I'd always been thought of as fearless. Hell, I thought I was too until I moved into a little old stone house in Ferdinand, Indiana. It was a cute house with warm, polished oak floors inside and old rose gold native sandstone blocks making up the exterior. Its red metal roof reminded me of southern Germany where I'd studied the language and visited the castles as a foreign exchange student the previous summer.
The day I'd decided to rent the house, I saw that there was a round grotto in the front yard filled all the way around with old statues of saints with the paint peeling off. The woman showing the house told me the statues were over a hundred years old, but the house was quite a bit older. Then she told me not to go down into the basement.
Being more than a little bit cat-crazy curious, I asked why. She looked away, not meeting my eyes and muttered something about how it flooded a little when it rained and unstable stairs. “Father said we have to keep it locked for safety anyway”, she said, “so it really doesn't matter.” I glanced at the old metal storm shelter doors with a log chain looped around the handles and set with an industrial sized padlock and shrugged. Whatever, I thought. The rent was a really good deal so I handed over the deposit and first month’s rent and she shook my hand and handed me the keys.
After I moved in my stuff, I decided to go for a walk and explore my new neighborhood. As I topped the hill above the house, there lay an old cemetery. Cool. I walked amongst the headstones, many of the oldest in Blackletter German, with dates all the way back to the late 1700’s.
As I continued walking toward the back I saw uniform rows of small white stone crosses. I knelt down to read one; Sister Mary Boniface, order of St. Benedict, Ferdinand monastery, 1910-2007. Requiescant In Pace. Wow. Row upon row of dead penguins. Having survived Catholic school, my friends and I referred to the nuns as either crows or penguins. I preferred penguins. A little more irreverent.
As I came to the end of the last row of white crosses, I looked up past the stand of tall pine trees and saw what looked like a castle. Holy mother-it was a huge Romanesque Benedictine monastery, complete with flying buttresses and grottoes round about. I promised myself that I’d check it out later, but the shadows from the pine trees were growing long, and even I didn't get any particular thrill out of hanging out in old graveyards after sunset.
As I walked back down the hill toward the house, it started to sprinkle a bit so I picked up my pace. On my way, I thought about the water washing down over all those old bones and running down hill, and how my new landlady said the basement flooded a little when it rained. I felt a little chill as I walked past the cellar doors and into the house.
I kicked off my boots and turned on some Dio: “We're the ship without a storm, the cold without the warm, light inside the darkness that it needs…” Water over old bones-perfect mood for some Holy Diver man. I laughed at myself for my case of the willies a few minutes earlier and danced while I unpacked a few dishes so I could stir up some ramen.
Later in the evening, I must have been tireder than I thought, because I nodded off on the couch and woke with a start to what sounded like an animal scratching and howling in the basement. I sat there with my heart pounding, listening for a sound, but the night was quiet. I figured I'd been dreaming and went in to bed and fell back to sleep. Next I knew, it was morning.
I put on some coffee to wake up my brain. Last night’s rain had washed everything and left it glistening, so I decided to raise the windows to let the morning breezes blow through the house. As I pulled up the window near the front door I caught a whiff of what had to be decomp. If you've ever smelled it, you won't ever forget it. Great. Some stupid possum or squirrel crawled under the porch and died. I closed the window. Oh well, fresh air was probably overrated anyway.
I set about tidying the house, putting things away and stuffing the rest of the boxes in the closet. Belinda and Tom were coming over tonight. When I told them about the house and the old cemetery with the penguin plot, they thought it would be a great place to have a séance. They were both into that whole ghost hunters schtick. I thought it was a bit nutters, but let them have their fun. As long as they were bringing the adult beverages, I didn't care if they tried to have a conversation with the pope.
As the sun sank lower in the sky, I stood in the kitchen with my hands on my hips, pretty satisfied with the look of the old place. Just then I heard Belinda’s familiar staccato knock and Tom snickering on the porch. “Get in here you two freaks before the neighbors think we're having a circus.” “Aww, we love you too, Cass. Open the freakin door already. Belinda's icy cold and the beer’s impatient.”
My two old friends immediately settled in like they owned the place, per usual, as I put the rest of the brew in the refrigerator. After a few beers and adventures regaled, Belinda said, “It's time, boys and girls.” We knew the drill. I lit a few candles and dimmed the lights before sitting to join hands with my friends at the small, round, oak table in the kitchen.
“Who would speak to us tonight?”, Belinda softly spoke. All three of us, heads bowed, eyes closed (one of us peeking); Belinda’s head rocked back as out of her mouth a cracked old voice croaked, “Ich würde durch die rothaarige sprechen.” Tom hissed, “What the hell was that?”
“It was German. It means I want to speak through the redhead”, I answered hesitantly. This was a new one. I'd only ever been a spectator in these love feasts of spooky shit. And Belinda didn't speak German.
Belinda opened her eyes and said, “You heard the woman, Skippy, you game?” “That was a woman? A woman pterodactyl maybe. You know, what the hell. Ok. What do I do?” “Just close your eyes, for real this time dork, then go blank, and imagine there's a door in the middle of your forehead. Then open it and wait.”
I closed my eyes and listened as the room went silent. Not just quiet, but earplugs-in-your-ears stuffed-full silent. I opened the door. It felt like I was a dry towel quickly absorbing a warm liquid. Then I felt something uncoil itself inside my head and I looked out through my own eyes like they were windows in a stranger’s cheap motel room and smiled at Belinda. She opened her eyes and screamed. Just like that, the liquid wicked out of the towel, the candles went out and Tom jumped up and flipped on the lights.
“What in the hell was that?”, I asked tremulously. “That, Cass, was some ugly old evil. Congratulations on your first, albeit brief, channeling experience.”, Belinda replied.
First and last as far as I was concerned. Feeling something old, cold and dead slither around inside my head and flash a murderous grin at my best friend wasn't high on my repeat list. Belinda just watched me with her cat-ate-the-canary gaze and said, “Let's order a pizza, I'm hungry. We're done here tonight. We’ll pick up here tomorrow night.”
Sunshine in my eyes-It burns! So not a morning person. It had taken more than a few cold ones to wash the taste of pterodactyl out of my mouth last night. Add to that my restless sleep in which I woke up every fifteen to twenty minutes because I kept dreaming I could hear my baby crying but I couldn't find him, and I was glad I didn't have to start my new job until next Monday, I crawled out of bed and into my jeans and boots.
A Google search late last night had turned up the information that the monastery gave tours weekdays at noon. I was just going to make it, if I hustled.
I took a shortcut through the cemetery. As I passed Sr. Mary Boniface’s grave, I paused. There at the foot of the cross was a little pile of the last dandelions of the year. The silence grew thick again, and I felt a little queasy as time seemed to freeze for a moment. The bright morning sun had mercifully receded behind the gray November haze, but that didn't account for the chill that shivered my timbers as I turned away from the little offering and climbed the path from the cemetery to the castle on the hill.
It was a small group made up of what appeared to be three old putzfraus on pilgrimage and me in my red bed head, residual eyeliner and combat boots. The penguin leading the line gave me a shot of stink eye until I gave her my best 100 watt smile and wished her Guten Morgen. Then it was just a mildly odoriferous eye. I thought her little Antarctic heart my actually be thawing in my direction when out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a child flit through a doorway toward the staircase to the wine cellar.
“Somebody catch that kid before it falls!”, I yelled. Our tour group stopped. The putzfraus all cut me a sharp glance before finding a fascinating crack in the stones at our feet. Penguina took a breath that sounded like someone had let the air out of her tires and she wasn't amused.
“There are no children here.”
The silence grew thick again, and my ears ached from what felt like a pressure change. I felt something slither behind my eyes. “You. Know. Better!”
Where the hell had that come from? As I was strong-armed off the grounds by two sisters who were serious contenders for the No shave Movember prize, I had little time to wonder about what I'd seen or said.
As I trudged down the hill toward the house, though, I felt more than a little creeped out. I walked into the yard and rounded the corner of the garage and headed toward the kitchen door. Stop. There was something off about the cellar doors. Same big chain. Same ridiculous lock. Same whiff of dead possum. I felt like I was missing or forgetting something. It was right there on the tip of my brain. Shrug. Brain fart. Time to get to work unpacking before my ghost buster buddies came back this evening.
I was making a good dent in it when I heard a rustling sound and a splash in the basement under me. There must be a whole litter of possums under this house, and now the little buggers were going swimming. The low rent was beginning to make more sense.
After a few minutes of fishing through my stacks of papers I found the lease. Time to call the landlord.
I put the phone on speaker as I continued to unpack. After four rings, the electronic phone answering system chirped, “Thank you for calling the Order of St. Benedict facilities maintenance request line. For the main campus, press one, for the parish church, press two, for rental properties press three.” Well that explained the “Father” part any way. I left a message with my number and received the reassurance that all things would be done in the lord’s perfect timing.
I decided I'd done enough in the house and had earned a nap. I lay down to rest and closed my eyes. I went to my regular mental vacation spot and felt myself bobbing in the warm waves over the white sands of St. Thomas, with the sun shining down on my skin, warm breeze ruffling my hair…BAM! I was snatched under the water into the darkness and I couldn't breathe. I was fighting something I couldn't see and the water was cold and rank. I was running out of air and strength as my panic escalated. I shot up, panting, in a cold sweat. My hands trembling, I rubbed my eyes and slapped my cheeks. It wasn't like a dream-it was too vivid, too real. I'd just reached that pre-sleep drift. No falling asleep now. Beer. I need a beer. Time to head for Der Oasis.
I slid up onto the barstool and caught the schooner of amber bock that Oli was setting in front of me before it touched the bar.
“You're a gentlewoman and a fine American, Oli.”
“Ja, well, you're a troublemaker and a hot mess”, my bartending friend quipped back at me. “Throwing rocks at the crows, from what I hear.”
You've got to love small towns. In the time it took me to botch an afternoon nap, the story of my tourette’s moment at the monastery had turned in to me roughing up a nun and getting kicked off the grounds.
“Well, that last part is true. The penguin militia did escort me out. Touchy old broads. Last time I try to keep somebody's brat from falling down the stairs.”
Oli lightly lifted a finely arched brow. “They don't allow kids on the grounds at the monastery, Cass. You been licking any strange postage stamps?”
“Ha ha. No. I saw what I saw. Pour me a refill, I've got to stagger back to the house before my company gets there.”
As I walked over the hill and came within sight of the house, I saw a small shadow slip around the side. Now what? I broke into a jog, yelling, “Hey, come here. You're not in trouble!”
I reached the corner of the house where I thought I'd seen someone and-nothing. Empty yard. Quiet street. Probably the same damn kid. Aaargh. I turned around and began to walk back toward the porch.
The cellar doors again. Something…there. The chain was unwrapped from the door handles and the lock lay on the ground. As I started to walk stiffly backwards away from the cellar it hit me. Derp. The maintenance guy came to fish out the critters and forgot to lock up. I started to step forward to relock the doors when I just froze. No. Not in my job description.
I hurried back into the house and shut the kitchen door behind me. I had almost caught my breath when a rat a tat tat on the door behind me jumped me halfway out of my skin. I whirled around to see Belinda’s eyes laughing at me.
“Skippy see a ghost?”
“Get in here you hateful heifer.”
Belinda and Tom let themselves in and had a seat.
“Goose walked over your grave, Cass? You don't seem your usual cocky self tonight.”, Belinda said.
I shared the story of my day while Belinda and Tom just sat hushed at the table. “We did a little exploring of our own today”, Tom said as he pulled his long hair back in a ponytail with the band Belinda tossed him. “It seems your little house here used to be the home for the caretakers of the monastery and the cemetery. In fact, your landladies live in the castle on the hill.
When old man Senninger, the last caretaker, died a few months ago, the bishop decided to hire a maintenance company in town and rent this place out.”
“I figured out that my neighbors up on the hill owned the place when I called about a maintenance problem, but I didn't know that this had been the caretaker’s house. Next you're going to tell me the old dude died a horrible grisly death here or something, aren't you?”
Belinda cackled. “Nothing as dramatic as all that. Apparently the old guy sort of lost it at the end though. He stopped showing up for work and the neighbors said they'd see a light in the basement all night while they heard him banging around down there and talking to himself. After a few days of silence and no sightings, one of the neighbors called the sheriff to request a wellness check. They found him down there dead.”
“Murdered?", I asked.
“No”, Tom snickered. “But if it makes you feel any better, he had painted the entire basement blood red and built most of a new brick wall down there before his heart gave out.”
“Creepy. So glad I signed a 12 month lease. How did you find all this out?”
Belinda shrugged. “Small towns, German Americans and free beer. You become very popular and well-informed in a short span of time.”
“So now what?”
“So now we go have a look in your basement.”
“Crap. I knew you were going to say that.”
“You have a key, Cass?”
“No need. The handyman left it unlocked an hour or two ago.”
“That would be kind of difficult. It was your handyman we were chatting up for the last three hours. He was still sitting at Fleig’s when we left.”
My ears felt full again and everything sounded far away. I felt a sudden urge to grab Belinda by the hair and smash her face into the solid oak table. Then I blinked and it passed. Like it never happened. Except Belinda knew. From the way she’d subtly shifted her weight back to the slight tightening of her shoulders, she’d seen it. But she said nothing.
Tom pulled two flashlights out of his pocket and handed one to each of us. “Let's go.”
Tom led us out, Belinda scooted along beside me as I slid into my leather jacket. It was getting chilly. Tom pulled the chain away from the door and grasped the door handles and pulled them open with surprisingly little sound. “Ladies first!”
“Assholes second,” I said, as I switched on my flashlight and headed down the stone steps. So much for the rickety stairs. As I got to the bottom stair, I swept the flashlight beam at the wall around the entry until I spotted a light switch and gave it a flip. And there was light. A naked bulb hanging from a snaky cord, but light. I switched off the flashlight and stuck it in my pocket.
The floor just beyond the step was dirt, or rather mud. While there was water standing only around the edges due to channels dug around the walls, the smell of damp and rot was strong and it was obvious that the rain from two days ago was just now receding.
Sure enough, over in the corner was the furry, squishy lump of what appeared to have once been a possum or a really ugly cat. Trying to breathe through my mouth only added the sense of tasting decomp to the sensory bouquet.
“Anybody got any Vick’s Salve?”
“You read too many Patricia Cornwell novels. Suck it up, buttercup”, said Belinda as she stopped on the step just behind me. “Let's check this crypt out.”
Crypt seemed the right word. The walls appeared to have been dug out of the earth then lined with brick, which was now cracked, crumbling and falling out of the walls where tree roots and worked their way through. With the walls mostly in tact, the feel of the low-roofed room we had entered was of an underground tomb.
Over this chaos of brick someone had taken a paintbrush and half-painted, half-flung arterial crimson paint over three walls of the place, complete with splatter patterns. An upended paint can and brush stiff with dried paint lay abandoned on the floor. Jackson Pollack meets Dexter meets whack job.
As I stepped down onto the floor, I saw that it was actually pretty hard-packed, so there was just a thin layer of slimy earth. Enough to make it slick, but not much beyond a muddy footprint’s depth. Speaking of which…there in the muck were footprints. Barefoot, small, and disappearing through the small door-sized gap in the fourth wall to the left of the stone steps.
Here there was new brick and sloppy mortar work where someone had started but come short of finishing a wall. Scrawled on the new wall in red paint, looking as if it had been finger-painted were the words, “Blut der Untschuldigen”.” Blood of the innocents”, I translated. Belinda and Tom stepped down behind me, I stepped toward the new brick wall, my hand raised to reach toward the writing.
“Stop, Cass!”, Belinda warned in her soft ‘pay attention, this is serious’ contralto. There were some things Belinda didn't play around with. I'd learned to listen to her. She knew stuff. “There's a presence crouched on the other side of that wall, and it's not a child.”
“Well then, what is it?”, I asked. As the words left my mouth, I knew what it was. I felt more than heard the reptilian slither in my head.
“He wants to show himself to you, Cass.”
“No thanks, not in to demon peep shows, I'll have to pass.”
“It'll be alright, Cass. You don't have to go through the wall to the other side. Just take our hands and lean forward toward the opening in the wall. Things get hairy, we'll pull you back.”
There was no sane reason to do this. I took their hands. As I edged closer to the rough gap in the wall, I felt a slight breeze whispering against my face, pulling along the faint foul scent of old dead things and dirt. I leaned in.
Submitted January 31, 2018 at 02:37AM by dxrosemary http://ift.tt/2BEuvCx nosleep
