The Grey Girl, The Van Tassel Murders

Tom Stevens had spent a lot of time, money, and energy to find this man. He now sat across from Lewis at the table in the corner of a bar. Lewis looked far older than he was. Tom thought this might be due to the whiskey the man was consuming in large quantities. “I must say, that’s a lot of alcohol to be taking in so early in the day,” Tom commented.

Lewis grunted and tossed back his drink. The buttons on his stained shirt threatened to burst. “Listen, boy, you want me to tell you about that damned house,”—he slammed the empty glass down on the table—“you’ll get me another, and be quick about it.”

Tom sighed and returned to the bar. The bartender looked at him then to Lewis. He pulled out a bottle and handed it to Tom. “What are you doing wasting your time for on that old drunk?” the barman asked. “His tales get wilder every year.”

“I have a distinct interest in that old house.”

The barman shrugged, accepted Tom’s money, and went to check on some customers who had just walked in. Tom heard him muttering, “Waste of time, money, and good booze,” as he left.

Returning to the table, Tom placed the bottle between them. Lewis looked up at it from his hunched position. He bleary eyes seemed to come into focus for a second, and a grin spread across his face, showing a few missing teeth.

By the time Tom left the bar, he had heard the entire story. It was very similar in part to what his uncle had told him. He also left with something his uncle didn’t have—and at cost of a few more dollars than he had wanted to spend. He had a key to the house. He checked his watch; it was already past ten at night. Keys out, he hesitated at his car. So many tales told of the violent ghost at the manor. It was foolish to go there at night. It was bad enough in the daytime. Tom had looked through windows earlier that afternoon, and he still got a shiver when he thought about what he had seen. He was sure it had been nothing more than the wind blowing a curtain, but it had certainly looked like a little girl running into a room. It was decided—back to the motel and an early start the next day.

***

Tom woke later than he had planned. His night had not been a restful one, as his dreams had been a jumble of screaming ghosts and weird chanting in the dark. The thick curtains belied the bright sunlight outdoors. He would keep them drawn. He tried to force himself out of bed, but it was as if his body was resisting what he was about to do. Cursing, he pushed himself into a seated position, and, grumbling at the clock, he got dressed. He decided to forgo a shower, as he didn’t plan on talking to anyone—at least anyone living—until later.

Rubbing the stubble on this face as he headed to the door, he wondered if not showing had been a good idea. Outside, the sunlight was nearly blinding after the gloom of his room. Tomorrow, he told himself, open the curtains before leaving.

The car interior was already hot as he climbed behind the wheel and pulled out of the motel parking lot. Still not quite alert, he traveled the now-familiar road to the manor. Once parked near the front door, he looked back at the dark tunnel of trees and shook the tension from his shoulders. His uncle had told him what had happened so long ago, and Tom was not about to enter the house unprepared. Opening the trunk, he smiled, then, looking up at the stain glass window in the door, he wagged his finger at it. “I’m ready for whatever you can throw at me.” Several minutes later, he emerged from behind the car, dressed in a baseball catcher’s pads.

His footfalls thudded heavily on the wooden porch. His confidence was high, yet he was marginally embarrassed as he discovered his movements were not as easy as he had hoped. At the front door, his hand shook slightly as he reached for the knob. He pulled his hand back, wiping the sweat on the course material of the padded garment. When his hand returned to the knob, it turned easily. Pulling the facemask down, he pushed the door wide and strode confidently into the large hall. The cold immediately caught his breath. Shaking away the shivers from the freezing air along with his fear, he progressed deeper into the house.

Tom swallowed nervously as paused at the doorway to the first room just off the grand hall to the right. After staring ahead for several seconds, he took a deep breath and turned to face the room. He sighed at the empty room and cast his eyes downward. There was a dark stain on the wooden floor. Cracking the tension from his neck, he carefully stepped over the large blemish and proceeded into the room. The first thing he noticed was the once-fine rug, dust-covered and dingy now. It’s surface was clouded by a deep, reddish-brown stain of its own. This stain was larger than the one in the hall and obscured the rug’s pattern in one corner. “This is where you killed them, huh?” Tom whispered.

“Yes.” A voice hissed through the frigid air behind him. Tom stood rooted to the spot, too terrified to turn around. A cold breeze ruffled the exposed hair on the back of his head. Turning quickly, he faced the gaunt, skeletal visage of Henry. Even in his ghostly form, the man was clearly recognizable from photographs Tom had seen. Even with the skin flaking off the skull, revealing bone in places, the pain on the face was obvious.

“You must leave now,” the ghost of Henry said softly.

Tom stood his ground. “Why did you do it?” he demanded.

“There is no time. You must leave.”

“No. You won’t scare me away,” Tom shouted.

The change in the ghost was immediate and horrifying. Henry’s hollow eye sockets burned like hot coals. He seemed to expand to fill the entire doorway. His ragged hair and beard looked as if they were caught in a high wind. Henry howled, pointing at Tom.

A candlestick flew toward Tom, and he took a defensive stance as the brass holder hit his chest. Even with the padding, it hurt. Dust mixed with fallen plaster pelted Tom through his mask. He could barely see through the stabbing needles hitting his cheeks. “You will not scare me away!” Tom fought his way out of the debris and moved, step by step, closer to Henry. It was like fighting against a hurricane wind. Tom held his arms out to block as much of the detritus as he could. He was almost there. Each step brought him ever closer to the angry entity. “You are the one who shou …” Tom stopped. His last word caught as a gurgle in his throat. His hand flew to the side of his neck. Henry looked at him, his anger unmistakable.

Tom slowly pulled the letter opener free of his throat. In an instant he knew that was a mistake. He was drowning in his own blood. It cascaded down his throat as it also sprayed over the wall. He tried to move; his step took him down to his knees.

Henry was standing over him. “I told you.” The black eye sockets stared down at Tom. “I told you to leave.”

Tom was dizzy and cold. The specter looked down into the dying man’s eyes. “You should have listened.” Henry’s words were a sorrowful whisper as he glanced down at the dying man’s hand grabbing onto his tattered jacket.

The last thing Tom felt was surprise.

***

Three days later two police officers stood in the room right off the main hall of the Van Tassel Manor. “Why in the hell is he dressed like a ballplayer?” one cop asked as he scratched under his hat.

“I have no idea. But I think it’s time we had another talk with our friend Lewis,” the other officer replied as the coroner and his assistant began to move the body.

Lewis sat in the back of the police car, slowly rocking back and forth. His eyes were wide as he muttered to himself. “Told him not to go. Should have listened. Told him it was dangerous.” Then his eyes grew even wider. He saw movement in the window as the coroners moved the body out of the house through the front door. A woman stared out at him, her hand on the windowpane. He blinked and she was gone, but her handprint stayed. His hands were cuffed behind him, so he banged his head against the window.

One of the officers quickly opened the door. “Lewis, you need to stop that.” In his hand the officer held an evidence bag that contained the bloodstained letter opener. Lewis, recognizing it immediately, tried to get as far away as possible. He twisted his arms and his shoulder popped, but still he fought to get away from the weapon. The officer looked at the bag then back to Lewis. “Sure is an odd reaction. I mean, you did use this to kill poor Tom Stevens.”

“I didn’t kill him. He was dead already,” Lewis whimpered.

“So why are you covered in the dead man’s blood?”

Lewis stared up at the officer then looked down at his shirt. It was covered in dark, rust-colored stains. He glanced into the rearview mirror and saw his face, too, was streaked in dried blood. Rubbing his hands together, he could tell they were caked in it. “I only found him,” he whispered.

“You don’t get covered head to foot in blood just finding a body.”

Shaking his head, Lewis continued to mutter. “Must have happened when I looked for the key. Should never have given him the key.” Out of the blue, his eyes bulged and he began to scream. In the door to the house stood Henry, his gray clothes and flesh also streaked in blood. Lewis called out a warning. The cop looked over his shoulder at the house, then back at Lewis, then back again at the house. Henry was watching the corpse being loaded into the back of the hearse. He took a step off the porch, following the assistant coroner. Lewis was screaming now.

The woman from the window had appeared at the front door. She glared hatefully at Henry. As if he could feel her eyes on his back, Henry slowly turned. Something in his hand glinted in the bright sunlight. Lewis burst from the car, knocking the officer to the ground. The second police officer, who had been talking to the coroner, ran to help. Lewis could hear the woman screaming as Henry stalked back up onto the porch. Lewis knew he had to help her. He had to stop Henry from doing it again. It would prove he hadn’t killed Tom.

The world spun. Pain shot through Lewis’ knees and the wind was knocked out of him. He struggled against the two officers, gasping for breath. “What are you doing?” he panted. “We have to help her.”

“Who?”

“Henry’s going to kill her.” Lewis struggled to free himself from the wrestling officers.

“Lewis, calm down,” one of the officers ordered. “There’s nobody there. Henry’s dead, long dead.” He turned toward his partner and ordered, “Rick, get the leg restraints. This bastard is crazy.”

Lewis stopped fighting. Henry had disappeared into the house. The woman’s screams still rang in his ears as he was bundled back into the police car.