Actually, it was not a ghost; it was something far worse. Let me explain.
I was coming home from school that day. The clouds were menacing, threatening rain. The dampness in the air chilled me to the bone. I was in a rotten mood, having bombed my science exam. That, and Josie, my BFF plus secret crush, was being overtly distant to me all day. We’d been getting along famously up to that point, then she told me she ‘needed space’.
You see, I was already feeling miserable, the last thing I wanted was to discover something tragic. Or dare I say: Evil?
My sixteen-year-old self was trudging along the worm-infested sidewalk, feeling sorry for myself, when something compelled me to look up. So I did. I looked directly at the Sanderson’s rickety stone-brick house. Mr. Sanderson lived alone. His wife had recently passed away; their daughter Taylor, who was a year younger than me, disappeared last summer. No one knows what became of her.
When I looked up, a figure was looming in the window on the second floor. Taylor’s bedroom. (I know this because sometimes I’d see her sitting next to the window, typing endlessly on the computer.)
Then it vanished like a ghost.
I hightailed it home, locking the front door behind me.
My immediate reaction was to text Josie. She’d already experienced several such incidents. In fact, she believed her home was haunted. She sees ghosts all the time. Unfortunately, since we had a terrible spat, I was reluctant to reach out.
So, I did nothing. By the time I finished dinner, the image I saw staring out of the small Sanderson window faded like a on old pair of jeans. I did what most of you would’ve done: I convinced myself that I’d imagined it.
The following week was a chore. Josie was having mixed feelings about our non-existent relationship. Something was troubling her. She was acting weird. Even for her.
Over the course of the week, we patched things up, and that was that. We were friends again, although secretly, (but not a secretly) I still wanted to progress to the next level. She was smokin’ hot, I’m not gonna lie. Her mint-green eyes and long flowing hair were enticing. Not only that, she could sing like an angel.
Sigh. If only she liked me the way I liked her. Deep down I knew she did, but something was holding her back.
These were my thoughts as I scampered home from school. By now, it was mid June, and summer vacation was dangling around the corner. My stomached filled with butterflies as I approached the Sanderson house. Again, something compelled me to look up.
The ghost.
I ran.
This time I texted Josie, who was intrigued. She came over right away. I’ll admit, my hormones were interfering with my better judgement. Having Josie in my house was a thrill. My parents wouldn’t arrive for another hour. I was imaging the possibilities.
Josie dragged me to the Sanderson home. She wanted to see first-hand.
Except when I brought her to the Sanderson house, the ghost was gone. Josie’s look of scorn cut me into a million pieces. Her face told me everything:
I’d made this up to entice her over.
She was livid.
To be fair, Josie was suffering from night terrors. Every time she slept, she had horrendous nightmares. Her condition was worsening. As we stood side by side, staring at the vacant window, I felt her slipping away from me.
Josie, using colorful language that only a teenage girl could bestow, told me to go straight to hell. Then she booked it home, making me pay for the bus. The next morning she’d apologized, but the damage was done. I was heartbroken.
By now, I truly hated the Sanderson house. Maybe I’d imagined the ghost after all. I mean, it’s not like I believed in such things. Of course it was my imagination.
The last day of school felt like an eternity. To my surprise (and delight), Josie wanted to come over. She wanted to sing me her newest song. I was over the moon. On our way home we passed the Sanderson house. I tried to ignore the mounting trepidation stirring in the bowels of my stomach. But it was no use. I was a nervous wreck. I truly hated this house.
I’d seen the stupid ghost almost every day that week. Just a glimpse, then it was gone. I was questioning my own sanity.
Nervous as a schoolboy, I babbled on and on, trying to distract both myself and Josie. Do NOT look at the Sanderson house. That was my secret mantra.
“Look!” Josie pointed to the house. “In the window!”
Reluctantly, I looked.
Staring out the bedroom window was a figure.
“It’s a girl,” Josie gasped. “She looks to be our age.”
Josie stopped dead in her tracks. Her hands found mine. My hands were sweaty and gross; hers were soft and cool. She pulled me close. I could smell her sweet shampoo.
We gazed solemnly at the Sanderson house.
The ghost screamed.
Then it vanished.
We both shuddered. Josie burst into tears; her tears were like bombs bursting in my ears. My neighborhood was mouse-quiet. Most of the residence were either new home owners, away at work, or retired Boomers, enjoying the fruits of their labors. We were the only teenagers on the block, now that Taylor was gone.
Josie dragged me home. She was frantic. The ghost in the window had triggered her anxiety.
“It was her,” she finally said, after I’d poured us both a tall glass of lemonade.
“Who?”
“The girl in the window. It was her.”
Then it clicked.
“Taylor?”
Josie’s face lit up. Her eyes sparkled like emeralds. “Yes! The girl that disappeared last summer. I remember her from the news.”
Many rumors surrounded the girl’s disappearance. She was a recluse, being home-schooled and all. Mr. Sanderson was the number-one suspect, but nothing was conclusive.
Josie came over the following morning. We circled the Sanderson house for hours, searching for ghosts.
“Taylor,” she whispered, holding my hand. “Where are you?”
We craned our necks. The ghost was gone. Meanwhile, Mr. Sanderson’s gray Buick sat morosely in the single-car driveway; a TV flickered aimlessly in the living room.
“We should be careful,” I chimed in. “Something isn’t right.”
We sulked back to my house. Josie was fearless in her conclusions. Was this really the ghost of Taylor Sanderson? The girl’s hair was jet-black, her skin as white as a fresh cloud. She looked like a ghost even while she was alive.
“Why won’t she appear?”
As soon as that question spilled from Josie’s lips, it came to her: She appears at 3pm. After school.
We parked ourselves out front the Sanderson house at 3pm. Sure enough, the ghost appeared. Her features were fuzzy; I still wasn’t convinced.
The ghost mouthed one word: HELP.
I gulped. This was not was I was expecting.
Now it was Josie’s turn to scamper. Her anxiety turned to panic. She wanted to go home. I bused her home, trying my darnedest to keep her from crying.
The following day Josie had a new song. She called it Ghost in the Mirror. It was tragic. You see, by now, Josie was convinced that she was the ghost. The ghost was her. This may seem strange, but that’s because I haven’t divulged all her personal information. Josie’s night terrors were slowing ruining her life. Sleep was a non-existent. Even with the medication. She was walking on glass.
Josie worsened. She was deteriorating right in front of my eyes. Consequently, her visits become more infrequent. She too, was afraid of the Sanderson house.
I was devastated. The ghost in the window was ruining my chance with the girl I loved. Deep down, I knew this was selfish, but that didn’t stop those pesky feelings from arising.
Also, I was disturbed. I didn’t like the idea of living next to a haunted house.
Josie had a full-fledged breakdown. She couldn’t get the ghost out of her head. She was sent to a new psychiatrist, and soon thereafter, was hospitalized. Her world was crumbling.
Mine was tethering on thin ice.
I decided to do something about this. After mustering up some much-needed bravado, I marched up to the Sanderson house and banged on the door. My parents would kill me if they knew. For the longest minute ever, I waited at the front door. I knew Mr. Sanderson was home, his car was parked in the driveway. Plus, I could hear the yammering of the TV and the movement of furniture.
Apparently, Mr. Sanderson wasn’t expecting visitors.
I knocked again; this time louder. The old man croaked. His voice ricocheted off the walls, as he grumbled towards the front door.
The door swung open. Looming over me, was the tallest man I’d ever seen. I’d never been this close to him; the man was a giant. His thinning hair was silver and gray; his face ravaged from the turmoil of time. How could someone so old have a daughter so young?
“Whadya want, kid?” his deep voice asked. His eyes were penetrating mine.
I floundered for an answer. Apparently, I hadn’t thought this through.
“Can I borrow a cup of milk?” my squeaky voice responded. It was the first thing I could think of. “My parents are away, and left me without money. I only need a bit.”
Mr. Sanderson towered over me. His long fingers drumming the side of his khaki pants. His eyes were as black as space. He smelled like old leather.
Finally, he spoke. “Sure. Wait here.”
The door slammed in my face.
I peaked inside the bay window. What I saw was shocking. Strange jars lined his busy walls. Weird, sinister-looking patterns decorated the jars, like spiderwebs. They looked like voodoo. As I strained to see more, the door opened.
Mr. Sanderson gazed upon me; his eyes burning through mine.
“Here.” He reached out his lengthy arm, handing me a spec of milk. His miserliness surprised me.
I took the glass, and was about to ask him if everything’s alright, when the door crashed in my face. The Sanderson house went dark, and I walked back home.
I poured the milk down the drain. It smelled funny, like it had been poisoned. Just my imagination, I reminded myself, without believing it. Oh, how I pined for Josie. She’d know what to do.
That night I received a text from Josie:
Hope ur ok. Doc says im good to go. CU soon hottie ;)
I went to bed happy that night, but my dreams were swarmed with monsters:
I dreamt I was inside the Sanderson house. It was full-dark. The old wooden floors creaked under foot as I crept upstairs, trying desperately not to wake the crotchety old man. Dank dust and silver spiderwebs crowded the tiny corridor. Something was breathing down my neck, sending ice cubes down my spine. When I turned, only my shadow appeared, thin and transparent. Then a hand touched mine. It was ice cold.
I leapt six feet in the air, screaming. Meanwhile, the walls were whispering their warnings in the thick of the midnight hour. Straight ahead, the door to Taylor’s room inched closer. My hand found the door handle. I turned it.
Without warning, a thousand voices spoke at once: GO AWAY. The onslaught of voices started circling me like sharks. GO AWAY, they sang in unison. GO AWAY; GO AWAY; GO AWAY. Someone or something approached suddenly. Icy fingers found my throat. I fell to my knees, as I was being choked to death by an invisible enemy.
I awoke in a puddle of sweaty sheets, gasping for air. My neck was covered in red prints. Or maybe that was my imagination. I was too tired to tell.
…
Josie arrived early the next day. She seemed like her old self again. It was late August. My parents were away for the weekend, looking to rekindle their relationship. Yuck. Josie lied to her mother, saying she was staying with her friend Darla. This awarded us the golden opportunity: a night alone. Without parents.
She sang me her latest song: Finding My Way Back to You.
I cried. It was beautiful.
She looked concerned.
“You look like shit,” she said frankly, putting her acoustic guitar back in its case.
After some coaxing, I told her of my nightmare. Big mistake. Although she was doing better, my gruesome nightmare was too much for her to handle. Soon, we were both terrified. We sat stone-faced at my kitchen table, sipping lukewarm coffees in silence.
“Let’s sneak into the house,” she said, breaking the silence.
Her eyes were razor-sharp. She meant business. Unfortunately, my dream lingered like a hangover. The last place on earth I wanted to be was inside the Sanderson house.
Also, this presented two obvious problems:
I’d finally found the opportunity I’d been looking for: spending the night alone with Jolie. In my own bed, no less! Why would I waist this precious opportunity, snooping (illegally) through my creepy neighbor’s home.
If I get caught, my parents would never trust me again. Ever.
With a mind full of razors, I agreed. We would wait until after dark. I fetched us a couple flashlights. Too my surprise, Josie brought a pistol. Apparently, she’d been planning this all along.
“Stole this from my bro,” she said with a smirk.
Seeing her hands grip that Glock made me both excited and petrified. A strangely arousing combination.
To my chagrin, we shared a nap, setting the alarm for 4am. Neither of us slept, but we pretended to. Oh, how I longed to cusp her breasts. They were like peaches, ripe for the taking. It was all I could do not to poke her with my erection.
4am arrived like a month full of Mondays. I was miserable. Nothing was going how I’d hoped. But Josie was adamant, and I was weak. We tip-toed two doors down. Having never committed B & E, I was deeply concerned.
“What if the old man has an alarm? What if we get caught?” What if we go to jail?
“Nonsense,” Josie assured me. Turns out, she was skilled at picking locks. “My older brother taught me this trick,” she said, as she pried the back door open.
The backyard was graveyard-quiet. It was empty, save for a shed, which seemed impenetrable. This did nothing to improve my mood.
“I’m in,” Josie whispered. Her green eyes glistened under the pale moonlight.
I couldn’t believe the girl I loved was a natural-born criminal. I held her hand as she guided me into the Sanderson house. At least we wore gloves.
The house smelled like science class. Like when you boil pasta and reuse the water, again and again, until it’s sticky and gross. The kitchen was stainless steel. Surprising modern. Thankfully, no pets were to be found.
Josie pointed to the stairs. My nightmare arrived like an unwanted guest. I could hear breathing. Frantically, I searched everywhere. That’s when I noticed the lack of family portraits. The walls were decorated with gargoyles and sickly creatures with devil heads and pointed red tails. Not a good sign. And those hideous jars. What’s the deal?
Josie’s eyes told me everything. She was as terrified as me.
We crept upstairs like crooks. The sound of breathing followed us. Or maybe it was my imagination.
Upstairs, three doors appeared. One to the washroom, which was open just a crack; one to what we presumed was Mr. Sanderson’s bedroom, which was closed; and thirdly the door we wanted. Josie inched closer. She smiled nervously as she turned the handle.
The door squeaked open; it sounded like a million cellos playing out of tune. I swallowed vomit, gagged, then clasped her hand as she dragged me inside the musty bedroom.
The room was dead and stark. A single bed lay next to the window. Beside the bed was a small desk with a depleted laptop and a box of Kleenex. The walls were lined with Beatles posters, which delighted Josie. What caught my attention – more like raised the hairs from my skinny arms – was the instruments of agony lying haphazardly beside the closet.
I groaned. Josie shushed me. Then her eyes followed mine. She gasped. What made my skill crawl was the rusted pair of hedge clippers. Except, these weren’t hedge clippers. They were Tongue Tearers. A Medieval torture device. I knew this because I’d written a scary story about a gruesome man who tortures runaway boys and girls, for my grade eleven writing assignment, (which I’d failed). Thus, obliterating my dreams of writing horror for a living.
Next to that insidious device were other similar tools, equally sinister. Four sets of chains were attached to the bed frame, with clasps at each end, for hands and feet. They were set out carefully on the bed.
Someone spoke.
Every bone in my body shattered. I stood stunned, frozen in my tracks.
“HELP.”
It was a girl’s voice.
Josie pushed me aside like a sack of stones.
“Taylor,” she whispered. “Is it you.”
“PLEASE HELP. NOT MUCH TIME.”
Then I noticed something that I’d previously missed: the bed was indented. Someone was sleeping on it. Someone invisible.
Something crashed.
Josie held me close. We were both trembling.
“Let’s go,” I whispered.
“Not without Taylor.”
This surprised me. She’d never even met the girl. My admiration for her grew stronger. So did the notion that we’d wind up as prisoners, chained up and made invisible.
The hallway light flickered. Footsteps fast approached.
“Taylor! Whatcha making that racket for?”
Mr. Sanderson’s gruff voice was a bullet to the brain.
Josie cocked her gun.
My eyes found the closet. I pulled her towards it, kicking aside the deplorable devices scattered around it. The closet contained more gruesome weapons.
How many people had these instruments been used on?
We tucked ourselves into the closet and turned off the flashlights, waiting like deer caught in the headlights.
“Who’s in there?” the miserly man spoke. “Whatcha up to Tay Tay?”
The door pushed open; the lights came on. Josie shoved her flashlight into my hand; I held the flashlights like weapons, ready to bash him on the head if needed. Next to me, two wooden blocks with jagged spikes were making me cringe.
“No one’s here, Daddy. Just me. I couldn’t sleep. I’m in so much pain.”
The desperation in the girl’s voice brought tears to my eyes. Yes, she was lying for us, trying to save our hides, but she certainly wasn’t lying about the pain. Her agony was as clear as the medieval claw I was standing over. One step in the wrong direction and I’ll be wearing that damned device, I reminded myself.
The closet stank of rusted mold. The walls were closing in. I was terrified beyond belief. Josie was panting. Sweat was dripping from her pretty face; enough to fill a lake.
Footsteps approached. The closet sprung open.
“Aha!”
Mr. Sanderson was alarmingly fast. In his hand was a homemade stun gun. He grabbed me with one strong hand, dragging me from the closet. He thrusted the stun gun deep into my throat, zapping me. I crumbled like a cookie crumb, hitting my head on the Tongue Tearers as I collapsed. My tongue protruded like a dog, as I lay dazed and confused, pulsating.
“No Daddy. NO!”
“Shut yer mouth, Tay Tay!”
I heard the taser again. The girl screamed. Her bed protested, before falling silent.
“Now, now,” Mr. Sanderson said, his voice as deep as a well. “Look what the cat dragged in.” He sounded pleased.
He’d discovered Josie. I wanted to holler “Stay away from my girlfriend!” But I couldn’t form a sound. I wanted nothing more than to rescue the girl I loved.
Josie said, “Keep back. Or else.”
Mr. Sanderson chuckled. “Or else what?”
A shot rang out, as loud as a chorus of Harleys. The boom ricocheted off every crevasse of my mind. For a moment I was deaf.
Then everything went dark.
…
I awoke to the sound of a police woman saying my name.
“What the…?”
Every inch of my body hurt. My ears were swimming. My head felt like it had been crushed by an anvil.
“Where’s Josie?” I managed to say; my mouth full of drool.
“I’m right here.”
I felt her warm embrace, and relished in it. Soon the world returned, and I was back inside the Sanderson house. Mr. Sanderson’s head was splattered across the walls and floor; bits of brain and cartilage stuck to my pants like specs of spaghetti. His headless corpse was being stuffed into a body bag. The room flooded with cops and paramedics.
I closed my eyes.
…
Josie saved my life that day. She also saved Taylor’s, who slowly became transparent, as the cloaking apparatus wore off. Eventually, the story came out. Well, parts of it, anyway. The bones of several bodies were found in the Sanderson basement. Along with many strange potions. Magic potions, to be exact, although the police would never report this part.
But I knew. How else could he make his daughter invisible. Turns out, the old crank was a retired science teacher. Somewhere along the line, he turned evil.
Taylor wasn’t a ghost. She was invisible. She’d been chained to her bed for over a year, undergoing God knows what kind of malevolent experiments. With immense concentration, she realized, she could make herself visible. But only for a brief moment. Then she’d be fatally exhausted.
So, she waited by her window for someone to see her. I was the only person who saw her. That’s why she kept appearing at the same time. So I would do something. It was her only chance.
Her story was unthinkable. Who knows what will become of her?
Sadly, the greatest horror of this story wasn’t the torture chamber in the Sanderson basement. Yes, that was awful. Nor was it the fact that he’d kept his daughter prisoner, chained to her bed, using a invisibility potion he’d ruthlessly concocted. That too was tragic.
But what keeps me up at night – and this goes for Josie, who’s night terrors have returned with a vengeance – is the fact that our government now knows of this invisibility potion. God only knows what level of mishap will come of it.
Imagine the possibilities.