Winifred

Written By: Chester Rogalski

Forty years I was a deacon at First Calvary. They’re tearing her down now, but it’s still good of you to go about collecting her history. Seen all manner of folks come through those doors. Me and Tom Garrison even swapped them out, about twenty-five years ago it had to be. Hurricane Floyd, I believe. Late 90’s. Beautiful oak and iron, the originals were. Boy that church’s got to be coming up on over a hundred years. You know all those years I been going I’m always apt to forget about the cornerstone. Close my eyes and I can see it clear as a bell. 1905. Long time ago ain’t it. Where’s the time go? 

Mother and father went every Sunday. Mom taught Sunday School; Dad was a deacon same as me. A union man too, Ironworkers Local 11. Wore coveralls all week, used to come home filthy and dog tired but come Sunday he looked every penny of a million bucks. Mom took care of us and the house. 

But you’re not here to listen to me chew the cud of my own ancient history, I can see those eyes starting to glaze over while I wax poetically about days gone by. Folks don’t have the wherewithal for the scenic route anymore, everything’s go, go, go, bite-sized and swallowed quick.

I seen the devil.

Or one of his cohorts. That’s why you’re here bothering with an old-timer like me. You want the juice. Well, I got a glass. So, let’s get down to brass tacks. We got about an hour give or take till the missus comes back from her shopping trip. She doesn’t much like this topic of conversation, and I’d do well not to upset her.

Winifred Rooney was a long-time church member and lived by herself in a small one family out in Sussex County. Town of Sparta. Sleepy little pocket of New Jersey and fairly rural in comparison to the rest, lots of outdoor enthusiasts and peace and quiet types. The trip for Winifred to get to First Calvary had to take her over an hour easy. But her and her husband Norman were seated in the pew every Sunday come hell or high water. They did live closer at one time but still kept coming to First Calvary after setting down stakes in Sparta. Winifred just wouldn’t let go of her church; can’t say I blame her much. I’m a man of traditions myself. Once Norman passed, Winifred still kept on coming. Drove herself until she wasn’t able to. Didn’t have any kids, those two. And they prayed hard on it too but sometimes the Lord sees fit to have the field remain fallow. Pastor Tim sat with them many times and provided guidance. His son, Pastor John, is head of the church now. Good man he is. It was his father though, Pastor Tim who asked the congregation to pay Winifred a visit and sit with her if they could once she was in the late stage of the cancer. There was a sign-up sheet and everything with plenty of demand to do good by Winifred. But, soon enough, whisperings started. How she had become nasty to folks who dropped by. Angry. Folks started to get busy, things came up, excuses and the like. Nothing churns like the church rumor mill after service, when you got us Christian folks all huddled up on our way out the door. My Susie wouldn’t hear of it, that’s my wife, did I mention her name? Beg your pardon if I didn’t yet, Susan, and she’s not one to chew the fat much on the business of others. Still couldn’t help avoiding it amongst us deacons, Paul Childress gave me the inside scoop on it all. He moved down to Arizona not long ago, had terrible arthritis same as me, but we check in from time to time and last I heard from him his drive is back to being almost 300 yards on account of the dry air down there. Ain’t that something? Scratch golfer that Paul is, never was one much for the game myself, more of a church softball man. Paul put me onto these here arthritis gloves I got on. A real game changer these things are.

Well Paul tells me that Winifred’s been extra nasty to folks, crude. How she comes to the door buck naked, and how, you’ll have to forgive my crude language, last time Diana Kilbourn paid her a visit Winifred walked straight into the yard and did a bowel movement. Folks were rightly uncomfortable, there was a home health aide as well I believe, but I can’t be certain as to what exactly befell them. I can surmise however that it probably wasn’t on account of Winifred’s lovely demeanor. After almost a week gone by of folks not stopping by anymore Pastor Tim gives me a call and asked if I could drop by and check in with Winifred. Bring over some groceries if possible. Pastor Tim had been the only one doing it when he had the time and I knew that if he was asking, it meant he really needed the hand. I agreed. It might sound mighty unchristian of me, but I truly wish I hadn’t.

It was a Saturday. In July, or was it June? Anyhow, I gave Susie a peck on the cheek and double checked I had a full charge on my cellphone after she asked me to do so before I left. This was 2002 and the phone I had then looked like something that could double as a remote for the TV, but the battery seemed to last forever on those Nokia things. Grabbed my bible as well, it was one that was given to me by my parents. A big leather tome, sturdy. They made them solid as a rock back in the day. I got into my truck; we had a nice big Chevy Suburban then and backed out the driveway making a mental note to stop off at the Shoprite to pick up some things for Winifred.

Got to the house at a little before noon. A one family house with attached garage. Aluminum siding and brick with a big lawn on a patch of land that wrapped around the corner. What folks would call a starter home. The lawn was getting overgrown, not long enough to attract fines and the like from the town, but enough to look unkempt amidst all the other perfectly manicured lawns in the neighborhood. I walked up to the front door, groceries and bible in hand and almost took a tumble on a loose brick on the front steps. I rang the bell.

No answer.

I rang it again.

Nothing.

So, I pull open the screen door and knock hard. The door wasn’t closed though, and my knocking sent it creeping open slowly.

I called out, “Hello? Mrs. Rooney, it’s Frank Doherty. From church, come to check up on you and bring you some things.”

No answer still. At this point, I’m a little nervous about the ordeal. Wondering to myself if she passed and how long ago? Was I about to come upon her earthly remains? I broke out into a sweat, must’ve been ninety degrees that day and the thought of seeing poor Winifred there dead in the bed made me feel a little, just a little uneasy. I steeled my nerves and pushed open the door all the way and stepped inside the house.

The living room was certainly dated, a golden-brown high pile carpet, a green floral print sofa with a glass coffee table in front covered in ancient copies of TV Guide. Those porcelain black-eyed Precious Moments figurines were everywhere. On the coffee table. On the end tables. On shelves around the room. The entertainment console was this large wooden monstrosity with the TV in the center and shelving up both sides of it. Completely covered with more of the figurines. Had to a been hundreds of them, all of them seemed to be staring at me with those vacant black doe eyes.

“Hello?” I called out again, standing in the entryway. The kitchen was on the other side of the living room; a breakfast bar separated the two areas in an open style format with shutters that you could close in case you needed a break from the hundreds of figurines keeping an eye on you while you had your eggs. On the bar, facing the kitchen was a picture of what I assumed was a young Norman in uniform. A gold zippo lighter laid next to it with the eagle, globe, and anchor insignia of the Marines. 1^st Battalion, 7^th Marines - FROZEN CHOSIN inscribed just beneath it.

I set the bag of groceries down on the kitchen table, nothing was out of order to me. Clean. I was half expecting the place to be a mess, but that didn’t seem to be the case. There was a hallway that led into the rest of the house. A hall closet, one leading into what I assumed was a cellar and two at the far end. Only one of them was open. Standing there, I knew she was alive. Because I heard her. Whimpering softly. The hallway leading towards the door was hardwood, old. The thing creaked and groaned like old bones as I slowly made my way, getting closer and closer. Giant drops of sweat rolled off my forehead and down my cheeks. I stepped quickly into the bedroom, ripping off the band aid because a part of me just wanted to get the whole ordeal over with, which being honest made me feel a little guilty at first once I got in the bedroom and saw Winifred there in bed.

The smell was intense, like lavender thrown over a trash heap. Winifred was tossing slowly around in bed; her sweaty gray hair stuck to the sides of her head. Laying there in a pool of sweat in a stained peach-colored house dress. There was dark bruising around both of her eyes from rubbing at them with the palm of her hands. It took me all of five seconds to understand why, the blinds were open, sending in piercingly bright light in the room.

“Winifred, it’s Frank Doherty. From church,” I said.

I wasn’t sure if she was able to register that I was there or who I was. I walked over and closed the blinds. Which immediately sent the bedroom into something a lot easier on the eyes. There wasn’t much in the bedroom, Winifred’s queen-sized bed where she was under a gold and red paisley print comforter, a record player off in the corner, a tall leafy house plant that I’m sure loved all that sun. Big wooden cross over her bed and two nightstands covered in prescription bottles, mugs, plates with crumbs on them. A lamp on each. It was a little dark, so I clicked both of them on. Her walker was next to the window unit air conditioner.

“Mrs. Rooney? Are you hot at all?” I asked, trying my best to be communicative, even though she was still only mumbling incoherently. “Can I fetch you a glass of water or maybe fix you something to eat?” I said to her.

Nothing. 

I started to wonder and question why and where the rumors came from about Winifred’s demeanor. Seemed to be nothing but a helpless old woman from my estimation. I stood at the foot of the bed looking at her and felt bad, there she was all alone in the house and the members of her church she attended all her life were spreading nasty rumors about her in the final days of her earthly existence. I was going to have a talk with Pastor Tim about the decent way to treat a fellow Christian and how un-Christlike it was to allow folks to sully her good name.

I set my bible down on the bed next to her and turned on the air conditioner. An old unit with wood grain on it. Must’ve weighed a good two-hundred pounds. It clicked and groaned to life like it was annoyed to a been disturbed. Once the room was comfortable, I was going to whip something up for her to eat, read her a passage out the Bible, and maybe see what else I could do around the house.

I told her I was going to the kitchen, speaking in a loud and clear voice, thinking I could maybe cut through whatever mental affliction Winifred was in the midst of. The air conditioner blew cold air into the room, strong too, which Winifred seemed to like because she stopped groaning and muttering. The thing sounded like a jet engine but worked just fine.

The kitchen was a little dark being in the back of the house, so I flicked on the switch to the stained-glass light fixture hanging from the ceiling. Wallpaper in the kitchen had little pictures of fruits, breads, and cheeses on it. I pulled out a loaf of Wonder Bread, bag of grapes, ham, American cheese, and Lay’s potato chips from the grocery bag. All the makings of a solid lunch. Just needed a hit of mayo and mustard, two things I realized I forgot. I turned for the refrigerator, covered in yellowed newspaper clippings, fruit magnets, and pictures of Winifred and Norman from better days. Just as I was about to pull open the fridge, the light in the kitchen turned off. I checked the light switch.

Nothing happened.

I pulled open the fridge, the light inside was off too. Also, there wasn’t really anything in it besides a half-empty gallon of water and a York Peppermint Pattie. I made a note to myself to see about stocking it. A door slammed closed that made me jump while I was looking in the fridge. Air pressure can sometimes do that in a room when the AC is running, it had to have been the bedroom. Because no other doors were open.

I went out into the living room and tried the lights there. No luck. But it confirmed my suspicion that the breaker must’ve tripped. The AC was definitely off too, that thing was loud, and I should have heard it running.

Pushing open the bedroom door, the first thing that hit me was the smell.

Feces.

The second thing I noticed was that Winifred was gone. I walked quickly over to the blinds and pulled them open, eager for some light in the room. She was definitely gone. And then I saw my bible.

Open.

And completely covered in excrement.

I was a mixture of angry about my Bible and worried about Winifred being gone in an obviously unwell state of mind.

“Mrs. Rooney?” I called out, standing by the air conditioner. A faint giggle came from the hallway. “Mrs. Rooney, Winifred is that you?” I said, stepping out into the hall again. A door was open. The door leading down to the cellar. I walked towards it.

Winfred popped her head out and scowled at me, growled like an animal and slammed the door closed. I stood there, frozen for a second. Probably more like a minute, to be honest. I went into the kitchen, pulled open some cabinets looking for a flashlight. Came up empty handed so I grabbed the zippo off the breakfast bar. Flicked it open and checked that it still worked. It did. I went back to the cellar door. Quick heavy footfalls descended the stairs, sounding more like a large man in work boots than a sickly old woman. I reached for the doorknob, slowly, trepidation was starting to creep in because she shouldn’t have been able to move like that. Not the frail old woman I saw when I first got there. Not the frail old woman who used a walker. But I dismissed those thoughts. Nonsense. It was just an old lady. A sick old lady. A dying sick old lady.

Stairs leading down were old and crudely assembled with a gas pipe handrail fastened to the staircase’s wooden supports. It smelled damp, and almost, almost earthy. Like a bag of lawn clippings left out in the rain. I stepped down slowly, holding onto the railing, I said out loud as I went down, “Mrs. Rooney? Let’s get you back upstairs, you’re not well ma’am.” More out of nervousness than anything, the darkness and silence down into the cellar were all encompassing, and I all really wanted was to fill that void with something. I flicked on the light switch at the base of the stairs, figuring that way when I hit the breaker, they’d come on letting me know all was ok. I snapped the zippo open and lit it, grateful for the orange flame.

The cellar had a little workspace area, tools, a bench, and the like. A pegboard with rusty saws and wrenches. Old furniture and appliances were everywhere, the place was full of junk. Crumbling cardboard boxes lined the walls, what were probably once neat towers were melting and collapsing onto the floor. The arms of old sweaters sticking out like they were trying to escape, HOUSEWARES, NORM’S JUNK, all of them bore a label of some kind. One of them stuck out to me though.

BABY STUFF.

Far as I knew, they didn’t have any children.

In the corner of the cellar was a little clearing where the hot water heater and boiler were. On the floor was a metal square. About, maybe two feet across with a handle on it. Personally, I’m interested in all manner of things in regard to home repair and improvement. It’s just my nature, I’m a tinkerer. Figured it to be a drain of some sort, the cellar did smell moldy and all. The breaker box was on the wall about ten feet down or so from it, almost behind the staircase. I pulled open the little gray door and immediately saw the one that tripped. I hit the switch and the fluorescent lights on the ceiling slowly flickered to life. So, I snapped the zippo closed and slid it back into my pocket.

I called out again, “Mrs. Rooney, please come on out. You can get hurt down here. Let’s get you back upstairs.”

No answer, which was starting to worry me because she was running out of places she could’ve been down there. I started to make my way towards the other side of the staircase where more household junk was piled.

Then the lights cut out.

Right as I was mid-step too, I tripped over some old paint cans and wood varnish and fell right into a cardboard box full of Tupperware. My hands shook as I fumbled with the zippo to get it lit. I called out again, “Mrs. Rooney, that wasn’t very funny, I hope you aren’t down here messing around with me.”

Right as the words came out of my mouth, it hit me. I never turned the AC in her bedroom off, so it must’ve re-tripped the breaker. Relieved somewhat, I slowly made my way back over the way I came. I turned the corner behind the staircase and that’s where I saw her. Winifred stood in front of that little square of metal, the one on the ground with a handle on it by the boiler. Her back was turned to me; she was staring down at on the ground. Swaying slightly, and grasping at her housedress hard, whispering something I couldn’t quite hear.

“There you are, let’s get you upstairs,” I said, stepping forward towards her.

That’s when that little metal square on the ground moved. Something hit it from the other side and then the metal hatch scraped across the cement floor. Some unseen thing in the darkness beneath pushed it. Winifred began to clap her hands excitedly, cheering for whatever was emerging. I froze, overwhelmed by adrenaline and pure fear out of what I was seeing.

The sound of a baby crying came from the hole in the ground. Winifred crouched down towards it, reached her arms down, and then dove inside. Her bare feet kicked at the air briefly before she disappeared downward. I recited Psalm 23 out loud as I walked towards the hole, enunciating every word as if my life depended on it. Standing in front of the hole, I knelt down and held the zippo out. The walls of the hole were brick, almost like the inside of a chimney. All of the brick and mortar were laid perfectly like they were done by an expert craftsman. I wanted to call out but didn’t, afraid of what might answer me. I grabbed an old rusty beer can nearby, one of those pop top ones, and dropped it inside. Never hit the bottom after almost a minute of waiting. But then it sailed back up. Just barely missing hitting me square in the face, instead hitting the ceiling and landing on the ground next to me. I had enough at that point and stood up, ready to get the hell out of there. As I turned around, the baby crying came from the hole again, and I felt something grab at my ankle. A baby, with gray dead flesh and solid white eyes was holding onto my pant leg. I stepped over a pile of old magazines and tried to shake my leg free. Winifred crawled out of the whole, and I finally heard her shout, clear as a bell, “NORM, HE’S HURTING BABY.”

I stumbled and kicked through the boxes and old junk piled high, no longer caring about making a mess; the only thing on my mind was getting the hell out of there. The zippo flittered and danced about as I barreled my way through towards the staircase.

A strong hand, like a vice grip, grabbed me by the back of my neck. Freezing me in my tracks and sending the lighter flying out of my hand. The strong hand threw me to the ground and dragged me through all the debris I knocked over. I clawed at whatever I could, desperately trying to grab a hold of something. Anything that I could in order to stop or at least slow myself down. The thing picked me up by the front of my shirt, the zippo that I dropped had started a fire near the workbench in the corner of the cellar and gave me just enough light to see the face of Winifred’s husband Norman. Distorted and gray like a melted wax version of it. His eyes flickered orange, or maybe more of a red, like a demon. And then he let go.

And then I fell down through the hole in the cellar.

I didn’t really fall though. More like slowly floated or drifted downward, almost like being in a body of water. I landed on a dirty, muddy, floor. Damp with condensation. Torches were on the wall flickering orange light against the wet walls of a cave ahead. About seven feet or eight feet all around. Not very big. Whimpering and moaning came from inside. I looked back up, where I came from, and it was solid black like the night sky. Entering the cave, I tried to recite Psalm 23 again. But I couldn’t. The words wouldn’t form in my head like I had forgotten them even though I had literally just said them in the cellar. A strange emptiness came over me, like I was utterly alone. I walked on in the cave, coming closer and closer to the sounds of crying. The torches casted shadows along the rock wall as I trudged on, toward, toward, well, you’ll see.

I turned a corner and saw someone shackled to the wall. I hurried over to them. They were wearing some type of burlap sack material and completely covered in open sores, festering with pus. Moaning and swaying their head from side to side. I kneeled down closer and before I could ask who they were I recognized Norman again. He looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot red and filled with tears and began wailing. There was a sigil or a marking on the top of his hand. He pointed further into the cave. I walked quickly away and towards the sounds of more cries. My mind was far too overwhelmed by it all to really question or react in any way. It was like being on train with no breaks, careening down a hill. I was on autopilot and being gently guided towards whatever was at the end of this cave. After a few more minutes or maybe hours, time didn’t really seem to function or matter much down there, I came to a clearing. A large round room, surrounded by torches with a being in the center. A massive shirtless old man with a large white beard riding on a mule-like creature. Had to have been ten feet tall. His large belly rested on the back of the mule while his well-muscled arms grasped the reins. Winifred was there as well, next to him. Stomach swollen like she was pregnant and chained to a palm tree. How it grew down there I have no idea.

That same sigil I saw on Norman was in the center of the bearded giant’s chest. It was also on Winifred’s exposed stomach. As soon as I stepped into the room, the giant pointed a large, long nailed finger at me. I backed away slowly. A swarm of moving things on the ground near the giant’s feet formed. As the light hit them, I realized what they were. Babies. Hundreds. Thousands. All crawling quickly towards me with white eyes and chattering teeth. I turned back and ran towards where I had come from, but they were too quick. They grabbed at my ankles, crawled up my back with their long nails digging into my skin. A thousand tiny bites ripped out pieces of my flesh. And then I eventually succumbed to them.

I came too on the cold cement floor in the cellar. An immense heat coming from all around me. The place was on fire. I was laying on the floor staring up at the ceiling where I saw Winifred crawl in through a hole like a spider. I shot upright. If I didn’t hurry, I’d burn alive. The smoke was thick and all around me. I covered my face and darted through the flames, somehow making it out the other side and landing at the foot of the staircase. I ran up the stairs and threw myself through the door, landing on the hardwood floor in the hallway. I stood up, nearly coughing a lung out and looked down at Winifred’s room. I paused for a second. Then ran in. She was there, moaning still, just like I had found her. I’m a Christian man. I believe in salvation. I picked up Winifred and carried her out of the house in my arms and set her in the backseat of my truck.

Then I called 911.

By the time the authorities got there, the place had gone up in flames. The fire starting in the cellar had caused the entirety of the house to go up. I had a bit of explaining to do for the law enforcement folks, what exactly happened and all that. My explanation was the breaker had gone off and I tripped over some kind of hatch or handle on the ground near the boiler and hot water heater. No flashlight in the house so I used a Zippo. Hit my head and when I came to, the place was a towering inferno. Called my wife on the cellphone and told her I was going to be late and that everything was ok. Not to worry. I’d explain it all and fill her in once I got home. Aside from some scorched clothing and nearly burning my eyebrows off, the only injury I had was a pretty good burn on my hand. After getting it dressed by the EMT’s that showed up, I refused the hospital and finally headed home.

What became of Winifred exactly? They carted her off in the back of an ambulance. After that onward to Medicaid funded hospice. Rest assured; I didn’t visit.

I did broach the subject with Pastor Tim; he’d been over to Winifred’s quite a few times. Most out of all of us. Claimed everything was right as a rain with her when he’d gone by. How he never even saw her act out like other members of the church claimed to have seen. Went on about how unchristian it was to gossip about a member of the church and an unwell elderly woman to boot. There was a large bandage over the top of his hand, it caught my eye. When I asked what happened, I got a story about something in the garden or working around the house. I don’t recall exactly. Never brought it up with him again. Or anyone in the church for that matter. It was like Winifred never even existed.

I told the missus every last detail, the truth of what I saw. She listened kindly, didn’t prod much. Then once I was done, we agreed to never speak of it again.

That sounds like Susie pulling up now, speak of the devil. She left for the supermarket and I’m surely certain she’ll need a hand but is far too polite to ask. These arthritis gloves are a godsend, but would you mind carrying the sparkling water down to the cellar? You can place them over by the boiler. That’d be a big help. Once we’re done, you can ask your follow-up questions, I’m sure you’ve got a boatload.

C’mon let’s go give her a hand.

Chester Rogalski is an active member of the HWA and lives in New York with his wife and ancient black cat.