; ; Crack. A muffled scream. Whack. Another scream. Silence.
; ; How could Jackson concentrate on his latest book, The ; Brantford Chronicles II, with such strange noises distracting ; him? Jackson rose from his straight-back chair and stared out ; the curtainless window. Withered weeds covered the ground for ; close to half a mile, from the ancient family burial ground, ; across fields which had not seen a plow in decades, to the edge ; of the woods, where leafless second-growth tree branches ; stretched upward against a gray, featureless layer of cloud, as ; if some threatening force had yelled, "Reach for the sky." ; Nothing moved. There was no wind. The noises could not have ; been caused by the wind, by branches rubbing on the roof, or ; anything like that.
; ; Jackson went back to his laptop word processor. He was ; working in the old kitchen. He planned to sleep there, too, for ; the rest of the house was cold, bare, unfurnished, a wreck of a ; place with peeling wall paper, falling ceilings, creaking floors, ; musty smells, no electricity or running water. That's why the ; place was vacant; it would never pass a building inspection. ; Still, it would keep out the weather, and there was an old, cast ; iron hand pump which, with generous priming, would lift clear, ; cold water from the well.
; ; A kerosene heater was next to his chair, and he wore a ; sweater, with a sweatshirt over it, so it didn't matter to ; Jackson that the place was cold. What mattered was that he could ; work undisturbed. His cash was running low. He really needed to ; finish a book and get an advance. He doubted he could even get a ; job at McDonald's, the way things were, so hunger was a real ; threat.
; ; Once more, Jackson placed his hands on the keyboard. "All ; right, Brantford," he wrote, "drop the gun and raise your hands. ; Don't make any sudden..." There it was again, a whimpering, ; pleading noise, almost like the squealing brakes of his VW Bug. ; Maybe he could sell his Bug, which was hidden in the sagging old ; barn. No, he needed the Bug to visit his mother, in her nursing ; home, and pick up freshly recharged batteries for his laptop. ; "Moves," he typed. There was another high-pitched "Ahh!"
; ; Disgusted, Jackson pushed the keyboard away and listened ; intently. Silence. He waited. More silence. He pulled the ; keyboard to him and, as soon as he hit tab for a new paragraph, ; he heard a new noise, a low, muffled sound, followed by a ; piercing shriek which chilled him like fingernails on a ; blackboard.
; ; He went to the door to the front of the house, cracked it ; open, and listened. Nothing. He waited. "Ahhhh," he heard, ; faintly, no louder than before. He went to the back stairs, ; opened the door, and climbed a few steps into the gloomy, unlit ; stairwell. It was cold and dank and smelled of rot. He waited, ; for what seemed a long time. Thud. Ah-ieee. The sound seemed ; not so loud, this time. He backed out and closed the door, ; standing in the kitchen, puzzled.
; ; Jackson sat down once more, noting that the battery saving ; feature had blanked his screen. He hit enter, to bring it to ; life, but as soon as it had restored his words, he heard the ; noises again. He flashed on a scene he had planned for Chapter ; Ten. Brantford would be imprisoned by the KGB and would be ; forced to listen to the muffled sounds of other prisoners being ; tortured. Jackson imagined it would sound like what he was ; hearing now. It certainly was unnerving.
; ; He wondered if he was crazy, trying to make a living as a ; writer, based on one sale of an adventure thriller. If it didn't ; sell well, Brantford II might be a waste of time, anyway. What ; could he do, if he couldn't write? The thought was too ; depressing.
; ; "So, Markov," Brantford hissed, "it was you who assassinated ; Brewster." Jackson stared at the screen, waiting for the next ; scream. How could he concentrate, with those strange noises?
; ; The sun was setting, the light failing. Jackson went to his ; box of kitchen matches, struck one on the rusty top of the old ; stove, and lighted his kerosene lantern. He had come prepared, ; with air mattress, sleeping bag, lantern, camp stove, a box of ; canned goods, spaghetti, rice, five gallons of kerosene, all he ; needed to camp here and write that book. But he couldn't bring ; peace and quiet. He knew it would be useless to try to write, ; until he had discovered what made those noises.
; ; There it was, again. Jackson rose and paced the floor. ; Again he heard the sounds, something like a blow and a scream, ; but louder, perhaps. He looked down and realized he was standing ; on a metal grate. Yes, the house had once had heat, an old coal ; furnace, and the grate probably covered a return-air duct. ; Jackson got down on his knees, put his ear to the grate and ; listened, intently. The cold, hard floor punished him through ; his worn jeans. He thought he heard a muffled voice, and ; complaining cries. They could be coming from the cellar.
; ; Jackson's character, Brantford, would fearlessly ; investigate. Jackson wasn't quite the heroic equal of his ; character, but he knew he couldn't work, or sleep, until he had ; an explanation for those strange noises. He would have to check ; out the cellar.
; ; Finding an entrance was a bit of a chore. In the back stair ; well, there was a door which might have opened on cellar stairs, ; but it was nailed shut and boarded over. He had not brought a ; crowbar. He thought of the furnace. There would be a coal ; chute. He went outside and started to circle the house.
; ; For a moment, he was distracted by the old burial ground. ; Leaning stones marked the resting places of people dead two ; hundred years and more. Some of the stones had readable ; inscriptions: "Sacred to the Memory of Elisa Jane Bolt, died June ; 5, 1803, aged two years, three months, four days." "Prudence ; Felicity, beloved wife of Garth Arundel Hawthorne..." The rest ; was unreadable. The house seemed to have had several owners, ; judging by the grave markers. They cast long shadows in the ; weeds, for the sun was very low.
; ; A muffled scream reminded Jackson that he must find an ; entrance to the cellar. Yes, someone had knocked a hole in the ; ancient stone foundation, probably for a coal chute, but it was ; boarded up, also.
; ; Jackson put down the lantern and gave the boards a kick. ; His hiking boot had a visible effect. The boards were old, half ; rotted. With a dozen more hard kicks, he succeeded in clearing ; away the obstruction. He put his head through the opening and ; listened. Silence. Then, quiet clearly, whimpering pleas for ; mercy, followed by a drawn out cry of anguish.
; ; As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, Jackson could ; see the rough walls of a coal bin; there was still coal on the ; floor. It might come in handy, some cold night. He took his ; lantern in one hand and lowered himself through the opening, ; wriggling on his belly, feet first, feeling for a foothold. ; Safely down, he kicked open the old door to the coal bin.
; ; The ancient cellar, by the light of his lantern, was a ; strange and scary place. Big iron pipes hung from the ceiling, ; growing out of an antique coal furnace like octopus tentacles. ; The ceiling was hand-hewn boards over barkless tree trunk beams, ; and the floor was packed dirt. The walls, of course, were rough, ; uncut stone, laid with a minimum of mortar.
; ; Jackson advanced into the cellar, stooping to avoid the ; pipes, listening for the source of the noise. Could it be some ; animal, trapped in the cellar?
; ; "Please, Master," he heard quite clearly. "I did not take ; your shilling."
; ; There, behind the furnace, was a girl, a teenager, stripped ; naked and hanging by her wrists, which were bound to a rusty hook ; in an overhead beam. Her body, front and back, from knees to ; shoulders, was covered with red welts and bluish bruises, the ; colors unreal in the lantern light. More unreal was the fact ; that Jackson could see right through her, see the rough stones ; behind her, upon which she cast no shadow.
; ; "Who are you?" he asked, unable to believe he was seeing a ; ghost.
; ; "My name is Rebecca Steele."
; ; "How do you come to be here?"
; ; "I was stolen in Bristol, and sent to the colonies as an ; indentured servant."
; ; "But why are you here, tied to a hook?"
; ; "My master believes I stole a shilling, and he vows I will ; tell him where it is hidden if he has to beat me every night, ; forever. I didn't take it. I cannot tell him where it is."
; ; Jackson put down the lantern and went to her, thinking he ; need only lift her to free her bound wrists from the hook. When ; he tried lift her, his hands grasped air. She was as ; insubstantial as smoke, though he could see and hear her plainly.
; ; "I would free you, if I could."
; ; "I would be eternally grateful, good sir, but I fear you ; cannot free me. My bones lie beneath this floor. I was never ; given a Christian burial, so my spirit is imprisoned here, where ; I was murdered."
; ; Jackson tried once more, reaching upward, right through the ; bound girl's arms, determined to see if he could pull the rusty ; hook free of the beam, but it was as insubstantial as the girl ; was, the original long gone.
; ; "Sir, you cannot free me from my prison, but as long as you ; are here, with me, I am at least freed of my torment. Please, do ; not go, for if you do, I am doomed forever to be beaten to death, ; over and over again."
; ; "There must be a solution, Rebecca. Suppose I dug up your ; bones and had them properly buried, in a church yard."
; ; "One of the previous owners of the house tried that. He ; could not find more than tiny fragments. Even bones, it seems, ; eventually turn to dust. Unable to abide my screams, he sold the ; house, just as the others did."
; ; "Then what can I do, Rebecca? I can't bear the thought of ; your being beaten to death through all eternity."
; ; "You must stay with me, sir. Talk with me. My master beats ; me only when no other can see."
; ; Jackson shuddered in the chill dampness of the gloomy ; cellar. My mind, he thought, is playing tricks on me. This is a ; dream or hallucination. Ghosts don't really exist, except in the ; imagination. He picked up his lantern, and returned to the coal ; bin. As he started to climb out the opening, he heard, louder ; than ever, a loud whack and a soul piercing scream of anguish. ; He froze, unable to lift himself further. "Sir," he heard quite ; clearly, "in the name of God, don't leave me!"
; ; Jackson realized then that he could not leave her. Her ; cries would haunt him forever, if he did.
; ; It was about two years later that "Jason Wind" finally ; agreed to be interviewed, by telephone, for a nationally ; syndicated radio talk show. "Tell our audience, Jason, how it is ; that you have been so very successful -- four books this year, ; with two of them on the Times Best Sellers list right now."
; ; "Well, the secret was finding my genre. I was starving ; writing adventure novels, but historical romances sell pretty ; well these days."
; ; "They certainly do, Jason. They say the new popularity of ; the genre is due to your books, so realistic, so meticulously ; accurate in every historical detail. Historians say you must be ; one of the country's foremost experts on colonial history, yet ; you are barely twenty-one and have never been to college. How do ; you do it?"
; ; "Research. I go back to contemporary sources."
; ; "Where do you find them? Your publisher tells me you have ; imprisoned yourself in an old house in New England, that you ; never leave it."
; ; "That's true. I can't. But I've fixed it up very nicely, ; with an office in the basement, where I keep my most valuable ; source materials. Seems I'm there all the time, working. The ; isolation keeps me going."
; ; "And where is this old house, Jason?"
; ; "That's my secret. I must have my privacy."
; ; Jason hurried the interview to a conclusion, anxious to hang ; up. "Aaaahhh!" he heard distinctly, the sound making him ; shudder.
; ; "OK, Rebecca! I'm coming."
; ; --END-- ; ;