Song of Fire

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Song: “Ghost Story” by Jon O’Bergh
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My mother celebrated Halloween with flair. Every year we would decorate the lawn with an old steamer trunk made up to look like a coffin containing a ghoul, and hang ghostly sheets from the olive tree. She would put on a black fright wig and dispense candy from a cauldron. In 1966, when I was ten, she suggested that I dress up as the Phantom of the Opera — the Lon Chaney character whose photograph terrified me when I was little. Linnea had a book of stills from classic movies of the silent era. I was fascinated yet frightened by the photo revealing the phantom’s acid-ravaged, skeletal face. My mother dressed me in a suit jacket, darkened my eye sockets with eye shadow, and put the black fright wig on my head. I entered a neighborhood costume competition and won — for funniest costume. The judges thought I was made up to look like one of the Beatles after a hard day’s night.

She loved to tell ghost stories. On summer nights we would spread a blanket out beneath the stars. My friends and I would gather around to hear her tales of the supernatural. “Tell the story of the Unlucky Thirteen Club,” we would shout.

“Many years ago,” she began, “there was a club in New England known as the Unlucky Thirteen Club. The members met thirteen times a year to defy superstitions by deliberately walking under ladders, breaking mirrors, keeping black cats as pets, and the like. The club accepted only thirteen members at a time, and each new member had to undergo an initiation by spending the night alone in a haunted house.

“One gentleman had been on the waiting list to become a member for several years. He was a slender, nervous sort of man who combed the few remaining strands of his thinning black hair across his scalp, which gave the appearance of claw marks from some beast. One day, a letter came in the mail announcing that there was an opening to join the club. On October 13, he was to meet the officers of the club, and he would be taken to an old house located on a small, private island which could only be reached by boat. The house had sat vacant for a decade, slowly falling into disrepair, the property overgrown with weeds. The last owner had left suddenly without explanation. It was said that strange lights could be seen emanating from the house on moonless nights.

“With great delight, the gentleman wrote back that he would accept the invitation. He met the officers of the club on the appointed day. They drove many miles beyond the city, eventually coming to a small, secluded bay. As dusk fell, they made their way across the water that was deepening to a midnight blue in the failing light. The house grew closer, looming out of the gloom, its windows shuttered like a sleeping beast in its cage of trees.

“’You know the rules,’ reiterated the club’s president. ‘We will give you a key and one flashlight. You are to remain here overnight, and we will return at sunup to retrieve you. You must make your way through each room of the house and find the card with the number thirteen that we have hidden.’

“The gentleman laughed uneasily and said he was ready for his ordeal. The boat docked, and he stepped out onto the island with his key and flashlight. A stone path led up through the weeds and trees to the front door. Behind him, the boat’s motor revved as the boat sped away into the darkness. He switched on the flashlight and walked up the path. A breeze appeared, like an exhaled breath, stirring the branches of the trees. He looked up to see some dark shapes darting across the spaces where the sky peeked through the woods. Ectoplasmic wisps of clouds floated high overhead. He hurried on to the front door, suddenly anxious to get inside. As he fumbled with the key, a twig snapped somewhere in the woods to his left. The key clattered onto the porch, and he quietly cursed, bending to retrieve it. There was another exhale of wind, and branches scraped across the siding of the house like cat’s claws.

“He opened the door and stepped quickly inside. Shining the flashlight around the entry, he could see cobwebs stretched across the recesses of the room and a layer of dust that had settled on the floor, staircase and banister. He decided to start with the parlor on his right. The room was barren except for one broken chair laying in the corner like a wounded animal. A great hearth stood against one wall, its mantle cracked and a section of marble missing. There was beautifully carved crown molding along the walls. One could see that this had once been a lovely Victorian home, built with craftsmanship and care.

“From the parlor he entered the dining room. A hutch was built into one wall, its doors ajar like an open mouth, toothy shards of broken glass poking up from the frames where the panes had been. He approached the hutch to see if the card had been hidden there, then stopped, thinking, No, that would have been too easy. They must have placed it somewhere more inaccessible, perhaps on the second story. So he retreated through the parlor to the entryway and headed up the old, groaning stairs. Something light and silky brushed his head. Startled, he brushed it franticly away, almost losing his footing. But he realized it was only a cobweb.

“At the top of the stairs was a hallway with closed doors along its length. He entered the first room. As with the rooms downstairs, it was empty, and his footsteps echoed with an unhappy loneliness as he explored the room for any place the card might have been hidden. He found nothing. Methodically he proceeded through the other rooms. Nothing. As he approached the last door, there was the sound of something dropping on the first floor, and he froze. His skin prickled as the hairs alertly stood up. Silence. Then the sound came again, muffled and distant.

“He crept back to the head of the stairs and paused, listening. He could hear the wind outside, the trees scraping against the house. There were some scuttling noises across the floor downstairs — probably mice. Gingerly he descended the stairs, their bones creaking. He could see his ghostly footprints in the dust ascending the stairs like an invisible interloper. As he reached the bottom step, there it was again, a thud coming from the rear of the house, where the kitchen would be. He tiptoed through the parlor and dining room, his heart beating rapidly.

“He shined the flashlight into the kitchen and could make out the counters, cabinets, and a large table in the center. He stopped at the entrance, waiting, but heard nothing. He approached the sink and peered in to see a rusty stain like dark blood. The flashlight dimmed. He tapped it on the countertop several times. For a moment it brightened, then suddenly went out completely. He tried flicking the switch off and on, but nothing happened. Leaving the flashlight on the counter, he began groping his way out of the kitchen. Then the sound came again, loudly, right behind him now, like the dropping of a body. He started to run, but felt something tug at his jacket, jerking him back.

“The darkness dissipated as the sun rose over the mists that were clinging to the still water of the bay. The din from a motorboat sliced through the morning quiet as the boat disturbed the water with undulating ripples. The officers of the club tied the boat to the dock and walked up the stone path to the house. They opened the front door and called out the name of the initiate, but no one answered. They noticed the footprints on the stairs going up and coming down, and a set of prints heading into the parlor twice but emerging only once. ‘He must be in the kitchen asleep,’ said one. They walked through the parlor, through the dining room and into the kitchen, where the president gasped. Lying on the floor was the gentleman, his eyes glazed and wide open, his hair turned completely white, and his jacket torn from a nail that protruded from the edge of the kitchen table.”

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