The Last Blog: A Short Story (The Soren Chase Series)

by Rob Blackwell

  I panicked then. I turned and ran back up the steps, and I swear to God when I grabbed the kitchen door, it felt like something was on the other side, holding it fast. I had to shove with all my might for it to open and I expected someone to be there waiting for me when I finally succeeded. But there was nobody there. There was no one in that kitchen with me. I looked in the dining room and then the living room but there was nothing.

  There’s no way a person could have blocked that door from opening and gotten away that fast. It’s just not possible.

  And here’s the kicker: when I turned to the basement, the light was back on. All that time I was trying to switch it on and nothing happened, but when I got back upstairs, it was lit up again. If that’s not a message, I don’t know what is.

  I shut the basement door. Okay, I slammed the basement door. I’m not going down there again. Let the fucking light stay on.

  "Don't let her take me away"

  Nov. 14, 2010, 10:16 p.m.

  Sean Gordon

  As awful as that was, I’m not done. I know I still need to go upstairs. That’s where the ruckus started, after all. So I’m going to go, but give me a moment, okay?

  I see the comments on the last post.

  “You’re making this all up. I don’t believe a word you say,” wrote “The Real Venkman.”

  “You’re full of shit,” said “MrMojoRisin.”

  What can I say that would convince you I’m telling the truth? Nothing. I can’t prove what’s going on here. All I can say is I’m here to tell the truth, so that’s what I’m doing.

  I need to talk about something else for a minute. I haven’t told you one of the most significant stories Mrs. Madison shared with me. Several years ago, she received a visit from a woman named Carol Cuthberson, who was better known as Madame Zora, Leesburg’s most famous psychic, until her death in 2007.

  Zora said she was visiting a friend nearby when she felt she “had” to visit Madison Manor. The psychic claimed that the spirits in the house “needed her help.”

  “They need to move on,” Zora told Margaret Madison. “They can’t stay here.”

  Zora offered to plan an exorcism and Mrs. Madison agreed to think about it.

  The next night she awoke to hear sobbing in the house. Mrs. Madison didn’t see anyone because it was pitch dark, but a voice next to her ear whispered, “Don’t let that woman send me away.”

  And then the sobbing stopped.

  When Zora called again the next day, Mrs. Madison politely but firmly sent her away.

  “It was the least I could do,” she explained. “She had protected me. I wanted to do the same.”

  Oh, God. More footsteps just now. Another slammed door.

  Enough of this! I’m going upstairs. I’ve got a flashlight that may or may not actually help, but I’m a survivor.

  If there’s something up there, I’m going to face this head on.

  The Soldier

  Nov. 14, 2010, 10:28 p.m.

  Sean Gordon

  My hands are shaking again and it’s hard to type.

  The door to the main bedroom was open again. I’ve already shut it twice and someone — something — is opening it.

  I walked up the steps very carefully. I even called out to see if anyone would answer. But there was no one there.

  I checked the entire second floor from top to bottom.

  I turned on lights and looked in closets. “I ain’t afraid of no ghost.” Whatever is doing this has made me angry. They think they can mess with me? They think a little running around, leaving me in the dark and slamming doors is going to scare me?

  They don’t know who they’re dealing with. They don’t know what I’m capable of.

  I searched everywhere. But there was no one there.

  I moved onto the third floor. I’ll admit I didn’t want to go up there. That’s where he lives, Mrs. Madison told me. The soldier.

  She said she never felt threatened in her house, but that doesn’t mean the spirits here were always quiet.

  At first she thought he was a Confederate who died from his wounds while the house was a hospital.

  But later, she discovered a reference from the Loudoun Register — a predecessor to the Loudoun Chronicle — that made mention of the “unfortunate death of Sgt. Phillip Morgan, brother to Anna Morgan.”

  The article mentioned the legal battle over the house. Anna and Phillip were locked in a fight over the ownership of the property, a battle that legally Phillip was likely to win. But somehow Anna turned the tables on her brother and was awarded full control of what is now Madison Manor.

  And Phillip didn’t like that one bit.

  In 1868, dressed in his polished Confederate uniform, Sgt. Phillip Morgan climbed the stairs to the third floor of this house — and hung himself.

  Mrs. Madison said he never left, and neither did his sister.

  “Whatever fight they had in life, I think they’re still having it in death,” she told me. “I think Anna is the one who called to me in the night, the one who didn’t want the psychic to interfere. Her brother, meanwhile, is the angry spirit, the restless ghost. It’s he who paces up and down the stairs, occasionally shutting doors. And he doesn’t always seem happy we’re here.”

  From what Mrs. Madison could tell, Phillip had claimed the third floor, including the room he hung himself in. Mrs. Madison used it mainly for storage — and even then, she often found her things disturbed. Boxes were upended, their contents spilled on the floor. Her kids, as far as she knew, never played in that room.

  Mrs. Madison put guests in the other two rooms on that floor, but sometimes that didn’t work out very well. Visitors described being woken in the middle of the night by strange laughter and an occasional shout.

  When Mrs. Madison gave me the tour last year, we didn’t go up there. When I asked why, she responded, “I don’t want to antagonize him.”

  But I went up those stairs just now. I had to.

  Someone is calling me out, trying to scare me. Maybe it’s Phillip. And if so, I don’t scare easily.

  I took the flashlight and went up. In science class, they tell you that heat rises. But not in this house. As cold as it is down here — and I’m shaking all over despite the fact that I have my jacket on — it’s far worse up there. I could practically see my breath in the air.

  I didn’t know which room was Phillip’s so I checked all three. The first one was clearly a guest bedroom, and though I felt eyes on me the whole time, there was nothing there. The second was just a bare room. There wasn’t even a closet to check.

  That just left the final room, presumably Phillip’s.

  I pushed the door open and waved the flashlight around the room.

  And there he was. I saw him. He was hanging from the wooden beam in the center of the room. He was dressed in his old soldier attire, his head lolled to one side. His mouth hung open and his hands were still clutching the rope around his neck as if to free himself after all this time.

  I stood there for a moment, unable to move or speak. And then he looked up. His eyes were glassy and cloudy, but the pupils weren’t black. They looked like silver, the color of hard metal. But I barely remember that. What keeps recurring to me is the way he turned to me and smiled. His teeth were black.

  I opened my mouth to scream, but when I blinked, the image was gone. I don’t know how long I saw him. Maybe it was only a few seconds. For just a moment, he was there and then he wasn’t.

  But I know what I saw. I know it was him.

  I ran downstairs after that. I’m not going to go up there anymore. Let him run around knocking stuff over for all I care. A little loud noise never hurt anybody. I’m going to stay right here.

  I’ll be safe here.

  Sound and Fury

  Nov. 14, 2010, 10:42 p.m.

  Sean Gordon

  The noises have been steadily increasing upstairs. There are doors slamming, heavy footsteps treading across the hallway— even the sound of smashi
ng glass.

  It’s expanded into the downstairs now. There’s a painting by the stairway — I think it shows Ball’s Bluff Battlefield, but I’m not sure — and it’s now on the floor. When it fell, it made such a large noise that I jumped out of my chair.

  Some of you have asked why I don’t leave. I’ve asked that question myself.

  I don’t really know.

  The only thing I can conclude is this: these ghosts can’t hurt me. I’m not even sure they want to. Why would they? I never harmed Mrs. Madison. I’ve never hurt…

  I don’t even know that they’re real. I’m still not convinced this isn’t some mad prank. I mentioned the light in the basement in my article last year. Someone could have snuck in the house and turned it on. There could be a hidden access to the upstairs that’s allowing someone to run amok up there.

  Even the soldier hanging from the beam — it could have just been my imagination. Such is the power of suggestion. Let’s face it, these events have me pretty worked up. Someone could be preying on me.

  I’m not saying it’s likely. I’ll grant that such a person would have had to go to an awful lot of trouble. But it’s possible, isn’t it?

  “You need to get out of there,” commented Veronica H. on the last post. Several of you agreed with her.

  But I’m not going to leave.

  I said I would stay the night here and so that’s what I’m going to do. I’ve never been a quitter. I pestered the editor of the Chronicle to let me be a sports reporter, and then I became the best one this county has ever seen. When some hack at William and Mary accused me of plagiarism — it wasn’t true — I threatened to sue. If there is an obstacle, I’ll knock it out of my way. Just like I did when they said I couldn’t come here. I’m a survivor and I always get what I deserve.

  Damn!

  Nov. 14, 2010, 10:55 p.m.

  Sean Gordon

  Damn!

  Something smashed on the main floor now. It was near the kitchen. There was a map — an old one showing Leesburg 200 years ago. I’ll bet it was that.

  Now something crashed in the kitchen.

  What have I stirred up? Why are these spirits so angry? I’m going to go take another look at the kitchen. Hang on a minute.

  SEAN IS A LIAR. SEAN IS A LIAR. SEAN IS A LIAR.

  I didn’t type that. I went to look at the kitchen and…

  Someone was at my computer. That can’t be possible. I was only gone for a moment. There’s no way.

  I’m not faking this, I promise. I know you might not believe me, but it’s true. I’m not the person who typed that.

  I don’t even know what it means. What have I lied about? I’ve told the truth.

  I hear a man’s laughter upstairs, cold and bitter. There’s no joy in that sound. Someone is having me on. It’s a trick. It must be.

  Another crash in the kitchen. I was just there — and there was nothing there! I swear. It was just bare countertops and an aging oven. The refrigerator wasn’t even running. I opened it just to make sure some asshole wasn’t hiding in there. But there was nothing.

  The light just went off in the far hallway. It practically burst. It seemed to glow for a moment and then suddenly it went dark.

  Now the light in the kitchen is off.

  Now the light in the dining room is off.

  The house is now dark except for this room. I can hear movement in the rest of the house. It doesn’t just sound like one or two people either. A crash here, a creak there. It feels like there are dozens of people here — and they are seriously pissed off about something.

  The light went off above me.

  I’m in the dark.

  I’m in the dark. I feel like I can’t breathe. I need to go. I want to get up and run out of this house but I’m afraid to move. The only light is the one from my computer. It shows nobody in this room with me and yet I feel others here. I hear whispering in the corner.

  Please help me. I want to leave.

  YOU CAN’T LEAVE, SEAN.

  YOU CAN’T LEAVE, SEAN.

  YOU CAN’T LEAVE, SEAN.

  Please help me

  Nov. 14, 2010, 11:14 p.m.

  Sean Gordon

  The doors are locked. They won’t budge. I ran to each door and yanked on the knobs. But there’s no give! It’s as if some force is holding them shut.

  As I ran through the house, there were more sounds. The man — the soldier — was laughing again, laughing as I tried to flee. Everything on the walls has come off. There is a wind in this house, knocking everything down.

  I’m trapped.

  I was going to smash the window. I wanted to smash the window. But as I was about to do it, I saw something outside. It was just a brief glimpse underneath the streetlight, something dragging itself across the sidewalk.

  But I know what it was. I know who it was. How can she be here? I didn’t…

  Please, if you can read this, help me! Call the cops or just come over! Help me!

  NO ONE CAN HELP YOU, SEAN.

  TELL THEM

  Nov. 14, 2010, 11:34 p.m.

  Sean Gordon

  None of you are responding and I can’t get out. My cell phone is dead. I’ve tried sending e-mail but nothing happens. It’s as if the only thing I’m allowed to do is write these stupid blog posts. I think the house wants me to write them.

  The figure outside… It can’t be her. She didn’t live here, did she? Not in the house, surely. Mrs. Madison never said. But maybe she was from the area. I don’t remember.

  YOU REMEMBER.

  I didn’t write that! Stop fucking with my computer!

  I don’t know why you’re doing this! I haven’t hurt the Madison family. I didn’t hit Howard with a rock or try to steal some stupid knickknack. What did I do to deserve to be trapped here?

  YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about!

  I don’t even know how those messages are showing up. Can ghosts use a computer? Or maybe it’s me? Some unconscious manifestation of my guilt?

  But I don’t feel guilt! I’m beyond guilt. Guilt is for weaker people. I’m a survivor.

  What do you want from me?

  There’s no answer. I sit here and wait but the cursor just blinks and blinks and blinks at me. Nothing. What do they want? I can almost see them now. They’re just shadows but they stand at the edge of the small circle of light illuminated by my laptop. They’re waiting. For what?

  TELL THEM.

  Tell them what? About her? Is that what you want me to talk about? You don’t know her. You couldn’t know her. What is she to you? She was nothing. You understand me? She wasn’t special. I just wanted to see what would happen, that’s all. And something wonderful occurred. I saw her for what she truly was.

  I gave her a gift. There’s nothing to feel guilty about. What do you want from me?

  Another crash. I think the back door has opened. I should go there, I should try to escape. And yet I still sit here, typing and typing. Because I know that the door didn’t open so I could be saved.

  Something has come for me.

  I can hear it now. It’s just a small noise, the sound of something sliding across the floor.

  No, not sliding.

  Dragging.

  Something is pulling itself through the house, coming closer to me.

  I’m going to try and get out of here. Before I do, I’ll tell you what happened. Maybe then it will let me go. But I’ve got to type fast.

  I’ve always been fascinated by death. At first it was just bugs. And maybe I moved up to smaller animals after that. A neighbor’s cat. My own dog, Arthur. It was an experiment, that’s all.

  I watched them as they died. I wanted to understand what happened, to see the light in their faces fade and vanish.

  Have you ever held something in your arms as it left this world? It’s an amazing, transformative experience. You can see the universe there.

  Stephanie was a beautiful girl. Everyone in my freshm
an hall wanted to date her. I even gave it a shot, but she said I was “creepy.” Stupid girl.

  I didn’t dwell on it though. But when I saw her take that shortcut…

  It was just an opportunity, a compulsion. I’d never had the nerve to see what a dying person looked like. So I followed her into the woods.

  And I held her in my arms at the last.

  She was more beautiful in that moment than in the rest of her days combined. She became an angel before my very eyes.

  I don’t expect you to understand. I’m a survivor. The rest of you…

  The thing dragging itself across the floor is coming closer. For just a moment, the light in the kitchen came on and I could see it. It’s crawling toward me.

  Is it her?

  They say that ghosts can’t hurt you, but this isn’t a ghost, is it? It’s something else.

  The light in the dining room is on now. I can just make out a mass of long hair and bone. I’m almost out of time.

  I know what I did was “wrong.” I know that’s how others would see it. I don’t care. What I don’t understand is why the spirits here care. Yes, I’ve done “bad” things. What’s it to them?

  The lights in the kitchen and dining room are off. I’m in the dark again. But I can still hear it coming, the sound of bone scraping across the floor. It’s so close now, so very close. And my name. I hear it being whispered softly.

  I’m going to fight now. I know this is the last thing I’ll ever write. I know this house won’t let me win, but I want whoever sees this to know I went out fighting.