~ Gertrude D. Macabellow
Thud!
The thud could be heard all the way from upstairs where me, Mom, and the sisters had slept. I walked up there and it was a door leading to an attic.
We’ve never had an attic. The house wasn’t built with an attic.
Letting my curiosity get a hold of me, I went up there intrepidly and fearful at the same time. I don’t even know where the light switch is. There are possibly no windows and I might make a mistake and stub my [injured foot] on the construction. It was pitch black and my phone was in my room, so I couldn’t use it right now. I used my hands as a guide and I found a dangling light switch. I pulled it and I could see everything that was left up here. Furniture covered in plastic wrap and toys sealed in a box. Everything was old-fashioned with cobweb and daddy longlegs in every corner. But I’m still wondering how this attic appeared, where the letter U is, and why is this feeling like a trance.
I browsed a bit before I saw the letter U lying on the cold, wooden floor written on a sticky note. But where was the example of her murder? I didn’t understand quite yet.
I saw something drip on the paper. Blood. And it was coming from above. I looked up at the ceiling and a lady’s corpse was hanging right before my head. Her head lame to the side and the noose making that stretching rope sound. Just...like...Shirley’s! It was horrifying and forgetting the paper and the note, I ran back out of the attic. IT WAS LOCKED! Someone or something must’ve locked me in while I was searching around because I sure didn’t hear the door slam. I tried prying it open but it didn’t open at all.
“Help, somebody help,” I shouted as I was banging on the door. “Help!”
“Why wasn’t your mom aware, Ashton,” a voice asked me. It was the dead body speaking to me, zooming in closer while she was floating from the ceiling. She had her arms outstretched as if to hug me and I was banging louder. “Why did your mom let that cow of a failing writer hang me? She was part of us, Ashton. She was part of us.”
I didn’t even focus on her accusations; I was trying to get out of here. It finally let down before I was abducted by Shirley and I ran straight to Mom’s room like a little child. “Mom, please wake up! There’s this lady trying to get me! I can’t take it anymore!”
The Letter R
“What is this story that you’re trying to tell me, Ashton and this better have worth losing sleep over. I really need some shut-eye and you’re interrupting it completely.”
“Mom, there is something in the attic! You gotta see it!”
“What? We have no attic. Are you overreacting because you’re tired?”
“No, this stuff is real. All of this stuff is true stuff. There was this attic door on the ceiling and I went up there to find a dead person hanging on a noose. Her name was Shirley Truce.”
“Look, whatever you are explaining better be legit, okay?” I lead her to the hallway and I looked up. The whole attic disappeared that quick and I figured that it would. “Well, where is it, Ashton?”
“I don’t know. It should be right here. That’s where I got the letter...oh shoot; I left the note behind. And the paper.”
“Thanks a lot. You got me up for nothing. And you should be asleep as well.”
“Mom, something weird and creepy is going on and I believe it’s because of that typewriter of yours. No offense Mom, but I think it’s best to return it back to that shop that you were talking about.”
“I am not returning anything. That typewriter means everything to me and I was the only one who loved it like a...look, Ashton. You must be extremely tired after a long day of work, and then you had to deal with that incident that happened at school. Your mind is boggled with so many things at once that you can’t comprehend why you’re acting like this.”
“Mom, I know what I saw. Gertrude is after me for something and I need it to cease immediately. Sure, I had dreamt about my computer having a grotesque face on the screen shouted ‘THE CURIOSITY WILL CEASE!’ And I was hearing voices while I was asleep. Depressing voices from Gertrude, her foe, and possibly her parents. But when I’m telling you that there is a typewriter typing up its own poem, you have got to believe me right there. If you don’t believe me right now, I would suggest that you sleep downstairs tonight and hear it for yourself.”
“Oh, I believe, alright. I believe you’re turning schizophrenic and you need serious medical help. I’ll take you to the doctor first thing in the morning.” She went back to her room. I can’t believe that my own mom is acting so naïve. I know what I saw and she’s becoming a terrible mother for not noticing what her son is going through. I bet Dad would understand me. I just need some rest and some time to think about this. Or nothing at all. I just need to get that image out of my mind.
At school…
While it was lunchtime, I asked Mrs. Cupboard, the librarian, if I could use one of the computers. She didn’t mind so I went on the one that had internet access (since some don’t). Instead of researching Gertrude, I looked up my house to see if there were any existing owners residing there. I finally found the area and clicked on the image to blow it up. Before it had been renovated as it is today, it looked like one of those vintage, Victorian-Colonial houses we see back in the 20th century. It had three stories (including the attic), five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a fireplace.
It looked like the total package, but it probably wasn’t with the individuals who lived there.
I checked the background on it and it stated that the Victorian-Colonial was one of the most gorgeous houses in the state surrounded by a friendly neighborhood and luxurious cars. But back in the 1970s, it was known to hold one murder in the attic area after a party was being held by the grandparents and it suddenly received gradual attention after that crime. The case was then found leading to Gertrude murdering that person. Her name: Shirley Truce.
I knew that I wasn’t hallucinating to Mom. I hit the Print button and that article came rolling out fresh from the printer. I put it in my backpack and headed to the lunch table, where I met my favorite group.
“Hey, Ashton,” Timmy greeted. “Where were you this morning?”
“It’s none of your business, Timmy,” Brandy snapped.
“It’s fine, Brandy,” I accepted. “My mom thought that I was schizo so she made me go to the doctor.”
Everybody laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Why in the world would she think such a silly thing,” Dareeka asked.
“Because she’s insane. I couldn’t believe that she thought that I was going crazy just because I was hearing voices in my head. Lord knows that I’m not crazy.”
“Well, the way that you put it, it does sound a bit loony.”
“The most horrific thing happened to me yesterday. So I was having this realistic nightmare including Gertrude. I was searching for some info about her typewriter and before I press the link, here she goes popping onto my screen like a corpse resurrecting from the ground. So I was hearing these voices in my head from her and the people in her life and then there goes those aggravating clacking sounds from the typewriter overpowering it. After I woke up from it, the typewriter left another poem in the sheet holder about another murder of hers. This attic appeared (and we didn’t have an attic) and I went up there curiously to see what was in there.”
“Really, Ashton,” Brandy said. “You know how those horror movies go. Who goes up an attic, knowing that there might be something that you don’t want to find out?”
“The curiosity got the best of me, alright? Okay, I was roaming around the attic and the next thing you know there was another note with the letter U. This drop of blood splashed on it and I saw a woman who is later known as Shirley Truce dangling before me on the ceiling with a noose around her neck. Somebody locked the attic up and she was moving towards me interrogating, ‘Why did your mother not help me, Ashton?’ And all of that. I hated that Mom didn’t believe me afterwards. It was disappointing.”
“Ashton, yo
u gotta know how moms are sometimes. They’re just plain wrong all the way.”
“Yeah, but my mom...she’s just so naïve. She barely even knows that there’s a ghost in our house targeting me and telling me what she’s done. I don’t want to know what she’s done.
“Since you said she was interrogating you about her death and why your mom didn’t help her out, do you think she caused all of this?”
“Well, that is a reasonable question. After all, she did act super shocked when I showed her the letter. She might be hiding something underneath that novel’s attitude of hers, and I’m going to figure out what it is.”
“Does she own a diary or notes or anything that could lead to the events of what’s been happening,” Dareeka asked me.
“As a matter of fact, yes she does. She writes in her diary almost every night. Not that I spy on her or anything but sometimes I caught a glimpse of her writing something’s in there.” I always don’t try to look at her personal information, but I’m very curious to know her deepest and darkest secrets. Especially when she’s fantasizing about Colonel Bleu, the colonel at Richardson High.
I finished up the last of my tater tots and drank my chocolate milk. Soon, it was time to move on to the next class period. I moved through the condensed crowd (claustrophobically speaking), pushing past every obese and sweaty individual as I usually did when going to 3rd block. The 3rd block was usually the biggest block that I had for A-Day. The teacher was Mr. Cliff, a Chemistry teacher with a twin brother who works as a principal at the famous school, Luna Animals Montessori. He was quite odd at times, but he was really cool and he is one of very few teachers who try to help you pass your subject.
“I have an announcement,” he proclaimed as students came in and got out their books. “You won’t be needing your Chemistry books today because we’re going to discuss something intriguing. We will be discussing the subject of ghosts.” He wrote the word on the chalkboard in all capitals. I was almost surprised that he talked about something that is already inhabiting our household. That usually happens just in television shows and movies when you’re having one of those problem solvers advertised on the protagonist’s television.
“What about ghosts,” a girl named Ashley Timrock asked. “I mean, are we basing it off of superstition of phenomena or something? It can’t be anything dealing with chemistry, right?”
“Actually, it can deal with chemistry. Sometimes, ghosts can turn into particles, into the matter of existence. Ghosts or apparitions can take many shapes and can confuse the human mind and sometimes make them go insane. They are sometimes described as ‘floating orbs of light’, similar to the 1980s movie Poltergeist.”
“Wait, I thought we were talking about ghosts, not poll-tern-guys,” Brandy told him.
“Brandy, poltergeists are ghosts. And it’s sounded out as ‘poltergeist’.”
“Don’t start, smart Alex.”
“Okay, Brandy. Enough with the arguing. And by the way, it’s pronounced smart alec.” She crossed her arms, looking aloof. “Anyways, we’ve already established the matter part of the subject, but let’s look further into the force. Ghosts and poltergeists are alike in many, both being deceased lifeforms that could inhabit any and every place they desired (or that they died in). But a difference between both is that ghost you can only sense and poltergeists, well, they make themselves known.
“Poltergeists use force with anything. They can overturn tables, throw merchandise, and even make stuffed animals rotate. Now they aren’t referred to as demons since they can’t possess the human body. They can only torture the residents until they’re ready to leave by force.”
“Wait for a second, Mr. Cliff,” I interrupted. “Are you an expert on this stuff?”
“Well, I’m pretty savvy at it but I wouldn’t say I have a degree in the supernatural category.” He chuckled a bit.
“The reason why I’m asking is that…”
“Ashton has a ghost in his house and he’s trying to figure out why!” Brandy blurted out. Why would she do something so…Brandy-like? I don’t want the whole world knowing that I’m dealing with ghosts.
She would do that, though.
“Brandy!”
“What? I’m not going to keep anything a secret. I mean, now everybody knows that you have a ‘ghost writer’ living inside your home. Get it, I said ghost writer.”
Now everybody started murmuring. Everybody! And Brandy just had to brag and tell everyone my business. And the worst part is that that’s not the first she’s done that. She does it with my love life—
-- HEY, EVERYBODY! ASHTON HAS A CRUSH ON JENNIFER!
...she does it with my personal life—
-- HEY, EVERYBODY! IN FIRST GRADE, ASHTON USED TO EAT BOOGERS AND SUCK ON DOORKNOBS! EWWW!
...and like right now, she has the tendency to just expose my personal life. It gets sickening at times and if she continues to do these actions, I’m going to have to stop telling her stuff or doing anything out of the ordinary around her. And I barely do that.
“Brandy, sit down and stop telling everybody my business!”
“I can’t help it. I told you before that I have a bragging disorder.”
“Just...stop, okay? You’re really ruining everything for our relationship of being friends. And plus, that’s not a real disorder.”
“Uh huh! Look it up if you don’t believe me.”
“I’m not wasting my time for that.”
“Well, I’m just gonna keep bragging.”
“Could I see you for a minute, Mr. Patch?” Oh, I hope I’m not in trouble because of Brandy’s usual shenanigans. I can’t stand when she acts out in Chemistry class. She’s the loudest one in here! Mr. Cliff followed after me into the hallway and he closed the door slightly.
“Now what is this ghost activity Brandy speaks of?”
I sighed. “I guess it started out with my mom’s typewriter. I found it in the storage room and every night at 11:07 it seems to type up a random poem by this deceased poet Gertrude D. Macabellow.”
“Your mother owns a 1975 Smith-Corona Electra?”
“Yeah. It was refurbished back then and she purchased it for $33 at a small bargain store.”
“Does your mom know about these events?”
“I tried to explain it to her, but she keeps throwing it aside like it barely even matters. The first time I told her about it, she told me not to talk about it ever and go to my room for punishment.”
“So what you’re trying to say is that she’s trying to conceal the fact that she knows what happened to the typewriter and who had it last?”
“Yeah, basically.”
“Well, since I’ll be working here late at night, I would like to see if your mom could see me in my room and bring the typewriter with her as well. Because events like this need to be paid attention to seriously.”
“She probably wouldn’t mind.” I hope she doesn’t mind. Mr. Cliff is right. This needs to be paid attention to. Imagine, a ghost inhabiting our home, using an antique typewriter as some type of marionette or something that can access to communicate with the outside world. All the morbidity in those poems Gertrude type. Mom better come up here quick.
From home to school…
“I’m truly elated that you’ve come to my classroom, Mrs. Patch,” Mr. Cliff said as we entered the classroom with the typewriter in Mom’s clutch. Mom was acting as if she didn’t know why we had to bring her beloved typewriter here at Richardson High School. It seemed so ironic to her. And the one question she asked first was, “How did you know I had a Smith-Corona?”
“Oh, your brilliant son informed me about it. Well, actually it started when I was teaching the class about poltergeists using force and then suddenly he interrogated me about it and his friend, oh his friend, blurted out saying that there is a ghost in your home…”
“It was Brandy, wasn’t it?”
“Affirmative, so I asked to see him outside of the classroom and he told me everything that ha
s been happening inside your household since the day that you found that typewriter.”
“Look, I didn’t mean to worry you about what’s happening at home. We’ve got it under control now.”
“What? Mom, every night at 11:07 I hear typing sounds and then that thing always ends up with a paper typed up by Gertrude Macabellow. I mean, what does that on a regular basis?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cliff. He has been acting ‘schizo’ lately. We probably need another checkup.”
“Mrs. Patch, I don’t believe he’s schizophrenic. Lots of people dealing with ghost phenomena don’t necessarily have to be schizophrenic. What did the doctor say when he went?”
“He said he was fine.”
“See, it’s not schizophrenia.” Mom was starting to get teed off a bit. So she picked up her typewriter and told him, “Thank you for your time; we really should get going. I have a casserole to make for some guests tonight and they need to be at home by 4:45.”
“But we need to find out what is wrong with this typewriter and why is it targeting me.”
“We need to go home...NOW!” She snatched my arm along with the typewriter and she threw me in the passenger seat. (Not literally but feels like it.) I was so furious at her mostly because she wouldn’t seek help at the only local source we had. I hope Mr. Cliff forgives me when I come back to my classroom.
He probably will be default anyway.
When I went home, I slammed the car door, barged into the house and slammed the door in my room and locked it on top of that. Why won’t Mom trust me, I thought.
She knocked on my door and demanded me to come out.
I said, ‘Go away, Mom. You always have to ruin everything for me.”
“Now Ashton, we both know that is not the truth. After all I’ve done for you, you start to say that? I would say that you have a lot to understand about life. Now open this door instantly.” I sighed heavily and unlocked the door.
“I’m really disappointed in you telling Mr. Cliff our business. Whatever happens at home stays at home, and I don’t want it to leave this house unless I tell him myself. Is that good?”
“No, that’s not good! Somebody needs to know about Gertrude, besides me...and possibly you. Do you want this activity to continue happening?”
“Ashton, how am I supposed to know what you’re talking about? I’ve never experienced what you’ve been experiencing for the past nights. So what do you expect me to do? Wait with you all night until another poem pops up in the Smith-Corona?”
I hesitated a bit, thinking about what she had said and I replied, “Yes, that’s it! I want you to stay up with me so you can see what I’ve been going through every night.”
“How about I stay in bed while you watch the typewriter until something pops up?”
“I guess that will work. But get a nap in first before you lay down.”
I did as she said and I dozed off to sleep. While I was napping, a dream popped up in my head, and it was grim. I dreamt about the typewriter. I was in a black, bottomless void, levitating in the air with my nightwear on. The typewriter was about a meter away and then it started to come closer to me. It got bigger and bigger and bigger...and then it halted. It started to tip over towards me and two grotesque, shriveled, pale hands burst through the keyboard and stretched out in front of me. As it was advancing to strangle me, I woke up.
It had gotten close to midnight and it was already 11:07 at night. No typing sounds occurred as usual and I know Mom was sitting in the living room with the typewriter. I got out of bed and checked on her.
“How’s the typewriter doing?”
“Nothing. It didn’t even budge. I hope you’re not lying to me.”
“Does it look like I’m lying? I’ve been going on and on about this for the past few days, ever since I found this hunk of junk in the storage room.”
“Watch your language, Ashton. This typewriter isn’t just a hunk of junk; it’s a work of masterpiece. Having this typewriter expanded my writing abilities vastly. You just don’t understand because you’re not planning on being a writer. Since it’s not doing anything at the time, I’m going to go hit the sack.”
“But Mom…”
“I’m tired, Ash. Running all day tending to y’all is exhausting. Good night.” She went to her bedroom and closed the door. Great, just perfect. Now I’m all alone with the typewriter again. Hopefully, this is the last night that I will be hearing this constant clicking. I hurried into the bedroom and the typing started up again. A few minutes later, it stopped.
I went back into the living room and there was the new poem. Fresh from the typewriter. It said:
Lana Deltar was looking cruelly afar,
When she was hit by a baby-blue car;
Dead and cold, she was paved over with tar,
I’m telling you; you’re going to have to know the letter R.