Every kid has heard the stories about “the house at the end of the street,” or “the old house in the woods,” but have you ever seen one? Have you ever been in one? Not many have, not many of those houses exist. Sometimes they do. But haunted houses don’t always have to be old and broken down. Those broken down, deserted houses were once in good condition too. 6 year old Jamie and his parents lived in one of these houses.
There was a long history to the house, located in the south; it was used as a rudimentary field hospital in the civil war. Many men, and sometimes women, had died in that house. Jamie’s family knew this, but they didn’t believe in ghosts. That disbelief doesn't last long. It isn't the history in the civil war that makes the house scary. In the 1960s a man lived in that house. No one knew what he was up to. The neighborhood recluse.
John Murdock. He was one of the first to go to Vietnam. Said he saw some crazy things, said it was messed up over there. That was before he got messed up, before he went crazy. It was a month after he got back. He was in a car crash; the doctors said it triggered a memory from the past. The doctors never saw him again, he wouldn’t come. They could never find him at his house. That’s because they didn’t know about the basement; about the bodies.
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The whirring of the helicopter was deafening. Crouching low I run to some cover by a tree line. I hear rustling leaves behind me, but I don’t feel any wind. I turn, I see nothing. I stare into the dark wooded tree line; the whirring of the helicopter still deafens me. I hear the faint calling of my name and I’m pulled back to reality. The squad commander is yelling at me, I can’t quite make out his words. I see panic arise in his face, and he lifts his gun. He shouts something. The last thing I see before it all goes dark is the panicked faces of my squad mates.
I wake up to the face of a Vietnamese man peering over me. I tried to move but couldn’t. I was in the inside of a small hut. Great, I thought, first day here and I’m already a POW. Good job John.
They did things to me. I saw people die. Most of me died in the camp over those few years. When the Americans came I was afraid. I knew nothing other than life in the camp; I knew I wouldn’t adjust to normal life. On the way out our helicopter was hit by a missile, I was the only survivor. The tail blade flew off and cut the guy next to me in half. Blood splattered my face. I sat in the wreckage and waited for another extraction. I waited for help that wasn’t coming. I spent another 15 months, at least I think that long, in a different camp, near a bunch of rice patties. They made us farm the rice, the conditions were awful. Many of the original 30 men in the camp died by the time help came.
One day I woke up to loud gunfire, this wasn’t entirely unusual. The unusual thing was all of the solders running; panicking. I hid in the shadows of my cell and waited. When the shots stopped I went to the front of my cell. I knew better than to yell out in case the soldiers were still there. I saw a shadow in the door way, it moves closer. I can tell by the stature that it isn’t a Vietnamese soldier. The shadow starts at the end of the row of cages and makes his way towards me. He stops at every cage, cutting the wire that keeps the door shut. No one gets out yet, this figure could be anyone. A bright light shines in my eyes; I cover my face and recoil to the back of my cage. The man lowers the flash light and in a New York accent says something like “I’m Private Johnny Grace. It’s okay, we are here to help.” He gestures out of the door and adds, “Come out when you are ready.”
The sun was bright, we were seldom let out of our cages; our eyes were adjusted to the dark. The helicopter made it out safely. We landed in a base farther from the action. I took a series of connecting flights back to my home town; New Salem, Massachusetts. It is a very small town, with a population of about 950 people. It’s a comfortable town, not much happens. Until I got back.
