W B Aodh Gothic Ghost Stories

The Sprites of Spite.

From her bedroom window, Marisa watched children dressed as witches, ghouls, princesses, or their favourite cartoon character, weave from door to door of ghoulish and creepy decorated houses. Their costumes bought ready-made. No Paper Mache mask messes on kitchen tables or scraps of cloth with abandoned thread and needle lying about in today’s busy households.

It was Samhain, a holiday of remembering the dead, turned into a commercial money market enterprise. ‘Let’s make Halloween, Christmas,’ was the new mantra. Halloween, renamed for All Hollow’s Eve.   Marisa hated that name and meme. Christmas is Christmas with its pomp and bright lights. Samhain is a special holiday. The day we celebrate the lives of those we loved and lost. Those we never met but are a part of us.

            Marisa glanced into the window of the house opposite. Friday the 13th was on the television again. How they forget Abbot and Costello, Bob Hope, and The Ghost Breakers. What about The Ghost Train or Arsenic and Old Lace? Or I married a witch. The old black and white movies with enough calamity and suspense to keep you jumping and chuckling. Nowadays it’s all blood, gore, and noise. The louder the victim screams, the sinister the film they believe.

            Marisa shook her head then turned her gaze to the half-moon bathed in white, casting bright shimmers of light on the street. For the ritual she was about to perform, the moon illumination provided her with enough light to see. Turning from the window, her gaze went to her altar. For the first time that day, she smiled. The circle was set. A candle flame flickered, generating shadow dancers across the wall. From the small desk she collected the letter she wrote earlier. Tonight, she was going to have fun with this little town. All the vampires and werewolves would not be able to save them.

            Marisa stepped into the centre of her circle. Breathed in deep as she closed her eyes and held her hands high. Words she knew by heart tumbled from her lips, and a buzz of adrenaline heated her blood. While she chanted, the letter burnt in a sliver dish. As her voice rose, a wind swirled around her body and the candle flame danced higher in the room. Lost in her incantation, Marisa was oblivious to the laughter and the running feet of the children outside.

From the deep recess of the shadows of her mind, she beckoned his people. For months she has waited for this moment.  Not a day passed when she did not think about what he had done. Marisa’s eyes fluttered open, and she smiled. The crew had arrived. Now she was off to have her fun.

No-one noticed Marisa mingling in the crowd. With her dark cloak wrapped tight around her body. With the hood casting her face in the shadows, she looked like any other trickster out for a good time. If one of the passers-by bumped into her, they laughed and apologised.

When she reached 48 Sycamore Street, she glanced at the bedroom window. Although the light was off, she spied Dilys peeking from between the curtains. Last year, the twelve-year old girl was one of many children who terrorised the streets of Brayton. Thinking it was fun when she chased Mr Higgin’s dog on to the road, only for him to be hit by a car. The driver and Mr Higgin were upset by the dog’s death.

When the news reached Marisa, she knew what needed to be done. After her visit last October, Dily’s changed. She no longer played her mean tricks on others.

            Marisa and her three unseen companions continued walking down the street until they reached the end of the path,

turned right, then left. After passing three garishly decorated houses, they arrived at their destination. This house was as gaudily decorated as the others on the street. The owners, to give the garden an authentic vibe of the living dead, had turned over a patch of the lawn. Placing a resin body, sculptured to represent a zombie or a dead creature crawling its way out of the ground. Marisa shook her head. The dead were not impressed with this representation.

Marisa knew this as she has three of the dead with her and they were complaining to her. Something about not liking it when they were alive and hating it more now they were dead. Mrs Cormac muttered there was no respect for the dead. Marisa ignored their rumblings as she strolled up the gaily decorated path. Her lips pinching at the pumpkins, skeletons, and dancing ghosts hanging in the porch. Cast in shadows by the fairy lights.

            Neil, the boy who lived here had left the overhead light off and the front door ajar for his guests. Marisa turned to her companions. “Ready?” she asked.

Heads nodded as they crowd around her. Marisa faded out of sight as she pushed the door further open and stepped inside.

            Marisa stared into the gloom of the hallway. Several candles on the stairs provided an overcast light. She shook her head. Such foolishness for a boy of fourteen. They were an accident waiting to happen, she thought. Marisa turned to the open door on her right but did not enter right away, allowing her gaze to sweep the room. It was empty of guests. Of course it was. Hadn’t she sent Neil’s friends a text saying the party had moved to Johnny’s. Johnny was still in shock at hosting the unexpected event.

Marisa smiled as she walked further into the room. Like outside, the room was decorated with pumpkins and skeletons. On the mantle and hanging from the ceiling were several cotton spiderwebs adorned with black plastic spiders balancing precariously on sticky thread.

Although the visitors were silent, Neil looked up, rubbing his arms when a breeze filled the room. His gaze was on Marisa, but there was no awareness of her presence in his eyes. He glanced at the open door, then his watch. A deep scowl marred his forehead as a dark flicker passed over his eyes. He turned to look out of the window. His gaze flickering up and down the street, hunting out his guests in the crowded street of tricksters.

Marisa’s lips twisted in a semblance of a smile as she settled in the chair by the window. He’s probably wondering where his friends are, she thought. Poor fool. Tonight, he’ll receive his just desserts.

Mrs Cormac was seventy-eight. The widow would have lived a few more years if he had not thought it fun to climb into her house and frighten her. Marisa turned to her companion and smiled at the old dear. The bright gleam in Mrs Cormac’s pale eyes, warmed her heart. Marisa was aware Mrs Cormac was eager to play. She knew the rules. Damn, during their planning of tonight’s events, the woman had been feisty. Eager to start their games. Her lips twitched over things which could and could not be done to the boy. They were here to kill the bully within Neil, not the boy himself.

            The ringing of Neil’s mobile interrupted Marisa’s thoughts and she turned to look at the teenager.

            "Hey Garth – Where are you?" Neil asked.

            "At Johnny’s. You need to get over here. It’s awesome," Garth said.

            Marisa shuffled deeper into the seat. Neil’s scowl deepened as his lips twisted, ruining the youthful beauty of his flesh. "What do you mean - Johnny’s giving the party? It’s been arranged for weeks for you all to come to mine,” Neil said.

            "Hey, you sent a text – Said you had to cancel," Garth said.

            As the conversation between Neil and his friend heated up, the shattering of glass echoed in the empty room. Neil spun from the window, muttering under his breath when he spotted the broken tumbler on the hardwood floor. If Marisa was a lady, she would blush at his language.  

            “Hey, if you’re not coming over, I’m hanging up,” Neil said. With a glare at the broken glass, he slipped his mobile into his jeans' back pocket. His gaze swung to the table. He was sure he pushed the tumbler further back on the surface. With more muttering, he knelt and collected the broken pieces. Another expletive filled the air as blood seeped from his fingers.

Mrs Cormac had stepped on his hand. It was accidental Marisa mused. Neil sucked at the blood running freely from the cut. Tonight, was going to be fun. And all she had to do was watch. If Neil could see Marisa, his stomach would twist at the smile teasing the corner of her lips.

            Mr Simpson, Neil’s grandfather, who died before the boy was born, joined in the fun by bumping into the boy as he rocked on his heels. Convinced someone shoved him, Neil scanned the room. However, all he saw was empty space. Mr Simpson bumped him again, causing Neil to rock harder and the boy staggered on his heels. As he stumbled, he fell back, landing on his arse and banging his head on the wall.

Okay. Jason and Friday the 13th were good for ideas Marisa conceded. There was more muttering from the boy as he collected the broken glass, taking it to the kitchen.

            With his free hand, he flicked the light switch on, and the room brightened. Aunt Helen flicked the light off, descending the room into darkness. Another oath filled the room when Neil stumbled into the kitchen table. The tinkling of glass clattering onto the counter echoed in the silence. Unable to see, Neil switched the light back on. Aunt Helen flicked the light off. It was a game they played for several minutes. As the room descended into darkness once more, an oath shattered the silence when Neil admitted defeat and returned to the hallway.

            Neil’s coat hung over the banister post, and when he grabbed it, it fell to the floor. The candle flames flickered higher from the sudden breeze. When he went to retrieve it, it slid across the hall floor. His oaths grew bolder and livelier when it slid further up the hallway. As Neil lunged for the coat, Mr Simpson slipped Neil’s mobile from his jean pocket. Seeing the mobile levitate, Neil dropped the coat. His mouth hanging open as he watched the phone float. His eyes wide, and he stepped back, banging into the banister.

            "Shit – Hey you guys. A joke’s a joke. Stop it." Neil said, his voice echoing into the empty hallway. As the mobile continued floating, Neil made a grab for it. But Mr Simpson pulled it away from the teenager’s grasp once more. Neil glanced up the stairs, expecting to see his friends’ faces leering down at him. "Come on guys. This isn’t funny,” he said.

            "Does he know it’s us?" Mrs Cormac asked.

            Marisa turned to the old lady. The grey of her eyes bright, and she smiled. "Not yet. But soon."

            "Johnny – Garth – Come on guys." Neil said as the mobile continued to hover out of his reach.

Bored with the game, Mr Simpson chuckled when the mobile landed with a soft thud on the fallen coat. Neil gaped at the mobile, willing it not to move. When the phone remained on the coat, he grabbed it then ran to the living room. In his panic, he switched the light on. Aunt Helen watched Neil as he remained by the door. He searched the room. Satisfied he was on his own, he strolled over to the red, leather sofa. As he reached for the television remote, Aunt Helen switched the light off, descending the room into darkness.

        "Damn it guys. Stop with the stupid games, “he said.

        Mr Simpson chuckled when Neil ignored the light and switched on the television. When he dropped the remote by his side, and seeing he was no longer interested in playing the game Aunt Helen wanted to play, she joined her nephew on the sofa, picked the remote up, and switched the channel over. Neil jumped up from his seat. His gaze on the floating remote.

        "Who’s there. – Is that you, Johnny?" The colour faded from his cheeks as he scanned the room.

        Mr Simpson’s chuckle was loud. ‘Not tonight, young man.’ His voice echoed around the room as he shimmered in then out of focus. Neil blinked, and another oath involuntary left his mouth as he wiped his hand over his eyes.

        "Garth – The jokes over. Stop it," Neil said.

        "It’s not Garth, either," Mr Simpson said.

        Neil jumped when Aunt Helen touched his shoulder. Her breath cool against his ear when she whispered something Marisa was unable to hear. Neil shuddered as he broke free of her cold grasp. Unsteady from the sudden movement, he stumbled on to the chair. As Mr Simpson made himself visible, Neil jumped back on to his feet. Then slipped back down when Mrs Cormac revealed her presence on the chair he was using and found himself on her lap.

        "What?" Neil’s voice tangled in his cough. "What do you want?’ “His voice was ambiguous, and his fingers trembled against the arm of the chair as he pushed himself off the old lady’s knees. His skin clammy. His stomach twitched, and his mouth was dry.

        "Want to play, Neil?" Aunt Helen asked, shimmering into focus. "You like to play. Don’t you?" she asked, smiling as she stepped closer to him.

        Neil stumbled from Aunt Helen’s advancing body. Only to halt when he realised he was surrounded by his uninvited visitors. Their hands clapped as they danced around him. Their voices vocal in song. Their heads thrown back as they let loose loud laughter that screeched through the air. The pitch growing louder and higher as they skipped faster. Neil covered his ears as he closed his eyes. The room spiralled out of control, and he fell into a huddle on the floor. Curling his body into a ball to hide from the figures dancing around him.

        "Stop it. Stop it." His sobs echoed against the floor. There was no one to hear or save him.

        "But the fun’s just begun," Mr Simpson sang. Aunt Helen and Mrs Cormac clapped as they continued dancing around the shaking, sobbing boy. They had all night to tease and torment one of the village’s bullies.

        Marisa turned to the door. She had other people to visit tonight. The people of Brayton did not understand her. They saw her as an eccentric lady.

©W B Aodh 2024

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