Spirit of Mountain Avenue

A story such as this usually begins: “It was a dark and stormy night.” To clichéd, and inherently untrue, this story begins on a typical late summer night somewhere in the San Gabriel Valley. Santa Ana winds led a choir of coyotes and hoot owls through a series of haunting melodies. The air was dry the night was hot. Open windows no sheets or blankets on the bed was the recipe for late night comfort.

Stephen was eight years old. Four feet tall in bare feet with shaggy blond hair covered by a Dodger cap. Hazel eyes and a mischievous grin accented by a gap waiting for a late blooming tooth; completed the portrait.

Today had not been one of his better days. No one blamed him for the afternoon’s emergency. He blamed himself though. It had to be his fault.

When his four-year-old sister Lara was born his mom sat him down placing his fragile sister in the care of his toddler-sized arms. All the while explaining the importance involved in being a big brother.

“A big brother,” she said, “looked out for his sister protecting her and keeping her from harm.”

Four years had passed since that fateful day. His sister had grabbed his heartstrings and tugged for all she was worth. She brought sunshine to his life while the very foundation his life was built upon was shaken to the core.

For reasons he would not understand for decades, his father was drowning in a sea of alcohol.

He remembered how his dad had taken him to Dodger games. How waited outside the clubhouse hoping to catch an autograph or two. Or how on weekends with chores completed they would share a catch on the front lawn just the two of them.

Now day’s dad spent more time in his workshop than anyplace else. Repairing a car or two in between cans of Bud. He never listened to baseball, never laughed, never sat with mom anymore. He yelled a lot, drank a lot and late at night alone in the dark he cried a lot.

His father’s dysfunctional state had become so serious that his mom had taken him to the park and explained that with his fathers “sickness” he was now the man of the house and she needed help with his sister. He took pride in how much his mother trusted him. He would always look out for Lara.

Today had been a bad one for his father one of the worst ever. He was painting the garage, drinking too much and growing noticeably bitterer. Finally throwing the paintbrush down in disgust he left everything scattered about the driveway and locked himself in the workshop.

Lara was in the house with our mom or so everyone thought. While mom was ironing she wondered out into the backyard exploring. Stephen was out front trading baseball cards with a friend when he froze at the sound of Lara’s shriek.

He sprang to his feet oblivious to the trail of Dodger’s scattered in his wake. Reaching the backyard faster than he believed possible he found Lara sitting on the driveway, screaming, covered from head to toe in beige paint. Screaming for his mother he banged on the backdoor, not knowing what else to do.

Lara loved water. She would have, if possible played with or in water 24/7. Her mistake was instinctual seeing a can she assumed it contained water, which she poured over her head just as she had a hundred times before. Except this time of course the water was really paint.

His mother ran out of the house scooping Lara up without breaking stride all the while running for the car. She screamed for his dad who somewhat drunkenly joined her in the front seat holding the screaming Lara while she sped to the ER.

Lara was a beautiful baby; a local artist entered her photograph in a contest taking first place and it was featured in a local ad campaign. Her most striking feature by far was her long golden blonde hair. Hair which was now covered in brown paint and clumping together as the paint dried. Of even graver concern was whether or not paint had infiltrated her eyes causing permanent damage.

At the hospital Stephen remained in the waiting room feeding coffee to his dad, while his mom was with Lara and the doctors.

Guilt was beginning to manifest within his conscience. “Why was I trading dumb old baseball cards, I should have been with Lara?”

Watching his father sober up it never occurred to him that it was his father was to blame for leaving the paint can for Lara to find. Self-blame kept running through his thoughts until his eyes filled with tears and his gut ached with worry.

After what seemed like hours his mom emerged from the ER. In tears he ran into her arms. “I’m sorry mom, I’m sorry,” he cried. “Its all my fault I should have been with Lara not trading dumb old baseball cards.”

His mom wrapped his trembling frame in her arms. Hugging him tight she began soothing his fragile nerves. “Honey no, no it’s not your fault. You were playing. You were being a child. Your father and I are responsible for watching her. I did not expect her to get out of the house, I most certainly did not expect you to watch her.”

“But mom you told me, ‘sob’ you told me I was a big brother. You told me it was my job to watch out for her to protect her.”

“Honey you are a big brother an excellent big brother and you do watch out for Lara when she is with you. Today was not your fault. You did the right thing. You heard her cry found the problem and called for me. You did good son, you did good, I could not me more proud of you.”

He failed to notice the look his mom shot his father while hugging him. If he had he would have known someone else was to blame and he was in serious trouble.

“Where’s Lara mom? Can we see her? Is she okay?”

“It appears that Lara will be fine. They flushed here eyes and she will have to wear patches for a few days. At first look there does not appear to be any damage. The biggest problem was her hair. There was too much paint; her hair was one big-knotted clump. The doctors could not get the paint out so they had to cut her hair. Her beautiful long hair, at least my baby will be okay. She will be fine that is all that matters.”

Before heading home his mom had taken them for a drive through the local foothills. Lara always found car rides soothing and mom wanted her calm before heading home. Stephen was lost in thought, holding his sisters hand and praying she would be okay.

Arriving home his mom set Lara up on the couch with a pillow and her favorite blanket. She asked Stephen to sit with his sister and watch television while doing his best to keep Lara calm.

“Your father and I will be out back if you need anything.”

Before sitting with Lara he turned on the television and found some recent sitcom to occupy their minds. With patches on her eyes he could not tell if his sister was asleep or awake. He held her hand and described the action she could not see.

Stephen must have dosed off for a while, because he was startled awake by the feeling of being watched. At first he thought his mom or dad were back in the room but as he came to his senses he realized that they were alone. He marked the feeling off as a bad dream and turned his attention back to the laugh track on TV.

Without warning goose bumps erupted across the back of his neck. Again he was sure he was being watched and this time he was awake. He walked around the living room, checked the kitchen and the hallway and found as he expected that Lara and him were the only ones in the house.

Returning to the couch, he felt the same sensation again, this time was different though, this time a voice accompanied the feeling.

“GET OUT!!!” “Get out of my house. Go now. Get out,” the voice had a menacing, rasping quality to it.

His first thought was that one of the neighbors was pranking on them. Quietly, he crept to the front door, eased it open and peered out. No one was outside and the street appeared to be buttoned up for the night.

As soon as he sat down again, he heard the voice, repeating its message like an echo in time.

“GET OUT!!!” “Get out of my house. Go now. Get out.”

He looked at Lara but she still appeared to be asleep. He sat there wondering what to do and then he had an idea. He went to the kitchen and grabbed a flashlight. Once again he eased open the front door. He searched the entire front yard especially the garden located beneath the living room windows. Having been watered earlier that day he could see no sign that the dirt had been disturbed. No muddy footprints. Nothing.

He went back inside expecting to hear the voice again but all appeared to have returned too normal. No goose bumps. No echoes. No sound effects, just the television and his beautiful sister.

Thirty Years Later.

Stephen now 38 years old was visiting Lara. Time had moved on but nothing had changed. They were not only siblings but also best friends. At least once a week found them sharing lunch or chatting the evening away at one of their homes.

This evening found them discussing their childhood.

“Stephen, do you remember when we lived on Mountain Avenue and I poured the paint over my head?”

“Of course I do. You scared the hell out of mom and boy was she pissed at dad.”

“Do you remember when we came home, sitting on the couch and watching television with me? Lara asked.

He began to wonder where all this was leading. They did not often walk down memory lane and this is one road they had never explored.

“Well,” Stephen hesitated. “I remember watching television, although as I recall it was more by myself than with you. Sleeping is what you were doing.”

“Can I ask you a question, Do Do?”

That stopped him in his tracks. She rarely called him Do Do any more. When she was four though that was his nickname. For some reason she was unable to pronounce Stephen then.
“Of course Lara!” Ask away.

“Well that night, this is going to sound really strange and you are going to think I have gone loopy on you. But that night did you hear like anything strange?”

Stephen flashed back thirty years to that night. He could still hear that voice. Though he had convinced himself it was only a bad dream.

“I am not sure I heard anything,” he hesitated a moment, “well I guess the truth is that I thought I heard something but convince myself it was a bad dream.”

“Was it a creepy voice telling us to get out of the house claiming it was not ours?"

“That was it exactly. I could have sworn you were sleeping. How come you never said anything? Why did you bring it up now?

“Well,” Lara began, “I thought I dreamt it. Last night however I did dream about it, I was four years old again. Lying on that old couch. My eyes were covered but I was wide-awake. I heard the voice again. It was so real I had to ask. I thought I was crazy but now I know I am not. We both heard whatever it was.”

“I always chalked it up to a dream myself, now you have my curiosity peaked. I am going to have to do some research.’

Conversation, as it often does with family blended into other topics leaving ghostly voices for another day.

Another Day.

Stephen was surrounded by stack of microfiche containing the early records of his hometown. He had visited City Hall first and found the names of original owners of his childhood home. They were one of the first families to have settled in the area. Now he was ensconced at the Historical Museum in what he felt would be a vain attempt to attach significance of some type to the events of thirty years ago.

He was reading an article from 1901 and those very same goose bumps were beginning to erupt on his neck.

Apparently the Bartlett family (husband, wife and three kids) had settled in the area building the house in 1901. They had lived in the new home a week or so when tragedy struck. The family at Mrs. Bartlett’s insistence went on an overnight trip into the local mountains. Everyone seemed to have a good time. Hiking, exploring and picking berries for homemade pie.

The morning after they returned home all three children plus Mr. Bartlett developed high fevers. Doing all she could for her family, Mrs. Bartlett walked a mile to the nearest neighbors and asked if they could fetch the nearest doctor.

When she returned home she found the fevers had increased and the two littlest ones were barely breathing.

The doctor arrived and after examining the family informed her that by all accounts it appeared that they had contracted typhoid fever. The look in his eyes told her all she needed to know. There was no hope. To punctuate that thought the two youngest passed almost simultaneously.

At this point Mrs. Bartlett they say appeared to snap.

She began screaming at the doctor, ““GET OUT!!!” “Get out of my house. Go now. Get out,”

The doctor had even used the words menacing and rasping to describe her voice. He left, promising to send out the mortician and to return himself to check on the rest of her family the next day.

He never had the chance. Later that same afternoon when the mortician arrived he found the door open and the four occupants of the house to have all died from the fever. He found Mrs. Bartlett sobbing in the backyard.

According to his report when he tried to offer comfort she just screamed at him, ““GET OUT!!!” “Get out of my house. Go now. Get out.”

Those were her last words. When the sheriff came to the house to assist the mortician in picking up the bodies they found her hanging from the hundred-year-old oak in front of the house.

Stephen sat back a chill running down his spine and the palms of his sands suddenly cold and clammy. Until today his policy had been to leave the supernatural to the superstitious, now he didn’t know what to think.