There was a definite lilt in the footsteps of John Edward McCallister, IV, as he made his way around the streets of the small fishing village of Bayham, Massachusetts. His purpose was two-fold. As he picked up the supplies he had ordered, he was placing evil-looking signs in many of the town's storefronts; or tacking them to the communal bulletin boards in others. They mirrored the newspaper ads that would begin running in the Bayham Minuteman with the afternoon edition.
   
Everything had come together quickly. He viewed this as his last chance, not only to save his ancestral home, but perhaps himself as well. Only a few days before, his situation had seemed hopeless, and he was thinking about ending it all--ending the McCallister line. Not many in Bayham would have lifted a finger to help a McCallister, given the family's sordid and sorry history as residents of Bayham for nearly 250 years, and he was sure no one would lament the passing of the McCallisters.

He was nearly finished with his rounds. He entered the costume shop in Nantucket Street, and picked up the one he had chosen: a vampire-like costume consisting of a tuxedo and a matching velvet cape with a blood-red lining. He then stopped at the drug store, costume box under his arm, and picked up a copy of the local newspaper, the Minuteman. It was still warm from its trip through the high-speed press.
 
He found his ad on the last page of the first section. It proclaimed:

HALLOWEEN HAUNTED HOUSE
YOU'VE HEARD THE STORIES
YOU'VE SHUNNED IT AS A KID
NOW SEE THE TRUTH FOR YOURSELF AT
BAYHAM'S ORIGINAL HAUNTED HOUSE
MCCALLISTER MANSION

October 14 through October 31--8:00 pm to 11:00 pm
$5.00 per person--group rates available
15 Housatonic St., Bayham, MA

He nodded in approval. The ad was tinged with sarcasm, but he felt that it would further raise the curiosity of the locals. It had not been easy growing up a McCallister; almost from his first day in kindergarten, he could tell that others, and not just the children, but the teachers and other parents as well, had viewed him as being different. Not unlike a leper, he would decide in later years, when he learned what that meant. He hurried back to his ancestral home, McCallister Mansion, to make the final preparations. 
 
He pulled into the long driveway, past the crumbling rough stone stelae, topped by the moss-covered, carved stone remains of ocean-going merchant ships from the eighteenth century. The monuments marked the beginning of the property. He carried his burdens from the garage to the house quickly, for there were only two days to go before the hoped-for crowds would come, and there was still so much to do. He started with the exterior.
 
Standing in the great semi-circular driveway, he took a good look at McCallister Mansion. The original section was built in 1750 by Joshua McCallister, the scion and bane of the McCallister line. The house had been expanded over the years as the fortunes of the McCallister shipping business had. It now encompassed nearly 20 rooms, including an ornate ballroom on the first level. One that had not seen a ball in many years. The shipping business failed badly after World War II, and now McCallister Mansion was all that was left of the McCallister fortune. 
 
John was born after the shipping business had sunk, and his own fortunes had taken a turn for the worse with the closing of the Bayham textile mill last year. He was not the only one thrown out of work, but while others might find work or charity in Bayham, that was not likely for a McCallister.
 
The house itself was a brooding monolith with a jagged roof-line caused by the different additions. The property occupied several acres on the crown of the highest hill in Bayham, with a view that looked down on the city--as had many of his ancestors--and which featured a breathtaking view of the harbor, and the Atlantic ocean beyond. A widow's walk ran from the front to the back of the house atop the second addition, a structure quite common on many seaside New England homes. A bell tower dominated the roof line in the front, with a look not unlike that of a church steeple; although he was sure that even God would tread uneasily on the grounds of McCallister Mansion.  
 
The eaves overhung the house greatly, like some neanderthal brow, adding to the feeling of gloom. In places, some of the great stones of the original section had fallen, contributing to the moldering, charnel feel of the place. 
 
Three out of kilter triangular windows on the side of the third addition provided an evil-looking face for the house. Red lights in the window would enhance this effect nicely, he thought to himself. He had lined the drive with sheaves of corn stalks and pumpkins, procured from one of the local farms, after midnight of course, and without the owner's permission.
 
After a few other minor adjustments, he was satisfied with the look of the outside, and now turned his attention to the interior. He had cleaned as best he could, but it was difficult to wipe away the dust and grime of 254 years. He had wrestled down some of the original furniture from the attic to add to the ambiance. In many places, paint and wallpaper were peeling. The walls were pock-marked with holes in the ancient plaster, but again, it only served to darken the mood. The lights flickered eerily as he went from room to room, a sign of the deteriorating wiring. He liked the effect, and hoped it would manifest itself during the open house.
 
As he entered each room, he barked instructions, not to anyone in particular, but seemingly to the house itself. In truth, he was talking to the McCallister line. Death and violence had been a way of life for McCallister Mansion nearly from the time the first stone was laid. He had explained the dire situation to the spirits who haunted the house. It was a race between the County tax people and the mortgage company to see who could foreclose first, and he was sure that any buyer would subject the house to the wrecking ball--a property with an ocean view, especially one like that of McCallister Mansion, which could be spectacular on occasion, would be irresistible for a new grand mansion, or condos. He laughed to himself at the thought of someone putting a resort home on this evil, tainted land. 
 
Purchasing props, flyers, and the newspaper ads had exhausted the little money he had been able to set aside. He had enough food for a few days, and then it would be off to one of the food kitchens for sustenance, if they would even let him in the front door.
 
From the time he was old enough to have memories, he had been haunted by his ancestors, and not just figuratively. His mother had explained the family history in the terms of the wraiths who infested the mansion and made their presence known on a nightly basis. Each new sighting of a McCallister ancestor, or victim, would prompt her to tell him more. He was certain the spirits understood his pleas. If they didn't, his little venture would fall flat on its face in very short order, and would be the final chapter of the McCallister family history.
 
Finally, the 14th arrived. The sun was beginning to set in the west, and as darkness settled in on Bayham, he could make out the silhouette of the roof. In the front, a form began to take shape: it was the outline of the body of a woman, hanging by her neck from the spire. From the family legends, he knew this to be the third Mrs Joshua McCallister. The Bayham constable at the time probably had his suspicions, but the rudimentary forensics of the time could never prove that she was murdered, and he could only conclude that she had simply despaired of life with Joshua. 
 
He entered the house and could hear music coming from the ballroom--a minuet, he guessed from the time signature of the piece. He opened the double doors. Inside a grand party was taking place. A circle of ghostly dancers kept perfect time with the music. Their dress cut across the ages from the 1700s to the early 1900s. He left the doors open and the ball continued unabated. He walked up the once-grand staircase to the second floor two at a time. 
 
He peered into the master bedroom. Jeremiah McCallister was sitting atop the four poster bed, plunging a knife again and again into his wife, whom he had found cheating with one of the McCallister merchant seamen. In the next bedroom, Robert McCallister's wife, Natalie, had just severed her husband's head with an ancient axe. His head rolled across the floor, like some hellish bowling ball, time and time again. In the various other rooms, the violent history of the McCallister family played out over and over. As he passed the bathroom, he swore that he could see his mother fumbling to get the lid off of a bottle of sleeping pills. His heart sank, and tears welled up involuntarily--apparently her death had not been from natural causes after all. The oppressive nature of the mansion had claimed another McCallister victim.
 
At 7:50, a line of cars was coming up Housatonic Street, and began turning into the driveway. Soon people were coming through the front door. Some already had a look of disgust on their face at the sight of the third Mrs. McCallister hanging from the bell tower. 
 
"Please feel free to visit any of the rooms on the first and second floors," he told them as he took their money, and put it into the steel till. His family did its part well, literally giving the performances of their deaths. He could hear "oohs" and "ahhs" and screams that alternated with laughter, especially in the ballroom where visitors mingled with the spectral dancers.
 
Around 10 pm, James Simpson, a business partner of the first John Edward McCallister made his appearance on the now not-so-grand staircase. He ran down the stairs and right through the people making their way to the second floor. The first John Edward followed closely on his heels. When he reached a point halfway down the stairs, the first John Edward aimed a single shot pistol at Simpson, and pulled the trigger. The black powder shot sounded like a cannon going off, and echoed off the walls of the staircase. The spectral round caught Simpson full in the back, pitching him to the marble tile floor. The people on the stairs nearly jumped out of their skins. McCallister thought one of the men wet himself.
 
As they left, many of the townsfolk congratulated him on the experience. One of the locals who ran a haunted house for the local Bayham Businessmen's Association pressed him for details on the fabulous special effects. "Holograms?" he asked.
 
"Yes." That was it. "Holograms," said McCallister. "They were done by one of the Hollywood special effects companies. The holographic projectors are cleverly hidden," he assured them.
 
Things went well--very well. He was able to pay the back taxes after the first few nights, and caught up the mortgage by the end of the first week. He congratulated himself on the idea. He thought that next year he might also have a haunted hayride on the grounds--pulled by Richard McCallister's favorite brace of horses, which were slaughtered and buried on the grounds with him in the family cemetery as a tribute.
 
As the last night came to a close, he was overjoyed at the success of the venture. He was sure it would be a success next year, and in the years after. He was also sure that no one noticed the disappearance of the young teenage girl who walked in near closing on the night before and hid after closing--probably on a dare from her friends. With a wig, and some clever makeup, she gave a grand performance in the role of Jeremiah McCallister's wife. Several people remarked how realistic she looked. He would need the help of his ancestors to make sure she did not manifest herself during future haunted houses. He was also sure that the police would come looking for her in the morning, but by then, she would be long buried, like so many of the secrets of the McCallister family. It had to be done. After all, he was now the master of McCallister Mansion, where death and violence had been a way of life for more than 250 years.
  

An Evening with the Family was first published at Unhallowed Sanctum magazine in 2005.