The Haunting of Ashley Hall School

1

Emily learned what death smelled like at an early age. She would become a “smell” person, remembering things by their scent. If she experienced that aroma again, even years later, it would transport her back to that place and the feelings associated with it.

One of her earliest memories was visiting a nursing home and getting a putrid stench trapped in the back of her nose, as if it was sitting on her throat. She may have had a couple of moments in life that she recollected prior to that, but they were more like fleeting snapshots than full memories.

On that day at the nursing home, it stunk—big time. That’s what she would remember, and it stayed with her.

Five years old seems to be when memories begin to become clearer and more developed, albeit through the lens of a young child’s capacity to understand the situation.

Emily remembered the bad smell, and she nailed that one. What was the source of the odor? she wondered. Yes, most everyone was wearing diapers. That certainly played a role and served as a bumpy start for the fragrant sensitive. Could it be the food? Too much heat? Lack of fresh air?

Or could it have been decay? Specifically, the rotting away of the human spirit—the odious stench of death.

Smell a puppy’s breath, a baby’s head, or a freshly cut flower—all wonderful. Youth teems with optimism. It knows no boundaries. The human spirit, when new and unfettered by failure, illness, or depression, is the most potent force in the universe. It looks good, it feels good, and it smells good.

But with experience comes pain: burying people you love, failing at things you thought you’d succeed at, getting sick, losing optimism. It’s like buying a new car—so shiny and unblemished. It doesn’t become tainted quickly enough for you to notice. It starts with a ding, then a stain or a scratch. It sneaks up on you—the little imperfections that add up over time, like the gray hairs on your head. Then one day, you realize you’re driving a jalopy.

Time is cruel. That was Emily’s very astute observation that day at the nursing home—an impressive extrapolation for a child so young.

She wanted to escape the rotting human spirit surrounding her as quickly as possible. Instinctively, Emily clung to her mother’s leg for protection from whatever was causing all the death. Mom tolerated the grasping child but did not reciprocate with warmth, a dynamic that defined their relationship.

They were there visiting her mother’s grandmother, a woman in her nineties who looked every day of it. Emily had never met her before. She was told that this was her “great-grandmother”—an impressive title for such a fragile, petite person. She was missing most of her teeth, and her hair looked like a pen-and-ink drawing of a tumbleweed resting atop her tiny head. She also had dementia, which left her lying in bed, playing with a cloth doll, making it dance while she sang songs in Polish. Emily found it all spooky and wanted to go home.

“Wait, we’re staying here?” was the first thing Emily said to her mother after spending an interminable hour in the place.

“Yes,” her mother replied. “I told you that last night. It’s too far to drive back home.”

A hotel! she thought, not here.

She did recall her mother mentioning they’d be staying. The long trip wasn’t one she wanted to make twice in the same day. In fact, Emily was excited. She loved hotels, at least from the few times she could remember staying in one. She enjoyed the fuzzy white robes, the tightly made beds, the vending machines filled with candy, and those long hallways for her to run up and down. She hoped this place would have a restaurant, like some do—maybe an Outback Steakhouse with honey butter for the dinner rolls.

The communication breakdown was becoming clear now. They would be staying right here, in the old folks’ home, in an unimpressive apartment that could be rented for fifty dollars per night by visiting family members. Terribly convenient. Emphasis on the word “terribly.”

Even their rented apartment smelled, which wasn’t surprising, as it was just another room, exactly like the one her great-grandmother occupied.

The residents of the facility—also known as the old people—scared her. She felt guilty about that, figuring it might be a sin to think that way. So be it. They were damn creepy to be around: the lack of color in their skin—the way it hung so loose and sloppy off their skulls, their cataract-clouded eyes, their big, cumbersome-looking false teeth, their veiny little hands. Even the way they sat silently and stared. It all made Emily feel uneasy. She didn’t need to reason through it; she just wanted to be away from it. Away from them.

But here she was, in this pint-sized apartment within a smelly nursing home, where she and her mother would apparently be spending the night. There would be no fuzzy white robes, no tautly pulled sheets, and no lobby restaurant to get excited about. On the contrary, she begged her mother not to make her eat the flavorless, unappealing food served in the cafeteria. She wanted to go to McDonald’s. Her plea fell on deaf ears, of which there were many.

She pushed a few bits of chicken around her plate, sniffed the tapioca-colored dessert, and ultimately went to bed hungry. She couldn’t sleep, though, with the room being so warm and stuffy and quiet. Dear God, was it quiet.

Then, in the near blackness of the night, Emily heard a noise—a gentle squealing sound. It started off faint but steadily grew louder, coming closer. It was a squeal, not a squeak, which was important to differentiate because she wasn’t psychologically prepared to confront a mouse, or a bat, or whatever else might squeak. No, this was definitely a squeal—a gentle squeal, nothing pig-like.

A loose bolt in an air conditioning unit? she wondered. That would explain why it was so warm and stuffy. Could it be from the refrigerator in the kitchen? Probably nothing to worry about, she figured. So why was she feeling alarmed? Is it growing louder? How much closer will it get?

She raised her head off the pillow in the first act of real concern.

Squeal, squeal, squeal. Louder, closer, louder. Her mom was snoring next to her, occupying the bed while Emily was on a pullout couch with a mattress built into it. A hard metal post ran laterally across the middle of her back, making it supremely uncomfortable. Who missed that design flaw?

The room was so dark that Emily couldn’t see anything at all, no matter how wide she opened her eyes. But the sound kept growing louder, coming closer, until Emily decided she had to take a peek outside to find the source. She needed to know.

She crawled out of her awful faux-bed and tiptoed to the door. Gently, she turned the lock, which thumped heavily as the metal deadbolt slid back into the wooden panel.

She grasped the handle, feeling the heaviness of the door as she pulled on it. She wouldn’t open it all the way, though, for fear of waking her mother with the hallway lights. Instead, she peered out through a tiny crack. A few dim fixtures in the hallway provided just enough illumination for her to see the area.

She heard it approaching, the soft squeal. Oh yes, it was coming closer. Squeal, squeal, squeal, and then something appeared around the corner where the hallway turned. A metal bucket with a mop in it, being pushed by someone. And when the person at the back of the mop turned the corner, Emily’s heart skipped a beat. The man was huge—both round and tall. His head was shiny, like it had been waxed. His skull was laced with pink scars that looked painful. He was blubbery, with a stomach that jiggled through his uniform as he walked.

He looked goofy, she thought. Goofy and scary, like a gigantic baby, but not a cute one. He was missing a front tooth and had dark purplish circles under his eyes. She figured he had something wrong with him but couldn’t quite place what. She sensed danger, and so she closed the tiny crack in the door to an even tinier one, just barely enough for one pupil on one eye to see out of.

Emily assumed the man was a custodian, wearing a blue jumpsuit that zipped down the front to his beltline. A white nametag was sewn into the chest pocket.

He stood in the dim hallway, fumbling with his keys outside a residential room. Emily had walked past it earlier and could see inside. There was a man living there. Residents seemed to keep their doors open during the day, likely out of boredom or perhaps the fear of dying unnoticed.

The big, goofy “possible” janitor pointed a small flashlight at the doorknob as he found the right key and unlocked the room. He entered, leaving his bucket and mop outside. After about sixty seconds, he reemerged, pushing a wheelchair with an elderly man in it. Emily began to feel uncomfortably warm in her pajamas. She wanted to close the door now, but she was afraid its heaviness would cause it to make a sound. He might hear her. She could get in trouble. So, she stood there, paralyzed, growing warmer by the second.

She glanced away for an instant to check the alarm clock—2:15 AM.

Looking back through the sliver in the door, she watched as the janitor leaned down toward the sickly man in the wheelchair and smiled. The old man appeared disturbed by the expression on the custodian’s face. He looked frightened.

Then, the custodian pulled a clear plastic bag from his pocket and, in one swift motion, slipped it over the old man’s head. With one hand, he yanked the bag tight around the man’s neck to stop the flow of air.

Emily gasped at the aggression but covered her mouth with her hand to muffle any sound. She was too scared to move. She could see the old man’s face as he sat helplessly in his wheelchair. The clear plastic bag expanded and contracted slightly as he struggled to breathe.

He reached his hands out in front of him, as if searching for something in the dark. She recognized it as a last-ditch effort from a vulnerable person no longer capable of defending himself. The assault lasted no more than forty-five seconds, but it felt like ten minutes to watch. Witnessing the life leaving a person was the worst thing she had ever experienced. The tiny bit of response he could muster—how inadequate it was—followed by his sad fade into a merciless death at the hands of this bully was traumatizing for the young girl.

Just as the man was about to suffocate, the janitor retrieved a small handheld mirror from the side pocket of his pant leg and held it up to the old man’s face, forcing him to see his reflection through the clear plastic bag.

Emily saw the old man’s eyes widen for a brief instant of horror. His face was a mask of visceral fright. A moment later, he died. His own mortified image would remain emblazoned in his mind for eternity, Emily thought. What a terrifying way to die, being forced to watch himself wilting in the reflection of a cheap mirror.

The custodian watched with glee until there was no life left in his victim. He was dead, with his eyes wide open, frozen in panic.

The custodian put the mirror back into the side pocket of his pants and then paused.

What was he doing? Emily wondered, feeling a droplet of perspiration rolling down her back into the crack of her buttocks. It tickled but felt uncomfortable. She wanted desperately to close the door now.

Then, unexpectedly, he turned and looked right at her. He could see her, she thought, through the tiny crack in the door, which was no wider than a centimeter. Their eyes locked. Her body felt icy cold in one instant, and an inexplicable warmth flowed from her crotch down the legs of her pajamas, drenching them.

She closed the door as carefully as she could, heavy as it was. She clicked the deadbolt and chained the door as well. She closed her eyes and stood in the blackness of the room, shivering with fear, pressing her back against the wall, trying not to breathe too loudly.

Was he out there?

Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she was too afraid to make a sound—afraid of waking her mother, afraid of getting in trouble, afraid of being killed by the man in the hallway just outside her door.

Eventually, she tiptoed to the bathroom and clicked on the light, but not until the door was almost fully closed so the light wouldn’t shine out. She locked the bathroom door and peeled off her pajamas, which were soaked with urine and sweat. Her body felt moist yet chilled, despite the excessive warmth of the room.

She grabbed a small towel and ran warm water over it, careful not to turn the pressure up too high for fear of waking her mother. She wiped her body up and down and then dried off with a larger, softer towel. Wrapping it around herself, she turned off the bathroom light before opening the door and quietly making her way back to the sofa bed with the uncomfortable metal bar.

That metal bar wouldn’t matter tonight, though, because she just sat on the end with her feet hanging off, waiting for the night to pass as she stared straight ahead. It felt like it took a full week for the sun to rise, but when it did, Emily sure would have a story to tell.

The next morning, there was activity in the hallway. Emily managed to fall asleep after all, though she didn’t remember when. It must have been around the time the sun began to creep up because she recalled the relief she felt seeing a hint of light appearing through the blinds, however negligible it may have been.

Her mother was awake now, getting dressed and simultaneously packing—always an efficient woman. There were things that needed to be done, always.

But there was noise in the hallway—men’s voices. In Emily’s experience, that meant something serious. She associated males with authority because that was how her father behaved. For women, it was acceptable to discuss trivial matters, but not so for men. She’d heard him say that, and so she assumed it to be true.

Not that her mother was convivial and merry, mind you. She wasn’t—at least not with her daughter. Mom was mechanical, performing her routines with exactness and without emotion.

Emily was reminded of this when her mother finally said matter-of-factly, “What in the world?” as she looked toward the ruckus happening in the hallway behind the closed door.

She didn’t finish her sentence, always the queen of truncated thoughts. People knew what she meant.

Mom pulled open the heavy door to see what all the chatter was about. She had to give it a hard tug, which made Emily proud that she had managed to open it herself just a few hours earlier.

Emily hopped off the sofa bed and scampered across the room to get behind her mom for a protected look into the hallway.

What would they find?

She clung to her mother’s skirt, more toward the back this time, needing more protection than she had from the senile woman playing with her doll and singing Polish songs. This was graver.

Her mother swiped at her without looking back.

“Oh, Emily, you’re always right there,” she said, sounding annoyed. The comment made Emily feel bothersome—like maybe she was a burden. Too needy. Was she?

In spite of that, she still clung on. She needed her, and mom didn’t actually push her away—just made a shooing gesture. That was enough.

Emily was right, though. There were men in uniforms having a conversation in the hallway. They weren’t police, but something similar. Something official.

“Who are those men?” she asked her mother, who now seemed interested in the hallway kerfuffle as she peered out the door. Mom didn’t answer.

A moment later, Emily tried again. “Who are those—”

“I don’t know, Emily. I don’t know what’s going on,” her mother replied in the curt manner she’d perfected.

Emily stopped talking and watched along with her. A moment later, two men in white jackets and blue pants wheeled a cot out of the room. There appeared to be a body on it, covered by a blue plastic sheet.

Her mom stepped backward into the room, seemingly stunned by what she was seeing. Emily noticed; her mother was not one to react without real cause. Mom shut the door quickly to keep the child from seeing anything further.

“What was that, mom?”

“Nothing. I don’t know what they’re doing,” her mother replied, uncharacteristically picking Emily up and carrying her further into the room, away from the closed door.

“Let’s go ahead and pack your things, okay? We can go home now,” her mother said in a soothing tone, perhaps to ease her own anxiety as much as her daughter’s. Whatever her mother’s motivation was, Emily was on board to get out of Stink-ville as fast as possible.

“Okay,” Emily responded enthusiastically.

Duh! That’s what I’ve been saying since we got here, she wanted to add.

Finally, they were making progress. Clothes were being packed, they would be on the road soon. Maybe they’d even stop at a quaint country diner for a proper breakfast. Emily was starving, having had virtually nothing for dinner the night before at the tapioca tavern. The end was so close—until a knock at the door derailed her plans.

Her mom opened the door to find a staff member standing there. He was a tall, thin young man dressed in white. He glanced at Emily, then at her mother, and quietly asked her something. The two of them stepped out into the hallway, away from Emily.

Through the half-open door, Emily could see into the hall. People were gathered around a body resting on a cot under a blue sheet. Emily poked her head out, curious about the interactions. Was there a person under there? Was it…the guy?

“Is that a dead person?” Emily asked, prompting her mother to pull the door closed, leaving Emily alone in the room. She waited, ready to leave but also eager to share her story. She had information the adults might find important, and that excited her.

When her mother returned, Emily went straight to the point.

“Mom, was that the man from that room lying under the blue sheet?”

“Emily, grab your things, brush your teeth, and let’s get ready to say goodbye to your great-grandmother.”

Record scratch! She had to say goodbye???

She thought they were headed straight for the car. But there was also something more pressing at hand and she was going to address it.

“I saw him,” she said.

“You saw who?”

“The man from that room. He was in a wheelchair. Someone killed him.”

“Emily!” her mother exclaimed, kneeling in front of her and gripping her shoulders. “Don’t ever say something like that again.”

Emily pulled away slightly, careful not to upset her mother. “But I did,” she said softly.

“Stop,” her mother told her, ending the exchange.

There was a brief silence before her mother stood up and began collecting their belongings. The conversation was over. They left the room without another word. In the hallway, men in uniforms were wheeling the cot with the presumed body on it.

Emily walked past his bedroom, now empty except for a wheelchair.

As she and her mother approached the men rolling the cot, one of them smiled at her. He was tall, handsome, and young, and he looked easy to talk to, Emily thought.

“I saw him,” she said to the young man. She felt the urge to share this important information.

“Pardon?” he replied with a polite smile.

“The janitor in the blue suit killed him last night.”

“Emily!” her mother said, grabbing her arm and pointing a finger in her face. “I said stop.”

Her mother then turned her attention to the men.

“I’m sorry. She’s five.”

The men nodded as if to assuage her mother’s concerns, and then went about their

business. Her mother dragged her by the hand to the senile woman’s room, whom she apparently

was related to. They all said goodbye. Her mother made her kiss the woman on the cheek, which

tasted awful. She couldn’t get the disturbing flavor off her lips despite spitting multiple times in the parking lot and wiping her mouth with the front of her shirt.

When they reached the car, Emily felt a sense of relief in its familiarity. Still, she knew her mother was angry with her.

“Why did you say those things in there?” her mother asked, as if Emily had done something wrong.

“Was that man dead?” Emily inquired.

“Yes. He was old, and he passed away, Emily. People pass away. Especially old people.”

“I saw a man kill him last night.”

“Stop saying that,” her mother snapped, looking miffed enough that Emily was afraid to repeat it.

“You just had a bad dream. That’s all. That man died of old age. Now, I don’t want to hear another word about it, understand?” her mother said.

Mom didn’t wait for a reply. She climbed into the car and started it for the long ride home. There would be no breakfast at a quaint country diner, Emily realized. Not now.

As they drove, Emily gazed out the window. She knew what she had seen back there. She was young, but not stupid, and could clearly tell the difference between a bad dream and reality. She resented her mother for not believing her.

It didn’t matter now, anyway. She was out of that Godforsaken stink-shack and hoped to never return.

More importantly, she was relieved to know that the hideous custodian was left behind, far away from her. With each mile they drove, he grew smaller and more distant. She would never have to see him again—that horrible monster. That thought comforted her tremendously.

Unfortunately, she was wrong.