Thrasher
Based on a true story
“And they say sometimes, late at night, you can still hear the ghost of Moorefield Manor crying ever-so quietly as she searches for her baby in the inky black waters.”
Light applause and oohs of approval surround the campfire.
“That was a good one, Trace.” says Diane, turning her head. “I think it’s your turn.”
“You got a scary story, Beck?” asks April.
I watch as the embers rise above the flames in front of me, mildly worried they’ll float my way and catch the sleeve of my sweater. They don’t.
“Becky, hellooo,” Tracey coos with a teasing arm wave. I meet their eyes and smile. Tracy’s story was pretty good, but I know I can top it.
“Yeah, I got one,” I reply. I twist my marshmallow stick with my fingers, thinking of the best way to begin.
“What’s it called?” Jennifer demands every story have an intriguing title.
“This story is called…” I pause, thinking.
“This story is called Thrasher. And it’s true.”
“When I was thirteen, my mom bought a house down in Gowanda, and she called it Quaintance. It was a big, beautiful, old Victorian, perfect for displaying all her restored antiques and original paintings.
“Quaintance was built in 1868 by Norman Allen, a New York senator under Abraham Lincoln. Fun fact–he was even a pallbearer at Lincoln’s funeral. Anyway, when Norman’s daughter, Mary Allen, was engaged to be married, Norman had the house built a few acres down from his own property. It was a gift for his daughter and her new husband… Winfield Scott Thrasher.
“Winfield became a prominent judge in Cattaraugus County, often holding court in his home parlor. Mary had eight children, according to historical records. One of the Thrasher girls, Alice, went on to marry James Bixby, and they had two sons, Oscar and Harry.”
“Hey Beck, isn’t this supposed to be spooky?”
April can be so impatient. I look up to see my other three friends with the same bored expression.
“The history is important!” I proclaim. “Trust me, I’m getting there,” I try to assure them, but they are unenthused. Diane places a second marshmallow on her stick, and Jennifer tugs her cardigan closer to her chest.
“In 1973, over a century later, my mom was introduced to a real estate agent named Bill. Bill worked in the Gowanda area, and he sold the Thrasher house to my mom, which she then nicknamed Quaintance. Bill’s full name was Oscar William Bixby—the grandson of Winfield and Mary Thrasher. He still lives caddy corner from the property, and he’s the one who told us all this history you guys think is so boring.
“But he told us something else. There was a ninth child, a boy, who was never listed in historical records. He had a mental disability of some kind, and with Winfield being so esteemed in the community, a handicapped child was a source of shame for the family. Remember how I said he would hold court in the home parlor? Well, whenever he did, he would hide the little boy—Robert was his name—he would hide Robert in the attic so he couldn’t disrupt anything, and no one would find out he existed.”
“Okay, secret boy in the attic, we’re getting warmer,” Diane teases.
“Does he end up killing them all or something?” says Jennifer, and the other girls perform fake shudders of horror.
“Fine, if you want to make up your own ending, I just won’t finish the story,” I bluff.
A chorus of “No!” and “We’re sorry!” engulfs the circle as the wind carries several bright orange embers toward the trees.
“No more interrupting,” Jenn says, dragging an imaginary X over her chest with her finger. “We’ll be good,” she promises, and the rest agree.
“When my mom first moved into Quaintance, it felt magical. It had this huge fireplace, vaulted ceilings, a gorgeous willow tree in the front yard, and it was surrounded by acres of wildflowers. But you guys know my mom, how she’s always been into new agey, spiritual things. She’s sensitive to that stuff, and before too long, she started to… notice things. In the house. Not scary things, just weird things. Lights turning on, doors creaking open, a persistent feeling of someone there. My mom didn’t mind it, though. She figured there was a friendly ghost, and she left it alone.
“Then, about two years later, I was skateboarding up around Cottage Cemetery with Raelynn and Wayne. We were just fooling around when I noticed one of the gravestones had the name Thrasher on it. Then I looked around and saw that all the nearby graves were Thrashers, and I remembered something Bill Bixby had told us—that the whole Thrasher family plot was up there.
“So, I read them all.
“Judge Winfield Scott Thrasher, 1847 – 1911. Mary Augusta Florette Allen Thrasher, 1849 – 1914. Norman Samuel Thrasher. Ward. Alice. Flora. Allen. Louis. Ned. Gertrude. And I noticed one was missing.”
“Robert!” April interjects. The rest scold her with a loud “Shh!” Finally, the investment this story deserves.
“Yes. Robert. There was no grave for him. So, I went home that night and told my mom what I’d found. Or, I guess, what I hadn’t found. She was convinced that the ghost she’d been feeling in the house must be Robert. She had a theory that since Robert was mentally disabled, he must have died young. And since they were ashamed of him, she figured they probably buried him somewhere on the property, which would explain why his spirit was still hanging around there. So guess what she did?”
I lean forward to sell the intensity.
“She called a literal team of paranormal investigators to come assess the house. And when they walked into the basement, one guy said, ‘This room is a graveyard.’”
April and Jenn let out a simultaneous “Woah.”
“So my mom had them dig up the basement. Seriously. I was there, and they actually dug up the whole basement expecting to find Robert’s body. But they didn’t find anything.”
“Wait.” Jenn broke her promise. “If they didn’t find anything, how is that scary?”
“Yeah, if he wasn’t there, where was he?” asks Tracy. “Did they ever find him?”
“Nope.” I say, matter-of-factly. “But that’s not the end of the story.”
“Fast forward to 1978, three years ago. It was my senior year, and I was taking this photography class. And for Christmas, my family and I left to spend the week at my grandma’s house. When we got back to Quaintance, I asked my mom to pose sitting on her suitcase in the front yard so I could take her photo for my class. Now keep in mind, we had been away for a week, so the house was totally empty.
“But when I went to develop the film, I saw something. In the attic window, the attic where the Thrashers kept Robert hidden away, there was a little boy, leaning on the windowsill, looking down at us in the driveway. The image is so detailed you can see the part in his hair.
“My mom even took the photo to some experts at Kodak. She asked them to give us any explanation for what that image could be. A trick of the light. A reflection of a tree. Their only response was this: ‘Are you sure there wasn’t anyone in the house?’”
I lean over the back of my lawn chair to grab my backpack.
“Is that true? About the photo?” asks Diane.
“Where is it?”
“Do you still have it?”
“I still have it.” Reaching into my pack, my fingers grip the edges of the 3x5 photo in the front pocket. “It’s right here.”
One by one, I watch my friends’ faces go from curious to awed as they pass the photo around the circle, each one angling it to the firelight to better see the little boy in the attic. I consider whether I should tell them the second part of the story, the part about my sister and her husband and the Ouija board, but I decide to save it. There will be more campfires, and I feel satisfied. For now.