Halloween Ghost Story Contest -- 2022
Adult Winners

Second Place

The Only Room

by
Justin Alcala

The road from Virginia escaped Hell. The Richmond-Petersburg siege raged on for months, with no conclusion in sight. Both sides shared in the bloodletting, but the Union army was a stubborn guest. Locals avoided the region at all costs, knowing bullets lacked discrimination. Displaced households, bankrupted business persons, and the discharged wounded littered the routes away, but they weren’t alone.

Keelan O’Connor was a textile vendor from Dublin with a good heart and bad timing. He loved whistling church hymns, despised horses, and could list three-hundred-and-twelve purposes for wool if provided the time. He’d listed fifty-six in Boston before they denied his proposal. But Keelan refused to be refused, and bounded onto his tour of planned prospects, from Philadelphia to St. Augustine. Only, the war had not only cut into customer’s needs, but Keelan’s passage to reach them. As he neared Richmond, Keelan bypassed the siege by cutting through a country road in order to reach a potential buyer in Charlotte. The sticky autumn heat of North Carolina’s day and devil’s cold at night left Keelan weary, but the purchase resistant entrepreneur insisted on sleeping in his one-man tent, so long as he had a blanket made from O’Connor wool. Then the Great Storm of 1864 broke. 

Keelan thought he’d seen every kind of storm on the Emerald Isle, but the torrent rained down pins and nails. He’d trudged on for six miserable miles, and then tried six more toward Raleigh before his ankle gave out in the muck. Desperate, and in agonizing torment, Keelan limped to the nearest home he could find, a cottage with a barn more ragged than Christ’s shroud, which called to him from the next hilltop. Keelan hobbled the few acreages to the home and pounded on a maple door painted a pale shade of blue-green. A can with a homemade paint brush dipped in the same color stood at his feet. The violent bombardment of wind deafen him, but a kindled brilliance shining through the white drapes of the front window gave optimism. 

“You are not my child,” a woman said through the door.

“No Madame,” Keelan said. “I am not. My name is Keelan O’Connor and I could sure use some help.”

There was hesitation. Keelan winced from the inferno in his ankle, dropping his Gladstone bag. The need to groan was something he fought against. He didn’t know if his injury would cause for hospitality to be declined, but he didn’t want to risk it. Keelan shivered in purgatory, hopping on his good leg, before the blue-green door dragged open. Before him, a woman tinier than winter’s mercy, with ivory hair and dark skin, stood stark faced. She wore a sleeping gown covered in a long, mauve shawl that curtained over her arms.

“I’m holding a gun,” the woman said.

“Please, you won’t need it, Madame. I’m no dance tutor. I’m a clumsy fool down on his luck, a twisted ankle and soaked boots to show.” 

“Why do you talk like that? You slow?”

“No, madame, I’m Irish, but I hope to won’t hold it against me.” 

“Well, come in,” the woman abandoned the door, walking inside her home. Keelan picked up his leather purse and inched inside, shutting the heavy door behind him. The cottage was ten paces long and half as wide. Saint statues and hand carved crosses littered the walls and shelves. The woman moved to the rear of the home where the kitchen table stood. She tossed a log into the embers of the wood-burning stove, then beckoned Keelan to a gallery chair. Keelan used what furniture he deemed strong enough to lean on, limping to the kitchen area and slopping onto the chair. The torment in his leg no longer distracted him from his cold, wet attire. 

“You need to stay?” the woman asked.

“Yes, Madame, if you would have me.”

“Why aren’t you at a proper town inn? Running from the law, or are you just cheap?”

“The latter I’m afraid, Madame. I’m a sales associate from Dublin. It’s in Ireland.”

“I know where Dublin is.”

“Apologies, Madame—”

“Abigail,” the woman cut in.

“Apologies, Ms. Abigail. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

“What do you sell?”

“Wool,” Keelan bent down and unclasped his Gladstone bag. He removed a spool and placed in on the counter. “Finest in Ireland. There are hundreds of everyday items you can make with it.”

“Save it,” the woman said, resting the candle stick she’d pretended was a revolver on the counter as she prepared the kettle. “We don’t need wool in the South.”

“I beg to differ,” Keelan’s trembling fingers unbuttoned his coat. “Never have I lay witness to such a storm. I recited every prayer I know at least ten times, begging for shelter.” 

"Be careful what you pray for. You never know who's listening." There was a long intermission. “This is just a simple goat ranch. I can provide no business.”

“Oh, of course not, Ms. Abigail. We only sell in bulk to factories.”

“How’d you get mixed up in this industry?”

“It was my father’s mill. When his horse trampled him, my brother took over, and I accepted this position overseas. The markets in Ireland are tough, and we are hoping to stretch out our patrons.”

“It’s tough all over,” Abigail waved her hand at her home.

“Yes, and please, you’re welcome to a spool of my finest for you kindness.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” the woman’s boney hands settled a tea cup at the table. “There’s one room in the home. It’s not much, but you can have it.”

“Oh Ms. Abigail,” Keelan’s fingers wrapped around the warm tea cup. “I couldn’t take your bed.”

“I didn’t say it was mine. It’s my son’s. I sleep in my armchair these days.” 

“Yes, well,” Keelan sipped the tea, pursed his lips, fighting the bitter flavor, “I can try to be out in the morning.”

“You’d be a fool to try, but there’s a pickup tomorrow afternoon for one of my goats. If you don’t mind donkeys, I’ll arrange for Henson to get you to Raleigh.”

“I prefer donkeys,” Keelan said, forcing down his refreshment. “They’re noble beasts.”

Keelan sustained attempts to make small talk, enduring the one-sided conversation. When he considered it polite, Keelan requested to be escorted to his room. Abigail lit her candle and guided Keelan to a feeble set of stairs fallen unnoticed near the home’s entrance. The draped stairwell to the attic moaned with each step as she guided him up. Abigail pushed open the door and waved him inside. 

“You can leave the wet clothes at the door,” Abigail said behind a salt line spilled across the threshold, handing her candle to Keelan. “I’ll hang dry them at dawn.”

“My thanks again, Ms. Abigail.”

“Let’s just hope it’s a quiet night,” said Abigail as she shut the door. 

Keelan explored the dark with his candle. The spartan attic copied the lower level’s layout, but its ceiling made Keelan crouch at all but the center. A single portrait size window looking down at the front yard, where less than an hour ago Keelan dragged himself along, pooled in the deluge. There was a dresser within reach of a hay bed no larger than a traveling cot with yellowed sheets and a lumpy pillow. Keelan explored the few keepsakes atop the table. Accompanying a wood cross were several dusty tin soldiers, a homemade ball with stains from thick fingers, and a folded document with the Union Army’s Seal. He recognized the seal was dangerous in this region. Not wanting to pry, he unclothed, slid into the rough bed sheets, and watched his candle die while he tried to ignore his ankle pain. Keelan listened to the storm’s anger. He thanked God for the roof over his head, but angst about being in a stranger’s home. He said one last prayer, then shut his eyes.

But a snore afterward, a pounding at the cottage’s blue-green door, woke him. Keelan sprung from the bed, hitting his head on the slanted ceiling, before his bad ankle gave out again. He toppled to the floor before pressing himself back up on his good foot and hobbling to the front window. The weak light of Abigail’s kerosene lantern leaked from the downstairs window. Keelan worked the angles of his view in order to get a glimpse of the visitor. A man in a navy coat and kepi hat stood, wide shoulders straightened. 

“Mama,” a deep voice called out after knocking, “I’m home.”

“I told you not to come here anymore,” Abigail said below. “You are not my child.”

“Mama,” the man bellowed through the crack of thunder, “let me in.”

“Christ All Mighty,” Abigail cried from underneath Keelan, “cast him out.”

“Mama,” the sounds of door bangs rang out. “Let me in.” 

“Christ All Mighty,” Abigail repeated louder, “cast him out.” 

Keelan didn’t know what to do. These appeared to be a family matter that a simple sales associate given shelter for a night should ignore. If brutality struck, Keelan would defend Abigail, however unappealing the prospect sounded. Keelan gawked down, angles and obscurity concealing Abigail’s son’s face. The grief in his leg gave way, and Keelan leaned too far, smashing his face on the window glass. The stranger took a single step backwards and looked up. Keelan’s soul chilled. 

A dark young man, eyes like hot cinders, gazed up at him. His skin cracked like a broken stone, a stream of liquid flame cascading through the fractures. Soot billowed from his lips, and his teeth stained ink black. His lip curled up at Keelan before he spun around and sloshed through the yard’s sludge towards the road. Keelan lost his balance once more, plummeting to the ground and hitting his head on the bed post… falling unconscious. 

In the morning, the cry of the tea kettle awoke Keelan. The sun cut through his miniature window. Bird chirps replaced the tapping of rain. Keelan dragged himself to his feet, dressing in a pair of dry regalia from his bag, his skull feeling as if split in two. He hobbled downstairs, where the quiet home kept a cup of tea and a slice of buttered bread at the table. Keelan took the bread, ate it, then searched for Abigail. He united with her in the garden, where she unpinned Keelan’s clothes from a laundry line, her goats roaming the field. 

“There you are,” Abigail said, eyes glancing at Keelan. “What happened to your head?”

“I must defend my reputation,” Keelan rubbed dry blood from his forehead. “Should anyone claim to be clumsier, I’ll duel them.”

Abigail hooted.

“Well, the ankle feels better. I will be off with your goat. I’ve troubled you too much as it.”

“Nonsense. No trouble. It’s what’s taught.”

“I don’t mean to pry.”

“But you will.”

“Well, I couldn’t help but notice you had company. It appears I’ve stolen your son’s bed—”

“That’s not my son,” Abigail turned to Keelan, eyes wide. 

“Apologies for my candor, but I recognized the Union blue,” Keelan thought back, recollecting the nightmarish countenance hidden under the navy uniform. His mouth drew open and a cold perspiration washed over him. “And, I’m not assured what else.”

“You saw, didn’t you?”

“Uh, um, I’m not confident in what I saw, to be honest.”

“Come with me,” Abigail gestured as she walked back to the home faster than Keelan had ever seen her move. His palms sweat as he followed, glimpses of the soldier’s face returning to his mind’s eye. Keelan followed Abigail into the cottage and up to the attic room. For the first time, Abigail crossed the salt, shuffling to the stamped letter. She opened it and revealed it to Keelan. 

“I received this letter a month ago,” Abigail shook the paper. “My son enlisted in the Eighteenth Corps a year ago.”

Keelan squinted at the message, reading the typed paper.

Dear Ms. Abigail Jackson,

It is with an affliction less than your own that I must inform you of your noble son’s death. I write in haste so that you may learn this from his superior, instead of the papers. On September 30th, 1864, your fine young man joined all under my command as we drove back the Confederates along Laurel Hill. It was your son’s bravery, along with his other fallen brothers, that helped us gain victory at the Battle of Chaffin’s Farm… 

“I prayed every day,” Abigail said, her eyes welling as she withdrew the letter before Keelan could finish, “that my boy would return to me. When I doubted God was listening, I prayed to who ever would lend an ear. Whatever you saw at my door last night wasn’t my boy. It was the devil’s work. This is my atonement.”

“No,” Keelan’s head felt light. The visions of Abigail’s son grew more vibrant. “That can’t be.”

“You see, I think God doesn’t come around here anymore.”

“No, that’s not how it works,” Keelan said, his gut dropping. 

“On the darkest midnights of the world, my boy comes back.”

“No, stop speaking nonsense, Ms. Abigail.” 

“And it’s my choice. Make room for God in my heart.”

“Please, I said stop.” 

“Or unlock the door.” 

Keelan’s vision sight melted away, and as he fell in reverse, the bed post once again did him a favor. The world faded in-and-out. Keelan came to while Ms. Abigail and a gaunt man fought through returning rain, placing him on a hooded cart, along with a goat. His conscious state went back-and-forth until he’d reached the Inn in Raleigh. The skies opened further, and Keelan, lightheaded, uttered thanks to the gaunt donkey cart driver who helped him stumble into the inn. At the counter, a bald, stocky man raised an eyebrow to a limping Keelan. 

“Nasty weather,” the innkeeper said. “Checking in, Sir?”

“Yes,” Keelan dug into his pocket, now filled with salt. “I’m afraid I have a bum leg and need a few nights to heal.”

“You’re in luck.” The innkeeper collected the last key hanging from a hook next to him. “There’s one room left, our attic suite. It has magnificent views of the front yard.”