Night Stalks The Mansion: A True Story Of One Family's Ghostly Adventure (20 page)

"I didn't think he could write," I said.

She hesitated and something flickered in her eyes. "He
can write my name, Mr. Cameron. The mails, they do the
rest."

I still lingered. "You don't think that he might have had
a little too much to drink-and have gotten into trouble?"

Her dark eyes narrowed, but she replied in a casual voice.
"Not Enoch. He's been 'round. Much longer than you have
-or me, neither. He can take care of hisself." With that
she closed the door.

Fuming to myself, I drove back to the house to talk the
visit over with Dorothy.

"That's strange," she observed. "I would have thought
that Enoch hadn't traveled over ten miles or so from home
in his entire life."

"Well . . . maybe he goes on these sprees and that gets
him started. People do funny things under the influence of
alcohol."

"Maybe," she agreed, but her voice was doubtful.

"What's bothering you?"

"Nothing I can put my finger on," she confessed reluctantly. "It's just that I thought I really knew Enoch. It isn't
like him to just disappear like this. He knew I was depending on him. And to go to Atlantic City of all placesl What's
in Atlantic City for a man like Enoch?"

I shook my head. "As I said, people do odd things, sometimes. We'll just play it by ear and see what happens."

"There isn't much else that we can do," she replied with
a little frown.

I was unusually busy just then. My few days out of town
stretched to two weeks with a flying visit to Canada. My only
contact with the family was by phone. When I returned and
there was still no word from Enoch, I decided to do something else about trying to locate him. I crossed Willie Mae
off my list. I didn't trust her. If she had really cared for
Enoch, she would have shown a little more concern. I went
to the police station and told them my problem. The lieutenant at the desk consulted his blotter.

"A black? he asked absently, thumbing through some
records.

"Yes. Very old. He's quite small and thin."

He came to an entry and read it through silently. Then
he looked up at me. "Would he have been an old man wearing blue pants and a white shirt?"

"That's the one. Was he picked up for something? Is he
in jail?"

"He was picked up for being dead," came the somber
answer.

I felt as though he'd hit me in the stomach. "Dead? When?
Where? Was he hit by a car?"

"Don't know for sure how long he'd been dead. But it was
several days when he was found by a couple of boys who
were hunting woodchucks. His head was bashed in by a
two-by-four. Hit from the back. Death must have been
instantaneous. He didn't know what happened."

"Where was he found?"

"In one of those steep gulleys back of an old barn. Past
the crossroads."

So it had been fairly close to home. "Why wasn't I
notified?"

"We didn't know about your connection with him. He
had no identification and no relatives, evidently. No one
claimed the body. He was buried in Potter's Field."

"No one came forward at all?"

"Not that we have any record of. Somebody might have
come out of curiosity. No relatives or friends, though." He
closed the book. "Sorry, Mr. Cameron, but we just didn't
have anything to go on. As I say, we didn't know he was
working for you."

"Hadn't anyone reported him missing?"

"Not until now." The case was closed as far as the lieutenant was concerned and I got the unspoken message.
What was one old black man to him? Especially one with
no family and no identification? Yes, the case was most
definitely closed.

There was no point in asking if they had found any money
on him. Even if he had been carrying around some of his
hard-earned wages, whoever had struck him down must
have gone through the pockets. I got to my feet and thanked
him for his trouble. Then I drove back home and broke the
bad news to Dorothy. She turned very white and then started
to cry.

"I'm sorry," she whispered at last. "So very sorry. You say
he was hit in the back of the head. That means he was
murdered?"

"Evidently. His head was bashed in, according to the
police. They have closed the case. They had nothing to go
on then-even less by now."

"But why?" she cried passionately. "Why? He had no
money on him -at least I don't think he did. He wasn't in
the habit of carrying money around -and it wasn't payday
yet. Why would anyone kill a dear old man like Enoch? He
didn't deserve an end like this!"

I was busy with my own black thoughts. "He did have an
insurance policy," I reminded her grimly.

She stared in dismay. "Ohl Then you think ..."

"I don't know what I think," I retorted angrily. "But
maybe Enoch was taking too long to just die a natural death.
I'm going to have another talk with Willie Mae."

There was no masking her unfriendliness at this second
visit and I didn't try to camouflage my own feelings, either.
I didn't like the woman and I didn't care who knew it.

"You lied about Enoch!" I accused. "You knew he didn't
go to Atlantic City. Why did you lie? If you'd told me the
truth, I'd have gone to the police then. Maybe we could
have found him in time to save his life!"

"He was already dead by then," she said with a shrug.
"What good it do?"

"Did you know he was dead then?" I demanded.

"'Course not."

"But you do now," I accused her hotly.

"I hear things," she retorted coldly. "Besides you just told
me, yourself."

As I stood there looking at her in disgust, she burst out
angrily, "I didn't think it was any business of white folks,
anyhow!"

"Enoch was my business. I liked him. He worked for me.
Evidently I liked him a lot more than you did," I remarked
savagely.

Her lips tightened, but she said nothing. I thought about mentioning the insurance policies, but decided not to. I
couldn't prove that there was an insurance policy. I only
had Enoch's word for it and, while I knew Enoch had never
lied to me, I couldn't prove that the policy was still in effect,
either. I didn't even know the name of the insurance company nor of the investigator. It was a cinch I wasn't going
to get any information out of Willie Mae. By this time there
were other hostile black faces behind her in the kitchen. I
turned on my heel and went back to the car.

The next morning, however, I went back to the police
and told them about the insurance policy. They, of course,
asked me the name of the company. I couldn't give it to
them and I couldn't prove that the premiums had been paid
to keep it in effect. I gave them Willie Mae's name, but the
lieutenant only shook his head again and this time it was a
decided shake. An investigation would be a lot of trouble -
and for what?

So, Enoch's story was over.

Now that we knew what had actually happened to our old
servant, the place seemed even more depressing and empty.
Both Dorothy and I prayed that he would be taken care of
now. I went down to the clearing where he had preached so
many of his sermons and looked up at the trees. It seemed
ironic that the danger he had sensed in the area all his life
had finally caught up with him just when he seemed to have
come to terms with it. I felt rebellious and then I remembered the advice I had given him such a short time ago
about giving the anger and hate and fear to God.

"I'm sorry, Enoch," I said aloud. "Sorry this had to
happen. But you have nothing to fear any longer. Remember the Bible . . . remember your mother . . . remember
your faith. Turn to God wherever you are and follow the light. You'll be all right with Him and I know your mother
is close by."

When I turned back to the house I told myself that I, too,
was going to have to hold on to my own faith and get rid
of my feelings of resentment and fury.

Dorothy was sensitive to my moods. She didn't ask where
I had been; perhaps she knew. She laid a comforting hand
on my arm.

"It was a senseless crime, Harold. But we didn't know.
We couldn't have done anything about it. He must have
been killed that last night after work."

"He said this place wasn't anything but trouble," I replied
grimly. "He feared the mansion all his life, but couldn't get
away. He had no place to go. He had no friends. There was
no one to turn to but us."

"Don't torture yourself," she pleaded. "It would have
been too late even if we had found him that first morning
he didn't show up."

"I sometimes wonder . . ." I broke off.

"I know what you wonder," she said swiftly. "You are
wondering if the mansion is somehow to blame -if his death
was the result of an attack by the unseen forces he was so
afraid of.

I nodded.

"I don't believe that," she said positively. "I think what
happened to Enoch originated right here on this physical
plane in some greedy, malicious mind and that it would
have happened regardless of the mansion ... regardless of
our experiences here."

I sighed. "That's what I really want to think," I admitted.
"But as we have felt so often, there is a dark cloud over this
place. I'll be glad to get away-and we're going to speed
things up, too."

The next three weeks dragged on in spite of the fact that we
were busy trying to do all the work ourselves. We still heard
footsteps, we still saw knobs turning, we still had visits in
the night. But we ignored them all. We were used to them
by now. And we would soon be leaving them all behind. I
took time off from the office, when I could, to lend a hand.
Moving day came at last. Bob wasn't able to get home on
leave, but Hal made it back for the weekend. The family
was almost together.

The furniture was finally on its way to Valley Forge by
midafternoon. We left a few hours later. Hal was driving
the station wagon, which was loaded to the top. Janet and
Carrol were with him in the front seat. Dorothy and I were
to follow in the family car with Michael asleep in the back.
He had missed his nap in the confusion of loading and pack ing and was now sleeping on a pile of extra blankets and
pillows, shored up by packing boxes.

I made a final check of the house. As usual, I saw that
all the doors were triple-locked from the inside, including
the door from the kitchen to the basement. I addressed and
stamped a letter to Brooks, the real estate agent, and enclosed all the keys to the house after I locked the front door
from the outside. I intended to drop the letter into the first
mailbox we passed going through town.

After we turned out of the driveway, I knew I had one
final job to do. I drove to the bend in the road just on the
other side of the creek from where we had first glimpsed
the mansion. Then I parked the car and turned off the
motor.

Dorothy looked a little surprised, but accepted the pause.
Together we gazed back at the imposing old residence. It
was nearly the same time of day as it had been the first time
we saw the mansion. I stared at the building . . . at the
chimneys that thrust themselves up into the darkening sky.
I looked long and hard at a certain window on the third
floor - a window that I had refrained from looking up at
during the past few weeks. Then I put my arm around
Dorothy's shoulders.

"Sorry to be leaving?" I asked.

She gave a violent shake of her head. "Any woman is
happy where her family is, but aside from that, I don't think
I was ever really happy in that house. I don't know why
exactly. Nothing too bad ever happened to us-except
losing Enoch. We were never hurt. We had some good
times. But there was something else. You said once that it
was a dark cloud and that's the best way I can describe it,
too. It was almost a feeling of doom. I can't explain it exactly
but you know what I mean."

"Yes, I know," I replied quietly. "I have something to
tell you, honey. I've known it for a little while but I prom ised Enoch I wouldn't tell you until we were out of the place
for good. Then, I want you to forget it. But it will explain
the cloud."'

There, in the gathering twilight, I told her the tragic
and heartbreaking story of the mansion. I told her of the
fox hunt and the dance that was canceled. I told her of the
rape, murder, and suicide. I told of our lady who climbed
the stairs to a room on the third floor one day on a grim
errand of her own; of the coachman who walked purposefully to the front door and waited for a pretty young girl to
answer the knocker. And I told her about the strangled
little body being recovered from the creek down past the
old house only a few hundred yards from where we were
sitting.

As I talked, I could feel her stiffen with shock. Then I
felt the trembling start beneath my hand. I wasn't surprised
when she wept.

"H-how t-terrible," she faltered at last. "Oh, God, how
terrible! A little girl . . . still a little girl when it happened.
That poor motherl How could she stand it?"

"She didn't," I reminded her gently. "She couldn't."

I gave her plenty of time to compose herself and finally
she wiped her eyes with a tissue she had drawn from her
purse with trembling fingers.

"Oh, Harold," she moaned. "I've admired that maple
and I was sure she did, too. I've climbed those same stairs
she climbed that awful day( I've been in her library and
dusted some of the same old books. I've sat in her summerhouse and admired the roses, too. It's as if these years had
telescoped somehow and I could reach out and touch her.
She is so real to me, so poignantly real("

I patted her shoulder. "I know. She's real to me, too."
I thought of those last days of strain that Enoch had described
so vividly - of those eyes of which he was so terrified - of the
agony that had motivated her last action of protest.

"But it's different with me," Dorothy cried. "She's my
sister because I'm a woman, too; a woman with children
I love and pray for. What hurt her then hurts me now.
Time seems to be unimportant. I've never really appreciated
this sense of unity with all humanity before. It's as if we
suffer and rejoice and rise and fall together!"