Authors: Jack Wallen
Though the car was first given birth in the late sixties, the interior had been totally modernized; which included a satellite radio. I switched on a metal channel and was greeted by an
In This Moment
song. I would have banged my head to the glorious rock, but I was driving and needed every ounce of concentration I could muster. The last thing I needed was to crash Dad’s Mustang.
The drive went by faster than I expected. Before I had time to second guess my actions, I was pulling into Tyler’s End and then into the parking lot of the Gaultier House.
Sally was right, it was closed. In fact, the entire area was bereft of any sign it ever opened as a haunt. The few people I saw were normal and everyday – if not just a bit too perfect.
My heart raced. What I was about to do was illegal. Every molecule in my brain begged me to rethink my plan. The time for rethinking, however, was long since gone. Now was the time for action – and action was my middle name.
Not really, it’s Lee.
Actually, it’s Leigh. Mom swore she was going to have a girl; so to be snarky, Dad listed my middle name as Leigh on the birth certificate. Dad always told me he swore mom was going to pulp him and pour his remains in her morning juice. Needless to say, the name ‘Leigh’ was only ever used in the privacy of my own fantasy world.
Or something like that.
I shut off the car, grabbed my backpack, and stepped out into the cold night air.
An eerie silence wafted over me. It seemed there was nothing at all alive, but me. My plan was to keep it that way as long as possible.
The gravel of the parking lot crunched underneath my shoes as I made my way to the front door of the house. There was no reason to assume the main entry to be unlocked. I tried anyway.
Lady Luck and I had yet to be formally introduced.
Off the porch I went, in search of something, anything that would give me passage into the great beyond. I tried every window I could reach – all locked. A back door had promise, but it only lead into a ‘mud room’ (as my mom called them), which was barred from entry into the house by yet another locked door.
I was about to give up, when I found a cellar door with a broken latch and lock. The door creaked open with an ominous complaint. I was certain the creep-show sound effect would give me away and some crypt keeper would pop out to escort me to the leaden gates of Hell.
Complete darkness greeted me on the other side of the threshold. My trusty flashlight frightened the darkness into hiding to reveal a labyrinthine maze of doors, boxes, curtains, trunks, and cages. Why were there cages? Probably for teenage busy bodies like myself. Someone would lock me up and hold me captive until next year so I could serve as the haunts gimp.
The gash of light streaming from my hand fell upon a stairway. Old. Wooden.
Crap.
The whole of the scene had Wes Craven written all over it. Some lunatic with a gun or knives for fingers would crash through the door and one Scott Leigh Maskey would meet an untimely doom at the knives and forks of the Firefly or Sawyer family.
I’d come this far, there was no sense in going pale now.
One Chuck Taylor
at a time, I made my way up the stairs. Not a single creak or groan greeted my one hundred and fifteen pounds. The second the cellar door stood before me, I placed a hand on the knob, held my breath, and turned.
The knob moved smoothly through ninety degrees, until the door popped open.
When I finally stood on the ground floor, it dawned on me that I was standing in what was the greatest haunt of all times…alone. A shiver of thrill raced through my veins and across my flesh. It took everything in my power not to whoop
out cries of joy.
What had I hoped to see? Was it magic I’d wanted? Did I assume looking behind the metaphorical curtain would reveal too much? The last thing I wanted was to ruin the illusion of the haunt – but in this case, I couldn’t help it.
Everything was too real, too impossible. I had to know the truth.
The beam of light raced around the room. I needed to get my bearings, try to retrace my steps from Halloween night. First, I had to find the entryway. Once inside that greeting room of the haunt, it was just a matter of pointing myself in the right direction and following my instinct.
It took all of five minutes to find the start of the tour. It was exactly as I’d remembered, but I was alone and my imagination had shifted into overdrive and was working my mind like a Chihuahua being chased by a pissed off cat.
After I’d walked through the first few rooms, recognition finally set in.
The hanging room. Where I first saw
her
. The memory struck me hard. Her glorious, red hair. The angelic smile. My heart flipped and fluttered in my chest. What I wouldn’t give to lay eyes on that perfect face; allow her lips to draw near and her scent to embrace my senses. The second I pulled myself away from the fond memory of the hanging angel, I remembered the very reason I was here – to see just how the sausage was made.
The first thing to locate was the pulley mechanism that raised and lowered the red-headed beauty. Once I had that locked in, it would be a simple matter of following the wire to the controller.
My skin was alive with hope…until no sign of a wire or pulley system could be found.
“
This can’t be,” I whispered. “There had to have been a flying rig.”
No matter how long and hard I looked, I found nothing, no sign of the means to have pulled the hanging girl off.
Unless, the mechanisms were in another room.
I was about to open the door to search out a flying rig, when I heard a sound – soft and lilting, like whispered secrets shared between the sweetest lips. The sound jump started my heart and my feet gave chase.
‘Gave chase’ was a bit of an overstatement. It was more like a fast, awkward walk.
“
It
is
him,” another whisper drifted to my ears.
I opted to go full-on daredevil.
“
You’re correct,” I said, “It is me. Who are you?”
The whispered words shifted to giggles.
“
What did I say?”
The giggles returned.
“
Babbette, you can’t do this,” one of the disembodied voices whispered.
“
I have to,” said the other female voice.
“
It is in my best nature to always protect you, Babbette…especially from yourself.”
Movement. A cloud of dust took shape and resettled as two figures appeared, shrouded in mystery and a strange mist. My heart and lungs took a moment together. My eyes immediately darted about the room to locate the nearest possible exit. I wasn’t about to get caught ‘dead-handed’.
“
Get them,” one of the voices whispered.
Two words wracked my body with tension. Was my curiosity about to slap me across the face and have me locked up in one of the cellar cages?
“
You
get them.” the second voice insisted.
The original fired back, “please, Timely.”
Timely? Was that a name, or was I about to be introduced to bone-crushing clock movement from Hell?
“
Okay, fine; but don’t you dare leave.”
“
Wherever would I go, Timely?”
“
Hello,” I called out softly.
A wash of silence fell over the room.
“
I’m not here to hurt you…or steal anything,” I added.
“
Save my heart?” The sweet voice asked.
Like an idiot, I allowed the first thought to explode from my face. “Excuse me?”
The second the words escaped my lips, I had to fight back an atomic face-palm. Some sweet, disembodied voice had just tossed poetry down and I swept it under the rug with an anvil and hammer.
I had no ‘smooth’.
“
What is your name?” the voice asked.
For some odd reason, it didn’t dawn on me to lead with caution. Instead, I plowed on through without concern for my safety. “My name is Scott. What’s yours?”
Silence.
“
Hello?” I called out.
“
Shhhh,” the voice begged with a whisper.
“
My name is Babbette and you must keep quiet. If my father hears you, I cannot guarantee your safety.”
Babbette’s words ran, liquid-cold, through my veins.
“
Who is your father?”
“
I shouldn’t say.”
“
Do you not trust me?”
“
I do not very well know you,” Babbette replied, her twist on the English language a quaint cross between adorable and too much retro-kitsch.
“
You know
my
name,” was my only retort. Lame.
“
This is true. You, Scott, are a wise young man. My father’s name is Gorman Gaultier.”
“
Wait,” I stopped Babbette, “This is the haunted Gaultier House. Do you live here?”
“
I do,” Babbette responded without hesitation.
I was officially a bit weirded-out about having a conversation with someone through a shroud of darkness and mystery.
“
Is there any chance I could see you?” I asked.
Silence.
“
Should I take that as a ‘no’?”
“
No,” Babbette’s voice was soft and coy.
Through the darkness, I was finally able to make out a shape. The figure cutting through the darkness was clearly female; the flow of curls over her shoulders and a sweet profile gave not only her gender away, but a hint of beauty.
“
Why don’t you want me to –”
“
I do,” Babbette interrupted. “It’s just…”
The other voice returned and whispered, “Here Babbette.”
In the silence and shadows, I couldn’t make out the details of the movement on the other side of the veil. After a shared moment of whispers, Babbette finally said…“
You may see me now.”
One, simple sentence sent shots of electricity through my system I’d never felt before. My breath caught in my lungs and every sensation was filtered through desire and need.
Slowly, almost painfully so, I stepped toward her voice. With each footfall the urge to turn and run swelled in my lungs and brain. I wasn’t sure why, but some strange warning sounded within my skull.
Like any teenage boy with the scent of teenage girl nearby, I could only think with a much lesser ‘brain’.
Both girls giggled.
“
Is something funny?” I asked.
“
You’re cute,” said Babbette. “Don’t be worried. We won’t hurt you.”
I finally stepped through the boundary of dust and fog and into a room I didn’t remember from the tour. There were three winged-back, Victorian chairs, a fireplace that had to be six feet tall, and…
Her.
The hanging-room girl.
Recognition forced the breath from my lungs.
In the candle-lit room, she was even more beautiful than before. Her eyes weren’t the emerald green of before, but a light, golden-brown – almost yellow. Her skin was so smooth it looked unreal. When my eyes fell to her lips, I thought for sure I would pass out. The shape of her lips reminded me of a Shakespeare sonnet.
“
Those lips that loves own hand did make.”
The girls giggled again. I had voiced the quote. The heat of embarrassment flushed my cheeks.
“
That’s Shakespeare,” Babbette said with a smile. “We know him well.”
It finally dawned on me that she had an accent – some form of British, it seemed, but with an odd lilt.
The second girl stood in polar opposition to Babbette. She was a waif with a raven-black pixie haircut and a puckish grin on her lips. Her eyes were the same light-golden yellow as Babbette’s. She was dressed in all black, down to the same style of black Chuck Taylors I had on my feet
.
On the toes of her shoes was written (one word per shoe):
Among You.
The girl caught me looking at her feet and shot a hand toward me.
“
My name is Timely. I’m Babbette’s bestie.”
I took Timely’s hand in mine. The flesh was slightly chilled – just enough to notice.
“
It’s nice to meet you,” I said as we shook.
“
We don’t get to meet many…”
Babbette jabbed an elbow into Timely’s ribs.
“
…boys after dark in the house.” Timely finished with a nod.
Babbette stepped over to one of the chairs and motioned for me to sit. As I walked to the chair, a fire flashed with a roar in the fireplace. I assumed it was little more than leftover trickery from the haunt. No matter the source or cause of the fire, I sat. Once we were all seated, Babette smiled at me and spoke.