I was in the swing now, busy with school, friends, the Lavender farm and writing stories for the Clarion. Sometimes I made it, sometimes I didn’t. There is one story that Tommy Connor submitted towards the end of the year that I believe hides another more interesting story that Tommy doesn’t know about. His family had bought the old Beehive Hotel and turned it into a restaurant, a very successful restaurant and the article had been accepted by the Clarion for publication. This building had been deserted for years and there had been all sorts of rumours around the town about it being haunted which accounted for the fact that no-one lasted very long there. Earlier in the year Pete had dared Frankie and I to go there one night; actually it was the night of the Spelling Bee. We wandered around with torches but nothing happened, or so I thought! Frankie had been a bit strange that night telling us she had seen something, something creepy, but we couldn’t see anything so we all went home. And that was that. But no, that was not that. Frankie told me the story from her point of view, and ever since I heard this story, I have looked at Frankie with new eyes. This was the way it went.
THE HOUSE WITH NINE DOORS
A Ghost Story
(Frankie’s Story as told by Frankie)
My Gran says if I’d been born in the old times I would have been burned as a witch. She says I have “the sight” just like her mother had.
She’s a mad old bat, she is. Look at her sitting on the back verandah with that knitting she’s always at. Dish cloths, that’s what she knits. By the hundreds. Cotton dish cloths. A big seller at local fetes she says. Knitting her dish cloths is better than watching the soaps on TV she says. Whatever!
Anyway, I didn’t believe her about “the sight” stuff till a few months ago when Pete, Jaz and I decided to visit the House with Nine Doors one night. This is an old abandoned place up the road. It has nine doors to the outside. Most houses have two or three but this place has nine; it’s really weird.
Pete, Jaz and I hang out. We all turn 13 in March, which gives us something in common I guess. Pete’s a boy and Jaz and I are girls so he is always trying to prove he’s tougher than we are. I‘m not sure how it happened but Pete dared us and we ended up deciding to check out the rumours about the haunting at the House with Nine Doors. Noises have been heard at around 11 at night. The stories have been around for a hundred years or so and no one lives in the house for long. It’s usually as it is now, empty. Or so we thought.
So, that Friday night we all sneaked out at 10.30. It was easy at my place because Mum and Gran were asleep as usual in the lounge room with the TV going where they wouldn’t wake up till about midnight when it was time to go to bed. I heard Pete hissing for me, “Frankie”. (This is short for Francesca, but nobody calls me that. Francesca was Gran’s mother’s name.) “Let’s go.”
It’s quiet at night in this village with hardly any traffic. The pubs close at 10 so the drinkers would have made their way home already.
The streets are wide and the lighting is pretty dim, except for the one roundabout in the town where recently the Council installed a huge 4 lamp light. This roundabout is close to the House with Nine Doors and the light throws shadows across the front of the house from the trees and verandah posts. I hadn’t noticed this before because I usually pass the house in daylight. The area behind the house is pitch black.
We had kept to the sides of the street, low and quiet. No need to call attention. The closer we got to the house the slower our steps became. As the house came into view, I heard a little whimper escape from Jazzy and felt her hand reach out to hold my arm. We were across the road and stood together looking at the house.
“Come on,” whispered Pete, “Let’s go.” Jaz was behind me as I followed Pete across the street. We all stepped up onto the verandah, which is right on the street, and stood listening. It’s amazing how quiet the night can be.
“You two go in the front door. You can see in there by the street light. I’m going around the back.” Pete snapped on his torch and then he was gone. The front door was open and was swinging softly, even though I could feel no breeze and we could see into the hallway. What were we doing here? It was nearly 11. With Jaz hanging on my arm we walked carefully down the hallway.
Jaz looked right at the end of the hall. “There’s Pete, I can see his torch light. He must have come in the side door.” And she headed towards the light. I turned left into a large room. I don’t know what made me open that left hand door. I just did. I walked in a few steps and thought at first it was just really dark and empty and was turning to leave and join the others when I heard it - a woman’s voice soft and lilting. A light was building out of the darkness at the end of the room and I could smell smoke in the room, cigars not cigarettes, a rich, thick smell - a bit like Granddad used to smoke. Slowly, out of the smudgy light I saw people sitting at a table playing cards. I backed slowly towards the door, trying to be invisible. Down at the card game two of the players were standing up. There was a sort of shout, a shot and one of them crumpled and fell. I was watching a murder!
You know when people say the hairs on the back of their neck stood up. I now know exactly what that feels like. My skin was crawling, my jaw had dropped and I could feel my heart pounding. I desperately wanted to get out of there. I felt behind me and grabbed the door knob but it wouldn’t budge. It was stuck! I could hear Jaz banging on the door calling my name.
I could still hear the singing and I turned slowly back around. The shot guy was lying on the ground and he was looking at me! It was a long sad look and I couldn’t look away. His lips moved and I heard him say “please help me”. The words were scratchy like you hear on old 78 records. His eyes stayed on mine a few more seconds till they just closed and he stopped moving.
I saw something shiny drop from his hand and roll under the skirting and then the scene faded away. I had to get out of there!
I tried the door knob again and this time it worked. I ran straight into Pete and Jaz who had been in the hallway trying to open the door.
Jaz grabbed my arm and whispered “Where were you? You just disappeared and I couldn’t open the door.”
Pete was looking at his watch. “11.20,” he said, “and nothing’s happened. Let’s go home.”
“Didn’t you hear the shout and the shot, just now?” I asked and I started to drag him into the large room.
“Nothing, we heard nothing. What are you taking about?” he said a bit impatiently as he shrugged off my hand.
“In there, I saw a card game and someone was shot and there was singing ... “
Pete stuck his head around the door. “I can’t see a thing in here. You must have imagined it.”
What did I hear? What did I see? It did sound a bit fantastic when I put it into words. They obviously didn’t believe me. These are my best friends but there is a limit to what they’ll accept and I felt this was stretching things a bit much here.
At that very moment we heard a throaty scream coming from the garden behind the house. I knew a possum when I heard it, but we weren’t about to hang about to check out my knowledge of the local wildlife and we pushed and shoved each other in a mad panic to the front door and out over the verandah onto the street.
*******************
Wow, what had that been about? Why did I see and hear things that Pete and Jazzy didn’t? The next day was Saturday so I was taking myself off to the local library to find out more about the House with Nine Doors.
“Where are you going?” asked Gran, who although she pretended to be deaf and half blind knew more than she let on. “And I know you sneaked out last night. What are you up to?”
Should I tell Gran? If anyone would listen it would be her. She was also the best keeper of secrets I knew. So I told her about the dare, the trip to the House with Nine Doors and what I thought I had seen and heard last night.
Gran is really old and a bit weird. She was looking closely at me, at my face. Every morning she plaits her long white hair into two side plaits like she used to when she was a young girl. Now that she’s old she puts the plaits around her head and holds them in place with long pins, like bobby pins but longer.
She was nodding and I could hear her saying under her breath that she “knew it”. “Knew what?” I demanded.
“That you have the sight, just like your great grandmother. I knew it. I’ve seen you stare into space just like she did. You see things other people don’t. She put her hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes.
“It’s a gift, Frankie. Don’t be scared.”
********************
Scared! I wasn’t scared. Gran was off with the pixies again, that’s all. But something in her face kept me there. There were tears in her eyes and she pulled me into her arms. I took this for a few seconds then pulled gently back.
“Do you know the story about the House with Nine Doors?”
Why do I bother? Of course, she did. She had heard about all about the troubles at that house over the years.
It seems that more than 100 years ago this village had been a stopping off point for the stage coaches which went to the gold fields. The House with Nine Doors was a staging inn and hotel. In the wild times it was notorious for the drinking and gambling and other stuff (which Gran was very fuzzy about) that went on there. It had also been the haunt of a local bushranger, Gentleman Jim, who was known to love his poker.
One night there had been a poker game and a local farmer, Declan Connor, had been killed by the bushranger. Declan had recently married and had left his bride Cecilia at home that night, taking her wedding ring to the game, hoping to use it to win some badly needed cash. Declan never came home, and Cecilia, it was said, died young of a broken heart. They were buried in the village cemetery side by side.
“Gran, do you think that what I saw was Declan’s murder?”
“Mmm, could be.”
“But why? Why me? Does it happen every night?”
“Something must account for the rumours of the haunting and the fact that no one can live there.”
“The man who was shot, Declan, he looked at me before he died. He had a pleading sort of look in his eyes and I heard him say “please help me”. I know he wants me to do something. But what? He can’t rest. Something is stopping him.”
Gran was smiling softly to herself. “You’ll know. You’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe he wants revenge. But Gentleman Jim must be well and truly dead by now. No, that can’t be it.”
And then I knew. I watched the scene in my head again and as Declan died on that floor, I followed the shiny something roll towards the skirting.
“It’s the ring, isn’t it, Gran? Declan wants me to get the ring and do something with it?”
“Could be.”
“But what?”
“Where do you think the ring belongs, Frankie?”
“With Cecilia?”
“I think so too.”
*****************
How did I get this job? I asked myself as that afternoon I slipped quietly through the front door of the abandoned house.
It was so different in the daylight. Wallpaper was peeling from the hall walls, full of holes left by silverfish. The floorboards were dusty and there were several holes we had managed to miss falling in by pure chance when we had come in the night. Evidence left by the house’s present inhabitants (those of the furry kind) was scattered on the floor.
Carefully, I picked my way down the hall till I arrived at the left hand door. The door creaked as I opened it and looked in.
The room was large with two sets of French doors along the edge and a huge empty fireplace at each end. The sun was streaming across the room in bands hung with millions of particles of dust.
I was nervous, half expecting the sights and smells of the night before to emerge again from the shadows. But nothing happened. I tried to remember the spot where the ring had rolled under the skirting. I ran (no sense in being in here longer than was necessary) and knelt in the dust for a closer look at the skirting. It took a while but finally with my eye right down at floor level I caught a gleam in the sunlight. With my finger I could just reach through the gap between the skirting and the floor and flick the ring out into my waiting hand. It felt right. This was meant to be. I closed my fist over the ring and ran as fast as I could for home.
***********************
Gran and I made our way slowly through the graves at the village cemetery. Gran walks with a stick but she still manages to get around. She wears sneakers now, much better for old feet, she says. I don’t mind walking with her; it’s kind of nice not to have to race everywhere at top speed. Sometimes we stop at a grave of someone that Gran knew and she mumbles something to herself. “A little prayer,” she says, “can’t do any harm!”
And then we were there - two really old graves side by side. Declan Connor on the left:
“Declan Michael Connor taken
in an untimely and violent manner.
Loved husband of Cecilia Mary Connor
and father to Michael Thomas Connor.
26 years.
1842 – 1868”
Cecilia Connor on the right:
“Cecilia Mary Connor (nee Farrell) died young.
Loved wife of Declan Michael Connor and
mother to Michael Thomas Connor.
29 years
1844 – 1873”
Gran had brought a little trowel with her in the pocket of her track suit jacket (very uncool, but very comfortable for an old body, Gran says). She handed it to me. I dug as far as I could in the dry soil and dropped the ring into it. I covered it up and refilled the hole, patting down the soil so that it looked undisturbed. No sense in going to all this trouble if some thief came along and stole it!
Gran and I stood together quietly and looked at the graves. What now?
“Let’s go home,” she said softly, “you’ve done all you could. Mother would be very proud of you.”
Yeah, right! I was never going to hear the end of “the sight” thing now!
*********************
All this happened about 6 months ago and all has been quiet around here since then. This morning, however, Gran was reading the local rag and was suddenly looking very excited. She took her reading glasses off and used them to call me over with an impatient wave. I was only doing the dishes so I didn’t need a second invitation.
“Okay, Gran. What’s all the excitement about?”
“Read that,” she said quickly pointing to a small article in the left hand corner. She had the smuggest look on her face I had ever seen.
“Read that and then tell me you don’t have the sight.”
So I read it.
"The old Beehive Hotel (locally known as the House with Nine Doors) has just celebrated its first successful month as the latest fashionable restaurant in the village. The property was bought by Thomas and Sandra Connor, of the local Connor family who have been in the district for more than 150 years. Thomas and Sandra are thrilled with their success. “We had looked at this property before but it had seemed a bit unwelcoming to us. We visited it again a few months ago and it was different somehow. We know that an ancestor of ours died here so we feel there is a connection of sorts for us with the building. We have a good feeling about it.”
END
THE HOUSE WITH NINE DOORS
A Ghost Story
(Frankie’s Story as told by Frankie)
My Gran says if I’d been born in the old times I would have been burned as a witch. She says I have “the sight” just like her mother had.
She’s a mad old bat, she is. Look at her sitting on the back verandah with that knitting she’s always at. Dish cloths, that’s what she knits. By the hundreds. Cotton dish cloths. A big seller at local fetes she says. Knitting her dish cloths is better than watching the soaps on TV she says. Whatever!
Anyway, I didn’t believe her about “the sight” stuff till a few months ago when Pete, Jaz and I decided to visit the House with Nine Doors one night. This is an old abandoned place up the road. It has nine doors to the outside. Most houses have two or three but this place has nine; it’s really weird.
Pete, Jaz and I hang out. We all turn 13 in March, which gives us something in common I guess. Pete’s a boy and Jaz and I are girls so he is always trying to prove he’s tougher than we are. I‘m not sure how it happened but Pete dared us and we ended up deciding to check out the rumours about the haunting at the House with Nine Doors. Noises have been heard at around 11 at night. The stories have been around for a hundred years or so and no one lives in the house for long. It’s usually as it is now, empty. Or so we thought.
So, that Friday night we all sneaked out at 10.30. It was easy at my place because Mum and Gran were asleep as usual in the lounge room with the TV going where they wouldn’t wake up till about midnight when it was time to go to bed. I heard Pete hissing for me, “Frankie”. (This is short for Francesca, but nobody calls me that. Francesca was Gran’s mother’s name.) “Let’s go.”
It’s quiet at night in this village with hardly any traffic. The pubs close at 10 so the drinkers would have made their way home already.
The streets are wide and the lighting is pretty dim, except for the one roundabout in the town where recently the Council installed a huge 4 lamp light. This roundabout is close to the House with Nine Doors and the light throws shadows across the front of the house from the trees and verandah posts. I hadn’t noticed this before because I usually pass the house in daylight. The area behind the house is pitch black.
We had kept to the sides of the street, low and quiet. No need to call attention. The closer we got to the house the slower our steps became. As the house came into view, I heard a little whimper escape from Jazzy and felt her hand reach out to hold my arm. We were across the road and stood together looking at the house.
“Come on,” whispered Pete, “Let’s go.” Jaz was behind me as I followed Pete across the street. We all stepped up onto the verandah, which is right on the street, and stood listening. It’s amazing how quiet the night can be.
“You two go in the front door. You can see in there by the street light. I’m going around the back.” Pete snapped on his torch and then he was gone. The front door was open and was swinging softly, even though I could feel no breeze and we could see into the hallway. What were we doing here? It was nearly 11. With Jaz hanging on my arm we walked carefully down the hallway.
Jaz looked right at the end of the hall. “There’s Pete, I can see his torch light. He must have come in the side door.” And she headed towards the light. I turned left into a large room. I don’t know what made me open that left hand door. I just did. I walked in a few steps and thought at first it was just really dark and empty and was turning to leave and join the others when I heard it - a woman’s voice soft and lilting. A light was building out of the darkness at the end of the room and I could smell smoke in the room, cigars not cigarettes, a rich, thick smell - a bit like Granddad used to smoke. Slowly, out of the smudgy light I saw people sitting at a table playing cards. I backed slowly towards the door, trying to be invisible. Down at the card game two of the players were standing up. There was a sort of shout, a shot and one of them crumpled and fell. I was watching a murder!
You know when people say the hairs on the back of their neck stood up. I now know exactly what that feels like. My skin was crawling, my jaw had dropped and I could feel my heart pounding. I desperately wanted to get out of there. I felt behind me and grabbed the door knob but it wouldn’t budge. It was stuck! I could hear Jaz banging on the door calling my name.
I could still hear the singing and I turned slowly back around. The shot guy was lying on the ground and he was looking at me! It was a long sad look and I couldn’t look away. His lips moved and I heard him say “please help me”. The words were scratchy like you hear on old 78 records. His eyes stayed on mine a few more seconds till they just closed and he stopped moving.
I saw something shiny drop from his hand and roll under the skirting and then the scene faded away. I had to get out of there!
I tried the door knob again and this time it worked. I ran straight into Pete and Jaz who had been in the hallway trying to open the door.
Jaz grabbed my arm and whispered “Where were you? You just disappeared and I couldn’t open the door.”
Pete was looking at his watch. “11.20,” he said, “and nothing’s happened. Let’s go home.”
“Didn’t you hear the shout and the shot, just now?” I asked and I started to drag him into the large room.
“Nothing, we heard nothing. What are you taking about?” he said a bit impatiently as he shrugged off my hand.
“In there, I saw a card game and someone was shot and there was singing ... “
Pete stuck his head around the door. “I can’t see a thing in here. You must have imagined it.”
What did I hear? What did I see? It did sound a bit fantastic when I put it into words. They obviously didn’t believe me. These are my best friends but there is a limit to what they’ll accept and I felt this was stretching things a bit much here.
At that very moment we heard a throaty scream coming from the garden behind the house. I knew a possum when I heard it, but we weren’t about to hang about to check out my knowledge of the local wildlife and we pushed and shoved each other in a mad panic to the front door and out over the verandah onto the street.
*******************
Wow, what had that been about? Why did I see and hear things that Pete and Jazzy didn’t? The next day was Saturday so I was taking myself off to the local library to find out more about the House with Nine Doors.
“Where are you going?” asked Gran, who although she pretended to be deaf and half blind knew more than she let on. “And I know you sneaked out last night. What are you up to?”
Should I tell Gran? If anyone would listen it would be her. She was also the best keeper of secrets I knew. So I told her about the dare, the trip to the House with Nine Doors and what I thought I had seen and heard last night.
Gran is really old and a bit weird. She was looking closely at me, at my face. Every morning she plaits her long white hair into two side plaits like she used to when she was a young girl. Now that she’s old she puts the plaits around her head and holds them in place with long pins, like bobby pins but longer.
She was nodding and I could hear her saying under her breath that she “knew it”. “Knew what?” I demanded.
“That you have the sight, just like your great grandmother. I knew it. I’ve seen you stare into space just like she did. You see things other people don’t. She put her hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes.
“It’s a gift, Frankie. Don’t be scared.”
********************
Scared! I wasn’t scared. Gran was off with the pixies again, that’s all. But something in her face kept me there. There were tears in her eyes and she pulled me into her arms. I took this for a few seconds then pulled gently back.
“Do you know the story about the House with Nine Doors?”
Why do I bother? Of course, she did. She had heard about all about the troubles at that house over the years.
It seems that more than 100 years ago this village had been a stopping off point for the stage coaches which went to the gold fields. The House with Nine Doors was a staging inn and hotel. In the wild times it was notorious for the drinking and gambling and other stuff (which Gran was very fuzzy about) that went on there. It had also been the haunt of a local bushranger, Gentleman Jim, who was known to love his poker.
One night there had been a poker game and a local farmer, Declan Connor, had been killed by the bushranger. Declan had recently married and had left his bride Cecilia at home that night, taking her wedding ring to the game, hoping to use it to win some badly needed cash. Declan never came home, and Cecilia, it was said, died young of a broken heart. They were buried in the village cemetery side by side.
“Gran, do you think that what I saw was Declan’s murder?”
“Mmm, could be.”
“But why? Why me? Does it happen every night?”
“Something must account for the rumours of the haunting and the fact that no one can live there.”
“The man who was shot, Declan, he looked at me before he died. He had a pleading sort of look in his eyes and I heard him say “please help me”. I know he wants me to do something. But what? He can’t rest. Something is stopping him.”
Gran was smiling softly to herself. “You’ll know. You’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe he wants revenge. But Gentleman Jim must be well and truly dead by now. No, that can’t be it.”
And then I knew. I watched the scene in my head again and as Declan died on that floor, I followed the shiny something roll towards the skirting.
“It’s the ring, isn’t it, Gran? Declan wants me to get the ring and do something with it?”
“Could be.”
“But what?”
“Where do you think the ring belongs, Frankie?”
“With Cecilia?”
“I think so too.”
*****************
How did I get this job? I asked myself as that afternoon I slipped quietly through the front door of the abandoned house.
It was so different in the daylight. Wallpaper was peeling from the hall walls, full of holes left by silverfish. The floorboards were dusty and there were several holes we had managed to miss falling in by pure chance when we had come in the night. Evidence left by the house’s present inhabitants (those of the furry kind) was scattered on the floor.
Carefully, I picked my way down the hall till I arrived at the left hand door. The door creaked as I opened it and looked in.
The room was large with two sets of French doors along the edge and a huge empty fireplace at each end. The sun was streaming across the room in bands hung with millions of particles of dust.
I was nervous, half expecting the sights and smells of the night before to emerge again from the shadows. But nothing happened. I tried to remember the spot where the ring had rolled under the skirting. I ran (no sense in being in here longer than was necessary) and knelt in the dust for a closer look at the skirting. It took a while but finally with my eye right down at floor level I caught a gleam in the sunlight. With my finger I could just reach through the gap between the skirting and the floor and flick the ring out into my waiting hand. It felt right. This was meant to be. I closed my fist over the ring and ran as fast as I could for home.
***********************
Gran and I made our way slowly through the graves at the village cemetery. Gran walks with a stick but she still manages to get around. She wears sneakers now, much better for old feet, she says. I don’t mind walking with her; it’s kind of nice not to have to race everywhere at top speed. Sometimes we stop at a grave of someone that Gran knew and she mumbles something to herself. “A little prayer,” she says, “can’t do any harm!”
And then we were there - two really old graves side by side. Declan Connor on the left:
“Declan Michael Connor taken
in an untimely and violent manner.
Loved husband of Cecilia Mary Connor
and father to Michael Thomas Connor.
26 years.
1842 – 1868”
Cecilia Connor on the right:
“Cecilia Mary Connor (nee Farrell) died young.
Loved wife of Declan Michael Connor and
mother to Michael Thomas Connor.
29 years
1844 – 1873”
Gran had brought a little trowel with her in the pocket of her track suit jacket (very uncool, but very comfortable for an old body, Gran says). She handed it to me. I dug as far as I could in the dry soil and dropped the ring into it. I covered it up and refilled the hole, patting down the soil so that it looked undisturbed. No sense in going to all this trouble if some thief came along and stole it!
Gran and I stood together quietly and looked at the graves. What now?
“Let’s go home,” she said softly, “you’ve done all you could. Mother would be very proud of you.”
Yeah, right! I was never going to hear the end of “the sight” thing now!
*********************
All this happened about 6 months ago and all has been quiet around here since then. This morning, however, Gran was reading the local rag and was suddenly looking very excited. She took her reading glasses off and used them to call me over with an impatient wave. I was only doing the dishes so I didn’t need a second invitation.
“Okay, Gran. What’s all the excitement about?”
“Read that,” she said quickly pointing to a small article in the left hand corner. She had the smuggest look on her face I had ever seen.
“Read that and then tell me you don’t have the sight.”
So I read it.
"The old Beehive Hotel (locally known as the House with Nine Doors) has just celebrated its first successful month as the latest fashionable restaurant in the village. The property was bought by Thomas and Sandra Connor, of the local Connor family who have been in the district for more than 150 years. Thomas and Sandra are thrilled with their success. “We had looked at this property before but it had seemed a bit unwelcoming to us. We visited it again a few months ago and it was different somehow. We know that an ancestor of ours died here so we feel there is a connection of sorts for us with the building. We have a good feeling about it.”
END