Good Bones

I.

The house had its original bones.

Built sometime between the death of George Washington and the rise of civil unrest in the land of the not-so-free, the place had seen its fair share of history and bloodshed. And while the front facade could tell stories that would keep campers awake in their tents until sunrise, the inside walls bled with information ripe for the gathering...if one were brave enough.

Long since abandoned, it sat hollowed but awake, kept on life support by strangers who fed its energy with their own. It called to people, ones sensitive enough to hear. It beckoned.

"It has so many stories it wants to tell." A woman had brought her own supplies--a table, folding chairs, and a gaggle of skeptics ready to experience something they refused to believe in. "That's all haunted houses really are, story tellers. I mean, can you imagine, having all this space and no one to talk to?"

"It's a house, not a person," a man sitting to her left grumbled. He had all the right features for one who did not believe in "these things" but came anyway to see it fail spectacularly for himself.

"Do you really think there are ghosts here, Madam?" This man was younger than the first but had the same features, rearranged in a way that made him appear entranced by the whole thing.

"That is what they say," the woman replied. She splayed her fingers on the table in preparation. "This house has a history that lends itself to not just one ghost, but many. Murders, suicides, tragic accidents--they have all taken place under this roof. Newlyweds have died on their wedding night. Whole families have been struck down. Lone survivors have been found in the carnage, some of them mad with grief or...something else."

The younger man shivered. His breath crystalized as the outside air invaded their inner sanctum.

"Sounds like bollocks to me," a wealthy widow snorted. She had an accent the house had not been familiar with in quite some time. She and her companion were traveling the world, and having heard about the house by mere reputation alone, decided she could not pass up the experience, even if she wasn't too keen on believing in it.

Too old to remarry, too young to stop living, the widow had arranged the whole thing, paid for the medium, and invited the guests: two brothers she had met at an inn and her cousin. The widow matched the house--sturdy, faded, and itching for life. Her cousin, on the other hand, was a delicate and fair creature, one that may be blown over by the wind. There was nothing about the two women that would suggest a blood relation save for the fact that they were extremely close to one another, but who would argue with a woman still dressed in her mourning blacks?

"Be kind, cousin," the fair one scolded in a voice barely above a whisper. "You were the one who wanted to do this."

The widow chuckled. "I've heard too many tales of this place. Well, we have places back home. Places that are older, which have seen a lot worse. Let's see how the Yank ghosts hold up, shall we?"

The medium didn't hide her smirk. She rolled her eyes into the back of her head and held out her hands. "Let us begin."

It all went routinely enough. The medium called out to the spirits of the house; she requested their presence in the dining hall, explained that contact would be appreciated, and reaffirmed that this group of theirs meant no harm.

Neither the house nor any occupants living in its walls responded. Only silence stretched its bony hand through the empty corridors. Silence that filled spaces, jammed into corners and cracks in ornately patterned plaster. Wallpaper clung to its ancient glue without sound; the kitchen sat mournfully quiet despite guests in the hall. Nothing and no one answered, and the guests sat in the heaviness of being ignored.

"What did I tell you?" the older brother muttered to his younger.

Truth be told, no one at that table expected nothing. They had all been drawn here by something, so how was it possible that--?

Something breathed, and then it moaned. Not a shout or a cry, but a long, wailing sound that was neither human nor ghost. Rather, it was a door opening after years of being sealed shut. Stiff movement, but movement none-the-less as the house flexed muscles that had sat idle for far too long.

The guests tensed, each one squeezing his or her neighbor's hand just a bit tighter than before. Everyone met one another's eyes.

"They have arrived."

*

The medium began to speak in low tones, the decibels of the dead. Her speech was quick and incomprehensible to the average listener. But the walls and the floorboards and the doors and the windows all heard and understood. The brothers, the widow, and the companion all clutched one another, terrified, exhilarated, and unsure. Someone gasped, but not even that someone could tell who it was that did so. Everyone and everything was acting on impulse, including the house itself.

Balls of light sputtered and snapped to life in the hallway leading to the dining room. A corridor of darkness that may as well have been the mouth of hell itself now danced with blue-hot fire, reflecting off the terror in the guests' white eyes. Were they spirits from another plane of existence or some medium's trick to delight her party's senses? It was a question that no one had the words to speak, for speech was lost in a moment like this. The average faculties of a person were useless when the brain's synapses were otherwise occupied.

"Do not break the connection. Do not let go of one another!" The medium seemed to be the only one capable of speech. But her commands were understood. If anything, they had all sealed themselves to one another and had no intention of letting go until this episode was concluded.

The orbs floated towards them. The air grew colder. A collective cloud of breath hovered like mist in the center of the table. The orbs grew closer still.

The widow's companion choked on a sob. "This isn't right. We should leave this place."

"No," the widow said swiftly. She had hoped for this, wanted it. Her heart raced. "You heard what she said. Don't let go."

"Come, spirits. Join our circle. Speak to us!" 

Words floated past them. Short, staccato syllables that sounded like someone being cut off mid-word. 

“He--”

“Wha--” 

“Yo--” 

“An--”

But as the orbs grew closer, the words became clearer, more distinct. 

The group could even make out a few of them without much strain. 

“Crazy.” 

“Here?” 

“Listen.” 

Full words that couldn't be explained away as breaths in the wind or tree branches scratching at the windowpanes.

“They're coming closer!” the younger brother gasped. Sure enough, the table was soon surrounded. A circle of light, one for each person at their chair, hovered just above their heads like tongues of fire ready to bestow grace or something of a more sinister nature.

The orbs grew long and transformed. Their light was swallowed by shadow as each one molded into the figure of a person.

Whispers that turned to words now flowed into full sentences. The group was helpless to do anything but listen and cling to one another, talking shadows at their backs. 

“So cold in here.”

“Anniversary of deaths.”

“Hurry and get out.”

“These poor souls!” The widow's companion whispered, though her voice sounded odd--distant, detached. 

“They don't know they're dead,” the older brother ventured. His words echoed far more than they should have. “Can't move on.”

The younger spoke to the medium, but it seemed to be a struggle to get the words out. “Is there…anything we can do…to help them?”

But the medium wasn't listening. She was staring at the center of the table. Her face had gone white—deathly pale with a translucent sheen. 

All eyes moved to the center. There, another bright light rested on the table’s surface, but it wasn't an orb. It was an odd device with a red dot and white lines rising and falling. 

The apparitions spoke. 

“Recording this?”

“Play it back later.”

“Is anyone with us?”

The widow tried to blink, but found her eyelids weightless. Her hands and legs felt the same. She tightened her grip on her companion, but she didn't feel the contact. 

“Why are these apparitions with us?” she asked, her words floating instead of falling one after the other. 

“I hear something!” 

“Tell us your name.”

“We're not here to harm you.”

“Help us!” the older brother croaked, jerking forward as he vomited the words. But he never let go of the hands that held him.

“Save us!” the younger brother sputtered. His final word ended in a gurgle of liquid, and he spoke no more. 

The widow turned to her companion. The frail ghost of a woman had tears glowing in her otherwise vacant eyes. There was red on her neck, spatters of it on her clothing. She opened and closed her mouth, a fish gasping in the air, but no words came out. 

The widow felt compelled to speak. Air tickled her throat and then burned it. She barely got the words out “Let us leave this place!” before choking on whatever was rising in her windpipe. It tasted of metal.

The medium smiled. Her eyes were fully white. Whatever trace of humanity, whatever soul she once carried, had long since been exiled. When she spoke, she did so with many voices.

“You came to this house. You are this house. For eternity.”

Realization hit. Memories that weren't fully realized came like the ghosts they had intended to seek out. A night of excitement turned to one of ruin and decay in the flick of a blade. Soft skin against a razor edge.

The house had craved the blood. The guests offered it, and its host did not care about how willing they were in that offer.

“Do not break the connection,” the medium—the house—repeated. “Do not let go of one another.”

They held on, clinging not for dear life but because sweet death would not take them. 

II.

“That was crazy! Do you think we got anything on the recording?” one of the teens said. He held his phone's flashlight up, shining it on the empty corners of the house.

“I bet we did. I could hear whispers. Do you think it was them?”

“The séance group? I mean, it is the anniversary of the massacre. Seems possible.”

“And they were killed in this very room?” Another teen shivered, clutching her phone like a security blanket. 

“Yeah. Rumor has it that they never saw it coming. Dude slit their throats one by one while they had their eyes closed, contacting the spirits.”

Two of them snorted. 

“Imagine not realizing someone's being murdered right next to you. Did they find the guy who did it?”

“Some guy who was owed money by one of the brothers. Evidently, the older one was bragging about the séance, so they knew where to find him.”

“But why kill everybody?”

“No witnesses.”

“Right.” The teen shivered again. “Let's get out of here before we become the house’s next permanent residents.”

For a moment, it seemed like the others might argue. Then, the table brought by a medium a hundred years prior began to tremble. It shook so violently that one of its legs cracked. 

“Yep, let's go!”

The teens vanished into the night, out of sight and back to safety. 

And the house and its bones sat silent once more.