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After I recovered from the mental breakdown caused by my ghostly visit, I realized it was time to take action. I needed to find out the true history of that house and find out who the ghost lady was. She was frightening and crazy, but... she hadn’t killed me. Was she trying to help me? She did bring my pillow back.
There was only one place to go. The city library.
I planted myself in front of a microfiche reader for hours and scrolled through years of microfilm copies of newspapers. I had learned how to use one in school and was familiar with how it worked. I kept my search to the local newspapers but didn’t find anything in my first hour.
“Findin’ what ya need, Ret?” Mr. Dunlap, the librarian, stepped up to my side and put a friendly hand on my shoulder. He was a wiry man in his early eighties, and he wore the waist of his pants up a bit too high for my comfort.
He was a gentle soul. His eyes were dark and glossy with a warm sparkle, angled and squinted as if they belonged to a cowboy who’d stayed out on the prairie in the blazing sun for too long.
“I’m good,” I mumbled, but he didn’t hear me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him turn up his hearing aid.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Sorry.” I spoke louder. “I’m doing just fine.”
He patted my shoulder with a smile. “Just let me know if you need anything.”
He meandered back to the front, where a lady immediately attacked him with questions.
A few minutes later, I found an article that tickled my spine. “Three Women Found Dead in Abandoned Home.”
An eyewitness account from Sarah Wilkes states she was coaxed into going with a man she met in a bar. He then took her to an abandoned home in Riverton, where he attacked her. She was able to escape and run to the authorities.
The police later found Conner Robinson, 29, kneeling and sobbing in the basement next to three deceased women. It is believed that Robinson lured the women to the abandoned home and murdered them.
I continued to read the article for more clues about the house. I hoped to find an address or description, and although I didn’t find one, I knew which house the article referred to. The date was April 6, 1967.
That was only fourteen years ago. To my parents and the older generation, the story was as fresh as yesterday. It was clear where the rumors of the house came from. Parents didn’t tell their kids, but children had caught enough bits and pieces of conversations to come up with their own stories, and as those stories were passed on, they had become stranger and wilder, including things about a child killer who lived there and collected dead babies or the devil himself residing inside. All of the stories were fabrications and myths, but even myths consisted of partial truth.
I searched for more articles, but after half an hour, I still hadn’t found anything else related to the house or the creepy pioneer ghost lady.
I sat in silence for a moment, flipping back and forth over several articles, and stopped again on the article about the three dead women and re-read it. I sensed someone behind me, turned, and saw Mr. Dunlap standing three feet away, his eyes fixed on my screen. His face looked whiter than before, and his eyes were glassy.
“Mr. Dunlap?”
His body jolted when I broke his stupor, and he turned his gaze to me. “You finding everything okay?” His voice was shaky.
“Yes, but I wonder if you can help me with something?”
Mr. Dunlap, who had a fascination with history and literature, was always eager to share his enthusiasm and knowledge with people. This time, he hesitated, though. His eyes shifted to the article then back to me. “Sure. Anything.”
“I’m trying to find out more about the abandoned house. You know the one on Beck Street?”
He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Why would you want to know anything about that place? Ain’t nothin’ good ever came outta there... I see you found the article.”
“I did, sir, thank you. I’m...” I hurried to come up with a lie. “I’m writing a new story. It’s a western, and I want to have it take place here in Riverton. As far as I can tell, that’s one of the oldest houses in Riverton. Maybe a historical home? It’d make a great place for my hero.”
He nodded and sat down next to me. “Yes, yes, it is. I didn’t know you write books.” He lit up. “That’s exciting. Anything published?”
“No, not yet. Hope to be one day. That’s why this book has to be my best, so I thought if I wrote more history into it, you know, it would help make it authentic. More real.”
“Yes, of course. I’d love to read it when you’re through.”
“You’ll be the first I give it to. I promise. So, can you tell me more about this house? Who first lived in it or when it was built?”
“Well, let’s see...” His eyes wandered into the past. “Archibald Gardner was the first to settle this area for farming land in the 1850s. It was first called Gardnersville. He was the largest landowner. He began to sell off pieces of land to other farmers, and they irrigated their farms from the Jordan River.
“By 1899, Riverton was a full-fledged town. Many people were drawn here for agriculture purposes. There was a meeting house, a church, and some stores. Henry Stockholm came from back East, I believe. Brought his family out here. A good churchgoing man. He bought a piece of land, built his home, and started farming. Built that home you’re talking about in 1902. Yes, it is a historical home.
“My parents moved out here in 1919, and I’ve been here ever since. I know just about all there is to know about Riverton and who lived here and what’s transpired.”
“Can you tell me more about Henry Stockholm? And his family?” I asked.
“Well, he struggled out here. Planted his crops, but nothing would grow. Unfortunately, there was too much water. He’d built his home too close to wetlands, and over the next couple of years, the foundation started to sink. That’s why it’s tilted so, and where it gets its name. Water came up right through the basement, and he tried to contain it. He built bricks around it, and it looked kind of like a well. Nothing but bad luck followed him and his wife.”
“Like what, sir?”
He opened his mouth to speak but held back. “I really shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Dunlap. After reading what’s in this article, nothing more could shock me.” I nodded, trying to assure him.
“I suppose...” He still didn’t seem convinced.
“So, what happened with the Stockholms?”
Mr. Dunlap was a storyteller, and he couldn’t resist spilling everything even if the better part of him warned him not to. “It was just sad what happened to that family. Henry Stockholm had put every last dollar he had into building his house and farm. He expected, like every farmer does, to grow crops and make a decent living for his family.
“Nothing would grow. He had two cows, and they never produced much milk and soon got sick and died. The bank pressured him for payment on the house and threatened to foreclose. He struggled to put food on the table. His daughter was six years old. Sweet little thing. His wife, Mathilda, people say she was cold, not friendly, withdrawn. It turned out she suffered from what we call today severe depression.”
Mathilda! I thought to myself. She was the ghost lady I’d seen. I was sure of it.
Mr. Dunlap’s eyes glazed over and stared sadly back into history. “She lost it one day. Drowned her child. Couple days later, she couldn’t live with herself anymore and took her own life. It wasn’t much longer after when Henry moved away. People were concerned for him. He was just as much drowned in depression and suffering as anyone could be. Moved back East with family, I heard. I don’t know what became of him.” His brow furrowed, and he rubbed his bottom lip with one finger. “’Course that house hasn’t been lived in since. Not just because it was sinking in swamp land and no crops could grow, but a woman and child died in there. A thing like that leaves a mark that never goes away.” He turned to me, his eyes wide, and shook his head with a scowl. “Tough to sell a home like that. People always wonder why it hasn’t been torn down. There are those who want to preserve history, and that house is history. Unfortunately, it’s not a good history. But then again, history is always marbled with blood and bad things.
“There’s always been rumors of ghosts. People say they’ve seen Mathilda staring out from the second-floor window, waiting for her husband to return. But they’re just ghost stories, and nothing happened in that house until then.” He pointed at the article on my screen.
“That there was just awful. When it happened, there was an uproar. People wanted to see that house gone, said an abandoned home was dangerous to have around. People go there to do things. Bad things. Vagrants take up space there sometimes and have to be driven out. Then someone like that fella kills three women in there.”
His eyes were intense, drilling into mine, and his lips quivered. “It draws people to it. Not so much the house as it is the ground it sits on. I believe it is evil. It attracts bad people to it, people who do bad things.”
I remembered what Matt had said. “Monsters, vampires, or werewolves... those things aren’t scary... It’s people that are scary. People like you and me, but do awful things.”
“Like Lester? The man who lives there now?”
Mr. Dunlap snapped back in his chair as if I’d hit him, and he nearly fell out of his chair. “Goodness gracious, boy, I don’t know. Too early to tell.” He rubbed his upper lip with a finger and looked away. When he turned back to me, he said, “He may not be a bad man. But I fear if he stays there too long, it might get into his head. But then again, I’m an old fool.” He shook his head.
“What might get into his head?”
“The evil in that bad place. It’s seductive. It tells you what you want to hear. It draws people to it. Makes one do things they otherwise wouldn’t.”
Draws people to it? I repeated in my head. How does he know that? It told me he was hiding something—an experience of his own, perhaps—and he was afraid to divulge.
“Like I said, people wanted to see that house gone. A group of them went out there one night. Like the mob who chased down Frankenstein to the windmill, they surrounded the house. They had gas cans and torches. They doused the house in gasoline and lit it. It burned all right. The flames lit up the sky. That house was built mostly of wood. It should have burned right to the ground just like any house would. But it’s not just any house. The next morning after the flames died down, the house remained standing, and crooked. Black and burnt on the outside, collapsed in areas, but still intact. That’s when I knew, and everyone else knew, that house sits on evil ground.”
He took a deep breath and shook the memories from his head. “I said too much. Damn my mouth. Marge always says I run my mouth when I get to talkin’ about history and things. You’re too young to know those things. Just take my warning. Please hear me when I tell you to stay away from it. I know young kids want to mess around in that house. Go out there and dare to see ghosts, break a few windows, look at dirty magazines and such, but please, I beg you to leave it alone. Ain’t nothin’ good has ever come from that house, and nothin’ ever will.”
I nodded. “Okay.” What else could I say?
Someone from behind me called out to Mr. Dunlap for help finding a book.
“I gotta go, son. Good luck writing your book.” He winked. “And heed what I said.” He stood up, patted me on the shoulder, and went to attend to the customer.
I was on information overload. My mind bounced from image to image of what I’d learned, trying to sort them out and file them in the right spots in my brain. If Mr. Dunlap was right—and I had no reason to doubt him—then Lester and Beaumont were drawn to that house to do evil things. I wasn’t quite sure what they were up to, but I was determined to find out.
I turned off the machine, stood up, and marched toward the front doors. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dawn. She was sitting at a table, looking as beautiful as the sun, reading a book. It wasn’t another Ray Bradbury like I’d expected, but a Louis L’Amour novel.
Was she reading it because of me? Too good to be true.
She turned and saw me. “Ret!” her delicate voice called out to me.
I turned with my best surprised face and waved. “Oh, hey, Dawn!”
“What’re you doing? Come over here,” she said, motioning.
Why can’t I be more like her? Bold, direct, and inviting. I walked over to her and pointed at her Louis L’Amour book. “The Sacketts! You’re actually reading L’Amour!”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “I thought I’d take your advice.”
“Well, that’s a great one to start with. He wrote several novels about the Sackett family, and not only are they the most famous of his books, but they’re the best characters.”
“I know. I love them. They’re tough, mean, and bullheaded, but always on the good side.”
I nodded and found myself in an awkward fugue of not knowing what to say next. I loved hearing her talk. Her words were beyond her age.
“What are you doing here?”
“I-I’m just doing some research for a new book I’m writing.” Oh my gosh, now I’m lying to her too.
“Wow. What’s this one about?”
“A... a western ghost story.”
“Really? That sounds so cool. Of course, I’m still waiting to read your other story. ‘Ten Steps to Death,’ right? I can compare westerns to westerns.”
“I’m no Louis L’Amour, but yeah. Of course. I could bring it over tonight.”
“You should.”
“You here alone?” I asked. “No Morgan?”
“No.” She shook her head sadly. “She hasn’t been the same since her sister... you know.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty crazy what happened.”
“I heard what you did. It was really sweet.” She looked up and gave me a warm smile.
“Oh, I didn’t do anything. I was just passing by.” I waved it off.
“But you were there. I know Morgan appreciated it. If anything, it means you care.”
“I guess. I just wish I could do more.” I shrugged.
“Me too.” She nodded agreement.
“So, tell me more about this western ghost story. What kind of history were you researching?”
Since she was pressing me for more information about my phantom story, I knew I couldn’t lie to her anymore. I sat down and let out a breath. I could tell by the way her eyes creased that my demeanor had changed. Everything about Beaumont, Lester, and the Crooked House had my stomach tied up in knots, and I needed to tell someone.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m really not researching history for a story I’m writing.”
She scrunched up her face. “What are you doing then?”
“Do you know about the Crooked House on Beck Street?”
“The abandoned one? Morgan mentioned something about it. She said it was haunted.” Dawn shrugged. “Not sure about that.”
“Well, I didn’t think so either until a few weeks ago.”
I started with the night my friends and I spent in the house. I told her about the ghost and how she’d visited my home and returned my pillow. I told her about Lester, Beaumont, finding Mrs. Beaumont dead in her house, and my suspicions surrounding Joanna. I told her every detail.
She sat back like the wind was knocked out of her. “What do you think happened to Beaumont then? And Joanna?”
“I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s identical. They were one person one day, and someone completely different the next.”
“And poor Mrs. Beaumont. Do you really think he killed her?” She leaned in to me and whispered as if afraid to say those words aloud.
“I don’t know for sure, but the way he talked to her when he returned, and when he told Sheriff Packard how much he hated her, too many things add up. So I came here to find out more about that house and who lived there. Everything weird that’s going on surrounds that place. I thought I might find some answers.”
“Did you?”
I shivered at the thought of what I’d found. The killer who’d murdered women in that house and what Mathilda had done to her daughter churned my stomach.
“Sort of.”
“So what do we do now?”
We? Was I taking on a new ally? “I don’t know.”
“We’ve got to find out more about them and what they’re doing.” Her voice rose with excitement and determination.
“I have an idea.”