Another Halloween Story

A big thank you to those of you who dropped me a line to say you enjoyed my short story 'The Lovers'.  Having written and delivered it, I was told that it was too long for the Halloween party it was intended for, so I had one night to sit and come up with something else from scratch. I had too two strict conditions to meet - it had to be much shorter than 'The Lovers' and it had to be about ghosts. This is what I came up with: 

The Proprietor

The Proprietor of the Haunted House opens the door and greets his guests. He has been expecting them: four men.  A stag party. 

He sighs, hoping that this evening will not prove too difficult. But he knows only too well that at this hour, the group have almost certainly been out on the town for quite some time.

Still, it is Halloween, after all. These things have to be expected.

“Welcome, gentlemen, to this most haunted of houses,” he pronounces dramatically, his thespian voice well-rehearsed from many long years of repetition.

There is a momentary pause while the group stare at him, impassively.

“I don’t believe in ghosts!”

One man from the group has stepped forward to make his declaration in an almost threatening fashion, his very obvious lack of enthusiasm generating nods of approval from his friends.

“Well, I can assure you, Sir,” the Proprietor smiles, his experience telling him that this particular chap – broad and stocky, with the air of a man too clumsy for his own huge frame – is the leader of the group, “at the end of this tour, you will.”

His promise is met only with laughter.

“Looks to me like both of us will be disappointed,” the young leader declares proudly, showboating in front of his followers, “although I’ll be very pleased to be getting my money back”.

“As I said, Sir, that won’t be necessary,” the Proprietor bows, ignoring the sarcastic oohs and aahs from the party.  Without another word, he turns and leads them up the stairs to a room overlooking the street.

“In this room a young man sought escape from his torment by hanging himself,” he announces, sadly, “after framing his own brother for the murder that he had committed.”

“How pathetic!” the stocky man cries, even as one of his companions releases an uncontrolled shiver at the sight of a mannequin, gently rocking back and forth at the end of a rope. “You can see that thing hasn’t got the weight of a real body – it’s not even the slightest bit convincing.”

Shrugging his shoulders, the Proprietor leads the group on to another room, where the likeness of a man is stretched out on the bed, his chest covered in blood.

“This individual had a fondness for ladies of the night,” he explains. “A fondness that didn’t prevent him from beating them senseless on an all too regular basis.  Until, that is, he was tricked into bed by one such girl, who ended his tyranny with a knife, plunged twenty five times into his chest.”

“Oh, honestly,” the leader smirks, even as one of his friends buries his face in his hands, apparently overcome with emotion, “that blood is the wrong colour for a start.  Did you raid the kitchen for that tomato ketchup?”

Ignoring the giggles echoing behind him, the Proprietor leads up another flight of stairs to the attic. Here, some of the bricks have been removed from a wall to show a single hand poking through, it’s nails all broken and bloody.

“This,” he explains, “was a petty thief who tried to double-cross the local criminal masterminds. They eventually caught up with him, drugged him with a sleeping potion, then walled him up here, alive.”

“Obviously, the budget was getting a bit tight at this point,” the stocky man laughs in a mock whisper, unperturbed by the fact that no one else laughs with him.

Exiting the attic, the Proprietor pauses on the landing and peers over the rail to the ground floor, far below.

“And this was the saddest loss of all,” he sighs. “A young man, on the morning of his wedding, too excited at the prospect of marrying his sweatheart.  He tripped over his own feet and fell down the stairs, breaking his neck.”

The stocky man follows the proprietor’s gaze and looks down, expecting to see another mannequin twisted into a grotesque parody of a broken body. But there is nothing there, save a cold, empty floor.

“That’s it,” he cries, frustrated and disappointed. “I told you I’d be wanting my money back. This tour has been rubbish.”

After a moment’s consideration, the Proprietor nods. “Fair enough,” he sighs, producing a piece of paper and a pen, “if you will just fill out the appropriate paperwork.”

But the man doesn’t take the form. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot move his arms. Not only that, he can’t turn his head either.  And, as he tries to move forward, his legs suddenly give way beneath him. Without understanding quite how, he finds himself sprawled on the floor far below.

The Proprietor walks up and places the pen and paper beside his face.

“I’ll leave it up to you,” he nods, before turning and walking away.

Despite his predicament, the man just manages to catch sight of the document. It is headed Residents’ Complaint Form.

But of course, the clumsy, stocky man no longer has need of it.

For now, he truly does believe in ghosts.

Copyright Justin Peter Beaney 2012