Survive the Night

Prologue

It doesn't take much wind to make windows rattle, and it doesn't take much weight to make floorboards creak. If the house is old enough, or poorly built, they do so liberally, their invisible strings pulled along by whatever spirits roam freely in that place. So it was with the spirits in Whitlock Cemetery. Within a tiny shack in that park, Edwin Habernal, the caretaker, heard both the rattling and the creaking as he sat on his wooden stool and stared out the window. He lit a cigar and rested his tired elbow on the window sill. Letting out a puff of smoke, he swiped away at the wispy trail it left to get a clearer look at Ashmore house, which loomed atop a hill some hundred yards away. Everything about the pallid mansion seemed to suit its deathly character, and Habernal couldn't conceive that the dreadful place had once been called "home" by any living thing; though it hadn't been called such in over a hundred years.

Home, his mind ached. To him, the concept of home was as much a myth as the legend of Ashmore house. But what the two had in common was that he longed so desperately for both those myths to manifest themselves into reality; to reconcile him back to the life and reputation he once stood proudly by. Soon, God willing, they would.

Standing and stepping away from the window, Habernal walked over to a table to retrieve an envelope containing the letter he'd received in the mail three weeks ago. In the poorly lit room, he was forced to sit on his bed to read it by the lamp. He'd read it many times, but the words still had the same vulgar effect on him.

He skimmed the words of the court-issued letter and sighed, folding it up again. Time was running out. The residents of the town of Marbury wanted him locked away, and the burden of proof was on him. But how does one provide visual evidence for a crime committed by forces unseen? How does one incriminate the supernatural?

Habernal pressed shaky fingers against his temple, wincing at the blinding pain that followed. Anxiety was taking hold of him. It had been so long, and still the mystery of Ashmore house went unanswered. Answers must soon arrive, he thought in aggravation. He returned to his work station on the other side of the room and clicked on a pot-shaped lamp with a frayed white shade. The sudden illumination made him hiss at the pain in his head. He brought out a container from under the table, opened it, and brought out three slender candles, lighting each and placing them in holders around the table. After pressing at his temples again, he rested his elbows on the table. Everything else was already in place, because he did this every night now.

Habernal's fingers grazed the heart-shaped planchette and he pushed it to the center of the Ouija board.

He put out his cigar then shut off the lamp to begin his third séance of the week.

Closing his eyes, he waited a few minutes to relax himself, then took in a labored breath before starting.

"Spirits of the past," he began. "Move among me. Be guided by the light in this room and visit upon me."

Habernal waited in silence for several minutes and repeated his chant.

"Spirits of the past, move among me. Be guided by the light in this room and visit upon me."

When he felt nothing the next time, he knew he needed more to pacify the wilder spirits. This evening he'd brought with him something important he'd forgotten in past attempts-a sacrifice. He caught sight of the chicken he had lying beside his bed. He'd stolen it last night from a small farm on the other side of the park. It was in a drugged stupor, sprawled half-under the bed sheets which hung over the mattress.

Habernal rose to clench it by the neck and lay it over the table.

"Goddamn you, Abner," he muttered.

By the time the chicken had regained semi-consciousness, Habernal already had his knife in hand. The white bird slivered chaotically beneath Habernal's fist until he brought down the knife and heard the blade meet the wooden table with a thump. Blood jumped from the knife and landed on his arm.

"A sacrifice to appease you," he called to the spirits. "To invite your wisdom into this place."

He was so close. He knew it.

Raising the planchette again, he lowered it onto the Ouija board.

"Who will enter the house?" he asked silently.

Almost immediately he felt unseen hands moving the dial.

Yes, he thought. This is it! He dared not speak or interrupt in any way.

The first letter revealed itself to him. He tried to suppress his grin. It was his first successful séance.

His hand continued to move. To the next letter!

Habernal held his shaky fingers carefully.

Another! His eyes widened.

The planchette moved quicker now, as if the spirits were running out of time. He laughed quietly.

"Yes," Habernal said, satisfied. "And who will lift the curse?"

The letters formed again to spell out the same name.

"And who will defeat Abner?"

The planchette moved like a zipping insect now. His headache blazed worse than ever, but he didn't care.

Habernal laughed aloud. "Yes! Finally!"

When his session was over, he blew out the candles and let the room hang in cold darkness. From his tiny shack in Whitlock Cemetery, rubbing at his stinging temples, Edwin Habernal waited by the window for the one who was meant to wake him from this unending nightmare. The one who could save his life.