Night Stalks The Mansion: A True Story Of One Family's Ghostly Adventure (19 page)

"Ohl" I should have known that there was a brutal ending to such a horrible story of rape, murder and lynching.
"What happened to her, Enoch? She must have nearly gone
crazy."

"Not wild crazy," he replied thoughtfully. "Just quiet
crazy. She went 'round like nuthin' happened after the
funeral. I heard her hummin' when she trimmed the roses.
It was just when she looked at you with them eyes that you
felt funny. All the time she acted like she just heard a big
noise an' wondered if to run. All the time you kept thinkin'
maybe she'd scream-but she nevah did."

I thought that Enoch had done very well in describing
a woman under unbearable tension. He went on soberly. "She spent more'n more time in the liberry. One day she
didn't get herself dressed at all ... just had on a fancy night
gown and a robe and slippers with no backs to 'em. She had
tea in the liberry and then when I took out the tray she reminded me to keep the room dusted good.

"'Always keep it dusted and shining, Enoch,' she said to
me. 'Lisa loved this room ... she read for hours in here.'

"I was sorta upset 'cause I'd worked hard in there that
very mornin' but she didn't seem to know it. I took the tea
things out and washed up the cup. I 'member puttin' the
cream back and the sugar. Funny I think of them things
now.

"Go on, Enoch."

"After I left the liberry, she just climbed the stairs to the
top floor, Boss. I don't know where she got the rope. She
hung herself out of that big window in front."

He pointed toward the house with a shaky finger.

"You can't see that window from here, Enoch," I said
faintly.

"I can see it from anywhere," he replied stonily. "She
just hung there . . . movin' from side to side, real slow. I
„
saw er.

Enoch's story was nearly over. He sat, a huddled heap of
misery. "I ain't done what she said. I ain't nevah dusted
the liberry. I been scared to meet her, Boss. Them eyes ...
they strike me dead!"

I reached over and put my hand on his. "Thanks for telling me, Enoch," I said gently. "I knew that something violent had happened here. Now I know who to pray for. Our
lady still walks the halls but she won't hurt anyone except
herself. She can't forget yet-and neither can the coachman. Aren't you afraid of him, too?"

"'Course I is ... but not so much. I never seen him later.
I just heard that he didn't fight none. When he seen the
rope, he wanted 'em to do it."

"Well, you just pray that God will help them both. There's
nothing else you can do. It was a long time ago."

He bowed his head. "God rest their souls," he said. Then,
as if the words startled him, he looked around at me. "Funny,
Boss. I been a good Christian and I know my Bible. How
come I nevah thought to pray for them souls before?"

"Because you've spent all your time in the Old Testament, Enoch. You know it well, but I've never heard you
quote Jesus and he gave us a new idea of God. He preached
a loving Father that could understand and forgive. He told
us about the law of love. We are to forgive our enemies and
those who have done evil -and to pray for them, too."

He thought this over doubtfully.

"And God rest your soul, Enoch. You don't have to carry
this burden any longer by yourself. You can give it up. Give
up your hate and your fear and your grief. Give it to God.
And ask him to take care of your memories, too.

"I guess you're right," he said with a deep, shuddering
sigh

I rose to my feet. "Better take the day off, Enoch. Get
yourself a bottle if you want to. Try and forget. Go preach
a sermon down in the orchard."

He looked at me, startled.

"Oh, I've heard you preach Enoch. You are a mighty fine
preacher - a mighty fine preacher, indeed."

He got up slowly and looked for a long time at the maple
tree. Then he spoke huskily. "Thank you, Boss."

I watched him amble away with his rolling, lopsided gait,
and smiled wryly. It occured to me that I had prescribed
two antidotes for Enoch's condition -prayer and gin. Most
churches would consider them to be quite contradictory.
But I felt the need for both antidotes, myself.

I walked slowly up to the house and it seemed that I was following other heavy footsteps up the graveled path - purposeful steps, driven by an evil impulse that could not be
withstood. I jerked myself back to the present just in time
to keep from walking around to the front porch. I swerved
sharply to the kitchen door.

Inside there were dishes in the sink awaiting Enoch's
attention. On an impulse I put on Dorothy's apron, much
too small for me, and started cleaning up.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Dorothy stood behind me with laughter in her eyes while
Michael straddled one hip. He was wiggling in protest at
being taken on one of his frequent trips to the bathroom
for clean clothes and a face-washing.

"Where's Enoch?" she questioned. "I saw you talking to
him down there."

"Enoch isn't feeling too well today. I told him to take
some time off and rest up." I didn't mention the bottle that
1'd also suggested.

She was immediately concerned. "What's the matter with
him, Harold?"

"Just old age, hon. He says he's getting too old to care
any more.

I only spoke the truth. Dorothy's eyes softened. "Poor
Enoch," she said. "He's been such a Godsend to me. I hope
he takes all the time he needs. But you needn't do the
dishes. I'll take care of the kitchen."

"Not this morning, you don't. I don't go to the office until
afternoon."

"Since when?" she demanded.

I grinned at her. "Since right now. Take care of your
son. I'll straighten up herel"

It proved easier to keep my promise to Enoch than I had
anticipated. I didn't find myself bursting to spread his news.
I would watch Dorothy's face, soft with love, as she buttoned up Janet's dresses and tied a gay bow in the smoothly brushed hair. I listened to her laughter when she and her
young daughter shared an amusing secret. I saw her kneel
at Janet's bed while the child said her prayers and reached
up her arms for a hug and a goodnight kiss.

How wise old Enoch had been, I thought more than once.
It was much better that she did not know.

Enoch's final and reluctant disclosures spurred me to action.
I checked the calendar. Our lease had less than three months
to run. The last month was already paid for and I could
forfeit the free month's rent covered by the initial deposit
if I so desired - and I so desiredl If I could now find another,
suitable, house to rent, I knew I could afford to forfeit the
money and terminate the lease on the mansion. I knew only
one thing: I wanted to be out of that house!

Although moving would entail a great amount of work
and six weeks or so wasn't giving me too much time to find
other quarters, I got busy. I was by now firmly entrenched
in my new position. I also had contacts with many more
people. In addition to the realtors, I enlisted the help of my
office staff and business associates in Philadelphia.

"I want a suitable home," I informed them. "But not in the area of Wynne, Darby, Lansdowne, Ridley Park, Chesteror any town near them!"

"Ye Gods"! one of the secretaries laughed. "What you really
mean is that you want a place out of Philadelphia, but in an
opposite direction from where you are now!"

"That's it," I agreed.

My luck seemed to be changing. In a few weeks I found
an attractive colonial home in the Valley Forge area, some
thirty miles west of Philadelphia. It was another old home,
to be sure, but not nearly as old as the mansion and it was
equally well constructed. I drove Dorothy over to look at it
and she immediately approved. It didn't have a new and
sparkling kitchen, but it was sturdy, clean, and in excellent
condition. We could do any needed repairs when we were
settled in. I signed a lease immediately, but this one I read
carefully!

By now our circumstances were a little different, too. The
family seemed to be shrinking. Almost without warning Hal
had gone into the Army and Bob, not to be outdone, was
being trained as a Navy pilot.

"This is a nice house and plenty big enough now that the
boys are away," Dorothy assured me contentedly. "It will be so
nice to feel cozy in a house for a change."

"It will, indeed," I agreed wholeheartedly. "We can now start
packing a few things at a time. We'll store the boxes in the
basement or take them over to the new place in the station
wagon. And we'll also take everything in the wagon that we
don't want to trust to a moving van."

The rolling hills were green and beautiful and the
homes in the area attractive. Even the battlefields and
former encampments, now a national monument, were
peaceful. We toured it one afternoon and it was hard to visualize the violence and anguish that had once characterized the area. I was reminded of some lines in a poem
by James Russell Lowell:

The atmosphere surrounding the new home was going to
be quite a contrast to that of the mansion.

Enoch was tired. He had saved some money, I was sure,
and I felt he was looking forward to retiring when we moved
away. But I also knew he would serve us faithfully as long
as we needed him. When we took on the added chores of
sorting and packing the things we needed, and discarding
those we did not want, Enoch continued to be invaluable
to us. We gave him many items that he said he could use.
It was a surprise, therefore, when he didn't show up for
work one morning.

I opened the kitchen door, but there was no Enoch. We
waited for him to arrive to prepare breakfast, but no Enoch.
Finally Dorothy came down to scramble eggs and slice ham.
I hoped that Enoch wasn't ill, and I fully expected him to
be on the job when I got home from work.

"Enoch didn't show up all day," Dorothy greeted me.
"Don't you think you had better check on him while I finish
getting dinner? He must be ill."

I went down to Enoch's tackroom and found everything
in order. No one else was living in the barn just then. Enoch's companions, the prisoners, had long since completed their
work-release program. Everything was quiet. There was no
one to ask about Enoch. Butch had been sleeping outside
the closed door of the tackroom, his massive head on his
paws, but he woke and thumped his tail in greeting. Enoch
used to leave Butch on guard when he was away and Butch
was faithfully at his post. There was no sign of his master.
If Enoch had been stricken, it had happened somewhere
away from home. I took Butch back to the house and fed
him a good meal. Then he trotted back toward the barn.
He was waiting for Enoch, too.

When Enoch still hadn't appeared by the next morning,
I resolved to start a search for him as soon as I got home that
night. I was going to have to be out of town for several days
and I didn't like to leave Dorothy in the uncertain situation
of not knowing when Enoch would be returning to help out
with the chores.

That night, after finding that Enoch was still missing, I
drove down the road to call on Willie Mae. There was the
chance that he had been taken ill while calling on her and
that she would be taking care of him in the servants' quarters at the imposing residence where she lived. It was unlike
Enoch not to get word to us but Willie Mae might have
promised to do so and had forgotten.

I sat in the car and looked at the house, remembering
the first time I had driven Enoch down to see his girl friend.
I, too, went to the back door.

Willie Mae listened impassively when I told her that Enoch
hadn't shown up for work for two days and that I was worried
about him. Then she gave a toss of her head.

"Lawdy, Mr. Cameron! Didn't you know that Enoch was
goin' to Atlantic City?"

I was stunned. "I certainly didn't know it! He never mentioned it to me. He didn't even wait for payday."

"Oh, he never tells folks when he goes off like this," she
said airily.

"You mean he's done it before?" I was still incredulous.

"Lots of times. You don't know Enoch so well, do you,
Mr. Cameron-even if you are his boss. Sometimes he's
gone for weeks at a time. He just gets an itchy foot and
takes off."

I was still amazed. "You aren't worried?" I demanded.

"Who, me?" She giggled in a high register that was particularly irritating. "Enoch can take care of hisself. He'll
be back one of these mornings. He'll be over for flapjacks
and molasses. Don't you worry none 'bout Enoch." She half
turned away. "I'm right busy, Mr. Cameron. I've got my
own work to do now."

"I'm sorry to have bothered you," I said stiffly. "If you
hear from Enoch, will you phone me?"

"That I will," she promised unconcernedly. "Might get a
postcard any day. He always sends me one from wherever
he's at-sooner or later, that is."