Lost: An Oliver Muncing Tale

© 1987 John Paulits
All rights reserved.

My wife and I retired some time ago to Atlantic City for what we hoped would be many years of happiness. We bought one of those aged former boarding houses and, not surprisingly, the place was full of noises; a cracking here, a popping there, a moan and groan from the walls.

It wasn't until a certain unsettling noise intruded on our rest at night that I felt that something might be wrong. The first time I heard this particular sound I was on the fourth floor, one floor below the attic, spring housecleaning, doing the windows. Shelley, my wife, was in bed again with another of her coughing spells. She'd been having them more often of late and of such severity that we'd not been able to take the evening walks that had become our custom.

At any rate, I was doing the windows when I heard what sounded like a board snapping overhead and falling to the attic floor. The noise did not repeat itself, so I went back to the windows. But for weeks after, I would occasionally hear this same snapping and falling above me whenever I was on the fourth floor. The noise was so abrupt and unlike any other noise the house made that it unfailingly brought on an attack of goose flesh and a moment of tension before I could return to what I'd been doing. At my age, however, the urge to be inquisitive and climb a ladder through a dark hole into an even darker attic to investigate noises was slim. I would live with it.

One night it was loud enough for Shelley to hear from our third floor bedroom. She looked up from the book she was reading.

"Did you hear that, John?"

"Hear what?" I asked, even though my heart was pounding.

"Something fell on the roof, I think."

"Oh, that. I've been hearing that for weeks. I don't know what it is. I checked the roof from outside. Looks all right." I put down the book I was reading and listened intently but, as usual, the sound did not repeat itself.

We ended the conversation there. But a few nights later the sound was sharp enough to wake us.

"You don't think someone could be up there, do you?" Shelley whispered. Then my blood chilled when, for the first time, the sharp cracking repeated itself. "I don't like it. You better look into that tomorrow." She began to cough, and after I'd gotten her some water, we went back to sleep.

I had my orders, so the next morning I pulled down the attic ladder and, flashlight in hand, began to climb.

I pushed open the trap door and shone the light. A tundra of dust. Except for the little cyclone I set off by opening the trap door, it looked undisturbed. Nothing had fallen on the floor. I moved the light along the ceiling. Nothing cracked or broken. Nothing at all out of the ordinary. I noticed a bare bulb in a wall fixture next to a short chain and wondered if it still worked, but again my lack of curiosity got the better of me, and I refused to leave the ladder. I made a final circumnavigation with my flash and, satisfied I'd missed nothing, closed the door, descended the ladder, and replaced it against the ceiling.

"Well?" Shelley wanted to know. "Is the house crumbling about us?"

I fluffed her pillow and waited until she finished a fit of coughing. "The attic's in perfect shape. Just like it was when we moved in. Empty and dusty."

"Then something must have fallen on the roof."

"If it did, it rolled right off, because I can see there's nothing on the roof and so will you. Why don't you get up today? It's beautiful outside."

"Maybe tomorrow," she said and began another coughing episode.

"All right. You rest." And I left her alone.

But the nightly noise didn't stop, and Shelley was demanding I do something about it.

One evening soon after, I sat in the room beneath the attic. Shelley was in the bedroom asleep. I was dozing over a book, so I turned off the light and leaned back in my chair. Then the noise startled me. Six times it sounded, like someone battering down a door. I hurried downstairs and outside. The night was bright, and I could see my roof was clear. No tree limb to batter against it. No squirrel to drop nuts. Perfectly peaceful.

I went back inside. The house was quiet, so I slid into bed next to Shelley. Falling asleep, however, was another matter.

Next morning, flashlight in hand, I went into the attic first thing. All the way in. I yanked on the light chain, but the bulb must have been an Edison original and it didn't work. I searched every corner for some clue to that god-awful noise, but there was nothing out of the ordinary.

It wasn't until that night that I decided something was very much out of the ordinary. Again Shelley felt too ill to be disturbed, so I spent the evening in the room beneath the attic. Just past midnight, that light bulb—the Edison original—went on and an eerie square of light outlined the edges of the trap door. The noise sounded and the light went off. On. Off. On. Off. The sound accompanied each change. And then it was quiet. And I was frightened. A different kind of fright. Not only had I heard, but now I'd seen, evidence that something was not natural in my house.

Shelley's cough had worsened. I had the doctor in and he left some medicine. I didn't want to upset her, so I didn't tell her about the light. But every time I thought of that light going off and on, a light that I couldn't get to work earlier, and those noises like something trying to get in, my skin crawled. The house no longer felt hospitable, and I had no idea whom to turn to.

The next night was worst of all. I was in the room under the attic, drawn there by some weird fascination. It had been quiet all night, and I was just about to retire when I heard coughing. I was puzzled how I could hear Shelley from one floor below me when suddenly I realized that the coughing was coming from one floor above me! From the attic! I bolted out of that room in a panic and was at Shelley's side in no time. She looked terrible. So pale and weak. She opened her eyes and tried to speak. I leaned over to her.

"Something ... is ... is...." She couldn't finish.

By the time the doctor got there it was daylight. He gave her a shot but did not recommend a hospital. Just a bad spell, he said. She should recover. I didn't mention the cough in the attic because I knew it would not be a doctor who would preserve us from that.

I remembered, when I was a kid, reading about strange disturbances in a small town called Brunton, not far outside of Philadelphia. I recall not sleeping for a week after reading about them. A man was called in to investigate. Doctor Muncing was his name. This was some sixty years ago, though, and Doctor Muncing, whoever he was, would no doubt be long gone now.

Figuring I had nothing to lose, though, I went to the living room phone and hit 4-1-1. I gave them the name of Brunton and asked for the number of a Dr. Muncing. They had a Muncing but not a Doctor Muncing. I asked for that number and punched it in.

"I'm trying to locate a Doctor Muncing," I said, when someone answered.

"My grandfather? You're a bit too late for that, I'm afraid. May I ask why you're trying to get in touch with him?"

"My name is John Montgomery. I'm having ... a problem."

"Ah. My name is Oliver Muncing, and I have followed in my grandfather's footsteps, Mr. Montgomery. What kind of a disturbance are you having? Noises? Manifestations? A combination?"

This fellow didn't waste any time. "Noises. A banging in the attic as if ... someone were trying to get in."

"You wanted to say something, didn't you? No matter. How serious has it become?"

"I think very serious. Last night I heard a cough from the attic, and my wife...."

"Good God! Do you have a sick person in the house?"

The anxiety that sprang into his voice did me little good.

"Yes, my wife. She...."

"She has a cough, and the noises have become more pronounced, and the entity has even taken over your wife's cough."

"That's right."

"This is more serious than you imagine. Your wife is in great danger, as will you be if it gathers enough strength. I can come immediately. I must come immediately."

What he meant by "it" I couldn't bring myself to ask. "Yes, please do." I gave him the necessary particulars, and within three hours he was at my door.

A stranger-looking man I never wish to see. Though young, he was bent and lame, as if he'd suffered a great fall. His glasses were so thick that through them his eyes looked weirdly swollen. He offered me his hand and said, "The attic, I believe you said, Mr. Montgomery. Take me there."

It was a long, slow climb for him up to the fourth floor.

"Up there? Does the entity reside up there?"

"That's where I've heard ... whatever it is."

Muncing simply stared at the attic door. I asked, "Just what is it?"

He glanced at his watch. "It won't be dark for several hours. We'll need to make this house as bright as it can be. Lights on everywhere. The entity will rarely go where it is brightly lit. Do that. Especially in your wife's room. Take me there now. I want to be sure the preparations are adequate."

We went down the stairs to Shelley's room and looked in. She was asleep. At Muncing's urging, I promised to move whatever lamps I could into the room. As we turned to leave, my wife coughed. We closed the door gently behind us. No sooner had we started away than a second cough came from the room. It was clearly of a different pitch from my wife's. Then the two coughs sounded simultaneously! Muncing turned and, in his hop-frog motion, burst through the door.

I rushed behind him to Shelley's bedside. "Shelley?" I said. "Can you hear me? Shelley?"

Muncing put his finger to his lips. "Mrs. Montgomery, who is with you? Are you alone?"

Shelley opened her eyes, which were dimmed over with a look of perplexity.

Muncing mumbled, "How can it have such strength in broad daylight? Mrs. Montgomery, are you alone? Who is with you?"

Shelley's mouth opened and a sound came forth that flabbergasted me. A deep, horrible echo that could not possibly have originated within her small, frail frame filled the room. I felt myself drowning in the pool of sound. I looked at Muncing for help, encouragement, anything to shake the terror that engulfed me. He seemed impervious, though, to what was happening. He stroked her forehead. The noise stopped and her mouth closed.

"Talk to me," Muncing said. "Do not be afraid. We will not harm you. Talk to me."

Shelley tried to speak but again the same dreadful sound issued from her mouth.

"Stop it!" I cried. "What is happening to her? Stop it."

The noise faded. Shelley's mouth remained open, but there was no effort on her part to form words. Nevertheless, a voice deep and hellish came from her. My body went numb as I stared helplessly at my wife.

"I ... wish ... to ... return ... they ... torment ... me ... all ... around ... me ... return ... I ... must ... return."

Shelley's mouth snapped shut and her faced reddened. The muscles in her neck stood out like tightened cords. A groan, this time in Shelley's own voice, came from her. Her back arched away from the bed, then sank back. She gritted her teeth and her body stretched as if she were being pulled from both ends. With a final groan she slumped into unconsciousness. Behind us we heard a cough. We spun but saw nothing. The bedroom door moved slightly inward and all was quiet.

"Gone for now," said Muncing.

"What was it? My God. Did you see what it did to her? What was it?"

Muncing shook his head. "It's expended a great deal of energy, whatever it is. Nothing will happen till dark. I'm certain of that. Let's go downstairs and I'll explain."

To say that I would have done anything or gone anywhere that Muncing suggested would be an understatement. He would explain, he'd said. I doubted it. Anyone who could explain what I'd just seen and what had been going on in my house for the past weeks could not be someone of this earth. But I glanced at Muncing, just then trying to navigate his tortured way into a chair. His thick glasses circled the room as if he was trying to locate me. His crippled legs waved to and fro looking for a comfortable position. He did not look very much like something of this earth. I collapsed on the sofa across from him and waited.

"Do you by chance have any anisette? I, like Richard III, am not capable of many physical pleasures, as you may judge, but drinking is one I can still call my own."

"Anisette? I don't know. No, I don't think so."

Muncing's mouth twitched and he nodded slightly.

"I'll go get you some." I wanted to get away for a moment, have a respite to replay in my mind what I'd just seen. I rose and was out of the house before he could politely disagree.

He hadn't moved when I returned. I put the bottle, a glass, and a tray of ice cubes before him. He filled the glass with cubes and slowly poured a drink. Its sweet smell reached me.

"I prefer mine cold and a little weakened. My constitution is not strong." He sipped from the glass. "You're waiting for some explanation. I've done this before, so I'll be able to be brief. If you walked out the door right now, you'd be bombarded by radio waves, television waves, cell phone waves, carbon monoxide fumes, sunlight, wind, dust, noise, smells, and god knows what else. All of these things share the same space. Now, across the veil from humanity...." He paused to search for a look of comprehension from me. I don't know that I looked particularly comprehending, but he went on. "Across the veil from humanity are many forms, entities, forces; pick whatever word you want. You may have a better one than I. Some of these entities are highly evolved. Some are not. The lowest form, the elemental, is malevolent. We share the universe with them just as we share our world with the various waves and lights and fumes. Hard and fast rules of nature restrict what these forces are capable of just as nature sets limits on our own actions. Occasionally, something occurs that stretches and tests these immutable laws of nature—as happens on our side of the veil, say, when someone lowers the record for the mile run—and one of these entities does what such an entity can rarely do—it impinges itself on our world. It leaves the space it exists in and crosses through the veil into our own conscious world. I know this to be true. My grandfather spent his life dealing with these forces. He talked to me at length. I've read his writings. I have encountered these forces. An elemental did to me what you see. But as I said, there are manifold forms each on a different level of cognition and development."

He paused to refill his drink. He spoke with great assurance, as if explaining the process of a rain to a child. This is what occurs. It's science. It's true. Take it or leave it. He looked at me and continued.

"Something has attached itself to your wife. When the veil is pierced, the force that comes through the break needs to draw sustenance from the living so it can manifest itself. As healthy beings, we are rarely in danger. Your wife, sick as she is, is in great danger. You see that the entity is even assimilating her cough along with her life force. If unchecked, she will die so that it may live."

At the word "it" I stood and paced the room. "Is this real?" It was a stupid question for me to ask, and he chose not to answer it. I had seen that it was.

"But how this creature, this being, whatever it is, is able to do what we've just seen it do in broad daylight is beyond me. They exist where light and dark have no meaning. But for some reason, which in my mind has to do with electromagnetic forces, they operate much more vigorously at night. Perhaps the daylight, laced with the power of sunlight, has some inhibiting effect on them. You mentioned that the light bulb in the attic was able to function after you failed to make it light. Again a property of their electromagnetic aura. You will recall that the stories of ghostly appearances often occur at night and then on dark, violent nights. Lightning. Somehow lightning causes ripples in the veil."

Muncing was speaking to himself now, as if testing theories he was not fully prepared to assert as truth.

"What can we do?" I asked.

"Do? Yes, we must do something. And we must do it tonight. At first I thought we were dealing with an elemental. I've had experience with them," he said, again indicating his withered, broken body. "But an elemental is not capable of what we've seen. No. It is a higher power we are dealing with."

"Well, what can we do? What can we do?"

Muncing didn't speak. He leaned back in his chair, glass of anisette in his hand, lifted an admonitory finger to me, and closed his eyes. After fifteen minutes I was afraid he was either dead or in some kind of trance. Shelley was alone upstairs, so I went and sat with her for nearly two hours. The room was quiet, and she did not wake. When I returned to my parlor, Muncing had moved to the sofa and was stretched full-length.

Like an overturned turtle trying to right itself, he struggled to an upright position. "We will sit with your wife tonight. The room must be lighted. The entity must use more of its power to function in the light, and a bright room will be a protection for your wife. We will try to learn what we are dealing with. If we can do that, we may have a chance to send it back where it belongs."

As the sun set, Muncing sat with my wife, and I lugged every lamp in the house into her bedroom. After a quick trip to the hardware store for extension cords, we sat in a blaze of light. My wife was unconscious through it all.

"How can Shelley sleep with all of these lights on?" I wondered aloud.

"She's been severely weakened. Don't think for a moment that she isn't under vicious attack by this entity." Then he spoke more quietly. "I caution you. Your wife's life is in danger."

I drew myself up in my chair and nodded. I wished this "entity," as Muncing called it, would just go back to wherever it came from and leave us alone. I wanted Shelley well and my house quiet again.

The night dragged on. Time had never seemed so sluggish. I recall glancing at my watch and seeing one o'clock. I must have nodded off after that. But a deep, rasping cough from outside the bedroom door snapped me awake. Muncing was already on his feet. Only the immovable lights in the house, the ones I couldn't take to Shelley's room, burned, and the house was dim. Now as I watched, a pale glow appeared in the crack below the door, and—oh God—I remember seeing it even through the keyhole. A force pushed against the door as if trying it before entering. Then, with an unnerving quietness, the door swung inward. Muncing moved closer to me, and we both watched. There in the doorway, set off by the darkness behind it, a pale sickly yellow glow wavered and shimmered. It had a vague, smoke-like shape. And smoky though it was, the differentiation between head and body was apparent. It had eyes, though they were not on a line, and the nose was only a questionable smear punctuated by two misaligned holes. The mouth began in a straight line on the left side but somewhere around the middle sagged off drunkenly to finish where one would suppose a chin to be. This grotesque mouth opened, and we heard the cough it had stolen from my wife.

Suddenly, the lights in the room began to blink and cavort until the room seemed like a ridiculous parody of a Saturday afternoon TV dance program. When Muncing and I looked again at the door, the creature was gone.

"I ... must ... return." Muncing and I whirled. Shelley's mouth hung open. The creature was within her! The lights continued to flash in spectacular fashion as Muncing sat on one side of the bed, I on the other.

"Who are you?" Muncing asked shading his eyes. "These lights," he muttered.

"I ... am ... lost ... must ... return."

"Who are you?" Muncing prodded.

"Shadows ... forms ... torment ... ooohhhh!"

A terrible cry of pain came from the creature. Shelley lay still in the bed, her mouth drooping.

"cannot ... find ... my ... way."

Muncing grabbed Shelley by the shoulders and shouted. "Damn you. Who are you? Who are you?"

"Al ... bert ... son."

"What did he say?" I whispered.

"My ... name ... was ... Albertson."

Muncing released Shelley as if he'd been holding a glowing coal. "Your name was ... are you human?"

"Human ... died ... lost ... forms ... will ... not ... give ... peace ... must ... return."

"My God!" said Muncing, going pale. "This is a human spirit. But it's not where it should be. It has somehow become entangled with elementals. I knew I recognized elementals in all of this."

"Please ... ohhhh!" The window glass in the room exploded outward as what felt like a hurricane swirled through the room. Half of the light bulbs in the room exploded in rapid succession as another wail of pain from the spirit added to the din.

"You must leave where you are," shouted Muncing. "But you cannot return to the living. You must leave this house and this woman. You are hurting her. You are killing her. Leave here and find your way."

"I ... cannot ... shapes ... evil ... shapes ... forbid ... me ... passage ... hidden ... gone ... forever ... must ... return."

"No, you cannot."

Shelley's body began jerking uncontrollably on the bed. The windstorm in the room disappeared and was replaced by an equally unsettling quiet.

"Leave this woman," commanded Muncing. "You are killing her. You cannot escape this way. You are the dead, and we are the living. You must find your way elsewhere."

"No ... they ... come ... again ... no ... peace ... no ... my ... way ... must ... find ... my ... way."

"Leave this woman. You are tormenting her as these forms are tormenting you. Leave her. I demand it. I command you."

Muncing, small, crippled, and hardly an imposing figure, had risen from the bed and, like Moses parting the Red Sea, stretched out his arm, magisterially pointing into space. "I command you to leave this woman. Now! Go! Find your way! This is not your way!"

"Aaaarrrgggghhhhhh!"

A cry more horrible than anything I'd ever heard or could ever imagine hearing poured from my dear wife's lips. Her body contorted into impossible positions. The rest of the bulbs in the room began to explode, and the mysterious wind began to wail. But above it all, the tiny crippled man continued to cry out.

"Leave this woman, Albertson. This is not your way. Find your way."

Finally the howling in the room drowned out Muncing's words, but I could still see his lips moving, his arms gesturing, his eye commanding.

Shelley's eyes opened. I saw fear in them. Then they clouded, and we lost her as her body began twisting about. I began shouting along with Muncing. The two of us were like madmen trying to reason with the devil.

"Leave her. Leave her. Leave her."

Just as the shrieks of pain reached their most horrifying, it all stopped. Like a switch had been thrown, we were enveloped in a deadly quiet. Muncing looked at me in alarm.

"Is it over?" I whispered.

"John, he's taken me. John. John." My wife's voice. Not from the bed, but behind me! Disembodied.

"She isn't breathing," I shouted. "Muncing, help her. Help her."

"Albertson, release her! In a moment it will be too late. Albertson."

"John...." My wife's voice sounded far off. "Help ... me ... dark ... forms ... where ... am ... I ... lost ... where ... my ... way ... lost ... John ... John ... John."

Muncing slumped into a chair in the moonlight that lit the room, and I saw a tear glide down his cheek.

For ten years not a day has passed that I haven't heard again in my mind my wife's plea to me for help. Help impossible for me to give. Now I do little but wait. Wait and hope that when my time comes, and I must pass from this world to the next, I, unlike Albertson, and unlike my beloved wife, will be able to find my way.

Previously published in Doppelganger Magazine, 1987

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