The Haunting

When I was young, my mother used to tell me this story.

Back in the early 1940's a little girl went to stay with her aunt for several days. The aunt lived in the country in a small farm house surrounded by woods. The house had been there for many years. Its weathered boards were gray and unpainted. Inside there were three rooms. The large front room served as the kitchen and sitting room. The two smaller back rooms were bedrooms. The house was always drafty and the only heat was from a wood stove in the center of the front room.

It was fall when the little girl made her visit. She was staying with her aunt because her parents and older siblings were attending a funeral. The aunt was a quiet, hard person. She rarely spoke, other than to give brief commands. The girl was afraid of her aunt and did everything she was told. The house was very quiet except for the aunt tromping back and forth, bringing in fire wood, cutting vegetables and using the pump at the kitchen sink; the water splashing heavily in the tin bucket, smelling slightly of sulphur.

At night the aunt would dim the lantern on the plain wooden table and tromp into her bedroom, leaving the little girl sitting in the semi-darkness, alone. Being fall, the aunt was not yet keeping the wood stove going all day. The air was chilly. Occasional puffs of wind would whistle through the loose window frames. Stray leaves would blow in under the door.

The girl sighed heavily and walked quietly to her bedroom. The sound of her aunt's gentle snoring was somehow reassuring. Inside the bedroom, the girl was guided by the little moonlight that made it past the autumn thinned trees and through the thin cotton curtains of the unpainted window. The mattress was filled with corn husks and rags. There were clean sheets and a heavy feather-tick blanket to trap her body heat for warmth at night. She quickly removed her shoes, her worn dungarees and the faded cotton shirt that she loved so, leaving her socks and underwear on for sleeping.

After saying her prayers, she lay quietly, listening to the sounds of the old house and the wind just outside its walls; the leaves sounding like rain as they scoured the barn-like wood. A little later she became aware that she had drifted to sleep but was now awake again. The night had become quieter. It was much darker now, the moon having moved on in its journey across the night sky. She heard the sometimes sounds of a night creature as it moved stealthily through the woods, looking for prey. And something else.

Her eyes strained to make out objects in the dark. Her night vision ineffective in the deep darkness. She could see the darker shadow of the straight backed chair against the far wall. She knew her discarded clothing was lying on the cane seat, waiting for morning. There was little else to see in the room -- even in the day time. The only other piece of furniture was a battered three-drawer wooden dresser sitting in the corner. A mirror was hung on the wall behind it and the girl had examined the treasures of the pearl backed hairbrush and porcelain wash bowl earlier. Yesterday, now.

She must have fallen asleep again because this time she was awakened by a pressure on her legs and a shifting of the bed. She lay very still, her thoughts sluggish from sleep. Her young mind trying to process this new experience. The room suddenly seemed much colder. Time had passed again but it was still night and very dark. She lay frozen. The pressure on her legs increased slightly . . . still shifting. She was unable to move her legs and felt trapped, the early stages of panic welling up in her thin breast. She wanted to cry out but fear closed her throat, preventing her from uttering a sound.

The pressure moved up her body. Up her thighs and across her belly to her chest and shoulders, immobilizing her already fear frozen arms. She felt as if a great weight had settled upon her. But she also felt a presence. It wasn't merely a dead weight holding her down. It felt as if someone was laying on top of her. Pinning her to the mattress. Her eyes strained to see who it could be but saw nothing. The presence was cold.

Then the girl heard the whispers. Far away and in her ear at the same time. Was it one voice all over the room? Were there many voices? She tried to understand what they were saying. The voice was gentle and somehow pleading. Sad maybe. The little girl felt a compulsion to go with the voice. To rise from the bed and follow where it led.

And then she felt what could only be described as kisses. The first one was on her cheek. It was cold and . . . wet? She felt a pressure on either side of her head, holding her still. She felt another kiss on her forehead . . . then on her eyelids . . . and on her cheeks again . . . and her mouth. When it found her mouth it would not let up. The cold, wet, smothering kiss lasted forever, the whispered voices still flying around the room, her body pinned to the overstuffed mattress by the terrible weight. She was terrified, realizing she could not breath. If the kiss did not end she would die.

Fear galvanized her young muscles and she twisted her body and turned her head, gasping for air. Finally -- she screamed . . . and screamed . . . and screamed.

When the aunt rushed into the room the little girl cried into her shoulder for a long time, unable to speak. Slowly, between sobs, she was able to tell her aunt what had happened. Her aunt soothed and rocked her like a baby, gently stroking the girl's hair. After a while the aunt spoke in her plain, no nonsense fashion, "That was your great-aunt Estelle. She died over thirty years ago in this very room. Normally, she leaves us alone but she likes young girls. She had a daughter that died from pneumonia one winter -- by the next winter she was gone, too. She stopped eating and wasted away. Dying of a broken heart . . . I guess your being here stirred her up again."

The aunt lifted the little girl in her strong arms, saying as they left the room, "Come on. You can sleep with me tonight." From that time on the little girl no longer feared her aunt and they became good friends.

My mother was that little girl and she swore this was a true story.