---
Chapter IV
---
The scenery around the road finally changed as the van crested a small hill and its headlights washed over a dilapidated landscape. It was a wide, shadowy expanse, interspersed with huge oak trees whose leafy limbs stretched into the dark sky. What appeared to be an ancient wooden bandstand sat in the middle of the clearing; a poor, sagging structure whose once-whitewashed surface was now coated with graffiti. The dirt road became gravel that wound around the parkland, and Stanley noticed a broken wooden fence on the left side of the road, a dirt path running parallel to it. Probably an unused riding trail, he guessed.
"Sedgwick Park," said Martin with a solemn expression. "Uncle Yale told me about this place. He used to come here when he was a kid."
Stanley simply nodded and continued to observe the dreary scenery. They passed a weed-choked pond, where nothing disturbed the stagnate water's surface (though, for a fleeting moment, Stanley thought he saw a pair of reptilian eyes and a huge, scaly body among the reeds). Then the road curved around a ruined memorial; the headless statue of a man in Revolutionary War attire, holding a broken saber before him. This too was a victim of graffiti. For Stanley, it was like looking at a place the world had forgotten, frozen in its own state of decay. It was alien, and for some reason an unwarranted chill went up his spine.
They were just cruising past a small square, the cracked and algae-slick fountain only spraying forth a trickle of water, when Martin spoke again. "There it is!"
Stanley looked up with a start as the van stopped. Ahead, he could see a large brick fence, the top of which was set with iron railings. Though the bricks themselves were low to the ground, he couldn't see through the rails do to a tree that sat directly against it. To the left, the fence curved around into a little wrought-iron gate supported by brick columns. To the right, a larger pair of gates loomed ominously.
Martin was the first to gleefully hop out of the van, immediately jogging to the big gate. Stanley followed, noticing as he put his foot down that the ground was paved. He joined Martin at the gate and peered through the ornate iron.
His jaw dropped.
Beyond the gate, a curving drive led to a huge, three-story manor house. It stood, dark and silent; a grand structure, painted a faded shade of white. The full moon was just rising now, and its dim light revealed the details of the place. Four Roman-esque columns dominated the front of the house, rising to support part of the third floor. Its second-floor balcony was supported by more wrought-iron, the curving details amazingly conveyed even in the half-shadows. Stanley's eye was drawn to the very peak of the mansion, where a belvedere towered over the rest of the house. A weathervane, in the shape of a clipper ship, perched on the roof's point.
Stanley was still trying to grasp the fact that this antebellum building belonged to him as Martin laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome home, cuz."
"Wow," Stanley managed. He scratched his head. "It's…bigger than I expected."
"No kidding." Martin flashed a thumbs-up before examining the gate. An old-fashioned padlock held the gates closed. Martin stared at it for a moment.
"Huh," he said. "I hadn't thought about this."
Stanley gave the padlock a tug. It was bigger than his hand and, despite its rusty look, very sturdy. He sighed. "Great. We drive all the way out here and we're locked out."
Martin was already working a foot into one of the ornate gate spaces, hoisting himself up. "I didn't get us here for us to just turn around. Look, this is easy enough to climb!"
Surprised, Stanley watched his cousin slowly scale the gate. "Martin! Are you nuts?" he gasped. "What if someone sees us? We'll look like burglars!"
Martin paused, looked down at Stanley and rolled his eyes. "We're in the middle of nowhere, Stan. Who's gonna report us? Besides, we're locked out of your house." He continued climbing.
"Martin!" Stanley whispered desperately. His rational side told him Martin was right, but he couldn't shake the creepy feeling that someone, somewhere, was watching them right at that moment.
No sooner had this eerie sensation crept up on him than a voice, right behind Stanley, said "Excuse me."
Stanley wasn't normally a jumpy person, but jump he did. And let out an involuntary yell as he spun around. Martin, surprised, yelled too as he lost his footing and fell off the gate.
The man standing behind Stanley also yelled in fright and covered his head with both hands, a lantern held in one of them. He was a lean, skinny fellow with a brown, dirty overcoat and a green scarf wrapped around his neck (it wasn't particularly cold out, as far as Stanley could tell). His shoes were covered in mud, as were his trousers. When at last he peeked nervously from around his impromptu guard, Stanley saw the face of a weary, nervous human being. His wide eyes were alive with fright, and unkempt graying hair poked out from under his black cap. A rail thing dog whimpered from its hiding place behind the man's quaking knees.
An awkward moment passed where they simply stared at each other, while Martin sat up and dusted off, groaning to himself. Finally, Stanley managed to say, "Erm, sorry about that, sir. You startled me."
"S-s-same here," the man stammered, a nervous hiccup of a chuckle escaping him. He did seem to relax a bit, but his knees kept quaking. The dog behind him whined and shrunk further behind its master. "I-I didn't mean to s-s-sneak up on you l-like that. Sorry." He tipped his hat with a jittery hand.
Martin was on his feet and with his usual Martin-grin, as if falling off a gate was an everyday occurrence. "I think apologies are accepted all around, folks," he said brightly, than cast a sideways glance at the locked gates. "I hope I didn't give the wrong impression, mister…"
The man blinked blankly at Martin, then started. "O-oh! It's O'Dell, sir. I'm Richard O'Dell. And this is Boney." He gestured to the quaking, near-skeletal dog. The animal's doleful eyes gazed fearfully at the cousins.
Fitting name, thought Stanley sardonically. Outside, he said, "I'm Stanley, and this is my cousin Martin."
"Howdy!" Martin chimed.
Richard seemed to be having a hard time comprehending the two of them. Probably just as hard of a time Stanley had comprehending the poor, nerve-rattled man and his skinny dog.
Martin spoke again. "So yeah, Mr. O'Dell. We're not trying to break-in or anything. My cuz here," –he gave Stanley a quick nudge with his elbow- "is the new owner."
"Ah," said Richard, and he nodded. His gaze went from Stanley to the gloom-shrouded mansion and back. "I-I've been expecting you." Before either Martin or Stanley could open their mouths to speak, Richard went on. "I'm the caretaker, you see, keeping the grounds t-tidy and all. I got word you were coming from a Miss…Zoe, was it?"
Stanley turned to Martin, who chuckled. "Oh," he said, to both Stanley and Richard. "Yeah, I know Zoe – my friend I was telling you about, Stan."
Richard nodded. "Y-yes. A-anyway, she told me I should expect a couple of people to show up in a few d-days time, and that one of them would be the new property holder. I-I just f-figured I'd keep my eyes open during my rounds."
"Martin," said Stanley evenly, folding his arms and fixing his cousin with a stare, "how many of your weird friends know about me inheriting this place?"
Martin shamefacedly rubbed the back of his head. "Er…"
Sensing the impending trouble, the groundskeeper stammered, "U-um, does either of you have p-proof of ownership?"
Stanley snorted in Martin's direction and got the ancient title deed from his shirt pocket, along with Uncle Yale's note, and handed them to Richard. The caretaker took them gingerly in his shaking hand and, with the light of his lantern, scanned the documents. This gave Stanley a moment to ponder why a supposedly abandoned mansion had a groundskeeper. It didn't make sense. He turned again to look at the mansions exterior. It did, to a degree, look like Martin's ideal haunted estate, but it lacked the decrepit and deteriorating appearance. Even from this distance, and in this lighting, Stanley could tell that the building looked decently taken care of.
"W-well, I'll be," mused Richard after a while, and he carefully handed the papers back to Stanley. "I-it looks g-genuine to me, M-Mr. Vine. S-so, you want to go i-i-i-" It seemed he couldn't finish the sentence, he was stuttering so badly. He pointed toward the gate.
"Yes please," replied Martin brightly. Stanley just sighed. Between his bizarre relative and the jittery groundskeeper, it was turning out to be an odd welcoming committee.
Richard nodded, gulped, and pulled a large brass ring of keys from a coat pocket. With one hand still holding the lantern, he picked out a key and stuck it in the padlock's keyhole. He looked back at Stanley and Martin, holding the lantern up.
"W-w-would one of y-y-you p-p-please…"
Stanley, without a word, took the lantern, freeing both of the caretaker's hands to work at the lock. Boney the dog sat obediently at his master's side, alert. Light source in-hand, Stanley idly looked from Richard to one of the brick columns holding gate upright. An oval, dark brass plaque on the column caught the light from the lamp, with the words Gracey Manor set into it.
A loud click and clatter sounded, and Richard slowly pushed the gate inward, it hinges squealing a little. The caretaker managed a weak smile. "H-haven't oiled it recently. S-sorry." He accepted the lantern back from Stanley and seemed to hesitate a bit before leading the way onto the grounds, Boney trotting close at his heels.
The walked down the paved drive, which curved along the fence, toward the house. Martin (ever enthusiastic Martin) was trying to strike up a conversation with the groundskeeper, while Stanley hung back and took everything in. A light fog hung close to the ground here, and he could actually stir the fog with his feet as he moved. Ahead, the mansion grew nearer, towering above his head and bathed in moonlight.
"So Richard," Martin was saying, "I'm a little confused. How long have you worked here as caretaker?"
"A-about ten years, I'd say," replied the groundskeeper.
Martin gaped. "Really? That's a long track record you got there! Who pays you, anyway? Isn't this place empty?"
Richard didn't reply, but cast what looked like a nervous gaze at the mansion. Stanley was wondering the same thing Martin was, and if he was expected to pay the man for his work. The lawns and plants did look well-kept, so he assumed Richard was doing a good job.
Staring idly around, Stanley nearly jumped when he saw odd shapes through the ground-mist – animals, dozens of them, all clustered to the left side of the drive near the huge oak tree he'd seen earlier. It took him a moment to realize they were statues…No, monuments. It was a pet cemetery, by the look of it; the animal statues were perched atop headstones. He couldn't read the epitaphs in the gloom, and resolved to check them out later.
He was about to point his discovery out to Martin, but his cousin had found something else of interest: a white hearse carriage, of all things, parked at the end of the drive, just before the manor's porch. Martin, like a kid looking at a toy display, had his face pressed against the glass window. Stanley had to pause a moment himself to consider it. It was like someone was intentionally trying to add a haunted vibe.
"Far out!" he said happily, then turned and looked at Stanley. "This thing is ancient! There's nothing in there, but still!" Then his attention was on Richard. "Hey Richard, you ever see any ghosts?"
Richard froze where he stood, one foot on the porch steps. Very slowly, he turned his head back to look at Martin, his eyes wide.
"G-g-g-ghosts?" he sputtered. "W-w-w-why do y-you ask?"
Stanley rolled his eyes. "He's a paranormal investigator."
Martin opened his mouth to reply, but the groundskeeper had quickly jumped up on the porch and was flicking through his ring of keys again.
"Nice job," muttered Stanley as he came up beside Martin.
"What?" Martin looked puzzled.
"Obviously the poor guy's all jumpy. He's probably never seen anything."
"Maybe he has. That's why he's like that. I just figured if he knew anything…"
Both were startled by a loud groan – the front door opening. Richard was stuffing his keys back in his coat pocket as he pulled it open. Martin made a bizarre giggle-like noise and made tracks for the porch, joining the caretaker on the porch. From what Stanley could see, it was pitch black inside, and a palpable sense of age seemed to waft out as open air poured in.
The caretaker's dog took one look inside, whined pitiably, and trotted behind one of the columns, its tail between its legs.
Stanley joined the other two men on the porch, peering into the shadows. Richard's lantern shook in his grasp, and managed to penetrate the thick wall of black beyond the door. One could just make out the room beyond; a foyer of some sort, choked with cobwebs. Stanley put a hand to his nose to avoid sniffing up the dust that had been disturbed by the door opening.
"Wow," exclaimed Martin. He smirked. "The Orken Man would have a field day in this place!"
Stanley turned to Richard. "I thought you were taking care of this place. It looks dead in there"
Richard's expression shifted from nervous to nervous-with-a-hint-of-embarrassment. "Oh, I-I only take c-care of the outside. It's the…The owners that h-handle the inside."
"That's cool," said Martin. He was digging around in one of his khaki pockets and produced a small flashlight. "We'll scope the place tonight anyway, right cuz?"
"I dunno…" Stanley again looked into the entry. "It looks dangerous. I don't think anyone's been in here for years."
Richard nodded. "Y-y-yes. I'd be careful, if I w-were you." The man's gaze kept flicking away from the door, as if he didn't want to look inside.
"What're you afraid of, Mr. Skeptic?" Martin teased. He grinned and stepped inside, flicking on his flashlight.
Stanley sighed. He was afraid of real dangers, like pitfalls or debris or tripping over something in the dark. They were entering a dilapidated old mansion, and naturally all Martin could think about was chatting up with the undead. He'd probably have to look out for both of them.
"There's no arguing with you, is there?"
Martin grinned wryly to reply.
Stanley looked to Richard. The older man shook his head and shrugged. "If you w-want to l-l-look around, I understand. I-I-If you need anything, you can f-find my place over on the s-s-southeast edge of the g-g-g-g…" He swallowed; a very loud gulp. "The property. I d-d-don't mind visitors."
Smiling kindly, Stanley offered him a hand to shake. "We appreciate all your help, Mr. O'Dell," he said. "I don't suppose you could show us around inside, could you.
Richard glanced at the offered hand, then at the open doorway. He smiled weakly and tipped his hat, but took a cautious step back.
"I-I-I…I have to f-f-finish my rounds, sorry." He tipped his hat again. "Y-y-you never know when p-pranksters might show up."
A third hat-tip, and he practically bolted in the other direction, Boney scampering after him, before Stanley could say a word. He watched them go, the light from Richard's lamp bobbing away into the darkness. He was at a loss for how to gauge the caretaker, but the man seemed genuinely edgy around them. What was that all about?
"Stan!" Martin stood in the doorway, flashlight in hand. "Are you gonna stand out there all night? We got a whole mansion to explore!"
Groaning involuntarily, Stanley turned back toward the yawning entry to his new home. Even he, the skeptic, the sensible one, had to admit the atmosphere of this place would make anyone a little on edge.
---
"Far out…"
The flashlight beam swept over the details of the gloomy foyer, revealing peeling floral wallpaper and dust-covered wainscoting. A cobweb-draped chandelier hung above the heads of the two cousins, still set with ancient candles. Three closed doors offered passage out, other than the way they had come in.
Stanley felt along the wall for any sort of light switch, but fond none. He swatted a stray spider away and stared after Martin. "We really should come back in the morning. I don't want to fumble around in the dark."
"And miss out on the most primary time for ghostly activity?" Martin grinned as the beam of his flashlight's glow washed over a dirty mirror hanging from a wall. Stanley caught his own reflection in it for a moment, distorted and dusty. Martin went on. "No way. I'm bound to pick something up sooner or later."
As he spoke, he pulled what looked like an 8-track cassette recorder out from under his shirt (just how many hidden devices did he have on him?). He opened and closed the tape deck, checking that there was indeed a cassette in there, and hit a red button that snapped on with a click that resounded in the room.
"What's that for?" asked Stanley.
"It's an EVP recorder," said Martin matter-of-factly. "It runs on a different frequency than most recordings. Picks up infrasound, something humans can't actively hear most of the time. Ghosts can sometimes be heard when you play back the recordings." Flashlight in one hand and recording device in the other, Martin wandered toward the double-door directly across from the entrance. "I figured this is the first step in the investigation. If I get good enough feedback, I'll bring my whole Apparition Apparatus kit in here and do a more thorough check."
Stanley shrugged. "Well, as long as you make it quick." He approached the doors Martin was in front of and put his hand on the doorknob. The brass felt unusually cold under his fingertips, but logically, old houses like these were drafty and kept the chill locked inside.
Martin nodded. "Oh yeah. Just wanna get a sense of things tonight, and we can come back tomorrow and get a better grasp of your new place." He gestured to the door. "Spooky so far, innit? Anyway, you've got the lead, cuz. I'm your houseguest."
Spooky? That fit well, but that was the nighttime atmosphere, the odd things left around – like that hearse on the front drive. Stanley made a mental note to ask the caretaker more about that and the other, seemingly deliberate eerie details before he turned the handle and pushed the doors open.
The room beyond was just even darker than the foyer, but the flashlight beam revealed an octagonal room with thick wood paneling along the walls. Both cousins stuck their heads through the doorway and scanned the space before stepping in. It was a high-ceilinged space, the paneling ending about halfway up the wall. Gargoyle-shaped sconces occupied corner, holding unlit, wax-dripped candled in their hands, grinning down into the chamber. Stanley wrinkled his nose at them.
"Brr…" Martin shivered and directed the light up the walls. "It's colder in here. That's a good sign…Hey! Check out these paintings!"
Stanley found himself in an odd state, and only half-listened to Martin's statement. He couldn't place it, but he felt a sense of unease here. Something felt wrong with the room, but nothing obvious that he could tell. He tried to shake the feeling away, telling himself to be rational, but it stuck firm in his gut. Maybe the atmosphere was starting to break through his wall of skepticism.
Finally he did look up, following the flashlight around the room as it moved over four tall paintings, hanging above the gargoyles heads – a smug man in a bowler hat, arms folded over his chest; a smiling woman with hazel eyes, holding a parasol daintily across one shoulder; an official-looking, balding gentleman with a serious expression (added to with his trim brown beard) and a suit; and a old lady with her graying hair in a bun, holding a rose and smirking.
Suddenly, the light went dim. Martin scowled and shook the flashlight. "Huh? What's wrong with this thing? I just got new batteries for it!" Then he a sly smile crept across his face. "Ah. No, this has happened before. This is a very good sign. Power tends to drain from things when ghosts are…Stan?"
That awful feeling…It felt a lot stronger now. Stanley made a quick shushing noise and listened intently, holding up a finger for quiet. Other than the quiet whirr of the tape recorder, there was no other noise to…
Wait.
There it was again. It was barely on the edge of Stanley's hearing, but he could barely make out a new noise: a creaking sort of sound, somewhat rhythmic and so soft that Stanley had nearly missed it under his own breathing. Now that he could hear it, he tried to trace it.
"You hear that, Martin?"
Martin blinked. "What?"
Creak, creak, creak. It was not like the sound of someone stepping on a loose floorboard, or a rocking chair. Stanley suddenly remember when he was a kid, spending a summer with, ironically, Uncle Yale. Martin had been there too, and they used to go out in Yale's big backyard and swing on an old wooden swing that was tied to a tree limb. Once you got it going good enough, the tree limb would groan a little, and the ropes holding the swing would creak when they went taut. The sound Stanley was hearing was akin to that.
He looked up toward the tall ceiling of the room. It had some nice molding details, nothing special. Yet as Stanley stared upward, the feeling he'd had since he entered the room intensified, going quickly from unease to an outright icky feeling. That creaking noise seemed more concentrated now to his ear. What was more, in dimness of the dying flashlight, the shadows began to gather, and a sensation of vertigo swept over him.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
He had to leave this room. Now.
With this dire, instinctual urge, Stanley turned and stumbled out of the room, through the foyer, and back out onto the porch and into the warm night air. He heard Martin call after him, but ignored it. He leaned against one of the columns, breathing heavily, waiting for the nausea and the shakiness to pass. What had just happened in there, he could not grasp. It made no sense, but it was like something oppressive was in that room.
He nearly jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder, but it was just Martin, concern showing in his eye behind his glasses. "Stan?" he asked. "You alright?"
Stanley nodded. "I'll…I'll be fine, Martin. Really." He sat down on the porch steps. "I just…I'm not sure."
Glancing back at Martin, he half-expected some supernatural explanation. He was extremely grateful that Martin simply nodded.
"Alright, cuz, if you say so. Get yourself a bit of air." He turned to the front door. "Would it bother you if I looked around just a little longer? I just want to try one of the other doors. Ten minutes tops, OK?"
Stanley nodded.
Martin gave a quick thumbs-up with the flashlight-hand and jogged back into the foyer. Stanley watched him go, then looked back over the fog-shrouded grounds. He felt like his mind was in a state of turmoil. He wanted to know where his irrational fear had suddenly stemmed from. It was not like him to suddenly be terrified for no reason. What had come over him in there?
He contemplated this. He had not always been a rational person. But he knew better now than to put stock into the supernatural. Everything has a logical, scientific reason. The hard part was trying to figure out what logical, scientific reason had suddenly made him bolt from a room in a panic. Maybe it was just the psychological buildup he'd had all day, culminating in that space. To some extent, he was sure everyone succumbed to that at some point. Perhaps it was simply the timing.
Stanley groaned, shook his head, and glared out toward the mansion's gate. This was all so confusing, and it was hard to think when three people were staring at you from…
Wait.
He did a double-take and looked again. Through the mist, he could indistinctly see the outline of three people, staring at him through the wrought-iron. And what was more, they looked familiar. Before Stanley could make a move, the three strangers, like shadows, dashed away from the gate. Leaping to his feet, Stanley followed them as best he could with his eyes. They seemed to make straight for Martin's van. He saw one of the doors open.
"Martin!"
Stanley was already running toward the gate when Martin emerged from the mansion, slightly bewildered. He picked up the pace nonetheless.
"Someone's trying to steal your van!"
Now they were both even as they skidded around the brick fence and ran at the vehicle. Martin practically slammed into the thing as he made for the open passenger-side door, but Stanley skidded to a stop. What if these guys were crazy? What if they were armed?
Martin, with an uncharacteristic war-cry, dove into the van. It shook and rattler for a few seconds, then silence. The hatch door on the side slid open and a multitude of books spilled out, along with Martin. He pushed his askew glasses back up on his face and glared at Stanley.
"What's the big idea?" he asked, and started shoveling books back into the van. "There's no one in there, cuz."
Stanley sputtered, "I swear I just now saw three people watching me through the gate! Then they ran toward your van, and I saw…"
What had he seen?
"It was them!" he added. "Those guys I thought I saw on the road up here! The hitchhikers!"
Martin, arms full of books, dropped another load in and put a hand on his chin. "Again?"
At a loss, Stanley shook his head. He looked back toward the mansion; it seemed to be looking at him with disdain, its windows like many black, judgmental eyes. He shivered.
"Very intriguing," mused Martin to himself, his bravado completely out of mind. Stanley began to pick up some of the spilled items from the van himself. Martin looked up. "Stan, I say we call it a night. Something's going on here, and it might be better if we come back tomorrow."
Again, Stanley appreciated Martin not bringing anything up about ghosts or goblins. It made things a lot easier. Nodding, he climbed into the passenger side, noticing Martin had left his tape recorder sitting on the seat, still recording. He looked at it for a moment, reached for the "stop" button, then thought better and left alone. Who knew what Martin wanted done with the thing. Best to leave it be.
A moment later, Martin was turning the key in the ignition, and the van sputtered to life. Stanley took another look at the mansion as the headlights came on.
"We left the front door open," he stated.
Martin shrugged. "No worries. That O'Dell guy had the keys anyway. He'll take care of it."
Another thing to ponder on top of everything else, thought Stanley with some agitation. He would have to ask Richard O'Dell some questions when they came by again.
"By the way," said Martin, slowly backing the van up, "what did these guys look like? Did you see them clearly?"
Stanley thought about it a moment. "Well, not really, but they…"
He trailed off, eyes wide. In the rear-view mirror, he could see his reflection, Martin's reflection, and the cluttered space in the rear of the vehicle. Only now three pale faces blocked the backseat view, also reflected in the mirror, leering at him; one with sunken eyes and a skeleton grin, one with a round, pudgy smirk; and a third with thickly matted hair covering most of the face, saves for a protruding nose and pair of beady eyes. In unison, the apparitions waved at him, the skull-faced phantasm tipping its bowler hat in the process.
With a jolt, Stanley snapped his head to look into the back. There was no one to be seen. He looked back at the mirror. Empty.
---
Took me long enough to get this chapter up. My apologies. School is doing what it does best and comsuming a lot of my time. However, one of my classes is already over and done with, which allows me more free time!
Again, big thanks to everyone for their kind reviews. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this most recent chapter. After all, there's no turning back now...