A Ghost Story For Christmas
by Gary Cottle
Tragedy changed everything for Patrick a year earlier. Until he heard the news, he thought he was lucky.
Patrick was born in 1980, so he could recall a time when most didn't have a computer in their home. TVs were heavy and bulky, and cameras had film that needed developing. A lot of gay men died from AIDS, and marriage equality seemed like a pipedream.
His family loved him, but they were convinced he had chosen a sinful lifestyle. Patrick halfway believed his life wasn't as valuable as his straight siblings. He didn't save for his future, didn't go to college, and had no ambition. A series of construction jobs provided enough to get by, and living in the basement apartment in his parents' Boston home meant he didn't have to pay much rent. Patrick partied with his tribe on weekends and regularly invited tricks home to share his bed. But for a long time, there were no serious boyfriends. On Sunday mornings, Patrick's mom invariably knocked on his door and invited him to go to mass with her. If he was alone, Patrick often went just to please her. He loved his mom.
Then, the unexpected happened. When he was 35, Patrick met a lawyer who had just made partner in his firm. Bradley was from South Carolina, and he moved to Boston after law school because his family had rejected him. He thought the distance might lessen the pain.
Patrick and Bradley got married and bought a colonial in a small town outside the city. Patrick used his skills to help restore and refurbish their antique home, and he got a job as a custodian at a nearby high school. When they were settled, they adopted a little girl and named her Harper. Bradley was Daddy, and Patrick was Pops.
It was hard for Patrick to believe how his life had turned out. He was a middle-aged, middle-class suburban father, and he was happy. Of course, he and Bradley had their disagreements. But when they made up, Patrick would hold onto his husband and tell him how grateful he was to have him. The two men sometimes silently watched Harper play games of make-believe or draw pictures and grinned stupidly at their good fortune.
The accident occurred a few days before Halloween, and Harper had gone to kindergarten in her Winifred Sanderson costume. Bradley was the one who picked her up in the afternoon. He was usually the one who picked her up, and then he would work from home for a couple of hours. But when Patrick got off work, he found the house was empty. He thought Bradley might have taken Harper back to his office to show off her costume to his colleagues. So Patrick started dinner. A half-hour later, he was about to call Bradley when there was a knock on the front door. It was an officious knock, and Patrick's heart sank when he answered. A uniformed police officer told him a man had a heart attack and lost control of his SUV. He struck the automobile Bradley was driving at a high speed. No one survived. Patrick's husband and daughter were gone.
Bradley's younger brother came to the funeral. He tearfully told Patrick how much he regretted not patching things up with Bradley, and he was sad that he would never have the chance to get to know his niece. When Andrew invited Patrick to spend Christmas with his family in Charleston, Patrick declined. He didn't doubt Andrew's sincerity, but there was too much family resemblance. Patrick could hardly stand to look at the man.
Patrick was in a state of shock for months. Bradley had specialized in wills and estates, so he had the forethought to purchase life insurance. The payout was high, and the mortgage on the house was paid off, too. And there was a settlement from the estate of the driver of the SUV. Patrick didn't have to continue working as a custodian. He could afford to take a few years off. He could even retire if he lived simply. But for a while, Patrick needed the comfort of routine. However, at the end of the school year, he knew it was time to resign.
For a couple of weeks, Patrick drank too much and ate nothing but junk and takeout. But then he decided he needed to do something with his life. He wasn't sure exactly what he would do, but at the very least, he needed to take care of himself. Patrick began running and going to the gym, and he started driving out of town and taking long hikes in the woods.
When the leaves began to change, Patrick knew the dreaded and terrible anniversary was looming. So he needed to move on. Patrick would always carry the memory of Bradley and Harper. They would always be part of him, but he was sure neither would want him to spend the rest of his life anticipating the day he would join them. They would want him to have a full life. So Patrick put his furnishings and belongings into storage, and he put the home he shared with Bradley and Harper on the market. It sold within two weeks.
Patrick left for San Francisco, telling his parents he was going on vacation, but he knew he was on a mission. After exploring the city for a few days, Patrick rented a car and headed north. He wanted to see the redwoods.
While driving along a country road, Patrick saw the sign for Maynard Lodge, and beside it was a for sale sign. Maynard had been his mother's maiden name. Patrick slowed, hoping to catch sight of the lodge, but the trees blocked his view. So he turned into the driveway, and a moment later, there it was. Maynard Lodge was a V-shaped building suitable for a national park. The main entrance and a porte-cochere were in the center where the two wings met. Patrick drove his rental car to the door but didn't get out. The place was uninhabited. No one would answer if he knocked, and he didn't feel right about walking around a deserted property.
However, Patrick was already in love just from looking at the outside. Immediately, the dreams came to him. He wanted this to be his new home, but he wouldn't live here alone. He would turn it into an inn. It was big, but not too big. It would keep him busy, and if he had a steady flow of guests, he could hire help. But first, he would have to find out the asking price and inspect the inside to make sure the place wasn't ready to fall to the ground. So after sitting there for a half hour, Patrick drove into town and rented a motel room. It was late afternoon by then, but the real estate agency was still open. Patrick called and made an appointment to see Maynard Lodge the following day.
When Patrick returned to the lodge about ten the next morning, an agent was waiting for him at the front door, a wiry woman with straight black hair and a big, toothy, nervous smile. She introduced herself as Wendy and led him inside. Patrick fell in love with the place all over again. It was full of craftsman details that had not been altered, and close examination did not suggest any serious issues that needed immediate attention. In time, it would require a new heating and cooling system and, eventually, a new roof. It could also use a good cleaning. A few pieces of period furniture that were perfect for the house were included in the sale, and there was space for Patrick's own stuff. The combination would fill the rooms out nicely, giving them a homey, eclectic ambiance.
Wendy explained that the Maynards were a well-heeled family who built the lodge in the 1920s to serve as a vacation home. When the patriarch died in 1961, it was sold to four local businessmen. With a roll of her eyes, Wendy said, "They claimed they were going to use it as a hunting and fishing lodge, but it was probably just a place to get away from their wives." She went on to say that it was sold again about 12 years later to another family, but they hardly ever used it. Instead, they rented it out occasionally to small groups for reunions and retreats. The lodge had five bedrooms, each with ensuite baths. The most impressive space was the large gathering room with a cathedral ceiling, a stone fireplace, and built-in bookshelves. A horse barn behind the lodge was big enough for a pool table, gym equipment, and a large-screen TV.
Patrick bought Maynard Lodge with its five wooded acres for less than the home he had just sold, and Wendy gave him the keys a little more than a week later. He returned in a new truck with a bed filled with cleaning supplies, groceries, and essentials.
The first incident occurred right after he crossed over the threshold. As he stood in the entrance hall beaming with pride, knowing the lodge now belonged to him, Patrick thought he saw someone walk through the gathering room. He went over to the wide arched doorway and looked inside, but no one was there. Patrick was sure the light was playing tricks on him, but he added checking the locks to his mental to-do list and proceeded to unload the truck. With that first chore out of the way, Patrick began cleaning. He wanted to get the place into shape before the arrival of his things later in the week.
When the movers had filled every room with boxes that needed unpacking and furniture that needed placing, Patrick was spooked again. While eating his morning cereal in the kitchen, Patrick heard someone say directly behind him, "Hey, Pops." It wasn't an echo from his memory. It wasn't the voice of his little girl or any little girl. It was the voice of a young man who sounded ironic, almost flirty. When Patrick spun around, no one was there. Of course, no one was there. He was alone in the house, and no one had ever called him Pops except Harper. Who else would even think to call him that? Later that day, he needed a break, so he sat down in the gathering room only to be startled once more. On the mantle was the last Father's Day card he received from Harper. Bradley had helped her pick it out and helped her spell out "I love you, Pops" below the sappy message inside. Patrick had found the card the day before when he opened one of the boxes, but he couldn't recall putting the card on the mantel. Seeing the card filled him with rage rather than fear. Patrick angrily said to the empty room, "My daughter called me Pops. Don't you call me that. You're not allowed." Then his fury melted into sorrow, and he cried.
Thankfully, nothing untoward happened for a few weeks. Patrick had convinced himself that the shock of moving had caused temporary insanity, and he carried on preparing the lodge for guests. In December, Patrick called a local exterminator, Kevin Moore. The evening before Kevin was scheduled to come, Patrick was sleepily brushing his teeth in his bathroom. He was looking in the mirror over the sink but wasn't paying attention. But finally, it dawned on him that two faces were in the mirror. A young man was peeking in through the open door, but no one was there when Patrick turned. Before going to bed, Patrick went through the house, checking the locks and looking for an intruder.
It took Patrick a long time before he could relax enough to fall asleep. Then he dreamed of making breakfast for Bradley, and when he sat it down on the table, Bradley brightly smiled and said, "Thanks, Pops."
In the morning, Patrick felt arms around him, and a familiar bump of excitement pressed into his backside. In his sleepy haze, Patrick thought it was Bradley, but then someone, not Bradley, whispered, "Help me, Pops." Patrick jumped so quickly that he fell onto the floor. He shouted, "Leave me alone! Leave me alone!" as he frantically looked around the empty room.
Patrick was still shaken when Kevin arrived, and he was thankful to have another real, live person in the house. He wondered if Kevin would see or sense anything unusual. When the sixty-year-old man walked in, he looked around with keen interest.
Before Patrick thought of anything to say, Kevin said, "Sorry. I don't mean to act like such a goofball, but I've never seen the inside of this house."
Patrick replied, "I was impressed by it when I first saw it, too, which is why I bought it."
"I've always been curious about it because my father used to be part owner in the '60s."
"Oh, he was one of the four businessmen Wendy told me about."
"Yeah, the others were his friends Frank Miller and the twins, Raymond and Pete Lewis. They had a strict rule: no kids. I was about ten when they sold it."
"Why did they sell, if you don't mind me asking?" Patrick didn't expect Kevin to claim the lodge was haunted, but he wouldn't have been surprised by that answer.
"Wendy didn't tell you? She should have told you. I think there might be a law about that. Frank's son, Jeff, came with them the last time they stayed here. He was a junior at Berkeley, so he wasn't a kid anymore. But he went missing after that first night. There was a big search, but no trace of Jeff. The police said he might have gone walking in the woods, got lost, and died of exposure. Animals could have gotten to the body. But few in town believed that explanation. Pete came back here after the house was sold, and he hanged himself in a tree by the stream. Then Frank Miller had a heart attack and died, and Raymond went on a seven-year drinking binge. In 1980, his liver put up a white flag and surrendered."
"I don't know what to say,"
Patrick said. "I'm speechless. I didn't know any of that."
"Like I said, Wendy should have told you."
"What happened to your father?"
"Dad? He's still with us. I put him in a nursing home a couple of years ago. He wouldn't talk about what happened here for a long time. But finally, he told me something was going on between Pete and Jeff, if you know what I mean."
Patrick sighed and said, "Yes, I believe I do."
"Dad saw them together in Pete's car late at night, more than once. This was the early '70s, and if you saw one of your best friends and the son of another best friend together like that, you kept your mouth shut."
Patrick stood at the kitchen window and looked down at the stream as Kevin did his business. He was thinking about what he had just been told and wondered if Jeff had been trying to communicate with him. It was ridiculous, of course. He scolded himself for even entertaining the idea, but he saw that face in the mirror and heard that voice. Then suddenly, Patrick thought he saw someone hanging in one of the trees by the stream. He rushed out the back door, but when he got close, no one was there.
Patrick was about to go back inside when something seized him. He was paralyzed, and it was as if he were standing there on a summer's evening. Two men sat on a log facing the stream. The moon was nearly full, so it wasn't completely dark. One looked younger than the other because he was lanky and thin. There wasn't even an inch between them. They were clearly lovers. Then the skinny one leaned down as if to give his friend pleasure, but another man came rushing up to the couple.
He called the skinny one the eff word and said, "Get your pervert hands off my brother."
The kid stood and faced his attacker. That's when Patrick realized the angry man had a shovel in his hands. He swung it and struck the kid in the head with violent force. There was a loud clanking sound, and the kid slumped to the ground before he could say anything. The other guy on the log lunged toward him.
"My God, Jeff, are you okay? Are you okay?" he said as he cradled his special friend. He looked at his brother and cried, "He's dead, Raymond. Why did you do this?"
Raymond said defensively, "I had to, Pete. He was going to turn you queer."
"I loved him. You're a murderer."
"I had to."
Raymond began digging a hole as Pete held onto Jeff and sobbed.
"You can't say anything, Pete. They'll put me in prison if you do."
When the hole was deep enough, Raymond took hold of Jeff and demanded Pete let him go. When he finished burying Jeff, he put his arms around his brother and led him back to the house.
In a flash, Patrick was back in the present, and he could move his legs again. He ran to the barn in search of a tool to exhume Jeff Miller. He found a shovel, probably the same shovel used to bury the poor bastard.
Patrick had just uncovered the skull when Kevin ran out of the house.
"What the hell are you doing, buddy?" When he got close enough, he looked down into the open grave and said, "Damn!"
On Christmas morning, Patrick sat in the gathering room thinking about how he would decorate the lodge for his guests the following year. Of course, he'd have to get a huge tree. Patrick imagined sitting in the gathering room with guests who couldn't sleep and telling them about his life with Bradley and Harper. He would also tell them about Jeff.
Patrick was lost in his daydreams when a car drove up outside. He opened the door to discover Kevin helping an ancient man make his way toward the house.
"Hey, Pat. I hope you don't mind, but Dad here insisted I check him out of the home this morning and bring him here. I mean, he wasn't going to take no for an answer. He said he needed to tell us something, both of us, and he needed to do it here, right now."
"Uh, okay. Sure. Nice to meet you, Mr. Moore."
The old man grunted without looking up.
When Kevin and Patrick got him inside and comfortable on the sofa, Patrick asked if anyone wanted coffee.
"No," Mr. Moore said in a sharp tone. "Please listen to me. This can't wait any longer."
Patrick and Kevin gave one another an anxious glance and waited patiently for Mr. Moore to say his peace.
After a couple of false starts, Mr. Moore blurted out, "I saw it. I saw everything. We had a heavy dinner that night, and I had terrible heartburn. So I sat up in bed and looked out my open window. Pete and Jeff were down by the stream. They were kissing and probably doing other things. Then came Raymonde with his shovel. You know what happened then. Raymond killed Frank's son and then buried him. I should have said something, but I thought I was protecting Frank. Jeff was gone. Nothing was going to bring him back. And I thought it would be better for Frank if he didn't know about Jeff and Pete. I thought it was better for Frank if what happened to Jeff remained a mystery. But I was wrong, and I needed to confess." Mr. Moore then sighed with relief and fell silent.
Patrick and Keven stepped out into the entrance hall, and Kevin whispered, "I guess we need to tell the police. I hope they go easy on Dad, considering his age."
Patrick thought about it and said, "Well, I'll leave it up to you."
Patrick didn't know what to do. Jeff's body had been discovered, and they had already pieced together what happened. Like Mr. Moore, Patrick had somehow seen it with my own eyes, even though it happened before he was born. But who would believe him? It would be good if Mr. Moore's account became part of the official record. But he was so old. Kevin told Patrick he was eighty-eight.
When the two men finished conferring privately, they returned to the gathering room and discovered Mr. Moore was slumped over. He was dead.
After the funeral, Patrick and Kevin went to a local paper and told a reporter about Mr. Moore's confession. Patrick didn't go into detail, but he hinted that he sensed Jeff's restless spirit in the house before he knew what happened. The story got a lot of attention, and when Patrick opened the lodge to guests, many wanted to hear about Jeff.
