I’ve been through hell and back. To have your life consumed by a single self-destructive desire is something I don’t think I could ever adequately describe in words. I could only really touch upon the struggle to maintain some sense of self – of truly being present in the world. The list of harms it causes is almost endless, and not all of them are direct or obvious: some of the paths it can lead you down are, without being too dramatic, beyond your worst nightmares.
One incident in my life comes reluctantly to mind – an incident so disturbing it leaves all my other transgressions in the shade. I blame myself because it’s the easier thing to do, strange as that sounds. Ordinarily, there’s the temptation to blame anyone or anything but yourself. However, to do that would in this case require believing in something so extraordinary, and so blood-curdling, that to keep my sanity intact I have no choice but to reject it, despite the evidence of my own eyes. And it’s for the sake of my sanity that I feel compelled to recount this incident.
It happened eight years ago, when I was a man of thirty-one. I was at the lowest point of my life: not long out of a relationship that had ended bitterly, and having just lost my job of several years. Both my fault, of course. The job I’d had was in security, and essentially involved keeping watch at offices and factories, mostly at night when they were closed. It gave me a lot of thinking time, and my thoughts weren’t exactly full of positivity and optimism.
Anyway, after I got fired by the agency for unprofessional behaviour, I was forced to advertise myself as an unofficial security guard online, taking whatever work I could get to pay my rent. This mostly involved being a doorman for private parties, or the ugly job of debt collection. This particular case was an exception. I’d been contacted by a woman living near a town called Nordville, about a hundred-and-fifty kilometres south of Atlanta, which is where I lived at the time. She needed someone to stay at her property overnight while she was away, to keep it safe from potential burglars. Not that she had had much trouble in the past, she said, but with it being so far from town she didn’t want to take any chances. It sounded like an easy enough job, and for the generous sum she was paying there was no way I could refuse. I emailed her all the documentation she asked for, and the deal was done. The date was April 14th, a warm and sunny day in Georgia as I made the three-hour journey in my station wagon, an hour of which was spent getting out of Atlanta. I tried to be optimistic in the face of tough times. It felt good to be leaving the city, even for just one night: away from my troubles and away from temptation. Or so I thought.
I got to Nordville late in the afternoon and took the road west, as I’d been instructed. It wasn’t too long before I got to the house: an old, extravagant building, which I later found out had been built in the nineteenth century. It stood there completely alone, with no signs of other houses or civilization in sight; just green fields and trees beyond them, and the quiet road I had arrived on. I pulled up in the driveway and got out, taking a good look at the place.
It’s hard to explain why, but as I did so I felt all the optimism and positivity I had generated over the course of the day die almost immediately. There was no logical cause for this feeling: it was one of those moments of utter irrationality. Nothing seemed unusual to the ordinary eye, but I had this sense of uneasiness that froze me to the spot. I felt that I’d have been better off not coming. I even considered getting back into my car and driving away, and to hell with the money. Of course, I didn’t do that; instead, I dragged myself reluctantly up the porch steps and rang the doorbell.
A full minute passed without reply, but at no point did I consider pressing the doorbell again. I was almost hoping that I’d been given false information – that there was nobody home and the whole thing had been a mistake. There was another car in the driveway, which put a dent in my imaginings; and sure enough the door was eventually opened, dampening my relief. A homely woman of about sixty peered out suspiciously. I introduced myself and she immediately relaxed, opening the door wider to invite me in. She said she was Regina, the woman I’d been in contact with, and apologised for not answering the door sooner, explaining that she and her sister were still packing a few things upstairs. I assured her that was fine, and she abruptly motioned me into a long hallway and through the first door on the left, into a large, old-fashioned parlour-room.
Sensing she was in a rush, I declined her offer of tea and cookies and told her I’d happily wait for her to finish packing. She gestured me to a sofa and busily made her way up the grand staircase, calling ahead to her sister to let her know I had arrived. I was too restless to sit, so once she was out of sight I surveyed my surroundings more closely.
The room was sparsely furnished. The impression I had was that visitors weren’t a frequent occurrence, although considering the location that would hardly be revelatory if true. The highlight of the parlour was undoubtedly the large photo portrait that hung over the fireplace. A homely woman and stern-looking man stood stiffly looking into the camera, with two girls – presumably the sisters – standing awkwardly between them, all but confirming my suspicion that the house had been inherited.
Ten minutes passed without any sign of Regina or her sister. Growing increasingly restless – a sensation I couldn’t quite seem to shake off – I decided to dip back into the long hallway and half-heartedly explore the ground floor. All but one of the doors were open, and I found myself peering into a drawing room, a dining room and, right at the end of the hall, a large and impressive kitchen. Not a bad inheritance, by any means.
I could hear commotion from upstairs as I made my way back down the hallway: floorboards creaking and voices faintly humming. Realizing I had more time to explore, I stopped outside the one closed door and tested the knob. It turned easily and the door nudged slightly open. I poked my head in tentatively. Just a sitting room, sparsely furnished like the rest of the house: one sofa, a coffee table, a television set, and a drinks cabinet. I took a last glance down the hallway before stepping into the room.
The dim light through the closed curtains lent the room a mysterious air. I was under the vague impression that it was rarely put to use: the only suggestion of recent occupancy might have been the walking-stick resting at the side of the sofa. Nonetheless, I stepped over to the drinks cabinet and casually opened the door. To my surprise there was a bottle of something in there, or rather half a bottle. Bourbon. One of my favourites. At least it used to be.
Feeling a little unsettled all of a sudden, I turned to exit the room, only to be startled by the presence of Regina in the doorway. The look of concern on her face made me feel even more on edge. I apologised immediately for wandering around the house, but she just quickly beckoned me out without a word. It wasn’t until I was following her down the hallway that she spoke, politely informing me that rooms with closed doors were out of bounds. I said I understood completely, not wanting to press the matter any further.
Back in the parlour room another elderly lady was waiting with a suitcase. Regina introduced her to me as her sister, Suzanna. She nodded her greeting sheepishly; perhaps she wasn’t too comfortable with unfamiliar guests. I could have told her it was no picnic for me either.
I offered to carry the suitcase to the car. Suzanna, without a word, picked it up herself and made her way out of the room. Regina waved her hand dismissively, like I should just ignore her, and invited me upstairs to see the bedroom she had arranged for me.
The staircase creaked as I followed her up. The banister looked like it needed some work. In fact, the whole house probably hadn’t been worked on for a good many years. My bedroom for the night was nice enough, at least. There was a sturdy-looking double bed, a chest of draws, a spacious wardrobe, and a wide window looking out to the front of the house. The bathroom was just next door, I was told, and all other rooms on this floor were not to be disturbed, except in the case of an emergency. I expressed my satisfaction, which seemed to please Regina, and within moments we were downstairs again, where she hurriedly went over a few things – keys, telephone, back door, etc. – before grabbing her coat and heading outside.
Suzanna was already sitting in the passenger seat of the dull-blue sedan parked in the driveway, impatience etched on her face. I exchanged goodbyes with Regina on the porch, with assurances that her beautiful home would be well looked-after and that I wouldn’t dream of deviating from the ground rules. Satisfied, she got into the driver’s seat of the sedan and gave a wave before setting off in the late-afternoon sun.
I stood there for a while longer, letting the warmth of the sun wash over me. The sense of uneasiness still lingered, but there was little I could do about it now. I had made a commitment and I was going to stick to it. My therapist would be proud. I took a deep breath and started my preparations, grabbing my overnight bag from the car and taking it to the bedroom to unpack, making sure to lock the front door of the house behind me. I then did my first full circuit of the house, with the exception of the ‘forbidden rooms’, and was satisfied that the place was secure.
The kitchen would be my base for the evening. There was a small television on the counter, so I made myself as comfortable as I could at the kitchen table and watched whatever crap was on. I had the coffee on the pot and helped myself to a number of refills, as well as some bread and tuna from the cupboards. Regina’s homemade cookies made for a satisfying dessert; but mainly I stuck to coffee.
Evening came, and with it a hazy twilight. As I stepped out through the back door to smoke a cigarette it felt almost like the house was bathed in an unfamiliar air. Time seemed to be passing with me outside of it – a sensation that I was no stranger to back in those days, if I’m being honest. I was aware of the silence. Not even a gentle breeze visited me on that spring evening, in that strange place.
Back inside I whiled the hours away in the kitchen until my customary bedtime arrived. I poured out the last of the coffee in the sink, though by that point I’d lost track of the amount I had drunk. I did a final surveillance of the house, making sure all doors and windows were locked yet again. Finding nothing amiss, I began a last trip to the kitchen to get a bottle of water for my bedside, when my straightforward and dimple bedtime ritual became anything but. I didn’t know at the time why I stopped outside that closed door; but on reflection I guess it just shows how things can gnaw away at your mind. Whatever the reason, I found myself opening the door of the sitting room, as I had done earlier in the day, and once again slipping inside.
The room was dark; I fumbled blindly for a moment before finding the light switch. The bulb was weak and the light it cast dim. There was the lonely-looking sofa, before the coffee table and television set, and beyond it the one other piece of furniture: the cabinet to which I’d been drawn the first time around, and which I was inevitably drawn to again. I opened its door. I can say now that what happened next was shameful, although in the broad scope of behaviour in those days it was a relatively minor dereliction of my professional duties. I took a tall glass and poured out half of the remaining liquid from the bottle of bourbon, figuring that as long as there was still some left it was unlikely to be missed. Mission accomplished, I tidied up the cabinet and exited the room, returning to the kitchen feeling a little less glum than when I’d left it.
I was up for maybe another hour or so, sipping that well-matured bourbon. The crap on the TV seemed mildly more entertaining; my thoughts weren’t racing so much, and my body was a little less restless. I reasoned that this would put me in a better condition for bed: that it was a logical act undertaken to enhance my wellbeing. As I downed the last drop, the idea of going to bed wasn’t any more appealing than it had been before; nonetheless I mustered up as much resolve as I could and decided to call it a night. I finished up in the kitchen, passed through the hallway and into the dining room, – not stopping outside the closed door of the sitting room – climbed up the creaky steps, brushed my teeth and did my business in the bathroom, then went into the bedroom to prepare for bed.
It was past midnight when I began my epic struggle for sleep, the caffeine and alcohol and stress and defeat all making for a heady mixture. I drifted in and out for God knows how long. Those moments of half-sleep brought images of people I know, places I’d been, some random memories – my father visited me; my ex-girlfriend; an old man with a walking-stick; even Regina and Suzanna made an appearance, the former with the same concerned expression she had worn earlier. Suffice to say, I had a hard time of it, tossing and turning until I gave up and got out of bed to use the bathroom, still half in a daze.
After washing my face, I didn’t feel in the least bit confident about getting back to sleep. Deciding it wasn’t even worth attempting, I found myself heading back not to the bedroom, but to the top of the wide staircase, down those creaking steps, through the parlour room, and into the hallway just outside the sitting room. I was in automatic mode: a machine following a pre-determined course that had been programmed by years of repetition. Not that I had this self-awareness at the time. All I could think about in that moment was the warm, reassuring taste of hard liquor at the back of my throat. I stood in the dim light of the hallway for not more than two seconds, then opened the door and entered.
The first thing that struck me was the ambience. Aside from the light creeping in from the hallway, I had expected the room to be cloaked in darkness; but a blue glare stopped me in my tracks. As my eyes adjusted, I became aware that the television in the corner of the room was switched on, the screen displaying static, and that this was the cause of the blue light. But it couldn’t explain the feeling of pure terror that had come over me. I barely had time to reason that the TV was faulty and had switched on by itself, when my gaze was immediately drawn to the sofa and to the true cause of my dread.
There was a man sitting there. No . . . not just a man. He had the semblance of one: a tall, elderly man with a lean frame, a stern face, a crooked nose, and bulging eyes. But he was ghastly. From his pale skin and worn suit came this ghoulish light, like nothing I had ever seen before. He let off a stench that I’d been too stunned to notice at first: musty and pungent and rotting all at the same time. The eyes were the worst. They stared at the television, transfixed by the static; seeing something far beyond the surface of the screen. There were no irises: the black pupils were surrounded by a large span of spectral white. There was menace in those eyes. I had a vague sense of relief that they weren’t fixed on me – I can’t imagine how I would have felt if it was otherwise. I barely had time to register the half-full glass on the table before him.
The sensation of horror had rooted me to the spot, but finding some morsel of courage I took a step back towards the door. The thing on the sofa stirred. His head began slowly turning in my direction, even as the rest of his body remained motionless. There was no way in hell I was going to wait for that deathly gaze to fall on me. I turned and walked trembling towards the door, resisting the urge to run in case it would goad him into action. I’d wait until I was out in the hallway to do that. The horrifying thought raced through my mind that the man, whatever he or it was, would somehow reach me before I had the chance to escape; though that defied all reason, considering his apparent age and frailty.
I passed through the doorway and into the dim light of the hall. Before I could even begin to run, I froze to the spot. My worst fear had come true – he was standing right behind me! I didn’t need to see him to know it: I could feel the energy of that presence compelling my shoulders to stiffen and the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end; my skin prickled up with goosebumps and my legs trembled uncontrollably. Glancing at the wall on my right, I could see my own shadow. Behind it was another, tall and menacing. No living man could have moved so quickly, and I was certain in that moment that this was no living thing. When I saw the shadow’s arm rising towards me, I ran for my life. I fled down that dim hallway and into the parlour room, too afraid to risk the front door in case I couldn’t unlock it in time. I climbed frantically up the stairs, half-expecting to have my feet pulled from underneath me. Somehow I made it onto the landing and then into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me.
The room was dark, but I could see that there was no lock. I rushed to the chest of draws that stood a few feet away and began pushing them towards the door. Although it wasn’t heavy, the seconds it took to get it in place was agonizing – any moment I expected the door to swing open and to find myself face-to-face with pure horror. Mercifully I was spared that encounter. Once I was satisfied that the door was blocked, I fumbled for my clothes and shoes, then got dressed as swiftly as I could. I made sure to pocket my cell phone and car keys, before sitting on the bed to catch my breath.
Aside from my heavy breathing and the pulsing in my ears, there was silence. Not a sound came from the hallway. That was only slightly encouraging: I hadn’t heard a sound downstairs either, not even of footsteps. I had the terrible thought that this entity might even be able to move through walls, among its other unnatural abilities. There was nothing I could do but wait and find out; wait in the hope that it had no interest in pursuing me further. The tension was close to unbearable. I can’t say how long I sat there watching the door: it could have been a minute or ten minutes, though it seemed like an eternity. I didn’t dare move for fear of making a sound. I just waited and waited.
And then it happened. The door knob slowly turned. The sound of it pierced the darkness like a siren. My heart began racing once again, my body readying itself to struggle for survival. The door moved inward slightly, meeting resistance from the makeshift barricade, which budged ever so slightly from its position. That sense of dread seemed to seep into the room, accompanied by a nauseating smell.
I didn’t wait long to spring into action. I jumped off the bed and ran to the window, pushing it wide open. It opened onto the back of the house. I surveyed the distance to the ground below, knowing that I risked breaking bones if I was forced to make the drop down. Nonetheless I had already decided this would be my course of action if it came down to it, so it was with resolve that I climbed out and knelt on the narrow windowsill. The door banged several times against the chest of draws, shifting it further inwards each time, while I readied myself in position and tried to find the courage to go through with the deed. I didn’t need it: fear was enough to propel me. The bedroom door finally swung open wide enough for a person to fit though the gap. The thought of seeing what would manifest there any second compelled me to leap off the sill and into the darkness below.
I hit the ground with force. Pain tore through my body, and I lay there on the grass in a momentary state of shock. When I had the wits to assess the damage, I realized nothing had been broken: a twisted left ankle and some bruising on my hip was the worst I had suffered. I struggled to my feet as quickly as I could, grimacing through the pain, and then limped around the side of the house, all the way to the driveway at the front. My hands were shaking as I unlocked the car. As soon as I was inside I locked the doors, started the engine, and sped onto the road. Not once did I look back at the house, for fear of what I would see. Only when I was confident it would be out of sight did I check my mirrors. There was nothing on the road behind me. I had, God willing, escaped.
I drove in the direction of Nordville. It wasn’t as far away from the house as I would have liked, buy my injuries needed to be tended to and the thought of being amongst other people afforded me some comfort. I was still shaken. I half-expected that an elderly, wicked-looking man would appear in the road in front of me or, worse still, in the back seat of my car. When I finally made it to town, relief washed over me. I checked into a motel, grateful for the company of the grumpy desk clerk, who barked his house rules at me monotonously. Once in my room, I made sure the window was locked and the curtains drawn, then set about bandaging my ankle with a pillow-case. The injury to my hip wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. I stayed up until the first light of dawn peeped through the curtains, then settled down for a couple of hours of fitful sleep.
The next day I was faced with a dilemma: what the hell was I going to do now? I couldn’t think clearly – a feeling I was familiar with in those days, though not for such an extraordinary reason as this. The idea of going back to the house and pretending like nothing had happened entered my mind only briefly. Whether I had imagined what I saw or not, I was terrified of going anywhere near that place again, even in the cold light of day. Calling Regina to explain the situation was an option; but explain what? That I had seen a ghost? That I was going crazy? No, I chose the only option I could at that time and in that frame of mind: I got in my car and drove home to Atlanta, and that was all. If Regina wanted to call and complain, so be it. It’s not like she had paid me in advance, I reasoned.
But she didn’t call. She had been due back that evening – no later than 7pm, she had said – and I waited up until midnight for a phone call or email that would, in a way, confirm that I had in fact hallucinated the events of those early-morning hours. To complicate matters even more, the next day I was shocked to find that the fee I’d agreed with Regina had been paid into my bank account.
To this day I don’t know what it all means. Inexplicable as my experience was, I can’t rightly dismiss it as a cruel trick of the mind, though I’d give anything to be able to trivialize that haunting memory. As it is, I feel that I’m better now and continuing to get better, although the years have been tough. I was a different person then and I don’t feel the need to go back, either physically or mentally, to that house. In my mind it will forever remain home to the darkest period of my life.