Shelbi Wescott - After Life

By Shelbi Wescott

In the afternoon
When no one is in the house,
I suddenly hear dull dragging feet
Go fumbling down those dark back stairs,
That climb up twisting,
As if they wanted no one to see them.
Beating a dirge upon the bare planks
I hear those feet and the creak of a long-locked door.

In the afternoon
When no one is in the house:
I suddenly hear dull dragging feet
Beating out their futile tune,
Up and down those dark back stairs,
But there is no one in the shadows.

From The Ghosts of an Old House by John Gould Fletcher

Thy soul shall find itself alone

Mid dark thoughts of the gray tomb-stone;

Not one of all the crowd, to pry

Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,

Which is not loneliness for then

The spirits of the dead, who stood

In life before thee, are again

In death around thee, and their will

Shall overshadow thee; be still.

From Spirits of the Dead by Edgar Allan Poe

To Dad:

Thank you for your willingness to foster my love of horror for all these years.

I remember the day clearly. It was April in Oregon and rainy. Not the sprinkling, off-and-on showers of a Northwest spring, but warm, muggy, pouring down rain. The kind of wetness that soaks you the moment you dare to attempt an escape outside. Of course, looking back, I guess the rain seems fitting. If I needed to set the scene for the horror my family would encounter, Id definitely start with rain.

I would add in some thunder and lightning too, because theres something about a storm that puts you on edgea storm upsets the balance of calm and reminds you that youre only passing through this strange world. I used to believe that storms were only science: pressure systems, highs and lows in the valley, electrical currents in the air. Like so many things I used to believe, I came to discover how wrong I was. Storms are omens; they will change you, haunt you, and rattle your existence.

Yes, sure, you think Im being hyperbolic. I know what some people believe: ghosts arent real. Souls live once and then go to heaven or hell, or there is nothing after life ends. Poof. Blackness. And people who dabble in the supernatural or paranormal are wackos and charlatans.

Storms are just storms.

That was me, too. Before April. Before the storm that changed my life.

I dont mind if the people of Ivy Falls remember me and my tale like a dream. I know my name comes up in stories around campfires when people settle in to tell scary tales. My story is popular during October when talk of witches, murder, and the unexplained becomes a seasonal obsession.

What people do and say about what happened to me has no bearing on the truth.

That April, I was a senior in high school. My sights were set on college and dorm living, and Id already started to slack on my schoolwork. Then came that rainy month: the month of restless and wandering spirits. The month of the unexpected and unexplained.

I suppose if you dont want to face the horror straight on, then you can skip to the end where I learn the moral. Or I can just say it here: you take love with you when you leave. You hold on to those pieces of you that loved and were loved, and whether or not you remember is not important. We are made of love. Even if we are born into hurt.

But if youre ready to know what I went throughif youre ready to see the whole story through different eyesthen Im ready. I can do this. I can draw you the perfect picture.

And it started during a storm in April. A portend to end all portends.

My feet felt rooted: it was like tiny tentacles had wormed their way out of my cleats and dug into the powdery dirt below. Home plate was speckled with mud and dust from the batters before me. As I took in a deep breath, I could smell the sunscreen, the cut grass (a rarity among the ever-expanding turf fields), and the hint of rain.

The pitcher, a slender redhead with goggle-glasses, wound up, and let the ball fly forward. I kept my eye trained on the softball and it sailed right past me, hitting the catchers mitt with a discouraging thud.

Strike one! the squatty umpire called. We called him Sunday Schoola juvenile nickname coined out of frustration about his inability to overlook even the hint of profanity. Some umps let you slide by with choice words after difficult calls, but not this one. Whenever we saw Sunday School umping, wed gather up our collection of four-letter missives, line up by the bus, and let them fly into the ether in unison. Our cussing would echo across the parking lot, linger for a moment, and then disappear. Wed giggle; our coach would roll his eyes, but he never chastised us. We were too good at softball to be bullied into puritanical behavior. Buoyed by rebellion, wed soldier on to play some ball. Swear-word-free softball. A clean game. We dealt with the sanctions better than our parents.

Coach Larson had one rule about everything we did that pushed the envelope of school-appropriateness: dont get caught. If we were caught, we were on our own.

The game that day could have used some well-placed profanity because the other team was systematically slaughtering us.

I stepped out of the box and took a deep breath. From their usual seats behind home plate, I heard my stepdads booming claps and my moms whistles of support. These were their beacons of constant encouragement. Soren, my half-brother, sat with them, playing some alphabet game on his personal iPad, his eyes only wandering to the game if he heard the ping of the bat.

Go, Mara! my mom screamed through cupped hands.

Stepping forward, I narrowed my eyes. Redhead Goggle Girl was one of the best pitchers in the state. Shed been groomed since childhood for this moment, and her Division I scholarship was already secure. She was a small town success story; the kind of story each of us on that team wanted to become.

She wound up, stepped forward, released.

And I knew I had it. When you play ball for as many years as I had, you know.

Timing in my head, I let the bat fly forwarda split-second decisionand felt contact. The ball popped up and out, and as I took off for first base, my legs pumped beneath me, my eyes focused on the safety of that dirt-smeared bag. I waited for the roar of the crowd to tell me the outcome.

The visitors section erupted with cheers, and as I ran past first base and slowed my legs, I caught a glimpse of the leftfielder with my ball in her mitt. Fly ball straight to the outfield. My specialty.

Out three.

I spun and walked straight back to the dugout, and I caught a glimpse of my mom in the stands; she clapped for me as I walked. Soren looked up, realized nothing had happened, and lowered his head again. My stepdad leaned forward, Next time, kiddo! he called and I tried to muster a smile that conveyed both shut up and thank you. They could be obnoxious, my parents, when it came to their unwavering praise for my varsity softball status.

My coach gave me a pat on the back and I shrugged it off, picking up my catchers gear and sliding it on over my uniformfirst the leg and chest guards, then the mask, finally my mitt. My legs were born for catching: short and muscular, able to withstand long innings in my crouched position. I was quick and nimble and in-tune with the ball.

Alright, soulmate. Lets do this, said my best friend Carlie, our teams pitchermy defensive other-half.

Carlie Jarden became my friend in middle school, when our mutual hate for Mrs. Hafers English class made us instant allies. Plotting ways to get under her skin configured us into fast friends. We approached our awkward pre-teen years with eagerness and sisterly camaraderie.