The Haunting of Wake Field: Part One (complete)

When my parents died, I found out I was adopted. It didn’t bother me none - just one of those weird family facts. My parents were my parents, end of story. Or should be end of story. Hidden among my parents’ belongings, I found a great deal of paperwork I had never seen before, including my adoption papers. There was also a set of letters from a man going by Doctor Hidgens. There was a lot of correspondence between my parents and this Doctor Hidgens, and most of it was him sending deeds and documents bearing my name. Apparently, I own a great deal of property in the town of Wakefield. 

The town is a few days’ travel by train. I tried to contact this Doctor Hidgens, but from the looks of things, he died a long time ago. I have been scouring his letters to my parents, and while he says a lot of things, he gives nothing away. He doesn’t state who my birth parents were, only that my mother was a troubled creature. Those words perturbed me: troubled creature. It made me wonder if my first home was Bedlam, or worse. There is no mention of who my father is, and for all I know, he could be anybody from Zeus to Satan. 

Once at my stop, I go up to the information desk at the station. I set my bags aside, and the lady sitting there smiles up at me. Her lipstick is such a vivid shade of red that I find it a bit unnerving. Perhaps I’m just not keeping up with the fashion.

“Can I help you?” she asks me.

“Yes, I need directions, possibly a car, to the town of Wakefield.”

As I say this, a perturbed look washes over the woman’s face. Her smile fades, and even the color of her lipstick dulls. Her eyes do that dance that eyes do when they’re looking for someone else to take on a burden. “Wakefield?” She tries to feign the same courteous energy as before. “Now, why would you ever want to go there?”

I’m a bit taken aback by her body language and manner, especially her fake smile. “It’s a very long story, most of it personal,” I say with a frustrated sigh. “I just need to know how to get there. That’s all. I also need a car if it’s farther out than I can walk.”

The woman clicks her tongue, continuing to force that perturbing smile. “Wakefield ain’t exactly hospitable,” she says with a shake of her head. “Not many people go there unless they absolutely have to.”

“Well,” I huff with a tilt of my head, “I absolutely have to.” I give the young woman a cutting glare. “So please, if you don’t mind, where is Wakefield?”

The woman’s smile fades into a nervous line. She sits back down behind the desk and scribbles directions onto a piece of paper, which she hands up to me. “That place has always given me the heebie-jeebies,” she laughs anxiously. 

I look over the directions on the paper, and fold it in half. 

“My parents used to make me go there every summer because it was educational.” She shudders. “Just be careful there,” she warns me. “Place ain’t the same as it was.”

I furrow my brow at her. “What on earth do you mean?”

The woman glances around then leans over the desk. “I don’t know you, nor do I know what business you have going there, but if at all possible,” her voice lowers to an urgent whisper. “If you fear God, then do not go there. Get back on the train and forget you ever heard about Wakefield.”

“Your last name wouldn’t happen to be Harbinger, would it?” I sniff at her as I pick up my bags. “I’ll find another way to get a car,” I grumble as I walk away from her.

Outside, I am lucky enough to see there are taxis idling along the sidewalk. I get into the first one and, once inside, I notice the man in the driver’s seat looks rather gruff.

“Where to?” he asks.

“Wakefield, please,” I sigh.

“Get out,” the man snarls.

I scoff. “Excuse me?”

The man’s big arm wraps around the back of the seat as he angles himself to look back at me. “Get out,” he repeats, with much more violence in his tone.

I look him over in shock. “Why?”

“Because I said so. Get out of my cab, now.” He flips open his glove compartment to flash me his gun, and I quickly exit his taxi.

I stand there, flabbergasted and perplexed. Why are these people having such an adverse reaction to a town? I try another cab, but when I mention Wakefield, again I am asked to leave. I’m at a loss for what to do. I could just start walking, but that would take me hours.

“Excuse me,” a man approaches me. “I heard you mention that you are trying to get to Wakefield.”

“Are you going to warn me to not go there, too?” I snap at him. “Or are you going to yell at me?” I look him over with a sneer on my face. “Perhaps while you’re overhearing people, you can tell me why people are so opposed to the place.”

“I live near Wakefield, and I can take you there. Maybe I can fill you in on some secrets while you complain.” The man offers his gloved hand to me. “Charles Hidgens, at your service.”

I reluctantly take his hand. “Hidgens?” I ask. “As in the doctor?”

Charles laughs, clutching his stomach as he does. “That would be my father,” he says with a wag of his finger. “You know him?”

“It’s a-” I shake my head. “It’s a long story, Charles. One I’m not too comfortable with at the moment.”

“Understandable, most things involving Wakefield aren’t too comfortable,” he says with an oddly bright smile. “Come with me, I’ll get you where you need to go.” He leads me off to his car.

“So,” he starts as he opens my door, “is there somewhere specific you need to go in Wakefield?”

“The courthouse,” I answer. 

Charles whistles. “Might be hard to do.”

I glare at him as he gets behind the driver’s wheel. “How so?”

“There isn’t one,” he says with a shrug.

As we drive away from the train station, I watch the roads. They suddenly go from pavement to dirt as he makes a sharp turn. “Then where am I supposed to go?” I ask him. “I need to go to the courthouse to have these papers looked at.”

“There’s Ms. Hasch at the library,” he says. “She’ll be able to help you. She’s sort of the one who takes care of everything in Wakefield these days.”

I shake my head. “Why are people acting like Wakefield is some sort of disease?” I ask. “Everyone I’ve talked to here seems to think I’m better off leaving than going anywhere near it.”

“Oh, you know,” Charles chuckles. “History and all that.”

“I know nothing of it. You can’t just remain vague and expect me to accept the face value of it,” I sneer at him.

Charles’ smile fades slightly, and he glances at me. “Well then, err-” He clears his throat. “You see, Wakefield used to be well-known for its candles.”

“Candles?” I scoff. “Can a town be well-known for such a thing?”

Charles chuckles. “They perfected them - specifically, a way to mass-produce them without losing quality. They held tours, taught classes, and hired some of the world’s best artists to make things from their wax.”

“Sounds conceited,” I grumble.

“Innovative, if you ask me. The Wakemans who owned the factory were looking to see what else candle wax could do. Trying to double their sales, earn more money.”

“Greed, then,” I sigh under my breath.

“The Wakeman candle factory was the jewel of the place,” Charles sighs.

I shake my head. “Then what happened to it?”

“Shut down. Not enough business. Lost its tourist trap appeal. You name it,” he says, his eyes focused on the old dirt road ahead. 

“That still doesn’t answer my question about why people seem horrified of the place,” I roll my eyes. “Afraid of straight answers?”

Charles laughs. “No, just trying to figure out how to tell you in a way that doesn’t come across as too gory.”

I flinch at the word. “Gory?”

Charles takes in a long breath before sighing. “The Wakeman family may have been blessed in business, but not much else. Pretty much everyone associated with that name came to a fate less than kind. The poor Wakemans,” he whispers with a shake of his head. “They just dropped like flies.”

I open my mouth to ask further questions, but the tree-covered roadside opens up, revealing a sign that once said “Welcome to Wakefield’. Now the words are defaced with the savagely etched-in phrase “Burn in Hell”.

“My god,” I gasp in horror.

“You got one?” Charles says in a teasing tone. 

I stare at him in shock. “Why do you keep such a thing?”

“Oh, a lot of reasons. Money, mainly.” Charles gives a small shrug. “Town doesn’t have much, and there are things more important than a sign.”

“But that is horrid!” I balk.

“A lot of things are,” Charles scoffs. We come onto pavement again and we drive through a series of abandoned buildings. We pass by a church where a man stands sweeping up the stairs. Down the road from it, there is a brick building with an iron plaque fixed to it that reads ‘library’.

Charles pulls up to the front and, as I get out, I take the file of documents with me. Inside, the shelves are barren. Very few books grace them, and most have potted plants lining them. At the front desk is a woman who is impossible to distinguish as old or young. Where the light touches her, she has a youthful appearance, but in shadow, her skin seems haggard and drooping. I excuse it as a trick of the eye.

“Good afternoon,” she says brightly. “Wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon, Charles.” She tilts her head to the side. “And who is this you’ve brought with you?”

Charles glances at me. “Found them wandering the train station, they’ve been trying to get here to Wakefield.”

Ms. Hasch adjusts her glasses slightly. “Not many people try,” she says softly. “What brings you here?”

I give Charles a look, wishing he wasn’t here, and I set the papers down before her. “I found these among my parents’ belongings. They kept them hidden, but everything on these papers has my name attached to it, and not theirs.”

Ms. Hasch opens the file and starts poring over the papers. “These are deeds,” she says in awe. Her expression becomes pinched as she hurriedly glances over each document. “To the downtown buildings, the factory-” She stops suddenly at one page. “The house.”

Charles snaps to attention, a stunned look on his face.

I furrow my brow at her. “Yes. That’s why I am here. I want to see these places, make sure these documents are on the up and up.”

Ms. Hasch smoothes her fingers over the signature at the bottom of the page. “My god,” she whispers. “Magnus.”

Charles takes a step closer to me. “How did you get these? How did your parents-” He stops, and his shoulders slouch. “Did my dad have something to do with this?”

“He gave these to my parents,” I tell him reluctantly. “I just assumed all this was his doing.”

“He must have tried using you to let Wakefield fall to ruin,” Ms. Hasch whispers. “No paper trail, no documents, nothing. And Wakefield would have just gone to the state and been sold away.” She looks up at me. “What do you plan to do with all this?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I scoff. “I don’t even know what all of these places are or if they’re even worth anything. I never knew I even had them!”

Charles leans over the counter, looking at the papers Ms. Hasch has spread out. “They’re signed by him,” he murmurs. His eyes are wide and his jaw is slack.

“Who?” I growl. 

“Magnus Wakeman,” Charles says softly. “His brother, Frederick, was the one who opened the factory and made this town what it was. Magnus was the… black sheep brother that Frederick took in and enlisted to help with everything.”

“I’m guessing that it didn’t go all that well,” I murmur.

“Depends on how you look at things,” Ms. Hasch replies. She places the documents back into the file and closes it. “The Wakemans are known for their fortune, but their luck was another matter.”

“I can tell them,” Charles says.

Ms. Hasch walks out from around the counter. “No. I should do it. You have a way of leaving things out.” She approaches me and, for a moment, she looks old again. “Follow me,” she says. “I know the history of this town better than anyone.”

She takes me back through the aisles of half empty shelves. In the rear of the library, there is a dark room with a display case in the middle. Inside the display case, I can see a few artifacts: a locket, a pocket watch, an old dinner plate, a handful of candles, and a birth certificate. On top of the case, there is a book.

Ms. Hasch turns on a light. As it flickers to life, I see a man standing against the wall. I let out a scream, and Ms. Hasch grabs me and tries to calm me down. 

“It’s alright! It’s alright,” she soothes. “Look, look,” she points at the man and his unwavering stare. His glass blue eyes peer out into nothing, wide open. His rosy cheeks are painted too dark, and his smile is oddly lopsided. His skin looks soft, but there is a strange sheen to it that looks unnatural.

“A mannequin?” I balk.

“No, no!” Ms. Hasch laughs. “It’s Frederick Wakeman. Or, well, a wax figure of him,” she chuckles with a smile as she gazes up at him. “His brother had him made. In fact, he was the first in a long series of wax figures Magnus had commissioned. The museum helped rejuvenate the town for a while.”

The figure unnerves me. Its unblinking, haunting gaze makes me want to cut and run from all of this.

Ms. Hasch opens the book. “Frederick and his wife, Emelia, came here when the construction of the factory started. Back then, this place was only known for its lumber mill and moonshine. He and Emelia built a house, intending to raise their family here and use the candle factory to boost this town. Back then, it was known as Potterfield.” She turns the page to show me a photograph of the living Frederick, and a woman, standing before the frame of a house.

“Emelia became pregnant while the house was being built. But one day while visiting the site, she suffered a horrible fall from the second floor. She lost the baby.” Ms. Hasch turns the page again. “The second pregnancy occured when the house was complete. She gave birth in the home, but something was wrong with the child. Frederick blamed it on the fall. The child’s head was concave, or so the medical records stated. Poor thing didn’t last a month.” 

She turns the page to show off the factory. “The candle factory, at least, was a success. It provided so well for the town that they renamed it from Potterfield to Wakefield. Frederick, though, did not savor the success of his factory. Nearly every child conceived by Emelia either never made it to birth, or died shortly after.”

I glance back towards the wax figure of Frederick, and my guts churn. “How many did she have?” I ask cautiously.

“Fifteen,” Ms. Hasch sighs, “that we know of.” She clicks her tongue. “Only one ever survived to adulthood.” She looks at me. “It was because of all these deaths of his children that Frederick sunk into depression, so he called his brother, Magnus, to come help him run the company. But Magnus wasn’t interested in helping him. The only thing on his mind was the money. So he took advantage of his brother’s health and started implementing changes to the factory. He opened up tours, he held classes, and he started employing researchers to discover ways to use the wax beyond candles.” 

Ms. Hasch motions towards the wax figure of Frederick. “He discovered a fondness for these creations, and he opened up a museum of them in his home.”

“His home,” I murmur. “Are they still there?”

Ms. Hasch nods. “I would assume. Magnus vanished one day, no one knows where. He only communicated with Charles’ father at the end. Well, him and the Reverend.”

“Is that-” I hesitate. “Is his house the one I own?”

“Of course,” Ms. Hasch says with a smile. She then turns back to the book, opening it on the image of a beautiful girl. “This is Sophia Wakeman,” she says. “The only child of Frederick and Emelia to survive. It was thanks to her that Frederick started to come out of his depression. He began teaching Sophia how to run the business when she got older.”

“And Magnus?” I ask hesitantly. 

“He remained,” Ms. Hasch’s tone shifts. “He continued with his practices and his get-rich-quick schemes, but with Frederick in higher spirits and Sophia posing a threat, he took a step back and waited.” She turns the page again to show a graveyard. “After Sophia was born, Frederick and Emelia kept trying, but every pregnancy resulted in failure. They didn’t have another miscarriage, but each baby died young, never making it past a year. As such, Frederick’s depression returned.” She looks up at me. “Emelia died during childbirth, and the last baby she had was horribly deformed. Poor Frederick couldn’t take it, and he hanged himself in the attic. Everything was left to Magnus until Sophia came of age. Until then, he became her guardian.”

The next page of the book is a photo of Magnus and Sophia standing next to each other at the factory’s doors. His hand is around her waist, and it looks like his fingers are digging in. Sophia’s expression is stern and haunting, but she is strikingly beautiful.

“What happened to her?” I whisper. “If Magnus still had control of everything when he vanished, what happened to Sophia?”

Ms. Hasch closes the book. “Many things,” she whispers. “But I don’t wish to speak ill of the poor creature.”

I close my mouth and look over the artifacts in the case. “That still doesn’t tell me why people are so afraid of Wakefield.” I look at her, expecting some sort of reaction. “Why has everyone told me to stay away from this place?”

“Every town has its ghost stories,” Ms. Hasch murmurs. “People used to say Magnus’ wax creations were made from the dead.”

I quickly look at Frederick, then back at her.

“Others say Magnus was a murderer, and hid the bodies inside the wax figures. Sophia was claimed to be a witch, and people said she would steal babies similar to her dead siblings.” Ms. Hasch shrugs. “Too many stories weave together and blanket a place. Once the factory shut down, that was all that was left.”

She turns off the light, and Frederick vanishes back into the shadows.

“By the way,” she asks me as we walk away, “were there any keys amongst all those documents?”

“There was,” I say with a nod. I reach into my pocket, pulling out an old iron key. “This was the only one.”

Ms. Hasch takes it and looks it over. “I believe this is the one.” she murmurs. “The key to the house was lost long ago. This should get you in. Charles!” She calls out as we return to the front desk. “Charles! Are you still here?”

“Should I be?” Charles laughs.

“Can you take us up to the Wakefield Mansion, please?” Ms. Hasch says. “I have a feeling we’ll need the help getting in.”

There is a strange look on Charles’ face. He nods slowly. “Who would I be to say no?” He glances at me, then nods again. “Yes, of course. I’m happy to help. It will be my first time going there.”

The Wakeman Mansion stands at the top of a steep hill. The front gates are boarded up, and it takes Charles and I some effort to pry them loose before we can enter. The front door is also boarded up, but the planks have rotted, and crumble away as we touch them. I take the key and slip it into the lock. It won’t turn. I give it a hard yank, and the door slowly squeaks open.

“It’s cold,” I whisper as a breeze floats from inside.

“Your home.” Charles clears his throat. “You should have the honor of going in first.” He steps aside, holding the door.

I frown at him, and carefully push the door open further. Inside, my fingers feel like they are freezing off. As I take the first step, I look around into the darkness. Charles walks in behind me, and suddenly the door slams shut. I nearly leap out of my skin.

“Must have been the wind,” Charles chuckles. “My father told me to never come here. This is a first for me.”

I can’t see anything in the dark but, all at once, something falls on top of me. I scream. I struggle and thrash against it, feeling arms and legs. I scream harder, more panicked. It’s cold and lifeless, oh god, it’s a dead body!

Charles gets the door open, and light pours in over me. I kick and scramble, pushing the body away from me as Charles helps me up off the ground. “It’s dead!” I scream. “It’s dead! It’s dead! It’s-”

“Wax,” Charles replies calmly.

I look down, seeing the mangled figure on the ground. The limbs are akimbo and the head is hanging on by wire. I kick it so the head rolls over, and the face is completely blank.

“You alright?” Charles asks.

“No!” I scoff. “Where did that thing even come from?” I spit. 

Charles looks up and above us. Circling the wall beneath the ceiling, there is a shelf, and on that shelf is nothing but wax figures. 

“Oh god,” I shudder. “What sort of monster would have this?”

“Magnus Wakeman,” Charles says with a sigh.  He’s knelt down by the wax figure. “No doubt. Him or the girl.”

I glance down at him. “Sophia?”

“The Witch of Wakefield,” he murmurs. He then stands up and goes to the wall beside the door. He presses a button, and the lights begin to flicker on. “Oh, wonderful!”

“Yes, that’s a word,” I grumble.

“Welcome to your home,” Charles chuckles. “Do you plan on staying?”

I turn and shoot him a vicious look. “Here?” I scoff. “I don’t even know if this place is habitable.” I look at the ring of life-sized wax figures above us. “Just because of this, I would rather burn it down than give it a chance.”

Charles sighs. “Well, you should try. Wax figures can be sold. Maybe once they’re out of here, you’ll want to stay.”

I walk down a hallway, which ends in a big red door. “I have no plans on staying here,” I scoff. “I have no connections here. No family. No friends. The only thing connecting me to this place is a piece of paper with my name on it.” I open up the red door to find a room full of people around a dinner table.

“Sorry for interrupting,” Charles laughs.

“This is ghastly,” I whisper. “Who would ever think that this was something worth looking at?” 

Charles walks in and leans over the shoulder of one of the figures at the table. “Hi Dad,” he says. “Good to see you again.”

“What?” I grimace.

Charles pats the shoulders of the dusty figure. “Every single figure you’ll find here is modeled after someone who actually lived in Wakefield.” He turns the chair so that the wax man sitting in it faces me. “This is Doctor Hidgens, the one who brought you here.”

His face is so covered in dust and spiderwebs, I can’t quite make it out. I grimace at Charles. “Is this whole place like this?” I whisper.

“Third floor might be clear of them,” he sighs. “But that’s where the Witch lived.”