Authors: Kealan Patrick Burke
"
I said don't." Her palms were so moist she had to struggle to keep her grip on the handle. Newman stopped in the shaft of light slanting through the window, his eyes opaque, his expression somber.
"
You're one of the Defenseless, Gina. You can't turn on us."
And with that he rushed forward, head low, fists aimed at her chest. She screamed, her finger reflexively jerking on the trigger and she was suddenly deaf in a very bright world.
* * *
Dear Kyle:
Although I know you
'll never read this, you'll understand why I had to write it. Newman is dead. You do understand why I had to kill him, don't you? Of course you do. You always understood me. And daddy's dead now too. Funnily enough, I don't feel any different. I don't feel as if the nightmare is over or that the darkness had been scrubbed from my insides. I feel exactly the same. All that death for nothing.
Did he kill you too, Kyle? I never did get a chance to ask him and I wish I knew. Then maybe I
'd be glad I killed him.
There
's one bullet left in here and to be honest, it looks awful tempting; like a train ticket to your station. I have some time to think about whether or not I'm ready take that journey.
My head hurts. Newman must have knocked me unconscious but I couldn
't have been out for long because I don't hear any sirens.
There is just a single word in my head now, repeating itself over and over again in whispers that aren
't mine. Whispers that say: "Judgment." Who are they? Was Newman telling the truth? Did you really see a god? I'm so confused.
I have the gun loaded and close to me, just in case. I
'm so scared, Kyle. I can almost believe Newman's story about people like us being invisible when I shut my eyes.
I
'm starting to fade.
I love you,
Gina
This story is my homage to Shirley Jackson's "The Haunting of Hill House" and Richard Matheson's "Hell House," and indeed references to both appear in the tale. It should be noted that all the haunted houses/buildings mentioned (apart from Belasco House, which is Matheson's) are real.
He's here.
I
'm certain of it, but what good is certainty when you're surrounded by cynics?
Imbeciles! All the money they put into those machines, sensors, traps and telekinetic contraptions and he slipped in as easily as the night breeze, right under their noses, right into the house.
Right into my room.
No alarms have gone off. I know Richard will be furious when he finds out, but it
's his own fault. I'm his wife, a woman and not a scientist or a clairvoyant like that preposterous old hag Mayfield, so he was lax with the machinery in my room, compelled to save the most expensive and significant devices for the places where the ghosts were expected. I can bet you Mayfield's room is wired like New York while I bask in the draft and the scrutiny of the very thing they're trying to catch. As if you could ever predict the haunt of a ghost. Idiots.
I can hardly wait to see the expression on Richard
's face when I tell him of my encounter. He'll grit his teeth and give me that look like he suspects I summoned the ghost myself just to spite him and his efforts. And who knows, maybe I did? As sad as it is to admit it, I'm sure the ghost of Margus Kane has more life in death than my husband has now. He's certainly better looking. I see him now, reaching toward the candles by the dresser, making them flicker in the wind from his fingertips. He's little more than a flickering thing himself. How thrilling. A real-life ghost in my room! Not that it's the first time I've seen one mind you, but it is certainly the first time I've had one all to myself. And certainly the first time I've felt this excited and…dare I say it?…aroused by the presence of one.
I
'll continue to scratch out these words in my diary while the revenant takes a seat on the footstool across from me, on the far side of the room, next to the dresser Richard has told me not to use.
It's a Louis XV Provincial Armoire, not a bloody storage closet
, he tells me.
This is not our house. This is our laboratory for the next six weeks and everything in here is worth far more than we could ever afford to replace should you have one of your 'accidents'."
Yes, he's a real prince among men, but right now neither my husband nor his studies matter. The ghost has come to see me. No. Perhaps 'see' isn't the right word, because he hasn't really come to
see
me, he has come to
watch
me. I can tell by the slight cock of his head, angled just so he can take in my slight form as I scribble away in my precious little book and pretend I'm not watching him back. But of course it would be impossible for me not to watch him, for while he may be nothing but a lingering memory committed to dust and forever beyond the reach of my hopes and fantasies, he remains a thing of beauty, a sentient thing with bound desires that make his presence so necessary. He is a ghost of frustration, a chained box of passions and tonight I am to be his audience as he tells me his secrets without ever saying a word.
The stroke of my pen grows light as I struggle to focus on the thoughts that just a moment before came so freely. My excitement is rising and in the corner of my eye the revenant shifts in his seat. I am struck with the sudden urge to cry out to my husband, to force him to watch as the object of his only desire confronts me, but I know I won
't. That would be giving him something, allowing him to be part of this unique moment in which the line between life and death is forgotten, momentarily erased and anything may happen.
Margus Kane stands and the candle flames bow in reverence. The gray cast of his somewhat translucent skin is offset by the shadows filling the room. The light ceases an inch before his eyes, chastened by an unfamiliar darkness.
Margus Kane, lover, warrior, prince and murderer, moves toward my bed. I am surprised to see he steps rather lightly across the room. I expected to see him glide, or perhaps vanish only to appear next to me, a cool hand laid upon mine. He approaches and my breath quickens, hot against my lips. He is dressed is some kind of uniform but as my knowledge of Washington's history is woefully inept, I will leave the deductions to Richard, who can glean the specifics from my blissful account in the morning. All I do know is that the portraits of Kane in my husband's tome of this state's malevolent leaders are wrong. This being before me, though no doubt altered by the events that led to his passing, and of course the passing itself, looks nothing like the illustrated antagonist in
Washington Infamy: The Evergreen State's Black History
. He looks like a boy trapped in an older man's body, his frame skeletal, and he carries himself as though wounded, one arm cradling the other. He is a pitiful sight and I feel unthreatened by his presence. I am, however, curious as to what he intends to do with me. The manner in which he sidles up to my bed suggests he has secrets to divulge or a tale of woe to impart, secrets of which he is deeply ashamed.
I gather myself into a sitting position, my back pressed firmly against the headboard. This bed is a four-poster Irish something-or-other, according to Richard. Basically another antique I am marring with my presence, but now it is my sanctuary, the warmth protecting me from the chill air that rolls in waves from the approaching specter. For the first time I detect the faint smell of roses and a surge of excitement rises in my chest as Kane
's ghost comes to a halt mere inches from my trembling body. He is close enough to touch but I continue to write, my handwriting spiky like an EKG reading. I am alternating feverish glances from the revenant to my diary, eager to commit this spectacular occurrence to the page, spurred by the knowledge that in all his years buried in parapsychology, my husband has never come this close to a ghost. Despite all the expensive media-hyped field trips to the world's most haunted sites--The Borley Rectory, Belasco House, The Tower of London, The Whaley House, Raynham Hall, even Amityville-- Richard has left disappointed each time, consoled only by sheets of readouts and blurry photographs, the kind that could only excite a man who believes in something but has yet to see it with his own eyes.
Like I am seeing it now.
The temperature of the room has dropped, almost without my noticing and now it matches the cold that flows from Margus Kane. He is standing motionless next to me, staring with those endlessly hollow eyes, still cradling his arm and now the anticipation sends my breath clouding out through my teeth in shuddered hisses.
I am warmed inside by a terrible gloating.
Poor Richard, selfish and oblivious to anything alive and it is his long suffering wife who ends up with front row seats to a most magical event, the kind of transpiration that could make his career and see the fulfillment of all his dreams. An obedient wife would summon him but I am, and always have been, far from obedient. Instead, he may have this journal and know what his ignorance has led him to miss.
Kane is leaning closer now and his breath is rushing against my cheek. I
'm sure I can feel the skin freezing there, but oh God how amazing this all is! While my husband, that spoiled brat Charley Jackson, and that charlatan Mayfield sleep soundly in their beds, dreaming of being woken by some phenomenon to give credence to their endless speculations, here I am with the most notorious ghost of them all close enough to touch! I'm not sure my heart can take it! But it must and I must be the one who sees, the one who reports back from the frontlines…
Kane whispers into my ear and his breath is so foul I unthinkingly turn away and as a result, lose his words to the otherworldly breeze that is now sweeping around the foot of the bed. Shadows stretch across the walls as invisible mouths extinguish all but one of the three candles. It is truly a sinister mood that permeates the room now and I shiver in delight. Though I have to squint to see what I am writing in this new gloom, I am committed to getting this all down. These words represent a reality I am wary of losing should I immerse myself too deep in this incredible situation. The words are my anchor. Besides, even in the periphery of my vision, Kane
's countenance has grown a little too frightening for me to behold, thanks to the gloom and the sudden resurgence in memory of old childhood fears. And then he whispers again and the pen jolts in my hand at the sudden burst of cold against my ear. But…I'm uncertain now. Was it truly the cold or the content of that singular whisper that made me start, that allowed a sliver of inner ice to slide over my heart and forced the hair on the nape of my delicate neck to stand to attention? It was not the fact that this revenant knew my name for as Richard has said many times--we cannot know their capabilities until we fully know
them
.
It suddenly strikes me as peculiar--though it should have occurred to me well before this moment--that perhaps my latent friend
's intentions are not as benevolent as my excitement has led me to believe. It is an unwelcome shadow of doubt that cloaks itself over me, competing with Kane's projected darkness to thrill me in an altogether new and unpleasant way. My writing has slowed now, a direct contrast to my frantic breathing and the room seems suddenly still. The ghost has whispered my name. No threat should be inferred by this alone and only a squeamish, nervous woman would. No. It was the whisper itself. The subdued voice that powered the word. The voice was familiar and now the ghost is moving again although he hasn't left his place by the bed.
Shifting.
I am recalling the argument that led me to this room, to this forbidden bed down the hall from the room I am supposed to share with Richard. An 'approved' room. It was an exchange in low growled tones in which only my own weaknesses were aired lest the pretentious Mayfield or the spoiled financier of this excursion, Jackson, should overhear. The argument was brief and as always, ended with a promise of silence for many days to come. But it is Richard's last words that are flowing from my brain and down to my fingers now, ready to be written for posterity so that those who read this will finally know a truth I should have seen coming and call me a fool for missing it.
There is another forbidden room. One Mayfield warned us was positively dripping with negative energy. The playroom--a lavish miniature theater, big enough to seat an audience of one hundred, although for decades it has only held dust. Behind the stage, hung on small brass hooks along one wall are costumes. There are magician
's garbs, animal skins…and army uniforms from various eras of violence. It was here Richard stalked off to when I told him I wanted a divorce, that I wanted nothing more to do with his fraudulent quests. It was here he sought solace rather than face my threats.
The theater. According to Mayfield the most dangerous room in the house.
Costumes.
Oh Richard, no…
And now I'm afraid to look up because the exaggerated slowness of his movements only draws out the dread and whatever power this house has lent him, he is using it to thicken the darkness. Dear Lord, I am lost! He is changing, dropping the charade and leaning close once more and there is nothing wrong with his arm. It is reaching and Dear Diary, Dear
God
, he has fooled me for the last time but if he loves me, if he ever loved me there might still be hope that I can reach beyond the--