The House Across The Lake

Haunted Home

"The Story Surrounding Local Legend Murphy House' Forgotten Local Lores". Written by Alexander Cline. Published in 2004

The Murphy House was the epitome of the 1950's home-life culture. Surrounded by a white picket fence, the Murphy house was located on the Sherman Lakeside and often toured local residences for its modern style. It resided across the lake from its small-town, both of which clustered away from the rest of society. Although the Murphys (of whom the house attributes its name) lived across the town, they were highly active in its social circles. They often planned several community events of which were typically attended by the entire population of the town. Not a steep estimate, for the town only included an estimated 750 residences. On October 31st, 1954, the Murphys hosted a Halloween Ball at the local high school. The event began around 5 in the evening and was scheduled to run until midnight. The dance resided in the gymnasium, where costumed residences crowded under a large disco ball, all doors were shut. There were no easy exits as the gymnasium was located in the center of the school.

Around 6:45 p.m. a fire commenced toward the center of the gymnasium floor. Panic likely commenced as proper fire safety procedures had not yet been regulated by state law. The fire, as investigators discovered later, was caused by a stray cigarette that had not quite been purged before catching onto the highly flammable wear of some unfortunate residences costume.

It is theorized that most of the victims of the fire died of asphyxiation before the flames overtook the school as well as much of the town.

Those who survived the accident moved from the ruined town, though there were few.

Although they were located, they denied commenting on the local tragedy and requested their names not be affiliated with this report.

The remains of the fallen town have since been demolished and five years later, the Sherman Lakeside College was quickly erected in its place. Little evidence of the original town remain. The Murphy, although it still stands, remains a general enigma to investigators and paranormal thrill-seekers alike.

There have been several reports of paranormal activity surrounding the home, especially surrounding the anniversary of the town fire. However, there is little sourceable evidence as to any attempt to investigate these claims that have been mysteriously compromised. Likewise any attempt to demolish the deprecating home has failed. Typically projects are abandoned due to a series of freak accidents which coincide with the demolition plans, ultimately they are abandoned and the house is left standing, slowly rotting away due to the unmaintained exposure to natural elements.

The majority of our information originates in the circulating rumors passed through the campus of the Sherman Lakeside College. These rumors surround the subsequent death of Robert Murphy.

Robert, the eldest Murphy child was one of the few townspeople not in attendance at the Murphy annual ball. Though the reasons behind his lack of attendance remain unclear, the identities of his remaining family were positively identified in the midst of the ruined gymnasium floor. Robert was the sole survivor of the Murphy family. That is to say, he would have been.

Two weeks after the fire, an unregistered hunter, who had been in the area recently complained about a strange odor emitting from the house. Later, the hunter received a penalty for poaching on unauthorized land. His report, however, led to the discovery of eldest son Robert Murphy whose decomposing corpse was found at the bottom of the house's stairwell.

Robert was found with a broken neck and multiple broken vertebrae, paralyzing him from the neck down. Autopsy analysis reveals the accident was not the cause of death. Medical reports reveal that Robert suffered from an iron-deficiency and likely, a fainting spell caused his fatal fall. The cause of death was ruled as severe dehydration.

As rumors specify, it is said that on the night of Halloween, a faint glow can be seen from the house across the lake, or that when the wind drifts across the lake in exactly the right direction, a low wailing carries itself across the waters from the abandoned house. Some even speculate that the ghost of Robert Murphy haunts the campus grounds one night a year, to attend the party he neglected those many years ago; searching for something, perhaps the answer to his long-awaited rest.

The house sits across the lake now, a local legend, frozen to the world and its time, a marker of solitude. In general, the Murphy house has faded from the limelight. However, it still stands to this day, viewed from a distance. It remains the unofficial, undisturbed, gravesite for Robert Murphy and the victims of the town fire. 

The continuation of Lucy's note.

I sat up after the springs jabbing into my back ached so badly I could imagine the deep blue and yellow patterns of the bruises they procured I cringed at the nail-scratching screech emitted from the rusty metal, but it was too late to return the sound to its maker.

The silence that followed seemed to reach beyond the little bedroom, to the outdoors; a silence that condemns.

I cupped my hand to my mouth, challenging the sudden onset of nausea willing it to return to my stomach. It acquiesced, but only with a compromise. The migraine returned, pounding with the rushing of blood as my two feet planted firm onto the soft ground. It was a weak attempt to stabilize my trepid heart.

A light (but frantic) tap-taping haunted the hall outside of the closed-door increased in sound until it was replaced by the turning doorknob clicking the latch open. Almost too dramatically, the door swung open, revealing my kidnapper, the hat-man; unsurprisingly.

He did not pay attention to me though. That caught me off my guard as I watched his long strides lead him in three steps to the writing desk. His hands, spindly but large against the shadows of the branch, reached over to the picture and grasped it in the same place as the indents in the frame.

It was while his attention was glued to the picture that I could focus on his face long enough for it to burn into my memory, inhabiting what was once the black increments of my blinking eyes.

At some point, perhaps while I was unconscious while crossing the lake, he had washed the face paint off. It was a sloppy cleanup, for there were still smudged streaks of white near his hairline. Still, from underneath, I could see that, though the paint had severely compromised his complexion, his natural face was also pale enough to gleam off the moonbeams. His hair was a light chestnut that complimented his slightly darker brow; peeping out from the faded imprint of the washed off arches. Perhaps it was the stubble forming uneven patches around his chin and cheekbones which gave the man in front of me an over-all boyish appearance. His lips, a soft pink tinged around the inside with a hint of blue. He looked sickly, but overall average; like somebody, you could pass on the street multiple times and still not recognize as familiar.

Strangely, very different from what I had expected.

In fact, looking at him filled me with a strange sense of sadness I could not exactly understand. He had traded the suit coat for a white v-neck while maintaining the slacks. Without the suit coat, the old age smell remained so that I realized it was not the smell of old age at all, but rather, the smell of the house itself. It was something like mildew and dust, and it lingered so strongly on the man in front of me I could not help but think that perhaps this boy was apart of this house; some strange extension of it. It is a ludicrous thought I know but still, it would not leave my head.

For no logical reason, very briefly, I pitied him.

When he set down the picture though, returning his attention to me, that sadness washed away, carrying the last of my shock with it. Those eyes bore into me once again but this time, all they would find was an inexpressible, fire-coal rage.

"Welcome Home." He said with so much nonchalance, the anger within me froze, turning into a white blankness. He leaned against the desk. Turning away from me, letting his head fall backward; a tired action that seemed almost too easy.

"Who are you?" I asked, failing to hide the unsteadiness of my voice with a dose of spite.

"That's of little consequence" He replied almost laughing to himself, a small huff that puckered at his chest, very quiet. A half-smile lifted his cheeks, revealing one prominent dimple. It was hardly endearing though, for that same smile could be mistaken as a sneer in a black/white polaroid; it was as if it were out of practice. "All that matters is that you're home."  

To be continued