The Ghost Next Door
by Richard Van Doren
Part 1
It began as an amusing conversation piece, eliciting a smile, an occasional chuckle among those who claimed to see her, and a barely perceptible shake of the head from those who listened with gentle mockery.
The ghost of Gladys Timms - or something - manifested itself just enough over the decades, in unusual and unexpected ways, to keep the legend alive throughout generations of inhabitants of the old parsonage where Gladys met her suspicious end in 1850. The slamming of an upstairs door on a still night, the trill of piano keys in an empty living room, the sound of - what? - muffled crying from the attic, and even the unshakable sense of another presence in the dining room startled the Whitney's, terrified the Magnussons, perplexed the Howards and invigorated the De Leos. "There's Gladys again," Sandra De Leo announced whenever a phenomenon occurred. "Hello, Gladys," she'd continue with genuine affection.
Supposedly, none of those who lived in the old parsonage spoke of their experiences to subsequent buyers. It could sour the deal, after all. When Shirley Howard called Wilma Magnusson and asked, "Is there something strange about this house?' Wilma's answer prompted Victor Howard to consult a real estate agent the very next day. The Howard's sold the place at far below market value.
The De Leos reveled in their good fortune, stemming they were told from the sudden transfer of Victor Howard overseas. Only when Sandra saw an indistinct figure sitting on the attic stairs late one night did she finally connect the Howard's rationale for selling with their purchase of a new home less than three miles away.
It had to be the ghost of Gladys Timms. Like dogs and cats, some people were and were not "ghost friendly."
It was Mary and Walter Trainor who lived in the house and served the Baileysburg Church in the late 19th century who uncovered what they believed to be the source of the haunting. Gladys was the wife of the church's third minister, Dominie Wolfgang Timms, a stern demanding and often unforgiving cleric, if the tenor of his sole existing sermons and the fact that he engineered the excommunication of at least three elders was any indication.
Gladys, a retiring only child was herself unable to produce children, which occasionally made her an object of public scorn by her husband, who may or may not have been the actual "problem." Some parishioners saw it as a blessing when Gladys took sick in late February of 1850 and fought an ill-fated battle for life which ended in defeat four months later. Her spirit finally departed a body that weighed less than sixty pounds and appeared to be twice her thirty-six years of age. Shortly before a lifted sheet removed her from human sight for eternity, her neighbor Constance Sharp, who had been preparing some chicken broth downstairs, entered the noxious bedroom and threw her hands across her face, letting the tray, bowl and spoon crash to the floor. She later testified to all but Wolfgang that she had never seen such a heart-rending expression of despair on what should have been a countenance awash in peace, given the onrush of paradise. Her eyes bulged and her mouth, which should have been agape to allow for the exit of the soul was instead clenched tightly shut.
For well over a century the legend of Gladys Timms grew, aided largely by intermittent communications among the various residents of the parsonage, which the church sold in the 1920's. It was finally decided - or discovered - that Gladys only wanted attention when she made her presence known, and when someone, anyone in the Baileysburg community placed some flowers on her grave she would withdraw to a secret corner or chamber of the house and remain there for years at a time.
Gladys - or something - had not appeared for several years when the Sellers took up residence just three years ago. Interestingly, Tom and Marsha were the only couple in all that time to have a child, whose name was Charles, nicknamed Chucky. Prior to their arrival in Bailyesburg, Chucky had demonstrated all of the qualities of a happy, well-adjusted toddler - bright, energetic and given to laughter. But soon after they moved into the old parsonage Tom and Marsha began to notice a change in the boy. Beginning at age three to his present age of five Chucky had become increasingly withdrawn, fearful even. He showed no interest in his peers, although his parents enrolled him in the church nursery school across the street, and he never returned the warm greetings of an adult - not even the wave of a hand. No amount of chastisement from his parents could coerce Chucky to make eye contact or even acknowledge another adult, except for themselves and occasionally his teachers. Some of the best child psychologists in the business were at a loss to explain it, ruling out the most common sources of trauma like abuse or an undetected physical illness.
Without a change of some kind, Chucky seemed destined to remain a ward of his parents for the remainder of his earthly days.
However, that change - or something - came on Good Friday, April 13, shortly before 11:15 in the evening. Chucky had seemed particularly restless before going to bed and practically begged his dad not to lead him upstairs. But the child finally yielded at the promise of his favorite story, which was a long one. By 9:30 he had fallen into what appeared to be a deep sleep. Relieved that he could now return to the Yankees game on TV, Tom quietly covered his son and slipped from the room. All remained quiet for about ninety minutes.
As Tom and Marsha ascended the stairs for bed they heard a thunder-clap pounding in their son's room and screams that pierced the night. Bursting in they froze in horror at the sight of Chucky sitting upright, screaming repeatedly and staring wide-eyed at something behind the opened door. They spun to follow his eyes and, moments before it seemed to disintegrate, looked upon an apparition of barely discernible shape. When it disappeared Chucky's screams subsided into sobs and whimpers.
Tom and Marsha rushed to their son, but locked on each other in stunned, jaw-dropping silence. They both saw something that would forever rob them of blissful ignorance.
And what they saw was not human.
Part 2
At 11:15 on Good Friday evening, Rev. Terry Hansen finally decided to resign from the pastoral ministry, after twelve years of inner struggle. He could point to the pitiful turnout for the service earlier that evening, or dwindling enthusiasm for all aspects of church life among his congregants. He could even cite the church's long history of adversarial relationships with its ministers, as exemplified by the sale of the stately, spacious former parsonage next door and the purchase of the much smaller home in which he and his wife Janet now lived. But that was almost a century ago, and that, too, would be pointing in the wrong direction.
In truth, the problem was and would continue to be his own emotional emptiness, a simple but devastating lack of compassion, the most important quality of his profession. It wasn't that he hated anybody, it was just that he could feel nothing. He could feign sorrow in the face of grief, patience when attacked, amusement when the target of teasing, but he felt - nothing. Any appearance of emotional involvement was a sham.
For years Janet urged him to consider counseling (she, too, suffered from his emotional distance), and he even sought professional help for several weeks. However, the psychologist's findings failed to transcend the obvious. Spiritually and intellectually he offered superior gifts, but he never learned to attend to his own needs. The causes were irrelevant to the recommended cure: months, if not years away from the ministry until his emotional battery fully recharged. "Easy for you to say," he thought while reading the official report. "Give me the name of a corporate headhunter who specializes in placing burnt out clergy and I'll consider this time well spent." But no such person existed to his knowledge, and given the limited usefulness of a seminary education, he grasped desperately at a profession for which he knew, like so many of his peers, he was no longer qualified - if he ever was.
"Tonight's the night," he thought as he sat down at his laptop to begin typing, "Time to get out of the boat." As Janet brushed her teeth in the nearby bathroom, he pecked out the names of his elder board. Breathing deeply, he raised his hands to begin the body of his letter when a horrific sound froze his fingers an inch above the keys. It had been a gusty evening with a mild threat of mid-spring thunder storms, but only a tornadic wind could produce such a shriek. The windows, which rattled when a pick-up truck drove by, remained still, and the sound itself seemed muffled by distance and walls.
Hansen jumped to his feet and fumbled with his sneakers. On hearing the sudden movement, Janet rushed into the room. "What's wrong?!" she demanded, wide-eyed.
"There's something wrong at the Sellers' place," he gasped, visibly frightened.
"Should I call the police?" she cried. But he was already half-way down the stairs.
The wind had gathered strength, pushing thick ominous clouds past a nearly full moon and bathing the front lawns in intermittent blackness and light. Terry Hansen dashed onto the Sellers' property, oblivious to the threat of ground hog holes and fallen twigs. In seconds he stood before his neighbors' front door and pressed frantically on the lighted button.
Immediately, the door swung open to reveal an ashen-faced couple and child, the little one clutching his mother with arms and legs, his head buried into her neck.
At first, Hansen thought his discomfiting appearance - red eyes, wind-swept hair, a tattered bathrobe over blue striped pajamas and untied sneakers - startled his neighbors, but he quickly realized that a far greater shock had stricken them.
"Are you all right?!" Hansen wheezed, "D-did that sound come from here?"
Tense moments passed and neither Sellers spoke. Finally, Marsha strained to answer. "Y-yes, that was us, Pastor Terry." She shot a look at Chucky. "Please come in." As they stepped away from the door to allow entry, it occurred to Hansen that this was the first time either of the Sellers had addressed him as "pastor." Neither attended his church across the street, if they attended anywhere, and their casual greetings always comprised first names only.
Tom gestured toward the living room. Once seated, another uneasy silence followed. "So what happened?" Hansen asked.
Tom sighed, looked at the ceiling and shuddered. "We're not exactly sure . . ."
"Chucky started screaming, and we ran into his room . . ." Marsha blurted.
"Do you believe in ghosts, Pastor?" The suddenness of Tom's question startled Hansen. "Ghosts?!" He stifled a laugh, recalling the many stories about this house. "You don't mean Gladys Timms, do you?" he asked with a smile. When neither Sellers appeared amused, Hansen donned his serious face. "This is going to be a long night," he thought.
"I don't think it was Gladys Timms, Pastor. We don't know what it was," Marsha whispered, caressing the sleeping child in her arms.
Again, silence. Clearly, the Sellers expected an answer. "You mean you saw what made Chucky scream?"
"We saw - something." Hansen detected a slight tremble in Tom's voice. "The room was pretty dark, except for a night light and what comes through the windows from the street lamp. But there was something there - I swear to you - a dark mass, almost like a thick cloud, but . . . furry. I thought I saw red eyes . . ."
"It disappeared almost as soon as we saw it, but I saw the same thing," Marsha added, somewhat more composed.
They waited for the minister's response. "So it's this again," Hansen thought sourly, "a consultation about a brief foray into the unexplainable with the local shaman, who will soon to drift back into irrelevance. Might as well tell them straight."
"No. I don't believe in ghosts," he answered frankly.
"Then what did we see, Pastor Hansen?" Marsha handed Chucky to Tom and leaned forward. "There was something in that room, I assure you." She looked at the ceiling again and Hansen realized that Chucky's bedroom was right above them.
"I don't know, Marsha, but if by a ghost you mean the disembodied spirit of a human being - no, I do not."
Marsha sat back and glared at him. "Then you must think we're all crazy."
He glanced at Tom and saw a similar look of disappointment and anger.
"I didn't say that," Hansen scrambled to recover. "Clearly, you saw something, but what you saw was not a ghost."
"How do you know?" they asked simultaneously.
"Because Jesus said when a person passes from this life and enters the next a great chasm is fixed between us, and there is no returning from the next life or communication from it, which means that "mediums," "ghost whisperers," and "sixth senses," while fanciful stories, are all shams - every last one of them."
"So there is no spirit world," Marsha continued, more confused now than angry.
"I didn't say that, either," Hansen answered, his confidence somewhat restored. "There is indeed a spiritual world, and the human spirit may be part of it. Ghosts as we know them, however, do not stay here or come back. A room might contain residual energy from a human life, which could cause a psychic response in certain people, but the energy has no consciousness, no autonomy."
"Can anything come from the spirit world?" Tom asked in a barely audible voice.
Hansen nodded. "According to the Bible only two spiritual life forms have intruded into the human experience - angels and demons."
The Sellers exchanged worried glances. "So we saw a demon, then."
Hansen sighed. "I think before you jump to any conclusions, you should eliminate more believable explanations."
"OK, Pastor," Marsha said, caressing her son who now rested on Tom's thigh, "Maybe you'd like to come take a look at the room and see for yourself whether there's anything there that could play tricks on us."
"Uh, sure," he said a bit uncertainly, but not because of ghosts. He felt awkward invading anyone's private territory.
They left father and son on the couch, the little one sleeping soundly now, and climbed the stairs. Nightmarish memories of childhood flashed briefly through Hansen's mind, but quickly fled - the tentative gaze up at the second floor, steeped in darkness, and the mad dash for the light switch just beyond - before the monster emerged to devour him.
When they entered the room, they froze at the sight of a brilliant, crimson pulse bathing the walls. Hansen recoiled at this apparent vision of hell until reason prevailed and they came to the instant recognition of its source - a police car out front. Janet had called the department and was at this moment standing alongside two officers who knocked at the main entrance.
Marsha and Hansen looked at each other and almost laughed at their child-like susceptibility to the supernatural. "You see what I mean?" Hansen was about to say.
Tom called in a loud whisper from downstairs. "Honey, the police are here. Come get Chucky. We don't want him to wake up and get upset again."
Marsha gave the pastor a half smile and turned. "I'll be right back," she said.
As she descended Hansen glanced around the darkened room, dark being a relative term. The street lamp and night light illumined pictures of puppies and a toy-strewn floor. He heard muffled voices from below and footsteps on the staircase, ascending with a clump-clump-clump - mother and son drawing near.
Suddenly he felt it, the rush of breathable air from the room, the popping of his ears and the blurring of vision. All this he could have explained, but the rest he could not. He felt his heart about to explode from the unrelenting emotions of despair and rage - a madness beyond the bounds of insanity - alien, horrific.
And they intensified as Marsha and Chucky approached. Hansen imagined a pressurized chamber for deep sea divers, the desperate response to an onset of the bends, blood streaming from his ears and nose. He turned in time to see the boy bolt awake, the terror returning in a flash. A little hand shot out, a finger pointed. "Ai-ee-ee-ee," he screamed.
Hansen spun to see a huge, lurking mass in the far corner, shapeless but changing.
Marsha ran down the hallway with the boy as the police stormed up the stairs, Tom and Janet close behind. The first officer followed mother and son while the second pressed into the room behind Hansen who stood rigid.
"What. What is it?" the policeman demanded.
Hansen blinked. The vision was gone. "N-nothing," he said.
Part 3
“How do you know the kid wasn’t screaming at you?”
“Very funny.” Terry Hansen met Father Glenn O’Ryan’s familiar teasing with a stone face.
O’Ryan frowned. His Protestant counterpart took life way too seriously, he thought, but this was sobriety to the extreme – and on the eve of the biggest day of the church year, no less.
“To be honest with you, Rev. Terrence, you might find Catholic Rites of Exorcism buried on the internet sooner than you would at one of our seminary libraries. Few if any of my bosses take this activity seriously anymore.”
Hansen figured that, but he had to ask. He sighed and glanced around Father O’Ryan’s study, rich oak paneling, plush leather furniture and walls of books neatly arranged by the caring hands in the reception room outside. Through the window a thick deep green lawn filled the horizon. He never failed to acknowledge this startling, perhaps revealing contrast to his own office, piled high with books and barely big enough for private consultation. He knew it was the result of historical architecture, not an intentional slight. Still, it fed a deteriorating mood.
“There must be some other explanation,” Poppa Duke continued. This was a nickname coined by the local clergy club for this energetic, fun-loving padre who seemed more fulfilled by the adulation of a big parish than a demanding opportunity to serve the Lord. Everyone liked him, though, which could not be said for others in the group, especially Hansen.
“There probably is,” Hansen said, “but that’s all I’ve got right now.”
“Your story sounds like the plot of a horror movie,” Poppa continued unrelentingly, perhaps to punish him for this interruption on a most important day of preparation. “And they all stink, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Hansen shifted uneasily. Even though Poppa Duke O’Ryan admitted to a lack of understanding in matters of faith, the minister hoped the hint of a solution might be forthcoming. “They’re not all bad,” he said.
“Besides The Exorcist and Paranormal Activity, name one.”
Hansen lightened slightly. “Don’t have to,” he said, “You just proved my point.”
O’Ryan sighed. “All right, Terry, for the sake of my golfing partner,” the priest arose, avoiding any reference to their one-on-one basketball games and table tennis matches, which were considerably less amicable than golf once the sweat flew, “I’ll make a copy of the latest version of our ghost buster pamphlet, and present it to you with the standard warnings not to engage in such a rite without a full investigation and written sanction from our diocese – and not to do it alone.”
O’Ryan disappeared for several minutes and returned with a few 8 ½ x11 sheets of white paper stapled together, making good on his promise.
“So formal,” Hansen said. “Care to join me in this adventure?”
“If it’s the 18th green of Somerton Woods that’s possessed, and I can take my clubs . . . oh, and don’t forget, tomorrow’s somewhat of a big day.”
That night Terry stood at his bedroom window staring at the house next door, which was bathed in light inside and out. Somehow he didn’t think that would make a difference, but if the Sellers’ felt better . . .
“You told Father O’Ryan everything you just told me?” Janet asked, sitting up in bed, a hard-cover book resting on her thighs.
“That I did,” Hansen answered, unmoving. “He still thinks I had too much hot food for dinner. The gas gave me brain vapors, he called them, which often resulted in supernatural fantasies, and – what did he say – delusions of athletic prowess.”
“We had tacos Friday evening. He may have a point.”
Hansen turned to confront his diminutive blue eyed paramour, who still made his heart jump, but decided to let it go. “You don’t know how powerful this was, Hon. I’ve never felt anything like it before.”
“Tell me again.” She closed her book, set it on the night stand and gave him her undivided attention.
“The room seemed perfectly normal, except for the windows being shut because of the storm. The air was a little close, but not unhealthy by any means. I was about to leave when I heard Marsha coming up the stairs with Chucky. That’s when I felt this – presence. Or maybe I should say two presences. The feelings coursing through me were so different – boundless rage, bottomless hatred - the other despair, deep sadness. One seemed to move aside and let the other in, then back and forth – almost like they were wrestling with each other and I was the mat. It was the strangest doggone thing. Scary!”
Janet took off her reading glasses and cleaned them on her night gown. “Are you sure these feelings weren’t your own, incited by the situation?”
Hansen approached the bed and rested his hands on it, looking at her. “I haven’t felt something like this in decades, perhaps ever. No. These feelings were not my own. I’m sure of that.”
Janet looked down at her hands. “I want to believe you, Terry,” she said. “I really do.”
Hansen slid next to her. “Honey, remember my condition. I haven’t felt anything for years – except my love for you.”
Good save, she thought, if somewhat delayed.
He used a slightly different metaphor. “My emotional self was like an empty arena where someone else’s fight was being held. I never thought clinical depression would have its advantages,” he sighed.
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
“Well, nothing until Monday. And after that . . . I have Poppa Duke’s liturgy.”
Janet lifted her head and peered straight into his eyes. “You’d better not do anything until you’re sure what this is. If you’re even close to being right, you could be way over your head.”
“That’s true. But there’s something else to consider.”
“What’s that?”
“A little boy.”
The Easter service attracted its usual overflow crowd, consisting mostly of C&E (Christmas and Easter only) Christians, visiting family, and several “samplers.” Rev. Hansen gamely tried to inspire them with an old sermon he was pretty sure no one would remember, but he never felt entirely present – not because of disinterest this time, but distraction. He could not take his mind off the events of Good Friday evening. Fortunately, very few came to hear the minister. They came for the tradition, the lovely flowers and beautiful music, and on these last two subjects the other participants did not disappoint.
As colorfully bedecked worshipers filed out the two front doors, a few came up to the minister and his wife, who stood between them in the back of the sanctuary, to shake hands and offer the requisite compliments.
One of these was Laura Graham, self-appointed church archivist. A good-natured woman with a passion for the past, Laura assumed a job no one else wanted: care for the church’s extensive collection of historical documents. Fortunately, she was one of the last to leave that morning, so Hansen did not hold anyone up when he took her aside for a semiprivate conversation.
“Laura,” he began, “where might I find the pertinent records of a particular ministry in this church?”
“Well, that depends on how far back you want to go, Reverend. Anything within the last fifty years would be right here in our filing cabinets.”
“Farther than that. Actually much farther than that.”
“How far?”
“Almost back to the beginning of our church, the third ministry to be precise.”
Recognition filled Laura’s face, and she didn’t even have to look at the roster of ministers hanging on the wall behind Hansen. “You mean the pastorate of Wolfgang Timms.”
“That I do, Mrs. Graham,” he nodded. She thought it funny that he would call her Laura one minute and Mrs. Graham the next, but she never questioned it.
“Is there anything particular about Reverend Timms that you want to know? Perhaps I can help you.”
“Oh, nothing special,” Hansen smiled through his lie. “I just wanted to find out a little bit about, well, Gladys Timms.”
Laura’s face fell. “The ghost of Gladys Timms, you mean,” she said flatly.
Hansen tried to keep it light. “Yeah, I was thinking about writing a story about the legend – just for fun, mind you – because there’s been so much said about her over the years.” He smiled awkwardly, knowing it did not appear genuine.
Laura started to move away. “I think you should let that poor soul rest in peace. She had a pretty rough time, from what I read.”
“Oh, really? What did you read?” he asked eagerly.
She looked at him with suspicion, now.
“Just some of the old coot’s sermons,” she answered, spying him like she suddenly thought all clergy were the same. “He was a hard boiled tyrant from what I’ve seen and heard.”
“These sermons – are they here somewhere on our property?
“Oh, no-no-no. Documents that old were taken to the seminary years ago. Otherwise they would have disintegrated here. They have a climate controlled historical document library inside the regular one. Haven’t you ever been there?”
Hansen felt sheepish. “No. I know of its existence, of course, but I’ve never been.”
Understanding filled her face. “Just like all the others,” she said “doomed to repeat history because you have no respect for it.”
“That’s overstating it a bit, Laura, but you’re not all wrong.” He glanced at Janet, who had finished shaking hands and was waiting for him to join her. “Can anyone go there and check these documents out?’
“You can’t check them out,” Laura said somewhat impatiently. “You have to inspect them there.”
Bad choice of words, he thought. “Are these docs accessible to the public?”
“Yes, Reverend, they are. Now if you don’t mind. You and Mrs. Hansen have a lovely Easter.” She turned and left.
That night Hansen shared his next day’s plans with Janet. “Too bad I’m back to work tomorrow, or I’d go with you,” she said. “The kids can smell summer vacation, now, so their attention spans will be nil.” Such were the trials of fourth grade teachers.
Immediately after breakfast on the day after Easter, Reverend Terry Hansen left home for a thirty-mile trip to his denomination’s eastern seminary. Situated on half a block in the center of the sprawling state university, the struggling institution seemed squashed between towering residence halls and thousands of pedestrians. The library, however, provided unexpected escape from the constant din outside. Hansen approached the desk and asked for the Historical Documents Librarian, a name he seemed to remember from his own days in the seminary. Soon, a portly, graying, bespectacled man emerged from an office beyond, a stereotype of the professional bookworm.
Moderately familiar with each other, they exchanged cordial greetings, but quickly got down to business.
“Yes, your church was one of our earliest and biggest contributors. We have you and several others to thank for silencing our critics and taking immediate advantage of our little experiment – which is no longer an experiment, of course,” John De Holland spoke, barely above a whisper.
“So, our church brought all of its documents in at one time?”
“There have been a couple of deposits, since, but most of it came here on May 20, 1965.”
Which means Laura had read it all, he thought, and either had nothing of interest to contribute, or was holding out, which was unlikely. In short, Hansen fought the rising disappointment of a wasted trip – on his day off.
“Of course, we had an historical documents library right from the start, but nothing as elaborate as we have now,” De Holland offered.
“Come again?”
As if speaking to a grammar school tour, the librarian continued, “Our denomination is the oldest in the United Stated with a continuing history, well over three hundred years. This seminary is over two hundred and twenty years old. People have been bringing their treasures to us for a long time by North American standards.”
Hansen felt the germ of an idea. “Do you keep records of all contributions?”
“Do we keep records . . .” De Holland answered sarcastically. “Do we keep records.” He paused. “I supposed you’d like to see them?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Step right over to our computer terminal, and I’ll show you where to look.”
After a brief tutorial, Hansen began scrolling through the extensive list of files given by his church alone. Surprisingly, several hundred items were entered before the great donation of ’65, pieces of history about which Laura Graham may not be aware.
Had he not blinked to clear his blurring eyes, he might have missed the entry that froze him, a submission in the summer of 1851 by a woman named Constance Sharp.
With heart pounding he asked De Holland to give him entry into the archives room.
“It’s very cold in there. You’ll need your jacket, AND you’ll need to wear a mask and light rubber gloves. No handling the documents with bare hands. The oil from your hands will hasten their disintegration.”
Hansen consented to all of the rules and was led to a heavy glass revolving door. “Please move slowly, and tap on the glass if you need some help.”
The minister nodded and pushed through the door, feeling like he had entered the fifth level of the infectious diseases compound in Virginia. He made his way immediately to the drawers containing Baileysburg history, all of the items separated by their dates of submission.
He soon found the partition he was looking for: July 9, 1851. Gingerly, he opened the cloudy plastic pouch and looked inside. Taking a deep breath he lifted its contents, a single, frayed notebook, and read its cover: “Happye Thoughts, Mye Diary – Gladys Timms.”
Terry Hansen sat down at the metallic table and took another deep breath. He then opened the book that would raise as many questions as it answered – and fill him with dread.
Part 4
Hansen closed his, eyes, took a deep breath and whispered a prayer. Before starting to read he tried to visualize the writer - a little girl with pig tails in a lacy pink dress playing with a rag doll in a sylvan setting long since vanished.
Almost immediately the entries in this crumbling bound journal troubled him. He knew the important material would be found at the end, but he felt compelled to acquaint himself with the young woman's history. Unfortunately, Gladys Timms, whose maiden name he could not discern, proved to be an enigma.
In a very neat, practiced style the youthful Gladys recorded nothing that one might expect a girl to hold dear, no reference to parents, siblings, friends, pets, beloved toys, memorable trips - nothing. Instead, he read a threadbare description of her home in a northern county on a quiet street with a large oak tree on the front lawn, how a bad storm tore limbs off the tree, but it survived. Gladys enjoyed her walks to school past a brook that frequently overflowed its banks. She loved history, but hated math . . .
Hansen closed the journal for a moment and frowned. He decided to skip over the early pages and focus on her later life. To his surprise he found seven blank sheets between her last entry as a young girl and the beginning of her married life with the Right Reverend Wolfgang Timms. Why? he wondered.
Again, the journal contained no description of her wedding day or any reference to early marital bliss. It began with trouble and quickly descended through grief and ultimately into despair.
These have been the four loneliest years of my life, she wrote in the same self-consciously neat style, complete with misspellings - every paragraph on a different page and day. This man I thout would be my frend and menter has proved to be my werst enemy. From the first he seemed to hate me. He never smiles and treets me with such meenness!
Now I am not only hart sick, but my body seems to have fallen victum to contajin. Lately, I have felt so weak I can barely rise from my bed. Thank the Lord for Constance, whose trustwerthy ministratons have kept me from falling sicker in both thout and form. Is that pity I see in her eyes? She tries so hard to lift my spirits, but it seems she has resined herself to failer before she utters a word. What does she know that she is not telling me?
The whisperings that drift from below add to my werry. Am I neering the end of my erthly life? But the tone of their words bespeaks stelth, not sorrow - and the woman's voice is not Connie's.
Lately, the Reverend ("the Reverend"!?) has atempted to comfert me. He insists on bringing me soup of his own creaton. I feel it is so dissrespectfull to write that inventing recipees is not his nateral talent. How bitter is the concokshin! He has now taken as his duty to raze the windows and swing wide the shudders at nite as a gester of his love, he says. The fresh air will sweep away the vapers, he says. How cold my room becomes at nite!
A few days ago a north wind filled the room, pushing its chill under my bedding and taking hold of my hart. I sens a presents in the air that waches me expektintly. I sens it smiling - or sneering. I reech out to it and sometimes it rushes to my embrace. Sometimes it backs away.
The laffter from below ways upon me as hevily now as my strange illness. Does no one see this is wrong? Will no one speek to the Reverend? Your loyal wife is dying in your very house, in the room rite above you! And you find space in your hart to laff - with a stranger - or is it a stranger?
As my body weekens my senses sharpen. I can here better then they know. I think it is the Widow Hortense Montcrief I here, the one who joined our church after her husband's sudden death- young, suple, tempting - a danger to all womenfoke, but now most espeshully to me.
That presence has become my frend, my companon. It comferts me in hushed tones - understanding - enceraging rather than condemming my anger. My limms are too week to move, but my hart still pownds with rage. It feeds my soul, soothing me when I am most awash in fury and hatred. It asks to become part of me, to take hold of my very being. It fills me with misgiving, but I need a frend! Connie is alowed entry so rarely now and she always seems on the verge of teers. Surely, she knows something and is not telling me. Finally, we share our suspishins - and they are the same! What can she do? a faithful farmers wife whos frends are all in our church, who even if they beleeved would be too afraid to confront the Reverend.
This is monstrus! and my secret companyun agrees. Last nite I reched onto my bedcloths and saw blood. The end is near.
My companyun seems to drink of my despare, ganing strenkth from it. What is this thing I have taken into my sole? It thretens to imprison me after my body fails!
That was the last entry. Hansen sat back and stared for long minutes at the file cabinets, certain of his conclusion and embittered by it.
The diary was a fake.
"Are you sure?" Janet pressed, resigned now to the fact that her reading time was over for the evening.
"Completely, thoroughly, one hundred percent." Hansen slipped into bed beside her, leaned back against the headboard and crossed his legs.
Janet waited.
"The evidence is inarguable," he continued. "First, the name on the cover - Gladys Timms. I examined that cover with a magnifying glass and that is the only name ever written there. No earlier name had been erased and replaced with Timms. I doubt she was married at the age of five, or whenever the diary began."
"Maybe her maiden name was Timms," Janet offered, not really believing it.
"I thought of that. It's possible but a real long shot. Besides there's plenty more. Then there's the handwriting. It is exactly the same her entire life, as a child and as an adult. Have you ever dug out an old paper from grammar school and been struck by how much your handwriting has changed over the years?"
"Yup," Janet answered, sharing his disappointment over what was now an obvious conclusion.
"So that diary, which we are supposed to believe covered decades, was really written in a matter of months. Then there are the blank pages. Who leaves seven blank pages in the middle of a diary? One page might make sense if a lot of time has passed, but seven? Something's strange there - and then finally there's the fact that she's so sick she can barely move her limbs, but she's able to write in a clear, neat style."
Janet sighed. "I think you're right, Terry, and I'm sorry. I know you were hoping for answers, but it looks like you wasted your time."
"I still have these nagging thoughts, though, that it's not over in spite of the bogus diary." He rose from the bed and walked to the window that looked over the old parsonage. "I checked the church records while I was at the seminary and discovered that Constance Sharp died a little over a month after she submitted the diary to the archives. Why would a woman, who might have known she was dying, make a difficult thirty mile trip to drop off a fake document?"
"Right!" Janet leaned forward, fully engaged now. "I forgot. They didn't travel by car in 1850. That was a long trip. She had to be determined to see that diary preserved!"
"Either she took the barge up the canal, a stage coach, or rode horse back - harsh, even dangerous traveling conditions for a mortally sick woman." Hansen started to pace back and forth across the room.
"Maybe she didn't know the diary was a fake," Janet offered
"Maybe, but she had to know what it contained for her to be so committed to its preservation."
"Then there are the blank pages," Janet added breathlessly, "and the same handwriting!"
It was starting to come together. They were getting close.
Finally, they said it together. "SHE WROTE IT HERSELF!"
"Gladys might have been too weak to write, but she wasn't too weak to whisper," Hansen continued eagerly.
"Plus Constance must have had some inkling of what was going on. Otherwise Gladys' testimony would have seemed like the ramblings of a failing mind." Janet's voice rose with excitement."
Hansen plopped down on the foot of the bed, almost bouncing off onto the floor. "She can't tell anybody, because 'THE REVEREND' has too much clout. She could be ostracized from the community for suggesting such things."
"So she tries to create compelling evidence, but she really doesn't have the skill to pull it off. She knows nothing of Gladys' life, so she has to invent one."
"She records the critical part of the story toward the end of the book, while her memory of it is still clear and then tries to fill in earlier detail to make it seem authentic."
"But she lacks the imagination - and maybe the time, if she's dying."
Once again, they said it together, "She falls seven pages short."
Hansen bowed his head. "So that rotten old so and so poisoned his wife."
"And if I'm not mistaken about the lore of our church," Janet continued, "didn't his marriage less than a year later raise some eyebrows?"
"Right! And I suspect when we check the church records we'll find that the new Mrs. Timms was one Hortense Montcrief."
Janet's tone dropped to a virtual whisper. "Do you think that's why Gladys won't let go? Why she chooses to haunt the old parsonage rather than vacating for the kingdom of God?"
"If that's true, it renders suspect some basic biblical theology."
They fell silent.
"The only thing that works," Hansen began haltingly, "the only possible explanation that's not covered by scripture is that her companion has truly imprisoned her like her diary said. Constance got that part of the story right. Her companion, being a demon, possessed her soul."
"Which means she wasn't a believer," Janet said sadly. "But with a husband like that who could blame her?"
Still troubled, Hansen ran both hands through his hair. "But that feeling I had in Chucky's room confuses everything. It felt like the stronger dark power, the malevolent personality was trying to cast off the weaker despairing one, but it wouldn't let go, like Gladys' companion was trying to push her away, but she was having none of it. Why?"
"Maybe there's some truth to movies and TV. Maybe she's staying because of unresolved matters. She wants to have her story told and won't leave until it is."
"Why would somebody put off heaven after a hundred and sixty years for something so comparatively trivial? When all is said and done Wolfgang Timms got his just desserts on the day he died, so vengeance was achieved. She must know that. There must be something else."
After a minute of silence, Janet finally said, "Let's go to sleep," and turned off the light.
Hansen lay awake for almost an hour, running various scenarios through his mind, but finding none satisfactory. Shortly after midnight sleep claimed him.
At three fifteen he bolted upright, his heart pounding with excitement-dread-horror-revelation. He reached over and with both arms shook his wife clumsily. "Janet! Wake up! It's about Gladys! Wake up!"
Janet sprang awake, her eyes wide with terror. "What is it, Terry! For God's sake!"
"It's about Gladys, Janet! I know! I finally understand why she won't leave!"
She could barely discern his face in the darkened room, but saw enough to shudder at his expression of awe.
"She's trying to protect the boy!" he gasped.
Part 5
Despite Hansen's assurances, Janet called in sick to school.
"Why doesn't the demon just possess them both?" she asked as they descended their front steps.
"I don't know. Maybe there are rules in the spirit world - only one possessed soul at a time. As long as Gladys refuses to let go, the demon can't take full possession of Chucky. It fits with what I felt, anyway."
"This is too dangerous to take on by yourself, Terry."
"If it gets scary, I'll walk away. I promise."
Stepping onto the Seller's property, Hansen imagined the ground opening beneath his feet and clawed hands reaching up to drag him to the lower depths. Must have seen that in a movie, he thought.
"You're not even Catholic," Janet said.
"The denomination doesn't matter. It's the power of the words and the spirit behind them."
"Which you believe will drive a demon from this house, setting Chucky free to live a normal life . . .?"
"Yes."
"And what if you're wrong?"
"It can't hurt to try," Hansen sighed impatiently.
"You don't know that." Janet grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Maybe it can hurt to try."
"What's the alternative, Janet? Walk away and pretend like I felt nothing? Leave the Sellers to deal with this by themselves? I might be the only one around equipped to take this on."
"By equipped you mean . . .?"
"Armed with faith. The disciples said, 'Even the demons submitted to us in your name, Lord.'"
"Who were sent out in pairs! Who's going to help you?"
Hansen proceeded up the sidewalk, Janet following. She glanced at the badly folded sheets of paper in her husband's hand. "Can't you make your liturgy a little more official looking? That could be today's racing forms."
"What do you know about racing forms?" He reached out and pressed the bell.
Janet turned to breathe in the gorgeous spring day, the bright sunshine belying her husband's dark task. "I asked Father Glenn to stop by . . ."
Immediately, the door opened, revealing a haggard couple holding their sullen child between them. Silently, they stepped aside to allow the minister and his wife entry.
"You're sure this will help?" Marsha rasped, both she and Tom awash in skepticism.
"It can't . . .," Hansen looked at Janet and changed direction. "I believe it will. Yes."
"Why do we have to stay?" Tom asked flatly.
Hansen hesitated to talk openly in front of the boy, then quickly realized it didn't make any difference.
As Marsha closed the door behind them, the air pressure seemed to rise. "I've done a little reading on this subject over the last few days, and most of my sources agree on certain facts. Taking Chucky out of the house will not help him. The demon has his "scent" so to speak and will be able to find him wherever you go. We want the demon to associate Chucky with extreme discomfort, so it will never come back. That's why the one in the process of possession needs to be close during the rite of exorcism."
"This is all so unbelievable." Tom shook his head as if fending off a concussion, feeling anger and self-loathing for giving in to such a thing.
No one disagreed.
Hansen offered, "Well, we can not do it. It is your house, after all."
A tense silence followed. "Maybe the power of suggestion will help . . ." Marsha began, tailing off because she knew all else had failed. Chucky did not need help, anymore. He needed a cure
To their surprise, it was Tom who said, "Let's do this."
Marsha looked at him questioningly. In answer Tom said, "We all saw the same thing. If there's any chance we can get rid of it . . ."
"OK, the four of you go into the living room, sit down and start with these responsive readings."
"Whoa! You mean we're taking part in this, too?" Tom asked, on the verge of belligerence.
Hansen stepped back. "Well, yes, unless you feel uncomfortable about it. The rite has more power the more people who participate."
Reluctantly, Tom took the sheet from Hansen's grasp. The minister and his wife exchanged worried glances.
"This is supporting liturgy. I'll go up to Chucky's room and conduct the actual exorcism, that being the epicenter of the house." And also the place where Gladys died, Hansen surmised.
With that he turned and climbed the stairs, the three adults intoning Psalm 53 by the time he reached the top.
Chucky's room had changed little since the previous Friday night. The same toys littered the floor, the bed had not been made, but the pictures on the wall of animals and clowns took on a sinister tinge.
Might as well get right to it, Hansen thought. He raised the remaining liturgy and began to read, "I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord for judgment, that you tell me by some sign your name, and the day and hour of your departure. I command you, moreover, to obey me to the letter, I who am a minister of God despite my unworthiness; nor shall you be emboldened to harm in any way this creature of God, or the bystanders, or any of their possessions."
At first, he felt foolish, but that quickly gave way to foreboding, then gut-clenching fear. Janet was right. This was not a good idea.
His tongue thickened and his throat constricted. His breathing became labored as if the oxygen had been sucked from the room. He struggled to continue, but soon fell silent.
The demon - or something - was making it impossible for him to continue.
Even worse, his hands and feet went numb, and he could no longer move his legs. He fell back against the wall as if pushed and pressed hard against it. An invisible hand grabbed him by the throat and lifted him from the floor.
And this, he sensed, was only a fraction of the demon's power.
Suddenly, a scream erupted from below. "Chucky! Come back!"
He heard little feet ascending the stairs, followed quickly by heavier ones.
Hansen saw Chucky bolt passed him into the room and dive onto his bed to burrow under the covers.
Then, the door slammed shut behind him - and not from the wind, because the windows were firmly shut.
A second later the Sellers and Janet reached the door, but could not budge it. Hansen and Chucky were now closed off and in the unprotected presence of something truly terrible.
Suddenly, the door bell rang. Hansen could hear Janet say, "Stay here! I'll get it!"
Muffled voices rose from below, then more steps.
Terry!" Janet cried. "It's Papa Duke!"
The voices sound garbled now as tears wrought by choking streamed down Hansen's cheeks.
"Hey, Rev," Father Glenn O'Ryan spoke in his characteristic soothing voice. "How about opening up? These are not the days to be alone in a bedroom with a five-year-old. Trust me on this."
Hansen could not make a sound, except for intermittent gasps. He tried to pound on the wall, but his arms felt like dead fish.
"Chucky! Chucky!" Marsha cried, "Are you all right?!"
"Let's call the police!" Tom shouted. "Who knows what he's doing in there!"
But the arrival of the police meant failure. Even if he survived, and Chucky was taken from the room safe and sound, the paramount problem remained: a demon possessed this house and would stop at nothing until it had stolen the soul of Chucky Sellers.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
Alone.
The liturgy, Papa Duke, Janet - they were all right. Never try this alone.
And he had not listened. Now, with his heart nearing explosion and a vision of his own obituary racing through his mind, Terry Hansen understood the depth of his arrogance and the feebleness of his faith. He had attempted to face down an eternal being from the pit - by himself. And he would shortly die for it.
He prayed silently, "I lift up my eyes to the Lord. From whence will my help come?"
At that moment he felt another presence in the room. Sorrow and despair briefly supplanted rage and hatred. The pressure in his chest eased slightly.
It was the ghost of Gladys Timms.
Would she, could she help me? He would have thrown himself on his knees and begged, if it were possible, but the cold hand of death held him fast. Besides, Gladys - like the demon - had no particular fondness for clergy types. Of this he was certain.
In a voice barely a whisper, Terry Hansen pleaded what he knew could be his final case.
As the handle rattled and a body slammed heavily against the wooden door, Hansen appealed to a betrayed soul, murdered by her husband a hundred and sixty years ago.
"Gladys, I know what he did to you. I know he poisoned you. Constance Sharp left proof. I swear I will tell your story to the world. I will vindicate you! Please help me!"
The demon's grasp weakened - but not enough. Gladys could not do it alone, either.
Then Hansen reached down into his soul and appealed to the only power that could finish the job, the power that gave meaning to the words. Suddenly, he was able to raise the liturgy to his eyes: "I cast you out, unclean spirit, along with every Satanic power of the enemy, every spectre from hell, and all your fell companions; in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Begone and stay far from this creature of God. For it is He who commands you, He who flung you headlong from the heights of heaven into the
depths of hell. It is He who commands you, He who once stilled the sea and the wind and the storm. Hearken, therefore, and tremble in fear, Satan, you enemy of the faith, you foe of the human race, you begetter of death, you robber of life, you corrupter of justice, you root of all evil and vice; seducer of men, betrayer of the nations, instigator of envy, font of avarice, fomentor of discord, author of pain and sorrow. Why, then, do you stand and resist, knowing as you must that Christ the Lord brings your plans to nothing? Fear Him, who in Isaac was offered in sacrifice, in Joseph sold into bondage, slain as the paschal lamb, crucified as man, yet triumphed over the powers of hell. Begone, then, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Give place to the Holy Spirit by this sign of the holy cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with the Father and the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever. Amen."
As he read, an enormous weight crushed against him until his head pounded and his nose gushed blood. Then, finally, as if the house itself exhaled, explosive energy shot from the room, shattering the window that overlooked the church across the street. The draperies fluttered madly, then fell limp. As the door opened behind him, Hansen ran to the window and looked out. He would never know if what he saw was a physical reality or merely a projection in his mind's eye, but he knew it represented truth - and finality.
Speeding away from the house, wing to wing, a crow and a dove seemed bound together by an unseen force - until the crow veered left beyond the church and the dove disappeared to the right beyond the trees.
His ears popped in time to hear a little boy cry, "Mommy!"
Then another voice. "What did you break the window for?" Papa Duke chided, a strange combination of amusement and fear filling his face at the bloodied sight before him. "We can still make our tee time - after you clean up, that is."
Once the police were dispatched with apologies, and stunned goodbyes were said by all, Hansen and Janet made their way back to the parsonage. Neither spoke a word, but they walked arm in arm.
On entering, they turned, sliding both arms around the other's waist. She looked at him with worry and awe. His expression read little more than shock.
"Well done, hero," Janet whispered.
"I had practically nothing to do with it," he whispered back.
"I've got the rest of the day off, and I really can't go out . . ."
"Give me a couple of minutes, and then come up when you're ready. If you're ready."
"You know my answer to that," she smiled, tilting her head for the long kiss that followed.
When he woke his computer from hibernation there appeared on the screen the beginning of a resignation letter. He looked at it without emotion, but was soon distracted by a sound he could not recall ever hearing from the yard next door - a little boy's laughter. He rose, walked to the window and looked down. Below, a few yards away, Chucky kicked his feet out in front of him in a joyous swing that might have caused other mothers concern. But Marsha stood calmly behind the boy, occasionally raising a handkerchief to her eyes.
On returning to the computer, Hansen closed the letter with the intention, perhaps, of finishing it another day. Today, however, he had a more pressing task to fulfill. Today, he had a promise to keep.
He closed his eyes, prayed, and began to type.
"It began as an amusing conversation piece, eliciting a smile, an occasional chuckle among those who claimed to see her, and a barely perceptible shake of the head from those who listened with gentle mockery . . ."
End