The Liniment and the Ledger

In the autumn of 1982, I volunteered two days to help the St. Agatha’s parish sort donations for their annual rummage sale. The designated sorting site was an old Victorian house on Meridian Road, a place I’d passed daily for thirty years. It had always been a ruin—boarded windows, a sagging porch, and a yard choked with thistles. Over the decades, I’d seen three separate restoration attempts: each would begin with a flurry of scaffolding and paint, then lapse into stillness, leaving the structure half-transformed, like a creature frozen mid-molt. The neighbors murmured about bad luck and worse. The last owner, a reclusive man named Mr. Helling, had taken a full decade to finish the renovations. When he finally finished, he didn’t move in. Instead, he listed it for rent and vanished.

The house stood at the edge of a maple grove, its gingerbread trim freshly painted a deep garnet, but the windows were dark as ink. As I pulled into the gravel drive, I noticed a faint, medicinal smell—camphor and wintergreen—drifting from the open side door. The parish coordinator, a stout woman named Mrs. Albright, waved me inside. The foyer was a maze of cardboard boxes: mothballed coats, chipped ceramic dogs, a tangle of extension cords. My task was to price kitchen gadgets and old books at a folding table in the parlor. The room was lit by a single standing lamp that cast a sickly yellow pool, leaving the corners in shadow.

By mid-morning, I’d priced a set of butter molds and a crate of Reader’s Digests. The air grew heavier, the scent stronger. I assumed it was from a box of old medicine bottles I’d noticed in the hall. But when I opened a tarnished silver locket found in a coat pocket, the smell intensified, and I heard a faint, rhythmic dripping from the floor above. I ignored it, assuming a leaky pipe. But then I noticed the ledger.

It was bound in cracked leather, tucked behind a stack of vinyl records. The pages were filled with neat, looping script, entries dated from the 1920s. It wasn’t a diary, but a record of… something. Each page had a name, a date, and a quantity. The first entry read: ‘Elsie, 1924, 2 pints.’ Then ‘Harlan, 1925, 3 pints.’ The list went on, spanning decades, with names like ‘Cora’ and ‘Miles.’ The last entry was in different, blockier handwriting: ‘Mr. Helling, 1981, 5 pints.’ I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.

I tried to show the ledger to Mrs. Albright, but she waved it away. ‘Just old medical records, dear. Price it fifty cents.’ I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The dripping grew louder, and I felt a presence. I decided to check the upstairs, despite the ‘No Admittance’ sign. The stairs creaked, and the smell of liniment was overpowering. At the top, a hallway lined with six closed doors. The dripping came from the last door, slightly ajar. I pushed it open.

The room was a makeshift infirmary: a metal bed with stained sheets, IV stands, and glass jars filled with amber liquid. In the center, on a rusted tray, sat a syringe and a leather strap. On the wall, a corkboard held faded photographs of people, each with a date and a number scrawled beneath. I recognized some faces from the ledger. The dripping was from a sink overflowing with a viscous, golden fluid. The smell made my eyes water.

Then I heard footsteps below. Not Mrs. Albright’s. Heavier, deliberate. I turned to retreat, but the door slammed shut. There was no handle on the inside. I was trapped.

Through the keyhole, I saw a figure in a white coat approach, carrying a leather bag. It was Mr. Helling, looking gaunt, his eyes sunken. He stopped at the corkboard, traced a finger down the list, and added a new entry: ‘Volunteer, 1982.’ He smiled, revealing brown teeth, and then he turned to the door. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll make you comfortable.’ I backed into the corner, my heart pounding. The syrup on the floor seemed to writhe, and I realized with horror that it wasn’t medicine—it was preserved blood, mixed with something to keep it liquid. And I was to be the next donation.

I didn’t wait. I threw a glass jar at the window, but it was barred. I searched for anything sharp. In a drawer, I found a rusted scalpel. As the lock clicked, I pressed myself against the wall, scalpel raised. The door swung open, and Mr. Helling stepped in. But he didn’t see me—his eyes were fixed on the tray. That gave me a second. I lunged, not at him, but at the door, and sprinted down the hall. Behind me, he howled in rage.

I hurtled down the stairs, knocking over a stack of boxes. Mrs. Albright screamed. I shouted, ‘Get out! He’s upstairs!’ We fled to the parking lot, where I collapsed. The police later found Mr. Helling dead in that room, an empty syringe in his arm. They ruled it a suicide. But the ledger was never found, and the house stood empty again, its windows dark. I still smell wintergreen sometimes, in the most ordinary places, and I know he’s not done. The list goes on, and somewhere, there’s a page with my name.