Written By: Sarah Ethridge
The ad said historic haunted Southern mansion for sale. What part of haunted did these people not understand? The house wasn’t your standard haunted house. There weren’t broken windows or doors hanging from the rusty creaking hinges. The porch didn’t have loose rotting flooring. Moans would not be heard at night wafting into the darkness. No screams echoing off the walls. In fact the house didn’t look haunted. It looked peaceful, inviting.
It was a beautiful, graceful Southern mansion with tall columns, and a front porch that ran the entire length of the house. On the porch were two swings and several rocking chairs, so anyone could sit down and enjoy looking down the oak lined driveway.
The oaks were regal and old; their long crooked limbs reached out to shelter the long gravel drive. Draping like whiffs of air was the Spanish moss that grew on many of the oaks making some look like they had long white beards.
The sides of the house were lined with Oleander bushes, delicate pink blooms hide the deadly truth behind the poisonous bushes.
But, the house had upgrades, double paned windows looked out of the living room and kitchen on the ground floor and the upper floor had big bay windows with brightly colored cloth covering the window seats.
You wouldn’t think that looking down a gravel driveway would be entertaining, but the entertainment came near dusk when the sun was dipping down past the great oaks and the nearby forest came alive.
Deer could be seen every evening weather permitting ,walking along nibbling grass, some raccoons could be seen traveling from the front yard to the back yard where they would fish with their little paws for crayfish, crabs and little fish, when the tide was low and the floating dock settled on the pluff mud.
The curb appeal was fantastic. The expansive lawns were well manicured, and there was a stone path that led to the back yard where the floating dock was resting. You could park your boat or just sit and watch the traffic on the intra-coastal water way.
The back porch ran the entire length of the house. Wooden rocking chairs sat invitingly where one could sit, enjoy mint juleps while watching the fire flies aka lightning bugs, light up in the marsh.
It didn’t need many renovations the first thing she had done was to have the gas furnace removed and an electric heating systems installed.
She had replaced all the kitchen cabinets, put in all stainless steel appliances and had a marble covered island with a sink placed in the center. There was a nook for a dining table with six chairs with a large bay window facing the side yard.
The living room had been a breeze. She just had the fireplace cleaned and installed an electric heater that looked like firewood.
The ten bedrooms had to be repainted to freshen them up, the curtains and bed linen replace with a more modern motif.
Yes it was beautiful and occupied by ghost.
The door opened and Howard and Bev Carmichael flew out and down the steps heading for their car. Pat Morgan came hot footing behind them “Wait “she shouted, running after them. She reached the car just as Howard Carmichael slammed the door.
“Please” Pat begged, tapping on the window. Howard lowered it just a little “You knew the house had a colorful history before I showed it to you!”
“Colorful” Howard sputtered “If you think blood oozing down the wall is colorful there’s something wrong with you!” He sprayed gravel as he turned and headed back down the long driveway.
She had been trying to sell this estate for eight months and she had only gotten a few nibbles. So the walls bled a little and the shutters would bang open and closed--- every house has problems.
Entering the house, she could still see the spatters of blood and brain matter on the freshly painted walls of the foyer. Thank god the foyer wasn’t carpeted. The first time she saw this act she went running and screaming---now it just ticked her off. She would have to paint the walls and scrub the floor before another showing.
“Blood stains don’t come up easily you know.” She shouted to the air. She didn’t expect a response. They never said anything.
The papers flying around was new. “Knock it off” she snapped. The walls stopped bleeding and the papers dropped to the floor.
“What was wrong with them?” she asked the air.
She went into the formal living room. The fireplace made the room very inviting with the white marble mantel imported from Italy and the electric logs crackling. An Austrian crystal chandelier hung down from the twenty foot ceiling. Mr. Bayridge the previous owner, had spent a lot of money on this house. Sinking down into one of the overstuffed chairs that faced the large windows, she gazed not looking at anything in particular.
She glanced down at the finely polished hardwood floor and noticed an old photo album. She thought she had put all of them in a box in the attic. Picking it up, she leaned back and started leafing through it.
There were several formal pictures showing the family in their Sunday best, posing for the camera and some candid shots of father and son playing football or flying kites.
She had been in the library researching the history of the house when she came across the story about the tragedy. The entire family-- John the father was tall, slender and fair haired. Marion the mother willowy, who would take the breath away from any man she met with her understated beauty.
She had been a ballet dancer until she met John. And then ten year old Benjamin or Ben, he was a calibration of both parents, slender and fair haired, and they were all overcome by carbon monoxide from the faulty natural gas central heating. Every time Pat thought of them a slight sadness came over her.
But that had been over ten years ago and it hadn’t been Pat’s fault. The house had sat empty until a year ago, when Pat purchased it at auction. Come to think of it, Pat thought she had been the only bidder. Go figure.
Putting the book on the coffee table she made a mental note to place it once again in the attic. She picking up of attaché case from on top of the kitchen Island and walk out onto the front porch. She wanted to go home, to eat dinner, to relax and not think about anything, but instead of heading for her car she found herself settling in one of the rockers.
She opened the case and pulled out an e cigarette, she had just started puffing on it when the front door open like someone leaving the house and then it closed. One of the other rockers began rocking back and forth.
Most people would have been at least a little shocked by this, but Pat was use to all the Baybridges antics. She knew that it was Mrs. Baybridge who came out and sat in the rocker, this wasn’t the first time the two women enjoyed each other’s company.
Whenever Pat had had a bad showing she would stop and smoke and the ghost of Mrs. Baybridge would sit with her. Pat would watch the rocker, rocking peacefully.
“You know I’m trying to find a family ya’ll would like” Pat said out loud “I know there has been some jerks, but not all of them were horrible”.
“You know the bad thing about these” she raised the e cigarette “You don’t have a butt you can grind to take out your frustration”.
Not once had the Bayridges’s appeared in any form during the renovations.
Immediately after it was put into the MLS listings, the phone calls started. Was the house really haunted? How could you tell it was haunted? Had Pat seen any ghost? Not the usual questions a realtor answers.
There was a call from an Mr.Nakamura in Japan who was interested-but only if he could
have Shinto priests perform a traditional Shinto purification ritual first.
God, what a disaster. Shinto priests running for their lives, salt, sake and incense flying everywhere. The state department even got involved. Mr. Nakamura was insulted, the Shinto priests were insulted, and a formal apology had to be issued.
That was when she realized the house was truly haunted. She guessed she should have been frightened, and she was with her first visit. Pat’s family had seen ghosts before, but that first sight always gives you chills. Pat’s mother always told her a ghost cannot harm you, but they can cause you to harm yourself. Her mother also said to be more afraid of the living than the dead. But her mother had been wrong about ghost not being able to harm you—Pat had seen first-hand that it could happen.
A Mr. Pascal had come from New York City to check out the house. Pat had been impressed. She showed him the kitchen first, which she had to admit was her favorite room, the counter tops were the same white marble as the mantel and the curved stairway .The walls were painted a warm yellow when they didn’t have blood spatter on them. Mr. Bayridge and Ben the youngest where lying on the kitchen floor with knives in their backs, blood seeping across the room. The blood splatter on the walls was still a bright red, as if the murders had just occurred. Mr. Pascal did a double take. He said it didn’t matter if it was haunted---he was only interested in the lot and would be tearing down the house to make way for a dry dock marina.
That was the only time the Bayridges became physical with a client.
“Do you smell something burning?” Mr. Pascal asked, wrinkling his nose and sniffing,
Pat sniffed and started to say no. Then she saw a flame appear in Mr. Pascal’s
hair. She tried to put it out by grabbing him and sticking his head in the sink. She turned on the faucet and cold water splashed on him. The flames were out when he raised his head. That was the first time Pat had ever seen a ghost harm someone, though she really didn’t care Mr. Pascal was a jerk.
“Still interested?” she asked.
He stormed out shouting over his shoulder that he might buy it just to burn it down.
She was going to burn the place down herself if they didn’t stop.
There were the newlyweds, Ken and Barbie Hodges---not their real names, but they reminded Pat of the dolls with perfect hair and teeth. They thought the idea of opening up a bed and breakfast in a haunted house was just to die for. She took them up the curved marble staircase another selling point to show them the bedrooms. Opening the door to the master bedroom she showed them in. Hanging there from the teak ceiling beams was Mr. Bayridge.
His eyes were blood-shot and bulging, his tongue swollen. Pat had tried to bring attention to the excellent craftsmanship of the teak beams, but between the bride screaming and the groom puking she couldn’t get a word in edgewise. She had never seen anyone puke and run at the same time.
After leaving the Bayridge home she stopped by Panda Express for some sweet and sour chicken. She got home just as the local news was coming on. Taking the Chinese food container and a glass of ice tea she sat down to eat.
The lead story was about the unsolved murders that were happening down the coast; first in New York, then one or more in each of the states on the coast. Realtors were being targeted. They would be called to a showing and the killer would be waiting, murder them and steal their cash, cards and car. So far there were no suspects.
Pat clicked the remote to the music channel and relaxed to some classical before getting ready for bed. She got up and checked all the windows and doors. The glass patio doors sometimes would stick, giving the false impression of being locked, so she made sure it was by tugging on it. It was late when she finally went to bed.
She was startled from her thoughts by the ringing of her cell phone. It was her best friend Betty. Betty had seen her through her first heartbreak, two divorces, and one failed engagement. Betty was one of the 911 dispatcher in town and she was checking to see if Pat had watched the news the night before.
“Sort of. “Pat said
“What do you mean sort of?”
“The T.V. was on the news was on and they were saying something” Pat paused.
“So you didn’t hear about the real estate agent in New York being killed?” Betty wondered.
“No I heard the weather though or we still on for the beach tomorrow?” Pat asked.
“Sure why not, to the beach” Betty mustered some enthusiasm
“Don’t worry. The only house I’m showing is the Bayridge and believe me, no one goes there unless they have to.”
The next morning she did her regular routine of putting bird seed in the bird feeder in her back yard. Shutting the patio doors, she realized she was late and headed for her office.
She had six agents who worked for her, so it was unusual for her, the president, to be showing houses. Bayridge had always been known as being haunted.
It was when her agent, George Barton, the six foot eight semi-pro wrestler who was sent to do the initial inspections of any property came back shaking, white and clammy, no one would go near the place. So it fell to Pat.
Checking her desk she saw where a Mr. Reynolds wanted a showing as soon as possible ----he had to leave on business later that day. Pat called confirmed the appointment and headed for the house.
She waited two hours and still no Mr. Reynolds, she locked the house, which had been strangely quiet the entire day. Getting in the car she noticed the photo album, but didn’t remember bringing it. She had heard that ghost couldn’t go from place to place unless there was a token of theirs present. She laughed at herself--- she heard that on Supernatural.
Pat was still fuming when she got home she grabbed the photo album and slammed the car door. She kicked off her shoes and wiggled out of her best teal dress and let it drop to the floor. As soon as she showered, she was going to have a threesome with her favorite guys Ben and Jerry.
She stepped into the shower. She could never understand the people who took long showers-- you got wet, you soaped up and then you rinsed. What else was there to do?
She got out of the shower and headed for her bedroom. She thought she heard a noise like the sliding glass doors that led to her patio being opened and closed. Her bedroom door was slightly open and inside she saw a man dressed in black with a ski mask.
She gasped. She was sure she had locked the doors that morning had the patio door just stuck and she thought it had locked?
Then, quietly, she grabbed her phone off the bed and made her way back to the bathroom. Slowly, she closed the door and switched off the light, hoping that he would think that no one was home.
She dialed 911. “What’s your emergency?” the voice on the other end asked
Pat recognized Betty’s voice.
“Betty Betty! It’s Pat! ---“He’s here, the rapist is here!”
She could hear Betty sending out the call.
“Intruder at 55 River Street, all units intruder at 55 River Street” Betty’s voice betrayed her fear.
“Stay on the phone with me Pat, o.k.? Stay on the phone.”
Pat just nodded her head.
“Pat!” Betty shouted “Pat did you hear me?”
“Yes.” Pat whispered.
She felt like she was going to be sick. She eased over to the toilet.
She listened, trying to hear if he was in her bedroom.
The door vibrated as he hit it.
Pat put her hand over her mouth stifling a scream.
“Pat, listen to me” Betty’s training finally kicked in.
“Look around. Is there anything you can use as a weapon? The towel rack, the shower rod, anything?”
Another blow to the door made Pat scream.
“Pat!” Betty yelled through the phone “Focus!”
Pat tore her eyes off the door and looked around the bathroom. She grasped the shower curtain, pulling it and the shower rod down with a crash. Being quiet didn’t matter anymore. The bastard knew she was there. She sliced her hand on the metal curtain rings.
“Pat!” Betty screamed.
“It’s Ok, its Ok it’s just me.” Pat gasped. She had not realized she had been holding her breath.
Pat grabbed the shower rod and held it like a baseball bat.
“They’re on the way. Pat, they should be there any minute.” Betty’s voice.
The banging stopped. Pat listened intently, maybe the police where here. She stepped closer to the door and put her ear to it. Nothing. Then another hit, causing Pats head to bang against the door.
Pat tried to balance herself against the vanity.
Then silence.
She waited--- there was nothing but silence. Moving cautiously back to the door she strained her ears.
She thought she could heard a voice shouting.
“Betty they’re here!” Pat shouted “they’re here!”
“Pat!” Betty shouted “Pat don’t open the door. Don’t open the door!”
The voice made its way into the bedroom. The bathroom door shook, and it sounded like someone or something was being thrown against the door.
Pat could hear what sounded like a battle going on just outside the bathroom door.
Then silence.
“Betty Betty I can’t hear anything” Pat said.
The knock on the door made Pat jump.
“It’s the police” a voice shouted.
“Pat, Pat open the door” a familiar voiced called.
“Who is it?” Pat’s trembling voice questioned.
“It’s me John, John Crawford.” John said.
“Betty, what should I do?” Pat whispered.
“Pat, they’re there. They’re there.” Betty sobbed with relief.
“It’s John Betty. It’s John.” Pat said with relief.
She opened the door just a crack. There stood the hulking body of John Crawford, the police chief.
“John. Please hand me my bath robe- it’s on the bed” she said almost sinking to the floor.
John shoved it through the cracked door.
“Take your time Pat.” We’re here. Don’t worry.” His warm voice comforted Pat.
John led her into the living and got her a glass of water. She clung to him, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Blood from the wound on her hand dripped onto John’s pants.
“Someone get me a towel!” He shouted.
He wrapped the bleeding hand in the towel.
“Pat, who else was in the house?”
“What?”
“We found him tied up” on the kitchen floor tied up and his hair just about burned off.”
Pat thought for a moment then started laughing which turned into tears of relief.
“Let’s get your hand looked at” John said.
Pat thought about telling them who saved her but who would believe that a ghost had come to her rescue? Maybe that was the reason the photo album had been in the car. Maybe they knew Pat was in danger, but how?
The hospital insisted on keeping her overnight for observation. John stayed with her until she settled in and the sedative they gave her started to take effect.
He explained that Reynolds would make an appointment for the real-estate agent to show a house. Then while the realtor was waiting he would go to their house break in and wait outside until they returned to enter.
“How did he know where I lived?”
“We still have pay phones. It was easy enough for him to look in the phone book you’re listed.” “The others until I talk with the police of each state I’m not sure” John sounded weary.
John’s cell phone rang “Yea, you’re kidding right?”
“What was that all about?” Pat said with a yawn.
John shrugged “Oh nothing, sounds like Reynolds’s is trying to set the scene for an insanity plea.”
Pat looked at him through slightly opened eyes.
John tucked her into the hospital bed.
“Seems he keeps saying it was a ghost who tied him up” John said smiling.
A sleepy grin spread across Pat’s sleeping face.
As soon as the sun was up Pat headed for her house. She stood looking.
Then taking one of the For Sale signs she kept in the back of her car, she sank it into the ground,
She would never feel safe in that house again. She made a call to a professional moving company. They would pack everything up and ship it to her new address. There would be no need for her ever to step foot in the house again...
One last stop was to her office after talking it over with her staff she officially resigned as president of the company.
After leaving the office Pat drove solemnly to the Bayridge estate. She sat in the car in the driveway for a moment holding the photo album close to her chest.
There was no blood on the walls and the shutters were quiet. She stood in the foray for a moment. “Alright, I’ve got just one more showing, so listen up. I don’t want any blood and guts, no one hanging themselves understand?”
She walked into the living room and looked around. Then she went into the kitchen.
Walking upstairs she opened the master bedroom. No hanging bodies. Closing the door she headed back down to the living room.
She sat down and put her briefcase on the coffee table. She picked up the photo album and began flipping through. She stopped. There standing with a mischievous smile and holding a lit match was Ben Bayridge. Under the picture was written, Ben, age nine--- our little pyromaniac.
That photo had been taken a year before the family perished.
Pat coughed.
“Well” she said.
She opened her briefcase, got some papers out and signed them.
She leaned back into the chair.
“Thanks.” she said aloud
“You know I think this place will make a great bed and breakfast."
“I think I’m going to like it here.” she said.
She leaned her head back against the chair closed her eyes. “No more real-estate for me, I sold the business” she stated to the air.
Opening her eyes she noticed blood slowly dripping down the crystals of the chandelier. The lights blew with a sizzle.
“Well.” She said “That’s new.”