Haunted - Chapter One

Haunted

Chapter 1

I arrived in the early afternoon just as the sun was blazing down on the little town of Moore. This small town deep in the mountains of Colorado has little history save for the large mansion atop "Black Hill"-so-called because of the buildings personal and as of yet undocumented bizarre history. And that is where I fall into the story. My name is John Baterman. I'm struggling writer, desperate and willing to take a risk at being discovered. Somehow I have it in my head that firsthand experience was going to make my work that much more noticeable. Only problem was that I have been turned down so many times in the past that I developed severe writer's block from shear frustration, with the feeling of being an utter failure I haven't been able to write a single sentence in months now. That is until I discovered an old newspaper article detailing a brief history of a supposed haunted mansion in the small town of Moore Colorado:


William Black Moore-The former owner of the Black Hill Mansion and founder of Moore Colorado-is deemed to have one of the most haunted mansions in the United States. It's macabre past is inhibited by a tale of sickness, mental illness and suicide. Margaret Sally Moore-wife of William Moore-unable to handle the death the couples new born son-Donald Trevor Moore-became mentally ill and continued to watch over her now deceased infant until she died from starvation. She was found sitting in a rocking chair next to her child's crib by her husband upon returning from a long business meeting outside of the country, after several months After weeks of not hearing from either of the occupants the residents of the now nearly abandoned town took it upon themselves to find out what was happening. What they found was that William Moore had ravished the house and its contents, then hung himself in the library.


That mansion is going to be my muse.

I was supposed to meet a "Michael Douglas" once I reached town. I had no idea what he looked like, the only thing I knew was the sound of his voice over the telephone. He said he would gladly show me around the town and introduce me to a few of the locals. He seemed genuine enough.

I drove up a narrow dirt road that was full of dried and cracked mud, large holes and many broken branches had been deliberately placed in piles for stuck vehicles. I could tell that no one really cared for this area to much or they would have at least made an attempt to level out the road and clean it up a little. At times I was sure I would have to get out and walk the distance to the main area of town. Fortunately for me I didn't have to. I pulled into what appeared to be an old rundown gas station that looked to me as if it was lost in the 1950's. I wasn't entirely sure if the pumps where even functional, they looked like they had not been touched in quite a few years. I air was fresh, clean, not contaminated from the pollution from the big cities that surrounded the small town. An older man appeared from behind the back of the gas station and began walking in my direction with a disgusted look on his face. He wore a pair of torn jean overalls with a plaid red and black shirt underneath; sleeves rolled up. He was of a proportionate size, round and poorly groomed. He pulled out a red bandanna from his right hand pocket and made a feeble attempt to wipe his hands clean. Thick black grease covered them and ran up the length of his arms. I reached around to the back seat and grabbed my mini tape recorder out of my pack, set it to record, and placed it into my front jacket pocket. He began speaking even before I could finish opening my door, "Don't bother gettin' out. Ain't got no gas and stores been closed for years. Don't got no public restrooms neither." I opened my door and as I stepped out the old man gave me a curious look.

"I'm looking for a Michael Douglas. I'm Mr. Batermen, John Batermen."

"Ain't no such person round these here parts. What's yer business in this place anywho?"

"Michael Douglas is the man I spoke too on the phone a few weeks ago. Said he would be here to show me around town and the old Black Hill Mansion. I'm a writer and I'm going to write a novel about this place. Just might put your town back on the map."

"Nope, don't ring no bells
"Lessen you mean that feller who drove in a few day's back. Seen him round' here a few times, never sayin' much to me. That's his jeep over yonder," He pointed to a white Jeep just up the hill. "He headed up to the place without sayin a word and haven't seen nor heard from him since. I suggest you just head on back to wherever it was you came from and forget about this place."

I really wish I could take his advice. But I need a story, and I'm not leaving here without one.

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

Forget about this place.

"I mean this here town has enough problems of its own without you city big shits comin in here tryn' to make a name for yerselves. People who go in that place never come out the same as they went in, that is if they come out at all. I suggest you git you ass back on that there road and head on back from whence you came."

"Wait a minute! What do you mean if they come out at all?"

"You sure are a dumb shit ain't ya? I mean what I say and I say what it is that I mean. This ain't no fuckin' playground for young shits such as yerself, thinking you can come in here and make name for yerselves. This town is bad news, it's haunted, cursed ya here? I ain't havin' no more to do with this here discussion. You head up there it's you who has to deal with them spirits. I'm tellin' ya one last time! Git you ass back in that pile'a crap you call a car and head yer ass on down the road."

"And I'm telling you I can't do that. Just who the hell do you think I am?"

"Another damn fool is what," he mumbled under his breath as he headed back around to the other side of the building. I entertained the thought of following him around back but figured it was best to leave the old man be.

I started to dread the journey up that hill, with the words of that old man echoing in the back of my mind. Seemed either he had some serious issues or that house really had something going on with it. On the way up I couldn't help but notice the variety of both newer and old vehicles strewn about the area behind the old gas station. I could see the old man in the back as he resumed his work on an old Chevy truck. The road ahead of me was much like the one in which I arrived on save for the fact that there was a rather large ditch that made it impassable for most anything including a four wheel drive. As I passed the jeep I could see that Mr. Douglas had left a brief case sitting on the passenger side seat. I didn't feel like stopping to be nosey, so I just continued walking on up the hill. I wonder where Mr. Douglas is at. Then again I can see why he didn't want wait down here for me. I wonder if this house really is haunted. My mind began to race with thoughts of horror and macabre as I attempted to replay the history of this house in my mind's eye. I often thought about turning back and just giving in but my curiosity kept getting the better of me. I walked up the long hill I entertained myself by kicking small stones all about the road, I suppose in a feeble attempt to keep my thoughts in order. It was working quite well until the very top of the mansion caught my eye. There was a small window atop a tower on the appeared to be the west end. I remembered it from the picture in the article. I immediately felt as though I was being watched, then remembered that I was expected.It's probably Mr. Douglas, relieved that I've arrived.

As I approached the mansion I noticed there was a large rod iron gate covered in long dead vines. There was a now crumbled wall rendered useless by the weathering and age also covered with vines which added to the sense of what I was getting myself into. There mansion stood not far behind and seemed to rise up as if it was alive and waiting impatiently. I already don't like this place. It was old, as old a place as I have ever seen and it definitely came off as a location with a grisly past. It seemed to be almost completely intact with no visual damage other then the roof. There was a rather Victorian feel and look that was embellished through the outside. I counted off three floors and at least and four times as many windows. Off to the right of the house was a small graveyard with only a handful of gravestones - I could not make out any names from this distance. The left hand side of the yard was overrun with weeds and overgrown bushes and vines. Even though the sun was high in the sky the mansion itself maintained a kind of darkness all of its own. I stood for a moment while I decided whether or not I should enter, fear had all but consumed me and I was ready to heed the advice of the old man when I heard a faint cry coming from within the mansion. My heart jumped when I listened more carefully and the thought occurred to me that it more sounded like that of an infant's cry. This can't be. Not unless Mr. Douglas has a child that he brought with him. If that's the case then by now he is well aware of my presence and likely he is waiting inside for me. I suppose all is not yet lost. I can still go into the house and if my mood changes to worse I will just leave and not look back.

I mustered up enough courage to follow the rugged stone path that lead up to the porch. As I approached I noticed that he porch was also in good condition when compared to the rest of its surroundings. The stairs leading up creaked out a scream with every step, I trusted in the old fashioned workmanship, hoping that my weight was not enough force me into a hole, or worse yet a broken ankle. I stood before the front door. It was made of oak and showed durability by the lack of wear. Placed upon the center of the door was a brass knocker which resembled the head of a bull. It looked as though it was recently polished, not showing a single blemish on its surface. The cries I heard earlier were gone now, however it did not help to ease my nerves. My hands were cold and clammy; I reached up my right hand and pulled back on the knocker, pausing for a moment while I settled into the idea that it was now too late to turn back. Pushing the knocker into the door seemed allot like pulling the trigger of a gun; the gun was pointed at me. Feeling the full resolve with each crack of the knocker, my fate-if there is such a thing-was now sealed and carved deeply in to that solid oaken door. The echo rang back like that of a grandfather clock, a precise and empty "click" followed by a farther off "clank". I waited.

After a short while and a few more tries at the door's knocker I still received no response. Deciding that I had already come this far there was no point in just giving up so I tried my luck at the doors knob. It's unlocked. I guess that was to be expected! Mr. Douglas was probably in some deep room in the house and didn't hear my knocking. The door gave way with ease but groaned loudly in short bursts like the sound of a dirt bike in slow motion. The smell of mold and mildew shot out to assail my sense of smell; forceful and strong and for a brief moment smelled like that of a morgue. I deliberately left the door open with the hopes that the odor might remove itself, but this seemed more like a lost cause because the stench most likely had embedded itself into the walls and floors for many years prior.

The interior of the mansion did not much reflect the upkeep presented by the exterior. It was in ruins from what little I could see. Much of the furniture was half covered by sheets turned nearly brown by dust and age, deliberately strewn about the room and some tipped on their sides. There were also many paintings, or what I assumed to be paintings handing on every wall; also covered in the now dust ridden sheets. The many windows offered very little light into the room save for a few scattered beams that showed the dust was yet unsettled by my, and perhaps Mr. Douglas' entrance. Slightly to my left stood a large open archway with a few marble steps leading up and into a still darkened room. Just in front of me and a slight step beyond the archway climbed a large half spiral set of stairs that led high into the next floor and perhaps beyond that-I could not tell from my standing point below. Far off beyond the furniture stood a door half on its hinges open on only a short distance from the wall. The ceiling continued high into the mansion and it seemed the entire rear area of the structure wrapped around this very room.

"Uh, Hello? Mr. Douglass?
"This is John Baterman here. I'm down stairs at the front door.
"I knocked but no one answered and the door was unlocked so... I just let myself in.
"Mr. Douglas. Are you here? Mr. Douglas?"

Odd, his jeep is outside yet it seems like he's not here. Maybe he's around back, or somewhere else in the house where he can't hear me. In any case I don't need to get lost in this place. I'm sure he'll be back soon.

It had been a rather long drive, nearly six hundred miles and I was tired. I searched around for a decent place to rest and settled in for a quick rest. Before I knew it, I was asleep.

"I refuse to let you die on me... Donald? Donald! Wake up!"

I awoke in a cold sweat, from an even colder dream I could barely remember. My body shook horribly as if the temperature of the room had dropped considerably. I looked over at the door that I had left opened, it was now nightfall; the warm air of the afternoon had now turned cool and breezy. I could feel it gently caressing my face as I tried to wake myself fully. I had slept for several hours while waiting for Mr. Douglas who had apparently either left unaware of me while I slept, or even worse had succumb to the madness the old man claims this house causes. I don't believe in such things, but I am a willing participant if it makes for some great fiction. Oddly enough I seemed to be writing my book even as I sit here in the mists of my future novel. Already off to a great start.