Drip... Drip... Drip...
It was on the evening of October 28, exactly one hundred years earlier, that twelve-year-old Thomas Wharton and his ten-year-old sister, Mary Elizabeth, were callously murdered in the family's Turner Street house in Hawthorne Mills, Massachusetts. Hezekiah Wharton, their father's brother and black sheep of the Wharton family, had been awarded custody of his niece and nephew after their parents were killed in a tragic train wreck.
Unfortunately for the two young, forlorn orphans, Hezekiah was interested only in the large fortune the children would inherit and not in their care and wellbeing. Their uncle was such an avaricious, hardhearted man that he planned to personally see to it that the children would soon join their deceased parents in the hereafter. In that way, Hezekiah, as the next of kin, would be the sole beneficiary of his brother's money.
It was, therefore, a crushing disappointment for the despicable monster to learn that according to the provisions of his brother's will, should something happen to the two children, the money would go not to Hezekiah but rather to his brother's favorite charity. Given Hezekiah's cruel, greedy nature, it should come as no surprise that he cared nothing for charity or for the wishes of his deceased brother. His greatest desire was to rid himself of his niece and nephew while still retaining control of their money. All he needed was a clever plan.
Then it occurred to the cunning Hezekiah that no one would be likely to question the children's disappearance if he claimed they had been sent away to school. After all, he was a middle-aged bachelor—as well as a drunkard and wastrel at that—and, as such, was hardly capable of raising and educating two small children. Should anyone ask about his missing niece and nephew, he would simply tell them that they had been sent to the finest educational institution in New England. Who was to know otherwise?
After he had concocted his diabolical cover story, Hezekiah cold-bloodedly murdered poor little Thomas and Mary Elizabeth. Once the evil deed was done, he cut up their corpses and hid the dismembered body parts in various places around the Wharton family home.
Once the two children were finally out of his way, the fiendish uncle began presenting counterfeit bills and falsified receipts to the executor of his late brother's estate. Such bills and receipts, Hezekiah claimed, represented the expenses he had incurred on behalf of his late brother's children: school tuition, clothing, food, medical care and other miscellaneous costs.
Gaston DeMornay, the executor, was a prominent Boston attorney with a flourishing law practice, who had neither the time nor the inclination to confirm the legitimacy of Wharton's expenditures. Thus, he blindly reimbursed the claimant for his so-called expenses. Confident that his heinous crime would continue to go undetected, the Machiavellian Hezekiah—arguably the worst uncle since Richard III—proceeded to enjoy the diverse luxuries and pleasures he could afford with the murdered children's money.
All went according to Hezekiah's devious plan until one day an unexpected visitor came to the Wharton house, an old friend that Hezekiah had not seen in close to twenty-five years. Hezekiah showed his guest into the drawing room where the two men shared a bottle of fine wine and some fond memories of their childhood. While recounting an old schoolyard incident, the visitor stopped in mid-sentence and turned his head to one side with a look of concentration on his face.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
"What's that sound?" he asked his host.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
"I didn't hear anything," Hezekiah replied.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
"It sounds like a leaky faucet or pipe."
Drip... Drip... Drip...
"Wait," the guest said, "there it is again. Hear it?"
Drip... Drip... Drip...
Hezekiah, who had heard nothing out of the ordinary, nevertheless thought it best to humor his old friend.
"It's probably coming from the kitchen. I'll go take a look."
Once alone in the quiet drawing room, the visitor could plainly discern that the dripping sound was coming from the direction of the huge stone fireplace on the south wall of the room.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
Curious, the man walked over to the hearth and examined the grate. He noticed with horror that the sound was caused by blood dripping down onto the cold fireplace ashes.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
Trembling with fear, the man leaned over the hearth, twisted his head and looked up the chimney. There he found little Mary Elizabeth Wharton's bloody arm hanging down from the flue. Terrified, the man ran from the house screaming. He went directly to a neighbor's home and asked the woman to summon the authorities.
When the police searched the old Wharton house, thorough though they were, they could find no additional body parts. Mary Elizabeth's bloody limb, however, served as sufficient evidence to prove the vile deed of murder. Hezekiah Wharton was arrested, tried and convicted. On October 26, almost two years to the day after his horrendous crime, evil Uncle Hezekiah was hanged for the murder of his young niece and nephew.
* * *
On the hundredth anniversary of the execution of Hezekiah Wharton, The Hawthorne Mills Herald ran the story of his atrocious acts.
"The murder of little Thomas and Mary Elizabeth Wharton," Addison Renfrew, the owner of the paper claimed, "was, in the opinion of many of our residents, the most monstrous and bizarre crime in the history of our town."
In all these years, the article read, there have been no further clues leading to the discovery of the rest of the children's remains. Furthermore, neither Dr. Grover Quincy, the Chief Medical Examiner at the time of Hezekiah Wharton's arrest, nor Dr. Lorraine Cartwright, who assumed the post upon Dr. Quincy's retirement, was able to explain either the pristine condition of the severed arm or the presence of fresh blood at the scene.
Jason Peterson, a sixth-grade student at Hawthorne Mills Middle School, had cut the article out of the Gazette and brought it to school with him the following morning. During recess, his classmates gathered around Jason, eager to learn the gory details of one of the most sensational murders in the history of their normally quiet, peaceful hometown.
What made the story even more tantalizing was the fact that the house in which the gruesome crime occurred was still standing, although it had remained empty for the past several decades, during which time the old Wharton place had become somewhat of a local legend. Several generations of schoolchildren had grown up listening to their older siblings' tales of eerie sounds and ghostly apparitions at the Wharton house.
When eleven-year-old Bobby King read the article, a brilliant idea occurred to him. What would happen if someone was brave enough—or stupid enough—to spend the night in the old Wharton house? Of course, he would never volunteer to do it himself, but he was pretty sure he could talk someone else into doing it.
But who? he wondered.
Travis Schultz! The name came to him with the force of an epiphany. Travis would do anything on a dare.
Later that afternoon, Bobby and several of his friends stopped by the Schultz house on the way home from school.
"Hey, Travis," Bobby called after they had played a few innings of baseball. "Are you doing anything special on Mischief Night this year?"
"No, just the usual toilet paper in the trees," Travis replied. "Why?"
"Because this year Mischief Night is on a Friday. That means we can stay out late since there's no school the next day."
"You got something in mind?"
"Me and the guys talked about spending the night in the old Wharton House, but they're all too chicken. Not that I blame them. I'm afraid of that place myself."
"Not me," Travis boasted. "I'm not afraid of anything. I'd spend the night there or in any other creepy old house you'd care to name."
That was easy enough!
Bobby congratulated himself, trying to suppress a triumphant smile.
"If you're so brave, then prove it," he said.
"Sure. How?"
"Spend the night in the Wharton house—by yourself."
"I don't know," Travis said, losing some of his bravado. "I would do it, but my mother would never let me."
"She doesn't have to know. Tell her I'm having a sleepover at my house."
"But it's private property. Didn't you ever see that NO TRESPASSING sign on the lawn? I'll bet the police keep a close eye on the old place on Mischief Night."
"Admit it, Travis. You're just as scared as the rest of us."
"I am not!" Travis emphatically declared.
Bobby smiled, about to go in for the kill.
"I dare you to do it then."
Travis Schultz's green eyes flashed like emeralds in firelight. In his short life, he had never been one to refuse a dare.
* * *
On October 30, the day before Halloween, more often referred to as Mischief Night, just as darkness was setting in, Travis walked down Turner Street and met Bobby and his friends outside the old Wharton house. He carried with him his older brother's sleeping bag and his parents' Coleman lantern. Crammed in his backpack were his Nintendo Game Boy, a selection of comic books, a flashlight, a supply of extra batteries, his Sony Walkman, an assortment of snacks and a six-pack of Coca-Cola.
Before Travis entered the house, Bobby went over the terms of the dare with him.
"You have to spend the whole night. The guys and I will be back early tomorrow morning to see if you're still here."
"Don't worry," Travis said with a laugh, pointing to his overstuffed backpack. "I've got my survival gear with me."
Bobby and the others waited on the front porch until Travis went inside the house and shut the door behind him. Then they walked away from the old Wharton place, betting that Travis would leave long before morning.
"Morning hell!" declared Trip Gossage, who sat behind Travis in math class. "I'll bet he's back home in his own bed by midnight."
Once inside the gloomy, dusty, abandoned building, Travis lit his parents' Coleman lantern with a Bic lighter. In its flickering radiance, he unrolled his brother's sleeping bag and laid it out in the foyer. He planned to spend the night there, playing his video games, reading his comic books, listening to his Walkman, munching on Doritos and Hershey's Kisses and drinking Coca-Cola.
Sometime after eleven, however, Travis began to feel sleepy. Yawning, he turned off his game, removed his earphones, buttoned up his jacket, zipped himself inside the warm sleeping bag and closed his eyes. He was just starting to doze off when he heard a faint sound.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
"What's that?" his voice echoed through the empty house.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
He would never be able to sleep with that annoying noise. It was like Chinese water torture!
Drip... Drip... Drip...
Travis assumed the dripping sound was coming from the sink in the kitchen, but when he checked the faucet, he discovered that the water had long since been turned off throughout the old house.
When he returned to the hallway, he heard it again.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
Perhaps it had started to rain outside. In such an old, dilapidated house, the roof was bound to leak. Yet when Travis went to the front door and peeked outside, he was surprised to see that it was not raining.
Still, the sound persisted.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
Where could it be coming from? He listened more closely.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
As best as he could make out, it seemed to emanate from the drawing room. Grabbing his pocket flashlight, Travis bravely went in search of the source of the dripping sound. He first shined the flashlight around the floor, but he found no puddles or even a damp spot. Then he slowly and methodically shined the beam up and down the walls and across the ceiling, but he could still find nothing.
As Travis neared the fireplace, the sound seemed to get louder.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
When he shined his flashlight onto the fireplace grate, he saw a small puddle about the size of a silver dollar.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
"What is that?" he wondered. "It isn't raining, so how could water get in the chimney?"
Drip... Drip... Drip...
He leaned forward and cautiously dipped his index finger into the puddle and held it under the beam of the flashlight. With a sickening shock, he realized the substance on his finger was not water; it was blood!
Drip... Drip... Drip...
Travis was staring at his blood-stained finger when suddenly a small hand reached down from the fireplace flue and grabbed him by the throat. With inhuman strength it yanked him up into the chimney, breaking his neck in the process. Mercifully, young Travis Schultz died instantly.
* * *
At eight o'clock the following morning, Bobby King, Trip Gossage and the other boys walked up the rotting front steps of the old Wharton house. Bobby knocked on the door, but there was no reply, no sound at all from within. He tried to open the door, but it was locked.
"I told you guys he'd chicken out and go home," Trip declared, laughing triumphantly. "Just wait until I see him in school on Monday. I'm really gonna bust his chops. It'll be a snowy day in hell before he lives this down. I promise you!"
Just as the boys turned to leave, the front door slowly opened, its rusted old hinges producing a screeching sound, like fingernails on a blackboard. When Travis didn't appear on the threshold, the youngsters craned their necks and peeked inside.
In the foyer, they found their friend's sleeping bag, Game Boy and Walkman.
"Where's Travis?" Trip asked. "He wouldn't go home and leave his stuff here. Would he? Did you think he was that scared?"
"Maybe," Bobby replied, "or maybe he's just in another part of the house. Ollie, you and Jose check upstairs. Jason, you and Jim go look downstairs. I'll look in the rooms on this floor."
Two of the boys headed up the old oak staircase, and two others searched the dimly lit hallway for a door that would lead to the cellar. Meanwhile, Bobby checked the kitchen, the dining room, the pantry and the back porch, but there was no sign of Travis.
As Bobby headed toward the drawing room, he heard a sound.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
"Where is that noise coming from?" he wondered.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
Curious, Bobby followed the sound to the huge stone fireplace.
Drip... Drip... Drip...
Salem loves to spend the night at a haunted house, just as long as it has cable TV.
