The November Selected Writer is Edith O'Deer
Please feel free to contact Edith at: gaxxy@hot.ee
AFTERNOON SHOW
by Edith O'Deer
“I don’t have an uncle,” Neelam said.
“According to Mr. Doyle, you do.”
Mr. Doyle was a lawyer at Doyle & Sons, though the original Doyle had passed away some time ago and the current Mr. Doyle was one of the sons. Neelam believed it was a respected law firm with a history and therefore could be trusted.
Neelam’s uncle was Leonard Hox, who supposedly chose this particular law firm because he had put a lot of thought and effort into getting everything right and Mr. Doyle was hired to help him. Neelam inherited a house and a significant amount of money that would give him time to get settled in and pay the taxes—another detail his uncle Leonard had thought of.
“But it’s a lovely house. Why do you care where it came from?” Susan asked. “Think about it—living in a big house in Hopeford. In any other circumstance, we could never afford it.”
Neelam leaned back and crossed his arms. “I know, but I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s a catch. I mean, why have I never heard of Uncle Leonard before? He had certainly heard of me, yet he never bothered to look me up. He knows nothing about me but leaves me a fortune. I could be an alcoholic gambler for all he knows! There’s something wrong with this.”
“We’re going to find that out tomorrow, but I can tell you right now that you’re just seeing ghosts!” Susan sat in his lap and put her arms around him. “Don’t worry so much, it makes you look old.”
*****
They didn’t have any trouble finding the place and when they arrived, Mr. Doyle was already waiting for them. They greeted each other and then the lawyer guided them to the house.
It was a lovely structure that had been around for at least a century, and as they later learned, was one of the oldest buildings in the street. The house seemed to stand there with quiet dignity, and it was as if Neelam could feel the colorful past of the house surrounding him, reaching for him and trying to grab him. He instinctively took a step back.
“Don’t worry, it won’t bite you,” Mr. Doyle smiled and opened the front door. “Let’s go and take a look around.”
“Like walking in the past,” Susan stated.
Mr. Doyle was going through the papers. “Funny, it says here that there is no attic but I can clearly see the stairs going up from the second—final—story and a door it leads to. There was also an attic window at the east end of the house.”
“Is there a basement?” Neealm stepped closer and looked at the papers.
“Let’s see… three bedrooms, music room…” Mr. Doyle’s voice turned into a quiet murmur with no understandable words as he was reading the list of rooms and keeping track with his pen. “No, no basement. That’s very strange. A house this big and no storage space.”
He handed the pen to Neelam. “If you would sign here, please, and here… good. These papers are for you. My presence is no longer necessary, so I best be on my way and you can get settled in. Daylight is very important when unpacking.”
Neelam stopped him. “It may be a strange question, but maybe you can tell me about my uncle?”
Mr. Doyle seemed rushed. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m afraid that there’s not much I can tell you. I only saw him once. Seemed like a decent guy.” He shook Neelam’s hand. “I guess it runs in the family.”
Neelam watched him leave, and then turned to Susan.
“You want to check out the attic?” she asked.
“Love to, but first I want to show you something. Come with me…it’s around the corner right under the attic window, if I remember correctly.”
There was a piece of wooden board in the foundation just in the line of grass, barely visible, only about three centimeters above ground and even less on the right. It looked like it had been there forever…probably placed there when the house was built.
“Do you see that?” Neelam pulled the grass away. “You want to know what I think it is?”
“It’s a window, isn’t it? Buried, but there.”
“Which means that there is a basement after all.” Neelam tried to dig a little with his pocket knife. “And here’s the glass,” he said victoriously.
“So where’s the entrance?” Susan wondered. “I didn’t see any inside the house and there sure isn’t any outside. Do you think that one is buried too?”
“Probably. We can look for it later, now let’s go and take a look at the door that leads to an attic we don’t have.”
The air inside the house was heavy, so Susan left the door open.
“We’ll have to open a window; it feels like the air has been standing still here for as long as the walls have been holding it.” She opened the window across the hall they had entered through the door. The window didn’t want to cooperate at first, then slowly yielded to her pulling, escorted by a loud moaning.
“Windows definitely need new paint,” she denoted.
“So does the banister,” Neelam said and removed his hand from it. “I think I got a splinter!”
“It won’t kill you. Now come on, I’m dying to see what secrets lay behind that mysterious door.”
Neelam followed her all the way up, but as he had suspected, the door was locked.
“Now what?”
“I’ll get the crowbar. It’s probably rusted and won’t open even if we had a key.”
Susan waited for him, leaning against the wall. Suddenly she heard a click. She gazed at the door for a few seconds, then quickly grabbed the handle and found the door unlocked. She opened it.
“How did you do that?” Neelam gently placed the crowbar on a step and followed her in.
Everything was covered with dust, it was clear that no one had been there for a long time. All sorts of junk lying around: boxes, furniture; it was a mess. Light was coming from the right and Neelam turned to it.
“There’s the window.” Neelam tried to navigate his way around the room, and observed, “Some of this stuff could be pretty valuable.”
“You know, I was hoping for something more thrilling than someone’s leftovers.” She glanced out the window. “At least the view is nice. Is it really that dark already?”
“It shouldn’t be, it’s only two in the afternoon. Look, someone’s coming.”
It was dusk outside, but there was just enough light that they could see that a fancy carriage with four horses arrived.
“Oh my god, are you kidding me?” Susan said. “Must be the neighbors pulling a prank.”
“And where would they be getting one of those?”
“Maybe they robbed a museum?”
The carriage stopped and a man came out. He looked around, said something and then a young woman with a child came out, followed by an elderly crippled man with white hair and long beard of the same color.
The younger man turned to him and said something, pointing towards the basement window. Neelam now saw that the basement entrance was right next to it—and to his surprise, the old man went in with the help of a servant. That was followed by a small argument between the man and the woman as they were walking towards the house.
Neelam saw a simple coffin being carried out of the carriage and taken away down the road until the pall bearers disappeared into the darkness. The horses took the carriage away. For a moment, Neelam thought that was it, but then he saw the child running around, playing.
It was a young boy, maybe three or four years of age. He was hiding behind a tree, which Neelam could swear looked a lot smaller from up here, then the child ran to another.
Suddenly something very close to the house caught their attention—an extremely thin figure, covered with rags and a hood over its head, crawled towards the boy. The child seemed to see it at the last moment, but it was too late, that creature had already grabbed him and was now dragging him back to the basement where it had come from.
“The basement,” Susan whispered. “That’s why it’s buried.”
They waited for several minutes, but nothing more happened.
“Should we call the police?” Susan broke the silence.
“And what will we tell them, that they should come and arrest ghosts?” Neelam said.
“Ghosts! What are you talking about?”
“I think we just witnessed a tragedy that took place here a long time ago. Did you see their clothes, the carriage? They come from at least a hundred years ago. And the old man, they made him live in the basement! That is where he probably died, too.”
“This is horrible, Neelam. I want to go home.” She clasped his arm, shaking. He put his other arm around her, trying to calm her down.
“I hate to tell you this, but now more than ever, I want to see what that basement holds. If you want, I can call a cab for you. I understand if you don’t want to be here any longer.”
“Please, do so. I’ll call Miriam to come over, I really don’t want to be alone, but I wouldn’t want to drag you away from here. I may be scared, but I still want to know the rest of the story.”
“The rest of the story?” Neelam raised his eyebrows. “Wasn’t what you’ve already seen enough?”
“What happened in the basement? Why was the little boy dragged down there?”
“Ah, that, yes.” He started to guide her out. “I saw a shovel outside, I’m going to try and see if I can find the entrance.”
After Susan left, he started digging and soon came across an old wooden door. Neelam found it easy to open. He used a flashlight to take a look inside, and at first he was very disappointed. He saw an ordinary basement, dank and clammy. He let the light gloss over the walls, not knowing what he was looking for, and as he went in further, he suddenly saw changes in the wall. It was then that he noticed that the room had no window. There had to be another room behind that wall.
Neelam realized he was right. There used to be a doorway where the bricks in the wall were different. It was sealed later, but the only question is, was it before or after the disappearance of the child?
He left to get the crowbar and then used it to reopen the doorway. The odor of the place was disgusting enough to make even strongest man throw up. Instinctively he covered his mouth and nose, turning his head to one side. Glad that he had skipped lunch, he directed the light inside the secret room, being careful not to go in.
He saw a small room, and as he had suspected, a window. In one corner there were the remains of a bed, or at least that’s what Neelam thought it was used for. Based on that discovery alone, he could be certain that the old man was kept in here—god only knows what the reasons might have been. He closed his eyes and tried to repress his stomach contents, trying to get image out of his mind and wishing that he would just see an empty room when he reopened them. But when he looked again, nothing in the room had changed.
On the bed were three skeletons. One was clearly the little boy he had seen from the attic, and the other one, that still had some rags around it, was the old man. The third one was likely to be the mother. Others could be spotted lying nearby, and one had perished in an obviously desperate attempt to reach the window.
Neelam didn’t spend any more time looking around, he quickly made his way out on the surface and sat on a rock about six meters from the house. He figured it to be the safe distance and kept an eye on the hole he had dug, though he doubted that he was in any danger. There was no reason why that skinny being, which he believed was the old man, would want to hurt him. He sat there for several minutes before he decided to leave.
*****
By the time Neelam got back home, Susan had already calmed down and was eager to hear what else he had uncovered. He told her what he had found and she drew the same conclusions regarding the old man.
“I came up from the basement and sat outside on the ground. So as I was sitting there, thinking about what I had found,” Neelam said, “I looked up, and I saw something moving in the attic. I was at a bad angle and therefore couldn’t make it out, whatever it was that I saw. Light reflecting from the glass hid it. I moved on sideways and slowly I began to see—and now you’d better sit down—the father.”
“You mean, he was upstairs? In the attic?”
“He wasn’t just there, Susan. That’s the rest of the story you wanted to hear so badly. He had hanged himself. Not too long after he lost his family, I believe.”
Susan blanched. “You’re uncle was insane!” she shouted. “How could he have lived there?”
“He didn’t. I called Mr. Doyle on my way here and asked him about it. My uncle only stayed for one night in the house, and guess what was the date?”
“What?”
“Twenty years ago, today. I think that the show those ghosts put on for us is performed again and again each year, every August 13th. No doubt that was the fatal day. He gave me an envelope which he said Uncle Leonard had left for me. He intended for it to be handed to me after I have asked about the house.”
Neelam pulled out an old envelope with the edges of the paper turned yellow and an old-fashioned seal on top.
“Go ahead, open it,” Susan encouraged him. “I’m dying to know what’s in there.”
He carefully cracked the seal and took out a paper that seemed even older than the envelope concealing it. He unfolded it, feeling Susan’s breath on his neck, and they started reading. It was a letter from dear old Uncle Leonard who had gathered information about the little play.
Neelan read aloud: “You have now witnessed part of the tragedy that unfortunately took place in 1887. Mr. and Mrs. Brjon bought this place and decided to live here every winter. Together they had their son, who was curious and not exactly obedient, and Mr. Brjon’s father. The old man would’ve needed care twenty-four hours a day, so instead, Mr. Brjon locked him in the basement and never let him out again.”
“You mean he was buried alive?” Susan gasped. Neelam barely nodded.
“He was sealed in there,” Neelam continued reading, “buried alive. Mr. Brjon arranged a fake funeral with an empty casket to make people believe that his father had died, but he was still pretty much alive and in a way, he attended the funeral himself—through the window.”
“Go on,” Susan prompted.
Neelan sighed but continued, “God only knows what he did to deserve that kind of a punishment, but clearly he found it to be unfair. The old man, whose name I was unable to uncover, took Mr. Brjon’s loved-ones to the grave with him. But that was more that the father could bear, so on the same day he took the rope and hanged himself in the attic. That’s why it was sealed up. But the old man wasn’t all right in the head when he died, and I guess his condition didn’t improve after death either. His ghost kept dragging kids and young women down there whenever they came within the reach of his chain.”
Then Neelan swallowed before he read the final paragraph of the letter: “People are curious these days, they have to know everything. I’m guessing that so are you, Neelam, am I right? Do you now think it was wise to let him out?”
Susan protested, “But you didn’t let him out, Neelam, so he was free to leave.”
“That may not be true anymore, Susan.” Neelam took a hold of both of her hands. “You see, I called the cops before I left and they’re going to rebury the bodies…”
Edith O’Deer is 28 years old and has lived most of her life in a small village by the sea near Tallinn in Estonia. She moved inland to Viljandi in the summer of 2004. She is married to Ain, and has a daughter named Kärt Evi, who loves to spend her time chasing their cat and dog or scaring the fish.
Edith likes reading, especially short horror stories, and the utter lack of them in Estonia is what inspired her to write them. She learned English thanks to the great number of movies Hollywood produces, and she loves to watch them. But her great love is the sea, and she misses on the inlands, but plans to move back again next to it one day.