“Party starts at six. I just finished saging,” Karen made the idea of herbal cleansing sound normal. “Oh, and Jen, make sure you wear a disguise,” she had said as we were leaving the yoga studio.
I hated Halloween. And I hated wearing costumes even more.
On the evening of the stupid, I’m-not-wearing-a-Halloween-costume party, I pulled and parked Sally, my refurbished Dodge Dart, next to the curb of a Victorian style home at the end of the cul de sac. The soft broken-in, blue leather seat settled the anxiety, if only for a little bit. I fiddled with my keys, questioning my intuition.
Karen seemed like a wonderful person to befriend. Sure, I had only met her five times in the Wednesday yoga class, but there was something that drew me into her energy. There was a definite connection, but sitting in the antique car in front of the Victorian house gave me the creeps. There was no other way to describe the feeling that fell over me. Creepy. That was the only adjective I could think of. I shoved my keys into my long-strapped purse and decided that I needed to purchase a thesaurus.
As a wanna-be horror writer, I had studied all the tropes and staring at the creepy house built in the back corner of the cul de sac was trope number one. Trope number two: the backyard pushed up against a cornfield long forgotten. I swallowed my apprehension, blaming all the books I’d been reading for research and told myself that I was in fact, not crazy. It was just a house, right?
I smoothed out my sunflower pattern sundress and made my way up the long, twisted driveway toward the winding covered front porch. The house was an enormous two story with more windows that anyone would want to clean, which it looked like Karen was in agreeance. She clearly didn’t like washing windows as much as I didn’t. Maybe we were destined to be friends.
All forty-three windows were hazed over with yellowed curtains behind them. Though I didn’t actually count all the windows, I didn’t think forty-three was an exaggeration. Karen didn’t appear to be a clean freak, but the crud on the glass needed a chisel.
As I neared the turquois door, it was clear that the eight thousand windows (okay, that was an exaggeration) were not as disgustingly dirty as it appeared from the street. The glass was old. So old, it started to sag. It looked like an oozing gel that seeped from the top of the window and the force of gravity made the material slowly slump its way down and gathered like a blob near the base. What a relief. No one wants to eat Halloween snacks with rats feasting on carcasses of dead cheese wheels and the counter tops covered in feces. Unless you’re into that sort of thing. No judgement here.
Karen threw the door open before I had the opportunity to knock. That was when I almost fell over the antique rocker and off the front porch. My lady parts were cheering with delight because Karen’s normally blonde hair tied in a bun, now draped down the middle of her back and was colored black. She was dressed like Morticia from The Addams Family. Totally Hot!
“Jen!” Karen’s voice reached an octave higher than normal. She lifted her arms for a welcoming hug. “I’m so happy you made it,” she said as she pulled me in for a giant bear hug. “Where’s your disguise?” Disguise crept up another note and started to crackle her voice.
“I couldn’t decide on a costume.” I wasn’t about to admit that I was hoping for a more intimate setting, especially seeing her in that black, sleek dress.
“Tisk. Tisk.” Every word held a rhythmic cadence, “You’re going to stand out like a sore thumb.” I also didn’t have the heart to tell her that she speaks in cliches—rule number three of how-to-write—cliches are a big no-no. “Let me show you around before everyone else arrives.” She shoved a glass of white wine into my hand and I followed her into the house, not hiding what I was watching swish back and forth as we passed through the threshold.
“I just finished up with all the renovations,” Karen mentioned as we walked into the greeting area. Liquor bottles covered one side and colorful plastic bowls of snacks lay on the doily table cloth on the other side. “This old house has good bones, but it’s been neglected, poor girl.” She motioned me into the parlor. “I bought it a little over a year ago and tonight is my grand opening.” Her enthusiasm was contagious. “Most of the evening’s guests are my first clients.” She raised her arms and held them high. “Welcome to my haunted bed and breakfast, Chateau Ghost.”
I nearly shot wine onto the dark walnut floor. “Sorry, a what?” Maybe because we were in a different environment, or because it was Halloween, but my gut was screaming at me to get out—lady parts be damned.
Karen was not the same person I had met at yoga. It’s not like she acted different, per say. Maybe the vibe I was getting was something of a province effect, like when you see your neighbor at the grocery store, but don’t recognize them because you’re both out of your element. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Of course, maybe she was just anxious about her new business, or focused on playing the Morticia role to perfection. Despite the intense tightening of my stomach, I chose to stay. It would be rude not to, right?
Karen continued the tour, pointing out antiques she chose to keep and the rooms she renovated. “Oh, and please stay out of this room. It’s my office. Lots of important information in there, you know.” Then she winked at me.
I thought that the additional comment of the office was a bit over the top. If Karen wanted to keep guests out of a particular room, why didn’t she simply lock the door? Or maybe it wasn’t an office at all and the wink meant something for later. I could only hope.
“Every old house has its quirks and people are always looking for new adventures.” Karen said this as if ghosts from beyond the grave haunting a house wasn’t scary at all. Like managing a haunted bed and breakfast is totally normal. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. There’s not any ghosts really here. But old homes have a tendency to make people feel like there’s dead things around them. It’s a placebo effect.”
I paused, returning an empty stare, before admitting her logic, “Actually, that’s not that crazy. Everyone likes a good scare sometimes, especially on Halloween.” Just last weekend, I went to a haunted house attraction with my horror book club. We all knew the scary dead creatures were actually humans in costumes, but our minds made the situation scary. It’s part of the fun.
Just then, the doorbell rang and the front door creaked open. Karen waved and squeaked, just like when she greeted me, “Ah, more guests!” She wrapped her arm around my waist and kissed my cheek. “Make yourself comfortable. Be right back with introductions.” Her cadence was back. As Karen turned to leave, her hand feather-touched the length of my forearm. The gesture gave me the chills, though I couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad chill.
“Sure. Do what you gotta do,” I responded as if her touch wasn’t the sexiest thing I’ve experienced in over a year. She was so excited to receive more guests, she was practically skipping to the door. I sipped my wine watching her turn the corner.
Alone in her parlor, I meandered around the room, quietly complimenting Karen’s Halloween décor. Cobwebs and spiders. A ghoul head for a piñata hanging from the chandelier. Plastic skeletons and a pumpkin tree. But what caught my eye and wouldn’t let go, were the plethora of urns on the mantle above the fireplace.
The room closed around me, making me feel like a bubble wrapped itself around my aura and I was alone in a room slowly starting to fill up with translucent costumed guests. Or were ghostly figures of the dead from the urns surrounding me?
There were at least twenty different urns. Small and skinny. Short and tall ones. Some had handles. Others an old teapot style lid. Two were marble. Three black candles stood in brass holders amongst the urns.
To say the least, I needed to go. Normal people didn’t keep that many urns in a house, or really anywhere. Oddly, I fought the urge to touch one, as if it held a trapped energy that needed releasing and I were the hero of the story and the only one with the power to set it free.
My book club group would be all over this setting. A Halloween party with its very own urns. Maybe they were parting gifts for each guest. Either way, I needed to write this down to include in the next chapter of my manuscript.
Just as I reached to touch the green marble urn, a familiar arm wrapped around my waist, making me jump. I nearly lost my balance and started to stumble into the burning logs.
“Don’t you looovvvveee my urn collection?” Karen asked. That fluctuating tempo in her voice was back.
I slammed the rest of my wine in hopes it brought my heart beat back to normal again.
“What a wonderful Halloween decoration.” Sarcasm spewed from my lips while I struggled to swallow the bone of fear lodged in my throat.
“It’s not a decoration. They’re antiques.”
I wished she hadn’t clarified that.
“There’s only four funeral homes in the country that rent and resell urns,” Karen stated like having a couple dozen repurposed urns in the living room wasn’t a big deal. “It’s such a creative and lucrative business. People rent the urns, spread the ashes, and return them for a deposit!” She clapped, almost jumping in her shoes. “It just adds to the flare of tourists visiting my haunted bed and breakfast. Don’t you think?”
Fear Bone officially not swallowed. “And this place isn’t really haunted? I mean, don’t ghosts keep a connection with objects?” It was very difficult to sound interested in such a disturbing topic.
“Don’t be silly. There’s no ashes in these.”
I didn’t have a response and it didn’t matter. Karen gave an overexaggerated wave to a werewolf across the room and left me standing by the urn collection alone. She needed to attend to her guests and I was mesmerized by the vessels, wondering if one, the place really was haunted, and two, how was I going to get into the office.
Having seen an urn collection for the first time in my life, I couldn’t hide the feeling that Karen’s office was keeping secrets, but what kind of secrets.
I made some small talk with Karen’s guests. They seemed like nice people. Even the mad scientist with dried blood on his lab coat was courteous. Though I must admit, every guest gave me a hard time about not playing in the holiday spirit. About an hour into the party, the conversation felt pushed. What do you do? Where do you live? I hated small talk as much as I hated Halloween. I needed to get into that office and I saw my opportunity shine.
Karen was in the middle of a Jello shot fest and had her back turned. The idea was that I would creep down the hallway to the office and if anyone stopped me, I could use the old excuse, Sorry, where’s the bathroom? Operation Trespassing Engaged!
I snuck down the hall and stood for a little too long in front of the forbidden door with an antique cobalt knob, deciding if trespassing was the dumbest thing I’d ever done. Then I recalled a few memories from my teenage years and determined that I was, in fact, that dumb. I turned the knob, half expecting a loud metal on metal creak that set off alarms. Instead, the twist was smooth and the hinges didn’t creak the way an old scary off-limits door should sound. I did my best to shut the door behind me without making a noise.
The office was no office I’d ever been in. The room was dimly lit by only a tall table lamp with a black shade. Dark purple curtains covered two large windows on the opposite wall. It smelled of incense but I questioned whether the scent was an iron metallic or lavender smoldering on the side table.
The room felt heavy and ready to receive deathly guests. Demonology, wicca, and voodoo books filled the ceiling-to-floor book shelves. In the center of the room, lay a star and moon table cloth covering a small round table with an Ouija board opened on the surface. And while none of this was normal, I couldn’t take my eyes from the red velvet cloth covering something hanging on the wall—it looked like the material covered a painting of some sort.
Why would Karen cover a painting? Was it a portrait of a relative she despised? A mirror?
I knew I should have rushed out of that place and never came back. The yoga studio could keep my six sessions and I’d never have to see Karen again. But my feet stood in cement and invisible ties held my body in place. The only thing I couldn’t ignore was the pounding of my heart because the same yearning occurred in this room as it did in the parlor. Below the covered painting was a short mahogany wood shelf with a single urn resting on it. It called to me like it had a message from a nonexistent land asking me to come back home.
There was an oxidation chemical effect happening. The copper had turned green over the years and an old and stressed paper folded in half was suspended to the urn with a thin leather strap. The paper reminded me of old text books found in the darkest lairs of medieval dungeons; or at least, an old library.
Again, I knew it was crazy. I knew I should have found my purse, bolted out of that house, and sped back to my cabin. Except. I had to read the old papyrus attached to the urn. I couldn’t just walk away. I needed to know who Karen, the person I thought might turn into morning breakfast, truly was.
The paper must had been a hundred years old (not an exaggeration). Of course, paper gets wrinkled and worn over years of neglect; so, maybe it was the wanna-be writer in me that needed to read whatever was written on that paper.
I took a deep breath. My hand shook as I reached for the urn’s script. Part of me thought the paper would read, Here lies Uncle Fred. A lover, a father, and carpenter. I wasn’t sure why I thought Uncle Fred might had been a carpenter, but that’s neither here or there.
As soon as the tip of my finger grazed the note, the room spun around me—like a Round Up carnival ride. The bottom dropped away and the edges of my vision blurred. My stomach got wheezy from the spinning and I shut my eyes in hopes the twirling ceased. It didn’t. Instead, Uncle Fred sent me a vision.
***
An office, an expensive looking old office, is filled with at least twenty people, all dressed to the nines in lace, leather, and clothing not found in modern times. Muffled conversations fill the air until a tall man in a three-piece grey suit clears his throat from behind the over-sized sandalwood desk. On the surface stood a shiny, small copper urn with a note tied around it by a thin leather strap.
“Thank you for attending Fredrick Lenox’s last will and testament.”
A hush falls upon the crowd.
“Mr. Lenox, as many of you know, was a very rich man. And after thirty-five years of assessing his affairs, I can honestly say that Fred became a close friend of mine. And because of this, it gives me great joy to read his final testimony.”
The quiet is deafening.
“But before I begin, I’d like to point out my personal assessment.”
A woman from the back of the office makes a comment. The words aren’t clear, but a few around her laugh. The laugh does not contain humor, but one of a more sinister nature.
“The funeral was yesterday, yet, not one of your faces was seen there.”
Someone yelled from the back corner closest to the door, “Who cares. Who gets his money?”
The grey suited man smiled a vicious smile. “Mr. Lenox has given a portion of his forty-million-dollar estate to five close friends; all of which attended the funeral. The rest of the estate is given to various animal sanctuaries around the globe. He held a special place for his animals.”
The fairly silent crowd erupts in anger. Noiseless swearing and small voices saying, “That bastard” and other vulgar words.
The lawyer continued. “Mr. Lenox dabbled in many lost magical and Pegan arts. I’m sure none of you knew this. While not one of you will receive even a dime from his estate, one of you will take home something far more spectacular.”
A few people attempt to leave the crowded office, but a security guard blocks the exit. They turn back around.
“Thank you, Larry.” The lawyer nodded to the security guard. He resituated himself and flipped over a paper before continuing. “Mr. Lenox’s last will and testament,” the lawyer cleared his throat and began,” ‘I tried to be a part of your lives. Your children’s lives. Your grandchildren’s lives. But my visits felt like a board room meeting with no compassion or love. Only greed and anger were spoken and of things none of us could control. You brushed me aside, only looking forward to seeing me at a holiday because my gifts were green.
‘You didn’t care about me and you all claimed my thoughts were absurd, or twisted. Not one of you cared about me when I lived. You thought of me as a crazy old man. One with a lot of money, that is. Now you will care.
‘My last and final wish is eternal and can in no way, shape or form, be dismissed in the same manner you all have dismissed me in life. My eldest niece will take my ashes and keep them for at least one year. On the following Halloween, and after at least a year has passed, you have the right to give my ashes to another kin. Again, for at least one year, the next shall keep me. For every time I am passed to another, so too will be my possession of you. Once each blood family member has received my gift, you then have the right to pass my ashes and urn to whomever you feel deserves my presence.’ ”
A man sitting in front of the urn smashed his hand on the over-sized desk.
The lawyer didn’t react, nor look up from his page and continued, “ ‘The eternal act was signed in blood and no voodoo or catholic priest can lift the curse I’ve given you. If you choose to neglect my final wishes, there will be consequences. Heed my warning and take me in as your own kin.’ ”
***
I woke on the hardwood floor with a pain so excruciating pulling at my chest, I felt as though I were going to die too. A darkness swirled around me, despite the intensity of the light. My stomach knotted and I instinctually curled into a ball, clutching my middle section. Tears seeped from my eyes. There was no relief. The feelings weren’t mine. They were Fredrick Lenox’s.
It wasn’t physical pain that kept me curled on the cold floor. Its intensity was a brutal reminder of days long gone. Flashes of memories that weren’t mine swirled in kaleidoscope fashion behind my eyes.
My tears turned cold and my heart grew heavy from the desperation of hoping for a returned love that mocked reality. The images of family faded into a fire built before my time. I felt Fredrick’s pain of isolation and rejection while he longed for a love and never found—a family who cared.
I pulled myself from the floor, crawling on all fours toward the red velvet covering. There was no doubt in my mind that it was the old man’s self-portrait. But I had to make sure.
The pain in my chest and stomach didn’t subside; so, I pulled myself up to a standing position out of pure hatred for a group of people I’d never met.
My breath was a dead corpse, ready to fall and give no one the ability to move me from the place I stood. Fear was my best friend. I reached up to the eye-level material and slowly tugged the curtain away, hoping nothing jumped out at me from beyond the grave.
It was a mirror. I had to laugh, but I knew through my horror research that mirrors were a passageway for the dead. There I was, staring at myself. My lipstick was smeared across my chin and my soft brown eyeshadow took on a blueish hue. My image transformed. I transformed. Before I realized what was happening, an old, wrinkled man, probably around ninety, stared back at me. His mouth turned up in the corners, making his grin seem joker-like. Mischievous.
I reached my hand to my face. The reflection mimicked my gesture and my own hand looked wrinkly. Something happened. Something illogical. The old man in the mirror reached for me. His hand reached through the glass and wrapped around my neck. I coughed and tried to pull away but like a corpse, I had no reaction. I was stuck in my own body and had no control over it. A grey mist swirled in eddies around me. The Ouija board bounced onto the floor and still, I couldn’t move.
Soon, another person, or maybe another ghost, I couldn’t tell, stood behind me in the mirror. Her wrinkled face smoothed. “I told you to wear a costume. He can’t claim you if you’re disguised.”
Finally, blood came back to my extremities. Karen hovered over the side of my shoulder. Our reflections not quite ourselves reflected in the glass. “I’m the last family member to keep the urn for a year. It wasn’t my intent to give you my great-great uncle’s gift. I thought we could be friends, and now there’s no escaping. The three of us are connected for an eternity now.” Karen spun me around and planted a deep, passionate kiss on my lips. “He chose you. And now you two will spend the next year together…or longer, if that’s what you wish.”
I blinked, bringing me back to the office I trespassed into. Karen placed my purse strap over my shoulder and shoved me out the front door with the urn of an unwanted soul.
-RADolence, 2024