The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

he suppressed the urge to sneeze. The woman’s humming resumed, a lilting paper-thin
voice, a feather on the wind.
He walked the length of the hall, running his fingers along the wallpaper’s velvety
stripes. The humming grew louder. He felt the urge himself to hum but did not. At her
doorway he paused and listened. He swallowed, his throat gone dry.
Oh the look on her pretty little face when he walked right in. Would she be standing
by her bed wearing that white robe? Would she demand to know “Who are you?” with
fear in her papery voice, but something else there, too. Something akin to passion? True
enough, it had been a long haul since John Paul heard passion in a woman’s voice. He
stood and listened to her humming, a syrupy mewl in her throat like she was a teensy
bit drunk.
John Paul blinked, took a deep breath, and stepped into the bedroom. The humming
ceased, evaporated like steam. The bedroom was empty. Had she heard him coming and
squirreled herself away somewhere? Under the bed, perhaps?
Heavy curtains restrained daylight from the room. Motes of dust danced and fled
from a thin sliver of light. He kneeled and lifted the bed skirt. No one there.
She was hiding in the closet, bless her heart. He would take her thin wrist and pull her
from her hidey hole. He would throw her down on the bed so hard her little body would
bounce twice. She would squirm under him like a little sister you were teasing. John Paul
began to hum, his deep voice growling in the dark room. The first thing he wanted to
do was put his hands under her terry cloth robe.
He yanked at the closet door. A hanging rod sagged with dresses and jackets and
such. John Paul ran his arms through the clothing, expecting to feel her warm flesh,
expecting her papery cry of surprise. The closet held nothing living.
He stopped humming. She was not in the room. Had he been seeing things in the
dim hallway? But no, he surely had heard her humming. John Paul scratched his head in
puzzlement and spat on the floor. The woman was elsewhere in the house.
An image of the genuine bear trap rose in John Paul’s mind for no good reason. Its
deliberate teeth, the sting of its bite. The memory brought with it the taste of beer. He
licked his lips.
Back in that hallway lined with fading pictures, her humming started up again, soft
and distant. Mixed with her syrupy music was another sound. The voice of a child. The
boy, whispering to his momma. Were they playing him for a fool? John Paul had no
tolerance for being played the fool. He would set the lad to watch. He would give the
boy a lesson to remember.
John Paul crept along the hallway back to the stairs, stopping briefly at each open door
to listen, yet even as he came, he admitted the voices were drifting up from downstairs.
The banister groaned from his touch as he took the stairs. He was glad for the light the
kitchen offered.
She liked to toy with men, John Paul decided. Her humming had grown louder again.
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