Scary story

Goblins in the Hallways

By Rick Horowitz

It looked -- from the outside, at least -- like an ordinary mansion. An ordinary mansion in the heart of the city, surrounded by gardens and protected by high metal gates. It had grand columns, and sweeping porticos, and great long driveways where important people stepped from great long cars to talk about important things.

An impressive building, to be sure. But as mansions go, no better, no worse than dozens of others within the city and beyond.

An ordinary mansion, at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Or so it seemed from the outside.

But to those few brave souls who ventured within and survived to tell the tale -- this was long ago, back in the year 2005, or so the story goes -- this was no ordinary mansion at all. They called it: The Haunted House. The Haunted White House.

For it was deep in the year 2005 -- or so the story goes -- that the dark cloud settled over 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Settled, and simply refused to leave.

It arrived one late-summer's day on a fierce wind from the south, from the Gulf of Mexico, and the rain was harder than anyone could remember, and the waters rose, and then rose some more. The waves slapped against the walls of the mansion, and oozed through the cracks and climbed the great staircase. The water filled important rooms and decorative rooms alike; it tore pictures from their moorings, and reputations. Reputations years in the making.

Then -- at last -- the rain stopped, and the waters receded, but it was too late. The damage had been done. Some great disintegrating force had been let loose.

And the dark cloud? The dark cloud stayed precisely where it was. No new wind could dislodge it, no rays of sunshine soften its menacing aspect. It was a sign, people said. From that day forth, nothing in the mansion was ever quite the same. Was ever quite normal.

Misstep followed misstep, and calamity hovered at every turn. Where once the mansion's residents had gone jauntily about their business, supremely confident of their success, now there was uncertainty. Where once the mood was warm, and comradely, now there were whispers, and dark rumblings of discord.

From the outside, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue looked as it had always looked. But on the inside, how different things had become!

If you close your eyes, you can almost see it, even now, though so many years have passed: the floors, no longer straight and true and polished to a perfect shine. The walls, perched at awkward angles, buckling under the accumulated stresses. The entire right wing tearing apart from the rest of the structure. And signs of rot everywhere.

If you listen carefully, you can almost hear it: the whirring of helicopter blades, and the roar of bulldozers. A mad chorus of gas pumps going "ping-ping-ping." A distant explosion, and a mother's sobs, and another, and another. The tread of lawyers' footsteps clomping through the halls. A lonely voice crying out, "Harriet! Harriet!"

All this -- but not only this.

For when the nights are at their longest, they say, and the moon is full, you can still hear the screams -- the awful, blood-curdling screams -- of one very...lame...duck.

Posted 10/25/05. Frighteningly good! It's fresh commentary from syndicated columnist Rick Horowitz twice every week. Warn the neighbors!

Rick Horowitz is a syndicated columnist, TV commentator, writing coach and public speaker.

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