text: I remember Madeline like it was yesterday... I don ́t know about you, but to me, certain houses proclaim a character of evil. Maybe it ́s just an unalterable conviction, after having seen one too many horror stories. Some houses seem to communicate an atmosphere of secrecy, an aroma of evil deeds, which make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. A mixture of the scent of the evildoer and the horror of the victim. Madeline lived in such a house. An ordinary house. It stood crowded in a corner of a square and looked exactly like its ugly neighbors on either side of it. And yet, there was something horribly different to this house that seemed like fifty others. Madeline was a lonely elderly woman, and she was delighted I took the time to cross the channel to visit her. I don ́t scare easily, but the air in her house produced in me symptoms of genuine horror. I found Madeline charged to the brim with excitement, I caught a shock by her electric condition when I shook her hand. She made a revelation to me, after the obligatory English tea. She slid up close to me and whispered: - “They are finally going to do it.” I felt a little tremor down my back. - “They will print it on Monday.” - “Print what?” I asked. - “My house will be in the paper on Monday.” She made me think of a kid in front of a Christmas tree, discovering that Santa had been overly generous. - “They finally discovered my house is really haunted.” She continued. I knew she had a mania for the paranormal. And iron willpower, by any, means she usually managed to accomplish her ends. I thought she had been harassing a journalist at the local newspaper just enough, for him or her to cave in and print a story about her house in the paper. There was a glow around her wrinkled face and her eyes were sparkling. Despite myself, I became interested. - “My house is very old,” Madeline said, “and the story is an unpleasant one. It has to do with murder.” After a short pause, she continued: “Let me hear about your condition?” Madeline asked. - “My condition?” I repeated her question. - “I don ́t want to frighten you too much. "Madeline added in a serious tone. “It has to do with murder most foul. Committed right here, in this house.” I nodded my head and Madeline continued: - “One night, a jealous lover hid in the cellar.” - “Who ́s lover?” I asked to prove that I was paying attention, and didn ́t want to get lost in the confusion of the story. - “Well, the woman who lived here, worked as a maid and started an affair with her employer.” - “Who was the employer?” I interrupted Madeline. She clicked her tongue impatiently and sighed: - “The lord of the mansion.” - “Which mansion?” I wanted to know. Madeline let out a long sigh this time. - “I don ́t know, but what I do know is that the employer was an extraordinarily rich man. One night he broke into this house and hid himself in the cellar. When everyone was asleep...” I had to pause her again: - “Everyone?” I was clearly pushing her patience. - “Yes, she was married. Her husband was here too. The lover crept up the stairs, tore her out of bed, and threw her over the balcony.” I put my hand over my mouth to reflect my horror. - “And what about the husband?” I asked carefully. - “They believed he did it, and he was hanged for murder.” I was about to ask something again, but Madeline held up her hand to silence me. - “It all happened so long ago, and I have not been able to get more details.” Madeline said a little restlessly. Out of the corner of my eye, in the friendly glare of two lamps, I saw a door opening on its own. I felt a rush of terror. We put on our coats and went for a walk along the empty streets. The full moon that night, turned everything silver, casting long deep shadows. Few windows showed light. There was no wind, and I felt like the trees were watching us as we silently passed along. Strange things happened that night. Things still make me doubt my mind when I think back on them. Let me just tell you, that two hours later, I put my arm around Madeline, and without speaking a word I dragged her behind me, opened the front door of her house, and ran into the moonlit square, straight to my car. I pushed Madeline into the backseat and drove to the next Holiday Inn... Madeline moved in with me after that. One rainy afternoon, after she had been staring out the window all afternoon, I asked her what she had been looking at. - “Ghosts from the past.” She whispered. - “Shall I make us some tea?” I asked, hoping to yank her out of her blue spell. - “You sound like a Britt. Madeline said in an irritated tone. - “Okay, no tea. Perhaps you care to share with me the ghosts who have been visiting you.” Madeline deeply sighed and said: - “Her ghost is said to still live there.” - “Who ́s ghost lives where?” I enquired. - “I ́m not in the mood for jokes!” Madeline spoke, more sad than angry. - “I ́m dead serious!” I assured her; Madeline kept silent. - “Does she walk through walls or is she just floating around, looking sad?” I tried to lure her out of her silent mode, but I regretted my choice of words as soon as they came out of my mouth. Madeline threw me a truly angry look: - “Maybe she just tries to find somebody to help her.” She replied softly. “As a child, I lived in a development center, a tuberculosis clinic.” - “You mean a sanatorium?” I asked. Madeline nodded. - “Did you stay there a long time?” I wanted to know. - “An eternity as I remember it, but not in the tuberculosis center.” She replied and added shyly: “I was considered developmentally disabled.” - “That’s nothing to be ashamed of Madeline!” I tried to reassure her, while she was wiping a tear from her cheek. - “So, who was she? Your ghost.” I wondered. Madeline took out a handkerchief from her sleeve, wiped her face, and turned to me: - “I never knew her name, her age, or where she came from.” - “Did she die there?” I asked. Madeline looked at me very angrily again: - “What an odd question!” - “It ́s common knowledge that tuberculosis patients who checked in, in one of those centers never made it out.” I tried to justify my question. - “She was my friend.” Madeline whispered. “Now, people tell stories about her to scare children with.” I did some research about the place, and I could see how easy it was to imagine ghosts filtering down the halls and disappearing into the darkness from the pictures I found online. The people who lived around the building told tales of phantom lights at night and strange noises. Those who had worked there spoke of cold pockets throughout the building. American paranormal study groups had studied there for years. Some of the visitors left toys behind, for a so-called child ghost, and cards and notes to say hello. Madeline told me that her friend must have been ten or eleven. She had brown hair, wore glasses, and had a way of looking out of the corner of her eyes. The girl was always twirling strands of hair around her fingers. I was unable to find any evidence of such a child, but I did find a man who had worked there for close to thirty years. I gave him a call and he asked if he could interest us in a tour of the building where he had worked so many years. I quickly asked Madeline, who vehemently nodded her head, stood up from her chair, and came standing next to me. I was relieved to see her snap out of her lethargic state. The former worker's name was Bob, and he asked if we could pick him up at a coffee shop in the village. I agreed of course. It would be a four-hour drive; coffee would be welcome before visiting the sanatorium. Especially a haunted one. - “Thank you.” Madeline smiled and kissed me. - “just don ́t think I ́m going shopping for presents for a child ghost.” I joked. Madeline shook her shoulders, turned around, and disappeared into her room. We left the next morning, and after a three-and-a-half-hour ride, we found Bob, in the coffee shop where he said he would be waiting for us. I enjoyed the caffeine fix while we got acquainted with Bob. - “I lived there for three years.” Madeline said. “My mother even found a job there as a cleaner and lived in a small, rented house not far from the sanatorium. Sometimes, after work, my mother would walk with me through the shadows thrown by the buildings. Avoiding other residents of course. They were always grumbling and yelling, and that scared me.” - “They probably had speech impediments.” Bob explained, “That ́s why they couldn ́t form words properly, making it sound as if they were grumbling and mumbling.” - “I could hear the yelling voices drift in the dark.” Madeline continued, “I would pull the covers over my head and hide.” She smiled a little timid smile. “I loved to sneak into the old chapel.” Memories started to filter back with Madeline. She had not been back to this place for many years. - “Did you know the first tuberculosis center opened in eastern Europe in 1863?” Bob asked, “It took twenty years before the rest of the world caught up with “the cure”.” We drove through browned pastures, up a winding hill. The road curved around ridges that looked out on blue hills in the distance. Bob had opened the car window; warm air rushed in, and he fell asleep. I could see another town beyond cow pastures. Past the last curve, the center rose through a forest of pines. The building had the color of dirt. The manicured lawn and the dorm-like buildings made me think of a college campus, rather than an old sanatorium. I parked the car and Madeline craned her neck up at the building. It looked more like a prison than a hospital. The people who lived there over the years must have felt the same. There were even bars on the windows. The place made me think of an old monument carved to forgotten gods. It was midday, and the crickets were very loud. The pines stirred in the wind. - “If there is such a thing as a ghost, I can see why they would come here.” I said, “This is a strange and sad place.” Madeline looked at me furiously: - “You still don ́t believe in ghosts?” she asked me in a deep voice. I took a deep breath and answered: - “I believe that you believe, Madeline.” Bob opened the door for us: “Don ́t worry! The building has been cleared of asbestos.” I looked around in the reception room, and I saw pipes and rafters through the open ceiling. Electrical cords hung down like snakes. Dust hung in the air and coated the floors. Dead birds lay in the hallway like stones. A presence of the souls who found their final home here lingered. I found it hard to breathe. We traveled fifty years into the past, as we climbed the gloomy stairwell. There was no electricity. The light was stained by the dirty windows. On the second-floor landing, Bob pulled the door open for Madeline and me. The sun came through a window at the end of the corridor, it made the hall disappear in the sunlight, like a tunnel reported by the people who had a near death experience. The floors had once been black and white in diamond patterns, but now the ties were hazed by time. Our feet left prints behind us. How small the rooms were? Paint curled from the walls like dead skin. Boards had fallen away. I could see how easy it was to believe theories of places becoming haunted by what they once held within them. - “I remember my room.” Madeline said, “I could hardly turn around in it. It had a cracked washbasin beside my iron springs bed with the thin stained mattress.” I saw the toys on the floor, the website had mentioned. I picked up a teddy bear and sat it on a radiator. It was funny finding toys that were only a few years old in such an antiquated place. - “The ghost of a little girl is nothing more than what people want to believe.” Bob said. - “How many children have died here, Bob?” I asked. But he didn ́t know. - “This idea of a ghost began in an era of sadness.” Bob reflected, “There are always stories of ghosts in places where people have suffered and died.” - “Do you believe in ghosts, Bob?” I asked him. He shook his head. He deflected my question by saying that several groups had been there recently with cameras and ELP equipment. They didn ́t find anything. - “I watched so many paranormal shows on TV.” Madeline started with a voice like she was about to cry, “People wander through old asylums or prisons, shouting things like “Show yourself, or are you there?” - They never ask how you are, or if you want to go home.” - “I would like to show you something outside.” Bob said. He walked us to a small dam in the wood. The pool at the bottom of the dam was filled with coins people had tossed in, wishing they were somewhere else. I drove Bob back to the coffee shop where we picked him up earlier that day. I shook his hand. He told me to come back, so he could show us the old chapel and take us through the old dormitories. I wanted to drive back home, but Madeline started crying: - “Take me back there!” she ordered me. - “What?” I asked, “It ́s going to be dark soon and I ́m not going back in there.” - “I have had it with your mockery!” she yelled at me, “let me out of this car, or take me back!” I had never seen her like this. I slowed the car down and turned around. - “She was my friend!” Madeline said, still in an angry tone. “They say her ghost still lives here!” Out of fear to say something wrong again, I kept quiet. I parked the car in the same spot where we had parked earlier. Madeline humped out of the car as soon as I turned the engine off. - “Come here!” she commanded me. I got out of the car and walked to where Madeline was standing. She grabbed my arm as if to prevent me from running away. - “In spring, the storms came, water ran down the window and she flinched each time thunder rumbled. In the summer the heat grew fierce, we lay sweating on our beds counting the cracks in the ceiling and listening to the flies. We imagined our friends were visiting us. We dreamed of our moms coming. We listened to the nurses’ shoes on the floor. We watched the leaves change colors on the trees. In the winter, the dark arrived early and with the cold her cough grew. She spent hours over a basin dredging up blood from her lungs. Sometimes we found something to laugh about, but mostly we watched the shadows of the sun move across the floor. We had been alone for so long, our mothers were nothing more than the memory of a dream, whose face we had forgotten. I could hear her lungs when she was breathing. And then one afternoon the nurse came, I could hear her pen click, a muffled voice giving date and time. A gurney with squeaky wheels bobbled down the hall. The doors opening and closing reverberated like tombs, and I kept wondering where she had gone.” Madeline stopped talking. I felt her pain as she stood there crying. - “What was her name, Madeline?” I asked, but she just shook her head. - “Was she already a ghost? Was she already roaming these halls as a spirit when you were here?” Madeline suddenly stood up straight: “Who cares? She was my friend.” I sat on the nose of my car to give Madeline some space. - “Conventional paranormal wisdom tells us that ghosts are spirits trapped on this plane of existence because they are unable to find their way out.” I said, “You got out Madeline. Yet you keep returning here in memory. You entombed your own spirit within these walls. You shared one hope with this girl once: the hope of leaving.” I took place behind the wheel and waited until Madeline was ready to get into the car. We are all trapped by places and circumstances, and random faces beyond our control. Forever looking back with the silly sense that if we could just understand the world we survived as children, we will somehow be better adults and our lives will fall into the neat category we created for it. As I drove down the hill, I saw the building standing silent in the rear-view mirror. A girl, with her elbows on a windows shell, was looking out as we receded in the distance...