The Haunting of Sam Cabot (A Supernatural Thriller)

by Hall, Mark Edward

Linda cried at Carlisle’s brief moment of sentimentality. It was the closest he ever came to expressing any in our presence.

  Chapter 4

  The weeks following the purchase were hectic ones for everyone concerned. We had a chance to inspect the house more thoroughly and a further investigation revealed that the roof needed to be replaced. This was no surprise to me. I’d suspected from that first day after seeing the ceiling and wall damage upstairs that this would be the case. Luckily we caught it before the damage became too severe.

  For this task we called a contractor, a local family-owned company called Farrington’s Roofing. They were scheduled to arrive two weeks from the following Monday.

  In the meantime, we worked like troopers, and through it all we kept this vision in our hearts and minds of the house and what it would look like, what it would feel like, when it was finished, when it was finally ours to live in, when it was at last a real home to call our own. And little by little our vision began to take shape. We would arrive early each morning and work until well after dark every night, work until we were giddy with exhaustion.

  “Busy, busy, busy,” Meg would proclaim gleefully. She was the kind of woman who enjoyed seeing people sweat, as long as the task at hand was a fruitful one. She and John were true to their word, pitching in with whatever tasks we threw their way. Meg with her hands, John, not so much. He was a smart man and his advice was sound, but these days he was physically unable to work. He would sit in his wheelchair on the front porch and watch all the activity with a keen eye and offer guidance where he thought it was needed.

  John had been severely injured five years before in an auto accident on his way home from work. He’d suffered multiple injuries including a broken back, a crushed pelvis and the loss of his left leg from the knee down. His injuries were so extensive it was a miracle he’d survived at all. And on top of everything else, he was now experiencing heart problems. But privately, Meg, as well as Linda and I, thought that John had lost something else in that accident, something much more complicated than a broken back and the use of his leg, something that had caused the beginnings of his heart failure. We believed that he had lost his spirit, and perhaps even his will to live. Pieces of his health were failing fast, things other than the already diagnosed problems. He was drawn and pasty. In two short years, his hair had gone from brown to snow-white, his voice was losing its power and conviction, and he seemed to be drowning in a sea of self-pity. Everyone around him could see it, but John refused to admit it. Perhaps his reluctance to accept this one simple fact was, Meg thought, because he didn’t actually care about living anymore, and it made her sad to admit that to herself. Her husband had always been such a vital, active, happy man. But the fact was, John was quietly fading away, and there was little, it seemed, that anybody in this great big world of instant miracles could do about it.

  But there was one small spark of hope. A relationship seemed to be brewing. Carlisle was there almost every day—working on that old heating plant—and he and John got to be kind of friendly. Not exactly friends, but friendly in an adversarial sort of way, and Meg, Linda, and I began to feel this small dim hope. The hope that what John had needed all along was a friend. And in Carlisle, we started to see that John had at least the beginnings of one.

  One day I noticed the two of them talking and approached the porch.

  “Can’t understand why you don’t just replace the damn thing,” John was saying. “Seems to me it’d be cheaper in the long run.”

  Carlisle had just returned from the hardware store in town and he held a bag of what I at first assumed were parts for his project. As I was staring at the bag to try to get an idea what was in it, I could have sworn the bag shifted, as if it contained something alive. I recoiled, but something I cannot explain to this day made me not ask and not want to see what the bag contained.

  “Maybe so,” Carlisle said, answering John’s comment. “But I’m not convinced of that. That old furnace kept me warm through many a cold winter back in the day, and there’s no reason to think it wouldn’t continue to do so. Like I told Sam here, I’m not sure I’d trust this house to one of them newfangled things they call furnaces nowadays.”

  “Well, there are a lot of new technological breakthroughs—”

  “Don’t trust technology,” Carlisle said cutting John off. He glared down at the man. “These new technological marvels you speak of still burn oil or gas, don’t they?”

  “Well, yes, I believe most of them do, unless you want to get into geothermal or solar.”

  “Those systems ain’t efficient enough in these climes,” Carlisle said with a dismissive flap of a hand. “It’d take years to recover the cost. Not hardly worth it in my estimation.”

  “I believe Carlisle is too far along to turn back now,” I told John. “It looks like that old furnace will be staying.”

  “I reckon so,” John said with a small sigh of defeat. “I’ll have to admit, I wheeled on over there yesterday afternoon and had a look at it through the open doorway.” John hesitated for a long moment before continuing, and I swear I saw him shiver as if a chill had passed through him. “Couldn’t believe my eyes. Mighty fine job you’re doing.”

  “Nice of you to say so,” Carlisle replied. “Well, guess I should be gettin back at it. That old furnace ain’t waitin for no man.”

  John reached over and patted the small red and white Coca Cola cooler beside him. I knew he kept it there stocked with beer and soda for those moments when a break and a frosty one were “just plain necessary.” as he’d once put it. “What’s your hurry, Carlisle? Why don’t you take a little breather and settle down for a cold one. You must be all tuckered out after riding that bicycle all the way out here from town. Seems to me that would be a difficult task even for a young man. And we both know you ain’t one of them.”

  “Nope, I ain’t,” Carlisle replied and you could hear just a note of irritation in his voice. “And I ain’t all tuckered out either. Been ridin that bike a lot of years and I know how to pace myself. Could get to town and back again if I had to. Maybe twice. I know when to take a breather and this ain’t the time. Thanks for the offer anyway.”

  “Sure, Carlisle, anytime. You know where the cold ones are if you ever feel a need.”

  Without replying Carlisle turned and sauntered in his measured and methodical way back in the direction of the open basement door, his right hand fisted tightly around the top of the bag he carried. I stood and watched him go, my eyes involuntarily shifting down to the bag, which gave a couple of frantic lurches, as though it contained a living thing, trapped and desperate to escape. I looked over at John who was watching too.

  “You see that, John?”

  John turned his head slowly to look at me, his eyes hooded and a little distant. “Nope, don’t see a damn thing, Sam. And neither do you.”

  “What?”

  “Sometimes it doesn’t pay to voice things you know shouldn’t be voiced.” He flipped open the lid of the cooler, reached in and drew out an icy brown bottle. “You’ll have one with me, won’t you?”

  I took the beer from his hand, twisted the top off and upended it, gulping down nearly half the bottle, all the while contemplating what John had said about voicing things that shouldn’t be voiced. He was right of course, and I knew it. Following my Afghanistan experiences I had voiced plenty of things I should have kept my mouth shut about; things that had succeeded only in getting me far too many visits with far too many shrinks, which ultimately had resulted in a medical discharge from the Army, which in plain English meant ‘mentally unfit for duty.’

  I should have stayed silent and suffered alone. You see, in the aftermath of that horrible incident I was confused about the things that had actually gone down, and I found myself blabbing about stuff that could not have been real. No way. No how. Not in this world anyway.

  So, it was all a big mistake, and I should have just moved on. But I didn’t and I paid the price. We’re a curious and talkativ
e species. We like to voice the things on our minds, and never consider the consequences of such actions until it’s too late.

  “Seriously, what do you think, John?” I asked.

  It was a long moment before he answered. He was still watching Carlisle’s slow retreat. “What do I think of what?”

  “Of Carlisle.”

  “No opinion yet,” John said and took a long pull on his beer. “Haven’t known him long enough to form one, but I’m working on it.” John didn’t take his eyes off Carlisle until he’d stepped beyond the dark maw which was the cellar opening. He turned to me then and said, “But I’d watch him, Sam. Yep, if I were you, I’d watch him close. Something ain’t right inside that man. It’s just a sense, but I learned a long time ago to trust my senses.

  Inexplicably, John’s words ignited a species of terror inside me, gripping my beating heart with its cold hands, until I felt like gathering up my family and running like mad from this place we had already begun to call home. But I didn’t run. I couldn’t have even if I’d wanted to. It was already much too late for that.

  Chapter 5

  While Linda was spackling, painting, and re-papering, I snaked new wiring through the walls, replaced broken window glass, repaired steps and porches, and when that was done I went down to the local rent-all and rented floor sanding equipment. The floors throughout were in surprisingly good shape, mostly wide pumpkin-pine boards which had been painted a multitude of colors over the years. I sanded them all down and re-finished them to their natural beauty.

  Through it all, John and Meg were absolute troopers. Having their grandson around was a great delight for both of them, therapeutic for John, and seemed to outweigh whatever inconvenience or burden Linda and I might have imposed on them. Sean spent an awful lot of time with them in those first few weeks.

  As it turned out, we only had to stay with them for two months, and my fears were not justified. They were simply wonderful.

  *

  The work on the house proceeded so well that we made the decision to move in early in August. The heating plant wasn’t yet up and running, but Carlisle worked diligently every day on it and assured us that it would be ready by the time cold weather set in. I never actually heard much noise coming from the basement, though, and thought this strange, but Carlisle spent most of his time down there, and after he’d go home at night I would go down and inspect his handiwork. It appeared that the man was a fine craftsman, and I needn’t have worried. The plant began to take on the appearance of something new and vital. Each day a section of ductwork or piping or a series of valves would be either cleaned up to a polished sheen or replaced. I remember thinking that the new parts alone must have cost him a fortune. I caught myself wondering on occasion if John hadn’t been right, if it wouldn’t have been cheaper to just replace the whole damned thing. But whenever these thoughts intruded I would begin to feel downhearted and despondent, even guilty, and I would go over and stand in front of the Hulk and stare at it for a long time, as if entranced. My hand would involuntarily lift toward it, and before I knew it I’d be stroking its smooth, shiny new chrome surfaces and imagining I was stroking a living thing, and all thoughts of replacing it would vanish from my mind.

  On more than one occasion, I offered to give Carlisle a hand with his endeavors. I was more than eager for the experience. I wanted to feel the joints slide together, to experience the smooth union of reconstruction against my living flesh. But Carlisle wouldn’t hear of it. He was extremely possessive of that thing, and I began to feel pangs of what can only be described as jealousy. He said it looked like I already had enough to do—which was the truth—and besides, he had dedicated himself to the heating project and he aimed to see it through. He was right of course, but it didn’t stop the longing in me. You see, I was wracked with a strange mix of emotions. I was grateful to him for doing the project, but at the same time I was anxious for his work to be done so that I could have the Hulk and its enigmas all to myself.

  Chapter 6

  One day, I found an old well in the field out behind the house. I damn near fell into it. We were relieved that Sean hadn’t discovered it first. Blackberry bushes had grown tall and laden with leaves and blossoms and had fallen over it in such a way that it was almost completely disguised. I was on one of my explorations of the property and became curious as to why, in the middle of an otherwise open grassy field, a patch of densely-packed bushes remained.

  At first I circumnavigated the patch, peering in to see if there was a reason for their existence. Unable to see beyond a few feet in I decided to push my way toward the center. In doing so I came within inches of stumbling onto the rotten boards that covered the well. I fought to keep my balance, pin-wheeling my arms even as prickly thorns stitched lines of welling blood along my forearms. If I hadn’t successfully regained my balance, no doubt I would have broken through the old wooden well cover and fallen twenty-five feet into its depths.

  I went back to the house and retrieved a scythe. After clearing away an adequate path through the blackberry bushes I knelt and removed the rotted boards. Stone cobbles made their way down into a dark vertical tunnel to a murky pool at the bottom. I could see the reflection of my own face in that still water, silhouetted against the bright blue sky above me.

  Then the reflection changed into something hideous and I recoiled violently, crawling back away from the rim. I crouched there on the edge, trembling, feeling the constriction of my heart. I could not move; I nearly could not breathe. The fear I felt was a physical thing. I’d caught a flicker of something I never wanted to see again, a glimpse of my own face changing into something . . . monstrous.

  It’s just your imagination, I told myself, as I knelt there breathing in ragged bursts. Look down again and you’ll see that it was nothing. It took my last ounce of courage to lean over that rim for a second time. I flinched as the reflection came into view. It was my own face that I saw. Not a monster, just a frightened man with a drawn and pallid face.

  Then something slithered beneath the water’s surface, sending an echo of agitated rings outward from its epicenter. I recoiled again and jumped to my feet on unsteady legs. My mouth stood agape and I was breathing in short, hyperventilating rasps. I backed out of the tangle of blackberry bushes, even as they reached out and snagged my clothing like something alive, wanting to trap me there, wanting to hurl me down into the abyss. As I struggled to break free I was as close to all out panic as I’d ever been in my life.

  Finally I did break free, and with my hand over my seizing heart I made my way back to the house where I fell to my knees on the newly mowed lawn and waited for my heart to settle down.

  I never wanted to go back out there. Whatever lived in that well, real or imaginary, frightened me worse than anything else in my life ever had. It took a long time for my terror to subside, and even then a sense of unreality began to settle over me. A sense so pervasive that it was then that I began to revisit the fine thread that exists between sanity and madness, and wonder, not for the first time in my life, just how fragile that thread actually was.

  *

  I vehemently warned Sean to stay away from that section of the yard, and several days later, after my panic had subsided and my senses had returned, I reluctantly went back out there, again with the scythe, and chopped away the remainder of the angry bushes. Then I drove fence stakes into the ground in a ten foot circumference and roped the well off.

  For several nights following I lay awake worrying and wondering what I should do. Finally the answer came to me. I went back with a bucket and a rope. I wanted to take a water sample. I do not know why it was important for me to do so, but it was. This time, I stood a good three feet away from the rim and tossed the bucket over the side. I heard it crash against the cobbles on its descent, the splash of contact and the gurgle of water signaling that the bucket was filling. I then began to gingerly hoist the bucket out of the well. A sudden and strong downward tug nearly pulled me off balance. My mind reele
d with renewed panic and I nearly let go of the rope. But I held on, waiting, frozen. The tug did not come again and somehow I convinced myself that the bucket had hitched up on one of the jagged cobbles that lined the well’s interior. I hauled it the rest of the way out as quickly as I could, hand over hand and almost gagged at the sorry state of the liquid it contained; greenish-yellow and thick, with a smell like rotting eggs. Holding my breath, I poured some of the contents into a Mason jar and quickly capped it. That same day, I sent the sample off to the State health department for testing.

  The results came back a week later, and sure enough, the news was bad. The letter stated that there were heavy deposits of toxic sulfur mixed in with dense organic matter that might take weeks to identify. The health department suggested that I not fill the well with anything solid for this could bring the toxins to the surface. Instead, they suggested that I recap it with sturdy oak planking and stay away from it. The letter also stated that sometime in the near future they would send an agent out to personally inspect the well.

  I wasn’t holding my breath.

  Finally, not being able to contain myself, I questioned Carlisle about what I had discovered and showed him the letter. I did not say anything about what I thought I’d seen in the well. At first he seemed angry that I’d contacted the health department without telling him first. I reminded him that we were now the owners of the house and that my primary concern was for the welfare of my family.

  After cooling down Carlisle informed me that the well in question had indeed been the inn’s original water supply dug probably as early as the eighteenth century. He then told me he’d completely forgotten it was there. It had been capped for at least fifty years because it had gone bad. He offered no explanations as to why it had gone bad and something made me not ask.