Wall Ghosts

by M.D. Smith, IV

“The war might last a year, Margaret. While I’m gone, avoid my worthless half-brother staying here to mind the cotton fields. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. If he tries anything, you pick up one of my loaded dueling pistols and shoot him. That no-good should fight for the Confederacy.”

Henry Carlson Ashworth, III, donned his officer’s uniform jacket and pulled his wife close.

“Don’t worry, Henry,” she said. “I’m not fond of your brother. I’ll keep him at a proper distance.” Margaret returned his hug and kissed him. “Now, follow me down for breakfast. Cook has lunch packed for your saddlebags.”

They exited the bedroom and shut the massive carved door. All was quiet for a moment.

“PW, did you hear that?” said the oak wall behind the headboard.

The painted plaster and wire wall replied, “Of course, Oak, I hear everything you do.”

“The master should know his wife’s already been unfaithful to him with his half-brother.”

“If only we could tell him how Alfred talks to Margaret when he slips in here, how he ignites her soul,” PW sighed. “His gentle strokes of her flesh offer irresistible pleasures.”

“He’s disgraceful. I’ve been proud since the day the artisans built me here at the head of the bed from only two-inch-thick English Oak planks.”

“What about me?” PW said.

“PW, you are beautiful. You’re more than pretty with that ultra-smooth plaster and light tan face. You have strong wire inside. We are the finest walls in the mansion.”

“Remember their wedding night? Sweet bliss as they exchanged every loving word imaginable. If my paint could’ve blushed, it would’ve.”

“I liked the activity,” Oak replied. “Did you see the manly way he tossed her in the bed, dressed only in her undergarments? They rolled like two bears undressing each other.”

“Every time we talk about that, I feel slight drops of dew forming near my crown molding.” Stifling a gasp, PW composed herself.

“And to think that hussy allowed that scoundrel into her bedroom? The master has been busy and distracted lately. But it’s still no excuse for her to let Alfred worm his way into her life.”

* * *

Two days after Henry left for the war, and the help retired for the night, Alfred slipped down the hall to the master bedroom, through the unlocked door, turned the key from the inside, disrobed, and slipped into bed and the waiting arms of Margaret.

Midnight. Inside the bedroom, illuminated by a single candle, the key in the lock fell to the carpeted floor. Another key was inserted from the outside and turned until the bolt clicked. The door slowly opened without waking the sleeping pair. A figure tip-toed to the chest of drawers and withdrew the two dueling pistols, one in each hand. The shadowed figure moved to the foot of the bed, observing the couple with bare shoulders peeking outside the sheet.

Two audible clicks sounded as both guns were cocked over the percussion caps, waiting to ignite the powder and propel the .44 caliber lead balls. Margaret stirred, looked, then screamed as she sat upright, holding the sheet over her breasts. “Noooo...”

Alfred awoke, and they stared at Henry and the two guns leveled at them.

Both guns fired. Single, round lead balls pierced the chests of Alfred and Margaret. The sheet dropped. Both stared at the round hole centered in their skin, with blood flowing freely. Margaret closed her eyes and fell backward. Alfred looked up, opened his mouth, but all that came out was his last breath of air. He fell against the pillow.

Henry put the two pistols in his belt and quietly dashed out the door to rejoin his regiment, only five miles away, then to join General Lee’s army in Virginia.

“Oak, did you see that?”

“Of course, the bed’s directly beneath me. He took care of that cheating woman and his worthless half-brother.”

“She was only weak. She didn’t deserve to die. I wonder if they’ll suspect Henry? He should pay for murder?”

“We’ll see, ” Oak said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

The house had many owners after Henry Ashworth died in the war. One hundred years later, in 1962, Oak no longer had his satin finish over his wooden surface. He’d been coated several times with different colors of paint, and PW had been wallpapered three times and painted over the paper twice.

The new owner wore a flowered scarf over her head, a floral print dress touching the floor and leather sandals. Beads with odd amulets on them, including a bear tooth, adorned her neck. She admired the bedroom view.

“Wow, the new owner looks like a Gypsy,” Oak said.

PW observed. “Don’t you see the faint green glow around her? I sensed it the minute entered.”

The woman turned around. “Who said that? Who’s in here?”

“I think she can hear us,” PW said to Oak.

“Yes, I can hear you. Where are you? What are you? Are you spirits of this old house?”

“Magic?” Oak asked.

“It’s not magic. It’s a gift to see and hear things other people can’t. It’s caused me some hard times.” Looking around, “My name’s Annie. I can’t see you.”

“Yes, you can. I’m the oak wall behind the master bed. The other voice you hear is PW, the plaster wall. You’re the first creature to hear our voices.”

“I’m by the door,” PW chimed in.

“Incredible. I’ve heard all kinds of spirits and creatures talk to me in my life, but this is a first time for walls. Remarkable.” She touched PW and ran her hand in a sweeping motion. “I’ve always heard the expression ‘If walls could talk, what a tale they’d tell.’ Maybe I haven’t listened hard enough in the past.”

“Pull up a chair, Annie,” said PW. “We’ve got over a hundred years of stories to tell you. Some will curl your straight hair.”

“And these walls wouldn’t lie to you,” Oak added.