The Old Kirsch Place

Winner in Aristotle's Allegory Contest - October, 2008

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All of my life I had heard tales of The Old Kirsch Place and how it was haunted. Anyone who mentioned the old farm spoke in whispers, nodding toward any young children who happened to be in the vicinity.  One day I pressed my mother about the reason for all of the secrecy about the place.

“They say it’s haunted.”

“What gives people that idea?”

“Of all the people who moved in there,” she related in a hushed voice, “the longest they ever lasted was a week.”

“Why did they leave so soon?”

She shrugged.  “Things happenin’, I guess.”

“Like what?”

“Seeing shadows moving around in the night; hearing kids screaming and nobody there.”

I stared at her, wide-eyed.  “What happened down there?”

“A terrible thing!  Just terrible.  They said that old Mrs. Kirsch just went berzerk one day.  One by one she grabbed her six kids, slit their throats with a butcher knife and threw them down that old well.  Even years later, no one could drink that water, even if they’d wanted to!”

“What’d they do to her?”

“They didn’t do nothing to her; they never had a chance.”

“Why?”

“Well, it seems the oldest, a boy – I went to school with him for a while - he saw what was happening to the young’ns and he took off running.  They say he ran to the barn and hid in the haymow.  Somehow, she tracked him down, climbed up there and killed him, too.  After dumping him in the well, she jumped in after him.”


It was a bright, sunny summer day when my visiting cousin, Rube, and I were tromping through the woods as we usually did when she was there.  Sunlight filtered through the trees dappling the decaying leafy carpet beneath our feet.  Finding a lush bed of spongy moss we sat down on its velvety surface and leaned back against the rough bark of an ancient oak.  All around us the birds chirped back and forth or sang their cheerful melodies while chattering squirrels chased each other through the branches over our heads.

Rube looked around the sloping sun-streaked hillside where we rested.  “I’ve never been down here before.  Where are we anyway?”

I pointed back the way we’d come.  “Grandpa’s pasture field is just on the other side of this hill.  On down in this hollow,” I nodded my head forward, “is the old Kirsch place.”

“What’s the old curse place?”

“Not curse, silly, Kirsch; though I guess cursed fits, too.”

“Whadda ya mean?”

I shrugged.  “They say the old place is haunted.  Been deserted for years.”

Her eyes shone with excitement.  “Haunted?  You ever been down there?” I shook my head.  “Why not?”

I shrugged.  “I don’t know, just never went.”

“Why don’t we go there now; check it out?”

I grinned and jumped to my feet.  “Why don’t we?”

On our descent the hillside got steeper and steeper.  We slipped and slid on the slippery bed of fallen leaves, grabbing small, springy saplings to keep from falling.  We went deeper into the valley and the air grew heavier and heavier, laden with moisture that plastered our shirts to our backs.  Mosquitoes buzzed around our ears and we constantly swatted them away and slapped at the ones landing on our necks and arms.  I was nearly ready to turn around and head for higher ground when the rundown barn came into view.

I stopped in my tracks and pointed, “There it is!”

Rube laughed.  “Why are you whispering?”

I felt the heat of a deep blush rising in my cheeks.  “I don’t know.”

“Well, come on!  Let’s check it out.”

I hesitantly followed her toward the outbuilding, my heart thudding against my ribs. Are the ghosts still in there?  Would they be around in broad daylight or did they just come out at night?

We crept up to the side of the barn and peered through cracks in the siding.  “Let’s find a door,” Rube suggested as she moved around the corner.

As I rounded the corner the ramshackle house came into view; beside it the rough, moss-covered rocks of the creepy well.  A chill ran the length of my spine and I shivered, forcing my gaze away from its horrifying presence.

Rube grabbed my arm.  “Look,” she whispered, pointing to the big door that stood about a foot ajar.

Look who’s whispering now, I thought, following her lead in squeezing through the opening.  Inside the smell of long-rotten hay and animal manure clogged the air, nearly choking me and leaving a bitter taste in the back of my throat.  Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the siding and the dancing dust motes seemed to mock me for my gooseflesh-covered arms.

“This is where she killed him, Billy was his name.” I pointed to the haymow.  “Right up there.”  I visualized the wild-eyed woman in her feed-sack, apron-covered housedress and frazzled hair creeping up the rickety ladder to the loft, the blood-dripping butcher knife held ready to strike.

Rube looked around and shrugged her apparent disappointment.  “Not much here now.  Let’s see what the house has to offer.”

Back outside, I pointed to the well.  “That’s where she threw all the kids and then jumped in herself.”

Chills again tingled up and down my spine as I forced my footsteps closer to the low stonewall surrounding that gaping watery grave.  We leaned forward and peered into the black depths.  I half-expected to see floating skeletons rise to greet us.

“Wonder how deep it is?” 

I shrugged.  “I don’t have any idea.  Must be deep though to hold that many bodies.”

Rube scuffed a small pebble out of the dirt with the toe of her shoe, picked it up, held it over the middle of the hole and dropped it.  The seconds seemed to drag on forever before we finally heard the distant splash of it hitting the water.  Rube turned to me with saucer-sized eyes.  “Wow!” she breathed.

“While we’re here we might as well have a look at the house,” I suggested with false bravado.

Carefully, we picked our way across the rotted wood of the front porch to the door.  With a firm shove the rusty lock broke free and the hinges squalled their protest.  Tattered lace curtains hung over the windows blending in with the cobwebs that filled the corners and wafted in the breeze of our entry.

Floorboards creaked and dust billowed around us as we crossed the room to peek into the kitchen.  This was where she grabbed the knife!

Beckoning me to follow, Rube headed for the rickety stairs leading to what I assumed were the second-floor bedrooms.  As we began to creep upward I envisioned the crazed mother chasing her terrified, screaming offspring through the rooms above.

All at once a loud noise, sounding like the slamming of a door, shook the walls.  As one, a ghostly pale Rube and I turned and ran as fast as our young legs would carry us.  Down the stairs and across the living room we sprinted.  Leaping off the porch, we bounded along the rutted, weed-clogged roadway, not stopping until we reached the top of the hill where we collapsed, panting, on the rocky ground. 

“What was that?” Rube’s voice quivered.

Wiping the nervous perspiration from my face, I tried unsuccessfully for a nonchalant shrug and gave a shaky laugh.  “I don’t know.”  My voice cracked.  “Maybe that old place really is haunted.”