Ghosts: A Collection of Wraiths and Shadows

The Old Stone Church

Have you ever entered a building and been able to feel the ghosts of the past in its very bones, as if its walls and roof, windows and floors were still passing through the centuries it has touched and was whispering them to you? Heidi felt that way when she entered the Steinkirch on that sunny mid-winter’s afternoon. As she looked down the side aisles, it was as if every footstep from the church’s past echoed in her ears and she could imagine Medieval construction workers, centuries of worshipers and clergy making their way over the stone floor, past the shrines and walls lined with frescos, confessionals, effigies and candles. It was the oddest feeling she’d ever had, as if time itself had been compressed for a moment so that the entire span of the church’s life played out before her in an instant.

Past the side isle, to the center of the nave she walked as if a trance had taken hold of her. People rushed past, barely noticed, like the shadows of the leaves in a mid summer’s forest that play amongst the bracken and duff below. Looking up at the gothic vault, it varied from carved limestone to a tangle of wooden scaffolding; from open sky back into the tracery of stone as if it too were confused as to what century it was. Up the center isle to the prayer rail, past rows of pews, past the devout and the merely curious, parishioners and tourists alike, she felt the need to confess, to beg forgiveness to place before God an entreaty for a future life filled with love.

Yes, for a life filled with the love that had always eluded her. Perhaps here and now, on this odd day, God would listen. She’d no longer spend her life enduring the virtual solitude that drifting through empty days and nights into one meaningless relationship or another entailed. Maybe, just maybe, a single prayer would create a happenstance that resulted in a life-long relationship with that one person, that ‘true love’ she’d always wished for.

As she walked slowly over the stonework, she raised her eyes to the magnificent stained glass sidelights and the altar scene of Judgment Day that drew tourists, scholars and artists to the Steinkirch like so many flies to honey. Beside her, others moved forward and back, dressed in contemporary clothes as well as garments from ages past. These latter, she barely noticed, since festivals, carnivals and masques were common in the city. Revelers seldom changed out of costume to view the old church. Yet, for some odd reason they seemed to take notice of her. One old woman dressed as a hag, stopped her, reached for her hand, patted it gently; then continued on her way without saying a word. A roguish man, costumed as an eighteenth century prince, leered at her and quipped, You too, m’Freulein. You too. In and out of reality, perception and clarity, this host of strangers passed as she made her way to the rail where she could kneel, pray and rest.

Bowing her head, she crossed herself, then gazed up at the high altar. All around, the vague ghosts of visitors through the centuries filtered past, each looking intently at her as she once again bowed her head and completed her penance and prayer for love. Hoping for some sign, beyond that implied by all of the strange occurrences surrounding her, she looked up and noticed a small girl, who appeared to be less than five or six years of age, ascending from a crypt below the altar. Step by step, she slowly climbed the stairway that led down to the tombs. On her head was a small tiara of green stones, like emeralds, surrounding a single sapphire, from which a brilliant light showed. Conversely, the girl herself was in a simple white frock that draped from her shoulders to her ankles and was tied about here waist with a braided gold cord.

The girl approached Heidi slowly, her face clouded with concern and confusion. Hello, Heidi said informally, who are you?

My name is Sophia VonHohenburg. the girl said softly. Heidi noticed how white the plump little hands were and well manicured their nails. Looking down, she couldn’t help notice that the feet were bare, which made her wonder.

Mine’s Heidi. she smiled back at the girl.

You’re nineteen years old. the little girl observed, That’s fifteen more years than I.

So, you’re four. Heidi guessed correctly.

To live almost five times longer; to have felt the warmth of the sun for a thousand more days or be chilled by the rain during downpour; to just once more run under the lindens in autumn and dodge between their falling leaves…. To have been able to go to school or learn to ride a horse. To live and love. Oh! Sophia started to sob, To have had all that you had… even for a moment. She raised a hand to her eye as if to dry it, but no tears came, which seemed to upset her even more.

"Do you mean you want what I have?" Heidi wondered.

The little girl stopped sobbing and looked at the young woman with a cold, knowing, expression, "I lived only four years, but have existed for almost two centuries. In that time, I’ve watched the procession of life move past me and felt the unjust sting of death that took me at such a young age. I’ve listened to the self-justifying pleas of unrepentant sinners twisted and spun into mock supplications for forgiveness… in the full knowledge that these pious people had every intent of repeating these self-same sins…

To have lived, even for nineteen years and learned what it was to be a princess, to have met my betrothed and perhaps even borne a child… I’d have given anything; and you’ve tossed it away like it was a curse.

I was never a princess… Heidi observed.

Uncaring, ignorant girl! Sophie scolded, "You had life and you discarded it as you would a worn out scarf that you once loved, just because it no longer kept you warm."

Are you a ghost? Heidi asked.

Yes, and so are you! You slow witted, dull minded, stupid creature! Sophie raised her arm and pointed to the crowd that had gathered at the entrance to the church, Look!

Turning around, Heidi saw the knot of people, then turned back to the little ghost, but she was nowhere to be seen. As a matter of fact, all of the specters that had circulated around her were gone and the entire church was empty except for the crowd Sophie had pointed out.

Slowly, the young woman left the prayer rail and felt herself drawn to the people. She no longer felt as if she was walking, but floated over the floor until she sifted her way through the silent figures standing around something that was lain on the floor. She looked at the broken body that she knew all too well, laid out on a scrap of board. As she examined the blood trickling from its ears and nose, Heidi remembered. She remembered the climb up the belfry steps, the slight hesitation at the high iron rail on the edge of the tower’s platform and the cold rush of air in her ears and hair as she fell. Now, the sightless eyes stared from partially closed lids, never to see another dawn or look up at the stars. Hands that would never hold another laid limp and bruised at the body’s side and feet that would no longer run lay shoeless upon the bare stone. As she looked on, emptiness overcame her and she felt as if her mind and soul were shrinking, shriveling into some dead thing from which she longed to escape.

She turned away and left the crowd of living people, only to be confronted by another of unworldly origins, from which dozens of specters gazed at her. There was the old hag and a woman with a dead child. Others looked at her with expressions that seemed empty and haunted, pale and hungry. The young prince who’d leered at her earlier stepped forward and placed a hand to his lace collar. Pulling it down slightly, he revealed a deep gash he’d inflicted with a knife many years earlier when his lover left him for a life of fidelity with her husband. He extended his free hand to Heidi and said…

Come girl. Walk with us.

The Girl on the Stair

As the clock rang through the hours to eleven, Vaughn trimmed his candle as he left the study. Darkness closed behind him like a gloved hand as he moved through the house to the upstairs bedroom. The hour was late and his home cooled quickly in the winter’s long night. Fires had been banked in the kitchen, sitting room and bedrooms, but the remainder of the house became chill enough for his breath to show in thin white billows. For a moment, he recalled that as a child, he enjoyed creating the illusion of being a steam engine as he puffed to bed. Now, as a lawyer, he was too dignified for such childish musings.

It was with these thoughts of responsibility, maturity and confidence that he turned toward the darkened stair leading to the rooms on the second floor. His wife of thirty years had retired early and he was glad that the bed would be warm when he crawled in after changing into his night shirt. Upon reaching the stairs, he stopped short.

There, huddled on the bottom step, next to the balustrade was a small girl of about six years. She was bundled in worn boot-like shoes that laced to her ankle, gray woolen socks that were spotted with holes in spite of several others being darned incongruously with red thread. Her dress was clean but tattered and her coat thread bare. Clutching a red kerchief to her neck, around which a hand knit scarf was pulled, she shivered pitifully and her breath smoked. This last was more like that of a cold horse in front of a taxi, rather than a fun loving steam engine.

Vaughn bent to look at the face, which was pale and white, pinched by the cold and teased into a red tip at the end of her nose. Here eyes were set into deep, dark sockets that contrasted with her pale flesh and one finger, protruding from her mitten, wiped her nose. She snuffled and closed her eyes.

Why are you sitting there? Vaughn asked, assuming that the girl had stolen silently through the front door to get warm, although he’d heard nobody enter.

The girl made no answer, but drew the kerchief tighter around her head. As he reached out a hand to touch her, she vanished.

Stepping back, Vaughn paused a moment to consider what had happened. To his surprise, he wasn’t filled with dread or a numbing fear. Certainly, his hair had stood on end as a chill ran down his spine, but that was when he first discovered the apparition huddled at the base of the stair. Now, he was more curious than anything and this started his brain trying to reconcile what he’d seen with the reality he knew. He made his way to the stair and stopped on each tread as he considered his argument.

Who or what was that? Step. "What was she, it, doing here? Step. Was that a ghost or some other form of apparition? Step. Hanna and I built this house, it can’t be haunted. Step. We never lost a child and none have died here. Step. Our children’s children are all healthy." Step. In the end, he completed his climb to the second floor, concluding that this was indeed an apparition, a once in a lifetime occurrence that couldn’t be explained. As such, it wasn’t worth worrying about and he dismissed it from his mind.

About midnight, he was awakened by the wind as it rattled the windows and blew down the chimneys. Snow rapped at the siding and clawed its way through chinks and under doors. Vaughn nudged his wife awake and they began a familiar drill. Gathering worn throw rugs, they tossed them at the bottom of each outside door, where fingers of snow were already spreading from the porches into the house. Now, with the small, but vulnerable, gaps blocked, they re-banked the fires, made sure everything else was secure and returned to bed. Vaughn looked at the empty spot at the base of the stair and shivered. The memory was still fresh enough to make him uncomfortable.

As a precaution he checked the front and back porches one more time, to make sure the apparition hadn’t suddenly decided to occupy a step on either, before joining Hanna in bed. The simple excuse of ‘just checking’ was accepted without question. Before sleep could once again take them, the cooling floor cracked like a series of Louisville Sluggers connecting with home run balls. I hate it when it does that. Hanna mumbled, then drifted into a sound sleep.

Six thirty found the couple up at the ringing of their alarm clock. The air was chill and the morning hadn’t yet won over from night. Hanna lit a lamp beside the bed, pulled on a warm pair of socks and slid her feet into her house shoes. She then shuffled off to the stairs to start the stove and warm water from coffee. On mornings like this, she missed her house keeper, but there was no reason to keep her on since the children left. As it was, there was too little for a domestic to do; even in such a large house.

Vaughn climbed into his long johns and slippers, then went to the window, the lower half of which was covered with frost. He could hear the wind driving snow against the glass like a million grains of sand. It tipped and tapped at the glass and it was nearly impossible for him to rub the ice and frost away for a look outside. The gray light of morning was stolen away by the storm and only the dim light of a street lamp feebly piercing the dark from around the corner of their neighbor’s house offered any light. In it, he could see billow after billow of snow as it swirled, raced and finally landed in drifts and valleys that nudged against the homes, over the frozen lawns and into the street. He wondered if the street cars would be running.

Quite a storm out there. He reported factually as he entered the kitchen.

Drift as high as the back door’s window. his wife answered in her slight Norwegian accent.

Her husband nodded, then lit one of the gas lamps on the wall, A boy’ll be around no doubt wanting two bits to shovel it. he offered. Vaugn’s accent hinted of Massachusetts and Harvard, but he’d worked to adopt a Midwestern dialect so he’d fit in better with his clients and in court. Still, the soft ‘r’s and ‘a’s remained.

Yah, his wife returned, I’ve money in th’ tin.

The fire places aren’t heating enough, I’m going down to light the furnace. He replied, setting the flue before heading to the small basement.

This was typical of their conversations over breakfast and dinner. The couple didn’t discuss Vaughn’s case load, nor did he inquire regarding the management of the house. Both trusted the other to excel in his or her own domain. On occasion, relatives would present themselves as topics for conversation, but in spite of the urge to mention his encounter with the apparition the previous night, he did not.

It was Vaughn’s habit to walk to the streetcar stop on the corner at precisely 8:30 each morning so he could catch the car five minutes later and this snowy day was no exception. So it was, at 8:25 sharp, dressed in his suit with a watch fob and chain hanging stylishly from his vest pocket, he paused by the front door where Hannah waited to help gird him for the trip into the city. Pulling on overboots, a thick wool coat, which came down to below his knees, he wrapped soft a Kashmir scarf over the back of his head, then tucked it into his coat. After topping himself with his usual winter fedora, warm fur lined leather gloves finished off his ensemble. Picking up an old leather brief case, he draped it with a bit of old slicker to keep it dry, kissed his wife goodbye then opened the front door.

A gust of bitter wind invaded the hall causing Hanna wrapped her arms about her. Kicking the snow away from the sill, Vaughn stepped out and lowered his head, leaning into the biting wind. Snow swirled about him as he carefully felt his way down the snow covered steps and onto the front walk. At the sidewalk, he was but a gray ghost to his wife, watching him from the sidelight of the door. He turned and disappeared down the walk.

Pushing through the deepening drifts, Vaughn could feel the snow through his coat and trousers pressing against his shins and thighs as he moved along and he found he had to lift his briefcase to keep it free. Going was slow and he was afraid he’d miss the streetcar by the time he made the corner, but his worry proved baseless.

When he arrived at the intersection, he found the car angled toward the curb, with the driver and a pair of passengers shoveling in vain to free it. What happened? Vaughn asked after making his way to the small group.

Snow lifted th’ car off th’ tracks. the driver puffed between shovels full, She jumped off, then kept going ‘til the pole left th’ wire. Now she‘s stuck. Stuck fast.

Is this the 8:35? Vaughn asked.

8:05. The driver answered, Bit behind today. Then the man laughed bitterly and shook his head.

I’m afraid I’m beyond the age for shoveling. Vaughn observed, But is there anything I can do?

Can’y’git a call through? the driver requested, We have these passengers that need to be picked up and taken back ‘til th’ tracks’re cleared.

Vaughn nodded, then made his way back home. When he reached his front walk, he stopped short. There, atop the snow were small footprints leading up to the porch. Bending closer to look while shielding the stinging snow from his face, he noticed that the prints were made by tiny shoes with low heels. It dawned on him that they were the same size as the boot shoes on the apparition of the little girl. He followed the prints which disappeared as suddenly as they’d appeared. About three feet from the bottom step of the wide porch, they stopped.

Hanna opened the door, Vaughn! she yelled, although her voice was almost carried away by the wind, Come in before you catch your death!

He trudged up the steps, then shook the snow from his clothes before entering. None the less, piles of snow showered from is hat, boots, scarf and shoulders as he undressed. His hair, eyebrows and mustache were frosted with snow and his face a ruddy red. I’ll get you some hot tea. his wife offered, patting him on the arm, I have to make some calls, if the lines are still open. he returned.

After calling the streetcar company and his office, he came into the kitchen. Nobody at the office yet. he observed, I don’t think anybody will be in. The street cars aren’t running.

Just as good. his wife answered, A day like this is best spent indoors.

Vaughn nodded, How did you know I was coming back? he asked.

You rang the doorbell. she answered, Why did you go back down the walk? What were you studying so carefully?

Nothing. he lied, I saw a bird and wondered what it was up to. I was looking at its footprints.

The day passed quietly in the house. In mid-afternoon, a call came from the office, telling Vaughn to stay home the next day as well. Tortured by the storm, the city wouldn’t recover until the snow stopped and nobody knew when that would be. As evening turned into night, Hanna removed herself to the bedroom ‘for a read’, while Vaughn stayed in the sitting room to go back over some briefs. At a quarter to eleven, he banked the fires, dimmed the gas lights and lit his candle for his journey to bed.

With the house darkened, he moved into the hall in the halo of his tiny flame. Shadows pressed hard to him, as if they wanted to extinguish the light and rule the night with darkness and cold. When he reached the steps, he felt a pang of disappointment when he found them empty, then felt silly for his childish expectation to see the girl again. He shook his head and placed a foot on the step.

Behind him, he heard a snuffling noise. Turning quickly, he almost extinguished his candle, as the flame dimmed to a tiny blue dot. Cupping the candle with his hand, Vaughn allowed it to recover, then lowered his hand. As he did so, its shadow dropped down the front door until the little girl was dimly lit. This time, she was huddled at the bottom of the door, clothed in the same ragged clothes, her breath smoking.

Vaughn crept over, keeping her in his stare. He was afraid to blink, lest she disappear. Crouching down before her, he noticed the light reflecting off her cheeks and forehead, glassy white spots had formed on her skin; frostbite was setting in. Reaching out to examine the frozen skin, he retracted his hand lest he cause her to evaporate again.

Who are you? he asked, putting his face level with hers and looking into empty eyes that seemed to look right through him. He backed away until he felt they were focused on him, Who are you? he asked again.

This time, her eyes locked on him and she blinked, Julia. She answered, matter of factly. The voice was soft and distant as if the creature speaking was many yards behind the ghost. For the first time, he noticed that the panels of the door could be seen dimly through her face.

Julia who? he asked.

The apparition was silent. Once again, a finger poked through a hole in the mitten and wiped her nose. She sniffed and pulled her arms tighter about herself.

Julia who? he insisted.

The girl looked at him with a confused look, Why, Julia Mertins, of course. she said, as if Vaughn should know her.

Indeed he did, John Mertins was his clerk and Julia had been his daughter. Julia, Vaughn said softly, you’re dead.

The girl almost laughed, then a haunted expression crept across her face, I live. she insisted, then disappeared.

Well, that’s absurd, Vaughn thought. He’d attended her funeral last year. A sad affair for Mertins, the joy of his remarriage so closely followed by the death of his daughter. Of course, he reasoned, a ghost would think it was still alive. The question was, why would the ghost of Julia Mertins be haunting his house? She’d never set foot in the place, had no history with it or any associations with himself or his wife. It just didn’t make any sense.

The following day, the storm continued. A gang of boys appeared on the front steps and offered to clear the walk that day and the next for four bits, or fifty cents. Vaughn and his wife enjoyed watching them, so full of life, enthusiasm and vigor as they tossed shovels full of snow into deep piles, heaped one atop the other, in miniature white mountain ranges. After they finished, Hanna went to the enclosed back porch with a tray of cookies and mugs of hot cider for the boys, which they downed in less than a minute. Cheered, paid and eager for more jobs, they waved goodbye and disappeared into the storm.

My! Hanna exclaimed, Much of their work already has an inch of snow on it!

Blowing. Vaughn observed, I think the snow has slowed, but it’s still blowing quite a bit.

They discussed how long it would take the city to dig itself out. In their day, there were no modern snow plows, snow blowers were over a half century away and streets were cleared by gangs of men and boys accompanied by horse drawn plows. Everybody knew that streetcar tracks would be cleared first, followed by a lane on either side for grocery carts and the like. Then, as time permitted, side streets, alleys and the rest of the main streets would be cleared; snow being tossed into wagons and carts to be dumped onto the river so it would be carried away when the ice melted.

The gray day wandered into an equally gray afternoon accompanied by the sifting, whirling, drifting snow. Hanna finished her read and Vaughn had combed through is briefs to such an extend that he’d almost memorized them word for word. As afternoon dimmed into evening, dinner was enjoyed and board games brought out. Chinese checkers were followed by Backgammon, Backgammon by regular checkers. At ten, Hanna excused herself and went up to bed. Vaughn made the excuse of looking at some stereopticon slides, in order to pass the next hour.

At ten forty five, he routinely dimmed the lights, banked the fires and trimmed his single candle. As shadows closed around him, he made his way slowly to the front hall. To his disappointment, every corner was empty. He checked by the door, on the stairs, in the maid’s closet. Nothing. Sitting on the bottom step where the ghost had appeared two nights earlier, he waited. Nothing.

As suddenly as it had started, the wind stopped and silence closed in upon the solitary figure sitting at the base of the stairs next to a lone candle. Vaughn listened. No winds howled under the eves, no snow tapped at the windows, all seemed at peace. Maybe the ghost was at peace as well. Picking up his candle, he stood up and stretched. Best get to bed, there’d be a lot of work at the office in the morning. As if in farewell, the wind gave the front door one last rattle, as if somebody had grabbed the handle and tried to enter.

Smiling to himself, he walked over the door to be sure it was locked, then felt his heart race when he looked out of the sidelight. There, on the front porch, sat the ghost. She was at the head of the stairs singing a song to herself, as her breath smoked and her body heaved from time to time with uncontrollable shivering that made the song waiver and words slur. This time, he found he wanted the ghost to disappear, so he rapped on the glass. When it didn’t react, he rapped again, more insistently.

The ghost stopped singing, turned its head and her eyes met his. Never before had he seen such pain in a child’s eyes, never before such longing or such need. Stiffly, the little body turned until he could see her face. The white spots had grown and the eye sockets darkened. The little finger that stuck out of the mitten was similarly white like ivory. In a faint voice, the ghost pleaded in a faint, little girl voice, Help me.

Still wanting it to be gone, Vaughn turned back the bolt, then threw open the door. The ghost sat, staring up at him. Help me. it said again.

Shod in slippers that barely protected his feet, he stepped into the snow. The bitter air froze his lungs and made him cough. Looking at the ghost, he said, Julia, you’re dead. Then reached out to touch her.

To his astonishment, the ghost not only remained, but felt solid. He poked at it, then placed a hand on its shoulder. Under the coat he could feel a human being. His eyes widened with the realization that this was a real girl. Leaning forward, he gently scooped her up and carried her into the house. He could feel her trembling from the cold and heaving as she coughed.

Closing the front door, he hurried her to one of the children’s rooms, calling for Hanna to join him. Setting her on the bed, he took off her mittens to reveal hands that more closely resembled frozen claws. Similarly, her feet were white from heel to toe and there were spots of frost bite on her knees as well.

Upon entering the room, Hanna grasped the fact that this was a foundling, a wandering waif that had randomly chosen their house as a potential haven. Looking at the girl, she realized she was in bad shape and began making up the fire to warm her. Then, she hurried to the kitchen to warm some left over soup. In forty minutes she returned with a steaming bowl, but the girl could barely eat.

Hot water bottles were arranged around the girl’s torso. Vaughn was about to massage her arms, but Hanna warned him not to. Her limbs are full of cold blood, she explained, If you massage her and dat blood floods into her body, she’ll die. We haf to warm up her body, den allow it to let the cold blood back in.

He shook his head, Only a Norwegian….

A doctor was summoned and together the trio tended the girl well past dawn. By then, she had drunken a little and her temperature was finally rising above ninety. When she was resting, Vaughn related the entire story of the apparition at the base of the stairs and the door, of the footprints in the snow and the way he’d discovered her.

Vhy! Hanna exclaimed, It’s a miracle, t’ work of the Lort!

Vaughn hadn’t quite gotten around to that possibility, but didn’t gainsay his wife or her beliefs. She beamed at him and took his hand, Wit’out His intervention, you’d have come t’ bed wit me an’ th’ girl would’ve frozen on our door step. C’n you imagine how we’d’ve felt, or how we’d’ve been treated by the community?

It was a point well taken and he marveled at the quickness of his wife’s mind. There’s just one more thing, he said dismissively, the apparition said its name was Julia.

Well, Hanna smiled, we’ll jus’ haf t’ wait an’ see, won’t we now. She patted the girl’s cold hand, then held it while she slept.

When the girl awoke for a few minutes, Vaughn asked her if she was Julia Mertins. She nodded.

But, we went t’ yer funeral. Hanna said, realizing then that Vaughn hadn‘t told her the girl‘s last name. She gave him a sharp look. He shrugged and returned a sheepish smile.

When Daddy married my stepmother, Julia said softly, she didn’t want me around, so they told me to leave, they put me on the street to live.

This was too much for any of them to believe, but as Julia told more of her story, it was impossible to escape the conclusion that she was telling the truth. Daddy had always said I was the image of Mommy. I guess that’s why my stepmother hated me so much. As she spoke, her voice became weaker and she finally drifted off to sleep.

The next day, Mertins and his wife were arrested, charged with child abandonment, and jailed. Julia, for her part, a child lost and then found, continued to sleep. Her fingers and toes had become a dark, hideous mixture of blue, red and violet; while the frozen patches of skin had turned beat red. Her face looked as if she had a deep blush or a large port wine stain; her eyes were sunken in deep, bruised sockets. It was clear that some of her fingers and toes would have to be amputated, but the doctor wanted to wait at least one more day for her to gain strength. Hanna and Vaughn stayed by the girl’s side and tended her, but she didn’t get stronger. Conversely, she seemed to slip further and further into a dream world.

In the afternoon, Julia opened her eyes and looked around, I love this room. she smiled. Hanna patted her hand and Julia looked into her eyes, I want you for my new Mommy, then, looking at Vaughn, and you for my new Daddy.

In return, the couple nodded and smiled, You may stay as long as you like. Hanna promised, You will always have a home wit us. Her husband nodded in agreement.

Thank you. Julia said, then closed her eyes. As if in deference to the girl’s sweet nature and the kindness that glowed deep within her, death was gentle with her. Soon after closing her eyes, she left Hanna and Vaughn as a living child, but still visits, still sings and will often be seen skipping through the house on warm summer days or sitting on the stair during cold winter nights. She no longer shivers, or looks solid for that matter; being rather transparent, but she always smiles and laughs.

Vaughn and Hanna learned to live with their little ghost, who only left their home when they departed this earth.

The Cave of Souls

Everybody at the college knew about the small cave hidden at the base of the mountain a day’s walk through the woods, as well as its unsavory reputation for devouring unsuspecting visitors. It was said to be an evil cave, but nobody would really say why and it remained a geological bogey man that lurked in the shadows of one’s imagination without ever coming into the light. With these vague rumors spurring them on, a foursome of adventurous young sophomores decided to make their mark on campus history by spending two nights in the cave. This wasn’t a cave of moist rock, dripping calcified water, stalactites and stalagmites. This was a dry cave the floor of which had been mined during the Civil War to provide potassium nitrate, or saltpeter, for Confederate factories to manufacture gunpowder. Aside from the remains of mining pits, ladders, log walls and other structures, the cave was rumored to be haunted. This last, though not likely, added to its unsavory reputation in that one person was known to have died exploring the cave since the 1800’s, and several others were rumored to have met their end there. Now, the young men reasoned, this could be as much because of the hazards of the remains of the mining operation as any supernatural force; which none of them believed in anyway. On the other hand, none had ever spent the night in a cave before much less explored one.

Their leader was a young man named Roger Coventry, who was the captain of the rowing team and a known adventurous soul. In his wake, pulled along by his inescapable magnetism were his trio of friends, Chuck, or Charles Miller, a civil engineering major; Jason Hasbett, who planned on going into business and making his second million by the age of twenty four. Last was a rather incongruous lad for this group, Sawyer Langley, a class clown and thespian whose rather carefree, effervescent personality was countered only by his deadly seriousness for his craft. He was determined not to be one of the thousands of theater majors who ended up off the stage or screen, out of work and living their dreams through community theater productions. No, it was he who saw the quartet through bad times, broken hearts and occasional bad grades. Unlike Chuck, who was deeply in love with Roger (who could never return his affection had he known of it), he found their leader’s outgoing personality, as well as the women who flocked about him. Neither he nor Jason were too proud to take another man’s ‘cast off’s. If you know what I mean.

The journey to the cave required driving up to an area just south of a ruin known as the Hermit’s Hut. From the Hut, a path wound through woods strewn with boulders, hoary with beards of moss, and trees claiming such ancient lineage that their boles were wider than a man’s height. Deep into the forest, the path narrowed to a mere hint of a trail, only to regain itself; wide and sure. Upward, slowly upward, then deep into a gorge cloven into the foot of the mountain, as if an ax wielded in anger by some long forgotten giant had split the stone. Onward, until the path laced helter skelter through the debris sloughed from the gorge’s sheer sides, above which enormous trees reached from either precipice to interlace their branches, the shade from which bathed the mossy rocks in damp, pale green light. The heat of the day gradually cooled as humidity laden air condensed on the stone walls and floor. At first, this natural air conditioning felt good, but soon it chilled the lightly clad men as they hiked. For nearly half a mile, the sides of the gorge gradually increased in height until the trail reached the entrance of the cave.

It was down this path the party of four trudged laden with food, a change of clothes, wet weather gear, flashlights, lanterns and other necessities for the time they’d spend in the long-forgotten cave. Low and horizontal, the cave’s entrance contrasted sharply with the vertical walls on either side. Hitching posts for draft horses and mules still stood at intervals just under the cave’s overhang and continued for some yards into the mountain and corners of the roof moved slightly as bats occasionally stretched their wings. The remains of feed and water troughs littered the opposite wall and as the men stepped into the cave its coolness turned noticeably drier as it robbed the day of light. In a short time, total darkness surrounded them and a lantern was lit to find the way. Jackets were removed from backpacks to ward of the cool that seemed to descend from the rock itself like a cold hand wrapping each of them in its grasp.

Roger, the originator of the idea to set up camp in the cave, shivered. Beside him, Chuck and Jason lifted their packs as Sawyer looked tentatively from side to side, ceiling to floor, I don’t like this, he said, pulling the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck, It’s like being in a musty refrigerator.

For a moment, the others looked at him with astonishment. After all, Sawyer was the free spirit whose blithe sense of purpose could never be altered.

Chuck burst into laughter, Finally, something that’s not a joke to the S-man! As the disheartened class clown rolled his eyes in reply.

The others patted Sawyer on the back and trudged deeper into the cave. Soon, all that could be heard were footfalls and breathing. The entrance had dimmed to a mere green speck some hundred or more yards away and the tunnel seemed to go on forever. After a while, the walls and ceiling suddenly ended as they stepped into what looked like a large chamber. The walls and ceiling were far enough away as to be almost invisible. Before them, the smooth floor looked as if it was composed of a fine, light tan sand that had been packed down by thousands of foot steps. Here and there a mound rose beside a pit, but the floor was otherwise fairly flat.

Home sweet home. Roger said softly.

Yeah, Chuck agreed, let’s take a look around and find a place to set up camp.

Maybe one with a view of the lake… Sawyer smiled in an attempt to be humorous, but the joke was lost on Jason.

There’s a lake in here? he asked with a note of astonishment.

Yes. Sawyer replied factually, With jet-ski rentals, water slides and shoulder to shoulder women in bathing suits.

Everybody laughed. Shut th’ hell up. Jason scolded with a smirk on his face.

The area wasn’t as large as it had looked at first. They figured that the chamber was somewhere close to thirty yards deep by forty wide and that the high, slightly domed ceiling couldn’t be any more than fifteen to twenty yards at its highest. Still, it was a large chamber for a cave. Near its center and off to one side, pits had been dug from just a few to about ten feet as the saltpeter was mined. Near the exit of the room were the foundations of a small office and along the wall to its left was a low sort of bench created by a row of logs, up to the tops of which trailings from digging had been shoveled and smoothed nearly flat. Along the wall in this area were a series of iron rings set into the stone. Near each ring, a slight indent went from the wall of the cave to the logs, about sixe feet long by eighteen or so inches wided.

For mules? Sawyer asked.

Slaves. Roger replied.

Well, I’m sure as hell not sleeping there! Jason said as he turned away and pointed to a corner that was as far from the shelf as possible. Let’s set up over there.

Not that it mattered, as the cave was pretty much the same throughout, but everybody agreed and soon a small single burner camp stove was set up around which packs were placed to stake out sleeping areas for the night.

It didn’t take long for somebody to discover a low archway that led deeper into the mountain, but before anybody walked through, Roger warned that he’d heard there was a bottomless pit in the cave, near the main chamber, down which an unfortunate soul had plunged around nineteen o’ two. With that pleasant thought in mind, the four decided to remain in the chamber, rather than explore the rest of the cave. However, there was one order of business that had to be done. Just outside of the room, in the long entrance tunnel, they dug a privy that wasn’t very private. Still, it was better than nothing and Roger christened it as he sang a song about a drunken sailor.

Although the cave had never seen the light of day, far above, through yards of limestone, soil and vegetation, the sun was westering and the men agreed it was time for supper. The stove was pumped up to pressurize its gas, lit and a second lantern brought out to help make pouring pre-mixed meals easier to see as they were added into a pot and heated. Soon, the cave filled with the aroma of the somewhat edible food. In addition, their evening treat of one bottle of beer each was opened. Beer was heavy to pack-in and water much more important, so two bottle each were stowed in each camper’s pack. The caps were picked up from the floor and dropped into a bag for refuse, joining the foil packets that had held the food. Small mess kits were retrieved from the packs and each prepared utensils and lightweight camp chairs in lieu of tents. Each of these last had short legs and could be arranged so that with a backpack footrest they became quite comfortable little lounge chairs.

It wasn’t a sumptuous meal by any means. However, all but Sawyer were accomplished backpack campers, so this meal was as good as any they’d had on the trail. As a matter of fact, Jason had a knack for taking pre-packaged meals and combining them into better-than-expected concoctions. For supper on that evening, he had combined rice, sauce and a packet of meat into a very passible ‘Chinese’ supper. After the day’s exertion, the beer tasted good, although a bit warm, and soon the quartet was sitting back and talking pleasantly as they ate. The shadows created by the two lanterns created a neighborhood of phantom images on the walls and had they taken time to count, there were more shadows than four men could possibly create, a trick of the cave perhaps.

Better let that first lantern rest. Roger said as they ate. For some reason, Sawyer felt sad to see the light diminished by half. It was obvious that caves were not his cup of tea. He looked around at the rock in a vain attempt to find some beauty in that subterranean room, but to his mind the walls only seemed to close in more, cool the air and make the voices of his friends sitting beside him become more distant. He counted the hours. Twenty four until tomorrow’s supper and another ten until they left. Thirty four hours. He could stand that, he thought.

After a while, talk shifted over to the subject of girls on campus and at home. Rumors were brought up about some acquaintances and either confirmed or denied by those with more knowledge about the given situation. At times, the rumors hung in the air as none of them knew if they were true or not. Sometimes, they wished they were true and at others hoped they were not. They spun tales about old flames, flings and stands with about seventy percent accuracy, but nobody cared if the stories were true or not as long as they were fun. Each camper made his beer last for three, because there were no refills and as the brew got shorter, the tales grew taller.

Chuck offered to tell some good ghost stories, but both Jason and Sawyer were against that. This place is creepy enough as it is. Jason said, Thinking that there might be a bottomless pit nearby…

According to a geology major I know, Roger reported, the water that made this cave welled up in the pit and flooded this area, so it was more of a very deep swimming pool at the time.

Well, that time’s gone. Jason retorted.

Roger answered with a very loud belch, which caused a roar of laughter.

Shhhh! Listen! somebody said and they all became silent and listened for about thirty seconds. There was nothing.

Listen to what? Roger asked.

I dunno, Jason answered, I didn’t tell everybody to ‘shush’.

Nor did the others. Nobody admitted to telling everybody to be quiet.

"Well, somebody’s playing a joke…. Sawyer…" Roger accused.

Sawyer adamantly denied saying a word, I was laughing like the rest of you. Let’s drop it and stop arguing. We all just heard something the wrong way."

Instead, they discussed what they knew of the cave’s history and speculated about the old hermit’s house. Perhaps he was an employee of the mine, tallying shipments to make sure they matched records made in the mine itself. Maybe he was just a good ol’ boy who lived in the woods, or perchance he may have been a doctor or clergyman kept close in case of emergency. Of all of these, they decided the theory of the doctor or employee to be most likely. After all, the land in that area had never been farmed, so the hermit probably never hooked a mule to a plow. For some reason, the men couldn’t bring themselves to talk about life in the cave or what the mining operation must have been like. Roger thought it must be because of the iron rings in the wall. None of them were comfortable being in what was once a slave camp.

As the night deepened outside, cars, motorcycles, pets and plans for the future were discussed as the quartet wracked their brains for something to talk about. The lantern had been turned down low to conserve fuel and it was decided that the next night would be ‘poker night’, but on this first night they wanted to be safe with their meager supplies. According to Jason’s watch it was past midnight when they decided to lay down drop cloths and roll out their sleeping bags. Jackets and clothing were arranged as pillows, the privy visited one last time and flashlights placed near at hand before the lantern was finally turned low and allowed to extinguish itself.

Damn! Chuck muttered, It’s darker than a sack of ass holes in here!

Laughter echoed around the pitch-black chamber. Where’d you hear that? Roger laughed.

My uncle. Chuck replied, He was in the Army a bit too long I think.

More laughter as the group quieted down and measured breathing replaced delayed chuckles and snorts.

Jason had been in quiet places before, but this was almost total and he wondered if he’d be able to sleep with the sound of his blood coursing through his ears. It was somewhat annoying.

Just as sleep began to take them, Sawyer scolded, Whoever the wise ass is, stop kicking my foot.

Ain’t me. Roger answered, Must be Jason, he’s nearest you.

Jason’s tired voice said, I got better things to do than play footsie with Sawyer. Now shut up and go to sleep.

Sawyer shifted onto his side and tried to close his eyes, but they continued to stare into the total darkness. Closing his lids and opening them, it was clear that this was the most total darkness he’d ever been in and as he drifted off, he decided that Jason was just being stupid. Suddenly, a sharp kick landed on his back. Flinging his arm out, he grasped nothing but thin air. Angry, he grabbed his flashlight and turned it on. Nobody was moving.

What’s up? Roger asked.

Nothing…. Sawyer replied, … I remembered that I didn’t put new batteries in my flashlight and had to try it out.

Well, next time put it in your fart sack and try it.

For quite some time, Sawyer lay awake in a vain attempt to work out the ‘blows’ to his satisfaction. In the end, he decided that the day’s long hike had caused his muscles to spasm and create the feeling of kicks to his overly tired body. With this in mind, he joined the others as the endless night of the cave covered them like a vast blanket as each finally found sleep and dreamt.

Hey, d’you hear that? It was Chuck’s voice.

Hear what? Roger replied as sleep was pried from his mind.

Listen! Chuck whispered, Somebody must be coming down the tunnel, I hear singing.

Singing? Roger replied, You must’ve been dreaming.

No! I still hear it… listen!

Roger, Jason and Sawyer were awake now and strained their ears. All Sawyer could hear was blood rushing through his ears as his heart pounded. Jason was with Roger and stated that he heard nothing.

What’er they singing? Roger asked at last, I still can’t hear nothin’.

I can’t make out any words… Chuck listened in the dark, It’s one voice… Hmmm…. Hmmm… he sang lowly, Hmmm… Ohhh!… he sang higher. Now it stopped.

Maybe the wind over the cave entrance. Who knows? Roger answered. A lot of odd things happen in a cave. Just to be sure, Roger turned on his flashlight and followed it around the cave. Nothing had changed as he scanned the chamber and darkness rushed back like a flood when the light was turned off.

It took a while to fall back asleep, but in the end each was breathing softly and when Jason awoke next he lit the dial of his watch to find that it was ten in the morning. Time to get up, I think. He said to the darkness.

Why? What time is it? Sawyer’s voice asked from someplace close by.

About ten in the morning. Jason reported.

Great. Roger chided, I’ve missed breakfast. By the way, I want to thank whichever one of you butt brains it was walking past me last night. Next time turn on your light so you don’t step on me.

Hell, Jason said, You wouldn’t catch me getting out of my fart sack without a flashlight for all the gold at Fort Knox. Be my luck I’d find that bottomless pit.

The other two swore it