The Biggin’s Place was an old Victorian house. It’s brown shingles were weathered and faded. Its porch was so dilapidated that the floorboards were peeled up on one side, resembling a breaking surfer’s wave. The windows that weren’t smashed were filthy and sewn shut in cobwebs. Those that lacked panes completely, flew yellowed lacey curtains from them like ancient flags of surrender. There were two floors. It was doubted, though, that the interior was in any better shape, allowing anyone to climb the stairs within. Giant blocks of granite and fieldstone formed the foundation, proving that the place had been erected long before the turn of the century. A widow’s peak loomed on the second story and it was that very area of the house that quickened Max’s step and pried open his sweat glands. A black rawed-iron railing, in the shape of a half-moon, wrapped itself around the peak. It didn’t take much of an imagination to picture someone standing there, waiting for a loved one to return. The front door, with its brass knocker, was as uninviting as the rusty bulkhead in the rear of the house. The back yard had been overgrown and choked by decades of weeds. In the front, once-manicured plants now grew wildly, forming themselves into the shapes of giant grotesque beasts. It was quite a sight and Max hated it. From the first time he ever set eyes upon the place, he hated it!

The city’s hearsay historians claimed that the house was built on an old burial ground. Whether this was true or not, there was a graveyard just to its east. And with each year of small town rumor, the place looked more haunted.

Legend had it that Mrs. “Darling” Biggins lost her husband, a sea captain, to the frigid depths of the Atlantic. In turn, she lost a good part of her mind. They say she paced upon the widow’s peak for weeks after he was lost at sea, screaming his name in a shrill that would tickle the spine of the strongest man. Her only saving grace was her young son, Charles. Half out of her wits, in her intentions to protect the boy, she locked him in the house like some common criminal. They say he slept in a closet and ate with the family pets. For months, she never let the boy out of her sight. This, however, only lasted until the disturbed woman grew weary and rested her penetrating eyes.

Charles was ten years old when he escaped his mother’s twisted bastion. They say he ran to the dock from where his father had eternally shipped out. Deciding one parent over the other, the boy jumped into the icy water and pumped his arms as fast and as hard as he could. Once they got tired, he turned back and bobbed in the water, quietly awaiting his fate. Even if he wanted to, he did not possess the strength to return to land.

There was a scream. He looked up to find his mother standing on her widow’s peak, her arms outstretched, her voice shrieking his name. Some say they could see his smile when he went down to join his father. Those who didn’t witness it, or the rest of the city, braced themselves against the most horrid pitch a woman ever released. She wailed “Charles! CHARLES!” but young Biggins’ was not to return. He’d finally escaped her torment, preferring to embrace his own death. Tragically, his mother was just sane enough to understand this. With her last bit of ration, she realized that she had killed her only child. She was absolutely beside herself.

From that point on, there was no question that the old lady had completely abandoned her mind. Soon, neighbors complained of losing their pets, only discover the butchered carcasses lying in the street in front of her houses. No one dared question her on it though. Those who even considered it, got only as far as her porch before they heard the demented shrill of a banchi. They’d look up and find her half-concealed in a broken window, gesturing wildly that they come in. No one ever did…ever!

The place deteriorated quickly around her. She was a recluse, and no one really knew the exact day she died. Her body was discovered strictly from the rancid odor it omitted. They say that the man who removed the body could feel her presence in the room. He vowed that she was there. In fact, just as he closed the front door, he heard her laugh insanely and release a high-pitched scream.

Many, many years after her burial, the city auctioned off the place to a family from out of town. The Smiths were the first of two families who resided in the place. They moved in, however, to quickly discover they weren’t wanted. Fixed objects moved around the house under the power of something angry and invisible. Doors opened and slammed shut throughout the night. Then, to insure their prompt departure, something began to physically strike out, something that couldn’t be seen, but felt to the point that it bruised. The Smiths quickly sold.

The next courageous clan, the Camara’s, weren’t there a month when the patriarch of the family was beaten badly, and rushed to the emergency room. Covered in cuts and bruises, he was asked, “Who did this to you?” He vowed that he honestly didn’t know, but believed, “it was some vile ghost that wanted to kill me.” He spent a stretch at Corigan Hospital, committed for various mental health reasons.

From that time on, the city boarded up the windows and shut off the power to the house. The exterior light, however, came on randomly. Some reported seeing a young man, dripping wet in turn-of-the-century clothing, beckoning for his mother toward the deserted widow’s peak.

For years, it was rumored that the place was going to be a funeral home, but the window boards never came down. Instead, the place served as a test of courage to adolescents who got chased off the property by police, their Ouija boards in hand.

Everyone stayed clear of the Biggins’ place. Old “Darling” was feared more dead than she was alive. The only true adventurers in the neighborhood, the kids, used to break in. On one such daring night, when the tide was high, two children broke in to prove their courage, while a third kept watch on the porch. They say the porch lookout never saw Old Lady Biggins’ standing on her peak until it was too late. When he ran inside to warn his friends, to his horror, he discovered that one had suffered a seizure so severe that he’d died. From shock, the second stood catatonic for several weeks. When he finally came around, his child-like babble reported that the old lady had approached them, turned to his friend and whispered, “You’re home now, Charles. And I’ll never let you go again!” At that very moment, the boy choked to death.

That legend witnessed many seasons and outlived many people who tried to dispell it. It undoubtedly grew larger through the ages, so by the time the Evans’ children caught wind of it, it was bigger than their own lives.

For years, Max sprinted past the place on his way to and from school. Most of the time he never spared the place a look. It witnessed all his childhood woes and triumphs. And as his courage grew, so did Michael’s challenges.

On one late September night, Max decided to take Mike up on his immature dare. After all the years of harboring such fear, he was finally willing to face the demons of Mrs. “Darling” Biggins, or perhaps, his own.

It was autumn in Massachusetts and there was no prettier place on earth. Colored trees of red and green lined the street, while grimacing pumpkins and waving flags decorated deserted porches. The smell of burnt leaves and chimney smoke wafted on chilly breezes. Amongst stacks of new-split wood, squirrels busied themselves gathering a winter’s full of nutrition. The days grew shorter, bringing about harvest moons and eerie whistling winds. Clotheslines, bluejay feeders and rockin’ chairs were empty, while the world prepared for the season of ice and snow. On this night, the whole world was perfect except for the Biggins’ place. It loomed over Max worse than his overactive imagination. He’d agreed to the wager only if he could take Oliver along. Mike agreed. Donned in their hooded sweatshirts, the boys started for the house. Max doubted that Old Lady Biggins’ laughter would be any match for that of his cynical brother’s.

Under the faint light of a crescent moon, on bicycles, Max and Oliver approached the place like Marines hitting the beach. There had never been a shortage of drama on Oliver Street. Max was just nearing the overgrown yard when he actually felt a presence, an invisible, unfriendly presence. He looked over at Oliver to discover that his best friend was already high-tailing it home. He’d obviously felt the same thing. Unwilling to face Mike’s ruthless teasing, Max gritted his teeth and willed himself closer. It was then that he heard it. Though faint, it was the distinct sound of a sea captain’s whistle. He expected to find his brother in wait, and squinted hard to search the yard for the shoddy ambush. But there was nothing there. Mike was nowhere to be found. And then Max felt something. It was like a patch of cold air traveling through him. He gasped and at that instant, felt a tormented solitude well up inside of him. He was suddenly very lost and alone. In one spine tingling moment, he just knew he’d met the anguished spirit of young Charles Biggins.

The boy’s energy was wandering aimlessly, unaware of the great sin he’d committed, unaware of his natural place in the universe. Although the experience reached way beyond bizarre, for reasons unknown, Max did not feel afraid. Instead, he believed that all the fear in the world belonged to Charles. The boy was trapped, imprisoned, and he clearly didn’t know how to escape. Surprising himself, Max called out. “Charles?” He saw and heard nothing, but the stiff hairs on the back of his neck knew that the boy was close. Max could think of nothing but trying to help. He explained, “You no longer belong here, Charles,” he said. “You must go.” But again, the spirit’s feelings of despair only increased. Nearly paralyzed, Max realized that this boy was in hell—the very hell he’d created by trying to cheat nature by cutting his time short. He was still connected to the earthly dimension and would probably serve his remaining time alone, lost and scared. Max had to get out before it was too late. He feared that he had to get out of the yard before he was forced into sharing the boy’s horrid grief. He pumped his legs and prayed hard all the way home.

Mike was waiting on the porch, and he was smiling. “Told you there was nothing to worry about!” he bragged.

Max calmed his quick breathing and peered into his older brother’s eyes. “Grampa was always right,” he whispered through quivering lips. “Nobody can punish us as bad as we punish ourselves.” With that, Max pushed his rubbery legs into the house.

Mike thought about the terror in his brother’s face, and quickly followed him in. Before the door closed behind him, his words echoed down the street where they would haunt Charles Biggins’ for many moons to come.

“Come on, it couldn’t be that scary. Are you really that sorry you went?”