Haunted

SUMMARY: A husband and wife ghost-hunter team
move to an old house in the middle of nowhere, taking
along their juvenile-delinquent nephew... who never
expects to meet a lonely little ghost, or for that ghost
to become very special to him...

KEY:

words in *...* are for emphasis
words in /.../ are the ghost's thoughts

HAUNTED

CHAPTER ONE


Drifting.

Always drifting...

...and always lonely.

The people were there again, cleaning the house.
Opening the windows, removing the dust sheets,
their movements quick and nervous.

Someone was coming?

He drifted through the airy, sunlit hall, wide soft
eyes watching hungrily as furniture and pictures
were uncovered. One treasure after another was
revealed until only a tall rectangle was left. It stood
against the wall almost in the middle of the hallway
and the three women from the cleaning service
gathered in front of it.

“Do we have to?” One whined.

“It’s the last thing.” The heavyset woman who
spoke seemed to be in charge. She put her hands
on her ample hips and glared at the other two.
“Just take the sheet off, dust it, and let’s get out
of here.” As bossy as she was, she made no
move to do it herself. Finally, the third woman,
a thin gray woman with a grim face, moved forward.
She took hold of the dustcover and closed her eyes.

“You be good.” She whispered pleadingly, and
pulled it off.

They all stared for a moment at the plain wooden
grandfather clock, their eyes frightened - then the
boss woman said, “Quick!” and they attacked it
with cloths and furniture polish.

He waited.

Finally, they stepped back and gave sighs of relief,
smiling at each other.

“See?” The boss said patronizingly. “And you
two were so scared!” She’d been just as frightened
as the others and he knew it.

He couldn’t let *that* pass!

Darting forward, a cool draft of air moving with him,
he slid astral hands through the glass door of the clock,
grasped the pendulum, and set it to gentle motion.

It was *so* funny, how fast they ran!

He laughed.

They ran faster.


*


He drifted.

In front of the grandfather clock, sad soft eyes
watching the motion of the pendulum.

Back and forth, back and forth...

“I always liked you.” He whispered softly, though
even a shout would have been inaudible. The only
sound people ever heard from him was his laughter.
He hadn’t figured that out yet.

He hadn’t figured out a lot of things.

Sad.

It had been so long...

Oh, well, no use dwelling on it.

If there was one thing he’d learned in all these years,
it was that there was little use for worry or nervousness
- eventually everything changed, good or bad.

Left, right, left, right...

“You’re very soothing.” He remarked. He didn’t
remember when he started talking to the furniture,
especially the clock, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t
like he had to worry about his sanity.

And, gods, he was lonely....

But someone was coming!

He wondered if they had rented the house or bought
it?

Wondered how long they’d stay?

Wondered how much meaningless time he’d spent
watching his clock when he saw people coming
through the front door.


*


Roberta Seals had been in the Real Estate business
for eleven years and she thought she was *over*
being worried about a sale. After she’d gotten the
first few under her belt she’d been gung-ho, becoming
the top rep for her agency. But this house - ugh - this
house was her nemesis. She’d sold it three times
already and after the last it had sat on the books for
four years. Not even a *rental*. It was such an
embarrassment, but she couldn’t in good conscience
hide the house’s history. Even if she did, some nosy
local would be sure and tell the prospective buyers
all about it and send them running. Sunshine Real
Estate had finally just chalked it up as a white elephant,
a total loss.

She shot a look at her prospective customers and her
friendly face turned puzzled. They had been such a
surprise - called up out of nowhere and specifically
*asked* to see the old mausoleum. Who knew *why*,
she hadn’t really dared ask. But as soon as they got out
of the car she’d figured it out, when they took out some
weird equipment she’d seen on TV. On shows about
hauntings, to be exact. She was nobody’s fool.

The careful history she’d planned to tell them went out
the window, and she started dredging up every ghost
story she could remember.

The man stayed by the car for a moment, fiddling with
a small black box, while the woman approached Roberta.
She was tall, thin, with a studious face and grey-streaked
brown hair twisted up in a bun. Her clothes were neat
and sensible, fairly expensive. She had a small notebook
in her hand and got right to the point.

“Does the house have a name?”

“Why, yes.” Roberta replied, startled. “It used to.
Everyone calls it the Dark House, but it was Tripper’s
Point once. Hiram Tripper built it in 1882.”

The woman - Roberta had only been informed that she
was Ms. Blevins - turned to look up at the house. “Yes,
quite nice for that period. How long has it supposedly
been haunted?”

“Oh, well - I don’t know that. My grandmother told
me stories about it when I was little, so it’s been a very
long time. Grace Tripper still lived in it then.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Well, she passed away about twenty years ago.”

“And how many owners has the house had since?”

Roberta squirmed a little, then realized this might actually
help with this client. “Seventeen.”

The woman was scribbling rapidly in the notebook. “And
all of them frightened away?”

“Yes.” She was beginning to see a gleam behind the
woman’s dark-rimmed glasses and her seller’s blood
was stirring. “Yes, they all had some horror story to tell.”

“Are the stories similar?”

“Some are. Some are just, well, silly, but some people
told almost the same things.”

“What sort of things?” The man had joined them now
and was listening just as intently.

“Oh, things moving on their own. Funny sounds in the
night. Hearing laughter when no one else was there.
Cold air in the middle of summer. There’s no air-conditioning,
you know.” The last bit was spoken warningly but neither
paid it any attention.

“Cold spots!” The man said excitedly, and the woman
nodded and made another note. He turned to Roberta.
“Can we go in now?” He was nearly bouncing up and
down with impatience.

Ms. Blevins soothed him. “Now, Peter." She turned back
to Roberta. "Tell us, who is supposed to be doing the
haunting?”

“Oh, no one’s sure about that. There have been a lot of
people who died in that house. Old Miss Grace - that’s
what she was called - said it was a young girl, but her father
said it was Hiram. You know, the builder. No one knows.”

The woman nodded and closed her notebook, tucking it into
a pocket and taking out a small handheld tape recorder. “Ms.
Seals, there are a few things we’ll need you to do. I can tell
you recognized our equipment.” She waited for confirmation
and Roberta nodded. “Good. Now, when I motion to you,
be sure to be very quiet. I’ll be recording for EVP. Do you
know what that is?”

Roberta shook her head and she continued, her voice
taking on a slightly lecturing tone. “EVP is Electronic
Voice Phenomena - sounds or voices recorded on
magnetic tape which are only heard upon playback.
They’re usually recorded in a range from 0 – 300 Hz.
Human speech is generally within 500-2000 Hz, and
has never been recorded below 300 Hz...” Roberta’s
eyes were already glazing over and Peter poked his
companion.

“Sally. You’re lecturing.” She shot him an annoyed
look but stopped giving Roberta facts.

“Anyway, we just need you to be quiet during the
question-answer sessions. I’ll ask a question and
then pause, and we listen to the playback later to
see if we got anything.” Roberta nodded, trying to
look discerning but she still had no real clue what
the woman was talking about. Her mind only
processed ‘see signal, shut up.’

“I can handle that. Anything else?”

“Not really. Just tell us any stories about specific
places or objects. And fill in with anything more
that you know. Please don’t be offended if we
interrupt you. If we get a reading, we need to
discuss and note it immediately.”

‘Even her *casual* speech is like a textbook.” Roberta
thought. She liked Peter better - he wore comfortable
casual clothes, his greying brown hair was messy, and he
was grinning at Sally behind her back. He caught Roberta’s
look and gave her a conspirative wink. She nearly giggled.
Sally didn’t notice.

“Shall we go inside now?” Roberta tried again, and the
clients nodded. They approached the front door and
Roberta really just wanted to go back to the car. She
always felt like the big, elegantly carved oak door was
looming over her like the portal to doom. The overgrown
ivy and rundown look of the place didn’t help, but she’d
decided not to hire the landscaper this time.

“Certainly has atmosphere.” Peter joked and she smiled
at him as she unlocked the door.

“Yes. We used to come here at Halloween when I was a
child, and dare each other to go in. When no one was living
here, of course.”

“Did you go in?”

“Oh, no, it was just daring. The place was always locked
up tight. We knew it, and it made it much easier to take the
dare. We got to come back and say there was no way in.
Such a relief!” She laughed and swung the doors open wide.
The wide entryway and hall revealed were brightly sunlit,
dust motes floating in the warm afternoon air. A graceful
staircase curved up to the side and more rooms opened
off to the left and right. Scattered antique furniture and
old paintings made it look a little *too* perfect, like a movie
set. Peter looked around and lifted an eyebrow.

“Miss Grace left everything like it had always been, and
her will made it a stipulation of any sale. Besides...” Her
voice went a little quieter. “The stories say whenever
anyone makes changes, the... er... ghost gets upset.”

Peter and Sally exchanged looks. “Sounds more intelligent
than residual.” He remarked, and she nodded. Catching
Roberta’s confused gaze, he added. “Types of haunting.”
Sally opened her mouth to explain further and the real
estate agent desperately cut her off.

“The clock!”

“What?” They both spoke at the same time.

“The grandfather clock.” She flushed a little and pointed
to the gently-ticking timepiece standing against the wall.
“*Everyone* who lived here told stories about the clock.
Even the ladies who came in to clean a few days ago
said something happened with it.”

“What happens?” Out came the notebook.

“Well... it starts by itself. If you stop it, when you look
away it starts again. The cleaning ladies said they *saw*
it start but that’s just silly...”

/Silly, is it?/

He was drifting on the stairs, watching them with those
wide eyes. Funny looking people, with funny things in
their hands. And the lady who sold the house. He’d
never played with her, she brought *people* back... but
he wasn’t sure he could let that last remark go.

He’d wait... for now.

Peter walked over to the clock and studied it, holding his
little black box - some sort of meter, Roberta noted - in
front of it. He glanced back over his shoulder at her.
“May I?”

She wasn’t sure what he wanted but nodded anyway.
*Anything* to sell this house, and the clock wasn’t worth
much. He reach out and carefully opened the glass door,
stopping the pendulum.

/Hey!/

He drifted down the stairs, leaving the cold behind - he
didn’t want to scare these people away, but he couldn’t
let them stop his clock! No drafts, no laughter, no *fun*
but he wanted his clock going!

“Hello, is anyone here?”

The voice stopped him before he reached his goal, and he
stared at Sally, who was holding the recorder out with a
hopeful look on her face.

/What is *that* thing? It looks like a music player... why
is it so small?/ He drifted closer.

“Don’t be afraid to talk to us.”

/Huh?/ He wondered if she was trying to calm the other
lady, but she just looked puzzled and vaguely uneasy.
Besides, she’d already been talking to them.

/Gods, does she mean *me*?!/

The man was swinging his little box around and hissed
suddenly. “Sally - Sally, I’m getting a reading. A good
one!” She dropped the hand holding the recorder and
hurried over to peer at the box. The real estate lady
leaned closer, too, and all three backs were to the clock.

/Perfect./

He moved past them and stroked the pendulum lovingly
before giving it a little push.

Tick, tock, tick, tock...

Gasps.

He nearly giggled - the real estate lady looked like she
wanted to run - that would be *so* hilarious in those
high-heeled shoes - but the other two just looked excited.

Well... *that* was new...

He started drifting closer and Peter chortled. “It’s
increasing!”

He froze... backed away.

“Decreasing! Sally!” Up came the tape recorder.

“Is someone there? Please don’t leave. What is
your name?” She waited.

“What was the little girl’s name supposed to be?
Did... Miss Grace ever say?” Roberta nodded.

“She thought it was her great-aunt Lucy, who
drowned in the fountain in the rear gardens. When
she was seven.” Roberta thought that was sad, but
Sally just went on about her business.

“Are you Lucy?” Pause. “It’s all right to tell us, Lucy.
How old are you?”

/Lucy!/ He nearly snorted. Like *she* would have
stayed here, drifting. She was a baby!

“The reading’s not changing. Try the other name.”
Peter hissed.

“Are you Hiram Tripper?”

/What?!/ The shock of that name sent cold through
him - he wasn’t quick enough to stop it. The temperature
dropped dramatically, leaving them puffing little clouds
with their breath.

“Oh, shit, the IR is in the car!” Peter yelped. Roberta was
quivering, and Sally was jabbering into the recorder about
‘cold spots’ and ‘manifestations.’ The odd words were
enough to calm him down. The temperature went back up
and Roberta sighed with relief. The others looked crestfallen.
Before they could say anything, another voice interrupted.

“You have got to be kidding.”

All three people and one ghost jerked around to see a tall,
slim form outlined by the light in the doorway. Roberta stared.
Peter grinned. Sally scowled.

He was fascinated.

The boy was glowering as he walked further into the entrance.
Wide-legged black jeans were so long they nearly puddled
around his feet, which were encased in black sneakers. A
torn black t-shirt with a skull and crossbones emblazoned
on it showed off a pale, toned midriff and a silver pierced navel.
Bracelets made of braided leather, silver or chains covered his
arms almost to his elbows, while rings and finger armor hid his
hands. A twisted silver armband circled one leanly muscled
upper arm, shown off by the fact that the sleeves were ripped
off the t-shirt. His hair was long and blond and streaked with
black and red. His bottom lip had a silver stud beneath it. A
matching one was on the right side of his nose. He had more
earrings than any *woman* Roberta had ever seen, and wore
several necklaces. One was a silver choker with an odd design.
Then there was the eyebrow ring - and the eyeliner - and...

Roberta kept staring.

/He’s... beautiful.../

“Eric.” Sally’s voice was painfully polite. “I thought you were
asleep.”

“Can only sleep in a back seat for so long. Don’t tell me *this*
pile of crap is the place you guys are so excited about?”

/Pile of crap?!/

Peter was nodding. “It’s over a hundred years old, kid, and
in great shape for its age. *And* it seems to be haunted. By
the builder, Hiram Tripper.”

/Don’t say his name!/ He managed to control the cold that
wanted to escape again.

“Uh huh.” The tone was scoffing. “It’s in the freaking
middle of *nowhere.*”

“C’mon, Eric. Town’s not that far away. I’m sure the
Internet reaches out here?” Peter looked at Roberta,
who nodded and took over. Sale at stake, after all.
Who cared about being scared or really strange
teenagers compared to that?

“Yes - Lakeside is only a ten minute walk away. Faster
with a bicycle, of course. There’s a mall on the other side
of town, and we have a very nice new movie theater. The
house is set up for Internet access. There are lots of
teenagers in town, I’m sure they’ll be... thrilled... to meet
you.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Like I believe that. C’mon, Uncle
Pete, you don’t really want this place, do you?”

Peter replied by turning to the clock. “Watch this, kiddo.
If it happens again...” He stopped the pendulum.

They waited.

He almost didn’t cooperate. That *brat* insulted his
house! But...

/I don’t want them to leave... not yet.../

He drifted over and stood next to the clock. They were
all watching and he waited.

“Maybe we should move away?” Peter whispered, and
everyone but the boy backed toward the stairs. “There
now - no one’s close.” Peter said to the air, and Eric
rolled his eyes.

Well!

Normally he’d wait until they weren’t looking - the
cleaning ladies had been an exception - but Blondie
was getting on his nerves. Beautiful is as beautiful
does, after all.

He started the clock.