Forever in Black

Thomas Crane doesn't believe in ghosts, but that doesn't stop him from writing his latest ghost story. He need one hour inside Stonecreek Manor but soon realizes some things are just beyond belief.

“FOREVER IN BLACK”

By,

Bradford Corvi

 

 

 

 

 

For better or worse, the Stonecreek Manor had become a landmark in Lowell, Massachusetts. Over the past two months, the place had been covered on TV and in the press. The ghost hunting phenomenon was all the rage. It even went as far as catching the eye of one resident, Thomas Crane.

            Born and raised in Bristol, Rhode Island, he gained quite a reputation as a local celebrity for his work in New England history. After realizing the legacy of the John Adams family was well researched and Salem became a bore of phony witch tales, he noticed the recent rise in ghost hunting in the area. Even his own son and his friends were running around�"playing such games with a video camera. Maybe there was something to this.

            With the mild success of his last book on lighthouses, he’d been currently writing his latest piece on New England ghost sightings. After covering such towns as Abington, Hanover and Plymouth, he knew Lowell was next on his list. The timing couldn’t have been better.

            There was a bit of talk about the Stonecreek Manor and Tom knew there was something to write�"there just had to be.

            That afternoon on 91 Dutton Street, at the sports pub called Cobblestones, Tom sat for lunch with an old friend, Dough Benton.  He had been city councilmen for many years, and was granted privilege to access of most of the city. With the smoked bacon burgers displayed and the tall glasses of Budweiser standing well on the table, it seemed anything and everything was up for discussion.

            It was good for him to see Doug again and even better for him to pull strings for access to the manor.

            “You sure you want to do this?” Doug asked again.

            “I’m telling you, one night inside there and I’ll have all the stuff I need.”

            “You know, you could just go by what the papers are saying and I’m pretty sure your book will still sell.”

            “This is more than just selling a book.” Tom assured. “The papers go from ghost kids to even some as crazy as vampires. Doug, you’ve lived here for a while. Give me the straight up story of that house.”

            “You don’t believe in ghosts do you?” Doug carelessly asked.

            “No. What I do believe is a good story, particularly one that sells.”

            Doug rolled his eyes and tried to turn away. He himself was getting pretty tired of the whole Stonecreek Manor scene and would rather discuss the upcoming game at Fenway Park. 

            “There’s no straight-up story when it comes to ghosts. Basically, the original story goes something like this�"back in 1917, during the First World War, some lady was told her fiancé died over in Europe, but she never believed what was told. Every night she stands by her bedroom window waiting for his return and apparently she always wears a black dress.”

            Tom’s eyes dropped slightly in devastation. “Wait…that’s what the whole craze is�" the haunt of some weeping widow? Doug, we have hundreds of stories like this all throughout the state. I gotta say, I’m kinda disappointed.”

            “That’s why I think you’re crazy for coming up here. I don’t know what you heard, but that’s the story.”

            “Well if all I’m gonna get out of her is some lady in a black dress, I should be out of there in an hour.”

            Doug was relieved. “Just an hour�"you’re not staying the night in a haunted house?”

            Tom scoffed and chuckled at the idea. “No, I’m not bringing a sleeping bag or a camera�"just a notepad and a flashlight. Can you think of anything else?”

            “Tom, ever since I’ve known you, you’ve climbed mountains and hiked through caves�"after seeing with my own eyes that nothing scares you, I think you can last an hour in an old house.”

            Tom finished his last bite in the burger and smirked at Doug’s words. “I never said I wasn’t afraid of anything. I just look for the experience.”

            The two decided to finish the afternoon on a lighter subject of the upcoming ball games and plans for the summer. They lounged back and soothed their pallets with the chilling refreshments of the beer and let the afternoon take care of itself.

 

 

“Seriously Doug�"what does the sunlight have against Lowell?” Tom said as they strolled through the back woods to the manor.

            “You said you wanted to write a ghost story. I have the perfect intro.” Doug said with a sarcastic smile.

            Tom played along and was interested to see what Doug had to offer�"considering he thought the whole idea was foolish to begin with. The two reached the end of the woods and found their next realm even more unnerving.

            “Really�"a cemetery?” Tom asked.

            “There’s more to it than this. Come this way.”

            The two moved forward, passed the tombs of old, faded granite. The sculptures of angles had seen better days. Their skin was cracking as if weeping for the eternally damned. Tom had seen many old cemeteries before but there was something that truly grabbed him this time.

            Maybe it was the gray skies above him, or the dense woods surrounding the place. Once his eyes caught the carvings of skulls embedded into the tombstones, he knew he was far from his home in Rhode Island and played with the idea of there was no stepping back.

            “Here they are.” Doug pointed out.

            Three small tombstones stood before them, each one more revolting than the last. Tom kneeled down and leaned forward to read the writing for the stone had had not aged well�"much like the others.

            “Edward Miller, January 10^th 1868�" April 13^th 1917. Florence Miller, March 7^th 10th 1872--- April 13^th, 1917, they must’ve been man and wife.” Tom figured.

            “Go on.” Doug insisted.

            “Benjamin Miller, October 9^th 1905�" April 13^th 1917. Clara Miller, September 10^th 1901�" April 13^th 1917, they all died in the same year.”

            “Now read the last one.”

            “Martha Miller, May 7^th 1899�" April 13^th 1917 wait…” Tom was surprised.  His eyes and mind came to a halt.

            He reflected on the names and dates he read but the last name made his body feel like ice. He admitted to himself there was a spark of fear in his arms.

            “When did the First World War end, Tom?”

            “1918. These deaths all happened in the same year�"either the entire family was in some sort of accident or…”

            Tom didn’t want to say it. Just the idea alone, pierced his imagination. He realized two of the names were children and he suddenly lost his appetite.

            “Do I know something about history that you don’t?” Doug asked sarcastically.

            “Just tell me. What exactly happened to the Miller family?”

            Doug tucked in his breath and began to inform Tom on the tragedy that struck the family almost 100 years ago.

            “After realizing her fiancé’ wasn’t returning, Martha Miller slipped into a severe depression. There was more to her sadness than the death of her loved one.”

            “What’s that?” Tom asked.

            “Story goes that the Miller family lived in a deeply disturbed house. The father was a notorious drunk and was severely controlling on the children. Legend goes he use to chain the young kids to their beds at night if they were bad.”

            “Jesus!” Tom said, trying to imagine. “Anything on the mother?”

            “Florence? She was a meek statue of a woman. Neighbors spoke how he was abusive to her. I guess Martha was devastated�"hoping her fiancé would take her away from this family. As Martha got older, the family grew worse. Edward’s drinking sunk deeper and the daily beatings were getting worse, so Martha decides to take it upon herself to…make a change.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “One night, Martha crept into the kitchen and reached for the butcher knife. She then crawled up the stairs and stuck her father in the stomach repeatedly. But she didn’t stop there.”

            “Don’t tell me she killed the mother and kids?”

            Doug simply nodded his head in agreement. “People say she slipped into some mass hysteria and was hateful for her family to make up such a story of her fiancé dead. So after the mother woke up screaming, she hacked her mother’s throat with the knife then dashed into the children’s bedrooms and…well, you can imagine.”

            “Christ!” Tom said. He stared again at the tombstones and he could feel his body turn cold. Just the mere idea of such grisly murders made his stomach cross and his heart empty.

            “You said you wanted to tell a story.” Doug reminded.

            “That’s the house over there!” Tom pointed out and Doug turned to agree.

            They continued to hike through the cemetery till the finally approached the house. It was built upon a tiny hill that overlooked the dead Dogwood trees and dried up grass.

            The manor was what he expected from a big, old house. The wood had aged badly and the vines had wrapped around it like an infectious disease. From the street, it was cold and callous, and his curiosity began on what lurked inside.

            “You can still turn back.” Doug offered.

            For a moment Tom didn’t lie to himself. There was a piece in him that wanted to turn and drive away. He read many stories of haunting and knew there was no shame in turning around. But like most of his work he was determined and promised not just himself, but his readers that a ghost story was in the works.

            Doug reminded him to call his cell if needed for anything. Tom remembered that well and he decided to approach the door. Once Tom received the key and turned the knob, he knew he was about to step into another world�"one of a dreary, mysterious past that most feared. In a way, he knew it was a privilege for most writers. After all, how often did they get to actually stand and be a part of their own works?

 

The hour was reaching six o’ clock, but with the dull, grey weather outside, it made no difference. Inside was almost typical of what he imagined. From the parlor to the kitchen, it seemed the only guests that entered through were dust and it piled up nicely on the shelves and sofas. With a few windows boarded up, he reached in for his flashlight and began to investigate the house.

He kept thinking back to the time he took his son down to Universal during Halloween Horror Nights and kept thinking he’d see a teenage girl in a bed sheet and heavy eye-liner screaming in his face. After sitting in the study for an hour he encountered nothing but the emptiness of a vacant house.

Tom carried himself to the kitchen for inspection when he noticed an odd sound dropping from up the stairs. Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip. Tom found it strange for a hundred year old house to still spout water. The drops were small, but they spoke volume to him. He stepped out from the kitchen with the flashlight tucked in his fist.

The leaky faucet was coming from the upstairs bathroom. He still had yet to explore the second floor and admitted to himself he was nervous. His mind sunk deeper into the unknown and it dodged his sense of reality and logic. Carefully, Tom stepped up the stairs and embraced every creek in the steps.

By the time he approached the second floor, he noticed the dripping had stopped. He let out a short sigh of relief, but found it odd for the dropping to just suddenly come to a halt.  The silence was taunting him. He was speechless. There wasn’t time to collect his thoughts.

He noticed every door was locked except for the children’s bedroom. He peeked inside and felt nothing but a sense of hollowness and grief. Just staring at the two little beds brought a chilling sense of imagination. He tried to envision the children as young as ten, chained by their ankles while screaming with tears and disgusted him to his core.

Tom spotted the antique, porcelain dolls nestled on the shelves and the coal black eyes staring straight at him and it shot out the creeps like a dart on a board. Tom shook his head and closed the door�"facing a long, empty hallway.

As he was now alone in the hallway, he stood before the massive Oak-wood doors and his mind opened to all sorts of grim scenarios. There it was, just staring straight at his face, a once horrific scene of macabre and dread. Despite his lingering thoughts, he never forgot why he was there.

            Indeed, the dreary surroundings spoke of a story�"one that seemed to stain the town of Lowell. The murders were real, but what was left behind was up for the skeptics. Tom couldn’t remember the last time he felt so unsure. He approached the doorknob and could almost feel his heart stop�"like it was begging him to turn around. He closed his eyes, mumbled the Lord’s Prayer and swung the twin doors wide open.

            Tom instantly noticed the room was freezing, unlike the other rooms of the house. The temperature had dropped and Tom’s legs were beginning to quiver. There was a piece of him that wanted to scatter and cry like a child.

            For the moment he was willing to acknowledge the existence of the paranormal, but he needed something more than a leaky faucet. Tom stared at the bed and tried to imagine the slashes and screams and at one point these sheets and floors were stained with blood.

            As his eyes became lost in the room, he realized he tapped into a house of an unforgiving past and no mercy was left behind. For the moment he was alone, but could hear an unsettling noise shaking wildly outside the bedroom door. Tom felt cornered.

            Through the walls, he could hear the sound of chains rattling across the floor and sparked a sense to worry on what was lurking on the other side. The door swung open and the fear jolted into his chest. Tom let out a quick shout over the sight before his eyes.

            Standing across the hall stood young Benjamin and Clara Miller with their feet wrapped in chains with the blood streaming down their neck and their eye socket blacked out like holes.

            “Get out! She’s gonna get you!” Benjamin and Clara cried out together.

            The children hovered over the floor with the chains dangling and Tom dashed to close the doors. He quickly turned the deadbolts in and collapsed in the rocking chair with his heart in his throat and his flashlight rolled across the room.

            The grandfather clock struck to seven and the boom of the bell felt like a punch to his ears. Who the hell keeps a grandfather clock in the bedroom? Tom thought to himself.

            The doors never opened and the chains seemed to rattle the away. Time passed by and the last thing he wanted to do was leave the bedroom. His chest was pounding and his heart was beating to the point of leaping right out from his chest. He could only imagine what other ghastly, grim figures he’ encounter if he stepped outside.

            He stood up from the chair and noticed the blankets beginning to rise like an oven. His voice was frozen in disbelief. The blankets began to take the shape of two human bodies. Tom stepped forward and began to poke the blanket, till he felt the thick flesh of a body shaping under the cloth.

            Tom’s body instantly ran cold. There was a piece of him that wanted to pull over the blanket and see for his own eyes, the slain bodies of Edward and Susan Miller but he couldn’t summon the will. Tom simply stepped back and fell into the bedroom doors as they opened by themselves.

            Tom was back in the hall and his body shook like a tree in a hurricane. His breath puffed wildly and his heart continued to beat rapidly. He realized his doubts on the supernatural were up in the air and he wasted no time.

            He dashed down the stairs and went straight for the door. It was locked. He twisted and jerked the knob and deadbolt but the iron wouldn’t budge. You have to be kidding me. He felt trapped in a bad joke and was fed up inside the house. Like a life preserver, he reached for his cell phone and dialed Doug’s number. It was a call of relief to hear his friend’s voice.

            “Tom?”

            “Doug! Hey man, good to hear you.”

            So how’s it going? You want me to come over, had enough?”

           

            Tom tired his best to sound cool and collected. There was no way he would allow the slightest shed of paranoia in his voice through the phone.

“Well…” As much as Tom needed Doug’s help, he was hesitant in giving his friend the satisfaction. “Funny story�"I’ll tell you all about it. I think I’ve seen enough though. I need…”

            The call had dropped and Tom’s eyes widened with shock. He was more than beside himself. He was cornered and could feel the walls suffocating him and he was desperate for air. His eyes scurried around the room, trying to seek some sort of a back door. There just had to be a way out.

            The stairway was looming down and the shadows seemed to hover around Tom. Quickly, he stepped into the parlor where he felt he could be safe, even for a moment. He stood next to the piano and noticed something move by the window, something formed.

            At first he paid no attention�"thinking it was the drapes. Any other time, they’d be moving fluidly to the wind, except there was one problem. All the windows were shut tight. He wanted to run but couldn’t. It was the moment of his nightmares where he simply couldn’t escape the danger he could feel it creeping its way towards him.

            The black drapes began to take the shape of a dress and it was not long till a set of shoulders and head puffed out from the top. It was her. Tom thought to himself. He supposed after everything he’d seen, it was just a matter of time before he’d encounter the legendary murderess in black.

            At first, her face was unrevealed.  He couldn’t sense if she saw him. She simply stared out the window with a handkerchief and realized he had finally stepped before the ghost of the dreaded Martha Miller.  She did not appear white or gray but a full, flesh out young woman with hair as black as death and it suited her dress nicely.

 As Tom continued to stand by the piano he studied her every move, from the flow of her dress to her arms tucked in front of her chest. She turned her neck gently till her eyes caught Tom and he was once again frozen with by her look. Martha had the eyes of a viper, stern and menacing. There was no need to imagine what happened on that tragic night. He was standing in the middle of it. He felt the evening of her murderous rampage was a cycle, and he was now taking part.

Martha held out her hand and realized something piercing and frightening. In her hand was not a handkerchief at all, but a large, shiny, butcher knife. Tom wasted no time no time in calling out the Lord’s name in fear and dashed out from the parlor and back into the study. It was the only room he felt safe.

He locked the door and stood between the old, mahogany bookshelves. The door was being pounded by her boots till splinters were flying off the wood. Jesus, did she always wear iron boots or something?

            Tom was unarmed, even if he wasn’t, he still couldn’t figure out how to take out what was already dead. The booming of the door was growing and he knew it would be a matter of time before she came in, swinging and screaming for his throat.

            The sweat was beginning to perspire, and the hairs on his arms were prickling his skin. There had to be a way out. Suddenly, Tom turned and saw the large window placed beyond the writing desk. It was insane, it was ludicrous, it was his only option.

            Tom grabbed his notebook, held in his breath and like a bull; he crashed through the window, landing in the backyard with glass pierced in his forehead. He sat up feeling like his body had gone through a car wreck. He was soaked in fear and alone with nothing but the Stonecreek Manor standing before him.

            The windows were like eyes, leering back at him with a devilish grin. Never had Tom felt stripped of such pride admitted he was rattled by the experience. Now, the idea of lingering ghosts didn’t seem so stranger after all.  As a longtime man of logic and facts, he didn’t know what to believe.

            He was chilled and shaken, but after everything that had happened, he was safe. Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone in search for his wife’s number. He was aching to hear her sweet voice. That was when he felt the worse had returned. A cold, skeletal touch embraced his shoulder and his throat was stiff with fear. All he did was peek to the side and saw the edge of a long, black dress. 

 

 

 

                                   THE END 

Reviews

[Steve]

This is a good story. The character of Tom was fairly well-developed as was the
character of Martha. Both are given a simple history and personality and are
then thrown together in a creepy atmosphere where they engage in a ghostly
game of cat and mouse.

The beginning of the story was a little light regarding Tom's past encounters and
research with the other towns he would be covering in his book, but it wasn't a
big problem for me.

The middle part where Tom was going through the house, slowly coming to
understand what he was dealing with was good and well paced although the
timeline seemed a bit off - he spent an hour sitting in the study? This has more
to do with the prose of the story rather than any real internal flaw. More on
that below.

The ending was very good. It was simple, clean and understated yet dramatic.
The reference to the Martha's black dress and the title was very good.

The prose style was decent even though it contained many typographical errors.
The imagery and diction was good, sometimes straying away from the cliche and
at other times toward it. It was a good balance. The setting and descriptions were
just what you expect from a gothic style story ghost story such as this.

I look forward to reading more from this author!

Steve

[the reader]

wow great story wanted more good job getting the goose bumps there is a short story. looking forward to more