A SCARY HALLOWEEN STORY
HERE'S ANOTHER ONE SMO'S 
In an old section of Seattle, as Georgetown, was a rundown house of the type built in the late 1890's. It was a two story rambling structure, complete with attic, basement, tower, gables and broken windows. A neglected porch with spikes missing in the railings like open spaces between rotting teeth fronted the lower face.
Entrance was gained by carefully climbing deteriorating steps. Several seasons worth of decaying leaves had entwined with the unkempt grass. For a decade, the house had been vacant, victim to weather and vandals, a sanctuary fit only for ghosts. Such was the condition an art dealer found the house when he made a wrong turn onto a narrow hillside back street. He envisioned a treasure in the rough, and burned with a passion to own and restore the antique which, as it turned out, was for sale.
He asked a few questions of the realtor, with restoration plans in mind, and bought the house. In the Fall of 1974, he moved in. The first night in the house he wandered through empty rooms, unwilling to share the sweet taste of acquisition which is known only to collectors. He mentally assessed structure and wood and knew exactly how he would enhance the neglected beauty so marred by neighborhood children and bird droppings.
The excitement of finding such a house, damaged by indifference but not by well-intentioned unknowledgeable antique fanciers, was so exciting he trembled, contributing his shivers to what would be, never once realizing what was actually in the strained dark silence of the upper bedroom. Reluctantly, he admitted to weariness, and went to his freshly made bed, disturbed only by the common sounds of a creaking house, until...
"No!" A woman's voice shattered the quiet. "No!"
Abruptly, the art dealer sat up in his bed, and shivered from an intense cold that penetrated to the bone, uncertain if he had been dreaming. He heard a tremendous struggle upstairs as if furniture was overturned and a body flung against the wall. Pleading, a cried out a name. The art dealer shuddered, for it was if the whole ceiling would burst apart under the weight of the fight. Suddenly, the struggle ended as abruptly as the scream. Soft weeping, seeped through the hallways, down the stairs, and up the walls to the ceiling until the house was filled with the frightened, helpless whimpering. He doubted what he had heard, tried to contribute it to exhaustion and imagination, and remained in bed, unwilling to venture into the forbidding dark.
When daylight flooded the unfurnished rooms, the art dealer felt childish, even silly, to have felt so frightened about a dream. Yet, it had been remarkably real, so much so he investigated the barren room which in the harsh daylight sadly revealed how much restoration was needed.
The sound, he reasoned, had apparently come from a second-floor corner bedroom. In the autumn sunlight, the room did not appear to be singularly frightening. It was empty with yellowed wallpaper, dirty windows, dusty woodwork and a curiously stained floor. No furniture existed, although he had heard furniture overturned. Was it my imagination? he wondered
The approach of night made the art dealer apprehensive. The sense of vague disquiet was new to him, causing him to toss restlessly in bed. At 12:30, the pitiful sounds echoed even louder from the corner bedroom. The weeping of a wounded, dying victim filtered into every room, to be absorbed by the walls and creating a life that made the house pulsate. As disturbing as the art dealer found it, it was no longer fearful. He felt the entity was not evil, but frightened, helpless and terribly alone. He began to wonder about his sanity, for he alone had heard the sounds. If the house was reliving a past traumatic event, he needed witnesses. He asked friends to stay over the next night, and remained quiet about the happenings in the house. Grateful for their companionship, he accepted suggestions about household improvements. The conversation drifted to mutual interests. Suddenly the cry came from the corner bedroom followed by a life and and death struggle, the crash of furniture and the thud of a body. The art dealer glanced at his watch noting the time was 12:30. The mysterious pleading was more audible.
--No! Manny! Manny! Oh, Manny ... why?"
With the mournful weeping came the seeping chill. He looked at the shocked faces of his friends, and felt great joy they, too, had heard the sounds. He was not mad afterall. "Every night at 12:30, " he remarked dryly. "You see, when I bought the house, I apparently bought a ghost. "
"You're putting us on." A man laughed nervously. "I wish I were. Come with me and I'll show you the haunted room. Feel free to explore this house, to find any hidden phonographs or other contraptions which might create such an illusion. I would welcome it, to find someone has been playing a joke on me after all."
Despite the exuberant search, no such trickery was found. Only a lingering cold in the corner bedroom hinted of a secret beyond their experiences. Perplexed and anxious, the art dealer confronted the realtor who had sold him the house. He still wanted to keep and restore the house, was even intrigued by its haunting, so inquires about the house's history. Reluctantly, the realtor admitted previous owners had claimed to have heard muffled sounds of an intense struggle and a weeping voice that cried out to "Manny." "Apparently," he said off-handedly, "The incidents date back to 1910. Terrified owners have quickly put the house on the market each time the ghost made her vocal appearance."
The art dealer was too fascinated to sell-the house. The ghost no longer frightened him. Instead, he wanted to know who she was and why she died. He researched books about historical Seattle, talked to people who had known the city as it had been during the turn-of-the century, and strained his eyesight scanning library news clippings.
Then he found the truth, by accident, in a narrow faded newspaper column. In 1899, the Georgetown mansion had been a brothel. In the upstairs corner bedroom, at 12:30 AM, a young Indian prostitute had been brutally stabbed to death and horribly mutilated. The murderer had been her lover, Manny. The art dealer felt a cold chill seep up his spine, for while he did not fear the prostitute, she was not alone in the bedroom. The murderer was there, too.
LOVE
SIP AND CANDY
In an old section of Seattle, as Georgetown, was a rundown house of the type built in the late 1890's. It was a two story rambling structure, complete with attic, basement, tower, gables and broken windows. A neglected porch with spikes missing in the railings like open spaces between rotting teeth fronted the lower face.
Entrance was gained by carefully climbing deteriorating steps. Several seasons worth of decaying leaves had entwined with the unkempt grass. For a decade, the house had been vacant, victim to weather and vandals, a sanctuary fit only for ghosts. Such was the condition an art dealer found the house when he made a wrong turn onto a narrow hillside back street. He envisioned a treasure in the rough, and burned with a passion to own and restore the antique which, as it turned out, was for sale.
He asked a few questions of the realtor, with restoration plans in mind, and bought the house. In the Fall of 1974, he moved in. The first night in the house he wandered through empty rooms, unwilling to share the sweet taste of acquisition which is known only to collectors. He mentally assessed structure and wood and knew exactly how he would enhance the neglected beauty so marred by neighborhood children and bird droppings.
The excitement of finding such a house, damaged by indifference but not by well-intentioned unknowledgeable antique fanciers, was so exciting he trembled, contributing his shivers to what would be, never once realizing what was actually in the strained dark silence of the upper bedroom. Reluctantly, he admitted to weariness, and went to his freshly made bed, disturbed only by the common sounds of a creaking house, until...
"No!" A woman's voice shattered the quiet. "No!"
Abruptly, the art dealer sat up in his bed, and shivered from an intense cold that penetrated to the bone, uncertain if he had been dreaming. He heard a tremendous struggle upstairs as if furniture was overturned and a body flung against the wall. Pleading, a cried out a name. The art dealer shuddered, for it was if the whole ceiling would burst apart under the weight of the fight. Suddenly, the struggle ended as abruptly as the scream. Soft weeping, seeped through the hallways, down the stairs, and up the walls to the ceiling until the house was filled with the frightened, helpless whimpering. He doubted what he had heard, tried to contribute it to exhaustion and imagination, and remained in bed, unwilling to venture into the forbidding dark.
When daylight flooded the unfurnished rooms, the art dealer felt childish, even silly, to have felt so frightened about a dream. Yet, it had been remarkably real, so much so he investigated the barren room which in the harsh daylight sadly revealed how much restoration was needed.
The sound, he reasoned, had apparently come from a second-floor corner bedroom. In the autumn sunlight, the room did not appear to be singularly frightening. It was empty with yellowed wallpaper, dirty windows, dusty woodwork and a curiously stained floor. No furniture existed, although he had heard furniture overturned. Was it my imagination? he wondered
The approach of night made the art dealer apprehensive. The sense of vague disquiet was new to him, causing him to toss restlessly in bed. At 12:30, the pitiful sounds echoed even louder from the corner bedroom. The weeping of a wounded, dying victim filtered into every room, to be absorbed by the walls and creating a life that made the house pulsate. As disturbing as the art dealer found it, it was no longer fearful. He felt the entity was not evil, but frightened, helpless and terribly alone. He began to wonder about his sanity, for he alone had heard the sounds. If the house was reliving a past traumatic event, he needed witnesses. He asked friends to stay over the next night, and remained quiet about the happenings in the house. Grateful for their companionship, he accepted suggestions about household improvements. The conversation drifted to mutual interests. Suddenly the cry came from the corner bedroom followed by a life and and death struggle, the crash of furniture and the thud of a body. The art dealer glanced at his watch noting the time was 12:30. The mysterious pleading was more audible.
--No! Manny! Manny! Oh, Manny ... why?"
With the mournful weeping came the seeping chill. He looked at the shocked faces of his friends, and felt great joy they, too, had heard the sounds. He was not mad afterall. "Every night at 12:30, " he remarked dryly. "You see, when I bought the house, I apparently bought a ghost. "
"You're putting us on." A man laughed nervously. "I wish I were. Come with me and I'll show you the haunted room. Feel free to explore this house, to find any hidden phonographs or other contraptions which might create such an illusion. I would welcome it, to find someone has been playing a joke on me after all."
Despite the exuberant search, no such trickery was found. Only a lingering cold in the corner bedroom hinted of a secret beyond their experiences. Perplexed and anxious, the art dealer confronted the realtor who had sold him the house. He still wanted to keep and restore the house, was even intrigued by its haunting, so inquires about the house's history. Reluctantly, the realtor admitted previous owners had claimed to have heard muffled sounds of an intense struggle and a weeping voice that cried out to "Manny." "Apparently," he said off-handedly, "The incidents date back to 1910. Terrified owners have quickly put the house on the market each time the ghost made her vocal appearance."
The art dealer was too fascinated to sell-the house. The ghost no longer frightened him. Instead, he wanted to know who she was and why she died. He researched books about historical Seattle, talked to people who had known the city as it had been during the turn-of-the century, and strained his eyesight scanning library news clippings.
Then he found the truth, by accident, in a narrow faded newspaper column. In 1899, the Georgetown mansion had been a brothel. In the upstairs corner bedroom, at 12:30 AM, a young Indian prostitute had been brutally stabbed to death and horribly mutilated. The murderer had been her lover, Manny. The art dealer felt a cold chill seep up his spine, for while he did not fear the prostitute, she was not alone in the bedroom. The murderer was there, too.
LOVE
SIP AND CANDY Most Active
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