Haunted Hall
The Thompsons glanced at each other in astonishment, their mouths hanging open, unable to utter a single word. The sight of the crumbling house, with its cracked walls and partially caved-in roof, made Timmy, a small twelve-year-old boy with curly, coppery hair and a sea of freckles, gasp aloud.
Robert and Catherine Thompson—an accountant and a marketing manager, respectively—grew more and more alarmed as they were guided from room to room by the lawyer, R. C. Banes, in charge of showing them the property they had just inherited from Robert’s Great-Aunt Wilhelmina.
Despite Banes’s enthusiastic praise for the property’s “quaint charm” and “historical significance,” the couple took in with dismay the faded yellow wallpaper, stained with humidity, and recoiled at the offensive odor emanating from the antiquated, worm-eaten furniture that seemed to have collected years’ worth of dust. The rusty hinges on the doors and cabinets squealed in protest, echoing through the empty rooms, adding to the unsettling creaks of the floorboards, which made them flinch with every step.
“Hey, look!” Timmy cried out, pausing abruptly in front of a doorway. He sprinted into the living room and kneeled beside a hideous, mud-colored couch that had seen better days.
On the couch, a sizable orange tabby cat peacefully slept, soaking in the warmth of the only sunbeam that streamed through the room. Two white round marks around his eyes, resembling spectacles, gave him a curious appearance. In his sleep, he made a funny rasping noise.
The lawyer coughed. “I almost forgot! Your inheritance includes Whiskers.”
Timmy’s face lit up. He reached out to stroke Whiskers’ dull, matted fur, which was spotted here and there with a few gray hairs. The cat stopped snoring long enough to open one of his eyes, a deep shade of amber. He met Timmy’s gaze, blinked, and let out a big yawn.
“Mom, Dad, can we keep him?”
The Thompsons exchanged doubtful glances, and Robert sighed.
“He looks pretty beat up. How old is he?”
“Nobody knows,” replied the lawyer casually. “He was hanging about the neighborhood for years before your relatives adopted him.”
Whiskers shifted his position slightly, stretched his paws, and resumed his nap, unfazed by all the attention.
“Be careful, Timmy. He might scratch you,” warned a concerned Catherine.
“He has glasses, just like me,” said Timmy, feeling an instant connection with the plump feline.
“He’d make a perfect library cat.” The lawyer chuckled.
“Glasses do not equal nerd!” the boy replied touchily; with a gentle grip on his shoulder, his mother tried to coax him away from the couch.
“Come, darling. It’s too drafty in here,” she said.
Timmy rose reluctantly. “I bet there’s more to you than meets the eye,” he whispered in the tabby’s ear, but Whiskers showed no sign of hearing.
In spite of the house’s dismal condition, Robert was determined to stay overnight in order to prepare for the arrival of the first moving truck, and Catherine couldn’t bear the thought of him being there without any company. Moreover, they had already vacated their apartment and were too dispirited by the thought of home improvements to contemplate spending money on a hotel.
That same evening, while brushing his teeth, Timmy listened to the hushed voices of his parents carrying softly down the hallway.
“Nice present Aunt Willie gave us,” Catherine grumbled. “Did you see that banister? I was too scared to lean on it.”
“The lawyer’s description on the phone was clearly misleading.” Robert sighed. “We can’t even sell it in its current condition.”
“I know I said we needed a fresh start after Mom died, and not having a mortgage is great, but moving to Pendleford is not what I had in mind,” she continued.
“I would have liked it too, if we could have bought where we were renting,” Robert agreed, “but it was way over our budget. Still, it’s nice to have everything within walking distance,” he concluded optimistically.
“And that cat. He’s so old and scruffy,” his wife persisted. “What if we wake up one of these days and find him dead? That would be so traumatic for Timmy.”
“We should put him in a hospice or something. Is there such a thing? A retirement home for elderly ca—Agh!” She let out a tiny shriek.
“What?”
“Oh, Bob! I think I saw a mouse.”
A heavy sigh escaped Robert’s lips, the third one of the day.
***
“Please don’t give Whiskers away!” Timmy begged his mother when she popped into his room to say goodnight.
Catherine stroked his curly hair. “Honey, an old cat is not ideal for a chil—a boy your age,” she corrected herself, noticing Timmy’s expression. “Besides, who knows how long we will stay? This house doesn’t suit us.”
“He could hunt the mice,” Timmy suggested, hopefully.
Catherine’s eyes darted toward Whiskers, who was curled up in a corner of the room, still making that light rasping noise.
“My dear, I don’t think he would survive the undertaking.”
“Tomorrow, can I ride my bike to school?” Timmy asked, tactically changing the subject, but still determined to keep Whiskers.
“Um . . . We’ll see. Don’t look at me like that! You fell off last month.”
“It was last year, and I didn’t fall. I was pushed.” Timmy huffed.
Once she departed, the boy was left to his ruminations in a house that had fallen eerily quiet; the only noises were the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the cat’s gentle purring. Accustomed to the hustle and bustle of the city, he found it difficult to drift off to sleep.
He stared at his bedroom walls, adorned with pale pink wallpaper that was peeling at the edges, revealing patches of bare wall. A chilly breeze blew in through a gap under the warped window, causing the curtains to sway gently.
“Everybody thinks we are useless, Whiskers,” he declared after a moment’s thought. “But they’re wrong.”
He proceeded to turn off the light.
In the corner, Whiskers’ purring intensified.
***
Timmy’s eyes snapped open. A loud thud had shattered the silence of the night. He swiftly surveyed the room, illuminated only by a small nightlight, and noticed Whiskers was missing. He listened nervously.
Hoot, hoot! The unfamiliar cry of an owl in the distance startled him wide awake.
After thoughtful deliberation, he got out of bed and slowly pushed the door open; it gave a screech so loud it could have woken the entire neighborhood.
Using his smartphone as a flashlight, he made his way down the dark corridor in search of the light switch. He was on the verge of knocking on his parents’ bedroom door when the memory of the bicycle incident and his mother’s words came back to him; he decided there and then that the noise was probably nothing, or at least nothing he couldn’t face by himself.
Still, his heart beat a little faster with each creaky step he took down the stairs. Upon reaching the bottom, a blast of frigid January air hit him; the window in the living room across from him was probably open. When he switched on the standing lamp, the only light that was actually working, he let out a shocked cry.
The room was a disaster—overturned chairs, a crooked painting, and mantelpiece ornaments scattered all over the floor. One curtain had come loose from the rod that supported it.
Robbers, Timmy thought, his heart thumping. Must wake up Mom and Dad.
As he turned to head back upstairs, a soft hiss caught his attention. In a dimly lit corner, two glowing eyes locked onto him.
“Whiskers? You did this?”
Whiskers crouched in the corner, fur standing on end, emitting a low growl. In the semi-darkness, the white marks around his eyes almost seemed to glow.
“It’s me, dummy,” Timmy whispered as he approached. He realized the cat was hissing at something behind him and quickly turned around, only to catch a fleeting glimpse of something darting away from the corner of his eye.
The room was empty: it must have been a trick of the light.
He proceeded to close the window, struggling to bring down the heavy sash. Something shimmered on the horizon, at the far end of the garden.
Timmy blinked. Was it a falling star?
Once again, the cat’s hissing distracted him. This time, he noticed a hole in the wall. He pointed his smartphone at it, and he saw them. Mice.
“Aha, Whiskers, I knew it! You are a mouse-hunter!” he cheered, relieved. “Tomorrow I’ll tell Mom and Dad. I’m sure they’ll let me keep you.”
Whiskers had calmed down. Leaping onto the windowsill, he stared out with wide, round pupils, his tail gently twitching.
Outside, the night was quiet, only the headlights of a passing car briefly lighting up the darkness now and then.
Timmy looked around at the trashed room and thought that, mouse-hunter or not, his parents wouldn’t be pleased with the one responsible.
“We’d better tidy up.”
He descended the stairs for breakfast the next morning in a cheerful mood.
“Morning, dear. I hope you slept well. I swear I heard noises coming from the attic all night long,” Catherine said wearily.
Robert yawned. “I heard them too. Must be the wind in the pipes. It happens in these old houses.”
“And the curtain in the living room came off of its own accord. Shoo!” Catherine shouted, chasing an aggressive crow away from the windowsill.
“Whiskers will take care of it!” piped up Timmy. “Come on, Whiskie, show the bird who’s boss!”
Whiskers was currently sprawled out on his back in the kitchen doorway, over the spot where the warm heating pipes run underneath. No one had seen him move all morning, not even when Catherine had filled his bowl with kibble. The bowl, however, was now empty.
“I’ve never seen a cat lie this still for so long. Is he alive?” Robert inquired, bending down for a closer look.
“Of course he’s alive! He was hunting mice last night!” Timmy exclaimed in frustration. His parents were unimpressed, even after he told them in detail about Whiskers’ nightly escapade. Determined to prove his point, he removed one of his shoelaces and attempted to lure the cat by swinging it in front of his face.
Whiskers’ ear barely twitched; his eyes remained closed.
“Well, I guess he is alive, sort of,” remarked his father. “Are you ready, Timmy? You don’t want to be late for school.”
***
St. Hilda’s schoolyard was alive with frenetic activity. Kids were climbing and swinging on the jungle gym, others were running around playing soccer or chatting in small groups. The air was filled with exuberant screams and laughter that echoed off the school’s sturdy brick walls.
Heading back to class alone, on his third day at the new school, Timmy couldn’t help but sigh. Resting on his desk was a diary page containing a message to his PE teacher. The note, written in his mother’s neat and confident handwriting, requested exemption from outdoor exercise due to a supposed “nasty cold,” which Timmy knew was merely a mild dust allergy: indeed, as soon as he had left the old house, his sinuses had cleared like magic.
He’d been tasked with copying the students’ names onto the teacher’s new register, with the help of a mousy girl who now and then took a breath from a portable inhaler, and had so far rebuffed every attempt at conversation.
Timmy’s suppressed yawn was rudely interrupted when a heavy football flew in through an open window. It whirled in the air, narrowly missing a vase of periwinkles perched precariously at the edge of the teacher’s desk, and startled the little girl into a fit of wheezy coughing, finally coming to rest at the foot of Timmy’s desk.
“Jasper!” someone shouted, followed by a chorus of giggles.
A mop of sandy blond hair appeared at the window, over a sheepish face. Jasper, a tall boy of thirteen, had a lopsided grin that revealed a gap between his front teeth.
“Sorry ’bout that,” he called out. “Mind?” he asked, pointing at the ball.
As he bent to pick it up, Timmy noticed how quickly a small crowd had gathered around Jasper: he was obviously very popular.
“Whatcha doin’?” the boy asked.
“We’re supposed to copy all the students’ names on here,” said Timmy, reluctantly, as he swiftly shut his diary. For some reason, he didn’t feel inclined to let everybody know about his mother’s note.
“Madness! Come play with us. You can come too,” Jasper pressed, looking from Timmy to the mousy girl.
The latter went scarlet and shook her head vehemently, as if the idea was completely outrageous.
Timmy opened his mouth to decline but was astonished to hear his own voice say, “Well, why not?”
Thirty seconds later, the girl watched, transfixed, as her companion climbed out the classroom window.
Timmy’s initial shyness vanished rapidly once Jasper took him under his wing, which, in turn, influenced the other children to embrace him as part of their group.
“I can’t believe you live at Haunted Hall,” said a boy with spiky black hair, whose name was Andrew Silverstone, after he’d heard where the Thompsons lived. “That’s what people call it, anyway. Is it really haunted? I’ve wanted to have a peek for ages, but that lady always went nuts when she saw us kids hanging around.”
Jasper shot him a look. “Come on, Andy, you’re talking about his aunt who died.”
“Were you close?” he asked Timmy.
“No, I barely knew Aunt Wilhelmina,” Timmy replied. “She was my dad’s great-aunt.”
“Still, they’re only rumors, right?” he said, feeling both nervous and gratified by the attention.
“Up until now, we haven’t seen any ghosts, not even a tiny one,” he finished, almost apologetically.
The disappointment was visible on the faces of a couple of boys who were clearly anticipating a scary anecdote.
“But rumors don’t just spring out of nowhere,” said Andy, with an air of wisdom. “There’s always a bit of truth in them, isn’t there?” He leaned forward. “Like, Perry, the butcher, said he was walking past your garden one evening last summer, and the house looked empty and dark. And then he heard the strangest noises. Not the usual creaking or wind-whistling noises, but . . . well . . . a loud buzzing noise, like a million bees.
“So he knocked, thinking maybe somebody had left the lawnmower on, but no one answered. Next, a woman started singing a song. From the olden times, he said, and it sounded beautiful but creepy. And the curtains moved, but there was no one behind them. He ran away and never looked back.”
Murmurs rose from the group.
“Maybe it was Aunt Willie,” said Timmy, doubtful. He had faint memories of Wilhelmina, but from his father’s tales, somehow, he couldn’t picture her singing. Or using a lawnmower, judging from the state of the garden.
“What about the light in the attic?” another boy said.
“What light?”
“It’s just a story parents tell little kids to make them behave,” said Jasper dispassionately. “It’s about this little girl who went missing. She got away from her babysitter to go find her runaway dog, and she was never seen again. A neighbor said she saw her going into your house, but they found no trace of her, inside or out.”
“People have seen the attic light go on and off some nights. They say it’s her, hoping someone will come for her body.” Andy’s voice was a nervous whisper.
Timmy suppressed a shiver. The bell rang, but nobody moved.
“People means only Mrs. Krantz. And she is cuckoo, everybody knows it,” said Jasper, as if hoping to bring the conversation to an end.
“Mrs. Krantz?”
“She’s a witch. She has all kinds of spell books in her house,” said Andy, getting excited again.
“Give me a break,” replied Jasper with an eye roll. “She’s just a crazy cat lady, lives at the end of the lane from you. Although my mom says she’s a medium. Can talk to ghosts,” he explained to a puzzled Timmy. “Mom went to hers one night and came back all shook up, insisting she had talked to Cousin Margaret. Her spirit, I mean.” He laughed, seeing Timmy’s face go white, down to his freckles.
“Cuckoo,” he repeated, making an eloquent gesture; everyone laughed.
Timmy forced out a laugh, too. Living in a “haunted” house might make him one of the cool kids, but all this talk of ghosts had him thinking about the strange noises his parents had been complaining about.
He parted from his new friends on a promise he would invite them over soon, to explore “Haunted Hall” together.
As he made his way home later that evening, walking across the garden and past the broken swing he wasn’t allowed to use, his eyes were drawn to the attic window. Nonsense, he thought. No such thing as ghosts, his father always said.
He ran inside.
“Mom, Dad, Whiskers! I’m home!”
“Oh, Timmy, you’re all sweaty. I’ll have a word with that teacher. Go and change right now, dinner is ready.”
Timmy obeyed but made a mental note to bring up singing ladies and mysterious lights at the table. If someone had a logical explanation, it would be his dad.
“Have you seen Whiskers?” he asked, popping into the dining room a few minutes later.
“I’ve looked in all his usual spots. He’s always sleeping in the living room at this hour, to catch the last rays of sun.”
His father squirmed in his chair and reached for a glass of water.
“Sit down, dear, the food’s getting cold,” his mother said without looking at him.
Timmy approached the dining table but did not sit down. Something strange was going on. He realized he hadn’t seen Whiskers’ bowl in the kitchen when he’d walked in earlier.
“Mom?”
“I’m sorry, Timmy. Just by the look of him, I couldn’t help but think he didn’t have long to live.”
Timmy’s mouth opened in horror. “He’s dead?”
“Dead? Heavens, no,” Robert said soothingly. “We gave him to a neighbor.”
“She loves cats, she’ll take good care of him,” Catherine added quickly, seeing Timmy’s eyes fill with tears.
For a moment, he could not get the words out.
“How could you?” he yelled at last.
“Now, now. I told you we couldn’t keep him. He’s old and could die any day, and your father and I are busy, and if it fell to you . . .”
“He’s not . . . He’s not . . .” Timmy’s voice shook so much he couldn’t go on.
“That’s enough screaming for now,” said Robert, getting up. “Sit down and eat your dinner.”
“No,” breathed Timmy, furious.
“Then go to your room—”
But Timmy had already left the dining room before his father could finish the sentence.
“Bob, maybe we made a mistake. We should go and get him back,” said Catherine, anxiously fiddling with her plate and fork.
“It was your idea! You said Timmy must be allergic. I told you it was just the dust, didn’t I?”
She sighed. “Yes, but . . .”
“We can’t go back on our word now, Cathy. He will never respect us again.”
They sat down and ate in silence, trying not to notice Timmy’s empty seat.
Later that night, Catherine climbed up to her son’s room and knocked softly on the door.
There was no answer.
“I know you’re angry, darling, but I promise you, it’s for the best. Whiskers will be fine.”
Still no answer.
“And after all, he’s just a few doors down from us. Mrs. Krantz said you can see him whenever you want.”
