Some Things Last Forever (standard:Ghost stories, 3721 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Mar 16 2005	Views/Reads: 3733/2329	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Some things never fade. Some things never die. Some things last forever.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

house and I'd take along the book, sneaking it under my jacket so Mom 
or Dad wouldn't see me leaving the house with it.  I guess I figured 
that they would be mad at me, taking a fine, expensive book like that 
outside to read.  In my house books were for display - lined up on the 
bookshelf, like regimental soldiers, and only ever shifted when Mom 
dusted.  But also I think there was a part of me wanted it to be a 
secret from my parents.  Somehow it made the story more exciting.  More 
thrilling because it was illicit - something that only Tom and me knew 
about. 

We would take the same route down to the river, crossing the old steel
bridge and then following the rutted dirt track to the woods and 
Milford House.  We had a bivouac in the woods and it was here that we 
would hole up and read our book; the house looming like a ripe storm 
cloud. 

I probably don't need to tell you that Milford House was our town's
‘haunted house'; it was probably a lot like the one in your town too.  
Ramshackle, isolated - with boarded up windows and sagging, rotting 
roof.  It had belonged to Henry Milford, the owner of the town's 
lumberyard, who'd passed away forty or so years before, leaving the 
house to his son William.  Young William, who everyone agreed was a bad 
‘un, went and got himself killed during the Great War, stabbed to death 
by a pimp in a Paris brothel.  Ever since, the house had lay empty, 
decaying - the once fine façade wearing away with time and the 
elements. 

So we would sit there and read.  The summer nights stretching on until
eventually the sun began to sink, waking the shadows; leaves whispering 
in the breeze like conspirators.  The story seemed to capture us, draw 
us in: when we read of Jonathan Harker's journey through the dark 
Carpathians it was as though we were there too, bouncing along in the 
carriage.  We drank in the account of Dracula's voyage to Whitby Bay, 
feeling the panic and helplessness of the crew as they were picked off, 
one-by-one - victims of the Count's hunger.  But it was the character 
of Van Helsing that impressed us the most; that wise and fearless 
vampire hunter who knew no obstacle in his mission to destroy evil.  
And I suppose it was this that planted the seed in our minds.  The 
childish notion that something lurked in Milford House and that it was 
our duty to banish it - a couple of would-be Van Helsings. 

Looking back, I'm not sure we truly believed it.  Sure, kids have
imaginations, and you can fool yourself into thinking you believe, but 
deep down where it counts, you know it's not true - there were no 
ghosts in Milford House.  No demons; no ancient, decrepit Count waiting 
to be exorcised.  There was just a couple of twelve-year old kids with 
a summer to fill and a need for excitement.  Sometimes I catch myself 
wishing that there were such things in the house.  Then, perhaps the 
memory wouldn't be so bad.  The blame could lie somewhere else, instead 
of with me. 

It was my idea.  Sitting in the bivouac, the sun going down, getting too
dark to read.  “They say the house is haunted”, I said.  We both knew 
that already, but it needed to be voiced - the conversation required an 
opening. 

Tom closed the book and looked at me.  He had always been a skinny kid,
and now that the sun was going down, the shadows filled the hollows in 
his face – making him look almost skeletal.  “Sure it's haunted,” he 
said.  “I heard that the ghost of Henry Milford still walks the halls, 
calling-out for his son” – he twisted his hands into claws and gave a 
Transylvanian-tinged laugh – “Bwahahahahahaah!” 

“Knock-it-off,” I said, “I'm serious.  I've heard my Dad and his buddies
talking about it – it's haunted for sure.” 

Tom shook his head.  “They were only talking about it because they knew
you'd be listening, you dummy.” 

I puffed up in irritation.  “So, you don't believe it's haunted then?” 

We both looked in the house's direction.  It was silent and monolithic,
like a tomb.  Rotten boards from two of the upstairs windows had fallen 
away, making it look as though the house were peering at you; a living 
thing, full of danger and quiet malice. 

“I'm not saying it isn't possible”, said Tom.  “I guess there must be
something in those stories – they can't all be wrong, can they?” 

“Why don't we find out.  See for ourselves.” 

Tom chewed on his bottom lip, the way he always did when he wasn't sure
about something.  “Gee, it's a pretty old place.  Do you think it's 
safe?” 

“Don't chicken out on me now,” I said.  “Why don't we go take a look
before we head home.” 

We got to our feet and brushed pine needles and dirt from the seat of
our pants.  Then cautiously, as though it was a wild animal capable of 
pouncing on us, we wound our way through the trees towards Milford 
House. 

The house had atmosphere; that you couldn't deny.  It was almost
tangible, a sticky molass that pulled on your limbs, slowing you down 
to a crawl.  Here the woods were silent.  No bird called; the wind was 
mute and still.  The only sound was the gentle pad of our footsteps on 
the hard packed earth. 

There it was – Milford House.  What had once been a manicured garden had
gone to seed – overgrown bushes obscured the bottom windows and 
pathway; a lush flourish of ivy snaked up the wall like a livid green 
scar.   The entrance was ornate, done in a classical style, with 
columns and a crumbling cornucopia of stonework at either side of the 
stout wooden door.  Everywhere there was rot and corpulence, as though 
the house were bloated – grown fat with the passing of time; no longer 
able to bear the weight of the years. 

We paused at the bottom of the stairs leading to the entrance.  The
ground was littered with pieces of broken sand stone and smashed slates 
from the roof.  I reached down and picked up a chunk of masonry, 
turning it over in my hands.  The weather-beaten face of a gargoyle 
looked back at me with blank indifference. 

Without a word we continued.  Moving up the stairs, testing them with
each footstep we took.  When we got to the top I reached out a shaky 
hand and pushed the door.  I didn't expect anything to happen.  Like I 
said, the windows were boarded up, why go to all that trouble just to 
leave the door open?  But it was, and with the most delicate of pushes 
it opened inwards without so much as a creak. 

We stood and gazed into the dark maw of the house.  A few feet from the
entrance, where the sparse sinking light could penetrate we could see 
more rubble and broken glass.  But beyond that, into the house proper, 
there was nothing but darkness and a damp, musty smell. 

I wanted to go in, but was afraid.  Afraid of the coming night and what
it might hold.  Afraid that the stories were true - that perhaps there 
were things that were outside our scope.  Beyond the cosy cul-de-sac 
that humans called knowledge. 

I looked down and saw that I was still holding the chunk of masonry with
its grotesque face staring to the heavens.  I pulled back my arm and 
threw it into the house, wanting to be rid of it.  There was a sudden 
explosion of feathers and the blast of wings taking flight.  I 
screamed, and ran to the bottom of the stairs, looking back in panic. 

Tom laughed - a nervous, braying sound that pierced the gloom, “It's
only pigeons, you dummy.” 

“Maybe we should go, Tom.  It's getting dark and Mom and Dad will be
looking for me soon.” 

“Wait a minute, this was your idea, remember?  You wanted to take a
look, and that's what we're going to do.” 

I so wanted to go and I could see it in Tom's face too.  Neither one of
us wanted to be doing this, but no-one wanted to be the first to back 
down - to be called chicken.  When I think back now, I wished I'd just 
turned around and gone home.  Tom wouldn't have ribbed me much, he was 
my friend.  But sometimes things just get out of hand.  Little things - 
like being called chicken - take on a monumental significance when 
you're twelve.  All I knew at the time was that I was scared.  But if 
it was a choice between being scared and having to carry the name 
‘chicken' like a low-rent mark of Cain, then I'd rather be scared. 

I resumed my place at the top of the stairs.  “Okay then, Tommy boy,” I
said, full of phoney piss and vinegar, “let's do this.”  Let's do this! 
Kids are such idiots! 

We opened the doors wide, trying to throw as much of the precious light
into the house as we could.  Eyeing each other warily to see who'd wimp 
out first, we each took a step into Milford House. 

We were inside the entrance hall.  It was enormous, with a winding
mahogany staircase and an ancient brass chandelier.  Off to the right 
was a doorway, and next to it an old burst mattress; empty liquor 
bottles lined-up in front like pins in a bowling alley.  That explained 
the open door, I thought.  Some wino had broken-in and was using the 
house as a drinking den.  The room smelled strongly of piss and I 
covered my nose with my sleeve. 

“What now?” I asked through the material. 

Tom looked around for a second before his eyes rested on the staircase. 
“Let's go upstairs,” he said.  “Maybe get a souvenir to show the guys 
at school.” 

The last thing I wanted to do was go upstairs.  The sight of the
mattress and the pedestrian smell of piss had broken the spell for me.  
I wasn't so concerned with bumping into a ghost as bumping into some 
old wino who might welcome a little...late night entertainment with a 
couple of fresh faced boys like Tom and me.  I may have been twelve, 
but I wasn't a fool - I knew things like that  happened.  If you were a 
kid, adults just weren't to be trusted. 

“I'm going Tom.  I've been inside, you can't say I'm chicken.  But we
should go now - it's getting late.” 

I was talking sense and Tom knew it.  But there was something in his
eyes.  Some far-away look, as if he were seeing something I couldn't 
see.  It was the look he sometimes got when I would be talking about my 
Dad, or his Mom would bawl at him for something.  It meant he was 
thinking about his own Pa, and sometimes, when he would get like this, 
Tom was just plain crazy.  Got crazy notions and ideas about what his 
Pa would have wanted. 

“I'm going upstairs to get a souvenir.  You stay here if want.  But I'm
going upstairs, Dad wouldn't want me to give up so easily.” 

“What the hell are you talking about, Tom.”  I wanted to shake him.  To
ask him how he could possibly know what his Dad would have wanted - he 
had barely met the guy!  But I knew that if I had said that Tom would 
never have spoken to me again.  He had built the image of his Pa up in 
his mind, until the fantasy dwarfed the reality - he was no longer his 
Dad - the man in the faded photograph on the mantle piece - but FATHER, 
in capital letters, eighty-feet high. 

I watched rooted to the spot as Tom ran up the stairs.  The whole house
was falling to pieces, bits practically falling around us, and here was 
Tom, running recklessly and noisily up those wooden stairs as though he 
were running up the stairs to his apartment. 

“Tom, Jesus, will you watch what you're -” 

There was a crash and a grey blossom of dust enveloped Tom and the
stairway.  I knew something terrible had happened. 

“Tom!  Oh, God.  Tom!  Are you alright?”   I was choking on the dust. 
It was coming down in a blanket and getting into my lungs, my eyes - 
turning my hair white - making me look like an old man. 

I stumbled about blindly for a moment, babbling Tom's name.  I kicked
something and heard a bottle go skittering off.  Oh, Jesus, please let 
him be alright, I prayed.  I will never do anything bad ever in my life 
if you let him be alright.  Please, God, please, God. 

The dust began to settle and I could see the staircase again.  About
halfway up there was a hole in the dark mahogany, a scrap of Tom's 
shirt hanging on a ragged splinter. 

I was crying now, tears and snot clearing a path through the dust that
clung to my face.  I grabbed hold of the banister and eased up the 
stairs.  It shook alarmingly - how did Tom ever think it would hold his 
weight?  The only thing to do was get down on my hands and knees and 
crawl.  I tried to distribute myself evenly, moving gingerly upwards. 

When I got to the hole, I grabbed a stair for purchase and hooked a foot
around the banister.  I leaned over and put my head into the hole, 
although, at that moment I felt as though I would sooner have put my 
head in a lion's mouth. 

I was whimpering, sniffling – an animal sound that I had no control
over.  I could hear the sound reverberating in the confined space. 

“Tom,” I called.  “Please, tell me you're okay.”  I couldn't see a
thing.  The darkness was complete, almost physical in its intensity. 

“Stop fooling around Tom and answer me!” 

But there was no answer.  No sound but the sound of my own voice
bouncing back at me.  I knew then that Tom was dead. Knew it deep down, 
where ancestral memory lies – I knew it like I knew hot was hot and 
cold was cold. 

I don't remember much after that.  I certainly don't remember staggering
home that night, dirty and tear streaked, knees cut and bleeding from 
falling as I ran through the woods.  I don't remember what I said to my 
parents, or what the policeman said to me after they found Tom's body.  
I don't remember being taken to the hospital because I couldn't stop 
shaking and crying. 

The first thing I can remember was standing in the cemetery next to an
open grave.  I remember looking at it and thinking it looked like a 
wound, as though someone were angry at the earth and had gouged out a 
great chunk of its flesh.  Then it dawned on me where I was and I 
looked up and Tom's Mom was there, dressed in black, holding a white 
handkerchief to her mouth.  I remember her taking me aside afterwards 
and talking to me.  Of her saying it wasn't my fault.  That I shouldn't 
blame myself.  Sometimes things like this happened – and life had to go 
on. 

One thing I remember clearly and will never forget: when the lowered Tom
into the ground. 

Like I said.  I'm an old-man now, and more years have passed between
then and now than I care to admit. 

You might wonder what I did next.  Well, I didn't set out to write about
myself when I started this.  But, I got over it; gave myself permission 
to go on living.  I moved away to the city; got a job as a reporter; 
never married, though I came close a couple of times; I wrote a couple 
of best sellers about small town life, and retired.  I never forgot 
Tom, though.  He was a part of me, and wherever I went it was like he 
came along too – I guess you could say I lived my life for two.  And we 
had a good time together, Tom and me - a good life. 

Six months ago the doc told me I had cancer.  It was eating me up –
turning my insides to Swiss cheese.  He said I had another three months 
left, five if I checked into a hospital.  But that was never my style; 
I packed up and came back here – back home. 

No, this story was never about me.  It was about Tom and Milford House. 
I went back there yesterday.  A sick old-man hobbling through the snow 
with the aid of a stick.  Nothing had changed except the seasons.  
Milford House was still standing, still ramshackle, threatening to 
topple.  All the fresh boards they had hammered up after Tom's accident 
were rotted or gone.  The ‘Keep Out' signs all rubbed away by snow and 
rain.  The windows were bare again – staring, full of the same quiet 
malice. 

When we went there, all those years ago, we were looking for ghosts. 
But there weren't any, not then.  But yesterday, as I stood, my feet 
stiff and frozen, I saw a figure at the window of Milford House.  It 
was Tom – he's been waiting for me all this time. 

This morning I have an appointment.  I've taken my gun from the upstairs
cupboard and loaded it.  Put on a woollen hat and a warm jacket; old 
people feel the cold.  I've said my goodbyes a long time ago.  Once I'm 
finished here I guess I'll go.  Tom is waiting for me. I have to go.  
Because, some things, they last forever.  Friendship lasts forever. 

THE END. 


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