Black Petals Issue #81, Autumn, 2017

Haunting of Hell House
Mars-Chris Friend
Big Bear-Fiction by Paul Strickland
Drogol's Institution-Fiction by Mike Mulvihill
Haunting of Hell House-Fiction by M. L. Fortier
Killing Time-Fiction by Mike Mulvihill
Nowhere Man in a Nowhere Land-Fiction by Roy Dorman
Surviving Montezuma-Chapters 11 & 12-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
The Box with Pearl Inlay-Fiction by Roy Dorman
What was Lacking?-Fiction by A. M. Stickel, Editor


Haunting of Hell House: Apologies to Shirley Jackson


By Mardell Fortier


A message found in an old book



Ah, to curl up with a good book! During the day, my back aching, students’ questions grew exasperatingly repetitive. I’d only survived because, at the day’s end, I could rest against bed pillows and lose myself in a story.

Yes, they are still here—in Haunting of Hell House—people more real than my co-workers.

There’s sarcastic Theo: “This house reminds me of boarding school.” She’s wonderfully brave, laughing at ghostly echoes in the dilapidated mansion that doesn’t seem to have tasted new air for a century.

“There won’t be anyone around if you need help,” Mrs. Dudley, the cook, utters, her voice robotic. “I leave before dark comes.”

I wander with the other guests through the deserted house, but mostly identify with Eleanor. The timid, lonely spinster craves the relief of fresh air. I tug to get the front door open—too huge, too heavy, unbudging. Pushing makes my narrow wrists ache. Ugh. “Help me, Theo.”

Running along with the girls, I revel in the fading sunlight and floral scents after the closed-in house. As I skip down to the river, I listen to their reminiscences: “I had colds all winter long. My mother made me wear woolen stockings.”

Momentarily, I’m thrown out of the book as I recollect that I suffered from indigestion in first grade. I caught few colds, as my dad directed us to take cod liver oil.

Tired, I shut the book, click off lights in my little solitary apartment. Time for bed, since I need to wake at five for my job.


The next night, close to midnight, I’ve finished grading. But tensions from work make it impossible to sleep. I shouldn’t read about haunted houses. But my fingers find the worn bookmark…

The women, accompanied by a doctor, are exploring the gloomy house. With them, I feel the need to orient myself. Like them, I wish for a book to lighten the long hours of being closed in with ghosts.

In clammy darkness, we find a small door tucked beside the huge front entrance. The doctor opens the creaky door, and to my amazement, I view the circular wall of a library.

“I can’t go in there,” Eleanor whispers, “…my mother.” I see my mother, with a big, stern face. I close my eyes to shut out the vision, open them. A narrow iron staircase spirals upward…to a tower. What could have happened there? The ladies gossip about someone who hanged herself. I step forward—blocked as if by a sheet of glass.

If only I could go in and find Wuthering Heights, unless I should try Pride and Prejudice, not quite as beloved but more soothing to overwrought nerves. My fingers touch an invisible but heavy wall. Eleanor’s mother frowns at me.

“The neighbors stoned you, Mary,” the doctor reminds me. “That is the cause of your psychological block, this buried memory.”

“No,” my mind searches to retrieve a long-repressed scene, “some kids abandoned me at recess. During hide and seek, I hid in the furnace room. They refused to come and find me.”

“Do not add anything to this classic,” the doctor warns. “Your trauma happened long ago. You should have moved past it.”

“Doctor, you are also adding to it,” I object, until something pokes at my back.

I notice again my bed, with pillows stacked, the lamp glimmering on the old page. Scrutinizing the page, I only see the word “stoning.” My mind has been drifting in and out of the story. Time for bed. Yet I take a moment to savor my own room, heaped with books I can access.

I had yearned for that library more than Eleanor. I love to read myself to sleep (that ultimate book); I can slide between its velvet covers into a fantasy where none can follow.


The next evening, I set aside grading to grab my book. I admit being addicted to reading, but usually after completing my schoolwork. This Haunting of Hell House seemed larger than its 200 pages, the characters as real as if they breathed beyond the stale pages. Dreamily, I re-read an early chapter I’d read distracted by memories.

Eleanor chooses a blue room in the house, Theo green. I claim my own—red and gold—at the far end of the hall. Am I adding too much to the tale? What delicious closeness between the girls; I want to join them, since I’ve never experienced that camaraderie. Eleanor enjoys talking with Theo, especially since this chum is psychic and reads her mind.

But Theo can be cruel. At first she plays up to Eleanor; soon, though, she starts making cold, cutting comments. She shuts Eleanor out, choosing Luke. Paragraphs later, I despise Theo enough to kill her.

Should I throw her from that tower in the library? Poison her coffee? In free time left from teaching, I write murder mysteries, and have become callous about bumping off characters; lately I’ve thrown them off cliffs, since it leaves no fingerprints.

Oops, back to the book. It’s fallen shut, but opens to a page of…hmm, interesting! Eleanor is grabbing a hand. She feels happily close to Theo while a spectral presence rattles the bedroom door. At least Theo exudes warm friendship, while this ghost screams malignancy.

No, it’s not Theo! It’s a stranger’s hand—bony, cold. This book is horrifying. I try to put it down…but can’t. Yes, I must. But what will happen next?


Somehow I fell asleep last night, dropping the book, the only way I could have quit. Tonight, though, chilled by wintry drafts, I read avidly, having become blocked in my writing projects. A huge wave of cold floods the hall, icy misery pervading the dim house. I’m aware of my body crawling with goosebumps, despite my flannel pj’s.

Wow, I wonder if there’s a cat buried in the basement. The doctor hasn’t checked down there for trouble, has he? Oops, this isn’t a Poe story.   

Back to the current book, I carefully turn a wrinkled page. It’s half-torn as if some other reader tried to escape.

Desperately I flip through to find a soothing page. The characters eat breakfast, drink coffee. They chat about sausage and eggs. How nice! They remind me of a family. I wish mine had not become estranged.

I devour words that magically create pictures I can see and walk around in. What yummy food the cook prepares, like crisp bacon, rich and juicy. I happily read, cocooning myself in webs of words, creating a small, safe place. I almost forget I’ve neglected to choose my wardrobe for tomorrow.

But what happened to my closet? It looks wet, a liquid oozing through the doors. Yanking at hangers—I see a white dress ruined by red stains, and run to Theo’s room in a yellow dress bathed in scarlet. Red? Oh no! REDRUM. Oops, this is not Stephen King.

Once out of that bedroom, I escape to the library. To prepare for the nerve-wracking night, what should I read?

I don’t want the doctor’s books. Never a fan of 18th-century literature, I’m more into romantics, like Jane Eyre (a second-best favorite after Wuthering Heights).

In the library, I try to push past dark chains of inhibition. My mother enforced wishes with scoldings or denigrations. I felt worthless, weak as days-old oatmeal. Why should I be worthy of this library? My hands fall limply at my sides; my body feels small and childlike, as if wearing a too-short, stained bathrobe.

Have I earned the right to read? I can’t read perfectly because I can’t keep my mind on the one page in front of me. I wish I could get fully lost in a story, like I could as a child before worries crowded my mind, screaming:


Oh, why did the doctor bring us here? And why did we agree to come? We weren’t forced at gunpoint. Will Eleanor ever get back to her former life, where she cherished a cup painted with stars?


Wandering long halls, trying to find Eleanor and Theo, I see another sign: NO-ESCAPE FICTION. The author’s magic makes me feel as if Eleanor is alive, and I could warn her to leave this house while she can. Am I too late? If only the heavy wood doors would stay open. If only drapes were not so large and dusty. Windows are stuck shut, like giant traps of unrelenting steel. I don’t see the cook. Maybe she has gone home—far away in the village, out of earshot.

“Hello,” the handsome doctor pops up, out of deep shadows. “Thank you for helping me with this experiment.”

I’m the only one who can assist the doctor, the only one who can rescue Eleanor.

The house spreads, seeming to grow. Mismatched walls remain unaligned, gloomy. I run to the front door, struggle with dark, thick wood, and hammer till my hands ache. I push, straining my back, against an unyielding force.  

I can’t get out of this book! The paper-thin walls entrap me. Letters crawl past my hands like spiders, cold and blurring. Desperately, I seek the words THE END. All I see is: A GOOD STORY NEVER ENDS.


M.L. Fortier,, of Lisle, Illinois, wrote “…Hell House…” for BP #81 (+ the flash fiction, “Battle Zone: Earth,” for BP #60, BP #58’s “Missing Link” flash fiction , “Top Secret” for BP #57, “Eunuch Patrol” for BP #55, “Legend” for BP #53, as well as “Shadow City,” “The Last Circle of Hell ,” “The Order,” “Contamination,” “First Contact,” and “There Is No Crime in Helmouth” for earlier BP issues). She has been teaching creative writing at Chicago area colleges for years. Her student, Bill Malmborg, has also contributed to BP. She writes reviews, short stories (esp. SF), and novels.

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