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The Spook House (Based on true events)
By Dave Lutes
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. THE window in the upstairs bedroom – a bedroom that had no door, in or out. The bedroom from where the screams of a young boy had once echoed down the valley. The valley where no one wanted to build a home - although, over time, over 150 years or so, a couple of dusty roads were carved out along the hill above and below where the cabin stood.
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It wasn’t really a cabin – it was an old, semi-tall, Victorian house, but small by Victorian architecture standards. And even after decades of slow, small-town civilization and progress, it was virtually hidden amongst the darkness of the trees on the corner of Bradley and Seneca Street in the historic village of Trumansburg, NY – in the ‘Heart of the Finger Lakes’.
That’s where the house stood when I was a boy and where it still stands today. We called it the Spook House and no one had lived there for years. Actually, my great grandmother – Granny McCluen – who was born in 1876 and lived just around the proverbial corner all her life, couldn’t remember the last family who lived there. She could only remember the last family who died there – the WHOLE family who had died there.
Everyone assumed they were murdered…but there we no signs of a struggle. No break-in or other criminal clues. No bodies in the house – only unexplained trails of candle wax drops, tinged with red.
But we kids didn’t talk about it except around the campfire. No one did, really. The vivid stories and rumors and legends about what went on there were the stuff of hushed-voice barroom or campfire talks that still produced a shiver even in the oldest, longest-serving resident. The common belief was there was just enough, too much, truth mixed into the stories to qualify them totally as myths, or as completely unbelievable.
Me? I couldn’t get enough of the stories…constantly begging, digging, uncovering the details – facts or fiction. It didn’t matter to me. It was a secret obsession, if I’m honest – especially when I heard the ancestral stories of candles appearing…in the upstairs window…and the appearance of a child’s silhouette inside the room. A blue-ish haze was also seen. Some said the boy’s name was simply John. Nothing more. Some who witnessed it, said that the child actually stood at the window, calling with his hands, signaling, inviting, beckoning, pleading for others to come in and rescue him… Or was it to join him? Some said, as they watched him next to the candle, that his face changed from a happy, young boy smile to a look of terror-filled pain.
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And as a suddenly as he appeared, he was gone…faded back inside the room becoming a silhouette again. Those who claimed to see the image or the form firsthand, also described a strong uncomfortable feeling of being compelled, urged, or drawn to come closer to the house. They simply could not stop looking. When laughingly or mockingly challenged about this, they could not be dissuaded; they became more uncomfortably adamant - such was the vivid power of what they saw and felt. They held firmly to their stories – many of them until their dying day.
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When we rode our bikes down the dusty road past the house, even in broad daylight, we always peddled a little more quickly, only giving the creepy property an over-the-shoulder glance. That said, when we were a safe distance away or playing catch or a game in one of our back yards, we often boasted about how, one day, we would go inside and challenge any ‘spooks’ there and be among the first to expose the stories for what they really were – just myths. Find and reveal the truth – that there is nothing, no one, inside the house – certainly no candle in the window and most certainly, no child in a room. We did, however, often speculate on what other things we might find inside and how there might even be a secret safe, a skeleton or two, or hidden treasure behind secret doors, or even 100-year-old dried blood stains on the floor. But certainly, no candle and no kid.
In my heart, I wasn’t so sure. I bluffed my agreement and certainty and fought secretly to stifle my overwhelming curiosity and growing borderline addiction. It had become a compulsion. I dreamed about it – I felt connected to the house. I felt connected to John.
When we did campouts in our back yards or at the park, especially when a new friend joined us, we would often revamp and re-tell a common ghost story making the rounds in those day. It was about an eccentric old man who had been murdered by a family who wanted to buy the house – but the old man wouldn’t sell. Weirder than just being eccentric, he also had a sort-of-prosthetic right arm – but more oddly, it was made of gold. After weeks of pressure and negotiating, with no progress, the greedy family finally could not wait any longer. But now, not only did they want the house, they also wanted his gold arm. So, they killed him, cut off his arm, put his body in a makeshift coffin, and buried him in the back yard. They melted the arm down and sold it for cash…a lot of cash.
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They moved into the house and enjoyed a short-lived extravagant lifestyle off the sale of the gold. But, as the story went, soon after this his coffin would often suddenly, mysteriously appear in different rooms of the house, along with a blue mist or haze - and a creepy, eerie voice would call out from inside. They would run to another room screaming, but when they plucked up the courage to return to where the coffin was, it was gone. And then a day or so later, it would appear again, in a different room – just lying there on the floor, the voice wailing, “I waaaant my golden arm back. I waaaant my golden arm back…”
There were three people in the family - mother, father and a 12-year-old boy. The bodies of the parents were found weeks later by authorities (cause of death, ‘Unknown’), but not the boy’s – although they looked for him for weeks. And not that they were actually looking for them, but they didn’t find a coffin or a golden arm….so the story and the official police report went.
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Variations on our storyline were that the coffin actually also stood up vertically and kind of hovered, moved, floated toward the terrible people who had cut off and sold the golden arm – now standing terrified in the kitchen. And depending on which new kid was with us at the campout, and how old or mature he was, we would build up, and drag out, the floating coffin threat…closer …closer…still closer…moving closer specifically toward the young boy – who, by now was frozen in terror.
We would intone in our best spooky voices, “I waaaant my golden arm back...I waaaant my golden arm back…” Closer still, a strange blue haze filling the room. Terror in the eyes and heart of the boy as the coffin approached. There was nowhere to run. Frozen. Closer! “I want my….”
And at that very second, the boy whipped out a packet of Luden’s Wild Cherry Cough Drops and stopped the coffin (coughin’). Get it? 😊
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It was fun to see the horror on the face of the new kid turn to shaken, but relieved surprise – followed by a nervous laugh. “Ha, ha, good one, guys…good one! I knew something like that would happen…ha, ha, ha.”
Yeah, sure you did kid.
But even though I knew this version of the story, knew what was coming, and had told it myself to others many times, I was again transfixed, again filled with longing to be in that kitchen. In some weird way, I could feel the heart of the boy beating with mine.
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And then Robin became our friend.
You know the type…a musclebound, fearless, showboat who acted or spoke without thinking and usually ended up in mom’s, dad’s, teacher’s or parents of friends’ bad books at some point in the relationship. When we bragged about maybe doing something bolder or more daring than usual, Robin actually did it – and more! Or worse! And when he did, it was often so extreme that we kind of drifted quietly into the shadowed background, so we weren’t so obviously associated with him – and often had some hard explaining to do when our parents called us out for his behavior and our connection with it. Mine actually talked about banning me from ever ‘playing’ with him. They were also teachers in the school we attended.
I need to say that I wasn’t exactly shy and had a semi-courageous and extrovert streak in me. So, when I challenged us – the guys – to finally, pluck up our mutual courage and ‘sort of break into’ the Spook House, Robin actually followed ME, as it were! We knew what we were proposing to do was illegal - a crime (and stupid) - but I think we justified it by telling our heads and hearts that we owed it to ourselves and the village to learn the truth – to even expose it. There were four of us…Robin, Tony, Joey and me.
I turned 12 during that hot week in June when Robin joined us on our bikes as we rode down Bradley Street toward the Spook House. We were headed there because of what had happened to me a couple of days before.
I’d seen the boy in the window.
Many people who had claimed to see the boy over the years had tried to take photographs, but all of them showed nothing more than a normal window and ‘nothing there’. I also had a camera. And of all the people who had tried to photograph the boy in the window before, only mine showed something more – and it scared me to death.
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We hid our bikes in the undergrowth and, clothes snagging on thorn bushes, the light noticeably reduced and virtually dark among the trees - we crept along the southern most property line where we were out of public sight. We then made our way to the back porch that was hidden from street view. Hearts pounding fiercely, we bravely rattled the handle on the backdoor, tried to raise (with all our straining umpfs) the kitchen window and tapped and thumped the door and old wall for signs of weakness and break-in-ability – for anything really that would get us inside. But when we looked through the window, we gasped in unison. Though the other kitchen windows were not blocked, it was completely dark inside.
Weird. Unnerving. Some hard, nervous swallowing.
Just when I could ‘feel’ that our mutual bravery was waning, I unwrapped my sweatshirt that was tied around my waist, draped it over my right elbow, and hit the window near the center divider, smashing it.
The others nearly jumped out of their skins! Robin the Swearer, swore.
Mouths gaping, eyes wide, they watched me reach inside the broken window and find the lock. It was stiff, but finally gave way…and Robin quickly stepped up next to me and together we were able to slide the window up and open.
We all climbed through, into a near totally dark kitchen. It smelled old and dusty and moldy…and the old wood stove and ancient electric lighting were a shock. But something else made us shiver. Not a ghostly image or a spooky voice…but simply, it was freezing in there!
The darkness was claustrophobic and as we began to move from the kitchen, we stayed close together, and I noticed that the cold moved with us…and not like a typical cold breeze, it was a cold that felt like it came from the inside-out. Bone-chilling. Intense. We continued to move toward the living room. The cold did too.
After some minutes of wandering around, Robin broke the silence and said with a tone of contempt and disrespect, “So this is the scary Spook House, huh?! Nothing scary here! This is nothing. You guys are so woosey. Here’s what I’m gonna do…I’ll find the dead guy’s golden arm, break it over my knee and then burn the place down and put an end to this stuff!” Typical Robin. He spat on the floor.
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Almost defiantly, Robin then went directly to one of the marble fireplaces and examined the top – which, surprisingly, he discovered he was able to lift up. There was a secret compartment underneath. As he looked and reached deeper inside, a blue smokey cloud suddenly formed around his head. He coughed once; then turned toward us with a look of shocked disbelief and terror on his face. It was a dead, trance-like look. He turned away from us and then slid his fingers around the edge of the fireplace and unbelievably it opened and pulled away from the wall like a door. Blue haze began to ooze from the opening and engulfed Robin. He looked inside, stared back at us with a blank but look of pained inevitability – then a wistful smile. Tears began running down his cheeks. He stepped inside the opening – a tunnel really – and disappeared inside without a sound. The fireplace slammed shut with a bang.
A few moments later, from somewhere in the bowels of the house, we heard an echoed scream of terror.
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Joey and Tony both let out blood-curdling screams at the same time and began running toward the kitchen in utter fright. In no time they reached the kitchen backdoor. They rattled and shook the door handle, but it wouldn’t open. More panicked shaking of the door handle…nothing. They sprang to the window. It was now closed…and locked…and unbroken. Startled, they cried out again and backed away looking every which way for an alternative escape route. Suddenly, the door sprang open of its own accord, and they ran out into the woods. The door slammed itself behind them. I stood there stunned and in utter, desperate fear and prepared to run as well.
That’s when I heard the sound behind me – through a high, arched doorway leading to a spiral staircase. I turned to look. A young boy, about my age, was standing on the stairs, in the same, dim, blue, hazy light we’d just seen - just staring at me blankly. I recognized him immediately from his photograph. I tried again to turn and flee but was simply unable to move. Looking down, my legs and feet were being anchored firmly to the floor. I looked up at the boy. He was beginning to climb the stairs, briefly glancing back at me as if to say with a tilt of his head, “Follow me”.
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My legs suddenly unlocked, and I felt pulled, drawn, and compelled to follow him. Part of me resisted. Another part of me felt like I was in a dream - a dream that I had dreamed many times before - and so much wanted to be part of…and wanted it all to be real.
I climbed the stairs slowly. Heart pounding, I couldn’t stop. Compelled. Up and up…the blue haze going before me.
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When I reached the top floor, the boy was nowhere to be seen. In front of me were makeshift ladder rungs nailed to the wall. Dark, cold hallways disappeared to my left and right. I felt the pull on my soul again. I must climb. I must! I began to go up the strange ladder until I reached the full height of the wall which was open at the top; the ceiling and roof 5-6 ft even higher up. Looking over the wall I could see in the dim, blue, hazy light a large attic. In the middle of the attic floor, the boy stood staring up at me. He raised his arm and beckoned for me to come. I looked over the wall and saw another ladder going down to the attic floor.
Pulled and drawn downward – so strong! Resisting was futile. I couldn’t fight it. I began to climb down.
When I reached the bottom, the boy was gone. I couldn’t see much of anything in the blue hazy darkness – but certainly not the boy.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of wood scraping on wood – like something being dragged along the floor. Being drawn and soul-tugged again…I was guided toward another wall in the direction of the scraping sound. Real fear began to grip me now and I felt that serious danger was present. Tears began running down my cheeks. The scraping sound grew louder as I arrived at the wall. Another makeshift ladder – another incomplete wall that didn’t reach the ceiling.
Tears streaming, I looked up and saw the candle, shimmering in the blue haze at the top. Stronger pulling…I resisted…but I couldn’t control my legs or my hands. Wood scraping again. I began to climb…or rather, I was forced to climb. Face wet, heart aching and trembling, I quietly, inwardly, cried out for my mom.
I reached the top and was immediately enveloped with blue haze tugging at me to continue. The candle was gone. The scraping sound grew louder. My head was pushed forward and held firm as I was forced to look down into the room. From what I could see through the blue haze, there was a single bed, a standing wardrobe and nothing else – except the candle was now in the only window on the other side of the room. No door. There was no door!
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It felt so right to be there - and at the same time so terrifyingly wrong. It was both the place to be, and, at the same time, the place to run from. I felt connected, the drawing and pulling almost fierce within my heart and mind.
I also felt alone, so terribly alone.
I HAD to go down…I HAD TO! This was how I had dreamed it, envisaged it, so many times.
Until my eyesight adjusted, and I saw the coffin.
I screamed.
I’m telling you all this because, when you look in the window tomorrow, I am the boy you will see standing there.
(See next page for interesting tidbits)
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About the Creator
David Lutes
Dave writes for the sheer pleasure of inspiring people to travel in their minds and hearts to places they've only dreamed about. He excavates from goldmine of ideas from 30+ countries he has worked in and the 12 countries he has lived in.
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Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
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Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Comments (3)
Omggg your story made my jaw hit the floor
This was so good, I couldn't stop reading! I'd have like to known more about the protagonist and his friends though... and what was it about the photo that scared him? Was it that it was a picture of himself?? 😱 Couple of edit notes: i think you mean "The(y) simply could not stop looking" and "I'm tell(ing) you all this because".
Fabulous horror story!!!💖💕