Grandma's House

My Grandmother lived, for the most part, in a large two-story house constructed in the late 1800s. There were over twenty rooms in the house, most of which were bedrooms located on the second floor. The upstairs section was accessible from two directions: a steep, narrow stairway from the downstairs kitchen; and, the front stairway just inside the front entrance to the house. Attached to the fascia of the house was a large screened-in porch. To access the front doorway for entry into the foyer, one must first cross the porch area diagonally. Once inside, the stairs were located to the right and joined the vestibule to an upstairs hallway that was long and narrow. The five 25-watt bulbs that lighted the passageway emitted just enough light to guide a ten-year-old child’s imagination through horror scenes right out of a science fiction novel.

From time-to-time Grandmother would rent the upstairs rooms on a weekly basis for extra income and to some degree, companionship. Many of the boarders were repeat occupants that found the accommodations comfortable and the rates reasonable.

One year, in October of 1961, Grandmother decided to spend the winter months in Florida to escape the cold and wet West Virginia climate that could send a chill to the bone of even a seasoned native of some seventy years. Always thinking of her denizens, she asked my family to temporarily abandon their abode and become caretakers at the Virginia Avenue residence. Dad worked as a night mechanic for the County Board of Education at the central bus garage and would often work seven nights a week because of the workload. The thought that Mom and I would have someone in the house with us at night, except for the upcoming holidays, was appealing to him. So, the invitation was accepted.

The transition occurred early in the month and by the end of October, all but one of the tenants had departed with plans not to return until the New Year. The one remaining resident, Elizabeth, was not planning to leave until the Thanksgiving weekend. Elizabeth was a quiet individual, a strange trait I thought for a jewelry salesperson. She would often watch TV with us in the evenings, a much better option than sitting alone in her upstairs sleeping quarters listening to the radio.

One evening while Mom, Elizabeth, and I viewed an episode of the I Love Lucy Show, the telephone began to ring. Mother answered with the usual hello; then, oddly, repeated the word a second and third time. “Probably a wrong number,” she said as the telephone headset was being placed back on its stand.

Nothing unusual about someone dialing an incorrect number, my parents had made that mistake more than once. Suddenly, the phone rang again. “Hello, hello. Who’s there?” Mom asked firmly.

No reply. Dead silence. If this was some kind of a joke, it was not being well received. Most people of the region despised pranksters, especially those employing the use of a telephone where the identity of the caller could remain a mystery.

We continued to watch TV with some anticipation of another ring. But, the engaging comedies of Lucy soon let us forget the anxiety attributable to an unknown caller. Soon, Elizabeth retired to her room for the night, being obviously cautious on her ascent up the flight of steps, pausing occasionally to continue a dialogue with Mom, positioned at the bottom of the staircase. Funny how telephone calls with no conversation can change the behavior of reasonable thinking adults.

“Hope the phone doesn’t ring anymore tonight,” she said, her voice conspicuously quivering as she entered her room and closed the door. I could hear the dead bolt slide into place as Mom gently shut the door to the stairs and locked it as well. “Me too,” Mother whispered as she pointed toward my room, a sure sign that we were all hitting-the-sack for the night.

The next morning while getting dressed for school, I could hear Mom and Elizabeth talking in the kitchen as breakfast was being prepared. Elizabeth was explaining her decision to leave early for the holidays, like the others, and not return until the second week of January. Now, only our family would remain in the big house until sometime after New Year’s Day. Mom and I would spend the nights alone.

The school day had been uneventful with everyone looking forward to the long Thanksgiving break. Mom and I arrived home at about the same time. She quickly prepared the evening meal before Dad left for his all-night assignment. When the meal was finished, the dishes were stacked in the kitchen sink for washing. This was a chore that could wait until morning. After all, it was the weekend. Dad was punctual in leaving while Mom and I withdrew to the TV room for a deluge of sit-coms. The transmutation of twilight to nightfall was complete as the miniature silver screen programming got underway. Then, strident ringing of the telephone unexpectedly interrupted our viewing. Mom hurriedly picked up the receiver to answer. She did not utter a word. We both knew the mysterious caller had struck again.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Mom exclaimed. “It’s probably some kids just having some fun. Maybe I should leave the phone off the hook,” she suggested.

Seemed like good advice to me as I wondered if the calls were some portents of events to come. Mom decided not to disable the phone. Dad may need to reach us. The phone had no more than been hung-up when it began to ring one more time. Mom calmly answered with the familiar ciao, yielding the same results. Mother became belligerent with the caller.

“Who are you? What do you want? Why don’t you answer? Does the cat have your tongue?” she asked impudently. The caller abruptly severed the connection. Another two hours of Hollywood entertainment passed without incident. Neither of us so much as mentioned the silent phone. It looked like Mom’s outburst had frightened the caller into choosing some other recipient for their lark.

“What was that? Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Yes, I did,” Mom breathed. The sound of footsteps being carefully placed, softly, on the old wooden flooring in the upstairs hallway sent a chill through my entire body.

“Maybe its Elizabeth returning for some of her things, something she may have forgotten to pack. It must be Elizabeth. The only entrance to the upstairs that is out of our sight is the front doorway which is locked. Only someone with a key could enter without our knowing. That could only be Elizabeth,” Mother hypothesized.

But why would Elizabeth return without stopping by to let us know she was there? With the sudden decision to leave early for the holidays, I didn’t think she would return and go directly upstairs on her own. She seemed too troubled by the first round of disconcerting calls.

“Be very still and quietly follow me into the kitchen,” Mom instructed. We slowly approached the stairwell leading from the kitchen to the upstairs. We could see that the dead bolt was secure and that no one could have entered or exited through this location without alerting us to their presence. We stood near the locked door and listened intently. Not a sound. Mom reached for the lock and guardedly unlatched the security device as our hearts raced with anxiety. She gripped the doorknob firmly and opened the door exposing the other side. Thank God no one was standing there.

Mom leaned in and called out, “Is that you, Elizabeth?” Again, “Elizabeth, is that you? Is there anyone there?”

No riposte. The door was quickly returned to its locked position. The flooring squeaked yet again. Footsteps were moving down the hallway, in the direction of the staircase leading to the kitchen--toward the same doorway that had just been opened and then closed. We could only listen, afraid to move a muscle. Reaching the top of the stairs, the footsteps paused. Seizing the moment of silence, we retreated swiftly and quietly into Mom’s bedroom situated between the two stairways and where both could be observed if necessary. She retrieved a flashlight and a Colt45 revolver from a dresser drawer and then extinguished the room lights. I knew the time had come when Mom was going to handle the situation in her own way.

The footsteps returned. Each stride was distinct as the approach was made one-step-at-a-time down the stairs toward the kitchen doorway. Then, only a pace or two from the door, the footsteps paused. Without hesitation, Mom sequestered the opportunity to make known her intentions.

“I don’t know who or what you are, but I have a gun and I am not afraid to use it,” Mom warned. “I am going to count to three and then I’m going to start shooting. Do I make myself clear?” There was no response. “One,” she started. After shouting two, the sound of footsteps was heard hurriedly going up the stairs. And, just as before, when the footsteps reached the top of the stairs, there was silence.

“Go to the telephone and call the police,” Mom commanded.

Like a well-trained Marine, the orders were followed without question. I nervously dialed zero. “Hello, operator, please get me the police. This is an emergency,” I stated, remembering how this was supposed to be done from watching hundreds of episodes of Dragnet.

The police were especially responsive to any request emanating from Grandmother’s address. My Grandfather, one of their own, was killed in the line of duty in the mid-1920s. He had come to the coalfields of West Virginia as a government agent, a G-man, to observe the evolution of the unions in the coal mining industry. His dedication to his work soon won the admiration of all law enforcement personnel in the surrounding area. He became active in the various police agencies, solving numerous crimes that later spawned a legendary reputation as the “boogieman” for his supernatural ability to nab villains before they could escape. The Semper Fi-like bond of this fraternal organization had been extended to a fallen brother’s widow for many years. The police were always loyal to my grandmother.

“We are on our way, son,” the voice proclaimed. The police quickly arrived. The search proceeded slowly and meticulously from room to room. When each room had been thoroughly inspected, Lt. Panetta summoned Mom to the upstairs. Naturally, I was close behind.

“Madame, my partner and I have checked every nook and cranny up here and found no sign of anyone being present. All of the rooms are empty. All windows are closed and locked. There is no way that anyone could have entered or exited through a locked window,” Lt. Panetta explained.

“I know that you probably think we are crazy. But, there’s no mistaking the sound of footsteps on that old, revealing wooden floor,” Mom said halfway embarrassed.

“That’s ok. It was probably the old floor adjusting to the temperature and not having any traffic on it for a period of time. I’m sure everything will be fine now,” the Lieutenant rationalized. “But should you need us, don’t hesitate to call. For the remainder of the night, a patrol car will drive-by every hour or so just as a precaution.”

Mom again thanked the officers as they left the premises. She appeared relieved that the search had not turned up any trespassers. After all, the sounds were probably as the lieutenant had said. Old houses, especially large ones, have a distinct personality. They almost come alive with the spirits of all of their visitors over the years whispering the secrets they hold. Maybe it was just an exaggeration on our part. But, for me, I know that the sounds we heard were real and not imagined. The one thing that puzzled me most was the sudden departure of Elizabeth. Had she heard the same footsteps that we had heard or seen something that she could not explain? One of the rooms that had been searched was Elizabeth’s. All of her clothing and personal affects were gone. We remained in the bedroom until Dad arrived home from work. It was daybreak and the sun was rising as Mom began to explain what had taken place during the night. I fell asleep as they talked.

A couple of weeks passed without anymore episodes. The consumption of turkey with all of the trimmings was a thing of the past. Everyone’s focus was now on Christmas, not much time to think about anything else, making a list and checking it twice, again and again. The mail arrived on time that second Friday in December. Along with a few ad bulletins and a billing statement or two, there was an ominous-looking envelope addressed in unfamiliar handwriting to occupant with a postmark from somewhere in New Jersey. There was no return address.

Mom slowly opened the packet pondering its contents. Inside was a clipping that had been removed from an unknown newspaper. She read the piece silently at first. Realizing the need to give me some enlightenment, she explained that the article indicated that the body of a female had been discovered in a car in a remote area about a mile from the interstate highway near Trenton, New Jersey. The car was spotted in a drainage ditch by a jogger early Thanksgiving morning. The female driver’s hands had been tied to the steering wheel with duct tape. Her eyes were shut and stamped with black and blue bruises, her face and body swollen, and knotted around her throat was a nylon rope about eighteen inches long, pulled so tightly that the flesh had split open. The commentary noted that her malformed condition was from an apparent savage beating and not from a car accident. Duh! A handwritten note on the edge of the page identified the victim as Elizabeth although there was no official reference to her name in the article. Elizabeth had never mentioned having relatives or friends living in New Jersey.

Shortly after New Year’s Day, several of the former tenants returned and life resumed a somewhat normal pace. Grandma arrived in the spring and was welcomed with open arms. Communicating any information about the mysterious events had been purposely withheld until her return. Mom was sure that any revelation regarding Elizabeth’s demise would shock Grandma to the point of a possible heart attack. Because Elizabeth’s death was so tragic, Mom wanted to gently break the news to her.

Grandma listened closely to every word as Mom relived every detail. When Mom had finished, Grandmother sighed and then, with a look of astonishment, inquired, “Who is Elizabeth? I have never had a tenant by that name.”

Copyright © 2008 by Mickey Grubb

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