, he was from somewhere in Holland near the German border and ended up fighting for the Kaiser. After the war, he took a walk around the country trying to settle things in his own mind, to get straight, I guess. He called it a walking tour.” The door opened and the amber light blinked again lightening the hall for the briefest of moments, they all took another step closer to relief.

  “That's what it was alright. My father did the same thing. It's a good way to see the world, taking your time, getting to know an area, getting a taste for the people all on the cheap too.”

  “Not that cheap for me. I'm from the states.”

  “Son, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but your accent gave you away as soon as you opened your mouth, but its good that you're following in your grandfather's footsteps. Exploring your roots.”

  “Yeah, that's the idea anyway.” The old man belched out a blast of beer breath that would fell a mountain goat. I tried to fan it away with my hand when the amber light from the door blinked on again signaling us to take a step closer. The thought of urinating outside began to tempt me, but fear of spending time in the local jail for indecent exposure kept me g
lued to my place in line.

  “You must be carrying a pretty penny along with you, I mean being from America and all.” Damn should have kept my mouth shut about it not being cheap for me here, all I need is for some drunken tough to try to rob me when I get out the door, or worse yet when I'm in the mens room. Shit. I took a closer look at the old man, he was obviously drunk, but he looked steady on his feet, and he might just be dumb enough to try something.

  “Nah, I'm pretty much tapped out.” I lied.

  “I know what that's like.” He slurred. The need to urinate swelled in my abdomen, then the door opened and the amber light blinked again, I darted in front of the person next in line of and dashed through the door. No wall mounted urinals here, but I did spot a trough in the floor with a constant running trickle of water running to flush the urine down the open drain. Not shy now I sidle up next to a young man just shaking off the last few drops and let it rip. Ahh the relief, thoughts of the old drunk waiting to mug me went down the drain with my waste water. I quickly washed my hands, dried them with a couple of paper towels, wadded the towels into a damp lump of waste paper and tossed them into the trash. I hurried out, nodded to the old drunk still in line waiting his turn and made my way to the front door and out into the night as quickly as I could.

  Theadora's Hostel

  The night air was cool and crisp, it felt good on Randal's face, flushed from a few too many steins of ale. He looked to what he hoped was the east. That is the direction the bartender gave him to find his way to the hostel, at least he hoped it was east. Randal adjusted his knapsack so the weight was evenly distributed on his back and shoulders and began walking.