by Ron Ripley
“Mr. Hesselschwerdt,” Mr. Anderson said, offering his hand.
Carl stepped forward and shook it firmly. “Please, sir, call me Carl.”
“A pleasure, Carl,” Mr. Anderson said, releasing his hand. He turned partially and said, “This is my wife.”
Carl gently accepted Mrs. Anderson’s offered hand, bowed slightly over and let go. “A pleasure, madam.”
Mrs. Anderson nodded her head, and Carl stepped back. Once the couple sat down, he returned to his own seat.
“Now, Carl,” Mr. Anderson said, “could you please refresh my memory as to what your qualifications are for the job at hand?”
“Certainly, sir,” Carl said. He focused his attention on Mr. Anderson rather than the beauty of Mrs. Anderson’s hazel eyes. “You are seeking someone capable of interacting with the dead. I have the ability to do so. I can hear them, I can speak with them. I have worked for the Hancocks in Boston, the Rockefellers in New York, and the Kenyons in Providence. I have successfully communicated with the dead in their homes and succeeded in negotiating peace between the two sides.”
“Peace?” Mrs. Anderson asked. The sound of her voice, delicate and musical, wrapped around him sensually.
“Yes madam,” Carl said, hiding his reaction to her.
“You can’t get rid of them?” Mr. Anderson asked with a frown.
“No sir,” Carl said, shaking his head. “Most of them can be talked into leaving, but there are always some who will never quit a place. It is why I refuse to say I can free a home of the dead. Whether they stay or go, it is upon them. Some can be forced, but they can usually make their way back. And if that happens, it is never pleasant.”
Mr. Anderson frowned. “This is not exactly what I wished to hear, Carl.”
“I am sorry, sir,” Carl said, his hopes crashing. “I will not lie, though.”
Mr. Anderson’s frown slowly changed into a smile, and he nodded. “I would rather it be so. You think you can, what is it, negotiate a treaty of some sort with them?”
“I can only do my best, sir,” Carl said. “And I do not accept payment until a job is complete.”
“I can respect such a policy,” Mr. Anderson said, “but it is unnecessary for us. We are comfortable, in regards to personal funds, so I will pay you up front. You need to live, sir. When can you start?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Carl said, barely able to contain his excitement. “Tomorrow morning I will begin if the time is good for you.”
“It is,” Mr. Anderson said. “Just be prepared, Carl. Be prepared.”
Bonus Scene Chapter 2: In the Kitchen
Carl sat at the servant’s table at the back of the large kitchen. A steaming cup of strong black coffee sat in front of him as did his notebook and pencil.
The giant grandfather clock in the center hallway struck the hour.
Six AM, Carl thought. Sunlight filtered in through the windows over the sink and highlighted the metalwork on the large stove which occupied a great portion of the left wall. The housekeeper stood across the table from him, a tall, beautiful woman in her early fifties.
Elizabeth, Carl reminded himself. Elizabeth Grady.
She looked as though she brokered no-nonsense amongst the staff, and she reminded him of some of the sergeants he had served under. She was, Carl felt certain, extremely competent and respected.
“Mrs. Grady,” Carl said, smiling. “Would you do me the honor of sitting down?”
A flicker of a smile passed her lips, and she nodded her head slightly.
Carl stood up, waited for her to sit, and then he resumed his seat.
“May I ask how long you have been employed by the Andersons?” Carl asked.
“Yes, of course,” she said, her voice carrying only the slightest hint of an Irish accent. “I have been a member of the Anderson staff since Mrs. Anderson married Mr. Anderson twenty-two years ago. Before that, I was Mrs. Anderson’s maid.”
“When did the Anderson’s move into the house?” Carl asked.
“Nineteen thirty-two,” she replied.
Carl glanced around. “Do you know how old the house is?”
She shook her head. “No, but her bones are old. Long before the war of the rebellion, though not as old as the revolution.”
Carl jotted the information down, looked up at her and said, “Mrs. Grady, you do not strike me as a woman given to flights of fancy.”
“Indeed, I am not, sir,” she said proudly.
“I will believe you, regardless of how bizarre or queer the story might sound to you in your retelling,” Carl said gently. “So please, do not hesitate to tell me everything.”
“Well, sir,” she said, her face tight, “I must say what I have experienced is disturbing. I’ve children of my own, and I know the sounds they make. Do you understand?”
Carl nodded.
“Good.” she leaned forward and whispered, “There are dead children here, sir. Two at least, perhaps more.”
“Do you know their names?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, fidgeting nervously for the first time. “A little girl, named Eloise. A little boy named Thaddeus. They are not wicked, sir, and I would not see you drive them out.”
“It is not my intention to drive them out of the house,” Carl said reassuringly. “I seek only to establish peace between the living and the dead.”
“Well then,” Mrs. Grady said, “it is not the children to whom you should speak.”
“Who then?”
“Whatever lurks within the root cellar,” Mrs. Grady said, casting a fearful glance at the pantry door. “I don’t let my girls go down into the cellar unless they’re in pairs, and unless a third is at the ladder with a lantern.”
The fear emanating from the woman was palpable.
“Have you gone in the root cellar?” Carl asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I try to go myself, if something is needed, and I bring Mary with me. She’s the strongest. Occasionally though I am busy, and one of the others accompanies her. But not the cooks.”
“No?” Carl said.
Mrs. Grady shook her head in disgust. “They’re afraid, the cowardly things. Too afraid. Especially after what happened to Emily.”
“What happened to Emily?” Carl asked.
“The things in the root cellar did,” Mrs. Grady said, leaning back in her chair. “You see, Emily would stand in the pantry and mock the girls for their fear. She would mock the things in the root cellar, saying they’ve no power in the light of Christ. I told her, as good a Catholic as I try to be, even I know there are things which the Good Lord does not rein in. And some of those things are in the root cellar.”
“Did she continue to mock them?” Carl said.
Mrs. Grady nodded.
“What happened?”
“They took her sight,” Mrs. Grady said, glancing once more at the closed pantry door. “They pulled her down the ladder when she went into the pantry for beans. Dragged her down screaming. When we pulled her up, her eyes were milky white, and she couldn’t see a thing.”
Carl wrote the information down. When he finished, he said, “Mrs. Grady, have any others been harmed by the things in the root cellar?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But we lost a gardener, and I think he went down there.”
“Why would the gardener go into the root cellar?” Carl said, confused.
“On a dare,” Mrs. Grady said sadly. “Before she went blind, Emily dared him to go down. As he did, though, she was called out to the back for a delivery from the grocer. When she came back, the gardener was gone. None saw him again, although Emily said the door to it had been open when she came back in with the goods. Since he didn’t answer when she called out, she closed it tight.”
Carl added the story to his notes. After a moment, he looked at Mrs. Grady and asked, “Mrs. Grady, has anyone else had any experiences in the root cellar, other than Emily?”
“Yes,” she said. “Mary, the girl who helps me
the most. She’s been down more times than me, and her hair has gone white because of it.”
“Do you think you might send her in next?” Carl asked.
“Of course, sir,” she answered.
“Thank you,” Carl said, “you have been extremely helpful, Mrs. Grady.”
She rose up and nodded. She paused and then she asked hurriedly, “And you won’t chase the children out?”
“No,” Carl said seriously. “It would not cross my mind to do so.”
“Very good, sir,” she said, relieved. “I will send Mary in to you.”
“Thank you,” Carl said. He sat back down, looked over the notes quickly, and then wrote the name ‘Mary’ on a fresh page.
A few minutes passed, and Mary came in. Her pale face was flushed as though she had hurried to him. Her hair, from what he could see beneath her hat, was bright white. Her eyes were brown, and her face was spotted with freckles. She was shorter and stouter than Mrs. Grady, but she was a pretty young woman with a look of intelligence.
Carl stood up and smiled warmly. “Please, Mary, sit down.”
Mary did so and smiled nervously. “Are you German, sir?”
“I am,” Carl said cautiously, sitting down. “Does it bother you?”
“No,” she said. “It’s just my brother always referred to Germans as beasts and, well.”
“You thought perhaps I might be hairy with great big teeth?” he asked, smiling.
She blushed as she nodded.
“It is alright,” Carl said. “I was told the Irish couldn’t function without whiskey. Each government likes to speak ill of others. Especially during war.”
“Yes sir,” Mary said.
“I am not offended, though,” Carl added quickly. “I am not offended at all.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, relieved.
“Now,” he said, taking up his pencil, “what can you tell me about the root cellar?”
Bonus Scene Chapter 3: In the Butler’s Pantry
Carl stood in the butler’s pantry and looked down at the closed wooden trapdoor set in the center of the floor. A small brass ring, neatly set within a matching groove, offered the only way to open it.
Something scratched behind the pantry’s shelves.
“Hello,” Carl said.
No one answered.
Carl turned around, nodded to Mrs. Grady, who stood by the stove with the chef Joan, and closed the door. A single electric bulb lit the space.
“Hello,” he said again, in a lower voice.
“Hello,” a young girl finally said from the darkness of a far corner.
“Are you Eloise?” Carl asked.
“I am,” she said. “Why are you here?”
“To talk with you, and with Thaddeus,” Carl said honestly. “And, to speak with those in the root cellar.”
Eloise was silent.
He waited several minutes before he called out her name again.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Who is in the root cellar?”
“The dark ones,” she whispered. “Her’s. You don’t want to go in there. Stay up here and talk with me. Talk with Thaddeus. Talk with all of us.”
“There are more of you?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said with a giggle. The giggle faded, and she said, “But don’t go into the root cellar. They won’t like you. She won’t like it.”
“Who is she?” he said.
“No,” Eloise said petulantly. “I don’t want to talk about her. She doesn’t like it.”
“Well,” Carl said, “does she live in the house, too?”
“No. But she decides what happens.”
“Ah,” Carl said. “I do need to go down and to speak with them, though.”
“They may kill you,” Eloise said. “They don’t like people. They don’t like anyone.”
“Do you know who they are?” Carl asked.
“No,” she whispered. “But I know when they came.”
“When?” Carl asked softly. “When did they come here, Eloise?”
“When the Andersons came,” she said, her voice barely audible. “When the Andersons came, and Mr. Anderson put the books into the library. They came then, and they will not leave. The old man hates them. Thaddeus and I are… we’re afraid of them. And she, she loves them.”
“Thank you, Eloise,” Carl said. He looked at the trapdoor. He took off his jacket, folded it neatly and put it beside a basket of apples on a middle shelf. He carefully removed his cufflinks, placed them on top of the jacket, and then rolled his sleeves. His scars, a physical reminder of his wartime injuries, seemed to dance across his flesh.
He smiled at them, grabbed hold of the brass ring, and pulled the trapdoor open.
Carl took a deep breath to calm himself, and then descended the ladder into pure darkness.
Bonus Scene Chapter 4: A Conversation
The air was cold and stank of death, a smell Carl remembered vividly from the woods of France.
He closed the door to the root cellar behind him. He climbed down the rest of the way, found the dirt floor with his feet, and stood alone in the darkness.
Things moved around him.
Small things.
“Are you here?” Carl asked in a low voice.
The things stopped.
“Will you speak with me?”
Something scrambled up his leg, pierced his flesh with a sharp, cold sensation and then slipped away.
Carl bit back a scream.
An icy tongue dragged across his cheek, teeth nipped at his ears, and a hand wrapped itself in his hair.
Carl let his head be pulled back, his throat exposed.
Fingernails dragged across it and paused to grip his larynx tightly before letting go.
Suddenly, the teeth vanished from his ears and the hand slipped out of his hair.
“What do you want?” a deep and powerful male voice asked.
“I seek a truce,” Carl said.
“A truce?” a second voice asked.
“We have no quarrel with you,” the first voice said. “You bared your neck.”
“Accepted your fate,” said a third voice.
“You have faced death,” the second voice finished.
“Many times,” Carl agreed. “I am not here for myself, however. I come on behalf of the people who live in the house.”
“Who?” the first voice demanded. “For whom do you speak?”
“For all,” Carl answered.
“Who called upon you for this task?” the second asked, snarling.
“Mr. Anderson,” Carl said, and the voices howled. The earth shuddered beneath his feet and jars rattled on the shelves. Someone cried out nervously above him.
“Did he?” the third voice asked, hissing. “Did he now?”
“We are here because of him,” the second voice snapped.
“He bound us and brought us,” the first said angrily. “Brought us here, sought to keep us, but he did not know about her. No, not at all.”
“She freed us,” the second said.
“She gave us this place,” the third finished. “Gave it to us. The root cellar is ours, to do with as we please.”
“Some nights,” the second said, the voice suddenly soft and close to Carl. “Yes, some nights and some days even, stranger, we are allowed out. We slip through the walls of the house, and we torment him.”
“Remind him,” the first said with a sigh. “We remind him of what he’s done.”
“We shall make no truce. None yet,” the third said. “Not until we have had our way with Anderson and have helped to reap what he has sown.”
“What has he sown?” Carl asked. “What has he done?”
“Ask him,” the first voice said, laughing bitterly. “Ask him. Beware, though, there are far worse things than us in this house. And not all of them dead, either.”
The trapdoor flew open, and the bright light of the butler’s pantry flooded the root cellar and momentarily blinded him.
Carl grimaced, closed his eyes tightly against the light and waited a moment for his vision to adjust.
When he opened his eyes again, he looked around.
While the root cellar still stank of death, Carl knew he was alone with the food.
The dark ones had slipped away.
They had told him, however, what he needed in order to prepare a truce.
Carl turned and climbed the ladder.
Bonus Scene Chapter 5: Once More in the Parlor
Carl got to his feet as Mrs. Anderson walked into the room.
He gave a polite bow and waited for her to sit. As he sat down, he said politely, “Madam, I am sorry. I had thought they had informed Mr. Anderson of the request.”
“My husband is away on business in Boston, I am afraid,” she said, smiling at him. “I hope I may be of some service to you.”
“Perhaps you will be,” Carl said, excited at being in her presence. She smelled of lilacs, and the scent teased his nose.
“Before we begin,” she said, placing her hands on her lap, “I must ask, have you had any luck? I know you have questioned my domestics thoroughly.”
“I have had a bit of luck,” Carl answered. “Mrs. Grady and Mary were quite helpful.”
“Mrs. Grady is my rock,” Mrs. Anderson said, smiling. “She has been since I was a girl. Tell me, though, what have you accomplished?”
“I have spoken with some of the dead,” Carl said, and Mrs. Anderson’s eyes widened.
“Truthfully?” she asked.
He nodded.
“What did they say?”
“Well, two of them told me it was not they who were the ones causing the trouble at night. It was a group of others. Some who have sheltered in the root cellar.”
Mrs. Anderson stiffened slightly. “The root cellar.”
“Yes,” Carl said. “Have you heard of troubles there?”
“Whispers,” she said softly. “From a dead girl who creeps into my rooms at night.”
Carl frowned and got to his feet. He paced back and forth for a moment, turned and looked at Mrs. Anderson as he asked, “Madam, was this Eloise?”
Mrs. Anderson’s eyes widened, and she nodded.
