GA Writing Prompts - 77. The George Mackenzie Poltergeist

I met Brandon in the parking area. He was carrying five bags in each hand and his face was deep red.

“Can I help you?” I asked, reaching out my hand.

“Oh, thank you,” Brandon said, handing me four bags and taking a breath. “There are more bags in the car.”

“A lot of stuff. What’s going on?” I asked as we climbed the stairs to Brandon’s apartment on the fifth floor.

“Halloween,” Brandon said.

“Are you having a party tonight?”

We stopped in front of his apartment door. Brandon put the bags on the floor and pulled his key from a pocket.

“No,” he said. “I’m going to write a Halloween story. NaNoWriMo starts tomorrow. You know, National Novel Writing Month. Write a novel in a month. 50,000 words. I bought food for a month and stuff to get me into the right mood.”

Brandon was very serious about his hobby. He wrote a novel set in Antarctica the previous year. He didn’t turn on the heating during the entire month to get into the story. He finished his novel on November, 26, and with a word count of 50.405. Brandon waved his winner certificate all the way I drove him to the hospital. He had caught a severe cold. I wondered if the effort was worth it.

Brandon opened the door and picked up the bags. We went inside.

“What’s your Halloween story about?” I asked.

“The Mackenzie Poltergeist,” Brandon said. “The poltergeist is the restless spirit of George Mackenzie who oppressed religious minorities. Mackenzie was buried on Greyfriar's Kirkyard in Edinburgh. The cemetery is famous for the poltergeist. There are frequent sightings. The incidents are often severe, bruising, bites and cuts, and strange sensations. A few people lost their mind and quite a number died in the Kirkyard.”

Brandon pulled a mummy mask from a bag, took a pen from a pocket and wrote Mackenzie on the face of the mask. He grinned. “I have more horror masks and costumes. I’ll wear them all month long, as long as I’m writing,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, thinking of the frequent and severe things Brandon might want to do to get into the mood for writing.

“Did you tell Mr. and Mrs. Ross of your plans for NaNoWriMo?” I asked as I left the apartment.

Mr. and Mrs. Ross lived next door.

“I’ll better do,” Brandon said with a guilty smile. “I won’t just wear a costume. I will also play the appropriate music and videos.”

Oh my god, I thought, then nodded good-bye and hastened down the stairs. I was happy I lived on the ground-floor.

Mrs. Ross wasn’t happy at all. I met her in the staircase at the end of Brandon's first writing week.

“It’s horror,” she said.

“Well, yes, that’s the novel theme,” I replied.

She gave me a sour look and I suppressed my smile.

“We hear screams of horror and bloodcurdling cries and a clattering noise all day long and half of the night. George, my husband, can’t go to sleep. I went over and told Brandon to turn down the sound. It was quiet a day and a night, but just half an hour ago, I heard another bloodcurdling cry. Emily heard it, too. I met her half way down the stairs.”

We listened. Everything was quiet.

“We must go up,” Mrs. Ross said. “You can’t hear it on the ground-floor.”

We climbed the stairs until we reached the fifth floor. Everything was quiet.

“Maybe he finished his novel already and dropped with exhaustion,” I said, joking.

Mrs. Ross rolled her eyes. “I tell you I’ll hear the screams soon again.”

I snickered and then went down the stairs. I met her again five days later.

“Did you hear of our poltergeist fan?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “No. Nothing,” she said. “Everything’s quiet. I haven’t heard a scream, a cry, not a single sound coming from Brandon’s door.”

“Odd,” I said. “Maybe he has finished his novel.”

“I haven’t seen him in five days. Did you see him? In the parking area maybe?” she asked.

I shook my head. She left and I went to my car. Brandon’s car was parked next to mine. I was certain it had not been moved. I went back into my apartment, took my phone but put it down again. Why call Brandon? He was writing a novel and I wasn’t supposed to keep an eye on him.

Another week went by. Mrs. Ross rang at my door.

“He says it stinks,” she said.

“Who? What?” I asked, confused.

“George, my husband, says it stinks,” she said. “We haven’t heard a sound and we haven’t seen Brandon for almost two weeks.”

“Do you think something’s wrong?” I asked.

“I said it stinks,” she said impatiently. “It stinks in front of his door. It stinks through the door.”

I swallowed. “Oh my god,” I said and then ran up the stairs. Mrs. Ross called after me, but I ignored her. I reached the fifth floor and rang at Brandon’s door, breathing heavily from my sprint up the stairs. Brandon didn’t open the door. I rang again and knocked. Mrs. Ross came up the stairs and joined me. I turned to her and then I smelled it, too. A disgusting smell, a horrible stench, like the smell from a tomb.

“Call the police,” I said to Mrs. Ross who stared at me with widened eyes.

She nodded and entered her apartment. I pressed my hand over my nose and my mouth and willingly blocked out every thought.

The police opened the door. Mr. and Mrs. Ross watched with paled faced from their apartment door. I stood on the stairs to the sixth floor. An officer shoved us into the Ross apartment as soon as they had opened the door. We were not allowed to leave it until way after ten in the evening.

They found his corpse in the corridor. Brandon had been stabbed to death. They found no traces of breaking and entering and no sign of burglary. Brandon had opened the door to his murderer. The murderer was never found.

“The Mackenzie poltergeist,” George said with a hint of mockery each time the conversation turned to the murder in the house. Mrs. Ross, embarrassed, scolded her husband and everybody else lowered their eyes each time the old man made the disrespectful remark. He died of a heart attack two weeks ago. I helped Mrs. Ross to clear out her apartment. She moved in with her daughter.

I carried a chest down the stairs and stumbled. The chest dropped and spilled its contents over the stairs. I knelt down and saw a mummy mask. The word Mackenzie was written on it. I felt a punch in the stomach.

“George,” I said under my breath and in total shock. “The George Mackenzie poltergeist.” Old George had mentioned it often enough.

I heard a snickering laugh seemingly coming out of nowhere.