Mary heard the scream in her sleep. It woke her.  She raced down the long hallway to her daughter's room. It was impossible to see in the dark, but by memory and maternal instinct she reached her bed.  Mary sat on the edge of the bed and put her arms around her.  Joyce would be nineteen next month, but she would always be her baby.

    "It was terrible!" Joyce said, trembling in her mother's arms.  "I was sound asleep and all of a sudden I was awake.  I thought you were in the room because I felt like -uh- like a presence.  Then I saw this man standing at the foot of my bed; a large man with a big hat on.  I screamed and then it just faded into a moving light." 

    "It's okay.  I told you before, it's just the ghost of Uncle Jack."

    "Yeah, that's a real comfort!"

    "Your Grandma always said this house was haunted."

    "Can't we sell this place and move?  It's awful being scared all the time."

    "The market is bad right now.  I need to get a good price on this house, then maybe we can buy that condo by the ocean. We'll have to hold on for another year at least."

    "And I hate this town, too.  It's for farmers and hicks."

    Mary thought Millis, Maine was a wonderful town, so beautiful and far away from the city with its noise and crime.  "I was born here," Mary said.  "There's nothing to be afraid of.  Remember, Grandma used to tell us about Uncle Jack?"

    "No.  I probably blocked it out."

    Mary turned the light on and took her daughter's hand.

    "Right after the war, Uncle Jack came to visit Grandma and her family.  It was tragic.  Uncle Jack lost a leg in combat.  My mother said she guessed he couldn't accept it because he hung himself in the cellar. That friend of mine who reads Tarot cards told me that if someone dies an untimely or tragic death, it may leave a place haunted.  Now I know Uncle Jack wouldn't hurt us."

    "I don't care if it's Uncle Jack, Uncle Miltie or Silas Marner.  I'm going back to the university.  You won't see me until you have a new address."

    "After all I've done for you."

    "Don't start the guilt trip.  I can't stand it."

    They both heard the sudden noise, like the sound of a door being slammed hard, then a thumping sound on the stairs.

    "Oh God!  What's that?" Joyce shouted, embracing her mother and closing her eyes. 

    "It's just him up to his old tricks," she told Joyce reassuringly.

***

    They both slept late the next day. Mary woke at 10:00.  She looked out her kitchen window while she filled the coffee urn and smiled.  The temperature outside was 10° below, but it was a beautiful morning. 

    Joyce didn't come down to the kitchen until 11:30.

    "Morning, dear," Mary said, kissing her daughter on the cheek.

    "Morning."

    "I was just making breakfast."

    "No breakfast.  I've got to run.  I have a class this afternoon."

    Mary turned to look at her daughter and saw that she was ready to leave.

    Joyce grabbed a few of Mary's homemade biscuits and threw them in her backpack.

    "You'll be back next weekend?"

    "I meant what I said last night.  I'm not coming back to this house to be terrorized."

    "I miss you so much during the week.  I look forward to the weekends."

    "I'll call you in a couple of days." Joyce said, turning to leave.

    "Let me walk you to your car," Mary said, taking her daughter's hand.

    "It's freezing outside.  Stay inside and stay warm.  By the way, I can't stand your new friend, Elsie.  What a weirdo."

    "Elsie has been such a help to me.  I know she's a little strange, but people can't help the way they look.  She had polio during her childhood -- that's why she limps." 

    "Ugh!  She gives me the creeps -- that hoarse, squeaky voice of hers, her huge hands. That wig she wears that's always crooked."

    "That's cruel.  Elsie had cancer five years ago.  Her hair never grew back after the chemo treatments so, of course, she has to wear a wig, although I do wish she'd get one that fits."

    "Okay," Joyce said, sighing with frustration.  "Gotta go.  I love you, you know."

    "And I love you!  Have a good week."

    Joyce kissed her mother on the cheek and climbed into her brand-new Corolla, bought by her mother from an inheritance. 

    Mary was just going to lock the front door when she saw Elsie limping towards the house.  As Elsie made her way up the snowy incline, she remembered the first time she met her.  It was at a church breakfast about three months ago.  Elsie was new in town.  She was dressed in a ratty black coat and Mary took pity on her.  Later, when she got to talking with Elsie and she related the tragedies of her life, Mary immediately put her on the Church Supper Committee that she chaired.  She was a firm believer that work and giving to others was a great way to forget your own troubles.  

    "You're early," Mary said, smiling at Elsie.

    "Thought we'd get cookin'.  They're expecting snow, so I thought I best come before it started."

    "That's fine.  Come in.  I have fresh coffee and breakfast, too.  Joyce had to run."

    Elsie limped her way to the large captain's table. 

    "Two sugars and lots of cream, right?"

    "Yes, thanks."

    "I'm so grateful for your help," Mary said as she set down the cups.

    "And I'm the one's grateful meeting you, being a stranger in town.  You're such a good person.  You do so much for the church."

    "Well I try, but it's nothing really.  I give them old sheets and old clothes.  Just things I was going to throw away."

    "But you think of others, that's what's important.  Look what you're doing now?" said Elsie.  They were preparing food for the church supper.

    "With your help, don't forget.  And the cornmeal and ground beef were donated by the general store.  All we have to do is put it together."

    "I know it's none of my business and I hope you don't take offense when I ask you this...” Elsie said as she looked at Mary with a critical eye, taking in the coiled bun of brown-gray hair that Mary rolled up each morning, and her sensible framed glasses that did not lend much to her sparkling hazel eyes.

    "Not at all.  Go ahead."

    "Well, I can't help thinking how pretty you'd look with a little makeup, and perhaps a brown rinse in your hair. Why I'd even love to see you wear your hair down once in a while."

    "I guess I could fuss more with my looks, but what for?  I'm certainly not looking to meet anyone. I'm too set in my ways."

    "It's certainly up to you," Elsie said, nodding her head with understanding.

    "I know it's hard to believe, but there was a time when I was young and perhaps a little daring," Mary said.  "I would never leave the house without makeup.  One year I even bought a red dress and wore it to the Sunday church dance.  That's where I met my husband."

    Elsie moved closer.  It wasn't often that Mary shared personal things.

    "You should have seen him.  He was so handsome; he literally swept me off my feet.  We married, and nine months to the day, my daughter was born.  It had some people counting, I'm sure."

    "What happened to him?

    "He deserted us.  Joyce was five months old when he left," Mary said softly, her eyes growing misty as she remembered.

    "But why?  I'd say he was lucky to have such a wonderful wife."

    "Who knows?  I'm sure it's for the best."

    Elsie, sensing that Mary was ending this conversation, looked down at the wonderful food on her plate.  Mary watched Elsie as she wolfed down the bacon, eggs and home fries, and she could see what her daughter meant.  There was something strange about Elsie; something out of place.  Her nose was red and bulbous.  Her head seemed too big for her body.  Something.

    She quickly came out of her musing when she suddenly noticed Elsie staring at her in a strange manner.

    "I just love this house," Elsie said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.  Elsie glanced around the kitchen, her gaze taking in the large spice rack, the pretty café curtains, the dish towels neatly folded, the kindling wood in the bin by the door, the large shiny ax hanging right above it.  "Everything in its place," she declared.

    "My mother died last year, leaving us this house.  It's a big old barn, but it's something.  The only problem is..."

    "What?"

    "Well -er- I hate to even say this.  You'll think I'm touched, but –uh- I think it might be haunted.

    "Why?"

    "At night, you see, we'll hear cabinets slam and things crash to the floor, though I know I shut the house tight before we went to bed. Then sometimes we hear footsteps on the stairs."

    "Good heavens, I'd be terrified."

    "At first I was, but after investigating several times, there was nothing there.  Then I remembered my mother telling me about Uncle Jack.  You see, he hung himself in the cellar.  Like I was telling my daughter last night, they say a place is likely to be haunted if someone meets a tragic death."

    "Oooh!," Elsie exclaimed, shuddering in spite of herself.

    "When I solved the mystery and I knew it was just a family ghost, it didn't bother me at all."

***

    After helping Mary cart the food to the church supper and setting it up, it was dark when Elsie got home.  As soon as she unlocked the door to her little one-room apartment, she immediately turned the heat up on the radiators.  She sighed with weariness as she removed her wig and opened the medicine cabinet.  She removed the bottle that was labeled in large letters, THORAZINE.  One pill left, but I've been feeling fine.  She gratefully climbed out of her clothes and put on a big flannel nightgown.  I'm so tired.  I ate too much chili and cornbread.  She took the pill with a little water and climbed into bed.  Strange dreams plagued her mind.  She was at a dance with Mary.  Mary's face was aglow with makeup and she wore a red dress.  Mary willingly climbed into her arms and they danced to a beautiful waltz.

                                  ***  

    Mary's breath came in short gasps as she loaded the trunk of her car with groceries.  She wasn't happy this morning when she realized she would have to go into town on one of the coldest days of the year, but she wanted to stock up the refrigerator and pantry in case Joyce came home this weekend.  It was 12° below, with blizzard-like conditions forecast for the afternoon.  She then remembered the carpenter tacks and varnish she wanted and started walking to the hardware store.  As she was passing the station house, she met Sheriff Foster just as he was going in.  They had gone to school together.

    "Mornin’," Sheriff Foster said, tipping his hat.

    "Hi!  Doing my shopping early.  They're forecasting that blizzard for this afternoon.  It's colder today than I've ever remembered. Don't you think?"

    "You of all people know how winters are in Millis," Sheriff Foster said, chuckling.   

    Sheriff Foster grabbed the mail from the mailbox by the front door and brought it to his desk.

    "Mornin’. I just made coffee," Steve said as he handed his boss a cup.

    "Thanks."

    "What's on the agenda today?

    "Not much.  I'm gonna go through the mail and work on the budget.  I have to deliver it to the town commissioners by tomorrow.  I put in for a raise for you," 

    "Hey thanks," Steve said with a big grin.  "I'm gonna run next door and get us some Danish."

    That's the last thing in the world you need, Gerald Foster thought as he watched his three-hundred pound deputy walk out the door.  

    Gerald worked on the budget while Steve tinkered outside in the garage with the one police car the town afforded them.  When he looked up at the clock, he couldn't believe the time.  It was already noon.  Steve was sitting at his desk filling out a traffic report.  Gerald picked up the Most Wanted posters and started going through them.

    "Take a look at this," he said as he passed Steve the poster of Jack Morris.  It says there that he escaped from Pineland State Hospital.  That's just ten miles away." 

    "Don't look like much to me," Steve said as he looked over the poster and passed it back.

    "You never know with these psychos."

    "Er-ah-do you mind if I leave early today?" Steve stuttered.

    "'Course not.  Nothin's happened in this town since Horace Murphy tied one on two years ago.  The holding cell's been empty since."

    "Well, thanks. My son's got this band competition.  He plays the flute?  Poorly, I'm afraid.  Have to drive him to Bennett High School.  That's over thirty miles away."

    "Okay.  Tell your son I hope he wins."

    "Thanks.  If you need me, just call."

    Gerald watched Steve as he left the station house.  He walked in the back and sat down in the big easy chair to eat his lunch and watch television.  He saw that “The Sonny Gibbs Hour” was on. The toupéed Sonny annoyed him, and he was just about to switch channels when Sonny began talking about the escaped patient from Pineland State Hospital.

    "We're going to talk now with Dr. Manville, one of the head psychiatrists of Pineland," Sonny announced to the audience.

    "Now, Dr. Manville, tell us about Jack Morris."

    A photo of Jack Morris flashed on the screen. Gerald Foster checked the poster on his desk; it was the same man.   

    "Well, usually patient records are confidential, but being that everything came out in the trial transcripts, I can talk about this.  To answer your question, his psychosis includes DID."

    "Doctor, can you please explain that in lay terms?" Sonny asked, chuckling along with the audience.

    "Sorry.  DID is Disassociative Identity Disorder.  It's a disruption in the usually integrated function of the consciousness, memory, identity or perception of reality.  Jack Morris's psychosis might be described as intermittent explosive disorder.  Without medication there are episodes of failure to resist aggressive impulses that result in assaultive acts."

    "Would these assaultive acts include murder, Doctor?  I mean that orderly was hacked to death, wasn't he?"

    "Err-yes," the Doctor reluctantly agreed, thinking of the ongoing lawsuit against the hospital from the orderly's family.  "On the other hand," the doctor continued, "this particular patient may display a glib, superficial charm and be quite social and verbally facile."

    "What causes this illness, doctor?  Is it genetic?"

    "It's a way for the brain to tear apart the memory of a traumatic event in order to survive the situation.  In Jack's case, there was terrible abuse from the mother."

    "What kind of abuse?  Sexual?"  Sonny asked hopefully, thinking of his sagging ratings.

    "The mother was a religious fanatic.  She caught Jack -uh- touching himself as a boy.  She poured scalding water on his - his private parts.  Now this trauma may be put so far back in the subconscious that it is perceived as being forgotten by the victim.  However the body sensation may still be present and may be experienced from time to time.  The explosive behavior is precipitated by a great deal of tension or arousal."

    "Well, doctor, it's been six months since his escape. Do you have any idea where he might be? 

    "He can be anywhere.  He is a master of disguise."

    Gerald Foster turned the TV off and took two aspirins.  He wasn't concerned.  The town was as quiet as a tomb.  He'd know if a stranger was milling about.

    The phone rang.  He picked it up and grimaced when he heard the voice on the other end.  It was Miss Hansen.  He knew her well.  To him she was your typical man under the bed spinster. She called the station at least twice a week to report strange sightings and happenings. Everyone, including him, knew that she drank. 

    "Yes, Miss Hansen," Foster said, trying not to sound annoyed.

    "I saw him, I saw him go into the woods in back of my house."

    "You saw who?"

    "That man they showed on television. That Jack Morris."

    "Okay, I'll take a look."

    "Well, be quick about it, "she slurred, "I'm scared."

    Gerald hung up the phone and started to get that feeling he sometimes got in the pit of his stomach when things didn't feel right.  The feeling that most men who worked in the law would understand.  Maybe it was just seeing that poster of Jack Morris and then the television show, but he wanted to check things out.  He put on his leather jacket, and climbed into the official car.  He turned the siren off, but kept the blinking blue light on.   

                                ***  

    Almost a week had passed and Mary had not heard from Joyce.  Just then the phone rang.

    "Hi, Mom."

    "I'm so glad to hear from you."

    "How's everything?"

    "Well, to tell you the truth, I'm tired.  The ghost has been pretty active this week," Mary said, remembering waking up last night and feeling a presence in the room.  She shuddered when she thought of the icy chill that filled the air, and recalled the moving light spinning in front of her. 

    "Now that's comforting to hear."

    "I'm sorry.  I know how that upsets you."

    "Don't worry about it.  I'll be home tomorrow.  I'm bringing a friend -- someone who's interested in sixth sense things.  He's dying to meet our ghost."

    "That's wonderful.  I'll make my pot roast."

    Just as Mary said goodbye, the doorbell rang.  She opened the door, and was surprised to see Sheriff Foster.

    "Hello.  Come in," Mary said, holding the door open.  "Can I offer you some coffee?"

    "No thanks.  Just came by to check with some of the people in your area. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about.  I mean six months have gone by.  He's probably clear out of this area by now."

    "What do you mean?" Mary asked.

    "Patient escaped from Pineland State Hospital 'bout six months ago?   Someone said they thought they spotted him around here.  The television's been runnin’ a picture of him every so often."

    "Well, I rarely watch television.  And what with all the snow we've had and this bitter cold, I haven't seen anyone around at all."

    "Probably mistaken, that old biddy, Miss Hansen?  She's the one who called the station.  I think she imagines things.  Well, I best be off."

    "Thanks for stopping by."

                                 ***

    Deep in the woods, about a quarter-of-a-mile from Mary's house, the large man waited, shivering in the unbearable bitterness of winter in Maine.   The voice in his head was unrelenting.  Go to bed! Go to bed! Go to bed! Go to bed! it screamed silently. His eyes glowed with rabid anticipation.  He had been waiting for hours, his eyes upon the house.  Waiting for all of the lights of the house to go out, all signs of life to stop, waiting with eagerness for his prey.

                                 ***

    By the time Mary climbed the creaky stairs up to her bedroom that night, she was exhausted.  It had taken her most of the afternoon to clean the old wood stove.  Then she had worked for hours on the needlepoint piece she was trying to finish for Joyce's birthday next week.  As Mary climbed into bed, she wondered about Elsie.  She hadn't seen her all week.  I'll call her in the morning.  Probably down with the flu.  She propped herself up on the pillow and started to read, but sleep came before the next chapter.

***

     Mary heard the voice of her sentinel, the inner guard that rests in every human brain between the nether world of cognitive awareness and sleeping, whispering to her of windows broken and stairs creaking.

     Probably the ghost, she thought, starting to turn over.  But she saw, as if in a dream, a figure leaning over her bed.

    "Mary," the intruder said, in a voice that Mary vaguely recognized. "Put on your red dress."

    "Who are you?"

    She couldn't see his face in the dark, but the night light in the hall picked up the glint of steel that he held on his left side.

    She prayed.  I shall not fear the terror of the night...

    "Put on your red dress!" the intruder repeated, more urgently.

    Who was this man?  How did he know her name? Oh God!

    His hand grabbed hers.  She heard him humming a remembered waltz in dull monotone.  Mary limped along with him, following his body gait.   She drew back in horror when he started swinging the ax back and forth. Suddenly, they both heard every door and cabinet in the house slamming.  Opening and closing, faster and faster!  She saw a whirling vortex of light in the room, spinning like a tornado.

    The ghost!  She felt some of the fear going out of her.

    He grunted, confused by the eerie din, and she was able to shake her hand free from his grasp.  She ran out of the room, down through the long hallway, holding on to the stair railing with her left hand.

    Please God help me!  Please let me get away!  She began to silently sob.

    But then his breath was on the back of her neck.  His hand grabbed a handful of nightgown.  Swiftly he secured his left arm around her throat, forcing her eyes upward.  Mary saw his right hand above her, holding the ax.  And she saw him.  The nightlight picked up the glint of his eyes, shining with a rage that had been there for centuries.  Mary saw him ready to strike the fatal blow, and waited for the fall of the ax.

    Her last conscious thought -- I won't see my daughter graduate.

    Far back in the canyons of her mind she heard a shot ring out.  She fell to the floor.  His body toppled over hers.  Strong hands were pushing the monster off her and lifting her head.  She felt a callused hand graze her cheek.

    "It's okay, Mary.  It's okay.  I'm here."

    Sheriff Foster.  It's Sheriff Foster, she thought, with such relief it was unbearable.  She threw her arms around him, sobbing.

    "I'm here for you, Mary.  She called again, you see."

    "Huh?"

    "Miss Hansen called again.  Said she saw him walkin’ through the woods towards your house.  Something in her voice made me believe.  I kept patrolling the area all night.  Didn't see him.  Didn't see anything.  Then when I was making my last turn around the neighborhood, I saw your door wide open and shattered glass on your front steps."

    "I've never been more happy to see anyone," she told him.

    "Let me take a look at him.  Make sure he's dead."

    Sheriff Foster rose and turned the body of the deceased over with his nightstick so he could see his face.  Mary turned to look.

    "That's him, all right.  It's that psycho, Jack Morris."

    Mary stood up, pointing a shaking finger at the corpse.

    "No!  That's Elsie!"

  Contact the Author - kit4541@yahoo.com