Night Stalks The Mansion: A True Story Of One Family's Ghostly Adventure (12 page)

I had inspected his quarters. It was a typical place to
store tack and other small items. It had a wooden floor, old
and uneven but swept clean. I strongly suspected that there
were rats in the offing just waiting to escape Butch's watchful eye. Enoch had rigged up an overhead shower of sorts
and that was adequate for his daily bathing, but that was
all. The water would be icy cold, if not frozen in the pipes,
in the dead of winter.

"Then you won't sleep up here?" I asked.

He finally turned around. "Up here in the big house? No
Boss, I won't. I do my work. But I won't sleep here. Not
now ... not ever. I won't stay after darkl"

There was a finality about his words that I had to accept.
After all, getting up to let him in was small payment for
what he was doing for us. I hadn't given him a key because
under my new security arrangements the doors were bolted
on the inside at night. Besides the fewer keys out, the better.

It occurred to me, then, that it wasn't what might get in
the house that bothered Enoch. It was what was already
there.- So I surrendered as gracefully as I could and continued to let him in at six o'clock. He was never late but
would be waiting, no matter the time or the weather.

I didn't expect old Enoch to be any more perfect than the
rest of us. It was after his regular salary started that his
particular weakness showed up, although it was to be some
time before I recognized it. He was rather fond of gin. Not
that he was in a constant state of inebriation. Far from it.
He was never late to work, but we gave him Saturday afternoons off and he treated himself to a bottle every payday.

At first I wondered where he got the stuff because he
didn't seem to wander into town. Then I learned that the
family-the "poor" relatives the real estate agent had mentioned-who owned the barn had political connections.
A group of prisoners had been released to work, under
supervision, on a construction project and they were being
housed on the premises in the old barn. The family benefited because they had cheap labor available and made money on housing the prisoners. We still don't know what
the prisoners derived from the arrangement.

One of the prisoners, Rollie, was a painter by trade and
he was permitted to do some extra work at night for a certain contractor in town. Thus, he had a little extra money
which was spent entirely on booze. Rollie and Enoch struck
up a friendship of sorts.

I ran into Rollie one day near the barn. He was staggering around, definitely under the influence, and had a handful of salt which he was scattering before him as he went.

"What are you doing?" I asked curiously.

"I salt 'em," he confided with a sly look. "Long as I can
salt 'em they can't get at me."

He was only a step removed from delirium tremens but,
as it was a Sunday, I supposed the overseer wasn't paying
too much attention to his condition. At any rate Rollie had
access to liquor-and so had Enoch.

Our first experience with Enoch in his cups had its humorous aspect. One Saturday afternoon I heard his voice down
beyond the garden in the direction of the creek. I hadn't
even known that he was anywhere around, but he seemed
to be entertaining company. His high-pitched, squeaky
voice was louder than I had ever heard it.

"Bob," I said to my son. "Enoch's been carrying on for
some time. He seems to have company. Let's see what's
going on."

We crept silently among the trees, down through the
garden to a clearing where Enoch was holding forth. Finally
we saw him. He was precariously balanced on an old stump
and was expounding the gospel with great vigor. His audience was composed of the trees around the clearing. Undoubtedly, Enoch must have imagined a group of animated
listeners for he was holding forth with all the fervor of a
traveling evangelist.

"He is chastened also with pain on his bed and the multi tude of his bones with strong pain," Enoch thundered. "So
that his life abhorreth bread an' his soul dainty meat. His
flesh is consumed away that it can't be seen, and his bones
that were not seen stick out! Yea, his soul draweth near unto
the grave and his life to the destroyer."

Bob nudged me in the ribs, silently convulsed with
laughter. "I know old Enoch is thin as a rail," he whispered.
"But I didn't know he was in such bad shape."

"Shush!" I whispered back.

Suddenly Enoch whirled and pointed a finger in our
direction. "Ain't it so, brothers an' sisters? Ain't it so?" He
answered his own question. "'Course it's so! The Bible tells
us-an' the Bible don't lie!"

I was afraid that he'd seen us, but Enoch then pointed
his finger toward heaven. "All flesh shall perish together,"
he thundered. "An' man shall turn again into dust!"

He jumped from the stump, nearly losing his balance,
and paced a few wavering steps in each direction before
once more taking up his stance.

"There's no darkness, or shadow of death where the
workers of iniquity can hide! He knowest their works, an'
he overturns 'em in the night so they're destroyed!"

Again he pointed, but this time in another direction.
"Ain't it so, brothers? You know it's so -it's writ in the Holy
Book!"

"Gosh!" Bob muttered. "No wonder he's afraid to leave
the tackroom at night."

"That's good old-fashioned orthodox doctrine," I hissed
back. "Let's get out of here before he sees us!"

We quietly withdrew and in a few minutes were on our
way back to the house.

"Imagine that little guy!" Bob marveled. "What was he
quoting?"

"The Book of Job," I replied. "He told me he knew it all
and now I believe him. He's been holding forth down there for an hour at least. Quite a feat for someone who can't
read or write. There's no doubt that in his soul Enoch longs
to be a preacher of the Word."

'Just another frustrated preacher," Bob grinned. "Glad
it didn't take you that way."

I only grunted.

We were to have further evidence of Enoch when inebriated, but even then he was a harmless, lovable little gnome
of a man. He merely became more loquacious-more
voluble-but there was no real belligerence or malice in
his make-up.

I seized upon that first opportunity, however, to interrogate Enoch when his defenses were down. Naturally, I
hoped he could explain the strange happenings in our old
mansion, so I waved Bob on home and waited for Enoch
to pass the summerhouse. Finally he came-weaving his
way through the trees and clambering over the wall toward
where I was sitting.

"How are you, Enoch?" I called. "Taking a little walk on
your day off?" I gave no indication that I had heard his
sermon.

He looked up, startled. Then he furtively patted the
bottle in his hip pocket. "Yes, sir, I was just lookin' over
the place-just lookin' aroun'. The garden is doin' right
pretty, seems like. I was goin' to get me a mushmelon but
they ain't ripe."

"How about sitting down here in the summerhouse, Enoch?
You and I seldom have the chance to talk anymore -I've
been so busy-you too."

Enoch seated himself carefully on the bench while I tried
to find the best way to start the conversation. He had carefully skirted any mention of the phantoms in the big house.
I knew that he was our best source of information concerning the history of the place, but he had been as uncommunicative as a sphinx on the subject. Now this seemed like a golden opportunity and I wasn't above taking advantage of it.

"Was your mother here when the place was built, Enoch?"
I felt this might be a safe approach.

"No, that was before her time. But she tole me 'bout my
granny. She was housemaid for the Murchinsons that built
the first house. Good thing she slept in the quarters outside
'stead of in the house or she would have got burned up, too."

"How was that, Enoch? What happened?"

"You know they ain't never been nothin' but bad luck
and sorrow in this house," he mourned. "The back part is
on the foundation of that first one. It was built only two,
three years when it caught fire in the middle of the night.
Seven - I think it was - seven of the family burnt up. They're
all buried up there on the hill where you see the big tree."

I told myself that his mind was really wandering now -
probably the result of too much gin. "Enoch, I've hunted
all over that hill shooting woodchuck and I've never come
across a graveyard. Are you sure?"

"They's up there all right. The Murchinsons had an underground burial up there. You know that big slab or rock that
is just beyond the wooden gate?" He pointed a shaky finger
in the direction of the hill. "Right under that rock is where
they is. You know it leans over so crazy?"

By way of illustration, Enoch leaned to his left and nearly
fell off the bench. I steadied him quickly and he went on.
"Well, it used to be straight up and there's a hole that goes
down into the burial. I ain't never gone in it, but it's there,
all right. I heard tell it was all bricked over with them coffins
on shelves. That's where the Murchinsons was buried-and
seven of 'em put there all at once when the fire happened."

I looked across the alfalfa fields toward the top of the hill.
Even at that distance I could see the wooden gate I had
climbed over many times. The gnarled old oak tree stood
outlined against the sky. The ground sloped away gently on all sides, making a bald knob with the great oak in its
center. The leaning rock was also visible. From where I sat
it looked like any peaceful country scene.

"Will you go up and show me, Enoch? I'd like to explore
that underground burial place."

Enoch fairly jumped out of his skin. "No, sir, I won't!"
he cried in anguish. I had the feeling that he was sobering
up quickly. "I don't want to gol I never did go down in there
-I just heard 'bout it. That old stone slab fell down when I
was just a young fella. By then the big house had been built
like it is now."

Suddenly Enoch was anxious to talk. Evidently he wanted
to get my mind off a place he had no intention of taking
me to. "I 'member when the old doctor put in them stain
glass windows in the liberry."

"But what's that got to do with the burial place, Enoch?"
Then I did a double take. This was the first time I'd heard
of a doctor in the mansion.

"'Twas 'bout that time the slab fell, I reckon. Nobody
cared. The Murchinsons was all gone. Ain't nobody been
down in there since then. You'd have to dig under the rock
to find the openin' now."

' He searched my face and then sighed resignedly. "Maybe
you'd want to go. You ain't scared in the big house-maybe
you ain't scared of that, neither."

"What's there to be scared of in the big house, Enoch?"

He gulped suddenly. "I gotta be goin'. I gotta go feed
Butch," he mumbled desperately. "He's hungry by now, I
bet." And Enoch ambled off, looking as if he'd said too
much and was already regretting it.

I was busy that following week, but I kept thinking about
Enoch's account of the crypt. Early the next Saturday morning I cornered Hal who seemed at loose ends with Bob gone
for the weekend.

"What about investigating Enoch's story?" I asked him.
"Want to take a look for that old burial place?"

"Why not?" he agreed.

It was the sort of thing that I knew would interest Hal.
He wasn't nervous in the least. It interested me, too, but I
had another motive. I wanted to test Enoch's memory of
past events. And, to be truthful, this was the sort of investigation that intrigued me. It seemed to satisfy that part of
me which longed to identify with historic moments and
places in history.

There was a half-mile of alfalfa field and then a stretch
of grass between us and the old wooden gate. As we hiked,
Hal asked, "Do you really think there are any graves? Do
you suppose old Enoch knows what he's talking about, or is
he just trying to make himself important?"

"I'd say he knows. He's not like a lot of old people-he
doesn't talk about the past very much. The only reason he
told me about the crypt was because he was relaxed and
talkative after his gin."

Hal laughed. "Bob told me about the sermon. He couldn't
get over it. Said Enoch was the reincarnation of Jonathan
Edwards."

"That's right. He hadn't gotten around to sinners frying
in hell yet. But to get back to this crypt, I had the feeling
that Enoch said more than he meant to-and regretted it
almost immediately. His tongue was loosened just enough
to let a trickle through a dike he wanted to keep closed.
Either our Enoch is afraid to talk, or he's keeping secrets
for someone's benefit. I think he's afraid, myself. Yes, I do
expect to find evidence that he's telling the truth."

We climbed over the gate with its weathered planks and
walked toward the slab of rock that Enoch had pointed out.
It was five feet long, slanted forward at about a forty-five
degree angle with one end buried in the ground. We knelt down and felt around the end of the base. Grass had grown
over it; winds had blown in weeds and debris.

Suddenly Hal whistled. "Dad, I think there's an indentation here. Let's pull these weeds away and reel"

We worked diligently for about ten minutes and then we
could see where the ground had unmistakably sunk in one
place.

"What now?" Hal asked.

"Back to the house," I told him. "We'll get a couple of
spades and a ladder. If it's as Enoch described, we'll need
to climb down into the place but I think you're right. This
must be the old entrance. No one just walking by would
ever find itl"

As we approached the house, we saw Enoch peering out
of an upstairs window and as soon as we entered the kitchen,
he came haltingly down the stairs.

"I seen you go up the hill," he said, troubled. "You ain't
goin' back there again, are you?"

"Yes, we are, Enoch. We're going to take a spade and a
ladder and have a look. Do you think we can get down there?"