Rockabye Whispers

Nothing says Halloween like a good Haunted House, or Haunted Forest. That wonderful adrenaline rush, that heart pounding thrill of the scare. 

For some people, this is an ongoing addiction. Their life is spent in the pursuit of the next Haunted Tour, Ghost Walk. They actively search out the unexplained, the unknown, frequently viewing television shows with the tag line "Did you hear that?"

While these people seek encounters with the undead or otherworldly, for most people these brushes with the specter world are sudden and jarring. 

Mine was. 

Theresa Jamerson was the first friend I made after moving to Cleveland, Ohio from Denver, Colorado. 

At the awkward age of thirteen, I had found the move hard. 

Theresa and I had clicked immediately after meeting in Mr. Watson’s science class, and it wasn’t long before we were having weekly sleepovers. 

During one such weekend, I remember running through The Jamerson’s spacious den following Theresa and her younger brother.

Microwave popcorn in hand, I had no other thought than getting a good seat beside Theresa on the long leather couch facing the television. 

I jostled with Jeff for position, and in my haste, my foot hit against a child’s size rocking chair that occupied a space just through the entry to the den. 

The wooden rocking chair was set up in an antique tableau of sorts. It sat before a worn round wooden table draped in lace with old tin types of families dressed in their best, staring blank eyed and expressionless for posterity.

The rocking chair creaked in protest, and in front of me, Theresa and Jeff froze. 

I came up short, puzzled at their expressions, then turned to see the little chair lazily rock forward before groaning back on its runners.

It was a cool night outside and the house was warm, but just then I felt a whiff of cold air against my ankles. Jeff gasped. Theresa suddenly grasped me by the arm, pulling me away. 

Their actions were beginning to frighten me, when Mrs. Jamerson, Terri, came through the entry while juggling a couple of bags of chips and dip. 

She took one look at our paralyzed huddle and her head whipped towards the little rocking chair. 

She crouched down, dropped one of the bags of chips and reached out and stilled the chair seat with one finger. 

“No one is talking to you.” Mrs. Jamerson told the rocking chair firmly. She held her finger to the seat a second longer, then popped back up with a smile. 

“Who is ready for a movie?”

Theresa and Jeff broke into mayhem once more, pulling me with them towards the couch. I sat silent the whole movie, the family moving around me, laughing at the characters on the screen, devouring chips and popcorn and guzzling soda. 

Not one word about the fact that their mother had just scolded a children’s rocking chair.

Between the hilarious high jinks of the movie “Under Wraps” and the happy relaxed welcome I had from Theresa’s family, I had forgotten about the rocking chair. The evening wound down naturally, and eventually Theresa and I brushed our teeth and donned our PJ. Mrs. Jennings brought in an extra blanket and more pillows. She smiled as she ordered us to settle down and go to sleep before she closed the bedroom door. 

After a ton of soda and junk food, both Therese and I were both wired. Sleep was the furthest thing from our minds. We were actually jumping on the bed when Jeff peeked around the bedroom door and joined our party. 

The sugar buzz gave way to a sugar slump, and we collapsed on the covers. Jeff snoozed face down on the floor beside the bed. We giggled at his drool and discussed decorating his face with permanent markers, when our talk turned to more serious subjects, like the cutest boy in school. Richard Marshall was a freshman at our school and a god on the basketball court. He was a frequent subject for us for any girl or guy in our town. Rick Marshall had a tragic past. His mother had died when he was only a baby. The story of her demise had only grown more grievous as Rick’s popularity grew.  These rumors only endeared him to everyone. 

One crushing story led to another until we started on the ghost stories. 

Suddenly, I remembered the evening's events. 

“What’s with the rocking chair?” I ventured. 

Therea sobered instantly and I thought she wouldn't give me an answer. 

“It’s haunted.” She said, 

I had a secular upbringing, in fact, my parents were card caring atheists. I had been taught there was neither a higher power nor a lower one. Equally, there was no life after death, so there were no ghosts. Or hauntings. 

I laughed. “It is not.” 

Theresas was shocked, then insulted.

“Prove it.” I pushed. 

“Okay.” 

I was a little shocked that she caved so soon. 

She frowned a little, uncertain with her bravo. 

Jeff woke, blurry eyed when we opened the door, and followed us without question. 

Theresa stopped in the hallway and motioned us to be quiet. She halted again at her parents' bedroom door and listened for a moment 

We made our way through the darkened house, to the den.  Jeff stopped when we approached the corner of the den with the rocking chair setting before the antique table and pictures. 

“Theresa,” he whispered. “Mom said not to touch the chair ever.” 

“Mom said that the chair belonged to a little girl over a hundred years ago.” Theresa said. 

A hundred years seemed like decades to us at thirteen. 

“Sometimes” Theresa continued. “I can hear her, just like my mother.”

Theresa took a deep breath and suddenly reached out and nudged the arm of the rocking chair. 

I'll admit, I still wasn’t afraid.

The little chair rocked back and forward slowly. 

Then, it caught for just a moment. One still second, then the chair rocked back as if someone had sat down in the small seat. 

Jeff backed up with a whimper.  Theresa moved closer to me, eyeing the chair. 

A cold breeze wafted around my ankles and shivered up my pajama leg. 

Another started up my spine. 

The rocking accelerated. Suddenly, it rocked back and hit against the table leg jostling the old nicknacks on the round tabletop. 

A tingling child’s laugh sounded from above. The chair rocked again hitting the table again. Several objects fell. Theresa moved to catch some but started back with a gasp, her breath a white cloud, when the chair jumped on its rails moving towards her. 

The laughter started again, clearly amused with Theresa’s fear. 

I couldn’t move, my whole childhood beliefs were rapidly crumpling before my very eyes. 

“Stop!” Theresa pleaded.  The rocking chair bucked in annoyance. 

The sterling frame crashed onto the table surface, and shattered glass fell about our bare feet. 

“NO!” a child’s impertinent voice rang through the room. 

Jeff took off. I still couldn’t move. Theresa was starting to cry.  The cold breeze strengthened into a frigid wind, tossing the drapes, slicing through the thin fabric of our pajamas.

Theresa backed into me with a scream. I came out of my shock, and we stood hugging each other screaming as loud as the voice and coldness swirling around us.  

Lights flooded the den, casting the mess about the corner in sharp relief. 

Mrs. Jamerson bent down and stopped the rocking chair in mid rock. Her arm trembled a little as the small chair resisted her hold. The wind rippled her pink satin nightgown and whipped her hair around her head, but she held the chair firm. 

“Stop!” Mrs. Jamerson spoke in that stern mother voice. 

I don’t know if the whimper came from us girls or the other “girl” in the room. The rocking chair suddenly stilled in Mrs. Jamerson’s grasp. 

Mrs. Jamerson stood with a huff, flipping a stray strand of hair from her face. 

Mr. Jamerson stood in the den doorway with a sobbing Jeff wrapped tightly in his arms. 

The corner was a wreck of tossed nicknacks and broken glass. 

But the chair was still, I heard the heater click on. 

The Jamerson’s were, surprisingly, understanding. I helped right the mess, jarred by the surreal normality of it all. 

Theresa and I were given hot milk and hugs, but needless to say, my parents were summoned. 

They were not pleased with being called in the middle of the night, and even less pleased with my story.  I guess it did not fit into their secular philosophy. To their dismay, I became a true believer after that night.

Theresa and I were even more close after our shared experience and are to this day. 

I never, ever slept over at the Jamerson house again.