Nearly Departed, Max Schlienger [the gingerbread man read aloud txt] 📗

He was the last to approach it, but before he could begin repeating the oath, he felt the same sensation of being watched that he had experienced in Alena’s studio.

“Damn it, Bobo,” he muttered. “Why did you have to say anything?” He glared at his reflection – which glared back, predictably – and stalked out the door to where everyone else was waiting.

“What’s the matter?” Luke jibed. “Find a blackhead?”

“Oh, shut up.”

The first stop on the tour was, as far as Dennis could tell, a nondescript stretch of sidewalk in front of one of San Francisco’s famous Victorian houses, called Painted Ladies. Once again, Jim talked about the history of the area, going back to some of the natural disasters that had plagued the city. He gestured to two of the houses in particular, explaining that each of them experienced paranormal activity on a regular basis. One of them had apparently changed hands so often that it had become a famous example of one of California’s more obscure laws: If a house was haunted, the owner was required to inform prospective buyers. Dennis made a mental note to check for the existence of said law, then quickly forgot about it as the tour resumed.

At first, it seemed as though the entirety of the evening’s activities would consist of listening to ghost stories and history lessons. Upon reaching the third destination, though, Jim produced a tarnished pocket watch from within his satchel, and held it up for the group to see.

“Can anyone tell me what this is?” he asked.

“It’s certainly not a waste of time!” quipped Luke. The groans he received in response were more sincere this time, and Dennis kicked his friend in the heel to shut him up.

“Well,” Jim continued, his friendly demeanor unaffected by Luke’s heckling, “it’s a pocket watch, obviously. What’s interesting, though, is what kind of pocket watch it is.” He held the timepiece higher, catching the glow from a nearby streetlight. “Around the turn of the century – that’s 1900, not 2000 – there was a sort of club for artisans and tradesman. To become a member, a person would have to create something so perfect that the rest of the society would unanimously agree that it was the best of its kind.” He reached down and adjusted the flame of his lantern, bringing it down to a much lower level. “Each of them was given a silver pocket watch with their initials etched into hands, and in 1908, the group accepted their first-ever female member. Her name was Winifred Charles.”

The crowd pressed closer to the ghost hunter as he flipped the catch on the watch, and held it open. In the dim light, Dennis could barely make out the letter W on the hour hand, and what might have been a C on the minute hand. There were muted gasps and whispers from all around, and Dennis cast a wary eye at look, suspicious that his friend was readying another awful pun.

“Winifred was the daughter of a tailor,” Jim continued, “and when her father died, she took over the business. Back in those days, women could be seamstresses, but never tailors, so she hatched a cunning little plan.” His tone became conspiratorial, and his eyes lit up with mischief. “See, she didn’t tell anyone that her father had died, and she kept right on pretending that he was the one making all of the fancy suits and whatnot for her customers. Then, one day, she was visited by a man named William Howard Taft, who was running for president. She spent three months making him a custom-fitted suit, and when he talked about how superb it was, she let the cat out of the bag about her father.”

Luke nudged Dennis in the ribs. “Dude, was California even a state in 1908?”

“Yes, it was. Shut up and listen.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were such a history buff. My mistake.”

When Jim spoke again, his voice was much lower, and although the roguish quality remained, his words somehow felt darker. “Well, a few people didn’t take kindly to Winifred being allowed into the club, and they took it upon themselves to teach her a lesson. They waited until the dead of night, when they knew nobody would be awake, and they burned down Winifred’s shop.” He paused, letting out a slow breath. “What they didn’t realize – or maybe they did, and just didn’t care – was that she was inside, working late. By the time the fire was extinguished, there was nothing left of her but a twisted, blackened skeleton... and this pocket watch.”

There was an audible murmur from the crowd. A few people attempted quiet jokes, but a pall of almost tangible horror seemed to have fallen from the night sky. “It was here,” Jim said, “between where these two houses are now, that Winifred’s shop once stood, and the place where they found her corpse was right there in the middle.” He swung the watch idly as he spoke, his eyes seemingly focused on some remote point in space and possibly time. Dennis felt a chill across his neck, and he tugged at his jacket. “Ever since then, people have talked about strange and terrifying things going on in this area. Once, no more than a year ago, a couple of guys were trying to have a barbecue out in their backyard. Now, these were not skittish men, but what happened to them brought both of them to tears. As soon as they’d lit the barbecue, this horrible, howling wind came up, knocking it over and spraying coals all over the yard... into the shape of a skull. And if that wasn’t enough, two of those coals kept glowing for hours and hours, and those two were right in the center of the skull’s eyes.”

The ghost hunter held up the pocket watch again, and with his other hand he produced a plastic cigarette lighter. “To most people, this looks like an ordinary pocket watch,