What Was I Scared Of?

Or the best way to terrify yourself this Halloween

I was walking in the night

And I saw nothing scary.

For I have never been afraid

Of anything. Not very.

You’re a reader. After all, you’re reading this. At some point earlier in your life, you read something, or someone read something to you, that made you a reader. What was it?

For me, it was the lines above from What was I Scared of? by Dr. Seuss. The words were sinister and alluring, begging me to read further. Then, it was…

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more…”

The opening lines to The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. I memorized most of it. For fun, in sixth grade. Then, I devoured every Stephen King book I could get my hands on starting with Pet Sematary.

My literary tastes grew and expanded beyond horror, and I left the macabre behind for a time. Then, my friends down the street said, “Write us a scary story.” And I decided to do some research.

I reread What was I Scared of? I watched Pet Semartary. I read ‘Salem’s Lot for the first time in over 30 years, and I read a book by Paul Tremblay called Survivor Song. I rediscovered the allure of horror. It’s not the blood and guts. It’s not the jump scare or the brain-eating potential of zombies. It’s the fear and how the humans, confronted with it against their will, process it.

All of my favorite horror stories reside fully in the minds of the fearful. All of them deal in the fragility or resilience of the human mind. All of them press you, ask you, What would you do?

What would you do if you were suddenly, shockingly, faced with the knowledge that the night is indeed dark and full of terrors against all your adult rationalities? What if you woke up to see a monster at your window, a long-dead family member at your bedside, the boogeyman’s dripping grin peeking out from your closet? Sooo nice…

Liana and Brian Robinson build, craft, give birth to, a haunt every October. They transform their house into Mortis Manor. But they don’t just strive for wanton gore; they believe in a story that ties it all together, and a being to tell that story.

Some day, hopefully next Halloween, you’ll be able to read the history of Mortis Manor, how James Moris built it, how his relationship with a man everyone in town whisperingly calls “The Doctor” resulted in the saving of one of his daughters, though some would say it wasn’t worth the cost. But for now, we’ll give you a taste.

Shortly after the Great War, James hired veteran Silas Slade as caretaker of Mortis Manor. He’d like to speak with you:

Well, hello. At last, we have a chance to talk. I’ve been watching you for some time but until now, I’ve been…otherwise occupied. But now, here we are in Mortis Manor together. I fear you’re not comfortable; I can see it in your face. That old chair you are fastened to has seen better days. My apologies. The restraints are a necessary evil. I’d offer you something to drink, but with the tape covering your mouth, that would be impossible. 

It’s been so long since I’ve had someone to talk to. When James Mortis first hired me to care for his manor and his family, I was grateful. It was a few years after the Great War. I wasn’t much of a soldier, having been a fruit grower before, but I lasted longer than anyone expected.

I almost made it out, before being blown to pieces one night. Chunks of shrapnel had torn through and embedded themselves in my flesh all over my body and face. I lay in agony in the dark, wet trench for hours, listening to the moans and screams until I blessedly lost consciousness. 

After months in hospitals, I returned home, a man physically and mentally broken. The shrapnel in my leg had severed tendons that could not be repaired, leaving me with a limp just as permanent as the pain enveloping the injury. With just that, I might have faired all right; I might have garnered sympathy. It was the ghastly wounds to my face that ruined me.

While I was away, my family had abandoned our orchards, and the land had been sold. I could not bring myself to search for my wife and daughter, though I longed for them. I could not bear for them to see me, even with this mask I wear to soften my appearance. I could not find work, as my visage frightened all I looked in the face. 

One evening, sitting in a tavern, not drinking, for I had no money, James Mortis sat down in front of me. He did not shrink back from my ruined face; in fact, he had sought my company. He offered me a job, and I was so in fear that the opportunity would slip away, I accepted on the spot, with few details offered. I would be looking after his estate, Mortis Manor. I would be allowed to care for something again. 

I knew something of James Mortis and his family. They had come to town in the early part of the century. A short time later, Mortis Manor had sprouted from the hillside and he had moved in, bringing his young daughters with him. All of that is fact. The rest – the midnight graveyard visits, the nefarious proclivities of the daughters, Rosa and Lily, and what had happened to Mrs. Mortis – was town gossip too gruesome to be true. James’s association with The Doctor, however, I’d observed myself, sitting in the same tavern in which James and I visited. 

I moved into the Manor immediately, into this same room, I think, in which you are now ensconced. I believe it is the same room. It feels the same. But the house has changed over the years, and it tampers with my memory.

The work was hard, but I relished the chance to be useful. I began clearing the brush from the grounds at the back of the house. Back then, there were a few twisted trees but mostly thorny blackberry bushes, run rampant. I believe James intended to build something there once the grounds were cleared, though he never said so. I sometimes caught a glimpse of him and The Doctor surveying the grounds upon which I was making slow headway, gesturing in a way that suggested construction. 

I did not ask questions. I was relieved to be part of a family again, and they treated me as such. The girls, then seventeen, never shrank away from my face or lurching gait. Many people in town found them strange and crossed the street when they passed. Perhaps that is why they were kind to me, serving me hot meals when I limped painfully from the back acreage, sweaty and scratched. They were not, however, kind to each other. They competed voraciously for their father’s sparse attentions. But that was before the unfortunate accident with the well.

I was clearing brush one late evening, fatigue beginning to take me. The sun had sunk beneath the hills, and I strained to see, though one does not need much vision to hack at blackberries. As I swung my scythe, I suddenly struck something, and the reverberation passed through the tool and up my arm, causing me to drop it and cry out in pain. When I had recovered, I sought, with my gloved hands, the object through the brambles. I was imbued with a sudden excitement and renewed energy I could not account for, and I swatted vines faster and faster until the well was revealed. 

Though it must’ve been of an age to have been so disguised by brush and, I was certain, unknown to James, the bucket was still attached to a rope that appeared sturdy. Having worked all day, as thirsty as I was, I eagerly lowered the bucket and heard a splash that sounded cool, if temperature can be made audible. I drew up the bucket and drank straight from it, gulping greedily, allowing it to spill down my front. Afterward, I felt refreshed, more so than I had since before the war. 

In the months that followed, I drank from the well every day and began to clear the land much faster than before. And though I still limped, the constant leg pain began to recede.

The water changed me, it changed the house, and shortly after I discovered it, it also changed Rosa, but we will get to that in good time.

I can no longer leave. I have not left for a long time. Because of the water, the house, I have memories that could not be mine but are as vivid as the terrors from the war that used to haunt my dreams. Memories of the house before I was here, of the Mortises before I met James, of The Doctor, and his past. As I understand it, these have been given to me – a gift so that I may better serve. 

It has been decades since I had someone such as yourself to talk to. Rosa is no longer much of a conversationalist, I’m afraid. And now that your friends…taken care of, we have time to chat. I can tell you my stories, and share the burden that these terrible memories have brought me. 

That’s Silas’s perspective. But most recently, right around 1989, Katie and her friends wandered into Mortis Manor and holed up to watch their favorite slasher movies away from their parents’ judging eyes. Silas watches them through the walls and waits. Their movies have given him some delicious ideas.

Dare to visit Mortis Manor this month. Opening night is tonight, October 13. Stay tuned for a book of Mortis Manor short stories coming October 2024.