HOUSE HAUNTING

Fitzpatrick tore his lucent gaze away from the dying sunlight and stared furtively at Mrs. Sally Enzo. The old gal seemed to be in a particularly chatty mood this evening.

“This carving over the fireplace is late sixteenth century. It was a personal favorite of my late husband, god rest his soul. He had a knack for the fineries of life; me personally, I don’t have the eye for antiques, if you get my drift.” She winked her left glass eye to emphasize her point.

Mrs. Maston took in every word with the inquisitive attention of the would-be buyer. Dressed in a dark dress which contrasted vividly with her pale skin, her flaming red hair and one inch fingernails polished to a mirrory shine, the lean and severe woman looked the very antithesis of Mrs. Enzo, who was a short, plump old lady in a floral gown.

Fitzpatrick turned his attention once again to the outside visible through the open French windows of the living room. (The very nomenclature of the room, mingled with the nature of its present occupants, was quite the irony. ). Evening had given way to night, and the clear sky had very few clouds. A moon as palid as Mrs. Maston hung in one corner of the sky: a silver coin stuck with celestial glue against the inky backdrop. Maybe it was the sight of the full moon, or maybe it was because of the icy January wind that found its way into the room, a shiver went down Fitzpatrick’s back.

“The deal’s almost done,” he thought, “now the final tour, and only the paperwork would be left.”

Mrs. Enzo continued her elocution about the house.

“The architecture is predominantly Gothic, with touches  of Romanesque, Renaissance, Art Deco and various other styles thrown in.”

“Why such an...eclectic form of architecture, may I ask?” Put in Mr. Maston. He was a thickset gentleman, shorter than his wife, dressed immaculately, with a heavily bearded face and small, reddish eyes that seemed to dart about everywhere.

“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Enzo, as if she were waiting for someone to ask this very question. “That has to do with the history of the house, which is pretty darn bloody, even if I do say so myself.”

Both the Mastons exchanged quiet glances with each other at this. Some vague, subconscious interest stirred inside them.

“Do tell.” Encouraged Mrs. Maston.

“Let’s all sit down.” Suggested Mr. Maston. There was an uncomfortable pause in the room, followed by the sound of shuffling chairs as everyone shifted their places of sitting towards the roaring fire. It was very cold after all. Mr. Maston took out a box of Sanguin cigarettes and offered them around.

“Don’t mind if I do,” proffered Mrs. Enzo, taking three from the box. Fitzpatrick refused politely, while Mrs. Maston did not deem it worthwhile to notice her husband’s gesture. She was too engrossed in examining the wood work of her mahogany settee.

Fitzpatrick rubbed his hands nervously saying, “Well, Mrs. Enzo. Let’s have the history of this beautiful house.”

The old woman seemed to smell Fitzpatrick’s anxiousness and hence took her time finishing the cigarette. After she was satisfied that only the minutest portion of the stub was remaining, she tossed it into the fire and began.

“This place was originally a burial land belonging to the Quixon chief Horayz. Now this Horayz was a pretty interesting man. There are many legends about him-”

“Such as?” interjected Mrs. Maston.

“Such as he was in the habit of marrying a new girl every year, while he killed off the old wife. Or that he always ate the heart of the firstborn of every wife in the hope that it would enhance his longevity. Or perhaps that he was prone to burning anyone who dared oppose his cruel tax regime, and made the surviving family of the offender slaves. But one thing was certain that it was the Quixon custom to bury their war captives alive. And this was the land Horayz used for this purpose.”

There was a pregnant pause. Mrs. Enzo lit another cigarette. The Mastons exchanged another quick glance. Fitzpatrick gulped silently.

“After he had had his fill of death and blood,” Mrs. Enzo paused again, as if only to take notice of the stirring of something in the Mastons faces, and continued. “he retired and decided to build his winter resting palace on this land. He was of the opinion that by building his house over the graves of his victims, he would be able to hear their cries of agony as their pent up souls tried to force their way out of the ground.”

Mrs. Maston seemed to stiffen silently at the offhand way in which the old widow referred to the dead and buried. Mrs. Enzo continued.

“Then the house was occupied by the DeSauvilliers. The DeSauvilliers were a very wealthy family, and their business was one of the oldest in history: assassinations. Their method was to invite their victims over for dinner, then have them  for dinner.”

“You mean they we...were...cann...cannibals?” stammered Fitzpatrick, regretting the question the moment he had asked it.

“Maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, the DeSauvilliers were themselves murdered in this house one night by the Morgans, who then buried them(the DeSauvilliers) in the walls of the west wing.”

“And who were these Morgans?” asked Mr. Maston.

“Warlocks.” replied the widow.

A chill seemed to settle around the room as Mrs. Enzo continued the dark and bloody history of the house. Fitzpatrick once again glanced through the open windows at the dark and silent forest surrounding the lone mansion. As the night intensified, the forest was coming to life. The very trees seemed to be murmuring to each other. Suddenly, from the depths of the trees, a wolf howled. Another answered it, then another. Very soon the calls died down as suddenly as they had started. Fitzpatrick turned to see Mrs. Enzo smiling contently as she continued.

“ They were Satanists and of course, practised human sacrifices. Their family occupied the house for over a century, making various additions to it, and inspiring terror amongst the local villagers, till one night they all vanished into thin air as if by a spell. Got another of those Sanguines to spare?” she asked Mr. Maston, who silently handed her the cigarette box.

After one or two long drags, Mrs. Enzo began again.

“The house remained abandoned for a long time till it was finally bought by Dr. Dornut. His line of study was not quite conventional, so he needed a secluded place for setting up his laboratory. You can still find remnants of it in the Underwing. He lived in this house for some years, continuing his experiments, but when children began to disappear from the local village, the villagers attacked the house and drove him away. It was from The Mad Doctor that my husband bought the place. Theodore was always fond of large houses."

Mrs. Enzo paused to steal a fond glance at the yellowing skull on the mantlepiece. Theodore Enzo grinned back grotesquely at his loving wife. With a sigh reminiscent of good times long past, the old woman took up the thread of conversation again.

"I prefer the open woods myself. Houses make me feel, well, coffined.” The old woman smiled meaningfully at the Mastons, who maintained a poker face. Fitzpatrick was growing nervous by the minute and was literally on the edge of his seat. the only thing he wanted now was the deal to be signed and done with.

“Is the house haunted?” Mrs. Maston asked suddenly. Mrs. Enzo gave a cackling laugh.

“If it is, the ghosts have avoided me quite well. Maybe you will have better luck.” She winked pointedly at Fitzpatrick, who was having a lot of trouble holding himself together. Deciding not give either party more room to maneuver, he decided to give his closing.

“Erm..eh...most illuminating Mrs. Enzo, most illuminating.” He laid out the necessary paperwork on the small coffee-table in front and took out a pen.

“If all is said and done, let’s finish the formalities?” he pushed the papers forward nudgingly.  After a few seconds of unnecessary tension the Mastons and Mrs. Enzo took up their respective copies, went through the papers carefully, and finally, to the relief of Fitzpatrick completed the signatures. Then a few meaningless pleasantries were exchanged, the date of possession was decided upon, and the Mastons took their leave.

“Well, good riddance,” growled Mrs. Enzo after the Mastons were gone, though whether she was referring to the buyers or the house itself Fitzpatrick could not tell.

“Thanks for helping me close the deal Fitz. Now, the Moon is at its height, and I must change for the Night. Goodbye. You can let yourself out.”

The night was colder now, and a wispy mist lay all over. Fitzpatrick looked back up from the driveway at the dark and lonely house, standing in the middle of this forest, and thought of its bloody history. A faint wind rustled through the trees, breaking the mist, and passing through Fitzpatrick, whose form was slowly beginning to lose its quota of ectoplasm. He heaved a sigh of relief.

“Three and a half centuries as a real-estate agent,” he muttered to himself as he floated away towards Hampington Village, “never have I ever had to face such a treacherous deal. The old werewolf lady is pain enough as it is, but to broker a deal between her and that vampire couple...oh god! I gotta rest for some days...otherwise...”

He droned on and on as the mists slowly engulfed his now ethereal form. The night was silent once more.

From somewhere, a wolf howled.

                                                                                                                                                                  Image Courtesy: Pixabay