Horrific Real Estate
Blog #2
by Haven B. Greene
As Halloween creeps ever closer, and the veil between the living and the dead shrinks to its thinnest, we thought you might enjoy the following tale. It's a true story, not a composite, and it took place in October of 2009, in an upper-income estate just outside Chantilly. Although only one life was lost, it could have easily cost more, had Nature, or Nature's God, not intervened. We call it . . .
The Intrusion
She was only 67, but felt every bit a decade older. Her once long, auburn tresses now an icy gray, her skin withered and choked with veins, and her back a ceaseless source of searing agony, Sylvia Prather was, by now, little more than an invalid. But there had been a time . . . Ah, yes, there had indeed been a time. Her rheumy blue eyes surveyed her bedroom with an aching despair as she climbed to her feet once more.
She made it as far as the bathroom before she remembered that the ghost had stolen her pills yesterday. For the past few weeks, Sylvia had become increasingly aware of an unfriendly presence in the house. Not an evil spirit, really, more of a mischievous one -- a poltergeist. And it seemed to delight in stealing small, inconsequential items from her, like perfume of the odd piece of costume jewelry.
Sylvia hadn't minded at first. In a way, she welcomed the company; all her friends and relatives had been gone for so long. The mere hint of another presence in the house was oddly comforting, somehow. And if the ghost felt obliged to help itself to her perfume, well, good luck to it. A ghost would have about as much use for such things as she, anymore.
But yesterday it had crossed the line. Yesterday, it had stolen her pills. Who knew what it would get into next? The silverware? Her real jewelry, her diamonds? Now thoroughly distraught, Sylvia drifted back through her bedroom, down the long, spiral staircase and into the huge living room below.
It was a fabulous room, richly appointed with authentic Victorian pieces. On the far wall, beyond the Steinway, was a tremendous fireplace, terribly ornate, the mantelpiece rising fully six feet from the floor, and a gigantic crystal chandelier hung overhead like a boast. Ostentatious? Yes. Excessive? Most assuredly. But if Sylvia Prather's health was lost – if all she'd ever known or loved was lost – at least she still kept a beautiful home.
For the ghost.
She settled on one of the three Chippendale sofas in the room and stared out the bay window at the ice and snow beyond. It had to go; she realized that now. The ghost had overstayed its welcome. But what could she do? What course could she take? A priest? An exorcist? She had no stomach, no patience, for such things. How, then, to rid herself of the haunt? It was then that she heard it moving about upstairs, in her room.
She rose from the sofa and made her way across the vast living room to the foot of the staircase, where she paused, listening. It seemed to be whispering to itself up there, a soft, steady, susurrus sound very similar to the sound made by coat hangers sliding along a ––
-- and then she realized that, of course, it was the sound of coat hangers sliding along a closet railing. In her room. In her closet.
Furious now, Sylvia mounted the stairs and began the long climb upward, without a thought for her own safety. Her anger was absolute, no room for fear, and so she sailed up the stairs, reaching the top in a matter of seconds. She scurried up the hall to her room and stepped through the door, a shout of protest already on her lips.
And it was gone. The ghost had vanished, along with most of her dresses. Sylvia staggered to her closet and gaped in shock at what remained of her wardrobe. The few gowns and blouses that the ghost hadn't stolen were left hanging in total disarray, the gaps between them grinning back at her like missing teeth.
It had to end. The theft of her perfume and costume jewelry was one thing, but her pills? Her gowns? Her dresses? It had to end.
She would call an exorcist. There was no other way. But she wasn't Catholic, she was Presbyterian. Would a priest respond to a Protestant's call for help? Or would he even bother to ask about her affiliation? She had no idea. All she knew for sure was that she had to be rid of the ghost. Today. Any more scares like this and she would be a ghost. At 67, with high blood pressure, she knew her heart couldn't take these repeated shocks.
Sylvia crossed the room and picked up her bedside phone and the old, mildewed yellow pages -- from 11 years ago. She only hoped the names and numbers were still mostly accurate. She searched first under “Churches,” then “Clergy,” and picked the name Fr. Francis McKee at random. She dialed the number and waited, surprised by how heavy the phone felt in her hand; she was so weak with fear, she nearly dropped the damned thing.
Finally, a man answered. “Hello, St. Mary's.”
“Y-yes. Yes, hello,” she managed, aware that her voice was barely more than a small, papery whisper. “Is Father McKee there, please?”
“This is Father McKee.”
“Father, I . . .” Suddenly, she felt ridiculous. Not only was she addressing a man probably half her age as “Father,” but she was also about to ask that man to come out to her house and chase away a ghost. The absurdity of her situation came to her fully then, and she nearly hung up the phone. But, summoning the same courage she'd used to race up her staircase and confront the elusive ghost, she sucked in her breath and continued: “I need . . . an exorcist, Father. To come to my house and . . . well . . .”
“I see,” said the priest. “And just why do you think you need an exorcist, Ms? . . .”
“Prather,” she managed. “My name is . . . Sylvia Prather, and I live at . . . 919 Misty Hollow Road. And my house is . . . haunted.”
“Haunted,” echoed the priest. The poor thing sounded as if she were at least a thousand; her voice was barely more than a dry, papery whisper, like dried, autumn leaves rustling in the breeze. “Mrs. Prather, have you (ahem) have you actually seen the, ehhh, manifestation?”
“No. But it is here, in my house.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I just know it. I can . . . sense it.”
“I see. Mrs. Prather, you may not be aware of this, but summoning the powers of Mother Church to conduct an exorcism isn't quite as easy as the movies depict. There are certain . . . steps . . . that must first be taken, in order to—”
“I tell you it's here,” she whispered. “In my house. I can . . . I can hear it.”
And she could: it was moving up the hallway now, toward her room, coming slowly but inexorably closer, the floorboards squeaking just outside her door.
“Send someone now. Please,” she gasped as the door swung open. And the spirit stood before her.
It was the ghost of a tragically young woman, no more than 21 or 22, and she held in one hand a silver locket and chain—one Sylvia's late husband had given her decades ago. The ghost stood in the doorway glaring at Sylvia, with fear and loathing in her eyes. Then she threw the locket at her and disappeared back down the hallway.
If the spirit could open doors and throw jewelry at her, it could easily take the phone from her. If that happened, all hope would be lost.
“Help me!” Sylvia cried. She curled around the phone like a mother protecting her child. “Please help me . . .”
“I'm coming right over,” said the priest. He'd heard enough over the phone. And he knew that something was desperately wrong. “Get out of that house and meet me on the street. Do you understand?”
“ . . . please . . .”
“Do you understand? Mrs. Prather, can your hear me?”
“ . . . help me . . .”
And the line went dead.
Ten minutes later, Father McKee pulled up to 919 Misty Hollow Road, a beautiful old Tudor mansion that straddled an entire corner. He saw no sign of Sylvia Prather anywhere—not on the lawn, not on the street, not anywhere. There were some footprints in the snow, but they led to the house, not away from it. Father McKee shivered as the awful realization swept over him.
She hadn't made it out.
He left the car running and walked as quickly as he dared up the icy driveway to the mansion's front door, soaking in the almost palpable pall of fear that permeated the place. “Lord, help me . . . please help me,” he muttered, unaware that he was repeating almost exactly what Sylvia Prather had said to him last.
The priest began knocking, then pounding, on the door in the slim hope that the old woman might still be alive.
Upstairs, in her room, Sylvia still cowered on her bed, curled around the dead child of her telephone. There was no dial tone, no ringing, nothing. She was completely cut off from the rest of the world.
She had to get out, had to escape, but how? She'd never before had to run for her life, and now her ability to think clearly was vanishing. Still one thing was obvious: she couldn't stay in her bedroom any longer. The ghost had her cornered here. Sylvia was just starting to crawl toward the edge of her bed, just getting ready to make a break for the stairs, when the specter returned.
This time it was holding one of Sylvia's shoes, like a trophy. Moaning horribly, the ghost stepped forward and threw the shoe at her. Sylvia flinched, putting up her frail, skinny arms for protection as the shoe passed harmlessly overhead, striking the wall behind her. The apparition vanished down the hall once more.
Sylvia knew this was her last chance. She had to escape now before the ghost returned. She got to her feet and made it across the room to the doorway, where she paused, trembling, as she listened to the ghost moaning and sobbing down the hall. She had no choice; she had to keep going. Stifling a cry, Sylvia stepped out into the hallway.
And the ghost was there, at the top of the stairs, as if waiting for her.
“Get out of my house!” they screamed in unison as Father McKee burst through the front door. The young woman threw another shoe at her, and this time she didn't miss. The shoe passed right between, or through, Sylvia's outstretched hands and hit the old woman in the chest. It continued on through her back, clattering onto the floor behind her. Sylvia looked down at her own shriveled body in astonishment.
“You're dead,” the young woman cried, tears streaming down her face. “You died three weeks ago, don't you understand? This is my house now. I live here. Please . . . please leave this place . . .”
Sylvia looked up then, her withered hands held out imploringly before her. “But, this is my house,” she was about to say, drifting soundlessly toward the young woman, who stumbled backward in fright. She grabbed for the railing and missed. Father McKee watched in horror as the young woman fell down the long, winding staircase, tumbling around the first turn, then smashing through the banister and crashing to the floor fourteen feet below in a twisted heap. She lay sprawled on her stomach amid the jagged shards of wood, her head turned completely around, facing him.
The priest screamed and ran from the house.
Later that evening, after the police had removed the body, Sylvia Prather sat down to tea in her dining room. Had Father McKee been brave enough to stick around a while longer, he would have observed nothing more than a silver teapot rise from the walnut sideboard and pour into first one cup, then another, and then descend again to the table. But Father McKee wasn't there at the moment. He was still heavily sedated in his rooms at St. Mary's, so Sylvia and her guest were alone.
“One lump or two?” came the papery whisper, barely audible in the vastness of the room.
“Two,” came a sigh, and the young woman was an intruder no more.
--30--
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