Lives in the Balance
HAVE YOU EVER bargained with a ghost? We’re going to. We’re not supposed to be here, but none of us could resist the chance to sneak into the Durgee House on Halloween. At 3 AM, no less. It helps that Alex’s father is the caretaker. All Alex had to do was filch the keys from his dad’s desk. That was his part of the deal. The rest of us brought what we could up to the attic: flashlights, flameless candles to avoid a fire hazard, a stool, and a noose. Yeah. You heard me right. A hangman’s noose, pre-tied according to a TikTok tutorial. Brandon volunteered to do that. As obsessed with death as he is, it’s no wonder. I’m Cara. I know the background of this place and the man who lived in it. In fact, a member of our town’s historical society gave me a gift – an antique that will serve us well. And Delia, our fearless leader, knows how to conduct business at this hour. She turns on the white flameless candles and places them in a circle around the stool. Then Brandon turns on his flashlight, climbs up on the stool, throws the noose over a rafter beam, and secures it. (It figures he’d know how to do that, too.) He clambers down. “All right,” says Delia. “Let’s do this.” She turns her flashlight on, illuminating her face but leaving the rest of her in darkness. It reminds me of someone telling ghost stories by a campfire. She’s not that far off. “Rule number one: No phones. We can’t get reception up here anyway. Rule number two: No making any loud noises or sudden moves. Rule number three: No standing in front of the window or shining your flashlights through it. Rule number four: No fucking around.” “Rule number five: No fun,” quips Alex. Brandon snickers. “Shut up. We have work to do.” She gestures toward me. “Cara? Did you bring the scales?” “Sure did.” “Take them out of your backpack, but only when I tell you. I brought the knife.” Alex clicks his flashlight on. “What?!” “I also brought a sewing pin, if you’d like to use that.” Delia gives him the side eye. “We’re drawing blood?” “Wait a minute. You only told us about the noose. ‘Sup with that?” asks Brandon. “We’re conducting a binding ritual, so blood will be involved.” “I feel faint already,” says Alex. “Look. Do you want to do this or not?” “Hell yeah.” “Speaking of hell,” says Brandon, “are we selling our souls to Satan?” “No.” I click my flashlight on. “We’re dealing with a ghost. The spirit of Albert Durgee, our county judge in the late 1800s. He hanged several people. Four of them were innocent.” “How do you know that?” “From historical records. I’ve done a lot of studying. Durgee felt so guilty about executing those four that he hanged himself in this attic. Hence the noose – and the scales. The scales were his prized possession. He kept them on the bench where he presided.” I reach into my backpack to pull them out. “Not yet,” Delia interjects. “Tell us some more about the victims.” “Two men and two women: Ronnie Albright, Catherine Bradshaw, Zeb Comstock, and Emily Dawes. Three alleged murderers and one alleged horse thief. They hanged folks back then for ‘grand theft stallion.’ In all four of these cases, Judge Durgee made a mistake.” “A miscarriage of justice. That’s what this ritual is going to try and fix – for a price.” “Our blood,” grumbles Alex. “Just a few drops. And your greatest desire weighed against your greatest confession.” “Huh?” Delia sighs. “In words of one syllable, what do you wish for? What have you done wrong? Tell us, and tell the ghost. If he thinks you’re not so guilty, he’ll keep the brass scales balanced. He’ll let you go and free you from the noose. He’ll also grant your wish. However, if he sees your guilt and tips the scales three times, you die. Do you still wish to proceed?” “That’s two syllables.” “Oh, yeah.” Brandon puts his flashlight up to his face. “So who’s going first?” “How about you?” asks Delia. “You’re the one who loves to talk about anything morbid, so why don’t you put your money where your mouth is?” “I will after you do.” “What the – All right. Cara? The scales.” I take them out of my backpack and present them to her. She removes a steak knife from her pack and pricks her finger with the tip of it. She holds her finger above the left weighing pan. Three drops of blood fall into it. “Hold it steady while I put pressure on my finger and climb up on the stool.” I watch as Delia does so and slips the hangman’s noose over her head. She then takes the scales from me and waits for them to balance. “Now, then. It’s critical that you all stay silent while I call on our late guest.” She clears her throat. “A restless soul now summon we, of a judge, Albert Durgee. Four he slated for to die. Unquiet does his spirit lie. The ones he sentenced to the noose we call upon, to set us loose – from the guilt that binds us fast, and grant us one wish at long last. What we confess shall all be true, or we’ll pay the proper due: Serving for eternity with the Judge, though dead we be.” “Cool poem, bro,” says Brandon. “Shut your face! There’s more.” After a tense moment, Delia goes on. “Judge Durgee, hear and heed us well. Thou art between heaven and hell. Judge us rightly. Hear our plea. Grant us boons, and saved you’ll be. Judge us wrongly, and you’ll take one more step toward a fiery lake. The four you hanged will take the stand along with us, at our command. If you condemn us, this you’ll rue. There are lives in the balance. Your soul is, too.” Goosebumps spread over my body like a ten-second plague. “I am Delia Simon. I pledge upon the life of Catherine Bradshaw. I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me, Your Honor.” The flameless candles flicker more brightly. “I want my parents to get divorced. They’re at each other’s throats every day, and I’m sick of it. They claim they’re staying together because of me, but I’m sixteen years old. I don’t need to be coddled. I know what’s what. All their fighting over money and old affairs? That’s not my fault. Neither is their insulting each other almost constantly. They should just get it over with and part ways. They don’t want to split up their assets between them, however. Pfft.” No movement from the bloodied balance. “One thing they agree on is me getting the best grades. I need to be valedictorian. They don’t know I cheat. Once upon a time, I didn’t need to, but now I have too many rivals. Lindsay Peterson, Brad Bard, Vanhi Acharya – and those are just the top three. I’m fifth in our class. Not even on the podium. Whoever paid attention to a fifth-place loser?” She visibly trembles. The stool creaks beneath her. “That’s why I download most of my papers online and pay other students to do the rest. You’d be surprised how far two hundred bucks will go for kids who are smart but poor. Just as hungry to succeed, too.” “Hmph. You call that a confession?” Brandon sneers. Alex and I shush him. “Your Honor, I wish I could tell you I’ll stop cheating if you release me and grant my wish, but that would be a lie. It’s just so easy, even with harsh anti-plagiarism rules in my classes. Besides, I have more shit to do than write a thousand-word essay on ‘Macbeth.’ I have a job, my friends, my family. A life. School takes that away from me.” The scales tip, lowering the pan with the three drops of Delia’s blood. “Oh, come on. You don’t think that what I’ve done is all that bad, do you?” No answer. “I get it. Strike one. Remember Catherine Bradshaw? Cara knows more about her than I do, so I’ll let her remind you.” I swallow hard. My mouth’s gone dry. “Catherine’s husband cheated on her. She called him out, they fought, and they tried to strangle each other. Self-defense was her argument, but you didn’t buy it. You executed her instead. I know most people in the nineteenth century weren’t feminists, but why didn’t you sentence her to life in prison? You had a serious beef with women, friend – er, Your Honor.” “Agreed,” says Delia. “Well, that’s all I’ve got. What’s your verdict? Guilty or not guilty?” The scales in her hand re-balance. “Thank you, Judge Durgee. See you in court. Divorce court.” Delia smiles wryly, slips her head out of the noose, and climbs down from the stool. She hands the scales back to me. I wipe the bloody pan off with one of the Kleenexes I always carry. “Who’s next?” “Me.” Alex shines his flashlight on his face. “I can do better than that.” “It’s not a competition.” “Says you.” He pricks his finger on Delia’s steak knife, lets three drops of his blood fall into the left scale pan, then takes his place as the next – victim? Contestant? *Defendant.* The word comes to me in a deep male voice. “My name’s Alex. Alex Hayden. I, uh, pledge upon the life of that alleged thief.” “Ronnie Albright,” I clarify. “Yeah. I call his ghost to the stand with me. I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth and all that shit. Ronnie died for allegedly stealing a horse. I steal for real. Money, jewelry, even scrap metal from manhole covers.” Alex stands stock-still, but the pan containing his blood sinks lower. “Wait. My folks and I live paycheck to paycheck, and my mom has cancer. Ovarian.” “Don’t lie to the Judge, man,” says Brandon. “I’m not fucking lying! Let these scales stay tipped if I am. Otherwise, let them balance.” After a rather reluctant pause, they recalibrate. “There’s more.” Alex squares his shoulders. “I stole a car a month ago for extra dough.” Brandon blinks. “No shit?” “No shit. It wasn’t even a good car. Just some piece of crap with rusty bodywork. I hotwired it late one night when no one was around. Took it to the junkyard for some cash. On the way back I thought I saw someone running, but that was probably my imagination.” I shudder. “Anyway, Mom’s chemo costs a fortune. I don’t make enough at my McD’s job to help make ends meet. If I can get my hands on something valuable, you bet I will, no matter what it is.” The scales tip a second time. Alex gags as the noose tightens around his neck. “Please! I’ll do anything. As long as I get out of here and Mom gets better. Please.” The only sound we hear for the next few seconds is Alex’s ragged breathing – in, out, in. “Ronnie Albright’s here, too,” I quickly tell him. “Focus on his innocence and yours.” Alex shuts his eyes tight. “Poor Ronnie didn’t steal anything. I steal for a good cause.” The scales return to their former position. “Thank you. All of you. Especially Judge Durgee.” He disentangles himself from the noose and climbs down from the stool. As he passes me to return to his place, I catch a whiff of his armpits, rank with fear. I’m not smelling great myself. “Here.” With shaking hands, Alex gives me the scales. I wipe them off again. “My turn.” With surprising rudeness, Brandon grabs them and yanks the steak knife away from Delia. One finger prick, three drops of blood, and he’s headed for the stool. “You guys are chickenshit. You’ve never experienced real fear. Let me show you how it’s done.” He hangs the noose over his head and tightens it like one who’s done it hundreds of times. “I’m Brandon Lowe. I pledge on the life of that other male killer – uh, Cara?” “Zeb Comstock. He killed his worst enemy in a drunken brawl. The Judge called it murder.” “Yeah, him. Old Zeb may have done it, but he didn’t mean to. The sentence was unfair.” After a beat, he continues: “First, my wish. I want to see what’s on the other side. I’ve seen every horror movie you can think of at least twenty times – ‘Halloween,’ ‘Friday the 13th,’ ‘Saw.’ ‘Saw X’ is my favorite. The bloodboarding trap. Anyway, these movies show glimpses of what might be beyond the grave, but what’s REALLY there? I’m going to find out, and Mr. Comstock? You’re gonna help me. It wasn’t your fault that you offed that other motherfucker.” “Language, please.” “Shut up, Delia. What are you, my mom?” Brandon coughs. “I also cheat at school, and I’ve stolen things from time to time. That’s nowhere near as bad as what I did recently, if it IS bad. I don’t think so. Remember that party Rachel and Tim threw last week?” We all nod and murmur agreement. I try to keep myself from shivering again. “There was this girl, Madison. Super-hot. We started dancing, and we were drunk as fuck.” The scales tip. “Like that’s a crime? Who among us hasn’t gotten loaded? Everyone here but Alex was at that party. Alex was working. As far as I can remember, y’all had more than a few beers.” “Let me guess,” says Delia. “You had sex with Madison after she kept saying no.” “Hey. Only when things got too late to stop.” “You asshole! You fucking pig!” “Now who’s cussing?” The left balance pan, sticky with the infinitesimal weight of Brandon’s blood, sinks even lower. “Okay, strike two. At least I admit what I did, unlike some people who were also at that party. What did Zeb Comstock do when drunk? Beat someone he hated to death. Right, Cara?” “Uh-huh.” “What did I do when I was drunk? I took the hints Madison was dropping that she wanted me. She gave about a thousand of them.” Delia scowls. “Yet as SOON as she said no, even once, those hints got cancelled.” “Why didn’t you stop me, then? Why didn’t you pull me aside and tell me I was being a dick?” “You were too intent on using yours! I can’t believe it.” “Believe it, you hypocrite.” “You know what? If you burn in hell for what you did, it’ll serve you right.” “Fuck you, Delia.” “Let’s stop arguing and concentrate,” I tell them both. “To keep the spirit connection open.” We quiet down and regroup. Brandon reiterates his desire to the ghost of Judge Durgee: “Show me the place where you are. You’ve come to us. Now let me come to you.” Nothing happens for about ten seconds. Then the scales re-balance, the noose slackens so much it startles Brandon, and he almost falls off the stool. Regaining his composure, he takes the noose off, climbs down and rubs his neck. “Bastard! That hurt like a mofo.” None of the rest of us sympathize. “Why didn’t the Judge call strike three on me and take me to him?” “That would have granted your wish, dumbass. You don’t deserve it,” says Alex. Disgusted, Brandon looks my way. “All right, Cara. Your turn.” Suddenly I don’t want to. “Hard pass.” “You can’t do that. We all have to go.” “Not if we’re too scared,” Delia says. “Is it the blood thing? You can use the sewing pin.” “It’s not that. What I did is so bad that – If the Judge really is here, I’m out.” “You can’t be serious.” “I am.” “They say confession is good for the soul.” “Okay. But no ratting me out. I’m still trying to deal with this however – however I can.” *Don’t cry, Cara. Whatever you do, don’t shed a single tear.* Delia offers me the sewing pin. I prick my finger, which hurts as much as getting a shot, and bleed into the balancing pan once I wipe it off. Four drops this time. Not three. *One more.* I allow a fifth drop to join the others. They form a tiny pool. “That’s too much. I think you ruined it. Try again.” “Nope.” I put pressure on my finger. “Hold this, please.” Delia does as I take my place on our makeshift gallows. Once I’m properly situated, I hold the scales once more. “I pledge my life upon Emily Dawes, an accused murderess. She did no wrong; I have. I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help me, Judge.” I also swear my mouth is twice as dry as before. The scales rattle in my right hand. I grip them hard. They balance. “We’ve admitted cheating, theft, and drunken assault,” I begin once I finally find some spit to swallow. “I haven’t done any of those things, but something worse. I’ve killed someone.” “No way.” Alex doesn’t believe me. I can tell from the others’ horrified expressions that they don’t either. “We’ve mentioned the party that almost all of us attended. Alex? You weren’t at work when you thought you saw someone. You were hotwiring that hunk of junk, weren’t you?” He nods matter-of-factly. “The thing is, you DID see someone. You saw me running away.” “From what?” “My car.” I take a deep breath. “I hit a girl on a bicycle. Tina Overstreet. She’s in our class.” No matter how hard I keep a grip on the scales, I feel them tip, and not in my favor. “It was so dark, and I couldn’t see, and – oh, screw it. I was texting and driving.” Complete and utter silence. “As soon as I looked up from my phone, I saw Tina swerve into my lane. She was trying to cross the road, and I – she hit the hood – that thud – can’t get it out of my mind –” “Breathe, Cara. Breathe.” I inhale and exhale five times as Delia directs me. “Why didn’t I pay attention? Why did I feel such a pressing need to respond to some dumb ‘LOL’ from one of my other friends? I can’t go to jail. They’ll eat me alive there. I can’t. I’ve thrown off the police so far, but I don’t know how much longer I can last…” I wait for the others to tell me they forgive me, have my back, but none of them say anything. The blood pan sinks lower. I feel the noose tighten around my neck and gag as Alex did. “I do and don’t deserve my wish, which I’ll tell you in a minute. Right now, I’d like to remind Judge Durgee about Emily Dawes. She gave her wealthy aunt too high a dosage of medicine, and he hanged her for it. Emily’s motive? Supposedly, to gain an early inheritance. “Emily didn’t mean to kill her aunt. I didn’t mean to kill Tina Overstreet, but we’re both to blame.” The noose cinches tighter. “My one wish? To die.” Instead of waiting for His Honor to tighten the hangman’s knot one last time, I kick the stool out from underneath me. My airway is cut off immediately, and spots swim before my eyes. I gray out. Before me lies another gray landscape, humid, with thunderheads rolling overhead and heat lightning flashing from cloud to cloud like an obscure code. I’m dressed in rags. In back of me is an endless line of people similarly clothed, their faces ashen, their expressions grim. I wonder if we’re all in Hell, accused of crimes we comprehend all too well. The deep voice I heard before calls my name: “Cara Maxim.” I find myself before a judge’s bench, the specter of Albert Durgee presiding. His red eyes glow like traffic lights buried deep within his mouthless face, and they don’t leave my own. “You’re charged with the death of Tina Overstreet by vehicular homicide. You have the choice of trial by a jury of your peers or an immediate plea.” I see Alex, Brandon and Delia next to the Judge in a jury box. Beside them are the four innocents he hanged. They’re all in chains, black-coiled nooses around each of their necks. Each one stares at me, then closes their eyes and turns their head away. “Let my friends go. No matter what else they’ve done or didn’t do, they haven’t killed anyone. Please, Your Honor. Let these people you hanged plead for their release. As for me? I’ve shed five drops of blood into the balance – four for the four of us, and the fifth for you.” The Judge’s eyes flicker in a blinking gesture. “You broke the law when you committed suicide. Therefore, you need redemption.” “You would do that for my sake?” “Yes. You and I are alike. We didn’t mean to take others’ lives, but we did.” I kneel before the bench. “I’m guilty, Your Honor.” “Do you wish to speak before I pass sentence upon you?” “Yes. I didn’t mean to hit Tina, and I’m so, so sorry. I’d do anything to relive that night and not answer that text, but I know I can’t. All I can hope for is the death penalty.” A cold wind, heavy with rain, whirls around me and the others waiting in line. After an eternity the Judge says, “No. I shall not condemn anyone else unjustly. I have been condemned to wait here at this threshold, neither saved nor damned, passing judgment upon those whose guilt has heretofore been concealed. Does it balance against their innocence – the good they’ve done and the wrong they didn’t do? Not for your peers, I’m afraid.” “They’re not just my peers. They’re my friends.” “Then why have they turned away from you?” “I’d do that to a killer, too.” “Very well.” He pauses. “You shall not die as per your wish. Instead, you’ll serve as the next Judge. As long as you live, you’ll dream of this court and hopefully temper justice with mercy. After your natural death, your spirit will do the same.” Relief and horror flood me at the same time. “Yes, Your Honor.” “As for your *friends* in the jury box, they shall be freed on the condition that they cease their wrongdoing. If they do not agree, they shall remain here as captive jurors for all time. The four I hanged so long ago? Through your act of redemption, you’ve freed them too.” Tears course down the faces of Ronnie Albright, Catherine Bradshaw, Zeb Comstock and Emily Dawes. Their chains fall off, as do the black nooses around their necks. They then vanish. Alex, Brandon and Delia gape. They promise to stop cheating, stealing, and drinking. The guys even agree to go to actual jail for what they’ve done, if it comes to that. I know it will in my case. “Farewell,” the Judge says to all of us. “Remember what you’ve pledged.” I come to on the cold and dusty attic floor of the Durgee House. There’s no noose around my neck, but it burns like hell. My friends stand around me, holding their flashlights in my face. “My god, Cara,” cries Delia. “We thought we’d lost you. Are you okay?” “I’m alive. Does that count?” The next morning, instead of going to school, I turn myself in to the police. Jail’s not so bad during the day. At night, though? I can’t stop dreaming of the court of the damned, where I preside. Alex, Brandon and Delia don’t return as jurors, though. They visit me every month. I’ve got five years to go – two in juvie, three in adult prison. Have you ever bargained with a ghost? We did. Our lives are no longer in danger, but our souls now hang in the balance. Credit: Tenet Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.