Hauted - A Ghost Story - By H. A. Sparrow [Unfinished] - Ch. 3, Part 1 Up!

Haunted
By *H. A. Sparrow

Maturity: Some mild scariness such as nightmares and things & possible dating/serious kissing
Fantasy: Ghosts--good ghosts, bad ghosts, ghost portals…yeah, basically anything ghost.

Chapter 1 {Part 1}
Arrival

"None but a coward dares to boast that he has never known fear." ~ Ferdinand Foch, (1851 - 1929)


I stare out the window of the car for a few moments before leaning further over and pressing my forehead against the cool glass.
“Mama, are we there yet?” whines my little brother, Jacob.
“No, we won’t be there for another few minuets, honey,” my weary mother replies.
“We’ve been driving for four hours!” I groan, glancing at my mom without moving my head.
“That’s because it’s four hours away,” she says calmly, looking at me. She gives me her strongest smile and reaches one hand off of the steering wheel to stroke some frizzy brown hair from my eyes.
I sigh deeply and look back at her, my eyes only part way open. I hope this stupid house is worth the numb butt, the packing, the leaving what few friends I do have. It’d better be worth it--if not, I swear I’m gonna scream.
My mother’s hand slides down off of my face and returns to its position on the wheel. Her dark green eyes again turn to the road, and her focus is no longer on me. Both of us can hear the toddler in the car seat whining about how he has to go to the bathroom, but neither of us at the moment really care.
We’re moving from our cozy little apartment smack dab in the heart of NYC to a super-old house in the middle of no where in Pennsylvania. Truthfully, I’m far from thrilled. I’ll miss the way the sun just couldn’t seem to get through the smog each morning; I’ll miss walking to school; I’ll miss sharing a room with a three year old demon….
Okay, Jake really isn’t a demon, but I certainly won’t miss bunking with him. I mean, really! A thirteen year old girl such as I needs more space than a bunk and the top three drawers of the dresser. I barely had space to think!
So in a way, moving is a good thing. In a way, it’s bad. I have to forget about ever seeing my friends again and make new ones. But old, painful memories are also forgotten--memories of my father.
My dad--Ian S. Scully--was in the U.S. Army. He was just another one of the thousands of nobody soldiers who worked hard and wrote us every single day. Just another man who had settled down a few years back, had a wife, two kids, and a dog (who was currently drooling on my pants and crushing my legs). Just another guy who was blown up by a roadside bomb. Just another death statistic.
For a while it was just me, my mom, and Jake in that tiny apartment. Then mom lost her job and found a new one in Hickville. No, that’s not the real name of the place, but it might as well be! I will now be living one entire hour from the nearest mall! How these people survive, I do not know.
“We’re here.”
I jerk my head away from the window and look around. “Huh?”
On my lap, Teddy starts to whine and shift around. Sometimes I think he still considers himself a puppy--Teddy is our black lab. Well, supposed-to-be-black black lab. Some how his genes got messed up or something and he’s snow white. One eye is violet, and the other is midnight blue. He’s a beautiful creature, but he’s getting old. He’s almost nine now, but still sits on my lap and romps around like a year old dog.
“We’re here,” she repeats, smiling at me. Then she turns and unbuckles the creature known as my brother and says, “Why don’t you, Elie, and Ted go check out the house? I’ll unload the car.”
“Okie-dokie artachokie!” squeals Jake, throwing open the door and running towards the house.
I shoulder open my car door as well and let Teddy jump off before stepping out. My eyes go wide, “Mom, look! Do you see how much grass there is?! It’s like…everywhere!”
She just laughs and goes around to the back of the car, saying, “I know, it’s amazing, isn’t it?” I can hear a little bit of sarcasm in her voice, but I don’t care. I’m not paying attention to her anymore; I’m looking at the house.
It’s a magnificent little building, which seems to be Victorian style. The real, authentic Victorian style. Off the top of my head, I’m guessing it’s two hundred years old. At least. With a grin I walk towards it, shifting my purse to my purse-arm and staring up at it. The shutters are white; the roof is gray; the rest of it is a shabby tone of blue. All and all, it’s pretty cute. Like a doll house but a good dozen or two times bigger.
Jake is running up the front steps and bouncing up in down in front of the door. “Eloise, open da door, I gotta go, real bad!” he whimpers.
“I’m coming…” I exaggerate my steps, making them large and slow.
He groans. “MAMA!”
“Eloise Isabelle Scully, open the door for him!”
I roll my eyes. “Yes mother!” I drone, skipping up to the front door. I pull my shiny pink key from my purse and fit it into the lock, twist once, and the door swings open. [Which is weird, because I didn’t push it or turn the handle at all.]
Jake and I stand there, staring at what lies before us. There’s a long, dusty hallway; through the shaft of light that comes from the little window above the door, hundreds upon hundreds of particles dance and twirl as if putting on a little show. An old crimson rug covers the floorboards. It stops at the bottom of a rickety flight of stairs. To our left a few feet down is one doorway, then another. To our right is an open passage to a large living room type room that, when I look closely, has a door that leads to what seems to be a dining room.
“I no have to go no mo’.” Jake whispers, sticking his thumb in his mouth.
“You sure, lil’ buddy?” I ask, picking him up and setting him on my hip.
“I sure.”
There’s a few moments of silence and then Jake says my name. “Yes?”
“I wanna go home.”
I look at him. He’s a spitting image of my father; he has the same white-blond hair that’s always messy. The same happy electric-blue eyes. The same sweet little smile that makes your heart melt. I kiss his forehead and say softly, “I’m sorry, bud, we can’t go home. Mama got a new job, so we gotta live here now.”
“I don’t like it here.” he says, shaking his head. “Too cweepy.”
I glance around. Has he been feeling the same weird vibes that I am? I chew on my lip and look back at him for a moment, then away again. I swear we’re being watched--I just have that feeling that we’re being watched…Why else would the hair on the make of my neck stand up?
“Elie?” he asks again.
“Yes, bud?”
“I no like it here.”
I walk slowly towards the stairs, glance at him, then sigh deeply. “Me neither, little guy,” I murmur, “Me neither.”

Part 2

I can hear mom stumbling through the front door, dropping her bags, and cursing herself for wearing heels. Jake and I are busy exploring the upstairs, looking for our own rooms.
“I call biggah woom,” he tells me, shooting me one of his adorable little boy smiles.
I snort. “In your dream, pipsqueak!” I set him down and bolt off, laughing as I do so. “I get the bigger room ‘cause I’m older!”
“Nuh-uh!” he whines, toddling after me with his arms outstretched. “I’ma catch you, then you no get biggah woom!”
I run down the hall, pausing every few steps to throw open a door and glance inside. One door I open is a bathroom; I wrinkle my nose. There’s mold on the cracked tiles, no bathtub, a sink that’s falling a part, and a toilet that looks so new that it’s out of place. The next room is clearly the master bedroom. There’s a king-sized bed up against one wall, an elegant oak dresser up against the other wall, and a ornate ceiling fan above it all. One room later I find what I’m looking for.
My new room is bigger than the guest room and what will eventually be Jake’s room. There’s a nice twin-sized bed snuggled between two matching bedside tables. At the foot of the bed is a trunk, across from it is a little dresser. There’s a mahogany desk in one corner with a matching chair. In the opposite corner is a window. I smile. “What a cute room!” I squeal, clapping my hands in typical ‘Yea-Me!’ fashion.
Jake toddles up behind me and once he sees the room he bursts into self-pity tears.
I sigh deeply and pick him up. “Hey, it’s okay, lil’ buddy,” I coo, kissing his cheek. “I hate this room.”
His tears dry instantly. “So I can ha' it?”
“Of course…not.” I stick my tongue out at him.
And he bursts into tears again. This time, though, he also decides to pull my hair.
I cry out and just about drop him, growling, “HEY! MOM! HE PULLED MY HAIR!”
“Will you two stop fighting?”
Jake screams in fear and runs towards the window. When he gets there, he stops and inserts his thumb in his mouth. This always means he’s scared.
Rubbing my sore scalp, I go over to see what’s the matter. “Whoa--who the heck is that?”
Outside in my driveway stands a boy. He doesn’t look much older than I, but he’s definitely taller and a bit bulkier. His hair is flaming red and cropped short. Even from a distance I can tell he has freckles. Oh, and his eyes! They’re such a bright green--brighter than bright green--they almost look yellow! He looks up at me. The corners of his mouth twitch into what I suppose is a smile and he waves, leaning against his bike and watching me with a fascinated expression.
“MOM! THERE’S A DUDE STANDING IN THE DRIVEWAY!” I shouted over my shoulder, then turn to look out the window. “AND HE’S STILL THERE!”
“Go out and say hi, I’m sure he’s just coming to say hello,” she replies.
“Can I come?”
“No, what if he’s like a stalker!” I squeak. “I’m not gonna let no freak stalker get anywhere near my baby bro.”
Tears fill his crystalline blue eyes. “Then can I ha’ the woom in'tead?"
I pick him up and we go outside, only stopping when we’re a few feet from the boy. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he says. From his back-woodsy accent and posture, I can tell he’s not from New York.
“What’re you doing in my driveway?” I ask bluntly. On my hip, Jake sticks his thumb back in his mouth and rests his head on my shoulder.
“Lost a bet.”
I snort. “So you’re not here to say hello or anything?”
“Nope.”
“Go away.”
He shrugs. “Okay.” he says, clambering back onto the rusty hunk of metal at his side.
“No, wait!”
He pauses and looks up. “What?”
I glance back at the house for a moment, then direct my gaze back at him. “I’m curious…who are you?”
“Alex Smith.”
I smile. “I’m Elie Scully,” I say.
“Oh, so you’re the chick who moved into that house.”
I roll my eyes. “Me, my mom, and Jake did,” I respond a bit thickly, bouncing Jake on my hip as if to indicate he was Jake.
“I bet you won’t last a year,” Alex says, a sort of grim-yet-entertained expression on his freckly features.
Now my eyes narrow. “What are you saying?” I ask slowly, covering my little brother’s ear.
“That house up there--it’s haunted,” he says, nodding his head towards my new home. “All the people who lived there ‘fore, died within a few weeks. The longest--some crazy old coot--lasted a year…said ‘e died of a heart’tack, they did, but ‘e didn’t. Ghosts got ‘em. Such a shame a pretty little thing like you’ll have to die.”
Despite the compliment at the end, my face has gone ashen. Jake--who can hear perfectly well through my hand--begins to whimper. I step forward and slap him hard across the face. “Go away! Now!”
He just chuckles. He gets on his bike again and smiles at me as he says, “See ya at school on Monday, Scully.” With that, he leaves.
Jacob is now sobbing.
I rock him in my arms, kissing him and whispering to him, “It’s okay, honey, it’s not haunted, he was just kidding…just kidding…” I glance up at the house and doubt my own words. Saying that place isn’t haunted is like saying that a McDonald’s isn’t even a little bit greasy.

Chapter 2
Benny

“Death is a very dull, dreary affair, and my advice to you is to have nothing whatsoever to do with it.” ~W. Somerset Maugham (1874-1965)

Chapter 2
Benny

“Death is a very dull, dreary affair, and my advice to you is to have nothing whatsoever to do with it.” ~W. Somerset Maugham (1874-1965)


I lay in bed, my eyes shut lightly, trying desperately to fall asleep.
I’m snuggled under my comforter--Jake calls it a ‘pic pic blankey’
because it’s checkered like a picnic blanket (except of being red and
white, it’s pink and purple). I sigh and pull the blankets closer.
Glancing at my clock, I see it’s midnight.
Officially it’s Sunday.
Which means tomorrow’s Monday…
Which means I start school tomorrow…
I moan and rub my eyes. I need sleep!
Okay, drinking some water sometimes helps. I’ll go get a glass of water.
With a heavy sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and shuffle
out of my room, my blanket wrapped loosely about my shoulders. I pause
by the bathroom and look at my face in the mirror. There are large bags
under my brown eyes, and my hair is sticking up at odd angles. I snort
and shake my head. “I look like It,” I mumble sleepily, stumbling down
the steps.
Eventually I make it to the kitchen. It takes me
another five minuets or so to actually find a cup. Mom loves to put
things away and not tell me where she put them. She says it’s good to
figure things out for yourself every once in a while. Huh, yeah right!
Not when it’s midnight and you can’t find a cup and your poor throat is
all parched.
With a deep sigh I walk towards the sink. My eyes
shoot wide open when the faucet turns on for me. “It’s just the
pipes…just the pipes…” I say to myself with a laugh. “Water does that
sometimes…pressure…Not a ghost, not a ghost…”
The handles begin to spin wildly around in circles. I let out a squeal and stumble back, my cup crashing to the floor.
“Elie?” my mother calls. “Are you alright?”
“Yes mom, I just, uh, stepped on one of Teddy’s chew toys.” My squeal
sounded just like one of those annoying sounds a dog toy made, so it
wasn’t an extremely far-fetched lie. “Go back to sleep, Mama, you need
the rest.”
“Mkay,” was the weary reply. Seconds later there was
the ever-so-soft sound of her snoring, mixed with Teddy's snorting and
sleep whimpering. I smile to myself and quickly clean up the glass,
grabbing a new cup this time, a plastic one.
I walk towards the
sink again. The handles have stopped spinning, thankfully. I reach out
and flick the cold water on. It runs normally. With a slightly shaking
hand, I put the cup under the stream of cold water and it fills.
Leaning against the counter, I take a sip. The cool liquid rushing down my sore throat makes me give a little sigh of relief.
And of course, just as I’m calm and relaxed, a chuckle reverberates
above me. My head snaps up (causing my neck to crack a little) and I
see for a split second a face. All the hair on the back of my neck
stands in end and I begin to quake. “Who’s there?”
But the face
is gone, and I’m talking to myself. Which isn’t that unusual, might I
add--I talk to myself when I’m home alone sometimes, nervous, or scared.
I exhale deeply and shake my head, dismissing it as the light playing
tricks on me. “No more chocolate before bed,” I say, nodding. My cup of
water and I travel back upstairs again, back to my room. I set it down
on one of the nightstands and curl up again, pulling my blanket tight
about me.
Just as I’m drifting to sleep, I hear a voice.
“So
you’re Elie! It’s nice to meet you, Elie Scully…he-he, your name is fun
to say. Elie Scully Elie Scully Elie Scully! Ha-ha-HA!”
My eyes
snap open. “Who--?!” I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling.
Again there’s the face, but this time it doesn’t disappear. It’s a
boy’s face. He, like Alex, doesn’t seem to older than I. His hair is
dark--I can’t tell if it’s dark brown or black--and his eyes are a
beautiful shade of midnight blue. He has a large grin on his lips, and
as he comes through the ceiling with such an arrogant air about him
it’s hard for me to believe he’s dead.
“Name’s Benny, ma’am,” he
says, sitting down casually at my feet. “And you, m’dear, are Elie
Scully, as I so happily pointed out before.”
“Who the fudge are you?!”
“The fudge?” He raises an eyebrow at my ‘cursing’ and then just shrugs.
“Why, I just told you! Need I explain myself again?” he sighs deeply
and says, “I am Benny.”
“And you’re dead.”
“And I’m dead!” He’s a bit more enthusiastic then I imagined a ghost would be.
“Are you gonna kill me now?”
He throws back his head and laughs. “Now why would I do that?” he cries, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eye.
I shrink back, “’Cause Alex said--”
“You mean that boy you were talkin’ to earlier tehday?”
“Are you already stalking me?”
“Not stalking, m’dear,” he sang with a wink. “Just watchin’.”
I wish I could slap him. I cross my arms and look at him for a moment,
disgust spelled out on my features. “Get out of my room, farm boy.” He
does look like he belongs on a farm--he wears an old, tattered flannel
shirt, dirty overalls, and clunky brown boots. If he were alive, I’m
sure he’d smell like a load of manure.
“Why should I?” he asks curly, leaning back and clasping his hands behind his head.
“Because if you don’t, I’ll scream.”
“And screamin’ll just wake yer Mama, no?”
I purse my lips. “GET OUT OF MY ROOM!” I growl, my fists clenching.
He sighs deeply and pouts like a child. “Oh, all right,” he says,
moving to float a few feet above me. “I’ll be back some other time,
when you ain’t so cranky.” With that, he disappears.
And as soon as he’s gone, I faint.