Friday, March 9, 2018 / by Ruth Ballantyne
Home inspector's Halloween tale
A haunting visit by a spooky character
By Barry Stone, Tuesday, October 26, 2010.
Home inspections tend to be business-as-usual events: checking the foundations, roofing, plumbing, electrical wiring, etc.
But there was one inspection that I recall with dread and discomfort; an inspection where property defects ceased to be of concern, where routine was overshadowed by fear, where disclosures were eclipsed by a frenzied struggle to flee the premises.
And it just so happened that this inspection occurred on the eve of Halloween.
The house was an old, neglected, two-story Victorian, with leaning fences, tangled vegetation, and dense vines engulfing the walls, windows and roof. The property, in escrow as a probate sale, had been the subject of headlines when the owner was found hanging from the rafters of the foyer.
The police investigation had not determined whether death was from suicide or foul play, and the body's subsequent disappearance from the local mortuary had unsettled the community.
The buyers and agent were unable to attend the inspection, but the agent had left a key under the mat. Bracing myself, I pressed open the massive door, entered slowly, and commenced what I had hoped would be a routine inspection.
But then, beneath the lofty ceiling of the dark interior, I beheld the silhouette of the noosed rope, still attached to a high, dusty beam. A foul odor of decay permeated the stagnant air, and I recalled reading that the man had spent many days at the end of that rope before the neighbors had found him.
The prospect of working alone in those dim, silent rooms unsettled me, and my foremost thought was to complete the job and get out of that ominous place.
A steep stairway descended to the unpaved basement, where I proceeded to inspect the old stone foundations, but the sounds of creaking timbers echoed throughout the building, disrupting my attention.
So I busied myself and tried to dismiss my uneasiness. But then there seemed to be a different sound, somewhere upstairs. At first, it blended with the incessant creaking of the structure, but the difference was unmistakable.
This was not the sound of timbers. It was the slow but steady cadence of footsteps. Someone was in the house. Hoping to hear the voice of the real estate agent, I called out, "Hello, is someone upstairs?"
No one answered, but the footsteps continued down the hallway and stopped at the dark entrance to the basement stairwell. I called again, "Hello, who's there?" Again, no answer. Then, a shadow appeared on the stairs and moved slowly, silently downward.
A dark, disfigured form gradually took shape, the head laid awkwardly against the left shoulder. Yet my attention was drawn from this to some shadowy, indistinct object that dangled from his left hand.
As he reached the basement floor, a putrid foulness filled the room, so that breathing became forced and repugnant. Gripped with horror and disbelief, I was unable to move.
But then, the eyes of that disjointed head found me, the lips formed a sardonic grin, dripping with thick gray saliva, and my mobility was wakened by a wave of terror.
Clawing my way up the basement wall, I squeezed into the narrow space between the ground and the floor framing, seeking desperately for any way of escape. But the advancing form appeared atop the foundation wall and steadily pursued me into the dark crawlspace.
Scrambling breathlessly past rows of old piers, I reached a dead-end corner where the foundation walls joined, and I realized with desperate finality that I could flee no further.
Somewhere in the nearby darkness I could hear that half-dead form crawling toward me. Clutching at my flashlight, I found the switch and was startled by the impending nearness of the face: the glare of cold eyes, the glint of gray teeth, the viscous fluid that dripped from grimacing lips -- and that mysterious object gripped in his left hand.
Terror pounded in my chest as I faced those final, hopeless, remaining seconds. The feet between us became inches. His right hand gripped my ankle with frightful force as he drew forward.
Then his left hand extended the old gunny sack that he held, and the acrid smell of cold breath filled my face, as he cried, "Trick or treat!"
Distributed by Access Media Group. To write to Barry Stone, please visit him on the Web at www.housedetective.com.