Randy White - Haunted

Mentioning police did it. A door banged open amid wild laughter. Footsteps galloped overhead while a girl’s voice warned, “Krissie, we’re gonna leave your ass.” Then another bang and tinkling glass at the back of the house.

High school girls. No need to fear them nor them to fear me. I didn’t want them to break their necks escaping, so I hurried through the sitting room to the kitchen and looked out. The secret access to the upstairs was an aluminum ladder that hadn’t been there yesterday. I got a glimpse as the trespassers scuttled down: two skinny teens, one in coveralls, the other dressed bizarrely in an evening gown that had been shortened with scissors. Beneath it, black leggings with zebra stripes and cowboy boots.

Neither wore a red blouse, unlike the woman I had photographed earlier. But that was okay. I smiled at the girl’s costume until she turned and yelled, “Krissie-you asked for it, you bitch .”

From above, a pitiful wail responded, a wail that soon turned shrill and familiar. Whatever friendliness I might have felt toward the two girls vanished when they abandoned their friend by jogging toward the river.

At least I had a name to work with when I found the girl they had left behind.

I circled back and inhaled a gulp of air at the door, which was open. Then went up the stairs, calling, “Kris… Krissie? There’s no need to be afraid.” Several times I repeated soothing variations while I panned the flashlight across the landing. Soon, I heard a cooing, whimpering noise that seemed to come from the music room, where one French door hung loose on its hinges.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said, then followed the flashlight inside, where the piano had also been adorned with white streamers and beer cans. Something else I recognized: seeds from a mimosa pod littered the floor. They were flat and shiny, as brown as miniature cow chips. Some had been powdered and heated in a pan. The pan showed scorch marks from a flame.

Smoking drugs, I thought. The same smoke from the fireplace… That’s why I feel so odd.

The mix of giddiness and despondence I’d experienced earlier was curling its way into my brain. Not strong, but noticeable. Thankfully, my awareness produced a counter-emotion: anger. How reckless, I thought, and how cruel, to poison unsuspecting people by filling this house with their smoke. It made me more determined to help the girl.

I did a slow search of the music room. On the far wall was a poster that had been left behind. The lettering was big and easy to read despite its toilet paper adornments:

MEET CHUMAN

Love Child of Woman & Ape

(As seen on National Geographic )

It was an oversized photo-not a drawing-of a man who was as hairy as a werewolf. He had a flat simian face and wore a restraining collar as if he were a Rottweiler. Snarling, too, canines bared, and a metallic glint in his eyes-compliments of Photoshop and a promoter’s imagination.

The poster struck me as repugnant. Then I remembered that Tyrone, a real person who lived alone in a trailer, had probably posed for the photo. That made me feel even worse. Because of an affliction, the man had no other way to make a living, yet tonight teenagers had mocked him, had added obscene graffiti, then toilet paper streamers-more Halloween decorations to set the mood. A lewd drawing, too: a snake with fangs and a smile protruded from Tyrone’s mouth like an extended tongue.

I wondered if the girl they’d left behind had also found the image disturbing. She wasn’t in the music room-I even looked under the piano. Her crying had stopped and started again. Now it seemed to float down the hall from the other side of the house.

Strange. Usually my ears are as sharp as my eyesight and it’s exceptional, if Loretta’s doctor is to be believed. Was I hallucinating? No… my mind was struggling with the smoke but okay. Her crying was real. Somewhere in this house a frightened girl was hiding or… or she was being held against her will .

That gave me a jolt. The possibility was real, not paranoia. And the most likely suspect was Theo.

I stopped, opened the camera bag. The pistol was right there, if needed, but not ready. I shucked a round into the chamber, used the de-cocker as a safety precaution, then returned the weapon to my bag, the bag over my left shoulder.

Exiting into the hall, I called the girl’s name a few times and swept the area with the flashlight. Her weeping was continuous but impossible to pinpoint. An empty house echoes. But in the Cadence house, with its tin roof and domed cupola, Krissie’s sobs followed the rafters like a conduit and vibrated off the walls. Finding her was like searching for speakers in a theater. I paused at every room and closet. I also kept an eye on the spiral staircase.

Finally I narrowed it down to the cupola because its door was ajar. The door was a half-sized access that opened into a room that was circular and barely big enough to fit four people. The previous evening, Birdy and I had explored it. Inside, wooden rungs scaled the wall to where a school bell had once hung. A peaked roof and grates protected the interior from rain but not wind, which spiraled downward into the house. As I approached, a steady breeze streamed through the doorway, cool on my face. The air was cleaner here. It made sense that a girl who was hallucinating might take refuge in a spot where she could breathe.

Yes… the girl was inside. Her weeping ceased when the flashlight pierced the entrance. I switched off the light and said, “Krissie, no one is going to hurt you. Can I come in?”

“No! Who are you?”

She was panicky. I feared she’d climb the cupola’s ladder and try to escape by crawling onto the roof, so I took my time. “My name’s Hannah. I don’t know about you, but this smoke is making me sick. Can we go outside to talk?”

“Stay away. Where did Gail and Frieda go? They promised not to leave me.”

Girls-I don’t care the age-are not easily fooled, so I told her the truth. “You’d be smart to never trust that pair again. They ran off.” Quietly, I moved toward the door.

“Ran where? I don’t believe you. The other party?”

“The river. Or someplace close. Is that where they parked their car?”

“They wouldn’t do that.”

“You heard what that girl called you, Krissie. We both heard the word she used.”

The girl sobbed when I said that. “Gail promised I’d have fun. They never invited me to their parties before. That’s all I wanted-to be with them and have fun. Why would they be so mean?”

“Because that’s the way some girls are,” I said and couldn’t but help sharing her hurt. Without seeing Krissie, I knew what she would look like: gawky or chubby and too plain-faced to be anything but the easy target of jokes and mindless cruelty.

And I was right. Before I ducked through the door, I flicked on the flashlight and took a look. She was a scrawny little thing with mousy hair and earrings she had probably spent an hour fussing with in front of a mirror. Wearing her best clothes, too, pleated skirt and a blouse that was lavender, not lipstick red-and too flat-chested to have been the woman in the photo.

I switched off the light and entered, saying, “No one’s going to hurt you now,” then knelt beside the girl. “Tell me what happened. Or… it’s probably better if we go outside first. This smoke will only make you sicker if we stay.” I reached to touch her shoulder but withdrew my hand when she lurched away.

“Don’t touch me. I can only close my eyes if I’m alone. And that’s what I want-just me, alone.” The girl’s muddled reasoning, as much as her hysteria, gave me a chill. Alcohol-the smell wasn’t strong, but she been drinking, too.