All good things must come to an end....


House of Arches
Little is known about the man who built the house. George Wampler’s first recorded visit to Eureka Springs occurred in 1904. At first he seemed merely another seasonal visitor, come to “take the waters” of the springs that gave the town its name. The annual visits culminated in 1908 in the purchase of land and the beginning of a house.

If Wampler seemed eccentric, it was not as though Eureka Springs had not already seen its share of eccentrics. It is in many ways an eccentric town—a place of steep, tortuous streets of a sort more often associated with the Old World than with the New; of houses of many shapes, sizes, and colors clinging to vertiginous slopes; of hidden footpaths and quaint pedestrian bridges; a town where an unaccompanied stranger can become hopelessly lost within a few blocks’ strolling.

But the house that Wampler built at the end of a hollow on the outskirts of town was something very different from even what passed for the norm in Eureka Springs. Its houses tend toward the cheerful, with their Victorian gingerbread and often bright colors. The Wampler house was an edifice of dark stone that might, in a dim light, be taken for a kind of diseased outcropping of the hollow’s slopes. Its doors were few and solid; its windows tiny and covered by shutters of dark wood. Around two sides were arches of a curious design, pointed like Gothic arches but without the Gothic’s grace and symmetry. No two of them were exactly alike in shape or size.

The few who ever saw the house’s interior found it equally singular. None of its small, dark rooms was on exactly the same level. Its walls nowhere joined at right angles. At first the visitor might suppose the house the work of some incompetent craftsman. On further inspection it became apparent that the crazy angles and dimensions were deliberate, the product of careful planning.

A self-made businessman from Virginia who had sold out and now lived modestly upon his accumulated fortune, Wampler had little to do with his neighbors. He received periodic visits from friends or associates from out of town who stayed at his house and had no dealings with anybody else in Eureka Springs. Though Wampler was civil enough when compelled to deal with his fellow citizens, and appears bland and unexceptionable in his one known surviving photographic portrait, his neighbors found his presence, and that of his dwelling and visitors, strangely unsettling. There was, by general agreement, something “off” about Wampler, a hint of the uncanny.

In December of 1916 Wampler’s neighbors realized that none of them had seen him in quite some time. The last agreed-upon sighting of him had occurred in early November, when he had gone to a local merchant to transact routine business. The neighbors became sufficiently alarmed to summon the local authorities. With some difficulty they forced an entry. The house was found in a state of great disorder, with furniture smashed and the resident’s modest possessions scattered and wasted. Among the wreckage was found the remains of a substantial amount of cash. Of George Wampler himself there was no trace. Nor was any trace subsequently found.

Next-of-kin were, with some difficulty, located. They stated that they wished nothing to do with any property belonging to their kinsman. It was evident that he had been for some time estranged from them. The unclaimed property ultimately reverted to the city.

For decades the Wampler house stood deserted at the end of the hollow. Known locally as “the Arch House,” it found neither buyer nor tenant. Curiosity seekers came often to view its odd exterior. On occasion visitors prevailed upon local officials to grant admittance so that they might view the now-bare interior’s architectural oddities. These parties always visited during the daytime. It was rumored that one did not need too venture to near the house at night.

In the autumn of 1936 two local youths vanished. Searchers eventually thought to check the Arch House, after recalling that the youths had been overheard expressing interest in visiting the house at night. They found signs of forced entry through one of the shuttered windows. Within the house itself they found no trace of the missing boys. None was ever found anywhere. Inevitably legend soon credited malign forces within the Arch House with the disappearance. The stories became much embroidered in the years that followed.

In the 1960s Fayetteville-born journalist Marvin Tucker developed an interest in the Arch House. Tucker had long been fascinated by the occult. It seemed to him that the descriptions he had heard about the strangely-angled walls and corners of the Arch House’s interior were oddly suggestive of similar anomalies found in certain aged dwellings still standing in New England. Contacts with surviving relatives of George Wampler confirmed that Wampler had been an occultist of some distinction. Wampler family tradition had it that he had relocated to Eureka Springs in the belief that the town’s distinctive geology and pattern of settlement made it uncommonly well suited for his probings into the unseen world.

Tucker became determined to gain access to the Arch House. He spent most of the year 1966 persuading the Arkansas Gazette in Little Rock to support his efforts to investigate the house in preparation for an historical feature article. Eventually he succeeded in persuading the local authorities in Eureka Springs to permit him to spend a night in the Arch House.

At nine in the evening of November 4, 1966, Tucker entered the Arch House, equipped with a lantern, two flashlights, a supply of hot coffee, and a notebook. The law enforcement officer who unlocked the door for him wished him a good night. Tucker began observing and taking notes.

9:35. Have completed my first inspection of the house for the evening. In the dark the place looks even more uncanny than it did during my previous inspection by daylight. No question about it—the strange angles definitely resemble those in the “Witch House” in Massachusetts. Wampler clearly had the same sorts of ideas regarding the use of alien systems of geometry as a gateway to other worlds as the “witches” of colonial Massachusetts.

10:05. Have completed half an hour’s stationary watch in the downstairs room. Nothing to report. Certainly a spooky place. The shadows will get to you if you let them.

10:35. Still nothing to report. Distracting myself by examining the details of the walls and flooring. Careful, sturdy craftsmanship. Half a century vacant, and the place is still as solid as ever! No wonder some locals say they believe it will stand ‘til Doomsday.

11:05. Have relocated to the kitchen after my latest half-hourly walkthrough. Maybe it will supply different impressions.

11:35. Still nothing new. Have relocated again. Tedious, but occult research is often like that.

12:05. The Witching Hour! Thought I heard a voice in the distance a few minutes ago. Sounded like a young man’s voice. Local youths trying to gaslight me, I suppose.

12:35. Have heard the voices a couple more times. Two of them, both youths. Can’t make out what they’re saying. Doesn’t sound like they’re outside, though. There’s a kind of echo to them. Almost as if they’re coming through some kind of tunnel.

1:05. Now in the upstairs room up under the eaves, the one with the strangest geometry. Still hearing voices now and then. Also thought I heard a snatch of…yes, there it goes again! Some kind of chanting, in a deeper voice. Not my imagination. I’m pretty sure at this point it’s not coming from outside. Something is definitely going on here.

1:15. Something very weird just happened. I was staring at the corner by the chimney, and suddenly it seemed that I could see beyond it. Beyond into a kind of vast, dark gulf. Heard a noise that’s hard to describe. A kind of scrabbling or animal movement. Started to get very worried. And then the vision vanished. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me. I don’t think that’s it.

1:37. Saw the walls dissolve again. I saw a kind of vast, barren plain, dark, illuminated only by the glare of a sky full of red stars. Saw figures moving in the distance. Shadowy forms. Could see that they were on two legs, and that’s about it. But got the definite impression they were not human. Thought I heard a kind of piping or whistling sound in the distance. Then the scene vanished. Getting worried about these visions. I’ve double-checked to make sure I can get out of here in a hurry if things get any worse.

2:02. Another vision, like previous. Figures getting closer. Piping or whistling louder. Then the scene vanished again. Ready to call it quits. I’ve seen enough!

2:20. Starting to think I’m losing my mind. Spent the past fifteen minutes going in and out of doors. Up and down stairs. Can’t find the front entrance! Come on, this house isn’t that big!

2:32. Still can’t find the exit. Keep hearing things. Chanting. Boys screaming. That infernal piping. It keeps getting louder and


This was the final entry in Marvin Tucker’s notebook. It was found the next morning in an upstairs room, along with his lantern, lights, and coffee flask. Of Tucker himself there was no trace.

In 1973 the Arch House burned in a fire of mysterious origin. Local officials made little effort to investigate. The Arch House’s ruins still stand today in their dark hollow. Two or three arches can still be discerned amid the fallen stones. It is still said to be a site best avoided after dark.

We all thought Jamie’s story was plenty eerie, although some of us said we’d more or less seen that ending coming. “Is there really a place like that in Eureka Springs?” Amy asked. “I’ve been there, and I don’t remember hearing about it.”

“I know where Jamie got the inspiration from,” said Tyler. “There’s an odd-looking little stone house outside Mena that sounds a lot like the one in the story.”

“You got me!” Jamie said. “I transplanted the house near Mena to Eureka Springs. Artistic license, don’t you know? I’ve been inside the real house. It’s really not creepy. It’s kind of cute.”

Sara checked the time. “Almost midnight! Has anybody got another story?”

Lee had one.

The Vanishing Rembrandt
She wasn’t really alone in the building. At a minimum there was always a security guard on duty somewhere. There were also often others on the staff lingering after closing time around the staff offices. None of that made the galleries feel any less deserted and lonely.

Rachel had initially welcomed the knowledge that one of her responsibilities as an intern at the Arts Center would be conducting after-hours inspections of the galleries on two evenings a week. She had loved the thought of having the display areas all to herself for a bit. She had not anticipated how unsettling the experience of being there all alone in the evening would prove.

She supposed it had to do with the sheer loneliness of the dimly-lit spaces. She felt so very isolated! The spaces were also oddly quiet. She could hear nothing there but her own soft footsteps, and the occasional hum or whirr of the building’s never-resting automatic utility systems. Too, she had always in the back of her mind that slight dread at the prospect of crossing the deserted parking lot when it came time to go out to her car.

After the first few weeks the unsettled feeling had faded. Rachel had found that it helped to concentrate on her duties. She had to run a careful eye around each gallery and the works currently on display there, checking to see whether there were any dead light bulbs, or any out of kilter elements, or (Heaven forbid!) any signs of actual damage to items on exhibit. Even the smallest anomalies had to be reported so that they could be dealt with as swiftly as possible to keep the exhibits in good shape. Between the work itself and simply having time to grow accustomed to the environment, Rachel had largely lost her fear of the galleries after hours.

Then that exhibit of Dutch master paintings had arrived. Rachel had initially been excited about that as well. All her life she had lived far, far from any major museum-visiting opportunities. Indeed, she had only once thus far had the chance to see any of the Old Masters. She still had fond memories of that glorious afternoon she had spent in the National Gallery in Washington a few years earlier.

The Arts Center was a nice enough place, but it was a minor-league regional art museum in a small state capital. It lacked the fabulously wealthy donors and endowments that it took to build a major collection of master artists. Just getting to host this loaner exhibit of minor works by obscure Dutch Renaissance artists was something of a coup for the Center.

The exhibit came from a larger regional museum in the Midwest. Its core collection had been built by some millionaire industrialist who had sent his agents to Europe in the 1890s to bring back a selection of Old Masters. He had even managed to bag a Rembrandt.

Or thought he had, at least. Like most master painters of his day, Rembrandt had had students and admirers who imitated his style. Over the centuries overenthusiastic, or downright unscrupulous, collectors and dealers had come to put Rembrandt’s name on some of these works by other artists. Eventually the proliferation of “Rembrandts” had gotten so out of hand that the Dutch government’s Rembrandt Research Project had begun going around minutely examining every claimed Rembrandt. Many had had the master’s name removed from them. The long-deceased industrialists’ painting had been among these “vanishing Rembrandts.” Now it was credited merely to a “School of Rembrandt.”

The painting was entitled “Deserted Tower.” It showed an old, semi-ruined stone watchtower, standing on a slight rise. The ruin had trees and other vegetation all around it. The scene was set beneath a late evening sky, divided almost evenly between the last rays of the setting sun and the encroaching night. A shadowy, solitary figure stood beside the tower.

Something about the scene had disturbed Rachel the moment she first laid eyes on it as she was helping to set up the exhibit. She couldn’t understand why. It was admittedly a rather gloomy scene. That was no reason why it should make her so uneasy. There was no question that it did. In the week and half since the exhibit’s set-up Rachel had found herself hesitating whenever she had to walk by it.

She paused at the entrance to the gallery where the visiting paintings were on display. Honestly, this was ridiculous! She actually felt afraid to go inside! Rachel took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway.

She made her inspection as swiftly as she reasonably could. Everything looked in order. The genre scenes of taverns and household interiors, the portraits, the subdued religious scenes and landscapes were all as they had been when last she’d seen them.

She saved “Deserted Tower” for last. When she finally could avoid looking at it no longer, she heard herself gasp. The solitary figure that had stood next to the ruined tower was gone!

Rachel blinked and looked again. There was definitely no figure in the picture. This made no sense. She knew there had been a figure there! She and others on the staff had talked about it among themselves. They had wondered who it was supposed to be. Perhaps it had not been anybody, really, but just a figure that “Rembrandt” had added for scale. She leaned closer to the painting and stared at the spot where the figure should have been. The surface was just as darkened and cracked with age there as elsewhere.

As she puzzled over the painting, a sound caught Rachel’s ear. It wasn’t the buzzing of a light fixture, or the soft rush of air through the HVAC vents. It was…the singing of birds?

She turned her head to see if she could see the birds. She couldn’t. What she could see, all around her, were trees and other vegetation. Above her spread a darkening evening sky.

Rachel began to feel herself panicking. Was she losing her mind? She had to get out of here! But she was already outside! How could that be possible?

Turning, she saw a doorway only a few paces away. Without thinking she ran through it. The surroundings on the other side were no more familiar to her. She was surrounded by walls, dimly lit by fading rays of sun coming through gaps in the roof. It was a wooden roof. The walls were all made of stone.

Then Rachel glanced down at her feet. A man lay on the floor, among bits of rotting timber and crumbling stone. She could make out little detail of his body or the dark clothing that he wore. The clothes were strange. There was something archaic about them.

As her eyes became a bit more accustomed to the gloom, she saw that the man was sprawled upon his back in an unnaturally awkward pose. He was staring up at her, eyes open but unmoving. On his chest was a large splotch. A stain…..

Rachel covered her mouth with her hand. She felt as if she was about to get sick. All she could think of now was getting away. She turned and stumbled back through the doorway.

And found herself in the next gallery. The one with the all the drawings and watercolors by artist Paul Signac. The one right next to the gallery with the old Dutch paintings.

Slowly she turned, afraid of what she would see. Directly behind her was the doorway to the gallery that she had just exited. It was right where it should be. She could see inside it.

She turned her head. She didn’t dare catch another glimpse of the “Deserted Tower.” Her inspection was through for the evening!

The next day at work Rachel talked her supervisor into going with her to the loaner exhibit’s gallery. She made some excuse about seeing something a little “off” in the room the evening before. The boss saw nothing at all out of place. Neither did Rachel. The mysterious figure was back in the painting of the “Deserted Tower.” Rachel hoped it would stay there. Something told her that it was nobody she would ever care to meet.

“Perfect timing, Lee!” Amy said. “You finished practically right at midnight!”

“It was a good midnight tale,” I added.

“Thanks.”

Tyler beamed. “All right, we made it to midnight! Have we got any more stories to tell? Or is it time to break it up?”

He had no sooner said the words “break it up” when something did break up, sure enough. Suddenly we heard this crash, and a sound of breaking glass, and felt a blast of cold, wet air. Amy and Lee screamed. I’m pretty sure I did too.

All our eyes went to the living room window. The glass had been almost completely shattered out of it. And on the windowsill perched the biggest owl I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen that many, to be honest, but this one was definitely huge. It glared at us with those gigantic owlish eyes.

“Whoa!” said Tyler. “That thing like to scared me half to death!”

Clay released the death grip he had clamped down on my ankle and laughed nervously. “How’s that for a coincidence? We get ourselves all worked up telling weird tales, and then this bird accidentally flies through the window.”

The owl continued to stare at us. We couldn’t take our eyes off of it. It occurred to me that there was something unnatural about this. Surely even a big bird like that couldn’t have just shattered a glass window! And if it did, it the poor thing should have been lying on the floor in a bloody mess….

No sooner had I had that thought when we heard the voice. It came straight from the owl, but it was human. It was a voice I’d heard before.

“The owl is not what it seems!” the voice cried. “It’s a manifestation of my power. You thought you were so smart, didn’t you April? You thought you’d taken everything away from me. Fixed it so that I’d never be able to do anything cool again.

“Well you were wrong! It’s taken me five years of hard work, but I’ve found new spells and sources of power. Things even I’d never dreamed of being able to do before. I’m a lot more powerful than I was. In spite of your betrayal of my trust!

“I told you back then that you were on my list. On the top of it now, as a matter of fact. Now it’s time I started getting even. You’re just going to be the first.”

I was trembling with terror now. Somehow I found my voice. “What…what are you going to do to me?”

In reply I heard this ugly laugh. “Nothing—for now! I’m going to let you go home, and get snug in your bed, and go to sleep—if you still can!—with the knowledge that I’m after you. The knowledge that one day, and it won’t be too long, your time is coming. And you can’t do a thing about it!”

With that the owl flitted away in a flurry of flapping wings. We all stared at the empty window.

Clay had his hand around my ankle again. “Uh, April?” he said. “That story you told a while ago? About your ex-friend the witch?”

“It’s true,” I said, in what must have sounded like a very small and frightened voice. “The whole story about Kelli and her magic and my trying to stop her from doing it anymore. It was all true!”

“Soooo, let me get this straight, Ape,” said Lee. “A few years back, when you were still in high school, you got a witch really mad at you. And now you have a witch that can turn into an owl or something after you?”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“Well that’s scary,” Tyler said.


Now Sara spoke up. “This is serious, y’all! April’s in real trouble. This witch, or whatever she is—there’s no telling what she might do! And it sounds like it’s not just April she’s after. We’ve got to do something!”

It was then that all of us in the Midnight Storytellers’ Club realized that we were the only ones who knew about the threat that Kelli posed. We were the only ones who could do anything about it.

But that’s another story.