Page 70 of Middle of the Night

“I don’t really know. I’ve only been managing the event space for two years.” Lonette lowers her voice to a whisper. “The rumor is that it was some kind of cult.”

I try to appear unruffled, even as the word “occult”flashes through my thoughts like a neon bar sign.

“Do you think it’s true?”

“No,” Lonette says with a shrug. “But I can see why people would say that. Especially if they’ve been in the basement. It wasn’t just the land and mansion that were donated to the county. All the furniture was, too. They just stuffed it all in the basement. It’s creepy as heck, if you ask me.”

I did ask her, and whether she intended to or not, Lonette has toldme exactly where to look. Forget the second floor. I need to find my way into the basement. I even think I know how to get there: a closed door located directly beneath the main staircase.

While thinking of ways to get to it, I allow Lonette to lead me through the rest of the tour. In addition to the ballroom, I’m shown the preparation areas for the bride, groom, and other members of the wedding party; the kitchen facilities that caterers use; and the dining room where receptions can be held if the ceremony takes place in the ballroom.

The room I peered at through the window is where cocktail hours take place. Next to it is what Lonette refers to as “the recovery room,” a small antechamber where guests who’ve drunk a bit too much can sober up. Soon we’re back in the entrance hall, where Lonette hands me her card and recommends I return with my fiancée, after making an appointment.

“May I use your restroom?” I say, which is what I should have asked when she caught me at the window. It would have saved both of us some time.

Lonette points to a short hallway just past the door that I assume leads to the basement. “It’s down the hall on the left.”

I stroll toward the hallway, aware she’s following my every move. Pretending to be confused, I pause at the door beneath the staircase.

“Further down,” Lonette calls before I can open it. “And on yourleft.”

I flash a sheepish grin and head toward the bathroom door, moving so slowly that Lonette gives up watching and retreats into her office. That’s when I make my move. Hustling to the door beneath the staircase, I crack it open, slip inside, and quietly close it shut behind me.

I spend a moment in complete darkness, fumbling for a light switch. When I finally hit it, I see steps leading down to what’s clearly a basement.

Jackpot.

At the bottom, I find myself in a massive stone-walled chamber that’s been stuffed to the rafters with furniture, crates, and decades of detritus. It’s all haphazardly arranged, with chairs on top of tables, shelves crammed full of curios, boxes stacked to teetering heights. Dust covers everything in thick layers. There are cobwebs, too, which fill the corners. All combined, it makes me feel like I’ve just entered the world’s most haunted antiques store.

Stepping among the junk, I’m hit with a cold draft that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. Lonette is right: This placeiscreepy as heck.

Not helping is how half of the furniture is covered by drop cloths darkened with dust, looking unnervingly human-shaped. Not unlike the shadow people in Billy’s book. I try to ignore them as I whip out my phone and start taking pictures, starting with the nearest shelf. I snap pictures of the grab bag of items placed there. A ceramic phrenology bust. A box inlaid with jewels. A wooden Ouija board.

Next, I open a nearby box, almost coughing as I get assailed by a cloud of dust. I quickly rifle through the books inside, spotting everything from leather-bound encyclopedias to an alleged book of spells. More books are in the next box I open, including an ancient-looking copy ofGray’s Anatomy,Waldenby Thoreau, a battered paperback ofHouse of Horrors.

Since searching each box could take all day, I move to a pair of wooden trunks sitting side by side. Inside both are stacks of framed photographs. I quickly remove them and start taking pictures of each one, not stopping to notice what they depict. Most seem to be of long-ago events that took place in this very mansion. Groups of old white men in black suits staring at the camera. Gold plates at the bottom of the frames tell me the year they were taken, starting with 1937 and ending in 1998.

As I aim my phone at a photograph from 1993, one face stands outfrom the rest—a teenager posed beside a man who looks to be almost eighty years older. The older gentleman is clearly Ezra Hawthorne, and not just because he’s dressed like the man in the portrait by the front door. I’ve seen enough photos of old Ezra to recognize him.

I also recognize the teenager next to him.

Johnny Chen.

Although I know he volunteered here, seeing him so obviously familiar with Ezra Hawthorne makes me gasp in shock—a sound loud enough to be heard through the closed door at the top of the stairs. From above, I hear Lonette say, “He’s down there.” It’s followed by two sets of footfalls on the stairs.

I keep clicking, quickly capturing the photographs from the remaining years. I’ve just finished taking a picture of 1998 when Lonette enters the basement. With her is Ragesh Patel, and he’s none too happy to see me.

“Hey, Ethan,” he says with pronounced annoyance. “You’re going to need to come with me.”

Friday, July 15, 1994

2:48 p.m.

Ethan continues to pull on Billy, just as Ashley continues to pull on him. He feels stretched by the twin strains. On the verge of snapping.

Come on!Ethan tries to yell to Billy, but no words come out. He’s too startled, too scared, too distracted by the sounds of people running, some away from the mausoleum, one toward it. Meanwhile, Ashley keeps tugging, the force of it pulling Ethan’s hand from Billy’s.

Their grip breaks.

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