Most people
don’t really think about it much these days, but traditionally, Christmas was a
time for ghost stories. I certainly didn't think about it, especially when I
was young; I was too interested in getting presents, like every other kid at
that age. But that all changed when I was about 12. By that time I had stopped
believing in Santa Claus, and my personality was changing drastically; I was
beginning to become darker, more “Goth”, much to my parent’s chagrin. The only
who seemed supportive was my late grandfather, Grandpa Jack. Grandpa Jack
always loved a good scary story, used to tell real creepy ones, especially at
Halloween. But this was Christmas, and he’d been a little quieter than usual, although
that didn't surprise anyone. His wife, my grandmother, had died about eight
months prior, and Christmas had always been her favorite holiday. Eventually,
Christmas Eve rolled around and Grandpa Jack said to me, “Hey, do you want an
early Christmas present?” Greedy little bugger that I was, I said yes. “But,”
Grandpa Jack warned in a mock-serious tone, “it comes at a price – we have to
test it together. Agreed?” Not knowing what he meant but eager for a present, I
agreed.
Grandpa Jack
took me up to the room where he was staying with us, and got a small wrapped
gift from his closet. When I unwrapped it, I discovered it was tape recorder, with a microphone so you could record your own tapes. As I was just
getting into music, and since I wanted to record my own music, this was a truly
wonderful gift. “Now,” Grandpa Jack reminded me, “We have to test it.” “How?” I
asked. Grandpa Jacked smiled strangely. “I’m going to tell a ghost story. A
true ghost story.” I set up the microphone, Grandpa Jack, got comfortable in
his chair, and began to tell his story. By the end, I was sitting in a kind of
shocked state, uncertain to what to think or do. Before I switched off the
recorder, I asked him, “Is this true?” He looked at me with a look of grim,
weary seriousness, not at all acting, and said, “Yes, I’m afraid so. And we’re
the only two people who know it.”
I've listened
to this recording many times since Grandpa Jack passed on, and it never fails
to disturb me. If it’s all a story, then it’s damn convincing one. But if it’s
not… well, I hope it’s not. And for you, Specters, I have transcribed my
grandfather’s recording, word for word, to post it here. I don’t know why;
maybe for someone to cry malarkey so I can sleep a little more soundly.
“You
know, Damian, back when I was young, younger than you, even, I wanted to be a
musician as well. I could play the piano pretty well; still can, at least I
think. I guess it was because my old man was a music lover that I got into it.
My old man couldn’t play any instruments, but he could sing – oh lord, could
that man sing. He could memorize a tune faster than he could make a sandwich. And
every Christmas, back then at least, there were Christmas carolers. You don’t
see many of those anymore. My old man would look forward to Christmas for sole
purpose of carolers. Trees, presents, cookies, all were almost secondary to
carolers. He couldn’t go out caroling himself (he had a bum leg and a doctor
who wouldn’t let him walk on it for too long), but he would always greet
carolers at our door with a big smile on his face, and when they had finished
their sets, he would always offer them cookies, cocoa, and (for the older
people) hard cider. His face lit up like the lights on trees whenever there was
that ring at the doorbell. He loved it; completely loved it. He said ours was
the best neighborhood for carolers.
“So
imagine his disappointment when we had to move to a new town. We fell hard
times, and had to get a cheaper house. I hated the move, too. Having to make
new friends, be a stranger in a new town. I kept picturing the house we were
getting to be a squalid tumbled-down shack. So imagine my surprise when we got
there, and found a beautiful old Victorian waiting for us. It was in very good
condition; a little small for a family of five, but then our old house had been
small, too. My mother complained that we were too close to the street, but I
didn’t mind. There was only thing I didn’t like about the house – the cellar.
It wasn’t like the basement you’ve got, Damian, but a creepy thing with a low
ceiling, cold, damp walls, and a dirt floor. I hated that cellar; I refused to
go down there by myself. Something about it just seemed off to me.
“Well,
eventually Christmas rolled around, as it does every year, and my old man
eagerly prepared for carolers, daring to hope some would be around. Well, to
make a long story short, there weren’t any. Not one caroler showed up. My old
man was crushed. There went his Christmas. This was went on for several days –
no carolers. Finally, on the third night, as he was just getting ready to throw
in the old towel, my old man (and everyone else, for that matter) heard a voice
from out in front of our house. A powerful, mesmeric voice, the kind you
imagine a carnival snake oil hucksters uses to charm his way out of trouble. A
deep, rich baritone, like Robert Mitchum (though it occurs to me you don’t know
who that is); he was singing one of my old man’s favorite carols, “God Rest Ye
Merry Gentlemen”:
God
rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let
nothing you dismay
Remember,
Christ, our Savior
Was
born on Christmas day
To
save us all from Satan's power
When
we were gone astray
“Whoever
this was, he could sing alright. We all drifted to the window in a kind of
trance. A solitary figure stood out in the walkway in front of our house,
dressed in a black wool coat and matching derby hat, a candle held in his hands
struggling to illuminate his face. What was obvious about from the small source
of light was that he had a big mustache. He continued to sing in his powerful
baritone:
From
God our Heavenly Father
A
blessed Angel came;
And
unto certain Shepherds
Brought
tidings of the same:
How
that in Bethlehem was born
The
Son of God by Name.
“I
snuck a glance at my father, and saw that he had the biggest of smiles on his
face. Eventually, the singer finished his carol, and turned to leave, but my
old man flung open the door and hollered at him to come one back for a drink.
The stranger stood in our walkway for a moment, and then said “Sure.” He
climbed our stoop, pausing to scrape his boots so as not to track snow, and
stepped inside. He smiled warmly at us all, and everyone in the room was
instantly delighted with the man. Everyone except me. There was something about
this man that seemed wrong to me, much as something about the cellar seemed
wrong. He shook my old man’s hand, bowed to my mother and my sisters, and
introduced himself as Silas Cogg, a travelling salesman. When my father asked
what he was selling, clearly disappointed that Mr. Cogg’s carol may have been
little more than a sales pitch, Mr. Cogg just smiled and proclaimed “At the
moment? Nothing – I’m just caroling. Such a splendid Christian tradition, I
think.” My folks got to talking with Mr. Cogg over a glass of hard cider, and
we learned that Mr. Cogg was himself a music lover, and that he had in fact
lived in the same town were we know resided. Eventually, when the clock struck
nine, Mr. Cogg glanced at his watch, and, apologizing hurriedly, said he had to
leave, but said he hoped to see us again. I was glad to see Mr. Cogg go; I just
couldn’t put my finger on why, but I had a bad feeling about him.
“The
next day, my old man got to talking with our neighbors about Mr. Cogg. When he
asked if any of them had known him from when he lived in town, they all shook
their heads no. Most were new arrivals like us, though. Eventually, the
conversation turned to the tough finical times, and how hard things were. My
father couldn’t help but brag a little about he’d gotten such a nice house for
so little. Everyone else seemed pretty mystified about it, too. One neighbor,
who’d lived in the area a little longer than the rest of us, said the house had
been built by a wealthy couple with more money than they could spend some
thirty years previous. The Bakers, they had been called. They had married very
young, in a fit of passion, but that passion went sour very quickly. Soon it
came to be they were always at each other’s throats, fighting ‘round the clock.
Eventually, Samuel Baker, the husband, just up and left town overnight,
supposedly with a mistress. Eliza Baker sold the house for cheap to a family
from out of town, and moved to the nearby city. Rumor had it she was shacking
up with man even richer than she was. The truly odd part of this story that the
neighbor told was that most of the families who lived in the house rarely lived
their very long. The all had ended up moving, with little or no explanation.
Everyone agreed this was strange, but seemed to think nothing of it.
“That
night, my family was finishing our dinner, my father was thinking of going out
to smoke a cigar (my mother couldn’t stand the smell of tobacco), and my
sisters were going to write their letters to Santa Claus. All was very ordinary,
when we heard the same mellifluous voice from last night drifting through the
air:
God
rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let
nothing you dismay
Remember,
Christ, our Savior
Was
born on Christmas day
“We
could scarcely believe it; Mr. Cogg was back already? Weren’t there other
houses he could be caroling at? We all drifted to the window as we had done the
previous night. There was Mr. Cogg, standing out on the walkway, candle in
hand, singing the same carol as before.
From
God our Heavenly Father
A
blessed Angel came;
And
unto certain Shepherds
Brought
tidings of the same
“My
father opened the door, and we shuffled out onto the porch to listen Mr. Cogg’s
singing. When he finished, we applauded (I somewhat half-heartedly as still had
a vague uneasiness about Mr. Cogg), and my father invited him for nightcap. Stopping
again to scrape his boots, Mr. Cogg came inside and graciously accepted my
father’s offer of hard cider. When asked why he was visiting us again, he
smiled politely and explained that he had had such fun with us the night before
that I wanted to start his caroling with us. When mother asked if wanted
cookies, he thanked her politely and said it would be lovely. My mother headed
for the kitchen, while my father said he was going to get a cigar. This left me
alone with Mr. Cogg. As soon as my parents had left the room, his politeness
vanished and all I saw on his face was a cold anger. “You don’t like me, do
you, boy?” He snarled. “That’s okay; I like you even less. You’re a sniveling
little bastard with no spine.” I was stunned; I was hardly a sheltered child,
but no one had ever called me a spineless bastard before. Noticing the shocked
look on my face, Mr. Cogg chuckled nastily, deepening my hatred for him. At
that moment my parents re-entered the room, and Cogg assumed his pleasant
exterior as if nothing had happened. I left and went to my room where I
remained until Mr. Cogg left, once again at 9:00 sharp. I was glad to hear his
footsteps on the sidewalk. I got up and
walked to the window, and saw that Cogg was staring up directly at my window. I
felt my blood freeze. The first thought that sprang to my mind was “How
does he know which room was mine?” Mr.
Cogg stood on the sidewalk a little longer, before grinning wickedly and
turning and walking away.
“I
lay awake for a long while, with the image of Mr. Cogg’s horrible grin frozen
in my mind. I tossed and turned in bed, trying to sleep, trying not to be
afraid. I didn’t bother telling my parents; why would they believe me? Finally,
I managed to drift off to sleep. As I slept, I heard Mr. Cogg’s voice taunting
me in my dreams. I couldn’t see him in any of them, but I could hear him –
laughing, jeering, singing. It was horrible; it seemed like everywhere I
turned, Mr. Cogg was waiting for me, with the voice of his. Then I opened my
eyes, and realized I could still hear Mr. Cogg’s voice. He was in the room.
God
rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let
nothing you dismay
“I
sat bolt upright in my bed and saw Cogg standing and grinning at the foot of it,
derby hat, candle, and all. Before I could scream he had leapt noiselessly
across the room and clamped a hand across my mouth. “Listen to me, you little
bastard,” he snarled, “I know you want rid of me. If you want me to be gone for
good, you’ll follow my instructions, and I’ll be gone forever. So here’s how
this is going to work: your parents told me that they’re going out tomorrow,
and I know your sisters will be in bed, so you’ll have the house to yourself.
So, at 9:00 that night, you’ll take the shovel from your father’s tool shed,
you’ll go down to the basement – yes, I know you hate that place – and you’ll
dig up the money I’ve got hidden down there.” I must have looked surprised,
because Cogg nodded and hissed “Yes, boy, MONEY. Lots of it. This used to be my
house, and I want my money back. You dig up that money, boy, and you’ll never
see me again. If you don’t, I’ll follow you ‘til the day you die. Pocket one
red cent of my money, and I’ll slice your fingers off. Do we understand each
other?” I agreed, my voice muffled by his glove. “Good. Now, you’re going to
close your eyes, and count to ten, and when you’re done, I’ll be gone.
Understand?” Again, I agreed. I closed my eyes, feeling Mr. Cogg release his
grip on my face. I counted to ten slowly; when I opened my eyes, he was gone,
just as silently as he had arrived.
“I
was terrified, but I was even more desperate to rid myself of Mr. Cogg, so I
decided to follow his plan. The following evening, my parents did indeed go
out, leaving me, the oldest child, to make sure my sisters didn’t get out of
bed. As the clocked ticked closer and closer to 9:00, I became increasingly
nervous, but I kept telling myself that if this would mean Cogg would never
come back, that it was what I had to do. Finally, the clock struck nine. I
marched to the tool shed out back, grabbed a shovel, went back inside, and,
taking a deep breath, open the cellar door and began my descent down the creaky
stairs. I walked slowly, one dusty step at a time. When my feet finally touched
the cold dirt floor, my heart was in my throat. I peered through the dim light,
and saw that someone had scratched a large ‘X’ in to the center of the dirt
floor. Taking a deep breath, I began to dig at the ‘X’.
“I
have no idea how long I dug at the floor. Could have been hours. Eventually my
efforts uncovered the wooden box in which Cogg’s money was presumably hid. I
got up and squinted at it; it was long and thin – a grown man could lie down in
it if he contorted himself slightly. Suddenly, a horrible thought seized me,
and I knew I had to see inside. I busted open the box with my shovel, and
nearly vomited. A terrible stench grabbed hold of my nostrils, and refused to
relinquish its grasp. As I looked down into the box, what I saw my eyes bulge
in their sockets. The horrid, skeletal remains of a man were crammed into the
box. His flesh had been reduced to pungent slime, his clothes to filthy
tatters. I gazed in stunned horror at the skull, and noticed that was what
seemed to be the remains of a very large mustache still stuck to the corpses’
upper lip. A derby hat, crumbling with decay, was perched atop the corpse’s
head. It was Cogg. I had no idea what to do. Then, much to my horror, I heard…
I heard singing. But it wasn't the mellifluous voice that Cogg had in his
previous state; it was that voice ruined, raspy, as if he was trying to sing
while gargling with carbolic acid. I realized the singing, at first faint, was
coming from the corpse. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. Then,
the corpse began to sit up. It turned to glare at me with missing eyes. It began
to reach for me with damp, foul fingers. It distinctly heard it say, “God
rest ye merry gentlemen”, but that I was
all I heard. For at that moment I finally managed to scream.
“The
next thing I remember was waking up on the living room couch. My parents had
come home only to hear me screaming from the cellar. The rushed down to find my
passed out, the corpse exactly as I had found it. The police were called, and
they in turn called the local dentist to identify the body by its teeth. The
body was found to be that of Samuel Baker, the man who had supposedly left town
with a mistress. The police said that the back of his head seemed to have been
crushed with a blunt object, like a pipe. The police tried to search for his
wife, but they could find no trace of her. My old man filled in the hole in the
basement, and we moved away as soon as the snow melted. He never did believe me
about the corpse moving; said it was just my mind playing tricks on me. Mr.
Cogg, or more accurately, Samuel Baker, never was seen after that night. As for
me, I’ve since gotten older, and tried to move on. But I tell you what: even to
this day, when I hear “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen”, a chill runs up my spine
as I think of that corpse in the box, reaching for me, trying in vain to sing.”
