It was related, through the gossip of tongues, that in the time past a certain John Spector encountered the spirit of a shadowy form; the appearance of the strange phantom that completely changed his life forever. The happening occurred during a cold night with the wind blowing in fierce gusts. Haunting words were heard flowing in the wind and it chilled him to the bone.
John Spector was not always the type of person that imagined seeing spooks at the dead of night. John till the recent years was an upright man in his middling years with a promising future. He was at one time a staid business trader in stocks and bonds, but the market turned red, which left him in debt and financial ruin. It turned him from a robust chap to a paunchy derelict sighted with a worrisome face under the grey of his hair.
On top of his misery in his business world, he experienced another gross iniquity that changed his life completely; namely it was the legal separation from his wife and two children. The added loss twisted his mind to the point of near madness.
Through business loss and divorce John Spector became a pariah in society, shunned by all his former friends and close acquaintances. His only choice was to to separate himself from his past and live the life of bitter recluse. Thus John Spector purchased a furnished two story house in a run-down section of the metropolis with the remainder of his funds. Then he gathered up his limited possessions and the last of his dignity and moved into the brick-faced building.
It was solitary house, standing in a sadly neglected garden of a hundred square feet; tall trees threw shadows on the outside walls with their long branches and climbing tendrils. The house had been uninhabited for a long time for some unknown reason. It was a house ill-placed, ill-built, ill-planned, and ill-fitted; a pile of gloomy decay. Yet the price of the property fitted John Spector's lean purse and without a question he put his mark on the contract.
The interior of the dwelling was habitable but gloomy; it consisted of a parlor, dining room, library and large kitchen on the ground floor; a master bedroom, a guest room, and two smaller rooms were on the upper floor. A large attic on the upper level contained the dusty remains of the past residents; a place that hid secrets in a padlocked trunk and in varied nailed wooden boxes. The brick pile was covered with dirt-red tiles; the interior sealed from peering eyes by locked doors and rusty iron shutters.
The furnishings within were of maple and walnut, solid and cumbersome, but serviceable; only a rust-stained mattress had to be replaced. Torn dust covers hid the plush sofa and two armchairs in the parlor; but the dining table and chairs were overlaid with dust and dirt. The books on the shelves in the library were hidden in dust and the pages were discoloured in age.
It was easy to understand why the building was avoided by the nearby residents; even the mischievous youngsters of the neighborhood labeled it a haunted house and stood clear of the premises and its weed-strewn garden. There was never a ringing of the chimes or even a light tap on the front door.
Thus, it was difficult for John Spector to hire a respectable woman to tend to the needed housekeeping. Only a slatterny creature answered the call for the post of a daily cleaning woman; her duties extended to the necessary shopping and in the preparation of meals; but, in John Spector's eyes it neither mattered how his house was dusted and swept nor how the food he ate at the dining table tasted.
Within a short space of time John Spector fitted himself into the character of his house. He was as gloomy as the building itself.
When he was walking through the rooms, he constantly muttered figures in dollars and cents. It was part of a mad routine as John continued to fantasize his trading at the market. The library became his center of business activity in his imagined trading post.
There on a large walnut desk, alongside the dusty books, were old stocks and bonds, and equally old market reports and financial newspapers. He would be seated at the desk after a frugal breakfast and carry on fictional business practices. Nothing disturbed him in his so-called busy life; even the clump of the feet of the cleaning woman didn't phase him.
John Spector stepped out of his house routinely at the first day of the month, rain or shine. It was a need to draw money from his dwindling account at his former bank; he was greeted civilly only by the clerk who efficiently rendered the required service. The busy bank manager neither offered the cheerful bantering of former years nor the friendly handshake.
His presence in the streets was equally avoided by the residents of the neighborhood. They saw in the dark of his garb and in the scowl of face shadowed under a black homburg a person to be feared. And they stepped aside when they heard his heavy tread.
The gloom of the late night hours found John Spector in the continued madness of his solitary life. An imagined woman was always there in his mind when he turned down the sheets. As he prepared for his night's rest he talked of his so-called busy life, the ups and downs of the market, and simple chatter towards the weather and the non-existent social functions. Then with a pleasant good-night to his lips he shut the lamp on his bedside table.
As time passed in its dreary pace eerie sounds arose in the shadows of the night and came out of their lurking places. The wind shaking the branches of the old trees caused the slim wood to scratch on the shingled roof and on the glass of the windows. A barn owl perched on a lower branch of a tree peered about with is large eyes for a sign of prey; after a moment of search, its loud screeching scream was called out as it took to its wings.
When the wind was blowing fiercely, sharp tapping could be heard on the walls in the bedroom. When it was just cold and dark the creak on the floor boards sounded a light tread. The shadows brought the likeness of forms and faces from the past, from the grave, and from things that were seen, but were never stationary, always wandering.
Then on one fateful night, the closed door opened, and a faint glow brightened the bedroom. There, through the oaken door, entered a shadow of man of no certain age, deadly pale, and with long stringy hair. The shadowy spirit glided to John's bed and stared at him while he nervously wrung his hands.
The sound of the ormolu clock on a shelf above the night table was heard as it chimed eerily the hour of twelve. A cold draught of the bedroom had spread over John Spector and it chilled and disturbed eerily the hour of twelve. Then suddenly he awoke to the faint glow, which surprised him. His eyes widened when he noticed in the dim light of the room a shadow of a misty figure standing near his wardrobe. John Spector sat up on his bed frightened to the depth of his soul. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and he could not speak.
The frightened man observed the ghostly figure more accurately. The phantom's garments were wet and clung to his misty form; his long hair was dabbled with bits of moist mud. A closer look at his clothes indicated the fashion of past days. The spirit stood and stared at him. John Spector was in such a state that he could not even faint; he remained motionlessly on his bed, frozen in terror.
Ghastly and cold, colourless in a shaded face, the misty figure came to John Spector, motionless, without a sound. The spirit leaned slightly over the bed close above him, with the daunting copy of his facial features, looking where his face had looked, and bearing the expression his face bore.
The living man, and the animated image of himself dead looked one upon the other. It was a horrendous appraisal in a lonely dwelling on a cold night, with the loud wind raging on the outside and the owl screeching as it pounced on its prey.
"Take a look at me, the mirror of yourself," whispered the spectre. "I was John Spector in his youth who was born miserably poor, but one who strove and suffered until I hewed out the knowledge that bettered myself."
"I was that youth," John Spector replied nervously.
"I am you," continued the phantom quietly, "who in my struggle upwards achieved my goal and attained recognition and wealth. And in the struggle I found a good woman who later became my wife and bore me a son and daughter. We worked together side by side. All the love that I had in my possession I bestowed upon her."
"It was picture of domestic bliss with the blessed maiden who shared in the toil of achievement. And when it was realized it was mellowed with happiness that bound us in love, together with our children. Yet, after many years of contented life, fiscal red was seen with your eyes. Red continued to be seen in your sight till your well-ordered life collapsed. Financial ruin was heaped upon you followed by the separation from those you held so dearly to your heart.
"Let me forget it," John Spector cried out. "Let me forget it as it was and still is a blot on my memory.
"Hear me, John Spector, hear me out," returned the spirit. "It is within my power to blot all remembrance. You will forget the sorrow, the wrong done to you, and all the other troubles."
"Forget the past!" queried John Spector.
"Yes your memory will be cleansed from all the miserable thoughts in it. There will be only faint traces, which will be confused in your mind. All will disappear from your inner mind. Say, the word and it will be done!"
"A few minutes longer will be needed by me to come to a decision," John Spector answered. "I have tried to forget. If I was able to do so I would of cleared my mind immediately! I thought that, alone, as my memory was fraught with sorrow and troubles."
John Spector paused for a few moments before he blurted out, "Yes, I will close the bargain with you! Yes, I will let you erase from my mind all the memories of sorrows, wrongs and troubles of the past."
"Utter it once again," said the phantom, "and it will be done!"
"I agree!" John Spector repeated twice over.
"The shadowy ghost hovered over John Spector and held out a bloodless hand over him as he invoked the powers of the spirit world. As he spelled a mysterious incantation, John could see the spirit had a terrible smile. The stare of spirit's dark eyes were fixed upon him until it melted upon him and was gone.
John Spector was rooted to the spot where he sat on the bed. He was possessed by fear and wonder and he imagined he heard faint words dying away, "Forget the past, forget the past!" The ghostly spirit's words were blowing in the rhythm of the winds echoing into a whisper, "what had been given... go where you will!"
John Spector then leaped from the bed and groped to the now darkened room till he reached the oaken door. He leaned against the wood and tried to remembered what had passed but neither memory of the frightening incident nor of the sorrowful past was etched on his mind.
Then he felt alone and forgotten without memory of kin and friends.
"Alone, alone!' he screamed again and again in the misery of his soul.....
Norman A. Rubin of Afula, Israel is a former correspondent for the Continental News Service, USA. He's written on Near East culture and crafts, archaeology, history and politics; religious history and rites, etc. He's been featured in publications world wide - Jerusalem Post, Israel - Coin News, Minerva, Oriental Arts, etc. England - Ararat, Letter Arts Review, Archaeology, etc. USA - Spotlight, Japan - International B, Hong Kong. He's been a freelance writer for the past sixteen years of short stories of all genres - mystery, horror, humour, sexual customs, etc.