Authors: Thomas Cater
I gave my glabrous pate a rub and my head a shake. “No,
but I am, believe it or not, looking forward to it.”
“The mansion was once surrounded by coal company
houses,” he said. “The closest now is about a mile away. Those still standing
are barely habitable. I tried for years to collect rents for the estate, but
not anymore. It never amounted to much when you could get it, not even enough
to pay the taxes. Before Elinore died, she turned the rental houses over to the
people living there. Squatters moved into the vacancies and have been there
ever since. In any other location in the county, the house and real estate
would fetch about $150,000. But in Elanville, I can’t give it away.”
“You mean it’s not worth what I paid for it?”
“It’s not the house,” he
blurted out
, “
it’s
the
location, and the possibility that on rare occasions people have been injured
out there.”
I tried to coax
empathy
from his eyes, but they would not relent.
“You may think I’m foolish, but it’s true. I could
have sold that place a dozen times, if it were somewhere else. How often do you
get a chance to buy a house and 26 acres of land for $30,000?”
“Not often,” I added.
“I’d buy it myself if I thought for a moment there was
a possibility of occupying it someday.”
I could not believe a location, or rumors of errant
spirits, could prevent a realtor from investing in a potentially viable piece
of income-producing property.
It suddenly occurred to me that I could be falling for
a reverse sales pitch. I began to suspect the property was worth far less than
the price, and its only value was the story that went with it.
“Have you been inside?” I asked.
“I told you,” he replied. “No one has been in there
since Elinore died.”
“What about the furniture?” I asked, as if I had a
right to expect it to be intact, and if it was not, it was a convenient item to
negotiate.
“It’s there.” He said.
“The house is furnished?” I asked, surprised.
“With dozens of antiques,” he replied.
“And no one has tried to steal them?”
“That would account for one fatality,” he said, “a
drifter who did odd jobs. His body was found draped over the wall surrounding
the house.”
“What happened?” I asked, stunned.
He shook his head. “I can’t explain it. There were no open
wounds, but not a drop of blood
was
found
.”
“That’s very strange,” I said. “Next you’re going to
tell me aliens are mutilating local cattle and sheep.”
“Where’d you hear that?” He said.
“Never mind: are there any more bed time stories?”
“An electrician died while installing electricity in
the house. There was an expression on his face, so I've been told, as if he'd witnessed
something dreadful. It was so frightening the family had his coffin sealed.”
“He could have been electrocuted, or died of a heart
attack?”
“You could say that, but …”
“But, what?”
He avoided further discussion and moved on to another
story. “A primary school teacher gathering wild flowers had an attack of some
kind. Students saw her thrashing on the ground. Whatever it was that possessed
her ….”
‘Possessed?’ It was a curious word coming from the
mouth of a realtor. “It sounds like an epileptic fit; or maybe she stepped on a
nest of fire ants. They can do that kind of mischief. A few thousand ant-size shots
of formic acid and you’re thrashing so violently you could break something.”
He shrugged. “One way or another, something got into her
the way things get into anyone who lingers near that house.”
“Tell me more,” I challenged.
“A hiker fell from the wall and hit his head. A companion
said he ‘bled out’ and his face turned white. It looked like a mask of a skull;
the kind primitive people wear to scare off demons.”
“I know all about primitive masks,” I interrupted. “I
have acquired several from Africa, Sri Lanka, Indonesia, Cambodia and Northwest
tribal Indian masks. In fact I’m an expert on spirit masks.”
He was not interested in hearing about my collection
or qualifications.
“A witness said his blood appeared to vanish into the
wall. She went for help, but when she returned, it was too late.”
“Too late?” I asked. “You mean he recovered?”
“No, he was gone. All that remained were soiled clothes
and bones. It took several men to drag her away.”
“Drag ‘her’ away? What happened to him?”
He shook his head and shrugged. “She was eventually
committed to the State Asylum for the Insane; the name it was called when it
happened. Now it’s the Vandalia State Hospital.”
“And where is that?” I asked.
“Just two or three miles down the road.”
“Could she have imagined the whole thing?” I asked.
Virgil lifted his eyes. A lunatic, electrocution and a
fire-ant victim, I began to suspect the Ryder mansion would soon prove to be
the most dilapidated piece of junk real estate in the county, and I would
probably end up owning it because of my complete lack of business acumen.
“So when did these events occur?” I asked.
Within the last fifty years.”
‘Fifty years? You got anything more recent and relevant?”
Virgil took a deep breath: “A local college student
spent
a night in
the house a few years ago, a fraternity initiation. Police found a climbing
rope tangled in the branches of a tree. Most people break bones falling out of
trees not climbing into them. Some said he jumped from the roof and landed in
the tree, a distance of thirty feet.”
“So what did he say?” I asked.
“He didn’t talk about it.”
“That’s convenient. Were there incriminating circumstances?”
I asked.
“His blood alcohol level was high and he carried
climbing gear.”
I grimaced. The stories, I decided, were too absurd.
They sounded as if they were from a supermarket tabloid.
“Did the local paper report on the stories?”
“Not all of them,” Virgil said, “just the ones occurring
around Halloween.”
His hapless grin faltered. “There are those around who
can tell you their personal stories. Their mishaps did not cause bodily harm,
but they ended up badly shaken.
“A reporter from a national tabloid once wrote a story
about the house. She called it the ‘Hell House of Upshyre County.’”
“Is that another Halloween story?”
Virgil nodded. The smoke was beginning to clear. I
could see the headlines, read the handwriting on the wall. It was what every
Appalachian community needed: a legend, a house, and a psychotic spook, all of
which could add up to a few tourist dollars and an All Hallow’s Eve festival.
“Why hasn’t some smart promoter started conducting
tours?” I said.
Virgil groaned. He was thoroughly disappointed with
my disregard for local history.
“There are those who look for conspiracy in
everything. I hope you are not that cynical, Mr. Case. The Ryder house is not
the best setting for a skeptic.”
My convictions were strong and my beliefs ran deep. I
was not about to abandon them for Appalachian folk or fairy tales. I did not
believe in ghosts, archetypes or spirits: collective unconscious, maybe. I
would not allow a local legend to disturb my psychic equilibrium. I could not
however rule out the possibility that forces were at work on anyone who unconsciously
participated in this unwitting form of mass hysteria. There was even the possibility
that some demented drifter might be lurking in the area, waylaying strangers
and trying to keep others away from the house until he could…what, find the
family jewels?
“Please, call me Charl
es
,” I pleaded, glancing at my
watch. “If you can spare the time, I would like to see the house this
afternoon.”
His gaze was direct and made me wonder how much I had
a right to expect from a sales agent acting on behalf of the local courts. He
was most likely deciding whether I was able to accept full responsibility for
the debt and my actions.
”We can look,” he said, “but I won’t go in. I’ll wait
on the road.”
“When can we get started?”
“I’ll call my wife and let her know I’m going to be
late.”
“For dinner?” I asked, making a second observation of the
time.
“Let’s hope it’s not a funeral,” he replied.
I am so easily compromised, I decided, and getting
more so as I ‘glom’ my way through the mysteries of middle age and all of its
attendant fears.
Chapter Three
I waited while Virgil telephoned his wife. I kept an
eye open for signs that might reveal
ulterior
motives
, but the mask of credibility
remained firmly affixed. Nothing dubious occurred to make me suspect I was the
victim of a ruse. If he were testing the limits of convention, trying to quicken
his own life of quiet desperation with a role-playing game, he was too intent
an actor to be so far off Broadway.
“
Violet, it’s
me. I’m going to be late. Yeah, the guy who bought the Ryder property is here. He
wants to see the house. Don’t worry. I said I’d show him from the road. I’m not
going near that house. I don’t blame him for being skeptical; if he doesn’t
come out, I’ll let the sheriff take care of it.”
I was not eavesdropping. He spoke in a voice loud
enough to convince me that confidentiality was not an issue. He did occasionally
speak in whispers or shield his mouth with a hand. He also watched me from the
corners of his eyes. He wanted to see if I’d pilfered more tissue or paper
clips. I’d straighten a paper clip and was scouring the
interior
of my
left ear. I was smiling graciously and nodding at every opportunity, pretending
that public ear maintenance was socially acceptable in the Potomac Basin.
After years of compiling photos in foreign lands that competed
for national awards, I found myself engaged in a competition for credibility
with an Appalachian realtor. It was not a comforting thought.
“I’ll be home in an hour,” he said. “If I’m not back
in two, call Gus.”
I flapped my arms and shuffled my feet to enrich the
flow of blood destined for my extremities. They were getting less and less of
the stuff these days. I snapped my red suspenders for effect and yawned.
“Who’s Gus?” I asked, “Your friendly neighborhood mortician?”
“Gus Tyrebiter, the local sheriff, or ‘Walking Short,’
for a more apt description,” he replied.
Now that the secrets surrounding the Ryder mansion were
exposed, confidence instilled greater enthusiasm in Virgil for the manly art of
salesmanship. He rifled through a desk drawer and retrieved a steel ring of
brass and silver keys; some were nearly as large as those featured in the old
Bela Lugosi movies were.
“I’ve had a contract on that house for years,” he said.
“I didn’t think I’d ever find a buyer. In fact, I’ve spent more time talking
people out of buying it. Still you might be just what the old place needs, some
new blood.”
He removed a single key from the ring and stuck it in
his pocket.
“You think we’ll need that?” I asked.
“What?” He said, standing deathly still.
“The key, do you think we’ll need the key?”
Mobility returned to his troubled eyes. “You want to
go in, don’t you?”
“After all those grim tales, I thought I might have to
wrestle you for a key.”
The uncertainty came back in his eyes. He held the key
between the fingers of one hand.
“I’m on autopilot right now; I’m not thinking about
what I’m doing, just doing it. The first rule of sales deportment is never
leave the office without a key to the property. You’d be surprised how easily a
buyer’s mind can change; every thoughtless gesture is an omen of some kind.”
He held the key at eye level. “I hope you don’t use
it. I think it might be dangerous to enter the property.”
I had acquired the habit of hooking my hands into the
front of my suspendered trousers, which resulted in justifiably curious looks,
one of which I was receiving from Virgil now.
“Bring it,” I said, in a cavalier way. “I really must
see the inside.”
He appeared perturbed and a little weary of my
indifference. He did not look as if he intended to do handsprings over my
decision. He stuffed the key into his pocket.
“We’d better get started,” he said. “We still have a few
hours of daylight left. Let’s not be too adventurous on our first visit.”
He unlocked a second drawer, removed a .45
semi-automatic pearl-handled pistol and crammed it in his pocket. He continued
to rummage through the bottom drawer until he liberated a machete from rolls of
electrical tape, hand tools, used batteries and miscellaneous hardware.