Haunted House Challenge: "Dear Future...Or Is It Past?" -- by Eve Nightingale

Note From Hazel: Sorry this went up so late, I didn't get a chance to post it until now.

Dear Future. . . Or Is It Past?

by Eve Nightingale

 

 

July 27, 1911

 

Dear Past,

 

         They have not yet returned, Past. Three days and they have not returned. I have stayed here, as promised, and looked after our animals, as promised, but I have not been able to find it in me to eat any more. At least I did not promise that.

         I am so tired, Past. So very tired. I passed out earlier today and woke in quite a panic. Harry, that rather odd pig, woke me by poking me with his snout. I don’t know how long I was laying there till he did. I know it must be because I haven’t eaten but my mind simply won’t let me eat.

         It’s such a strange thing, having one’s mind not allow you to eat. 

         I wish Mommy and Papa would come home. I miss them dearly. The town has been so quiet since Mommy hurried to the mine. I wish they would come home. . . 

         Yours till the end.

 

         Your Future,

         Lola Doran 

 

July 28, 1911

 

Dear Future,

 

         Somehow I ended up in the basement. I have not a clue how but I am just pleased that I am feeling much better. I have not checked upstairs quite yet so I do not know if Mommy and Papa are home. I have heard someone upstairs so I hope they are!

         I had such peculiar dreams, Future. Such peculiar dreams. I dreamed a family lived here. Two families, actually. The first one was quiet like mine but the son remained here. Then another family came and were quite noisy. Both families added to this house and there were some wonderful additions and some additions were of terrible taste. I plan to tell Mommy and Papa about them. We’ve already added a bathroom and kitchen so why not continue improving this house? With taste, of course.

         I think I will go get some food now. I will write again today if Mommy and Papa return!

 

         Sincerely your past,

         Lola Doran 

July 28, 1911

Afternoon

Dear Future,

 

         You will not believe me! I can’t believe myself but, Future, this house is haunted! I believe that is why my rest was so troubled. That family I wrote about earlier, the noisy one, are upstairs! Thankfully, they didn’t see me. I have retreated to the basement and am trying to find a way to get them to leave.

         The house looks different too. They’ve ruined it. They’ve painted it such ghastly, un-naturelike colors—it’s horrid! They have these devices that make so much noise and they argue over them!

         I must end the entry here. I have to find a way to get them to leave! This my house! The house where the Dorans live! Not whatever ghosts or demons they are. 

 

         Frightened but forever your past,

         Lola Doran 

 

July 29, 1911

 

Dear Future,

 

         They are very good at ignoring despite what their behaviors suggest. I have tried all day to get them to leave but they ignore me. How incredibly rude. Not only do they invade my house, make it look ghastly, but they ignore me! Just wait till Papa comes home. He will not be happy.

         School will be starting soon but I doubt I can go. I must rid this house of these ghosts before I can even think about learning. I just have to find a weakness of theirs. I have noticed that they disappe-ar from time to time, some more than others. The children disappear the most but then the entire family disappears at night. Perhaps if I could find a way to go with them or find where they disappear to, I can find out a weakness. 

         This is all ratty. Why can’t ghosts dislike garlic like vampires? I would cover the house in garlic and be done with it. Well, then there’s the problem of the multitude of garlic. . .

 

         Your Past,

         Lola Doran 

 

 

 

 

 

 

August 2, 1911

 

Dear Future,

 

         I have tried for the past three days to follow where the ghosts disappear to to no avail. I haven’t the slightest clue where they go. I would assume it was that they can only thrive during the day but the fact the children, and sometimes the parents, disappear during the day crosses that out.

         They are such a strange family with such strange things. They seem to hate the quiet. There is always something making noise. They use something that allows people to talk and move even though they are not there. I’m starting to think their belongings are being possessed. Ha! I’m being haunted by ghosts who are haunted by ghosts!

         These strange possessed items come in several different shapes and sizes and make all sorts of noises. One of the noises I think is supposed to be music but they haven’t a lick of taste. None whatsoever. No wonder they are haunting me. They weren’t satisfied with their terrible tastes and nonsensical possessed items that they can’t rest in peace!

         Oh, how could I forget! Ghosts haunt when they are not at peace, right Future? I must find why they are not resting and fix it. Maybe I should break those devices. For my sake rather then theirs. They give me such a headache.

 

         Your annoyed past,

         Lola Doran 

 

August 3, 1911

 

Dear Future,

 

         It failed. Terribly. I’m not sure what I had expected. If they are ghosts with belongings, I shouldn’t be able to touch them and yet I still thought I could break their devices. 

         Everything I tried to use to break them just ended up going through them during the rare times that I found something I could hold. Now I am cursed with head-splitting headaches until they leave. 

         They are fond of walking through walls and I haven’t an inkling why. I guess that if I could walk through walls, I would quite often, but watching them walk through walls and not return for hours is so confusing. They often walk through the west wall at the south side of the house and don’t return for hours. The eldest child does that often, like her father.

         Every night they disappear through the east wall at the northern part of the house. Why? I haven’t the slightest clue but I am trying very hard to find out. I will try to follow them tonight but I have a feeling it won’t work.

 

         Sincerely your past,

         Lola Doran 

 

August 3, 1911

Night

 

Dear Future,

 

         I can not follow them, Future. I tried walking through the wall like them but it will not work. I wish I could have heard the ending of their conversation. They mentioned something about a church in the next town over. 

         I have a sudden desire to go there. There is a very nice cemetery there. My friend is buried there and I often like to visit her when I am as confused and lost as I am now. I know it is silly to talk to the dead. They can not talk back after all. 

         Perhaps this family is buried there! I have heard their names often enough—they argue and blame each other often enough—that I am sure I could find them and see why they are so unhappy! I shall go tomorrow! No! Tomorrow night would be even better, when the ghosts are all gone!

 

         Your excited and clever past,

         Lola Doran 

 

August 4, 1911

 

Dear Future,

 

         Tonight I go to the cemetery! I thought about asking my friend Will to come but he’d just call me a coward. The heel. So I will venture alone.

         I used to be scared of graveyards, long ago, Future. They scared me so much and I didn’t quite know why. I just knew they did. Then my friend Lilly told me a story about them. It’s a personal story so I won’t inscribe it here but it was a very sweet and sad story. Ever since then, I haven’t been scared.     

         I have my oil lamp all prepared and ready. I still fall asleep by it every night.

         I have tried looking all over for my coat but have not found it. Rather annoying but I should be fine in the dark. August nights are not normally that cold.

         I shall write either after I return or early in the morning if excitement does not override my sleep.

 

         Your thrilling past,

         Lola Doran 

 

 

August 5, 1911

Early Hours of the Morning

Dear Past,

 

         I am shaking with fear, Past. I do not know what to do but I know I must see where these ghosts go.

         I went to the cemetery. I went to the cemetery to find their graves. But I didn’t find their graves, Past. I didn’t find them! I found Bethany’s grave but not this family's. Instead I. . . I found. . . OH! I can not say, Past! I refuse to write it! I refuse! I am going to find where the ghosts go and end this nightmare once and for all! 

         I refuse to say!

 

         Your terrified future,

         Lola Doran 

 

 

August 12, 1911

 

Dear Future or Past,

 

         Please forgive the lateness of this entry. I could not bring myself to write this but I fear I can not wait any longer.

         I found where they all go at night, Future or Past, whichever it is now. I found where they all go. They go upstairs.

         My home does not have an upstairs but theirs do or mine does now, whichever it is. My home never had an upstairs but I followed them up stairs to a new floor where they sleep. They have their own rooms, some have two, and sleep.

         It felt so wrong being there. So wrong. As if I didn’t belong. I mustered up my anger that I like to call courage and marched up to the man of the house to try to wake him when I caught something in the mirror. Looking over, I jumped back. 

         Where I was supposed to be, I wasn’t. There was nothing there. No light, no shadow, no person. It was as if I didn’t exist.

         I ran from the room and ran back to the graveyard. I forgot to take my lamp but I didn’t need it. These lights along the road appeared on top tall posts but I did not truly notice them until on my way back. 

         I needed to see if I remembered correctly of what I found and to my horror I did. I remember it, Past or Future. I remembered it clearly.

         They have no graves. But Mommy does. And Papa. They never came home. . . Their deaths were the day the mineshaft collapsed. I guess Mommy tried to save Papa only to be crushed herself. They never came home.

         But you know what I saw between them? Another grave. This time it had my name on it. My name, my birthday, and my death date. 

         I feel myself slipping away now. I know I was not being haunted but the one doing the haunting. I feel so alone. . . so cold. . . but I can hear them. I hear Mommy crying softly with both peace and joy and Papa calling me to them. They didn’t come back to me but rather went on . . . went to their true home. 

         What I don’t understand is why I didn’t go then? Why, when I fell asleep so tiredly and hungrily to a sleep of which I would never awake, didn’t I leave home?! Perhaps I couldn’t accept my fate. 

         It pains me to leave this home but, despite how noisy and troublesome this new family is, I know they will care for it. The eldest doesn’t want to let this place go. That brings me comfort. Someone else loves this home too and she will be with her family.

         Mommy and Papa have grown louder so it is my time to go. . . Goodbye, Me. Goodbye, house. Goodbye world. Goodbye.

 

         Sincerely,

         Lola Doran

 

 

            With a dull thud, the diary landed on the floor of the one and a half story house. It laid in a hallway to the eldest’s bedroom. It just so happens that that eldest daughter was running her way up the stairs. What is the wretched point?! If they want me to stay, why don’t they teach properly! In her angry daze, she did not notice the diary until she tripped over it. She normally had very good balance but when it came to being shocked back to reality, her body forgot all sense of balance.

            She stumbled to stay upright, running into the chair in the hall as she scowled as to not cuss. Once she stood straight, rubbing her hip, she turned and saw the old, leather bound book on the floor. She paused. Not mine. . . maybe parents’. She bent over and picked it up carefully, noticing how cold the leather was. She didn’t think the air got thatcold that close to the floor.

            She carefully opened it, always scared that she would hurt an old book, and looked at the very first entry back in 1904. She mouthed the words of the short entry before reading the signature. Her mother was walking up the stairs to check on her, that class had been rather dispiriting after all, so the daughter called out: “Hey Mom?”

            “Yes sweetie?”

            “Do we know a Lola Doran?”

Family Heirloom Challenge: "We're Sorry. You have Reached a Number..." -- By Eve Nightingale

“We’re Sorry. You Have Reached a Number That Is No Longer In Service.”

by Eve Nightingale

            There was a house in a small city. In this house there lived a family of two. In this family, the father and daughter lived alone.

            As you entered the house, there was a long hallway before stairs to the second floor. Once you walked up these stairs and continued forward, look up. There was a string that, once you pulled, lowered a ladder to the attic. You walked up these steps and looked around the organized mess of the attic. Boxes on boxes, filled with items long forgotten. Dust covering items that have not been moved in years.

            Among these items, towards the back, stood an old rotatory phone, passed from generation to generation. The creator left an inscription on the bottom of the phone: D.D., the initials of the creator who made this phone shortly before his death. 

            You are not the only one whose attention has been caught by this phone. The daughter in this house noticed it as well. Darcy Dougherty saw it one warm afternoon; the person who this story concerns. Darcy saw the old phone and made a phone call that ruined her life.

            The phone appeared to have cost much back when it was made. A red, round, slim base with a golden trim. The dial was gold whereas the numbering was black against a white background. This phone had a golden ear piece and golden, curved speaking piece. The handle was a deep black and it laid upon the golden rest. It was a beautiful phone, untouched by time and her cruel decay. The golden trim extended to a small platform on the back of the phone. It was a stand for a figure: a woman of ivory wearing golden curls and a red dress. She stood with one knee bent and hands extended towards the phone as if to say “Make a call today!”

            Darcy screwed up her face in annoyance. Even phones make blonds look like ditzes, Darcy thought, painfully aware her own hair was blond. Her green eyes looked at the phone before she sighed.

            The phone’s surface sparkled in the waning sunlight. “Hmph,” Darcy said, unimpressed by the phone. She picked up the handle and looked at the dial. Darcy had to think a minute about what her father had said about how these phones worked before bringing the circle of the “1” all the way around to the small bar. She let it go and watched it spin back slowly. Darcy continued this with the three and then the zero, the nine, the six, and so on till she had dialed her mother’s phone number. Wonder who has this number now, Darcy thought as she put the phone to her ear. She resisted a giggle. It’s not even hooked up! “Anyone there?” she asked, finding it fun to talk to the open air.

            “Yes.”

            Darcy jumped and dropped the phone. She stumbled backwards and landed on her backside. She blinked, breathing heavily, as she stared at the receiver which now gently bumped against the boxes it stood on. The curled cord tried vainly to pull the receiver back up as the person on the other end waited. “Hello?” the person asked. “Did the line drop, Didi?”

            Darcy slowly moved forward, crawling on her hands and knees and picked up the receiver. With shaking hands, she lifted it to her face.  “M-m-mom?”

            “It’s me, Didi. Was there something you needed?”

            “No-o-o. I just—I found this old phone––”

            “Dear, you know I have bridge at this time,” her mother sighed. “Call in an hour if you want to talk. And tell your father I’ll be having supper at Karen’s house.”

            “But Mom–”

            The voice of an overly sweet woman interrupted Darcy, making her tense with the thought this ‘operator’ was most likely long dead. “We’re sorry. You have reached a number that is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.”

            Darcy stared at the base of the phone before she automatically hung up the phone and stared at it. “But Mom,” she repeated, “you died.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Darcy sat in the attic, staring at the phone, as the sun slowly set. She was not sure what to make of it. That had been her mother’s voice, there was no way to deny that, but her mother had been dead for a year. Darcy was certain someone else had to have that phone number now. Then there was also the problem that the phone was not hooked up to the landline. When Darcy examined the phone, there wasn’t even a place to plug in a wire! The phone seemed to have been made for show.

            Darcy was startled out of her thoughts when she heard her father call for her. “Darcy? Darcy? Where are you?”

            Darcy slowly pulled herself away from staring at the phone before opening the hatch to the attic. Rather than climb all the way down, she stuck her head out and her father jumped with surprise. “It’s time for supper. What are you doing in the attic?” he asked his daughter who looked rather pale.

            Darcy slowly shook her head. “Nothing.”

            Her father raised an eyebrow but only nodded. “Well, come down before the food gets cold,” he said as he turned and headed down the stairs to the dining room.

            Darcy nodded and looked over her shoulder one more time at the phone before heading to supper. I’ll call again after supper. There’s enough time before bed. . . as if I have anything to get up for tomorrow.

            Darcy slowly walked down and lifted the ladder back up. She put her hands into her pockets and walked what seemed like a long trip to the dining room. Darcy moved the chair back by the leg with her foot before sitting down and scooting closer to the table. Her father soon entered and placed a plate of roasted chicken breast and mashed potatoes in front of her and his seat. He left once more before returning and placing the bowl of microwaved broccoli in front of her. “There you go,” he breathed as he took a seat.

            He looked over at Darcy who started to quietly eat. “So. . . How was your day? Haven’t seen you since breakfast.”

            “A perk of having a big house,” she muttered as she ate.

            “What was that?”

            “Nothing.”

            “Darcy, I’m trying to have a conversation,” he said tiredly.

            “And I’m not. That’s probably why you’re failing,” Darcy replied back evenly. 

            Her father looked at her for a long moment, slowly smiling before Darcy started to snicker. The snicker soon turned into laughter and her father laughed as well. The food laid forgotten till the family quieted down and started to eat once more. They did not speak when they ate, for neither had anything to say since the day was (almost) uneventful as the day before, but there was no longer the heavy atmosphere. 

            Darcy finished first and sat back, her mind wandering to the phone upstairs. 

            “Do you want to play a game?” her father asked and Darcy slowly shook her head before shaking it firmly.

            “No, I was in the middle of something when you called,” Darcy said as she stood and brought her plate into the kitchen to rinse it off.

            “In the attic?” her father questioned as he followed her and Darcy nodded.

            “Yeah. If you don’t mind,” Darcy said and her father shook his head. “Not at all. Have fun.”

            Darcy smiled and walked back to the attic.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Darcy sat in front of the phone and took a deep breath. Let’s just see how this goes. She picked the receiver up and dialed her mother’s phone number once more. Darcy waited as the tones of the phone ringing sounded in her ear and soon the other end was picked up. “Darcy, I was wondering if you would call back. Didn’t you get my texts?” her mother answered.

            Tears came to Darcy’s eyes and she shook her head. “N-no. I didn’t get them.”

            “Hmm. Well, what is it you wanted?”

            “I just wanted to, uh, talk to you for a bit. Tell you what’s been going on. Like I would when you went off on your retreats.”

            “Well, everyone’s decided to go to the town for drinks but someone needed to make sure Karen wasn’t robbed. I’ve got time.”

            Darcy smiled and soon launched into the tale of how things have been so weird lately. She started her story a year ago, what happened soon after her mother died, and was about to talk about the quarantine when her mother had to interrupt her: “Sorry dear, but Karen and the others have arrived. Tell me the rest tomorrow, okay?”

            Darcy’s heart skipped a beat. What if the phone doesn’t work then? “O-okay. Promise you’ll answer?”

            Her mother laughed softly. “Of course dear. Good night.”

            Her mother hung up.

            “We’re sorry. You have reached a number that is no longer in–”

            Darcy slowly hung up the phone and stared at it. She rubbed the tears from her eyes and took a deep breath. “Who else can I call?” Darcy whispered as her shoulders dropped. Heard a rumor that Bell’s number was one. . . Darcy picked up the receiver and dialed one, putting the receiver to her head. I wonder if someone even HAD the number one.

            “Ahoy-hoy, Bell speaking.” came an older man’s voice.

            “Holy jjjjjj!” Darcy exclaimed and she heard a ‘tsk’ on the other end.

            “Do not use such foul language! Now who has decided to call me?” Bell demanded. 

            Darcy was silent for a moment before clearing her throat. “Darcy, sir. I just wanted to congratulate you on your great success sir.”

            Bell humphed but Darcy could tell he nodded. “Thank you but I must return to my work. Good-bye.”

            Darcy blinked when she heard the click of the phone connection ending and was followed by a low hum. What happened to the sweet operator? She hung the phone back up and thought a moment. Darcy soon picked it up again and dialed another number. Some conversations were short while others spanned about an hour. Some were angry, some were happy, and some were sad. Darcy did not retire to bed, spending the entire night on the phone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            That morning, her father got up and started breakfast. “Darcy! Breakfast!” he called from the kitchen before putting the food on the plates. He called once more as he placed the plates on the table. He stood straight, looking through the doorway for a moment before heading out to the hall. “Darcy?” he called as he made his way to the stairs, walking up them. “Darcy, time to get up.”

            He opened the door to her bedroom but saw her bed was messy and without Darcy laying on it. He checked the bathrooms before he caught sight of the attic. He slowly walked to it, reaching up and taking the string, pulling the ladder down. He walked up the ladder to the attic and saw Darcy in front of him. She was slumped over, head on the box beside the old phone, arms on the boxes beside her head as well. The receiver of the phone dangled over the opposite side as if she slumped over and let the receiver drop.

            The father took a sharp breath, eyes widening. For a moment, he saw his wife in front of him, slumped just like Darcy was. He blinked, seeing his daughter now, and he closed his eyes.

            How could I forget?! I really thought it was a sickness—I should have gotten rid of that phone. . . But I did. Who. Brought. It. Back?

            The father sighed, head lowering for a moment before he climbed the rest of the way up. He slowly lifted the receiver, the operator’s voice sounded from the earpiece, saying: “The number you have reached has been disconnected and is no longer in service”, and placed it back on the rest before he carefully picked his daughter up and lowered her downstairs. It was lucky there was a virus circling around so he set his daughter up in her bedroom, pretending she had died from the sickness, before calling the local funeral home. This was almost exactly what he had done when his wife died. 

            It had been after the funeral and as he walked alone in the house, the phone rang. He paused, having been making his way to bed, and looked up. Ringing, the classic ring that was the bane of modern phones, came from the attic.

            “Why not go give it an answer?” a voice from the shadows asked and the father shook his head. “Why not, elder one? Your family has answered it for generations, comforting those who have passed on before us.”

            “No. . . no, tempting but no. I have no wish to join those who have departed,” he sighed with a sad smile. He looked over at the shadows where the shape of a man could be seen. “Besides, that phone’s a bit outdated. It can’t receive calls anymore.” With that final word, he went to bed as the man in the shadows simply smiled.

            Time always aided the man in the shadows for time was like water. It never ceased flowing, nothing could ever stop its flow, and it eroded even the strongest of materials. Yes, the father was wise not to answer the phone but one day he will . . . . and when that day came, the man of shadows would take the phone to the next member of the family. A family heirloom, made by a man who could not live without his wife, passed from generation to generation by the man in shadows.