Haunted

Haunted

Usually, Toby did not have to walk past the house. Usually, he did everything in his power to avoid going anywhere near it. The place looked like it had been put together from several different nightmares. The yard was so overgrown the rotting house was hidden in permanent shadow. Weeds gathered in the yard and reached through the fence like they were trying to catch whoever walked by.

Unfortunately, Toby had forgotten it was Tuesday, and extension history was early in the morning. Running late, he had to choose between taking Ashburn Road, straight up the hill that passes the house, or run late and face the wrath of Mrs. Wood. It was a close call.

As he approached the crumbling concrete fence, Toby felt a cold tingle across his flesh. The light seemed to dim when he walked alongside the house. Time slipped by slower, every step an exercise in bravery. Everyone knew that house number 14 on Ashburn Road was haunted.

Standing at the rusted gate, Toby could not stop staring at the house. He thought of his Mother, so scared of spiders that whenever she spotted one, she could not let it out of her sight. He understood the slightly skewed logic: better to be able to see the thing that frightens you than know it was there, but not know exactly where.

"Come-on Toby, the house can't move. There is no need to keep looking at it." He repeated, "the house can't move," a few times under his breath. Only fragments of the house were visible through the overgrown yard, a sagging corner of the roof, a peeling window frame, the big old-fashioned doorknocker.

His legs didn't seem to want to start walking again. The morning air was chilly and he was beginning to shiver. Hey dork, are you scared of the Ashburn house?

Toby jumped, finally pulling his gaze away from the house to the pair of older boys prowling up the street. "N-no." Toby replied, not even convincing himself. The pair positioned themselves either side of Toby and grabbed his arms. Toby would have been no match for one of the jocks, against two he was helpless. "Well, how about you prove it? We'll let you back out of the gate once you've touched the front door."

With a brief nod to each other, the boys hefted Toby over the gate and dumped him onto the path. They stood grinning at him from the other side. Toby felt like they were miles away.

His heart trembled and pounded inside his ribs. He could feel a racing pulse in his left temple. Toby shoved the metal gate, but the boys held it firm.

"Go-on, you little shrimp. Prove you're not scared." Turning back to the house, Toby tried his best to ignore the pressure of tears welling under his eyes. He took a step forward, his leg so wobbly he almost twisted his ankle. Cold seemed to climb out of the ground and wrap fingers around his legs. He took a deep breath, focusing on the snickering of the two bullies behind him, something real to overcome. He concentrated on moving away from the laughter. The concrete path led straight to the front door, yet there were so many branches and brambles in his way, it was a mission crossing the yard. Finally, he made it to the narrow porch. He turned to the boys guarding the gate.

"You have to knock," one of the boys yelled.

Toby moved further forward, feeling the wood give a little under his feet. He stepped up to the door and lifted his hand, surprised by the steadiness of his fist. Just as he pulled the metal ring back to knock, the blur of a face appeared in the side window. Toby was halfway down the path before he knew what was happening. His left foot slipped on a lump of moss, and he grabbed a handful of thorny bushes to keep upright, ignoring the hot pain across his palm. He plunged towards the gate. The bullies were gone, and he rushed through, running the rest of the way to school.

000---

"What happened to you this morning?" Bruce asked accusingly, like Toby's disheveled state was an insult to his best friend.

"A couple of seniors made me go up to the Ashburn house. Bruce went pale and squeaked, "you what?"

Quiet, please!" Mrs. Wood said.

Toby nodded and kept his eyes on his textbook. They didn't speak again until lunch.

Now away from the horrible house, Toby's brain was regaining its sense, and he realized he had basically pranked whoever actually lived there. Would they complain to the school? What if his parent's found out?

Bruce snapped him out of his thoughts, speaking around a mouthful of crackers, 'you know what they say about the Ashburn house, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, whole family killed by their deranged father, he's on death-row. The house is haunted forever, blah, blah, blah. "

"You're shitting yourself. "

Toby whimpered, "Is it that obvious?"

"Well let me know if you need some help. I know all about that stuff. "

"I'd rather just not think about it. I'll just never walk along Ashburn Road again.

He didn't think about it for the rest of the day. As he left school, he heard the voice of one of the seniors who put him over the fence that morning, "No really, listen you dickhead. It's true.

Toby slowed his pace, following the group of seniors. "You're telling me you saw the ghost of the Ashburn Road house?

I saw something when that shrimp knocked on the door." Toby grimaced.

"Oh yeah, what did it look like?"

Disgusting, its skin was droopy—its eyes were red, and it had no hair."

"That's just what an old person looks like. Don't you know there's a war veteran living there? That's why it looks run down. He's too messed up in the head to keep the place under control, and he's too broke to pay someone else to look after it.

The group split up as they left the school, and Toby waited for the boys to get a block ahead before heading home. His stomach was feeling sick with guilt. He had pranked some poor old war hero. The house had become a lot less scary and a lot sadder. Once he arrived home, he asked his mother if there was anything he might do for the old man.

"Well, I guess you could offer to cut back his lawn this weekend. "

—-000---

On Saturday morning, he threw on some old clothes, grabbed a pair of garden sheers, and made his way up Ashburn Road. It wasn't until he pushed open the gate and had gotten halfway across the yard that Toby started to think he might be making a mistake. He should have asked his Father to come and help. "Come-on you Muppet," Toby said to himself. He made it to the front door and knocked firmly, rehearsing his lines.

Five minutes passed before he knocked again, and glanced through the side window. The glass was too grimy, the house too dark. All he saw was his own pale reflection. Toby knocked again, and another five minutes passed with no reply. He figured it would be a good idea to turn around and head home, and never think about the house again. Then a nagging voice that might have been his conscience spoke up. There had been someone looking through the window, an old man. What if he was lying dead in there, or had hurt his leg and couldn't reach the telephone?

After another heavy knock, Toby tried calling out, but still there was no reply. He reached out and touched the doorknob. There was so much rust that a cloud of brown and orange flakes scattered as he turned it.

After a tentative few seconds, he swung the door open. Hello?" Toby called into the house. He stepped slowly inside. The thick air caught in his throat. He was in a big hallway with a few rooms off each side, and there was a stairway at the end. There were so many cobwebs that his mother would die of fear if she saw the place.

"Are you alright?" Toby shouted, feeling stupid. He was about to turn and leave when a figure strode through a door on the right, a tall man in old-fashioned clothes. Toby screamed and raised the sheers, which made the man scream, raise his hands, and start tumbling backwards.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Toby squeaked, dropping the sheers. The man steadied himself against a small table and stared at Toby.

They both stood there looking at each other for a second, and then the man started frantically looking around the house, "You've scared them away, where are they?" His voice was deep, and it seemed odd, like he was far away. Toby stood back and watched in confusion as the old man paced around the house muttering over and over again. Toby could not hear much of what he said, but he caught the occasional "come back," and "what has the boy done?" "Uh, I'm sorry to have bothered you mister, uh." The old man did not respond.

"I'll get out of your house. Sorry.

Toby stepped out and closed the door. The man didn't even notice him leaving.

Back at home, Toby threw off his gardening clothes and flopped down on the couch. He turned on the television but he couldn't sit still long enough to watch anything. His thoughts kept returning to the man. He told his mother about the events of that morning.

His name is Arnold Astle. I think he fought in Vietnam, or even World War II or something. The story goes he got pretty badly shell-shocked. "

"Shell-shocked?"

It's when soldiers come so close to getting blown up during their service, that they can't settle down when they come back home.

Once again, Toby felt guilty. He tried to stop thinking about it, figuring it was best to leave things alone. He didn't know anything about shell-shock, although Bruce once told him that army men were coming back from Iraq and turning into serial killers.

Again, his plan to forget about the Ashburn house did not work. When his father came home, he cornered Toby, "Where are the gardening sheers?

I've got your

grandmother's hedge to do tomorrow." Toby panicked when he realized they were still at Arnold Astle's house. He told his father where they were, and was sent back to get them. The sun was going down, and the house was much worse in twilight. Even though Toby knew it was just a crazy old guy living there, he still felt scared witless. The house was a dark shape in the gloomy shadows. Toby wanted to run back home, but he knew his Dad wouldn't be happy, and he wanted to apologize to Mr. Astle anyway. He crept up to the door, and much like before, there was no answer. He pushed open the door, "Mr. Astle, it's me again, the boy from before. "

Toby immediately spotted the garden sheers lying on the hallway carpet. He snatched them up and turned to leave. The sound of laughter stopped him. The house was pitch black, except for a warm glow through a doorframe across the hall. "Mr. Astle?" Toby pushed open the door. The scene froze him solid. A roaring fire that produced no heat glowed in the corner. A huge candle cast light over a dining table covered with plates of food, cuts of roast gleaming in oil, vegetables dripping in butter, a pitcher of pale lemonade. There was no aroma of cooking, despite the delicious looking meal in front of him. A family surrounded the table, three young girls, and a baby strapped to a high chair. A beautiful brown haired woman watched over the children while serving food.

"Uh, sorry. Are you related to Mr. Astle?"

None of them responded.

The old man appeared, striding in from another doorway. He smiled at the woman, and pinched one of the girls for taking food from his plate. She squealed and ran around the table to sit on the other side of the woman. Arnold leaned forward and spoke quietly to the infant. The woman smiled and ran her hand up his back, stroking Arnold's neck while the baby garbled at him.

Toby hadn't been noticed yet. He backed away and pushed the door to within an inch of closing, then scurried out the front door and back home. That night he lay awake, the sheets clutched so tightly that his fingers ached. -—000---

On Monday, Toby found Bruce before school and told him everything.

"Oh man," Bruce went pale. "That poor old guy is getting haunted and he doesn't even know it. "That's why he's crazy.

"Maybe his family was visiting?

Bruce shook his head. "No way, Arnold Astle doesn't have a family. You said it yourself; you couldn't feel the heat of the fire, or smell the food." Bruce shook his head, "Eating their food is how they get to you! Look." He showed Toby a huge textbook filled with old pictures, and pointed to a list of instructions.

"This is what you've got to do."

'"Why do 'I' have to it?"' Toby whimpered, feeling pathetic. "You owe this guy for knocking on his door. And no-one else will believe you.

"You believe me.

"Yeah, I've been grounded since I got caught with that bottle of beer last month. "

Toby sighed and took the book. Apparently he had to surround the house in salt just before the sun when down. Then while light still touched the sky, carry a candle around the circle pouring wax over the salt. Finally, in full dark he would have to bury the salt and wax under a layer of soil. "Sounds real easy. " Toby muttered.

000---

His Mother smiled when Toby offered to help with the groceries. He made sure to grab several other items, along with the salt and candles, so she didn't ask questions. His parents didn't allow him out on weekdays, so it was Friday when he got his next chance to go back to the house. He put everything in his backpack, and after going online to learn what time sundown was, he left, telling his parents he was going to finish helping Mr. Astle with his lawn. It was a cold, still night, and Toby's breath huffed in clouds of steam as he walked up the road. He stood at the gate for a long while, thinking about Mr. Astle. He had seemed happy to be with the ghost family. Bruce said that was how the spirits worked, tricking the living into becoming ghosts themselves.

"Well it's not exactly helping with the garden, but here goes.

He checked his watch and went through the gate. Peeking in the front windows, he saw no sign of Mr. Astle or the ghosts. Pouring a line of salt down the front porch took only a few moments, working around the house was going to take some work. Toby had to shove the thick weeds out of the way. By the time he was halfway done, dozens of weeds clung to his sleeves, and his legs were covered in seedpods. Around the back, it got so dark he worried the sun had already set. But as he returned to the front yard, he saw the sun hanging low over the horizon, and he let out a sigh of relief. He sat outside the ring of salt for a few minutes, gathering his courage. The setting sun turned the clouds a bright orange, and Toby wondered if Mr. Astle could watch the sky without thinking about bombs.

His watch read 7:39pm just as the glowing sun disappeared. Toby struck a match and watched in dismay as the head broke off and flicked away.

"Come-on, come-on." He muttered. The light was fading fast and the streetlights barely did anything against the dark. The second match flared. In the burst of light, Toby thought he saw a figure walk around the edge of the house. He touched the match to the candle, and sighed in relief when the wick lit. He let the candle burn for two minutes, until a small pool of liquid had formed around the top. If he held the candle at just the right angle, wax dripped rhythmically onto the ground, covering the salt. Toby started walking. The process was agonizingly slow and he had to stop several times to let the liquid wax build up again. Around the back of the house, he stopped, barely able to see much more than the ring of salt he was following. He stared at the candle flame, willing the wax to build faster. As he looked down to pour the wax, he saw a pair of small white shoes straddling either side of the line of salt. He looked up to see one of the ghost girls, staring at him, her skin paler than moonlight. Toby was frozen. A tear trailed down her cheek and as it dropped from her chin, he felt a searing pain. A hot blob of wax had dripped onto his hand. He yelped and pulled his hand back, dropping the candle, and flicking hot wax ahead of him. The droplets passed right through her, and as they settled across the salt beneath her, she cried out and faded away like smoke.

Toby felt around in the damp grass to find the candle. All he could see was his own breath hissing out in gasps of white clouds. He rummaged frantically in his bag for the matches. Something cold touched the back of his neck. "No!" he half screamed, half choked. He looked behind him. It was just a droplet of water from a hanging tree branch.

Muttering prayers, he struck a match. His lips were trembling so much he could barely breathe. He set the candle aflame and waited for the wax to pool. Looking ahead, he saw no more specters, and began his slow journey again. Finally, he arrived at the front porch. His nose was running and sweat beaded across his forehead, feeling like ice on his skin as he finished the last few inches.

He kept the candle burning, holding it carefully to avoid burning his fingers again. He had brought a small bag of soil to cover the porch. He put the bag on the front steps and took a small shovel from his pack. The waxy salt looked a little like dry blood in the dark, and he had the strangest feeling he was performing some kind of strange burial. Not wanting to be there a moment longer than he had to, Toby dug soil from the ground and dumped it over the wax, flicking his eyes ahead and behind him every few steps. He worked his way around the house, grateful that nothing confronted him.

Toby returned to the front porch and sat down, his clothes were soaked in sweat, and his throat was dry. It felt like he had just run a marathon. His hand hurt. A big blister had puffed up in the web between his thumb and index finger where the wax had burned him. After putting everything, except the lit candle, back in his bag, Toby knocked on the front door. He checked his watch, 8:50pm. He wasn't sure it was the wisest choice to bother the old man, but he didn't know what else to do.

As he stood at the door, he felt a presence behind him, as if he were standing on stage with his back to an audience. He turned and the family was there. The tall woman stared at him, one hand on her hip, the other holding the baby. Two of the girls stood next to her, holding each other's hands. They all stood on the outside of the ring. Before Toby could do anything, they started to fade. The two girls went quickly. The woman and the infant more gradually—she turned away as she became transparent and eventually disappeared completely.

"I think it worked." Toby whispered to himself.

Keeping the candle held high, Toby pushed open the door. "Mr. Astle." He spoke loudly, just lower than a shout. The house was quiet and the candle threw giant shadows around the hallway making the spider-webs appear twice the size they were. Toby heard the creaking of footsteps across the hall.

He found Arnold Astle pacing around the dining room where Toby had seen him with the ghosts. The table was there, somewhat stained and faded compared to the last time Toby saw it. The food, candles, and fire were all gone. The fireplace was boarded up, a thick layer of dust covering the wood.

"Where are they? Where are they?" The old man was saying. Toby spoke loudly, "Mr. Astle, I banished the ghosts." Mr. Astle stopped. His back went rigid, as if an electric current were flowing through his body. He turned on his heel and faced Toby. The candlelight cast such deep shadows on his face that he looked skeletal. "You did what, boy?" Toby told him about the ring of salt and wax. Mr. Astle stared at him for so long that Toby started to wonder if the old man was still cognizant.

Like a piece of paper crumpling, Mr. Astle curled into himself. He was almost invisible in the darkness, and when he spoke, his voice was a sob, "You sent them away?" "Yeah," Toby said, "but now you're free; you're not haunted anymore.

Astle uncurled and looked at Toby. His eyes reflected the fluttering candle-flame, yet it was the darkness around the light that would haunt Toby forever.

"What have you done to me?"

He sprang towards Toby, who flinched back. The old man ran past him and outside. He started picking at the line of soil, flicking aside the dirt and digging into the wax with his fingers.

Toby stood watching Mr. Astle crawl on hands and knees, weeping and talking to himself, "Come back. Come back." Toby stared blankly, trying to make sense of the scene, until the candle in his hands burned down, dripping hot wax on his hand again. He cried out in pain, causing Mr. Astle to turn and look at him. There was so much anger in the old man's expression that Toby dropped the candle and ran all the way back to his house without even thinking. Toby did not sleep. He lay in bed feeling the hot throb of his burned hand, trying to get the image of Arnold Astle's eyes out of his head.

The next morning, Toby walked up to the house and saw a fire-truck parked outside. His heart started pounding. He ran up to the gate and saw, with some relief, that the house was still there. A firefighter was looking around the porch at a line of black marks. Another firefighter was standing next to the truck smoking a cigarette.

"What happened?" Toby asked.

The firefighter sucked in a breath of smoke, "Old guy lost it a little bit, tried to burn down his own house. Had some sort of stroke. "

A sick feeling started to build in Toby's stomach. "Is he okay?"

The firefighter shrugged.

Toby went back home and asked his Dad if he could use the internet. He opened the computer and searched for "Arnold Astle"

and "Ashburn Road." There wasn't much

information; his name popped up in an article about Veterans Day. It didn't say much, other than Mr. Astle had been attending the yearly ceremony up until 1957. The article also said that he was a widower. Later, Toby tried the library. A woman there helped Toby hunt down old newspaper articles. He asked to see local death notices from 1957.

After searching for two hours, Toby finally saw the name "Astle." The article was titled, "Tragic Family Accident Leaves Husband Without Wife, Father Without Children." He read on, "Mr. and Mrs. Astle had four children, three girls, and a baby boy."

Toby's eyes gathered tears. He went to the hospital, but was turned away because he wasn't family.

A few weeks later, Toby's mother said that Mr. Astle had returned home, and that he would have help now. As soon as he could, Toby walked to the Astle house and carefully approached the front door. His hand trembled as he knocked. Toby looked back at the charred wood and felt profoundly guilty. He pushed the door open. The cobwebs where gone. The air was fresh. Toby could hear the creak of a rocking chair from one of the front rooms.

Mr. Astle was sitting in his chair, staring out the window. His face was expressionless, and his eyes did not follow Toby as he entered. His arms hung limply at his sides. His fingernails were torn off; bruises tattooed what was left of his skin. Toby drew close to the old man and whispered, "I'm sorry." There was more he wanted to say—he wanted to explain about what Bruce had told him, about how he thought he should try to rescue Mr. Astle. It all stuck in his head—his mouth could not form the words.

Two months later, Toby heard that Mr. Astle had died of a stroke. After that, every weekday he walked Ashburn Road, looking at the house as he passed by, hoping to see something. Some nights Toby visited the property, pushing his face to the windows, hoping to see the Astle family again, this time Arnold with them. A couple of times a neighbor caught him snooping and shooed him off the property. Eventually the police visited his parents, and they told him to stop.

He didn't stop. Eventually the house sold and an investor demolished it to build a multi-story townhouse. Toby kept walking past the property—even after he started high school. Sometimes he walked around the property three times in a circle. One of the new residents physically dragged him out of the yard and called the police, reporting that Toby had been muttering, "How do I bring them back?"

Finally, Toby's parents sold their house and moved upstate. After that, it seemed like everything was going to be all right. But Toby never forgot the sight of the Astle family, and he was never able to leave behind the look in the old man's eyes—the look when he realized that Toby had taken his family away. They were the same dark eyes Toby saw when he looked in the mirror.