"Floored" by Sartorius
Genre: Horror (supernatural, paranormal)
Time scampers. Memories wither if left untapped, inert. Thirty years ago I last set a childhood foot inside my grandfather’s musky, ramshackle Victorian home located in the rural periphery of New Hampshire’s timberland. Three long decades.
Until now.
A year before my first double digit birthday, my single mom, Agnes Monahan, abruptly picked up stakes and moved us to the left coast’s southern inland desert. No explanation given to her only child.
An unseasonable chill lingered as the old station wagon crammed with all our worldly possessions pulled out of the parking lot of the small campus on the final day of the school year, a cross-country jaunt away from our final destination. “Get in the car,” she’d commanded moments earlier. As the paint chipped wagon lumbered away, I twisted my neck for one final glimpse of my home town out the smudged back window. Never had a chance to say farewell to the neighborhood kids. Or to Grandpa. A sad day, indeed. Bound for California . . . whether California wanted us or not.
With the school’s out summer joy of anticipation discarded on the roadside like malodourous litter, I lounged on the station wagon’s vibrating vinyl bench attempting to comprehend the swirl of emotions detonating inside me. Some I was yet too young to name . . . only feel.
Image Description: A polished wood floor gleams as the centerpiece of an old-fashioned, fancy sitting room. A chaise lounge and two upholstered chairs take up a small amount of floor space. The wood ceiling is elaborate and long curtains run from floor to ceiling alongside long windows.
Credit: Gioia Maurizi / Unsplash
Four sunsets and a blur of greasy spoon dives and cheap motels later, Mom and I wearily arrived at our desert destination. She hardly uttered a paragraph the entire way; a wild, disjointed expression kept her face company - eyes on the road, cognitions kept private. When I attempted to initiate a conversation, she’d tersely respond, “Evan, Mommie’s thinking, look out the window and enjoy the scenery or play with your GI Joe.” Something was gnawing at her entrails. Hard. Even my nine-year old mind could discern that much.
The next eight years passed slowly in our small Mojave Desert town. At least for me. Mom had secured a waitressing job through a contact she’d known since elementary school who’d escaped a battering husband a few years earlier. Lori Larsen benevolently rented her childhood chum an extra couple of rooms in a ranch home her parents had purchased for her, so that’s where we stayed. Still a kid, I got used to things pretty quickly. With new friends and school, New Hampshire life, relegated to the rearview mirror, quickly faded into the horizon of my mind.
After high school, time began to accelerate. I moved away, went to college in northern California, procured a job in the area, foolishly got married, eagerly filed for divorced a few years later (no kids made it cheaper), and just lived my life. Returned to the desert once a year for a holiday visit with Mom until she passed away unexpectedly two Octobers ago. Cardiac arrest. Other than me, Grandpa was her only other living kin (my grandmother had expired birthing her only child), but didn’t attend the funeral. No surprise as we had zero contact with the man after the move to Cali.
And my own father? Never knew who the hell he was; Mom was mum on the subject until my eighteenth birthday when Agnes divulged her cluelessness as well; turns out I was the product of a drunken liaison at a multiple high school graduation party in Concord; the father’s name, John Smith, printed on my birth certificate told the story.
Quite the shock it was when an attorney contacted me a week ago advising I was the lone heir to the recently deceased (via cardia arrest) John Monahan’s estate. Such as it was. Consisted of a few bucks in a couple of saving accounts . . . and his home in the middle of forested nowhere.
Being the quintessential workaholic at my finance firm, I easily had a couple weeks of paid vacation to burn, and took the next flight to Concord, procuring a vehicle rental upon arrival. The scenic drive back to my small home town flushed out long subjugated memories. I’d forgotten how beautiful the falling autumn leaves could be, carpeting the sparsely trafficked two- lane road with brilliant color. Childhood memories unfolded as the rental’s odometer turned. A smile creased my face reliving those carefree New England days of my early youth.
The following morning I met with Grandpa’s attorney, then a local realtor as I had little desire to retain the home, the only asset of substance in John’s estate. The agent reluctantly agreed to put it on the market, but indicated a dilapidated house well over a century old would be a tough sale. Thirty miles out in the boonies didn’t add to its appeal, either. “We’ll give it a shot, but don’t expect anything quick,” Loraine Cruz said, a trace of fear accenting her voice. One I should have questioned.
My initial plan was to do a walkthrough of the property, return to town for the night, then meet with the realtor again the following day. I arrived at the home I’d spent many a Saturday (but only in daylight per Mom’s insistence). Lurking in the mid-day shadows it looked about the same, a little more run down maybe, an odd sparse emptiness about it. Garage sale before anticipated demise, Grandpa? I thought. The one memorable feature, the waxed pine floor, looked as pristine as ever. I recall playing with my Matchbox hot rods on that smooth, shiny wood as Mom and Grandpa visited in the parlor. Sometimes the metal toys would roll by themselves making me giggle with surprise. When queried about the odd phenomenon, Mom
chuckled and said, “Such an imagination.” Being so young I believed everything my mother told me without question and acclimated to the conjuring of my imagination rather quickly. After a short while, thought nothing more of it.
An hour passed. After a thorough exploration of the property, I grew suddenly, inexplicably exhausted and plopped myself down on the living room’s sole remaining couch. Sleep enveloped me, not relinquishing its hold until well after midnight. I awoke precipitously to a cacophony of cries and wails; dozens of swirling ethereal opaque entities filled the room. Was this a nightmare or reality? I screamed, scampering out of the house, seeking refuge in the forested night. Remained there until dawn, frozen in fear.
As the increasing sunlight abated my apprehension, I headed for my rental to return to town when the hum of a BMW’s engine coming up the elongated driveway caught my ear. The realtor.
She stepped out of the vehicle leaving the door wide open, motor running. “I thought I’d find you here.” The trace of fear in her voice had evolved. “I can tell by your look you’ve seen them.”
“Seen them?” I replied.
“Yes. During construction by the original owner, Barnabas, the local mortician, ran out of lumber and money. In a desperate attempt to complete the remainder of the ambitious build, he concocted a bailout plan. Dug up coffins at the local cemetery – one night at a time to avoid suspicion. Used the pine for the flooring after reburying each body. Been haunted ever since. The town knew; inhabitants kept their distance. Didn’t seem to faze your grandfather, however, when he bought the property as a young man. He was kind of a recluse; maybe those spirits kept him company.” The realtor forced a kinked grin before her expression turned dark, matching her fear. Returned to her car and sped away.
I’d had enough; drove the rental back to Concord and booked the first flight available to northern California. Never sold the property; I left it abandoned to decay in the wilderness.
. . . But those wailing spirits who’d followed me home never allow me to forget.
About the Author
An ostensibly MBA corporate type with an artist’s soul, Sartorius makes time to write both short stories and music lyrics. His The Missing Case of the Missing Case and Boo Hag have been published in anthologies. Several tales have been published in recent horror zines. His songs can be found on conventional venues such as Amazon, Apple Music, and Spotify, including his new comedic satire, "Ha-Ha in the Ca-Ca." Another tune, "Feeling Left Out," was judged a finalist in the 2023 USA Songwriting Competition.
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