The Secret Family

Marie Wilkens

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Epilogue

The Haunting of Brandt Manor

Prologue, the Early Years

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

The Haunting of Quenby Mansion

1. Last Will and Testament

2. Evelyn

3. Cool Down

4. Neighbors

5. Raw

6. The Key

7. Gunner

8. The Call

9. The Trio

10. Death at the Doorstep

11. Black Bird

12. Bed of Bones

13. Family

14. Romance

15. Breath

16. Broken Lives

17. The Lost

18. The Vanishing of Bella Day

19. Crawl Space

20. Encounter

21. Days Before Death

22. Crimson Tears

23. The Family Name

24. Tattered Hearts

25. Party of Five

26. The Buyers

27. Barnstormer

28. The Woods

29. The Free Man

30. Father

Prologue

Avery sat on the cold floor, the pebble in her hand so small it was nearly invisible. It had become her saving grace in the hours she’d spent locked in the damp basement. She whimpered, her eyes no longer holding the moisture it took for tears to fall. Why had she done such a terrible thing? Why couldn’t she be a good girl like the others? She went back to scratching the image into the cobblestone.

She had tried so hard at first to keep the devil out of her heart. Yet, in the end, she knew she was weak. The fear told her as much. Her family had deserved someone stronger, someone better than she. Hopefully, her lust for blood, as the pastor had called it, wouldn't destroy them all. How could she be so foolish as to listen to the voices? It had been the devil himself.

“Why couldn't I just be a good girl?” she asked herself. “I know I was bad, so very bad.”

The voice that replied was sweet, musical. Whenever Avery heard it, it made her jump. Her heart pounded. It was the devil! It was always the devil trying to work his way in. Avery started to hum to herself, desperately trying to drown out the voices pleading with her to do evil once more.

Don’t listen to them. You have to keep fighting. You haven't done anything wrong!

Avery shook her head. “No, that just gets me in trouble. I just wanted to be with my friends. I wanted to have fun down by the river with the others, that was all.”

No, Avery, you have to listen to me. Time is running out. You have to get away. They are going to hurt you. They’re all after you! You have to run!

Avery clasped her hands over her ears as she shook her head. She didn’t want to hear the voices anymore; she didn’t want to see the others. They were lying to her. That was what her mama said. Mama had always told her she was special. She knew that someday everyone would need her, but it hadn’t stopped her from lashing out. All she had to do was be a good girl, a nice girl. Her mind flashed back to that day in the forest.

She could hear her brother's voice behind her as they chased each other. Hide-and-seek was their favorite game. Paul had been her protector, her best friend. Despite the vast age difference, he’d never let her out of his sight. She was nine years to his eighteen. He’d already taken a wife. Yet the evil inside her had destroyed him, the one person she’d loved more than Papa or even Mama. He was dead, and it was her fault. Her and the voices.

Avery…

“Go away!” she screamed.

Huddling her bruised knees to her body, she dug the pebble into the palm of her hand and winced at the pain. When she hurt, the voices stopped. Above her, the floor groaned under someone’s weight as footsteps approached the basement door. Avery knew her father’s movements well. Her mother’s step was delicate, though she hadn’t come to see Avery since she’d been banished.

Had the afternoon already gone by? Was it time for supper? Avery swallowed. Her throat was dry. The hunger had set in days ago. Her only ration had been a meager chunk of bread and putrid water. The hunger would help to purify her, though. Her loving father had explained it all that morning. Above her, the basement door creaked open.

“It is the way,” Avery whispered.

Her eyes darted to the steps as the hulking man came into view. Despite his muscular size, Avery’s father hadn’t spent a day in the fields like the other men in the area. Mama always said their wealth and stature in the town protected them. Now it was her turn to keep them safe from a real monster, herself. She straightened her back, her blue eyes leveling on her father.

“Are you ready?” her father asked.

Her heart raced. “Ready?”

He nodded. “It’s your time, my blessed child. This is a great honor that you’ve been given.”

“I don’t understand,” she whimpered.

“Sweet girl, you are going to save us, all of us, from the sins you’ve committed. The devil inside of you needs to be purged, cleansed.”

“I don’t want to be bad anymore,” Avery said. “I’m sorry about Paul. I didn’t mean for him to get hurt….”

“Come, child, they are all waiting.” He extended his hand.

She was ready to cleanse herself of the evil and repent for her brother’s death. If only she’d listened to her family and not the voices. They’d told her to run, and she had. She’d turned her back on her family and ran from Paul. Avery winced as her mind replayed the sickening sound of his neck breaking. He’d nearly reached her when a log had snagged him.

Avery had never seen the town so quiet, so still.

“Where are we going?”

“To the church, of course. Where else do we cleanse our souls?”

Her body trembled as they approached the small brick chapel. A gathering of people stood in a circle around the old well. They were all dressed the same, but she couldn’t make out their faces in the darkness. Her father squeezed her hand, slowing her to a halt in front of the well. Paralyzed with fear, Avery stood in a daze as he wrapped a heavy rope around her wrists. He lifted her from the ground, setting her on the edge of the well. She grabbed the pully to keep from falling.

“But Papa, I can’t swim,” Avery cried.

She turned back to her father, but he’d disappeared into the circle of now masked figures. Her body trembled; her wrists hurt as she struggled to keep her footing on the narrow stones. They were covered with moss, but it was the smell that had nearly sent her tumbling forward. It reminded her of the dead horse Paul had found the summer before. Its bloated body could be smelled for miles.

“Please,” Avery pleaded with the voices. “Help me.”

There was no reply. Panic gripped her. Someone shoved her from behind. She stumbled off the ledge into the darkness. Her screams echoed for only a second before the water claimed her. If only she’d kept running.

1

A cloud of smoke engulfed the room despite the steady flow of air being pushed into the San Francisco street by the fan. Sasha glared at her computer screen, the highlighted paragraph mocking her. She ground her teeth together, slamming her middle finger down on the keyboard’s backspace. Nothing. That was what her second screenplay had become. Six days past the second deadline, Sasha was no closer to completing it.

The smoke flume stung her eyes, making her curse as she grabbed the menthol from her chapped lips and crushed it out. Spent butts spilled out over the ledges of the ashtray onto her desk, but she paid it no mind. Rita would come in and clean it in the morning. By the time she woke around noon, the house and all evidence of her wasted hours would be gone. If only Rita’s magic could work on her life, erasing her history and never making Gallagher a success.

Gallagher. The movie that had changed everything. Her debut script had been an overnight success. The money and offers came flooding in for her second film. Yet the pressure had crippled her, bringing on a writer’s block with such vigor she couldn’t produce anything. The sections she had sent to her editor lacked their predecessor’s magic. There it was again, magic.

“Why couldn’t I be making a damn kids’ movie?” Sasha hissed into the darkness. “That shit’s easy. A few wands, a sprinkle of unicorns, and everyone’s happy.”

She reached for the pack of cigarettes on her desk. It was light. Giving it a shake, she glared at the empty pack before tossing it into the trash and grabbing her phone. Sasha quickly sent a message to her fiancé, requesting he pick her up another pack. No sooner did she send the message than she heard the familiar chime of Jordan's phone behind her. Sasha grinned at her fiancé as she spun around in the chair.

“I wasn't expecting you home for another hour,” she said.

Jordan grinned. “The client had a concert to get to. I wasn't about to wait around for her to finish.”

“Thank God for that! Are you going to tell me who it is?” she asked.

Jordan chuckled and shook his head. It was an ongoing joke between them. He worked as a psychologist for the uber-wealthy. The non-disclosure acts that he had to sign were bulletproof. Most of the time, Sasha didn't know who he was going to help, but he always made a point of telling her where he would be. She both loved and trusted him enough not to push the issue. Still, every once in a while, her lingering fears of abandonment would rear up and they would get into one of their famous arguments. Jordan leaned against the door frame, tossing her a pack of cigarettes before taking a long draw off his own cigar.

“How did you know?” Sasha asked him playfully.

“Honey, we've been together for five years. I think I know you pretty well.”

“Has it really been that long? It feels like just last week that we were getting engaged!”

“What is it they say? Time flies when you're having fun. It just goes to show that our relationship is full of excitement.”

“Speaking of relationships, we have been engaged for about six months now. Have you thought any more about setting a date?”

“I have,” Jordan replied.

Sasha's heart raced. She hadn't expected that answer. Going into the engagement, Jordan had reminded her once again that marriage was still a ways off for him. He requested a long engagement; the only problem was that they had different ideas of what long was.

“So, are you going to share with the class?” she asked.

He grinned. “Well, with how much you've been struggling with this script, I thought we could set a date for the month after your release. It gives you something to look forward to and maybe a little extra incentive to get it done.”

Sasha burst into laughter. “Wow, you really don't want to marry me, do you?”

“Oh, come on now,” Jordan groaned. “You know how much I love you. I also know how much getting this second movie done means to you, though. I hate seeing you struggle like this; it's tearing me up inside. Maybe we need to get out of the city for a while, really get the juices flowing somewhere.”

Sasha groaned. “I don't know how much good that will do. I love this city. San Francisco is my home. I can't think of anywhere else in the world I would rather be.”

“All right, answer me this. How long have you been sitting there, staring at that screen?”

“You know writing isn't always about writing. Sometimes it's about plotting and planning, and a million other things that an outsider looking in just doesn't understand.”

“Are you really trying to bullshit a bullshitter right now? Come on, how long have we known each other, sweetheart?”

Sasha glared at her fiancé. It was infuriating when he used his psychology degree on her. He made a good point, though; she hadn't typed a single word in hours. It had been days without a sentence on her screen that didn't ultimately end up deleted. She wasn't willing to give in so easily, though. The last time he tried to take her away, he left out the small detail that they would be camping in the middle of nowhere with no amenities. It was the first and last time she ever wanted to be that close to nature.

“It seems like you already have something in mind. What aren't you telling me?”

Jordan laughed. “You've always been so good at reading me. One of the perks of my job is that my clients always have vacation homes. It just so happens that one of these wonderful people has offered me... well, you really...their winter cabin for as long as it takes you to get the book done.”

Sasha’s jaw dropped. “You're joking, right?”

“Nope. Not even a little. And the only reason I am bringing it up is that I've seen the pictures, and it's right up your alley. When you called me the other day, he saw your picture pop up on my phone and asked about you. Turns out he’s a huge fan of your first script.”

“Oh, like a stalker fan?”

Jordan laughed. “No, like super-rich, happily married rock star fan. Listen, the place is something of a sanctuary. I'm not sure, to be honest, but it's surrounded by a national forest. He rents it out every now and then but not very often. It's not like he needs the money. I guess he's just super excited for your next film to come out. According to him, if he can help inspire you, then it would be a crime against humanity not to offer you his place.”

“Wow, he sounds dramatic,” Sasha muttered.

Her fiancé chuckled. “He's rich. I'm pretty sure that makes him eccentric, not dramatic.”

Sasha frowned. She still wasn't a huge fan of the idea, although the place sounded picture-perfect if she were being honest.

“Can I think about it for a bit?”

Jordan shrugged. “Sure, but I wouldn't think about it too long. I don't think he's the kind of person who likes to be kept waiting. Then again, I don't think he's the type of person who likes being told no, either. Oh well, if he gets pissed off and drops me as his psychologist, there are always more celebrities in crisis.”

“I'll keep that in mind. I'm almost finished here,” Sasha said. “What do you say we grab some dinner?”

“What are the odds I can get you to cook something?” Jordan asked.

“About as good as you doing it,” she shot back.

“You know, you used to cook all the time.”

“Yeah, and you used to clean up afterward. I’ll cook if you clean.”

“We have a housekeeper!”

“And a takeout menu!”

He laughed. “Fine. Dinner out it is. Find me when you’re done?”

“Yes, boss,” she joked.

He gave her a wink. “Good girl.”

Sasha rolled her eyes at him as he backed out of sight. Every once in a while, the spoiled brat Sasha suspected Jordan was as an only child crept out. She could see in his eyes that he desperately wanted to check out the rock stars cabin. Her imagination took hold. A sudden, inspired scene popped into her mind. Within seconds her fingers were moving with lightning speed across the keyboard, a menthol now burning between her lips. Perhaps a change of scenery was just what she needed after all.

2

Sasha loved everything about the city they called home. Anything you could ever desire was just a phone call away. With some of the most renowned artists, creators, and culinary masters who called San Francisco home, she couldn't think of a single reason to leave. Still, she had to give Jordan some credit; he had spent the last forty minutes regaling her with tales of the Nevada wilderness.

He was sure that there were creatures and scenery that would inspire her far beyond what San Francisco could. Despite his best attempts, all he did was take Sasha down a trip on memory lane. She couldn't wait for the dead heat of summer to hit them with its full force, bringing with it nightly festivals and all sorts of colorful characters.

“Do you remember San Francisco for the fourth last year?” Sasha asked.

“Of course I do! And it was breathtaking. Just like it was the year before that, too, and if that's the only thing holding you back, we can always come back for the weekend.”

Sasha frowned and poked at the pasta on her plate. She barely had an appetite. It seemed like Jordan had an answer for every possible problem she brought up with leaving the city. San Francisco had been her home for as long as she could remember, and with the exception of her screenplay getting picked up in the prior years, she had barely left her home state. Yet she couldn't deny the excitement she felt at the idea of staying in a secluded cabin. Everything about it felt like the perfect atmosphere to write her next great hit.

Jordan pulled out his phone and pulled up a social media account. He quickly flipped it around just as a serene landscape appeared. Sasha’s jaw dropped. Something inside her stirred. It was a unique design, to say the least. Buried beneath the abundant forest were nine cul-de-sacs carved out among the trees. At the center, she could make out buildings that seemed to date back centuries. Something about the place called to her. Jordan flipped to the next picture, and Sasha gasped.

The little log cabin was anything but. Perhaps it would not have been considered a mansion by the current standards, but its size made up at least three traditional homes. The hand-hewn logs stood out against the gray concrete that filled the gaps between them. Sasha wanted to see more. She wanted to walk through the halls and feel the floor beneath her feet. Never in her life had she been drawn to a location so much.

“Where did you say this place was located?” she whispered.

“A day’s drive to Nevada. Apparently, the entire area is a protected national forest now. I guess this is the only city allowed. However, if we are being honest, I wouldn't call it much of a city.”

“What does their takeout selection look like?” Sasha asked.

Jordan laughed. “I have to say, I don't think it's great. However, if you think this place will help you get your next script written, I'll agree to do all the cooking while we're there.”

“Whoa. Where is my fiancé, and what have you done with him?” Sasha asked.

Jordan reached across the table and took her hand. “I love you, Sasha. I am willing to do whatever it takes to see you accomplish your dreams, even if that means cooking. Now I can't promise it will be good, but I'm sure I can Google some recipes.”

“And you're sure I don't have to worry about some crazy, rich stalker coming after me?” Sasha asked.

“Nope. He will be out of the country for the rest of the year doing concert dates. Honestly, I think he just wants bragging rights that the famous mind behind Gallagher stayed at his house.”

Sasha chuckled. “As long as he adds that you were staying with me, not him.”

“If he doesn't, I'll bury him on his own land.” Jordan gave her a wink. “Does that mean I can tell him we'll be taking him up on his offer?”

There was no question in Sasha’s mind that she had to see the property. Still, something in her was resisting. Jordan could see her hesitation. He strummed his fingers along the table, waiting for her to open up to him. She didn't wanna talk to him about it, though. As wonderful as her soon-to-be husband was, he could occasionally grow impatient with her often frazzled mind.

“Can I give you an answer tomorrow?” Sasha asked.

“Why are you still holding back? Is this just because it's out of state? You know, we could look into talking to your doctor again and maybe get you some medication for the road.”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Sasha snapped. “I have no problem leaving the state when I need to. You make me sound like I'm a recluse.”

Jordan shrugged. “I'm not saying that you are, obviously. But as much as you don't like to leave the house, you could well be on your way to becoming one.”

Her cheeks flushed. “I think that's a little bit extreme.”

“I'm sorry, maybe it is. I just see this as an amazing opportunity and a great chance to make friends with someone who can open a lot of doors as well. You're stumped on your next script, you've got fans and your team breathing down your neck, and none of that is helping you get the project done. I'm just trying to do what's best for you, for us.”

“It feels like you're pushing me to making a decision,” Sasha muttered.

“Well, maybe I am a little. So, sue me for wanting to see you get out of your slump. You know there are two people in this relationship, right?”

“I know, I just—”

“If you won't do it for yourself, then at least consider doing it for me. This could really help boost my career.”

Sasha giggled. “Your career is doing just fine without any help. You're one of the most sought-after psychologists in the world.”

Jordan’s jaw twitched. “Fine, have it your way. We’ll just stay here.”

Their table fell silent as tension lingered in the air between them. Sasha hated it when they argued. Her parents, though adopted, had never once raised their voices and anger toward each other. She'd always imagined one day she would find a love like theirs. Jordan was wonderful in his own right, despite his petulant temper that liked to rear its ugly head. She knew she would give in in the end, and they would go to the luxurious cabin.

If only she could put her finger on what it was about the property that both excited and frightened her. With the exception of her own repressed traumas, there was no reasonable explanation for how she felt. Still, when it came to leaving home, there was a fear she'd never been able to decipher. Jordan sighed and reached across the table again for her hand. He gingerly took it and kissed the palm, instantly melting Sasha’s heart.

“I'm sorry,” Jordan said. “The decision is yours and yours alone. I shouldn't have tried to force my opinion on you. What do you say we get out of here, go back to the apartment, and have a couple shots? Then we can forget all about this night.”

Sasha smiled. “I would like that very much. Then tomorrow, we can start packing. I need to get over my fears. I want to go away with you. After all, we are going to be married soon. We can pretend like this is a practice for our honeymoon.”

“Yeah?” Jordan said with a grin. “I like the sound of that. So, you really mean it? We can go?”

Sasha nodded. “We can really go. It's not like I'm getting anything done here. Maybe the change of scenery will do me some good. Plus, there's no time like the present to work on my fears.”

“I promise I will drive in accordance with all of the speed limits.”

Sasha squeezed his hand and smiled. She knew he only had her best interest at heart. Yet the subtle comment was a reminder of the trauma so crippling that her brain refused to remember it. All she knew was that she'd been the sole survivor of a fiery crash that had claimed the life of both her mothers. Sasha swallowed, her heart racing as Jordan rambled on about the cabin. In the morning, she would call Brad and Charlotte, her adopted parents, and tell them of their plans.

Until then, she turned her attention back to her fiancé, hoping some of his excitement would rub off on her and drown out the worry.

3

“Is this place for real?” Sasha asked.

“I... I don't really know,” Jordan stammered. “I guess it's pretty unreal, isn't it?”

“That's an understatement.”

They'd followed the GPS through the woods, down a single-lane gravel road. At one point, Sasha even thought they should turn back. There was no way an entire community could live in such a secluded area. Yet, when it seemed that Jordan was going to give in, a set of iron gates towering twelve feet above them appeared. Jordan rolled down his window and pressed the intercom. After giving a woman his name and reason for being there, the gates slowly cracked open, and the couple continued down a paved road.

“I guess if we were in the city, it would be no different than having a gated community, right?” Sasha offered.

“I think this place is heaven. Just think about how much security you have.”

“I don't think I would like to be trapped here all the time.”

Even after seeing the house and the town's layout online, Sasha was speechless as they rolled to a stop sign. On either side, cobblestone roads led around a wide circle. There didn't seem to be any stoplights in sight. Had it not been for the occasional person they slowly drove past, Sasha could easily find herself believing they were in an alternate world.

“My God, do you think they are all part of the same cult?”

Jordan laughed. “Whatever Kool-Aid they are drinking, sign me up. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone dressed in an outfit that cost less than five grand. Whatever they do for a living, it sure seems to be working for them.”

“Yeah, but at what cost? I’m all about making a living, but I’d rather not sell my soul.”

“Try not to be quite so…hostile about the locals, dear. I know you don’t understand the appeal of living here all the time, but I’m sure it has its perks.”

“Right,” Sasha muttered.

The surrounding scenery was captivating enough to end the conversation. She’d never seen a town with such a unique design. Either the fatigue or the valium she’d taken to help with her nerves was kicking in, making everything serene, comforting. The cobblestone lulled the car softly as they crept past the town square though it seemed to be a circle instead. Even the houses and storefronts were curved around in a gentle slope. Her excitement grew, her desire to explore becoming stronger until they completed the half circle and pulled up to a second gate.

From where they were positioned at the bottom of the hill, Sasha could see the pictures hadn’t done the house many favors. It was exquisite, taking her breath away as the gates opened and Jordan pulled up the slope to the sprawling home halfway up the rise. If not for the expensive black car sitting in front of the house, Sasha could have sworn she was in a different century, forced through a wormhole somewhere between the main road and foreboding black gates.

“Still hate this place?” Jordan asked.

Sasha shook her head as the car crawled to a stop. A man in his thirties waved at them from the front porch. His sharp suit and warm smile seemed forced as he raced down the steps to the driveway as the pair climbed out. Once they were face to face, Sasha could see the beads of perspiration dotting his forehead despite the cool breeze allotted to them from the shaded forest. His eyes darted from Sasha to the house as he extended his hand.

“You must be the famous screenwriter everyone's talking about. Welcome to Harbor Hill. My name is Lane Heathrow. I’m the property manager here.”

“Thank you, but I assure you, I’m nothing special, especially right now with this writer’s block. In either case, this place is magnificent. What can you tell us about it?”

The man hesitated. “Honestly, this is a little embarrassing, but I don’t know much about it. I’d encourage you to take a stroll through town. The locals are lovely. I’m sure they’d be happy to give you a history lesson.”

“Thank you,” Jordan snapped. “Did you need anything else?”

“Jordan!” Sasha hissed.

She couldn’t understand why he was rude to the young man. His answer had been less than helpful, but it wasn’t said with a harsh tone. The poor guy probably had a long drive back home and didn’t want to hang around for hours, answering their questions.

“My job was just to get the house opened up,” Lane admitted. “If you need anything else, Wendel, the groundskeeper, will be stopping by later to introduce himself.”

“There you go, sweetheart,” Jordan said. “I bet he’ll be able to tell us more. Thank you for stopping by, Lane. I think I can take it from here.”

He gave Jordan a curt nod before smiling at Sasha and jogging to his car. His movements felt like he was holding back. Everything about the man said that he wanted to get as far away from the house as possible. Sasha watched him move down the driveway before turning her attention back to the house. The wind had died down, offering an eerie silence around them.

“So, this is Harbor Hills,” Sasha said.

“It sure is something, isn’t it? Come on, let’s get settled in.”

“I’d really love to get back into town as soon as possible so we can stock up on stuff. Maybe we should just drop our bags and run back down? Then we can explore all we want at our own leisure.”

Jordan frowned. “We just got here. I want to relax a little first. It’s barely noon.”

“Please?” Sasha pleaded. “I felt inspired just driving through!”

“Sasha, if we are going to last in the long run, I need you to consider how I feel about things, too, okay? I thought we’d go to town tomorrow. I don’t have the energy right now. Let’s get unpacked, take a nap, then maybe we’ll head down.”

She pursed her lips but nodded. Something had put Jordan on edge the second they arrived. It was entirely possible he was just exhausted from the drive. She’d made it challenging, no doubt. With every mile marker, she’d rambled on and on about how the new screenplay was going, what she wanted to accomplish, and so on. They grabbed their luggage from the back, and Sasha followed Jordan into the house.

Everything about it reminded her of an early seventies resort. Outdated but well-kept shag carpeting decorated every room but the bathrooms, kitchen, and dining room. The robust colors perfectly contrasted the dark cherry of the logs throughout the home. Before long, they were unpacked, and Jordan was patting the king-sized canopy bed next to him. The weight of the morning was starting to pull Sasha down as she flopped on the bed next to her fiancé.

“I’m sorry about earlier—”

“Don’t be,” Jordan interjected. “I’m just tired. I promise tomorrow we’ll do all the exploring you want.”

He kissed her softly on the cheek before rolling onto his side. Sasha lay next to him, taking in her surroundings. The house had everything a writer could dream of, yet she still didn’t feel comfortable there. She’d always had an affection for history. Once she was able to explore, Sasha knew her mind would settle, and hopefully, the story would come to her. Within minutes Jordan's rhythmic snoring lulled Sasha to sleep.

* * *

The song was so familiar, so rhythmic. It was joyful, a tune meant to lift your spirits and take your mind off the darkness…the evil…two beats, then three, two, three. In the center, in the town, they form a circle, a sacred crown—

Sasha bolted up in bed, sweat running down her cheek despite the shiver she felt in her bones. Her mouth was dry. Blinking against the harsh afternoon light, her eyes and mind slowly focused on the world around her. Glancing at her phone, she realized barely ten minutes had passed, yet she felt rested and anxious to explore. Jordan was deep in slumber still. Sasha envied his ability to sleep like the dead.

Trying to fall back asleep wouldn’t do any good, not without a shot of whiskey or a fat joint. Creeping from the bedroom, she made her way down the stairs to the main parlor. In their haste to get unpacked, they’d left the front door open with only the screen door to filter out the bugs. Somewhere in the village, Sasha could hear music playing. Her heart ached to be back in the city. Grabbing a pad and pen from her bag, she quickly jotted down a note for Jordan and slipped on her shoes.

4

The driveway was lined on either side with a plethora of colorful flowers. Their smell wafted through the air as Sasha made her way down to the front gate. It stood open, thankfully. She’d been so engrossed on the drive-in that she had no idea how to operate it. She stopped at the end of the driveway, the creator inside of her taking in everything about the strange village. She’d spent a fair amount of time researching historical architecture, yet she’d never come across a completely circular design in the States.

They hadn’t seen another car on the drive through Harbor Cove; now was no different. Sasha crossed the outermost street, appreciating the massive oaks that lined the road and separated it from the sidewalk in front of the buildings. Immediately Sasha was captivated by their design. Everything about the material and building method told her they were at least two hundred years old. It made no sense. The design was unique but not practical for the time. Four narrow roads crossed through the buildings, leading to yet another circle of buildings.

Unlike its outer row, the inner circle had no roads crossing through it. Sasha had barely seen another human since starting her walk. Crossing the circular inner road to the final buildings, she found herself standing at a chained-off alley leading into darkness. Her heart pounded in her ears. She’d moved in a daze to the center of town, yet her feet wouldn’t carry her farther. Fear crept through her that she couldn’t explain, her claustrophobia threatening to take hold despite the open landscape.

Something about the circles, the building, their very shape seemed to trap her, compressing her chest with such adamant vigor that she struggled to breathe. For a brief second, she braced herself against the wall, certain she would pass out at any moment with no one there to help her. She was alone. Her stomach lurched as her vision started to blur. Sasha was no stranger to fainting spells. Just as she felt her knees buckle, two massive arms wrapped around her waist, easing her gently to the ground.

“Just take a deep breath,” he was saying. “That’s it. Focus on my voice.”

Sasha’s mouth was dry as her vision came back. She focused on what the stranger said, and it seemed to be working.

“There ya go. Do you know where you are?” he asked.

She nodded.

He chuckled. “All right, well, why don’t you tell me? Get those lungs pumping a little more.”

“Umm…Harbor Hill. Shit, no. Cove. I don’t know; it has some ridiculous name. I’m staying at the house up there.”

“Ah, so you’re the celebrity everyone has been gossiping about. I guess it’s my lucky day then.”

Sasha cringed. “I think I’m the lucky one. Thank you for your help. Normally I know when I’m about to have a panic attack.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it. I get them all the time. It’s a good thing I needed a smoke; otherwise, I wouldn’t have been out back.”

He took her elbow, helping Sasha to her feet, but his words got her mind racing again. Her eyes darted back down the ally. He’d come from back there. For the first time, she got a good look at the man who’d come to her rescue. He was tall and muscular, a physique that held no appeal to her though he was handsome enough in a traditional sense. Sasha felt herself ease when he smiled at her. There was a kindness in his eyes that seemed genuine, but more so, it lacked the flirtation she so often had to deter among the opposite sex.

“What’s back there?” she asked.

He grinned again. “Why don’t we get you out of this heat? The town meeting will be done soon. I don’t think you want to be out here with all the locals gawking.”

“Ah, that explains it. I was starting to think we were staying in a ghost town.”

“Nope, now I’m not saying this place is normal by any means, but we most definitely aren’t a ghost town. People are about as nosey as they come around here.”

In the distance, a bell chimed. Sasha shivered, the foreboding tone striking a chord in her she didn’t understand. Suddenly, she wanted to be back in the safety of her bed with Jordan.

“Hey, you’re starting to look pale again,” he said. “Come on, this is my shop right here.”

She let him lead her a few feet away from the alley entrance and up two stone steps into a refreshingly air-conditioned shop. Instantly, Sasha felt like she had died and gone to heaven. Every inch was covered in antiques in various states of repair. Her mouth fell slack as she wandered through the tiny storefront. A mid-century painting that looked to have fire damage was being restored on a large table. The paint was still wet on the canvas. Her savior reappeared with a bottle of water and handed it to her.

“It looks like I interrupted you,” she said.

“Nope, my own head interrupted me. That’s why I was out back. People around here see the world a little differently. I don’t get many opportunities to sneak out in the middle of a workday and smoke a little herb to refocus my brain.”

Sasha laughed. “Oh, thank God, I was starting to think I was the only person who still smoked. Man, now I feel really bad for interrupting you! You’ll have to come up to the house one night and have dinner with my fiancé and me. We can smoke, and I will feel a little less guilty.”

“Hey, I’m not going to say no to that. I don’t get to smoke with someone else very often anymore.”

“I’m Sasha, by the way,” she said.

“A woman who needs no introduction,” he said as he extended his hand. “I’m Carver.”

“So, how long have you lived here?”

“A little over two years now. It’s a pretty mediocre story. I was tired of the big-city life, and this place was about as far away from the hustle and bustle that I could be.”

“You can say that again.”

There was a low buzz in her head that she couldn’t shake. It had started in the street but was now growing persistent. She fell silent, trying to focus on the noise and drive it away, but it had evolved into a whisper before splitting into multiple, unfocused voices. Panic started to creep into her as a shadow moved in her peripheral vision. Her eyes darted to the window just as two men passed by. The whispers faded, but the fear did not.

“You, okay?” Carver asked.

“Yeah, I just…I thought I heard something.”

“You know what? You aren’t crazy,” he said. “I promise. I thought I was hearing things when I first got here. I’m not joking. It was awful. There’s something about the buildings' circular design that makes sound carry different. You can hear people talking on a street corner from across town.”

He jogged away from her, disappearing into the back room again before emerging a second later.

“I left the back door open. I bet that’s what was messing with you.”

“Let me get this straight. On top of everything else strange about this place, it makes you hear voices, too? Jesus. Is there anything else I should know?”

Carver seemed uneasy for the first time. Before he could answer, the shop's front door flew open, and Jordan stormed in. For a split second, there was a flicker of rage behind his eyes before he looked at her, and it turned to worry. He closed the distance between them and wrapped her in his arms.

“I was so worried about you,” he whispered.

She pushed against him. “I left you a note. I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d get the shopping done for you. I’m sorry, I thought you’d be asleep for hours.”

Jordan broke away from her and looked around the shop with disdain. “This doesn’t look like a grocery store.”

“She was just enjoying the air while she waited for it to happen. This place is a little nut at times. Everyone closes down for the town meetings.”

“And yet here you are, open for business,” Jordan replied.

Carver shrugged. “I’m not a local yet. They are a pretty tight group. What can I say? I enjoy my solitude?”

“Except when famous screenwriters are in town?”

“Jordan,” Sasha hissed, “I fainted; Carver here probably saved us a trip to the emergency room for stitches. I can’t imagine those stones out there are very forgiving on the human skull.”

“How lucky for us then that you’re an outsider,” Jordan said.

“Just looking out for my own. You’re both outsiders, too, after all.”

“Of course. Well, thank you then for taking care of my fiancée. I don’t know what I would do without her; my life would be over.”

Sasha pursed her lips but said nothing. It wasn’t like Jordan to be so protective and jealous. One of the reasons she loved him was how easygoing he was. The irony that Carver held no appeal for her made her grin. Jordan noticed and softened some.

“Come on,” Sasha said as she took his hand. “I told Carver we’d have him over for dinner tonight, so let’s get to the store.”

His jaw clenched. “Sure, anything for the man who saved your life.”

5

“You can’t tell me a man like that isn’t interested in you,” Jordan hissed.

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you are definitely seeing things that aren’t there.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I have to trust him. I can’t believe you invited him over for dinner—”

“He saved my life!”

“I think that’s a bit dramatic. He saved you from bumping your head at most—”

“Jordan, you’re the one who dragged me out here. I didn’t want to come, or don’t you remember? I somehow managed to find someone who not only is from the city but smokes pot, too. What is your problem? Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?”

He sighed and set down the knife he’d used to chop the celery. Crossing the room, he wrapped his hands around her waist, kissing her softly on the forehead. Sasha melted at his touch, taking him into her arms and nuzzling against his chest. He’d always been a place of comfort and peace for her.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m just still beat from the drive and getting everything set up for us both to work from home. There is something I want to show you.”

He took her hand and led her from the kitchen. “I felt so bad about how I acted earlier that I set up an office for you in the sitting room.”

They turned the corner, and Sasha gasped. The large oak roll desk had been opened and dusted, her laptop and writing gear sitting out along with her calendar and framed picture of Jordan and her at their engagement party. It was perfect. Sasha hugged Jordan and joyfully trotted over to sit in the oversize leather chair. As she wiggled herself closer, her feet brushed against something.

“It’s perfect,” she said. “Thank you so much, sweetheart.”

“Why don’t you get some work done while I get dinner going? We have a few hours before your friend comes.”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “He’s not my friend, not yet at least, but you should try to be nice. He seems like a good guy.”

“Yeah, yeah, I love you.”

He gave her a wink before disappearing into the kitchen again. Her screen jumped to life as she ran her fingers across the keys. As she turned to get settled, her foot again knocked against the object tucked beneath the desk. It was a small annoyance that would quickly distract her and drive her insane. Sliding back in the chair, she slipped to her knees and reached for the box. It was heavier than she’d anticipated, but the second she saw the black metal, she knew what it was. Her stomach flipped with excitement.

Sasha hefted the typewriter case from its resting spot, knocking her laptop onto the chair to make room. It looked at home on the antique desk. Her fingers moved slowly over the case. The company was still around; the typewriter had been one of their first items. It was little details, sprinkles of information that made no sense which continued to baffle her about her childhood. Most of it had been forgotten, yet bits still slipped through. Sasha knew her family had owned one, just as sure as she was that her love for architecture came from those same genes.

The aged clasps groaned beneath her touch as she gently pulled off the hard protective cover. For all its years, the sleek machine still appeared in great condition. Sasha tossed her laptop onto the couch as she pushed back the chair, opening one drawer after another until she found a stack of aged paper. Her hands shook with anticipation as she thought back to her college years. After working extra hours in the campus bar, she’d saved up enough money to buy her own typewriter.

It was at that moment she’d discovered her passion. Unfortunately, no artist's story was without sacrifice, and she’d been forced to sell the typewriter years later just to make rent. She’d had the means since to buy one, but her heart had never committed, at least not until that moment. The pegs beckoned for her fingers. She quickly fed through a piece of the paper and ran the slide over. The first word cracked the dam, the five hundred that followed burst through with ferocity.

Her mind barely registered when she fed the next page, nor did it take into account the following ten before finally, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Sasha jumped and looked up at her confused fiancé.

“I’ve been standing here, talking to you for the last five minutes. Carver is here, and dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes. What’s all this? Is your computer working?”

“Jordan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you. I was in the zone. No, my computer’s fine, but I found this and…I don’t know; the words just started spilling out.”

“Well, I’m sure we can scan them somewhere and send them to your team,” he said with a chuckle. “I bet they’ll get a kick out of it.”

Sasha blushed. “I wrote three scenes!”

“Are you sure? You’ve only been sitting here for a few hours. Maybe it just feels like—”

Sasha grabbed the stack and flipped it over, shoving it into his hand. He took it skeptically and started reading through it. She waited patiently for him to finish before Jordan slowly handed it back to her.

“I guess I was wrong. It’s an amazing piece. I can’t wait for everyone to see what you’ve started.”

“I’d rather wait until it's completed.”

“Come on, we don’t want to keep your friend waiting.”

Sasha reluctantly followed him out of the study. Her mind was swimming with ideas. It always happened like that. One day she could look at a blank screen for hours, and the next, she’d be up for seventy-two hours straight simply writing. If they ever discovered a way to regulate the artist's brain, Sasha would be first in line for the trials. It was an exhausting process for her mind and body alike. Carver smiled at her when they met him in the kitchen.

“I hope you’re still up for dinner. I have to say, whatever he’s cooking smells amazing.”

Jordan grinned. “I’m not always the angry, worried asshole you saw earlier. Can I get you another drink?”

Carver handed Jordan his glass. “It’s already forgotten. I totally get it; you were just looking out for your lady. I’ve got a girlfriend back in the city that I’ve been trying to talk into moving out here for the last two years. I see her on weekends, but it would be nice to be like you two, together all the time.”

Jordan chuckled. “I don’t think either of us would say it’s a cakewalk, but I travel for work a good bit, too.”

“Ah!” Carver exclaimed. “You know, I thought you looked familiar. I wonder if we haven’t crossed paths somewhere before. I just can’t quite place it.”

“Have you spent a lot of time around the elite and privileged?” Jordan asked.

Carver shook his head and chuckled. “I can’t say that I have.”

“Then I don’t think we’ve met before. Maybe it was just someone who looked like me. Anyway, Sasha was knee-deep in work in there.”

Their guest turned his attention to Sasha, who quickly started to blush. She hated being the center of attention, a fact Jordan knew well. Still, she’d been the one to invite Carver over for dinner. It was only fair that she be the one to entertain him. Grabbing the drink Jordan offered her, she rose and grabbed the small box she always kept in her purse.

“Would you like to join me on the patio for a smoke?” she asked Carver.

He grinned. “I thought you’d never ask!”

The trio laughed before Carver and Sasha headed to the front porch with a promise from Jordan he’d come for them when dinner was ready. She knew her partner was anxious to get in touch with the office. He hadn’t checked in all day, and the clients he served were anything but self-sufficient. Sasha was happy to oblige. Carver intrigued her, and she wanted to know more about the obscure town he called home.

6

The pair had only been sitting on the front porch for a few minutes, yet Sasha already felt like she was talking to an old friend. They had so much in common, from their love of San Francisco to their desire for the arts. She could have sat outside smoking and drinking with him all night. Yet it wasn’t long before his phone started to ring. He looked at the screen, a confused look on his face as he answered the call.

Carver gave a few curt answers before ending the call and standing up. He looked ready to beat someone within an inch of their life.

“What’s up?” Sasha asked.

“I have to go. I apologize. It seems my store’s been broken into. The police are waiting for me.”

She gasped. “Oh my gosh! That’s awful! Do you want us to come with you?”

“No, but thank you. I’ve never heard of any crime like this in Harbor Cove before.”

“Unfortunately, these things happen. I’m so sorry, though. Please let us know if there is anything we can do. I hope you get it all sorted out.”

Just as her guest was leaving, Jordan appeared on the patio. He looked a little disappointed that Carver was leaving. Sasha quickly explained what had happened as they watched their new friend race down the driveway. After promising her that they’d stop over the next afternoon, Sasha followed Jordan inside to enjoy what was left of the evening. Before long, her fiancé was starting to dozen on the sofa as she read over what she’d written hours before.

“This is brilliant,” she whispered. “Jordan, I think this might have the potential to be even better than the first script! Can you believe that? I’ve got to get ahold of the others tomorrow. They’ll be blown away.”

“That’s nice, Sasha,” he muttered.

She chuckled and rose, gently shaking Jordan as his eyes fluttered open. He was such an attractive man. She loved to watch him sleep. It was such a strange thing for her to admit to herself, but he always found peace so easily, a novel thing that eluded her no matter how many cocktails of pills she took to aid the process.

Jordan was her own personal angel. He’d come to her at such a low point in her life that she’d been certain she’d never recover. Yet over the course of their sessions, they found strength in each other, working through the agony he felt at breaking his oath and sleeping with a patient. Yet they’d persisted. She kissed his lips softly, wondering if he’d be in the mood for a change. It would be a nice treat.

“Why don’t you go up to bed? I want to get a little more writing done.”

“Promise you’re not going to run off again?” he asked.

“Yes, I promise, now go get some sleep. Thank you for dinner. It was lovely.”

“Don’t work too hard,” he said.

Jordan gave her a peck on the cheek before disappearing from the room. She listened to his steps as he climbed to the second floor. When she was certain she wouldn’t be disturbed again, Sasha counted to ten, running her fingers over the pegs as she centered herself. It only took a few minutes before she was immersed in the world of her serial killer. The bodies continued to pile up with no explanation.

Would they catch him, or would the hero go mad during the pursuit? She liked to leave her viewer wondering, waiting, questioning what was next. Often, she didn’t even know what turns the story was going to take until she was writing them down for the first time. Some ideas made it through the final drafts, while others were discarded or tucked away for the next project. There was no time to consider the editing process, though, as her mind raced, one scene playing out before another.

She only stopped to light a cigarette now and then. It had been her sole condition of staying in the house—one room had to be smoking. The negotiations had been tough, but, in the end, she was happy to pay a hefty cleaning fee in order to write. Granted, she’d had no intention of writing when she’d first agreed to come. Jordan had been right; the place was amazing.

Her fingers moved furiously across the pegs. The killer was taunting his latest victim now, a terrible man who enjoyed raping his wife with kitchen utensils. He moved through the house, grabbing drawers and ripping them out one by one as his debilitated victim tried to crawl away. It was a futile attempt. Sasha had made certain of that. The drugs in his system had paralyzed him.

Every vivid scene brought her closer to the world of her viewer. She could hear the silverware clattering to the floor. Her heart pounded with the victim's fear despite knowing his past misdeeds. The viewers didn’t yet know that the killer was a vigilante. They needed to feel for each person Gallagher murdered because, in the end, he was still just that, a murderer.

She drew a ragged breath, a sharp pain shot through her hand. Cursing, she flicked the cigarette filter into the ashtray. It left a burn between her fingers, but she didn’t care. The moment had been intense, unlike anything she’d ever felt before. With unbridled excitement, she pulled the last page off the typewriter and added it to the growing stack. She had almost eight scenes done in a single day.

It had been months since she’d accomplished so much, let alone work that was genuinely thrilling. The work had exhausted her. She collapsed back in the chair and started to read what she’d just written. The work was fantastic, it quickly engrossed her, but the story was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Sasha smiled when she saw Jordan; it was after midnight. He’d been asleep for over two hours.

“Hi, sweetheart. Did you get thirsty?” she asked.

His mouth hung open. “What the hell was that noise? Jesus, it sounded like a bear was ransacking the damn house!”

“Sweetheart, I didn’t hear anything. Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“I know I was, and it was a damn good dream, too, but that racket woke me up.”

“I’ve been sitting here the whole time and didn’t hear a single thing, not until you came down the steps. I’ve gotten so much done, though.”

“That’s so bizarre. I guess it was in my head. Sorry for disturbing you then. I think I’m going to take a glass of wine to bed with me. This house gives me the creeps.”

“A glass of water might do you better,” Sasha joked.

“Don’t patronize me,” he growled.

She sighed and rolled her eyes as he stomped away. He could have a bear of a temper when he didn’t get enough sleep. Still, his heart was in the right place. Her mind was quickly back on the script. Gallagher had successfully eluded the detectives by the end of the first film, and despite what he was, the masses still rooted for him. Sasha was convinced people inherently wanted to see the good in others.

It was something she’d witnessed time and time again with her parents. She’d been their only adopted child, but it didn’t stop them from trying to give that same love to others. They were always disappointed in the end. Her heart ached for her mom and dad. Life had been so chaotic; she’d barely seen them in weeks. Making a mental note to call them in the morning, she stretched out just in time to see Jordan from the corner of her eye. He looked like he was ready to snap.

“Would you mind coming with me?” he asked.

She was on her feet in an instant. “Sure, honey, is everything okay?”

“I don’t know; why don’t you tell me? I’m not sure what kind of game you are playing, but I thought we promised each other our relationship wasn’t going to have lies.”

“Jordan, what on earth are you talking about?” she asked.

He didn’t answer as he stormed away from her. She followed after him, her heart racing with each passing second as they made their way through the house. He came to a stop so abruptly that she nearly ran into his rigid back. Stepping around him, she followed his line of sight and gasped.

The kitchen had been completely destroyed. Every small appliance was ripped from the wall and toppled onto the floor. Shattered plates and glasses sparkled in the dim lighting. Cutlery she didn’t even realize was there, had been scattered into the dining room. It looked like a madman had gone through the place, just as she’d described in her script.

7

“Jordan, you have to believe me, I didn’t hear a thing, but I was in the zone.”

“There is no way you didn’t hear this unless you were completely passed out. Back when we first started seeing each other, you had issues with sleepwalking—”

“We weren’t seeing each other then,” she snapped. “You were my therapist. You don’t get to use that information against me. Wasn’t that one of the rules when we started dating? Our professional and personal lives stayed separate?”

“That was before this happened,” he muttered. “Sasha, this is something we are going to need to address. Look at this place. You flipped it upside down!”

“I didn't do this,” she whispered. “Why won't you believe me?”

Jordan sighed and shook his head but said nothing in response. She continued to look over the devastation as she carefully walked between the shards of glass. Nothing seemed to have escaped the fury. It had been years since she’d had an issue with sleepwalking, and never once in her history of the bizarre behavior had she ever been destructive. None of it made sense. She tried not to think about the similarities between the wreckage and her own writing.

“Well, I don’t think I can handle this tonight,” Jordan snapped.

“Jordan, I don’t want to stay here anymore. Look at this place. Let’s say that it was me. What is it doing to my mind if this is happening? I’d have to be blacked out to do this. Plus, I’d have gotten no work done!”

He frowned. “And you’re saying that you got something done?”

“Yes!” Sasha exclaimed.

She grabbed his hand and dragged him back to the sitting room where he’d found her just moments before. With the stack of papers in hand, she shoved them at her fiancé. He scanned through them as she waited defiantly with her arms folded across her chest. The way he treated her was already getting old, and they’d barely spent an entire day together. Just once, Sasha wanted Jordan to see her as an equal.

“This is just what you showed me before. I thought you said you wrote something else. You were down here for hours, Sasha.”

Her stomach clenched as she snatched the script back from him. Fishing out the four added scenes, she waved them in front of him. It was childish, but her temper was running short as it was.

“Look,” she hissed.

“Sasha, you showed those to me before I went up,” he said. “I think we need to talk about you starting some medication again—”

“I smoke,” Sasha snapped. “It’s been working just fine until we got here.”

“We haven’t even been here a day. You don’t honestly expect me to pack everything up just because you don’t like it, do you? You said you’d give it a chance; this is doing anything but that.”

“Jordan, I know you think I need to be diagnosed, but I swear to you, I didn’t trash the kitchen like that. I need you to believe me.”

He sighed and pulled her into his arms. She pressed her body against him, seeking his comfort as she struggled to process what was happening. It felt like her mind was slipping away. Jordan had always looked out for her. They had been through so much together. Jordan had helped her cope with her father’s heart attack and almost losing him just as she’d seen him through his parents’ divorce.

“Let’s get some sleep. We’ll get this cleaned up in the morning. Then we can sit down and talk through this once we’ve got clear heads.”

“All right.”

“Come on, my mom sent me a bottle of lotion. I’ll rub your feet for you.”

“Now that sounds like heaven!”

There was no chance that Sasha could sleep. Her mind continued to race as they made their way up the stairs to the bedroom. Everything she’d written leading up to the incident played through her mind as her head hit the pillow. She was asleep before her mind had time to process the blanket being tucked lovingly around her.

* * *

“I only remember bits and pieces of it.”

“Keep trying,” Jordan pushed. “Sometimes, simply talking about dreams can bring them back. They are important, especially while we are trying to figure out what happened last night.”

Sasha sighed. “Fine.”

“Let’s start from the top. Close your eyes. Can you tell me where you are?”

“No. It’s dark. I feel panicked. I can move, but the space feels small, tight. It’s cold and damp. There’s something…I can’t remember. It feels significant, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“All right, let’s keep pushing. What else can you tell me? You said it’s dark; what can you hear?”

Her heart lurched. “Crying. More of a whimper, really. Whoever it was, they were young. There was someone else, too, but it’s more of a feeling, you know? Like when someone is watching you.”

“Could it be the crying girl watching you?”

“No, this feels different. The child is crying, but the other one it’s just watching. I don’t know. I’m sorry, that’s all I remember until I woke up. It doesn’t feel like I slept for thirteen hours straight.”

Jordan chuckled. “Well, you did, and apparently, you needed it. I think we’ve made a lot of progress already.”

Sasha smiled at him, though her heart was all over the place. She’d slept through the morning and part of the afternoon. By the time she’d woken up, Jordan had miraculously managed to get the entire kitchen back in order. They had yet to talk about the ordeal. The dream had caught her off guard. It had been a long time since a nightmare had snuck in.

“Have you had a chance to recall what happened last night?” Jordan asked.

“I remember writing those parts after you went to bed,” she said firmly.

“The ones about the serial killer ransacking a kitchen?”

Her jaw clenched. “Yes.”

“Sasha, you know how I feel about us mixing work and personal, but I think we need to seriously consider a prescription—”

“No,” she snapped. “You aren’t my doctor. You’d be breaking your own oath all over again if you gave me something, and I’m not going to go to a doctor. I don’t need to—”

Jordan sighed. “What do you think happened in the kitchen?”

“I don’t know, but the most logical thing would be that someone broke in and started looking for stuff before realizing I was still awake.”

“Yet you didn’t hear anything. That’s a pretty zoned-out state. You’d sooner believe that someone broke in than you blacked out and had an episode.”

“Please don’t call it that. I haven’t done that in so long,” she whispered.

“Fine. Don’t take my professional opinion. What is it going to take before you realize what’s going on? Does someone else need to get hurt?”

“I…I haven’t hurt anyone,” Sasha whispered.

“No, I suppose you haven’t yet. What if we get cameras for the place? Would you compromise with me? If nothing else happens, we can return them when we go back home.”

“You want to record me?”

“My love, I just want to keep our family safe. Do you want this happening if we have children in the house? Think of your own childhood.”

Sasha shuddered. It took all her strength to keep up the barriers that protected her from the past traumas. Why Jordan was bringing it up now shocked her. They’d talked about children. He dreamed of having a handful of kids but especially a little girl. How could she bring a helpless infant into their family if she couldn’t control herself? Was it possible he was right, and she’d created the chaos?

“Fine, we will try the medication, but only if you write the prescription and only after we get cameras to prove that it’s me doing it.”

“I really think—”

“That’s my condition. I understand what you’re saying, but I have to see it with my own eyes. I can’t have it getting out that I need to be medicated to do my job, not with today’s cancel culture. They’d burn me alive write the script I’ll start after, I’m sure.”

“My personal and professional opinion isn’t enough for you?” he asked. “That stings a little.”

“I’m sorry,” she admitted. “It is, but this is what I need to go down that path again. Can you please respect that?”

“Yes, but you should know that this is serious. How can you ask me to keep pretending like this isn’t a problem?”

“I can’t,” she admitted. “Do you even want to be here with me anymore?”

Jordan watched her for several minutes. She wasn’t sure if he was going to agree or not. Before he could give her an answer, a doorbell rang, echoing through each of the rooms. They both jumped at the sudden intrusion and headed for the door.

8

The man standing at the front door had to be in his late fifties at the very least. His presence there made Sasha uneasy. Even through the tinted glass, she could almost feel his eyes on her, watching her every move. It reminded her of the afternoon before, when she felt a presence lingering on her walk into town.

“Maybe we should ask him for some identification first,” Sasha whispered.

“Nonsense, look at him; he’s probably harmless.”

“Well, Carver’s store was vandalized, and someone broke in last night—”

“Your version of events,” Jordan snapped. “Would you please stop thinking everyone is out to get you? It’s tiresome.”

Sasha pursed her lips but let it go. She stood behind Jordan as she opened the door.

“Can I help you with something?” Jordan asked.

“Good afternoon. I thought they would tell you I was coming down. My name is Wendel. I'm the groundskeeper for this place. I saw you moving an awful lot of trash bags out this morning. Is everything okay?” the man asked in a gruff voice.

“Yes! Of course! Wendel, I was wondering when we were going to meet you. I apologize if we caused you any worry. We had a bit of a... incident last night.”

“Oh yeah? Is everyone okay?” Wendell asked.

His eyes moved over Sasha. She presumed to look for any sign that there had been a physical altercation. The brief moment of consideration, though, eased Sasha’s tensions about the man.

“Well, we either had an intruder, or my lovely fiancée here fell victim to sleepwalking. Personally, I believe it was the latter.”

“And I don't think it was me at all,” Sasha snapped. “As I was telling my wonderful partner earlier, I haven't done anything like that in a very long time.”

“It doesn't mean that the new surroundings couldn't have affected you in some way,” Jordan said softly.

“You know, it could just as well be the spirits that like to run around here,” Wendell offered.

Jordan groaned, but Sasha’s interest perked up. It would only make sense that a house as old as Harbor Hill would have its share of supernatural happenings. It came as no surprise to her that Jordan was a skeptic. She'd always known that he held a complete and utter disbelief and spirits. It was one of the few things they didn't see eye to eye on. Plus, it was one subject that he couldn't seem to sway her on, either. A fact that she secretly thought was infuriating for him.

“Don't tell me you believe that crap,” Jordan said. “I refuse to believe for even a split second that this house has some evil mojo that caused thousands of dollars in damages. More than likely, it was a rogue sleepwalker.”

“Just because you don't believe in them doesn't mean they don't believe in you,” Sasha joked. “I think it would explain a lot! What else can you tell us?”

Jordan groaned. “Can we please not get started on all that? The poor man probably doesn't want to stand here and regale us with crazy people's stories. He’s on the clock, I’m sure.”

“Well, I was just coming to check on you folks, but if it's a good story you're after, I reckon we should head on up to the graveyard. Of course, you can’t take what I said about them spirits too much to heart, though. The most you’ll get around here is the staffs’ kids running the halls.”

“Kids?” Sasha asked. “That sounds wonderful. I bet this is the best house for hide-and-seek.”

Wendell chuckled. “If you like kids, you’ll love her brood. Nice enough, lady. Does a real good job? Don’t get spooked if you round a corner and stumble on one of those boys.”

“Oh, how wonderful, how many?”

“Three boys, sweet kids. So, what do you two say? Do you want to go see the cemetery? That’s about as creepy a place as you can get.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” Jordan grumbled. “At least that’s how it looks in the pictures I’ve seen. It would be great to see it again.”

“You mean in person?” Sasha corrected.

“Yeah, sorry. I guess I didn’t get as much sleep as I thought last night. I think I’d like to go and see it. What do you say?”

Sasha wanted more than anything to go along with him, but a slow, nagging ache had started inside her. She knew it well. It was an old friend. It was the call of the typewriter. It didn’t matter that the last few days had been hell. She found peace in working on her next masterpiece. A moment of fear lingered at the idea of blacking out again, but she couldn’t convince herself it had been her fault, not with all the progress she’d made.

“Well?” Jordan said. “What do you think, Sasha?”

She didn’t appreciate the rushed tone. It was situations like the one they were in that made her anxiety rise. Of course, it was a landmark she wanted to see, but the pressure of them watching her, Jordan now tapping his foot impatiently, was more than she cared to deal with. The script had become a sweet escape for her from all pending commitments, and she was going to take full advantage of the situation.

“I think you two should go ahead. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I really wanna get some work done. You should get out, though. The fresh air will be good for you.”

Jordan frowned. “Are you sure? This sort of thing is right up your alley like the man said.”

“Yes, plus, with you going now, you can show it to me later once I've gotten some work done. It will be a romantic little walk for us!”

“I'm not sure I'd call a graveyard romantic,” Wendell grumbled. “But I guess whatever gets your motors running. Well, what do you say, young fellow? Want me to show you around the property a bit?”

“I guess so. I still really wish you would come with us, though, Sasha. Just promise me you won't get so involved that you're unaware of your surroundings.”

She rolled her eyes. “I promise I won't get carried away.”

“And you promise that you aren’t going to sneak out again? I don’t like it when you do that.”

Sasha blushed, her eyes narrowing at him. “I wasn’t sneaking away. I just went for a walk, just like you’re doing now.”

“In a strange town that we don’t know, what if you’d been kidnapped and someone forced you to write that?”

She laughed. “So, you’ll believe I can get kidnapped in a town like this but not that someone would break in and trash the kitchen? Explain that to me.”

A slight rouge jumped to his cheeks as his eyes darted to Wendel. Sasha knew she’d struck a nerve with him. He didn’t like it when he couldn’t win an argument, especially when there was an audience. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so brazen and full of anger toward him. The house had a strange effect on her, one she wasn’t certain she liked. Jordan was only trying to protect her.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “Maybe thirteen hours wasn’t enough sleep after all.”

Wendell shifted uneasily on the porch. “Maybe I should come back—”

“No, it’s fine. I’m ready to go. Sasha, we can talk about this later. Just promise me you aren’t going to leave the house. Let’s save the exploring for when we’re together.”

“Of course, dear,” she muttered.

Jordan kissed her on the cheek before heading outside with Wendel. The two men already seemed to get along, which was encouraging for Sasha. She worried about him not having enough friends. He seemed to always be working. Such a long time for the early days of their relationship when he was actually courting her. Yet nothing lasted forever. Making her way back to the typewriter, she settled in on her work once again.

Since arriving at Harbor Hill, the words seemed to flow with endless abound. Though she was careful not to let herself be as emerged as she was the night before, it was a constant battle. Everything about the story was coming together, the concepts mapping out through different paths in her mind. A noise burrowed through her veil of concentration as her fingers slowed to a stop. Silence greeted her. It was an old house, noises happened.

She started typing again, pulling herself into the story. Barely ten minutes back at the helm, the barrier was broken again. Irritation started to creep in. Sasha ground her jaw. Her earplugs were still in the bedroom, tucked away with everything else. With a frustrated groan, she rose and stretched out. The noise came again, more pronounced. It sent a chill through her body. It was unmistakable now. There were two voices, both of them young, both giggling.

9

Sasha grinned as she snuck around the corner. Knowing that the housekeeper’s kids liked to play, she had every intention of joining in on the fun. Jordan would be gone for a while, and she was happy for the interruption once realizing who it had to be. Thankfully, Wendell had warned her. Otherwise, her imagination would have run wild. As she rounded the corner, she skidded to a stop. It wasn’t the little boys she’d been anticipating.

Instead, two girls looked up at her and smiled, waving her over to where they had a magazine sprawled out on the floor in front of them. She couldn’t pass on the opportunity. Approaching the duo, Sasha made a mental note of their clothing. Neither outfit felt like it dated with the times. The older girl, a pig-tailed redhead with more freckles than bare skin, was wearing overalls that looked to be from the seventies, while the younger child wore a dress design she’d only seen in her great-grandmother’s photos.

Sasha slid down to the floor near the two. There was an unease building inside of her that she couldn’t place. It almost felt surreal. Subtlety pinching her arm to assure herself she wasn’t dreaming, she turned her attention back to the pair. Though she could hear them talking animatedly about the magazine, there was no movement of their breath on her skin. The scent that all people carried, be it their shampoo, smoke, or environment, was void.

“Hi there,” she said softly. “Where did you two come from? Are you friends of the housekeeper's boys?”

“Oh, the boys don’t talk to us. They aren’t allowed,” the older girl replied. “We tried a couple times when they first came, but their mom got mad. Then we didn’t see them for a long time.”

“Well, that’s too bad. What about your parents? Are they here?”

A tear rolled down the younger child’s cheek, tugging at Sasha's heart. She wondered if they were runaways or orphans.

“Not hers. They’re all gone now, but sometimes my—”

“Shh!” the little one hissed.

“What? She asked,” the older grumbled.

Before Sasha could pry them for more information, both girls froze, their gaze falling behind her. The look of pure fear that struck her when she saw their expressions made her stomach lurch. Every instinct told her not to turn around, yet her maternal side refused to watch as the little girls were shaken without helping. Slowly she shifted her body, her eyes walking up the figure of a third girl. Though she seemed closer to a woman than the others by a handful of years, a teen at the very least.

She was soaking wet. In an instant, Sasha was on her feet and moving to help the girl. It was only when she was a foot away that she skidded to a stop suddenly. Something wasn’t right. There were deep gashes in her arms, wounds that should have caused her to bleed out in the few seconds she stood there, yet the girl was still glaring past Sasha at the other two. The magazine was gone now as the girls huddled together in fear.

“Hey,” she stammered. “We need to get you to the hospital. What’s your name, honey?”

The girl lunged. Sasha ducked to protect her body, knowing she couldn’t get out of the way of the hit fast enough. A sickening sensation filled her body as the air around her dropped instantly with such force that her fingers started to numb. She buckled over, ready to vomit, when she saw the teen charging at the girls. They screamed as Sasha leaped to her feet. Inches before the teen reached them, Sasha wrapped her hand around the girl's wrist.

Her hands passed through the creature with ease, chilling her to the bone as she retracted her hand. Before her eyes, the trio dissipated into thin air, the youngsters' fearful screams still ringing in the air as she collapsed again onto her knees and puked on the floor.

* * *

Three glasses of wine had done little to settle her nerves in the hour since her encounter. She was still struggling to make sense of what had happened. It was impossible. Yet her mind replayed the incident over and over again, and she could find no rational explanation beyond the obvious. Whatever those girls had been, they weren't human. Paranormal experiences weren't unheard of but knowing that a different plane of existence was there and seeing it for the first time were dramatically different things.

With what had just happened, she had no desire to stay at Harbor Hill. Her mind was a challenging place enough on its own without spirits intervening. Getting Jordan to agree to go with her, though, was going to be a battle. With each glass of wine, she grew more confident in her decision. When the front door opened, Sasha jumped. Despite knowing he would be home at any moment, she still wasn't prepared. Her approach had to be delicate.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jordan said as he strolled into the sitting room. “How was your afternoon? Really should have gone to the cemetery with us. It was really inspiring!”

The smile faded from his face when he saw the look in her eyes. Instantly, he was on his guard as he dropped down to his knees in front of where she was sitting on the couch. He brushed a wayward strand of hair from her cheek, his eyes filled with concern as he searched her face for answers.

“Sasha, what's wrong, baby?”

“I don't want to stay here anymore,” she blurted out.

“What do you mean? What happened?”

“Please, can we just go home?”

“Honey, we have already been over this. We can't just pack up everything and go. Why don't you tell me what happened, and we can go from there? I promise, if I thought you weren't safe, I would not have left you here alone.”

“I... I saw something, okay? I know you’re going to tell me I’m losing my mind or something, but you didn't see it. You didn't feel what I felt. It was awful, and those poor girls—”

“What are you talking about? You saw something? I don't know what I’m supposed to do with that information. You aren't making any sense.”

“A ghost, okay? Three of them, actually. Well... one of them must have been a poltergeist or something. It felt... evil. I don't know. It went after the other two. It all happened so fast.”

Instantly, she knew Jordan didn't believe her. His skeptical gaze peered down to enter her as she struggled to catch her breath. Sasha took another deep drink of wine, finishing the rest of her glass. He watched the glass as she set it on the table, her hands trembling as she folded them in front of her. Already she felt like she was losing her mind. She just wanted to get out of there.

“Have you been drinking since I left?” Jordan asked.

She scoffed. “I didn't start drinking until after I saw whatever the hell that thing was! I should have known you wouldn't believe me!”

“Take it easy!” Jordan snapped back. “I didn't say I didn't believe you. It was just a question; you know how alcohol can mess with your head. Jesus, Sasha, what do you expect me to think? First the kitchen, and now this?”

“Don't you see! This explains everything,” Sasha said. “It was that thing, whatever it was. I bet that's what tore up the kitchen.”

“So, let me get this straight. You're telling me that a ghost is to blame? You understand how that sounds a little bit foolish, right?”

“I knew you wouldn't believe me,” Sasha hissed. “Well, I don't care. You can stay here if you want, but I am getting the hell out of this place right now.”

She was off the couch in a matter of seconds, stomping her way to the main staircase before Jordan started to follow after her. He tried to reason with her, but she wasn't going to let him stop her. By the time he reached the bedroom door, she'd already pulled out her suitcase and had it unzipped on the bed. Jordan's phone rang, cutting his speech short as he quickly answered it before putting the call on mute.

“If this is really what you want, then fine, go, but I've never known you to be the type to run away from things. You said there were two other spirits, right? How do you think they're gonna feel about you leaving them behind? I'll drive you back to the city when I'm done with this client.”

Sasha collapsed on the bed with her hands wrapped around her waist. Her heart was torn between what she knew was right and what her survival instinct pleaded with her to do.

10

By the time she’d tucked her suitcase back away and crept from the bedroom to the second-floor office, nearly an hour had passed. Jordan’s voice carried through the closed door along with that of another man’s. She quickly made her way downstairs, not wanting to eavesdrop on the client he was with on speakerphone. Part of her hated Jordan for finding a way to keep her there. Yes, she knew he was right. She would have hated herself had she realized what he pointed out when they had already made it home.

With the alcohol now going from her system and a headache threatening to derail her entire day, Sasha made her way to the kitchen in search of pain killers. The house was well stocked with anything over the counter that they might need. It didn't take long for her to find what she was after and wash it down with a bottle of water. Almost immediately, she felt her spirits being restored. The conversation with Jordan played through her head as she mentally kicked herself for how hysterical she had sounded when she was drunk.

The lights flickered as she set her glass in the empty sink. They jumped back to life only to die a few seconds later, making her heart beat faster and faster. Closing her eyes, Sasha counted to thirty before opening them again. The lights were still off. Knowing it wasn't just in her head, she eased some. It was an old house that was bound to have its quirks. The last thing she wanted to do was disturbed Jordan. She was about to go back to work and leave it for when he was done with his client when she remembered Wendell, the groundskeeper.

She recalled the layout of the property fairly well, having looked over it before they arrived. In the aerial views, it had been hard to make out the small graveyard that Wendell was talking about. Now that she had seen the house in person, though, she had a pretty good idea of where the small groundskeeper’s cottage was located. It wasn't like she was going to be leaving the property. She would be up there and back in just a couple minutes. Creeping out the kitchen door, she started up the hill. Hopefully, Jordan’s call would last a little while longer.

The hill was surprisingly hard to climb. While it looked like an easy, sloping hill, the perfectly maintained grass was deception in itself. By the time she reached the top, Sasha was gasping for air. When she was finally able to catch her breath, it was snatched from her again as soon as she took in the scenery. It was a breathtaking view when she looked out over Harbor Cove. Her excitement quickly turned to trepidation as she spun and saw the small graveyard. Next to it sat the cottage that she had been seeking, yet Sasha found herself walking in the direction of the cemetery gates.

The sculpted iron had ivy wrapped around the dated brick pillars with impressive detail for such an old site. Sasha had expected to find a rundown mass, but instead, she'd come face to face with the work of art. Despite only holding a handful of headstones, the grounds appeared meticulously well maintained. She could tell by the age of the stones that whoever was buried there was still well-loved.

“Can I help you?”

Sasha jumped and spun around to see Wendell glaring at her. “Lord! I about jumped out of my skin!”

“You’d be in a right fine place to do it. It wouldn’t be much work at all for whoever had to clean it up.”

“That’s morbid,” she muttered.

“Well, you shouldn’t be up here wandering around if you don’t know about the place. This land is holy, blessed. Women aren’t allowed up here without a man. That’s why I offered to escort you earlier. I didn’t know you’d be snooping—”

“I wasn’t snooping,” Sasha snapped. “I was looking for you, actually. The lights in the kitchen shut off.”

“The old place will do that from time to time. You just need to reset the breaker. Don’t tell me your man friend down there couldn’t do it.”

Sasha glared at him. “My fiancé is on a business call. I presumed since you were paid to take care of the place, you would be more than happy to help guests.”

He chuckled. “Lady, I don’t care if you’re the queen herself; taking care of that house isn’t part of my job description. I cut the grass and keep the riffraff out when it’s empty. You got an electrical problem, talk to the boss, or better yet, strap on your big girl shoes, go down to the breaker box, and flip the damn switch yourself.”

“Do you have any idea who I am?” she asked, hating herself for how it sounded.

“Of course I do; I just don’t care!”

“You could use a few courses on manners, or is that not something your generation understood?”

“Yeah? Well, I’ll sign up for that class as soon as you go for the one on common sense. Now get the hell out of here before I toss you out on your—”

“I’m going!” she snapped.

“Not fast enough,” he hissed. “There is always room for one more up here, you know.”

Before she could formulate a reply, Wendell had spun around and started back for his cottage. He stopped at the front door and motioned with some aggression for her to get out of the graveyard. Never had she felt so disrespected or chided before. It was nothing really to flip a breaker, but after seeing the spirits, she’d been in no hurry to go poking through the basement on her own. A surge of defiance coursed through her as she glared at the old man, storming off down the hill toward the main house.

She didn’t stop until she was back in the house, staring at the basement steps off the main foyer. There was nothing threatening about them. The wood was old but thick and sturdy as she gingerly put one foot on the first plank. It groaned underneath her. She flicked on the light switch, thankful that the single bulb still had enough life left in it to guide her down to the barren basement. As with other houses, it was unfinished.

There was a natural chill in the air from the earth pressing against the foundation. Sasha swallowed, trying not to think about the stories the space could tell. The spirits weren’t far from her mind, either, as she scanned the dimly lit area. The black box she needed was wedged behind the steps on the back wall. Pulling out her phone, she opened the flashlight and quickly jogged over to the breakers. Within seconds, she had found the labeled switch and kicked it back over to the correct position.

“Piece of cake,” Sasha muttered to herself. “Now maybe I’ll make all the little repairs this place needs just to show that old fart I can.”

Her body froze before she could turn back around, the now-familiar sensation of being watched making the hairs on her neck stand. Sasha’s mind flashed back to the little girls. If she was going to help them, she would have to see them again. Her body shook as she swallowed and slowly turned. The creature was mere inches from her face. With the new proximity, Sasha's stomach clenched at the putrid smell. It burned her nose as she struggled to hold her breath.

Where there had once been lips, only slivers of flesh clung to the spirit's gums. Its hair was missing in large chunks, leaving parts of her skull showing through. Sasha gagged as a maggot crawled out from the things fractured eye socket. She wanted to run, but her body was paralyzed. Above them, she could hear Jordan moving around the house. If only she could scream out to him, but her voice wouldn’t come.

In the blink of an eye, the spirit disappeared only to reappear in the center of the room. It crouched down, running its nail along the cobblestone. The noise pierced Sasha’s ears. She quickly covered them, silently pleading for the pain to stop as she squeezed her eyes shut. There was no way she could last long. The searing agony broke through as she screamed out. Instantly, the suffering ended as she slowly reopened her eyes.

The creature and the sensation of being watched were both gone. The only indication that anything had happened was the markings still on the floor where the beast had made them. With a racing heart, Sasha crossed the room. She gasped and stumbled backward as if she’d been struck when the words came into sight. Unable to control her fear any longer, she raced back up the steps and burst through the basement door.

11

“How is your fiancé going to feel when he realizes you're not home?” Carver asked.

“To be honest, I don't really give a damn. There is something wrong with that place, but he just thinks it's in my head. I know I've had my issues in the past, but that doesn't mean I'm crazy now.”

“I have to admit it does sound a little farfetched. However, it wouldn't be the first time I've heard of spirits. Plus, you are the artistic type. Aren't those the ones they say have that sort of intuition and ability to see that kind of stuff?”

“Well, I've never seen it before, and I sure as hell don't wanna be seeing it now! What do you know about that place?”

“Not much, if we're being honest. Trust me, I know how infuriating that is to hear. I've been trying to learn more about this town for the last two years, but everyone around here is pretty closed-lipped. Honestly, you might have better luck getting answers than I ever would. At least if you go poking around, no one can revoke your vendor's license.”

“They really tried to do that?”

He shrugged. “Nothing on paper, but the threats were made. I had to start snooping in secret then.”

“Why are you nosing around? I mean…I have a good reason. Someone wrote ‘run’ on my basement floor. What am I running from? Is it that spirit? I have more questions than answers.”

“But it’s not your house, right? Why bother? Why not just listen and take off?”

“I couldn’t do that,” Sasha whispered. “Don’t get me wrong, I want to. I want to get the hell away from this place, but…it just doesn’t feel right. What if one of those little girls were mine? They were so scared.”

“Everything about that place sounds scary if we are being honest,” Carver offered. “I don’t think I could go a day without just getting plastered to cope.”

Sasha laughed. “That’s what I’m trying not to do. I just wish I wasn’t such a chicken. One minute I want to stay and help, and the next, I’m running away, ready to be done with it. It’s driving me crazy.”

“That’s because you’re a good person, and no matter the fear your anxiety loads into you, you still want to help them. You aren’t crazy or going nuts for being on the fence; you’re human.”

“Which is more than they can say,” she whispered. “Those poor creatures.”

Carver eyed her before taking another sip of wine. They’d managed to find a place buried deep in the cellar of the shop where they could smoke and have a moment's peace. That was the thing with Carver; he put her at peace. Not in a romantic sense, like a lover or spouse, but his soul matched hers. She found an ease in being around him. Still, they’d only known each other a few hours. Sasha could understand his trepidations when it came to opening up.

“I’m sorry, it’s really none of my business. I shouldn’t be laying all my problems at your feet anyway.”

“I don’t mind listening. This place can get pretty lonely at times. It’s been nice having someone to talk with. I just don’t know how much is safe for you to know.”

“What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t it be safe? Do you feel like someone is after you?”

Carver chuckled. “I don’t think anyone is after me, no. I do think this place isn’t what it seems. Have you looked into the town's history at all? It’s a little unreal.”

“What do you mean?”

“This whole place is like Narnia. I’m telling you, it’s just bizarre. So, despite the lands all around us being protected national forest, this place is still here.”

“That’s not so strange. They aren’t going to wipe out cities just to call it a national park.”

“Right, except the city wasn’t officially recognized as one until months after the land was already granted to the state. Even a hundred years ago, that would take some fancy footwork. The federal government isn’t exactly keen on sharing prime real estate. Plus, this town struck oil not long after that.”

“In this terrain?” Sasha asked.

He nodded. “Have you ever heard of that before?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“Nor will you. You can’t find any records of this town making millions off the oil they sucked out of the land. Now how’s that for a coincidence? They managed to wipe out any record of millions of gallons of oil.”

“If there is no paper trail, how do you know about it?”

He pursed his lips. “That’s a story for another time. Let’s just say that not everyone who lived here wanted to stay.”

“So, someone skipped town and told you an old wives tale? That’s what you’re basing all this on?”

“It’s what got me started down the path, yes.”

Sasha frowned. It was starting to sound like her new friend had a bit of a wild imagination. She wanted to believe him. Knowing the town had some sort of sordid past intrigued her. The cemetery and how guarded Wendell had been only piqued her curiosity more. Still, she knew better than to believe every tall tale she heard.

“Well, I think it’s good that you have a hobby—”

“You don’t believe me.”

“It’s a hard thing to believe,” she admitted.

“You told me about your ghost stories, and I didn’t think you’d fallen off your rocker.”

She laughed. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Plus, I have proof, which is more than you can say,” he said with a sly grin.

“Proof? How? Why didn’t you tell me about that to start with!”

He shrugged. “Because this town isn’t what it seems, and I don’t know who I trust anymore. Sorry, but you’re still a stranger to me, just like I am to you. I was just being careful.”

“Do you think I’m a spy?” she asked.

He chuckled. “I know you’re mocking me, but you’ve only been here a few days. Give it a bit of time. A week, maybe two, then you’ll start to see what I’m talking about. Do you feel them watching you?”

Sasha swallowed but said nothing.

Carver snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. It’s okay. They watch me, too.”

Upstairs the bell on the door chimed. Carver gave her a wink and promised to be right back before disappearing up the steps to the main floor. She couldn’t help but snoop around the space. Had she not seen the top floor, the basement might have frightened her. It was where Carver kept the pieces that were beyond repair. Innards and three-legged furniture dappled the area. Sasha felt sorry for the outcasts in a sense. She knew how it felt to be different.

Two sets of footsteps moved down the basement stairs as Sasha turned back around. Jordan was following behind Carver. Her heart raced as she searched his expression for the anger she knew was there. To her shock, he smiled at her and gave her a tender embrace. The entire situation felt off. Before she knew it, Carver had disappeared back upstairs, giving the two privacy.

“I was so worried about you,” he whispered tenderly. “I’m sorry I haven’t been listening to you. Please, just give me another chance.”

It felt as though Jordan had completely transformed in the span of a few hours. She held him, not wanting to know if it was just her imagination or not.

“I’m sorry I left. Something happened to me in the basement. I promise you, I am not making this up. That house…there is something wrong with it.”

“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry I was unreceptive to your feelings earlier. Finding you gone, something snapped in me. I thought you’d left and gone back to the city. I was heartbroken. It felt like I’d lost you. I don’t ever want to lose you.”

“You can’t blame everything on yourself. I should have tried to communicate things better. I wouldn’t have believed myself if I didn’t see it with my own eyes.”

“You’re my fiancée. I never should have questioned your sanity over it. Never. I crossed a line. Please believe me when I tell you that if I lost you, my life would be over.”

She giggled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you be so dramatic or adamant.”

“Maybe it’s long overdue. You’ve been a patient woman with me. This is it, you and me. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to give you an ultimatum. I’d love nothing more than to be an equal partner with you.”

“Jordan, I love you, and I always will. This is so wonderful. You are my entire world. That place, it does something to me, but I have to admit that I’ve never felt so inspired in my life. It’s beautiful work, well written.”

He laughed. “I know. You’ve shown it to me, remember? And I couldn’t agree more. You’ve got a gift, and this place, this magical, unreal place, amplifies it.”

“It really is something….” Sasha hesitated. “I just wish that thing wasn’t there. That awful creature that’s hurting those two girls. It looks like another woman, but it’s so dark, so angry. Jaded.”

“I would love it if we could stay,” Jordan said. “I know you want to leave, and if that’s the road you want to take, I’ll drive you back right now, but I’m going to come back. I haven’t seen what you’re talking about, but I trust you. If there is really something, a spirit or force in that house, then we need to do everything in our power to help it find peace. So, what do you think? Will you stay and help me?”

Sasha didn’t need to think about her answer as she nodded, tossing her arms around Jordan's neck before kissing him long and passionately. Seeing the dedication in his eyes was all she needed. He was willing to put his faith in her. She wanted to do the same for him. Harbor Hill terrified her. She wondered how the coming days would play with her sanity, but they would battle it together.

12

“Are you sure I’m allowed up here? Your friend seemed pretty adamant that I wasn’t welcome,” Sasha muttered.

Jordan laughed, squeezing her hand again as they walked. The town had been beautiful so late in the afternoon. There was a stillness in the air. Had it not been for her conversation with Carver, she’d not have thought anything of it. Now knowing what she did, though, everything felt unnatural. The sensation of being watched had come back on top of everything else.

“This place has some pretty old traditions. It’s not that you aren’t allowed to be there. They just ask that all women have a male escort. You’re lucky, actually. While I was talking with Wendel, he let slip that the cemetery is only open to the public for a few weeks each year. We just happen to pick the perfect time to come.”

“Really? I wouldn’t think that a gravesite so small, even one as beautiful as that, would be much of a tourist hotspot.”

“Not the tourists, the locals. It’s held in great revere. They’re incredibly watchful over it.”

“Do you know why?”

He shrugged. “Wendell just said it’s sacred ground. I guess all the people buried there were high-ranking members of the community or their family or someone.”

“That’s just strange. So, he knows all about the place but doesn’t have any information to offer? Well, I guess he was still more helpful to you than he was to me.”

Jordan kissed her forehead. “Honey, it’s just the way it goes for this town. Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

“Now that I have a man here to watch over me, right? Make sure my female emotions don’t overtake the graveyards or something like that.”

“I do believe, my lovely fiancée, that you are going off on a tangent. Now, do you want to do that or enjoy this magical place?”

She sighed. “Enjoy the magic.”

“That’s what I thought. Look, you can still read the original engravings on the gate.”

“Too bad we can’t read French,” she commented.

“It’s not French,” Jordan muttered.

“Really? How do you know? I mean, I’m not questioning you, but I saw writing similar to this when I was in France last year. Come to think of it, though, it was in an old mausoleum. That’s strange.”

He shrugged. “Don’t listen to me; I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’ve never taken French.”

Sasha was engrossed in the majesty of the cemetery. She ran her fingers along the cool iron, weaving them between each vine as she snaked her way from the main gate to where the first headstone sat at the edge. The headstone should have been in a museum as ornately as it was carved. In keeping with the theme, hand-carved vines embroidered the edges, looping into the words that detailed the woman’s death. Despite not being able to read what they said, the name was feminine. Sasha moved to the next headstone.

“They’re all women,” she whispered.

“Well, maybe the people who settled this place looked up to them. There were tribes all through here that worshipped women as gods and even let them rule communities.”

“Let them?” Sasha quipped.

“You know what I mean. I’m sure we can find out more about this place if you want to. When I was looking for you yesterday, I saw a little library.”

“There are tons of places I want to explore. I really want to know what’s in the center of the town. It’s chained off. I was going that way when I had my episode.”

Jordan’s cheeks flushed. “Please stop running off like that. I trust you, but it still scares me. If that part of the city is roped off, I’m guessing they don’t want random tourists walking around.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m not some random person. I bet they would love it if some oddities of this place made it into my script—”

“Or maybe they just want to be left out of your limelight. Not everyone has grandeurs of greatness.”

“Yikes, it was just an idea. The library sounds nice, too. Actually, we haven’t really done much walking around town yet. Do you want to go do that now?”

Jordan looked at his watch. “I have another call in about twenty minutes. It shouldn’t take more than an hour. Would you mind waiting for me? I’d like to tag along.”

She smiled and moved to stand in front of him. The cemetery no longer held any appeal with her beloved trying so hard to take care of her needs. Sasha ran her fingers along his chest, kissing him softly on the lips. He stiffened some, but she didn’t relent. Jordan hated public displays of affection. Something about his past traumas made intimacy a struggle.

“There is no one around,” she whispered.

“Come on,” he said as he stepped away and took her hand. “I need to get ready for my next patient.”

Sasha didn’t argue with him as they moved back down to Harbor Hill. Before long, she found herself sitting alone in the parlor, waiting for the words to come as she stared at the blank piece of paper in the typewriter. Grabbing her cigarettes, she lit one and glared at the page. Sometimes, the words just didn’t want to come. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, replaying the last scene she’d written.

A key clicked. Sasha’s eyes flew open though her body remained frozen, the breath caught in her throat. Her eyes moved to the typewriter. Moving her finger across the page, she looked at the damp ink on her thumb. It was real. The letter G had appeared without her touch. She jumped when the thud of the peg struck again.

In a sudden rush, the keys started to move rapidly, two words, over and over again. Repeating as the keys were struck by an invisible force. “Get out.” It appeared a hundred times before a droplet of water appeared beneath the typewriter’s base, followed by another. Suddenly, the pegs stopped moving, the page spent. Sasha jumped into action, sliding it back and desperately searching for the source of the water.

The water continued to pour out of the typewriter. Sasha backed away from it; her mind raced to understand there was no source as a putrid scent filled the air. Her stomach roiled with familiarity. It was the same rotting stench of decay that had stung the air the last time the poltergeist had manifested. Despite the fear coursing through her, Sasha turned and searched for the creature, but the room was empty. It took her several minutes to compose herself and take stock of the situation. Her attention turned to the typewriter. While the manuscript had been placed on the shelf above it, her stack of blank paper was saturated with discolored water.

The water leached up the piece still lodged in the typewriter, dissipating the words the spirit had written. Sasha grabbed the paper, ripping the top half away before the water could consume it as well. When she heard footsteps behind her, she jumped and spun around to find Jordan peering past her to the mess on the desk, his fingers plugging his nose. She quickly shoved the fragment of paper into her pocket before he could see. Sasha wasn’t ready to explain what had happened to Jordan.

13

“Jesus, it smells like something died. Did you clean that thing out before you started using it?” Jordan asked.

She shook her head. “No, I’ve been using it for the last day without any problems.”

“Well, from the looks of whatever is dripping out, I’d say a rodent got in there and died then liquified. We’ll add it to the list of things to pay for, I guess.”

“Hold on,” Sasha interjected. “Carver makes a living fixing things like this. Why don’t we take it down to him and see what he can do?”

“I don’t care what you do with it as long as we can move it to the porch for now. It’s stinking up the whole room.”

“I’m sorry, is that what brought you down? You scared the crap out of me.”

Jordan shook his head, grabbing the typewriter and starting for the front door. Sasha darted ahead of him to open it. The smell followed after him. Even when the door was closed again with the offending object outside, it didn’t dissipate. Jordan went back to the parlor and opened one of the Victorian windows with Sasha following suit until the entire house had a steady breeze moving through it, carrying away the stench.

“There we go,” Jordan said with a pleased grin. “I guess it’s back to the computer for you now. It’s a shame. I know you really enjoyed working on the typewriter.”

“I still want to take it to Carver and see if he can fix it.”

“Well, that’s going to have to wait until later. My client asked for more time, and given the number of damages we’ll need to pay on this place, I think I’ll go ahead and take it.”

“I’ll go down by myself. Listen, I know you don’t like it, but you can’t keep me locked up here. I’ll just drop it off and come right back, okay?”

Jordan sighed. She could tell he was frustrated, but she wasn’t going to give in. There was no dead creature in her typewriter. She had to know what had gone wrong.

“I don’t have the time to fight about this right now, and I’m getting tired of you just disappearing, so why don’t you go drop it off? I’ll meet you at the library when I’m finished. Then we can get some dinner and try the local cuisine.”

Her heart jumped. “Perfect!”

Jordan chuckled. “It’s good to see you happy about something, at least. If it were me, I’d put that stinky son of a bitch in a box and wouldn’t get my hopes up about him being able to fix it. God only knows what one of those costs to replace—

“Roughly four grand.”

He gave a low whistle. “In that case, I sure as hell hope he can fix it.”

Sasha didn’t waste any time digging a box out of the back storage room while Jordan retreated to the upper office. It was considerably harder to carry inside the box, but she didn’t want to go through the hassle of driving the car the short distance and trying to navigate parking. She still hadn’t seen more than a handful of vehicles moving about the community. Five minutes after starting down the driveway, she awkwardly fitted herself and the box through Carver’s shop doors.

His eyes lit up when he saw her, the rag in his hands quickly shoved into a pocket as he took the box from her. Instantly he gagged, giving her a questioning look before heading past the towering walls of antiques to the back room. Sasha followed behind him silently. When they made it to the other end of the hall, it expanded into a second workshop. Carver went to the matching windows on the back wall and opened them both.

“Mind shutting that door?” he asked.

Sasha quickly did as he asked, thankful for the ceiling fan he turned on before opening the box. His face contorted as he pulled out the typewriter case and shoved the box to the side. He coughed, grabbing the rag again and covering his mouth before looking at Sasha again.

“I have no explanation, at least not a rational one,” she said.

“Well then, let’s hear what happened because I’ve never smelled anything like this before,” he admitted.

Carver nodded for her to sit in the chair across from him. To her surprise, he started working on the typewriter right away. Sasha quickly told him about what had happened as she sat down. The words spilled out as the water had done from the typewriter just an hour before. Before. Even as Sasha regaled him with the story, she could hear how crazy the whole thing sounded out loud. Suddenly, she remembered the half sheet of paper and fished it out, smoothing the edges and sliding it across for Carver to see.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Sasha admitted. “Do you have any idea what happened to the typewriter?”

“Well, you’ll be happy to know the stench isn’t from any critters getting inside. Unfortunately, it’s going to take me at least a week to get it back up and running.”

“Holy crap! You think you can actually fix it? Sorry, I’m just…that’s amazing. I thought it was going to be a goner for sure.”

“The smell is from an old sulfur capsule,” Carver said. “It must have been broken when that thing was typing. The vibrations probably knocked it loose from the glue used to keep it in place.”

“What’s a sulfur capsule?”

Carver handed her his towel. Inside she found a glass tube that had lost its clarity over the years, turning it to a dark shade of mahogany. It fit in the palm of her hand, its milky-silver contents spilling out onto the towel, bringing with it a fresh whiff of the putrid smell. Her nose wrinkled as she quickly covered it again.

Sasha turned her attention back to the piece of paper in Carver’s hand. He was carefully unrolling the small parchment with two sets of tweezers. The process was fascinating and excruciating to watch at the same time. She leaned across the table in an effort to read what it said, but it curled on itself, making it impossible from where she was seated.

“They used them back in the day to keep documents safe. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one so small or well hidden. Whoever wrote this note didn’t want it falling into the wrong hands. I’ll be honest, this has me a little stumped. By all accounts, that piece of paper shouldn’t exist.”

“Why?”

“It should have disintegrated a year or two after the writer wrote it. They were made to convey a message, not last for decades.”

“Go figure, another mystery, courtesy of Harbor Hill. What does it say?”

“I have no idea. It’s not in English.”

Carver attached the paper to a clipboard, resting his screwdriver on the bottom to keep it from rolling before sliding it carefully across the table to Sasha. She recognized the writing immediately. It was the same language that was on the headstones. A chill ran through her body, making her shiver despite the warmth in the room.

“I’ve seen this before,” she whispered.

“No shit? That’s interesting. Feel like sharing?” Carver asked.

She shook her head. “Not right now. You said you think you can fix the typewriter?”

“Yeah, it shouldn’t be a problem. The majority of the damage is to the case. If I can’t get it cleaned and that god-awful smell out, I’ll have to source a new one, but you don’t need the base to use it. Give me a couple days and check back in.”

“You’ve got it. Listen, I can’t thank you enough for all this. Really, I don’t know what I’d do without you. I promise I’ll have more answers for you when I come back. I just want to be sure first.”

“All right, well, I hope the rest of your evening goes better than your day has,” Carver replied. “Don’t forget your paper there, though, or this one.”

She looked at the two pieces and shook her head. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to leave them here for safekeeping.”

“I don’t know how much safer it’s going to be, but I’m happy to hold onto them.”

“You never told me what happened with the break-in the other night,” Sasha said.

He scoffed. “Nothing, it was a false alarm. I don’t even know why they called me. I left the back door unlocked so I could get back in. It’s an old place. The wind knocked it open. Nothing was missing, and there was no one on the cameras. The whole thing was a waste of time and ruined a good night.”

“At least it wasn’t something more serious.”

“Yeah, this time. Just do me a favor and be safe out there. I enjoy having a friend,” he said.

“I will, I promise.”

14

It wasn’t hard to find the small library, but the short walk had proven to be as bizarre as the rest of their stay. Three people had passed by her, each one staring with a mixture of fascination and malice. It was easy to tell that they didn’t want her there. When she ducked into the library, Sasha let out a heavy sigh. The familiar scent of books always eased her tension.

“Can I help you?”

She jumped, having missed the librarian altogether at the front desk. The woman was Sasha’s age. For the first time, a local smiled at her. Instantly, she was relieved.

“Hi there, my name is—”

“We know who you are,” the woman said. “I wasn’t expecting to meet you here, though.”

Sasha blushed. “Right, well, I was hoping to do some research online. Do you have a computer available?”

“Is it for your next movie?” she asked.

“There is a lot of research that goes into things,” Sasha said.

It hadn’t been a lie so much as an omission. Even though the woman seemed pleasant enough, things could change in an instant. There was something going on in Harbor Cove, and Sasha was going to find out what it was. The fewer people who knew about her motives, the better. Carver alone knew what was really happening, and that was the way she planned to keep it. A surge of guilt moved through her as she thought of Jordan. Why couldn’t she tell him how she truly felt?

“Well, we are happy to accommodate you. How are you finding Harbor Cove so far?”

“Ah…it’s interesting.”

Another patron walked through the doors. The librarian nodded in the direction of a cluster of outdated computers. She sighed. It would have to do until she could get back to her computer. There was no point in wasting time while she waited on Jordan. Finding a seat as far away from the main doors as possible, she opened the browser and waited for it to load. After the web browser appeared, she entered some of the characters she’d seen on the parchment into the search.

Several minutes after searching through articles, she was able to find the details. It was a mostly dead language used primarily in rural areas of Spain though it wasn’t common among the settlers that came to the area. Just knowing the language's origination gave her a huge boost in her search efforts. The further back she dug into the area, the more she discovered until she finally found an article on the small community.

It looked to be a photocopy of a newspaper clipping from San Francisco in the early days of the newspaper, June 1920.

Harbor Cove; A Modern Mystery

Welcome back to another haunting tale, brought to you by me, Grover Blight, The Curious News team’s resident sleuth. Nestled amongst the overgrowing pines of Harbor National Forest, you’ll find a hidden gem, forgotten by the world but not by the people who call it home. With its colorful history, oftentimes riddled with great loss or astounding gain, Harbor Cove is an enigma, one this writer had to witness firsthand.

I was first approached by a former resident of Harbor Cove last May. Despite his occasionally mad rantings, he was able to tell me about his home. Over the last nine months, I have spent time in this cryptic community yet still learned very little. There seems to be no certain timeline for when it was founded, only that it was before the land surrounding it was government property.

A foreboding cemetery on the outskirts of the town told me most of the story as the locals seemed unwilling to help. All requests for a meeting with government officials were denied, despite my rights as a reporter. They didn’t seem threatened by my knowledge of the law, their mayor having some grand disillusion that he was above it. Yet it wasn’t going to slow me down. In the still of the night, I made grave etchings to study back home.

The heartbreaking account is much like other early settlements of the time. Smallpox seemed to have ravaged their town, only six families were spared the heartache, and even those families lost children. At the end of the outbreak, a mere thirty-seven people were left alive out of a population of four hundred people. Armed with this information, I returned to Harbor Cove, where I met a young woman who, under the promise of anonymity, agreed to tell me the lore of her home. For this piece, we will call her “Martha.”

A descendant of one of the original six families, Martha told me of a belief among the older villagers that their families were spared because of human sacrifices. Now, under normal conditions, I’d presume she was surely joking, but her tale lined up with the madman before. Had I misjudged him? Martha shared how her family's wealth came about through oil deep in the ground and deals struck with long-dead politicians. Deals that would never hold in court today yet had somehow managed to pass through unchecked.

Fortune struck the families yet again when the forest was timbered. The staggering income befell them just the day before the land was sold to the government. Years later, not a single family was struck with Spanish flu but the medical supplies company the six families had started a month prior made millions. Throughout their history, the residents of Harbor Cove have had nauseatingly good luck. Why, then, were they so unwilling to discuss it?

Before my time with Martha came to an end, she told me of a second cemetery, one that might have the answers I’ve been searching for. I’ll return at some point. My curiosity and devoted readers deserve it. I hope you’ll stay tuned for next month and pick up the latest edition to find out what I discover about the harrowing Harbor Cove.

Sasha’s heart was beating a mile a minute. She’d seen no cemetery on their drive in, but it was possible the forest had already reclaimed it. Why wouldn’t the residents maintain something with such historical significance, though? There was no doubt that the second cemetery he spoke of was the one behind Harbor Hill. Her fingers moved with lightning speed as she scrolled through the webpage for the second part of the article, but nothing came up.

Grinding her teeth in frustration, she widened the search out to the internet but still came back empty-handed. Finally, with no success, she searched for the journalist who had written the piece. The blood drained from her face as the old clippings filled the pages. His picture smiled back at her from the obituary. His death had been the result of old age and nothing more. He simply never followed up with the piece, either that or his publisher hadn’t let him.

Sasha quickly grabbed the pen and notepad she always kept with her. Jotting down the names of the man’s relatives and descendants, she planned to take her search one step further. It was a long shot, but perhaps, he’d told one of their parents the tail and it was passed down. She’d just typed the man’s eldest son's name into the search when she heard a familiar voice. Sasha quickly glanced in the direction of the desk. Jordan was smiling and chatting with the librarian in a low voice.

Closing out of the windows, she quickly cleared the computer's search history and pulled up a fresh tab. She hastily typed in her favorite news site and clicked on the first story with one hand as she shoved her notebook and pen back into her purse with the other. Jordan approached seconds after the news article loaded. Sasha looked up and smiled at him. Instantly his eyes darted to the screen.

“I’m sorry that took so long, sweetheart. Cameron said you’ve been here over half an hour.”

“Cameron?”

“The librarian?” Jordan offered. “She’s wearing a nametag, honey. Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I did. Honestly, I didn’t realize how much time had passed.”

“Just the usual news from the outside world, then?” he asked, looking again at the screen.

“Yep, it felt good to catch up on things. I feel like I’ve been trapped in a bubble.”

“Well, I’m sure now that you’ll have to use your laptop again, some of that will go away. You can get online anytime you want at home, too, you know.”

“Oh, I know, I was enjoying the disconnect for a little while, but this definitely reminded me of what I was missing out on.”

“Good, you ready to grab some dinner?” he asked.

Sasha nodded and turned off the computer as she rose. Her heart was racing. She hadn’t forgotten about her computer, but Jordan had her password. Something told her he wouldn’t enjoy digging into the town’s past nearly as much as she did.

15

“I’m just surprised, that’s all,” Sasha whispered. “You’re the last person on earth I’d expect to bring in a priest.”

Jordan chuckled. “Listen, I don’t want you to feel like I don’t believe you and the guy offered. This place has a history of weird things happening, and if it helps put your mind at ease, I am more than happy to take the extra step.”

She leaned into him. It was a strange but welcome surprise to their morning. The man had frightened Sasha at first when she had answered the door. The look of pure fear on his aging face was enough to send her running, but Jordan quickly reassured them both that everything was fine. The man hadn’t expected anyone to be there and thought her a spirit, while Sasha hadn’t been privy to his surprise yet.

“I must say, this place brings back a lot of memories,” the priest said.

“So, you’ve been here before then?” Sasha asked.

He nodded. “About thirty years ago now. They wanted the place blessed for the new family moving in. Nice folks.”

“Do you know what happened to them after they moved out?” she pressed.

“Sasha, the man didn’t come here to be grilled; he came to do us a favor. Let’s let him get to work. What do you need from us?”

“Oh, nothing really. It would help if you wanted to come along with me, young lady. Since it seems you’re the one having the troubles. Otherwise, just stand back and let the good Lord do his work.”

“You can say that again,” she muttered.

“I’m going to leave you two to it then and get on my first call of the day,” Jordan said.

Sasha didn’t want to be left alone with the man, but she could think of no logical reason for stopping Jordan, either. She watched him go upstairs as she wrapped her arms around herself. The priest was watching her every move.

“Is there anywhere in particular that you’ve been having problems?”

“Well, the basement and the foyer, those are the only two places I’ve seen anything, but the kitchen was wrecked. Jordan keeps telling me I did it while I was sleepwalking, but…”

“My dear, let's address one thing at a time. If you would like to set up joint counseling with our ministry services, we would be happy to accommodate you.”

“I don’t think we need counseling,” she grumbled. “I was just sharing.”

“You said you had problems in the foyer? Why don’t we start there?”

Sasha followed behind him again to the foyer. She gave him space as he started to pray, lighting a tuft of sage as he moved around the room. The smell was overpowering. It made her stomach churn. Covering her mouth, she turned away from the pastor to look out the window. It was a welcome distraction to watch the trees blowing in the breeze. Still, the man’s persistent prayers broke through her concentration.

They grated on her nerves as his rhythm grew into a chant of the psalms. She recognized enough of it to understand what he was saying. He circled around until the chanting stopped. Sasha focused on him. He was watching her again, the same way the villagers did when she saw them. Part of her wanted to scream at him, but she knew it was irrational.

“What?” she snarled. “Sage isn’t my favorite.”

“I’m just waiting on you, ma’am, so we can move on to the next part of the house. You expressed problems in the basement as well? Would you like to go there now?”

Sasha nodded and headed out of the foyer. The hall leading to the basement felt exceptionally narrow as they approached. Whether it was the pastor or his actions, something was keeping her anxiety at the tipping point. She hugged the wall, the man’s words ringing in her ears as she struggled to keep her grip on the conscious world. Every word he spoke grated on her brain. When they reached the basement door, the pain suddenly stopped, and she realized it was silent at last.

“Are you sure you are okay, my dear? I can do this on my own, though it really does help to have you here. I worry for your soul with this adverse reaction you seem to be having.”

“Maybe if you could just hold off on the prayers till we get down there, Padre,” Sasha said, finally able to catch her breath. “I’m just a little winded. I guess that’s what I get for smoking so much.”

“You know your body is a temple of the Lord’s, his to mold as he sees fit. You are poisoning his holy sanctuary.”

“You’d hate to hear about what I do after dark then,” she grumbled.

Brushing past him, Sasha jerked open the basement door and flipped on the light. Stomping down the steps, she felt a chill run up her back. He took his time wandering down the steps as if he’d made the trip a dozen times before. The priest watched Sasha as she pressed her back against the cool wall. Heat emanated from her despite the cool temperatures. The bile started to rise again as the man spoke. His words seemed directed toward her, though he moved around the space, lighting his sage and chanting.

The world around her started to slip again; her vision faded in and out until it suddenly went black for a split second before returning, but the duo was no longer alone. The priest was oblivious to the creature now standing in front of her. Sasha could see the girl's eyes as she stood in front of her. Despite the fear that continued to linger inside her, she now saw something else, a longing deep inside the monster.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she whispered.

She could sense the apparition trying to communicate with her, but the pain in her stomach was so intense that she couldn’t comprehend the message. The woman opened her mouth, a waft of the pungent smell filling Sasha’s nose. Her decaying flesh clung to the bones. Only a horrifying gurgling noise emanated from her parted lips. There was no tongue left to give shape to her words.

“Please,” Sasha pleaded. “I don’t understand. Please just leave me alone.”

Sasha gasped as a sharp stabbing sensation shot through her abdomen. She doubled over in pain, collapsing on the cool ground. The spirit dissipated into the air, leaving no trace of its presence. Her head was swimming by the time she felt the pastor's hands on her. She tried to fight him off, but she could barely lift her arms.

“Stop praying over me,” she growled.

“Forgive her, Lord—”

Sasha shoved him away. Her strength had returned suddenly, shocking them both as he collected himself off the floor. He glared at her. Part of her wanted to apologize, but she could still feel the anger coursing through her body. The commotion had brought Jordan out of his study and down to the basement. Jogging over to the pastor first, he quickly asked him what had happened.

“The girl has the devil inside of her,” he snarled. “It’s not the house we should be trying to free from spirits. If I were you, I’d keep her down here and let me bring back a few of my brothers to perform an exorcism!”

“Excuse me?” Sasha hissed. “You can get the hell out right now. I shoved you away because you were touching me without my permission, you jerk.”

“Sasha!” Jordan exclaimed. “I’m so sorry, Father. Please, let me walk you to the door, and if there is anything I can do….”

Her jaw dropped. She couldn’t believe Jordan had taken the holy man’s side. After waiting for them to move up the steps, she started on her own. As she reached the top flight, she turned and looked for any sign of the spirit, but there was none. Shutting off the light, she closed the door and turned to find Jordan.

Sasha jolted to a stop. Jordan was nowhere to be seen but sitting in the middle of the hallway once again were the two girls. She didn’t want to approach them. The last time she’d tried to interfere, the water girl had come back. Instead, she held her breath and watched them. The older girl pulled a piece of paper from the hem of her dress. She looked up and down the hall as if she were searching for someone, but her eyes moved through Sasha.

The girl quickly produced a pen and scribbled something on the paper. Sasha tried to move closer, but as the girl quickly tucked the pen back away and rolled the note, there was no reason. She gasped, and suddenly, both spirits looked at her.

“You wrote the note,” Sasha whispered. “What does it say?”

16

The spirits were gone before they could answer, though she still wasn’t sure they could hear her. She knew Jordan was mad from the way his stomps carried through the hall to where she was standing, but she didn’t turn around. Sasha needed every last second to collect herself. The house was starting to change Jordan. She could feel it in the way he treated her, like one of the many people who came to him with disturbing mental disorders.

“You want to tell me what the hell you were thinking shoving an old man like that? He’s got bruises, Sasha!” He boomed. “You’re lucky he’s not pressing charges against you!”

Her cheeks flushed as she turned. “Oh please, I think that’s a little dramatic. He was praying over me. He had his hands on my head and wasn’t giving me any room to breathe. He wouldn’t listen, so I pushed him away. It’s not like I’m your size. It was a little shove, not assault.”

“You need to get yourself under control. I thought that if I was a little more understanding that this would blow over, but—”

"But what? But you’re starting to realize that maybe I’m not crazy? Because if you have anything other than that to say, this conversation is over. Or maybe, you’d like to talk about your actions down there. I didn’t see you rushing to my aid.”

“I was too busy dealing with the old man you assaulted! Yes, assaulted! When I walked down there, that’s what I saw, and if you expect me to lie for you to cover up whatever issues you have going on, you can think again.”

“Do you really think I’m that unbalanced?” Sasha asked, her eyes stinging with tears.

He sighed. “I just don’t know anymore. You refuse to accept something is wrong. You refuse medication or help. What am I supposed to think?”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. After everything they’d been through together, she was hoping they were turning a new leaf, but Jordan still believed she was insane. The tears broke through as she raced away from him. He called after her, but she didn’t stop as she took the steps two at a time. The smell hit her at the top. It had been so unexpected she grabbed the railing to keep herself from toppling backward.

The instant she looked past the tears and saw the creature standing there, she gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth by pure instinct. It had taken a different form. While still waterlogged and decaying, the injuries were fresher somehow. Sasha could see a gaping wound on her neck. In the basement, it had no tongue, but now, when its lips parted, a word slipped out.

Run.

No sooner was the word out of the apparition's mouth than its hands were flying through the air. Sasha flinched instinctively, her balance knocked off-center. Somewhere behind her, Jordan screamed her name. She felt her foot slip from the step but wasn’t quick enough to catch herself before tumbling down the stairs, knocked into unconsciousness.

* * *

When she woke, she was sitting in the basement. The air was cool on her body. She reached up and touched her head, wincing at the pain caused by her fall. Her eyes were still struggling to focus, but she could feel the sticky blood as it clung to her fingers. Though her vision was still poor, Sasha knew she wasn’t alone. She could hear the girl as she drew on the stones, singing quietly to herself. Sasha was shocked to find it was the older of the two girls she’d seen before.

Her mind was still in a haze as she recalled the incident. The pain told her it hadn’t merely been a dream, but where was Jordan? He wouldn’t have left her down there, nor would he have drugged her. She wanted to question the spirit but needed to find her fiancé more. Summoning her strength, she tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t move. Panic rose inside her as she attempted to wiggle her toes but could feel nothing.

Her mouth opened to scream for Jordan, but no sound came out. The sensation was frightening. She could feel her vocal cords move, yet the noise didn’t reach her lips or ears. Turning her focus back to the girl, she tried to get her attention. Her hands were still working. Pushing herself away from the wall, she dragged her paralyzed body in the child’s direction.

The closer she got to her, the more intense her pain became, but she didn’t stop. The fear and anxiety send adrenaline course through her. Finally, she was within feet of the girl. Just as she reached out for her, the haze lifted, and the child’s song became clear.

"They're coming for you, they're coming for you, soon you'll join us, you'll be one, too, don’t worry, sweet girl, they're coming for you."

The words echoed through her. Sasha fought to stay conscious. Whatever was paralyzing her was swiftly moving through her body. Her fingers started to tingle, but she refused to give up. She cleared her throat.

“Help,” she whispered.

Sasha gasped. Elated that she could speak again. It was like nothing she’d ever experienced. The searing pain in her head was the sole indicator that she was conscious and not in a dream. Her body ached, presumably from the tumble she’d taken down the steps. Why had she lost her voice, though?

Building the pressure in her lungs, she tried again to yell for Jordan, but the barrier persisted. The only explanation was that she must have broken something in her throat in the fall, preventing her from raising her voice. Terrified Jordan wouldn’t find her, Sasha knew she had to distract herself or slip into an unconscious state again.

She forced herself to keep talking. “What do you mean they are coming for me? Who are they? The town? The people?”

“I never should have disobeyed. I wanted to be there, but they weren’t going to let me go. I was plenty old enough, you know,” the girl replied.

“Who did this to you?”

“Daddy said he still loved me, even though I was bad. Mom said I did a good thing, though. She was a second sister, too.” She gasped. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that.”

Her heart wrenched. “Please, help me understand what’s going on. What’s a second sister? Who were your parents? At least tell me your name!”

It felt like only part of what she was saying slipped through to the girl as if they had a bad connection on a call. It was infuriating.

The girl shrugged. “It’s okay. I was sad at first, but then I made new friends, like you!”

“Do…do you know what you are?”

She giggled. “I’m a girl, silly! Just like you! That’s why you’re here. This is where we all came before….”

“Before what?” Sasha asked.

The girl looked nervous. “I’m not supposed to talk about that…about the before part. She wouldn’t like it.”

“It’s okay. I won’t tell her we talked about it. What happened before you came back here? Did your daddy do something?”

“Oh no, Daddy would never do this. Daddy loves me…even after what I did, he still talked to me for so long.”

“What did you do?” Sasha asked again.

She sighed. “She just made me so angry, ya know? Always the center of attention, always so pretty and perfect. Even after she killed him—”

“Who killed who?”

“You know, the ‘chosen one,’” the girl replied with an eye roll, “they can’t do anything wrong. I guess you’ll understand soon. They were wrong, though, all of them. They didn’t get it right until I came along.”

“Who are they?” Sasha asked.

“Will you play with me?” The girl asked.

She sighed. “I can’t move most of my body. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but you can help. Please just help me.”

“There is no help. When you see that, you’ll be free. Plus, I don’t want to play right now. You have to go.”

Sasha swallowed. “Go where?”

“We will have lots of time to play together soon, just a few more weeks, and everything will be back to normal.”

The numbing sensation had completely taken her hands. The only thing keeping her sitting up was the dead weight braced on her wrists. The girl ignored her question and went back to singing the song. After a few seconds, she stopped and looked at Sasha. The smile was unsettling.

“You’ve got to wake up, Sasha,” she said.

“What?” Sasha stammered.

“If you don’t wake up, they will kill me.”

“I don’t—”

Suddenly the room went dark. She felt as though her body was being lifted. The panic started to ease; though she was still frightened, it was quickly being replaced with overpowering fatigue. Her mind danced with questions. Was death finally calling her home?

She couldn’t keep her eyes open. All the pain had dissipated. Tranquility had taken every one of her emotions away. There was nothing to be afraid of, nothing to worry about any longer. As she felt the rafters press against her body, she succumbed to the darkness.

17

Sasha jerked her legs and gasped as the fresh air hit her lungs. Instantly, Jordan was at her side, laying her back down on the sofa. The windows were open wide, yet she could still smell the faint scent of decay. She wiggled her toes, relief coursing through her as she felt them move at her command.

"Hey now, take it easy. You took quite a tumble! I'm really starting to think we should keep you in bubble wrap. Jesus, babe, you scared the daylights out of me.”

“I…I don’t know what happened.”

He shook his head. “It’s my fault. I was chasing after you. I was being such a dick. I don’t know why you put up with me sometimes. You gave me one hell of a scare, though. It looked like you just lost your footing. They really should have runners on old wooden steps like that.”

Sasha’s head was throbbing, and her body ached, but she felt otherwise intact. It didn’t shock her that Jordan hadn’t seen the spirit at the top of the steps. The damn things only seemed to enjoy torturing her. Just once, she wanted him to see what she was dealing with. Her throat burned as she reached for a glass of water he’d set on the coffee table. He quickly jumped back to give her space and handed it to her.

“I really think we need to talk about what’s been going on with you lately,” Jordan said.

Sasha frowned. “Jordan, we have been over this before. There is nothing going on with me. Honestly, I wonder if this house is starting to get to you.”

He scoffed. “Wow, if that isn’t textbook projection, I don’t know what is. Do you really want to go through a rundown of each of our mental histories?”

Sasha glared at him. “You know, just because I’ve had issues in the past doesn’t mean anything. I didn’t have any problems until we came up here.”

“Oh yeah? And how was your book going?” Jordan asked.

Sasha snorted, swinging her legs around so that she could stand up. It was an infuriating argument that it seemed like they’d had every day since arriving at Harbor Hill. She was quickly getting tired of it. He wouldn’t admit when he was wrong, not then and not ever. She pushed off the couch, but the instant she did so, the world around her started to spin. Jordan was back at her side immediately, helping to ease herself back down onto the couch.

“Listen, I really don’t want to argue with you right now. Can we please just give it a rest?” Jordan asked.

“Fine,” Sasha muttered. “But at some point, we are going to have to have a serious conversation.”

“Great, I couldn’t agree more, but for now, let’s just get you back on your feet. Are you ready to try again? Maybe with some help this time?”

Sasha nodded but said nothing. She was still incredibly aggravated with him, but he was right that she needed to get up and move. Rubbing her fingers together, she felt a layer of crust on a couple of them. Her heart pounded, already knowing what she would find when she looked down at them. The dried blood mocked her sanity. Jordan looked down at them and frowned.

“You must have cut your fingers somewhere on the way down. Sorry, I didn’t clean them up before; I just now noticed it.”

“It’s fine,” Sasha replied.

“Sasha, I know this isn’t something we want to talk about, but I think you should consider therapy again—”

“No fu—”

“Before you jump into it. I want this to work, and I’m willing to meet you halfway. What if you talked to me, in a safe space, outside our relationship?”

She eyed him. “You’ve always said you’d never council me again. It would be unethical.”

“I know, but some things are bigger than my professional ethics, and this is one of those times. It’s killing me to watch you suffer. I just want to help in any way that I can. If it can’t be as a boyfriend since I don’t understand what’s going on, maybe it can be as a friend and doctor.”

“Jordan, I don’t know what to say. This is totally unexpected,” Sasha admitted.

“Say you’ll at least consider it?”

Sasha didn’t need to consider it. She wanted a way to bond with him again. “When can we start?”

He laughed. “Why don’t we work on getting you standing first and maybe some coffee. Then, we can take it from there. I have the afternoon free. Should I pencil you in?”

“You better believe it.”

A few minutes later, she was standing up. Every step made her question if she would be able to go any farther. Though the world tried to spin, she was able to keep a grasp on reality by focusing on her feet. To Jordan’s credit, he never left her side. By the time they made it to the kitchen, Sasha was able to walk and stand on her own without becoming nauseous. There was a soft knock on the front door that drew both of their attention before the conversation could resume.

“Why don’t you walk with me to the door?” Jordan asked. “It will do you some good to keep moving those legs.”

She nodded and took his hand. When they rounded the corner, he pulled it away again. Her heart fluttered, but she knew it was only to answer the door. Jordan rarely showed his affection in front of people. It should have come as no surprise to her that it would be any different even after a head injury. He waited for her to get to him before opening it to find the librarian on the other side.

“Hi, there!” she greeted them.

Sasha ruffled instantly. She wasn’t a fan of surprise visitors, but Jordan seemed delighted.

“Hello, it’s Cameron, right?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, you’ve got a good memory. Listen, I hope I’m not intruding, but I am on the city council, and I thought you guys might want to join the town for the first day of Chelneau tomorrow. It’s a lot of fun!”

“Of what?” Sasha asked.

“Chelneau, it’s an old word, nothing interesting, but Harbor Cove has a fourteen-day celebration each year to bring in the fall. Back in the day, it was for harvest, but now it’s just a good reason for everyone to get together!”

“I don’t know,” Sasha muttered.

The woman frowned. “Listen, I know it might sound lame to a big city screenwriter like yourself, but you seemed pretty interested in the history of this place earlier. There would be a lot for you to learn. You might even get some fresh ideas.”

Sasha eyed the woman. “How did you know I was—”

“It sounds like a great time, does it, sweetheart?” Jordan spoke over her. “Think about what you could learn. Plus, we needed to see if the typewriter is done anyway, right?”

Sasha bit her tongue. She wanted to interrogate the woman but knew she would be making no friends by doing so. Unfortunately, Jordan was right. She wanted to know more about the town. So far, the only information she had gotten was from spirits that seemed perfectly content to make her life a living hell every chance they got.

“You know what? That does sound like a great time. What time does it start?”

The woman beamed. “At sundown. Oh, you’ll have such a wonderful time! I promise I’ll find you both and give you a little tour.”

“Perfect, that gives me time to swing back by the library and do a little more research.”

Sasha could see that her words ruffled the woman, but she didn’t care. She lifted her chin in a gloating manner as she wrapped her arm around Jordan. A blush jumped to Cameron's cheeks as she looked away from the pair, giving them a short goodbye before she started back down the driveway. Jordan jumped away from Sasha as if he'd scolded her.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

She rolled her eyes. “What? I didn’t like the way she was looking at you. I got protective. Do you still want to do that session or not?”

Jordan grumbled but jerked his head toward the stairs. She followed behind him slowly, watching each step as she took it before reaching the top. Tomorrow she’d get more answers in her quest, but for the time being, she was going to work on her relationship with her fiancé.

18

To her complete shock, the session went well. Jordan hadn’t talked about the house, the nightmares, the sleepwalking, or the spirits that she had seen. Instead, they focused on her troubled childhood, a landmark once again for him. Given her past struggles with depression, he’d always encouraged her not to dive deeper into her life before her adoption. Now, he seemed to think it could help unlock some of what was going on.

Sasha now sat across from Carver, explaining everything that had transpired in the last twenty-four hours, including what she had found online.

“So let me get this straight; you have a formal invitation now to this festival?”

“Yep, why?”

His jaw hung open. “It’s a little baffling. Like, it’s not even something I want to attend because I am still considered an outsider. The first year I was here, people glared at me anytime I set foot outside my building. Last year, I didn’t even bother to leave the entire time. So yeah, I’m shocked they’re so willing to let you join in.”

Sasha frowned. “Great, now I’m really excited about going! Nothing like being the unwanted center of attention. That’s right up my alley.”

Carver laughed. “Listen, I’m sure they are all going to love you and worship the ground you walk on. After all, you’re a big star, even in this little town. I’m nothing but a thorn in their sides. I bet you’re going to have a blast and think about everything you’ll be able to learn.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s about the only reason I’m going.”

“From what it sounds like, things are only getting worse up there. Maybe instead of a priest, he should have brought in a medium.”

“You know, that’s not a bad idea. I never thought of that,” Sasha said earnestly.

“Still, an invitation to the big festival, that sure is something.”

“I was going to ask what you knew about it, but it doesn’t sound like you’ve been out there enjoying it, either.”

“Not really. All I know is that everyone seems to have a good time, lots of booze, dancing, hugging, everyone is happy.”

“Until they see you…or this year me,” she muttered.

Carver shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Listen, if you get a chance to corner someone, and they’ve had enough to drink, ask them about the curator.”

“The curator?” Sasha asked.

“Yeah, I don’t really have much to go off of, but one of them stumbled into my shop last year, drunk off his ass, and started rambling on about electing a new curator. When I asked him when that was going to be, he looked at me like I was a complete idiot.”

“So, what did he say?”

“That the curator would come when the time was needed, of course. Like that was common knowledge I was supposed to know even as an outsider.”

“So, who the hell is the curator?” Sasha asked.

“I was hoping you’d be able to find that out.”

Sasha promised to share any information she found with Carver and swore she would stop by later that evening to pick up the typewriter. She wanted to get back to the library, though, and press Cameron for some answers. Armed with the knowledge Carver had given her, she set her sights on the woman smiling behind the counter.

“Hello again!” Sasha said with a thick charm.

“Wow, I don’t think we’ve ever been so popular with someone so famous.”

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for the small-town charm.”

“Then you must feel right at home here. Are you going to be using the computers again?”

Sasha bit her tongue again. She wanted to bring up the woman's comment from the day before. Still, it would only serve to agitate the lady. Plus, she had to assume there was some sort of agreement that since it was a public computer, it was all easily accessed by the staff. It still bothered her that she’d gone out of her way to delete the search while Cameron had gone out of hers just to find it again.

“Actually, today I came to talk to you. I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit more about this festival we are invited to. It seems like everyone around town is setting up a booth for it.”

Cameron shrugged. “It’s really just a little thing, but everyone here has a hobby or two. It’s a fun way to trade whatever we’re making and make some extra cash while we’re at it.”

“What about the curator? What role do they play in everything?”

Her eyes grew wide. The same blush from the night before jumped back to her cheeks. It was the reaction Sasha had been hoping for. Cameron was obviously the type of woman who didn’t lie. Her face gave everything away. A subtle detail Sasha had made a note of the day before. The word struck a chord inside the local and Sasha wanted to know why. It wasn’t a term that was common.

“Oh, well, that’s not a question I get asked every day. I don’t think I have the right knowledge to properly tell you about the lore.”

“That’s okay. I don’t need to know much. What do you know about it? Apparently, it has something to do with the festival. I’d love to know all about what’s happening before I join in.”

“Who was it that told you about the curator, exactly? Maybe they can fill you in on more of the details. Again, it’s really not my place….”

“I’m asking you,” Sasha growled.

Cameron glared at her. There was a darkness in her eyes that Sasha hadn’t seen before. It sent a chill down her spine even as the woman pursed her lips into a stern smile.

“Listen, I’m thrilled that you’ve taken a liking to our little town and the history, but please don’t make me retract the invitation I’ve extended to join in the festivities. We have a very private nature around here. All I’m asking is that you respect that.”

“I wish I could, but there are some little girls who won’t let me.”

“Excuse me?” Cameron asked.

Sasha shook her head. She wasn’t about to give any information out, either. Knowing that Cameron would be going back and looking through the computer logs again, Sasha left the front desk and settled into the small cubby with the computer once again. It felt good to get out of the house and away from Jordan. Sasha knew he was only trying to help, but at times, his presence could feel overbearing. Coupled with the activity of the spirits, she was starting to feel like she was never alone.

“Listen,” a woman whispered.

Sasha jumped. She hadn’t heard Cameron approach, but the woman was kneeling on her left side.

“I’m not supposed to tell people anything about this place, but I don’t want you to think that it’s because of you or anything,” the woman whispered. “The curator isn’t a big deal. I don’t know why they make it so hush-hush. Whoever is elected—man or woman—is in charge of the town finances for the rest of their lives. It comes with a ton of pay and a lot of prestige.”

“Why would they want to keep something like that a secret? Like you said, it’s really not a big deal.”

She shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. If I had to guess, I would say because it’s not really ‘legal’ in the traditional sense. Like, the other big families in the area will just give the new curator stuff, like a house to start a family, land if they want or need it; it’s like living in an Amish community in a sense…devoid of outside rules.”

“How is the curator chosen?” Sasha asked.

Cameron cringed. “Unfortunately, that’s not something I can help you with, but a lot of times, during the festival, you can catch an elder and ask them all the questions you want. If you’d like, I can introduce you to my father during the festival. After a few drinks of mead, he’s prone to talking.”

“Is your father one of the elders?”

“Of course, he is,” Cameron replied. “I’ve lived here my entire life. My daughter will spend her life here, and one day, my husband will become an elder as well.”

“I had no idea you had a family! That’s wonderful! You don’t look old enough to be a mother.”

She giggled. “Well, thank you, but I’m in my mid-thirties. Life in Harbor Cove keeps you young.”

“So, is your husband in the running for becoming this new curator?”

Cameron shrugged. “I wouldn’t pretend to know. I’m sorry I can’t help you more, but I promise you’ll have a wonderful time.”

19

Not wanting to give Cameron more information, Sasha browsed through the news for a few minutes before making her way back to the mansion. The town was bustling with activity, making her feel entirely out of place. Jordan was still working with a client. It would be a while before he was ready to do anything. She quickly opened her laptop and typed in the journalist’s information.

One of his grandchildren had gone into the same field as her grandfather. The woman was a journalist on the other side of the country for an up-and-coming paper that had recently caught the attention of the media for its honest, if not blunt, perspectives on things. Sasha didn’t want to reach out to her through the paper. The last thing she needed was the town being flooded with reporters.

Instead, she found the young woman on social media. Her account didn’t offer much to the public, but Sasha was able to send her a message. It took her twenty minutes to write and rewrite it before giving it one final review. The paragraph was to the point but respectful with regard to the sensitive nature of her query. Sasha needed to know what the girl's dead relative had passed on. After sending the message, she waited impatiently despite knowing the odds of a reply were slim.

Her heart pounded when she heard the familiar chime of a new message.

Hi, Sasha. I was really excited to see your name pop up! I didn’t believe it was really you at first! So, you’ve been looking into Pops? He led an exciting life, to be sure. Not many people knew he was a journalist back in the day. Unfortunately, he didn’t leave much behind when it came to mementos, at least not from that point in his life. I only know about Harbor Cove because of his dementia near the end.

Sasha’s heart reached out for the woman. Dementia could wreak havoc on a family, especially since it sounded like they’d been close. She took a deep breath and replied.

I’m so sorry to hear that. His writing intrigued me from the very start. I’m currently staying in Harbor Cove and found him while searching for more information about my home away from home. Do you know why he never published the second part of his article about it?

She sent it. The heir responded quickly.

That’s one of the things he talked about, though he was cryptic to the very end, bless his heart. I’ve never met another man like him. Hell, I don’t think they make them like that anymore. I’ve done a little digging on my own long before your request. Guy was an eccentric. Our family always had enough money to get by, but whenever I asked my mother where it came from, she’d simply say that “Grandad made a deal or two in his day.” Of course, I never thought much of it.

Not until my mother passed last spring. My grandfather had left me an inheritance that I knew nothing about. I didn’t get it until the cancer took her. It was a sizeable amount, I won’t bore you with the details, but when I dug further into the trust, I learned it was paid out to my granddad not long after he wrote the piece on Harbor Cove.

Sasha gasped.

You think the two are connected?

Before the woman could respond, Sasha heard footsteps coming down the steps. She quickly silenced her notifications and closed out the screen. Jordan rounded the corner just as she pulled up the file containing her manuscript. It felt foreign to her. The words had stopped flowing the instant the story of Harbor Cove had sucked her back in.

“Hey. I didn’t know you were back home and working. I was just about to give you a call,” Jordan said.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Well, you should have. I wanted to take care of you.”

Sasha giggled. “Oh yeah?”

He rolled his eyes, “Not like that. I meant that I was just about to come to find you because I ran you a bath. I know how stressed you’ve been recently. I just want to help.”

She smiled at him and rose from the couch. It was out of character for him to be so sweet, but she wasn’t going to pick a fight or his brain over it. Jordan wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead. She melted into his touch.

“The water is hot, the bubbles are added, all that’s missing is you. I’m sure your work can wait an hour.”

“How would your clients feel if you said that about your job?” Sasha asked.

He chuckled. “I don’t think you want to start comparing your job and mine.”

She didn’t want to start an argument, not when he was making such an effort to take care of her. Instead, she kissed his cheek before jogging up the steps to the master bathroom. Just as Jordan had said, the bath was full, but he’d taken it a step further and added rose petals to the suds and lit the candles placed sporadically around the bathroom.

Sasha soaked up the soothing atmosphere as she stripped down. A soft breeze from the cracked window carried with it the sounds of the forest. She slipped into the water, letting the warmth surround her as her eyes slipped closed. There was a longing inside her to know what Guy’s granddaughter would say in her reply, but she’d been a fan of fiction and mystery long enough to know his wealth was tied to Harbor Cove.

Had he been a curator? Was that where the money had come from? It made no sense, though, from what she’d gathered, they lived and stayed in the community, whereas Guy had barely spoken of his time there. Perhaps it had been a bribe. Why, though, with the obvious wealth and closed lips of the townsfolk, would they not have simply eliminated him as a threat altogether? Her mind danced around the possibilities.

The warm water lulled her, weighing her eyelids down until she slipped into a peaceful slumber. She’d only been nodding for a few minutes when the familiar sensation of being watched swept over her. Sasha smiled as Jordan moved his finger up her leg, resting for a moment at her knee as her eyes fluttered. She wasn’t ready to be roused by him just yet. She moaned and wiggled seductively as he came into focus.

“You know, you could always join me,” she offered.

The figure came into view as the hand on her knee gripped tighter. Her eyes flew open. The poltergeist was watching her, its hollow eyes devoid of a soul as Sasha struggled to free her leg from its grip, but the creature possessed supernatural strength. She tried to scream out, but no noise came. The water was rising, changing colors as it splashed over the edges. Sloshes of murky, frothing sludge reached her neck. The weight of the debris pressed against her, constricting her chest as she fought to fill her lungs with air.

The edges of her vision blurred as her brain fought to hold on against the lack of oxygen. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks. Why couldn’t she scream? No one could hear her. The spirit watched Sasha struggle, its eyes glowing with fear as the darkness moved to consume her. Exhausted, with no fight left, Sasha succumbed to the dark void.

* * *

She bolted upright in the water, gasping as she leaped to her feet. The water was clear. A few remaining bubbles floated around her thighs. Her body trembled in the chilly air. The sun had started its descent in the sky, the trees covering its warm rays from reaching into the house. Her knees were shaking as she lowered herself back into the water, reminding her frazzled brain that it was only a nightmare. They came frequently enough that it was becoming a routine.

Without warning, her head was shoved beneath the water. She gasped out of instinct, her eyes flying open despite the sting of the soap as she thrashed against whoever was holding her down. Her lungs burned, her fingers digging into her assailant’s flesh without mercy. Her skull felt like it was going to explode. As suddenly as the hand appeared, it was gone again. Sasha resurfaced, gasping for air, each breath released into a frantic scream as she tried to collect herself.

Jordan was inside the room instantly, pulling her from the water and carrying her to the bed as she tried to explain what had happened. He disappeared for a split second before returning with a pill and a glass of wine. Just something to help her calm down, he promised. Everything was going to be okay. It was a bad dream again, nothing more, Jordan reassured her.

The sedative hit her quickly, her words becoming slurred as she fought to tell him she wanted to leave. They couldn’t stay there any longer. Why didn’t he understand that? Why didn’t he believe her? It wasn’t a dream. It had been real, just like before. The creature was trying to kill her.

20

“She’s only getting worse. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to keep doing this. Things are getting out of control. I’m just trying to help her, but she thinks everyone’s out to get her…. Yes, I’ve considered it may be paranoia. I could use some help.”

Sasha groaned. They had to get out of there. Who knew when the spirit would come back for her? Every part of her body ached. She tried to open her eyes, but they felt heavy. Instead, she tried to focus on Jordan’s voice. He was on the phone with someone, but she couldn’t tell who. He’d stopped when she’d woken but didn’t approach her. Sasha dozed in and out of consciousness.

Someone else was there. Everything was dark. The dim light of the moon shone through the cracked curtain. She couldn’t tell what was real and what was in her head anymore. Jordan moved into the bed next to her. Sasha recoiled at his touch. It was too dark to see his features. What if it wasn’t him? Scooting away from him, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed. The warmth was a surprise. Ever since their arrival, there had been a chill in the area.

It had to be another dream. Armed with the knowledge, Sasha didn’t bother to be quiet. She’d become frustrated with the constant riddles provided by the ghosts. It was time for answers. Casually flipping on the light, she didn’t let herself scream when she glanced at the bed and found it empty. Whatever had been next to her hadn’t been her fiancé.

“You want games. Let’s play,” she hissed.

She stormed through the house, hitting every light switch she passed along the way. The more she moved, the more she questioned if she were in a dream, but the clock in the kitchen said it was well after three in the morning, yet the house was silent. There were no telltale creaks and moans as she moved. Her weight had no bearing on the aged floorboards. Jerking open the kitchen door, Sasha yelled out for the spirits to do their worst.

Nothing stirred. To reinforce her assurance that she wasn’t conscious, the temperature outside seemingly matched that inside. There was no flush of heat nor chill from the cold. The entire world felt tepid. Clad in nothing but the sheer nightgown her dream-state had placed on her, she tromped barefoot up the hill to the graveyard. The golden hue of the moon cast a foreboding glow on the landscape. Sasha shuddered, aware of the eyes that followed her every move. Why weren’t they tormenting her? They’d proven that her mental state didn’t matter. Be it a dream or reality, they could cross over and cause her harm.

She spun around to try to catch them making a move on her, but there was nothing. Her frustration grew as she continued her ascent to the cemetery. It looked the same as it did in reality, offering her no clues as to who the people buried there were. Suddenly the air changed, filled with the putrid smell of decay once again. Despite her resolve to face her fears, a shudder coursed through Sasha as she closed her eyes and slowly turned.

The girl standing in front of her was stunningly beautiful. Her dark curls perfectly framed a tanned face and piercing green eyes. Sasha could see the defiance in them. She was a fighter. There was something familiar about her. Sasha gasped. It was the poltergeist that tormented her, but the girl was whole. There was no water dripping from her white dress. It was pristine, as was the crown of lilies that sat atop her head.

“Why am I here? Why are you doing this?” Sasha asked.

The girl said nothing. Sasha wasn’t sure that the creature could speak. She flinched when the girl raised her arm, extending a finger in the direction of the headstones. Her gaze leveled on the third stone. She didn’t trust the spirit enough to turn her back on it again. Slowly, Sasha backed toward the headstone.

“Amaranth Davenport,” she whispered. “Was that you?”

The girl dropped her arm, turning to look behind her as the youngest child stepped out from behind her, pointing at the first headstone. With a racing heart, Sasha moved to the first headstone.

“Is this you? Veronica?” she asked.

The child nodded, slipping one hand into the older girl’s while shoving the thumb from her other hand into her mouth. Never before had Sasha seen the child with the older girl. She always seemed to be terrified of her, just as Sasha had been. She quickly looked around for the third girl.

“What about the other one? Is she here too?”

The youngest child shook her head. “She isn’t allowed in here.”

Sasha swallowed. “Why not?”

The girl shrugged. “She’s not special. She wanted to be like us but isn’t.”

“What do you mean, not like you?”

“Us,” the girl corrected. “She isn’t like us.”

“Us?”

She nodded and giggled. “Yes, silly, us. You are here now, too, can’t you see that? This is your home now. You can’t ever leave us.”

“No, this isn’t my home. My home is far away. I am going back there. I can’t help you. I’m so sorry, I just…I can’t….”

The child glared at her. “No. You are one of us now. You are never leaving.”

Sasha shuddered. There was something haunting about how sure the child was that she would never leave. Suddenly she felt the overwhelming urge to flee the dream and the village. She had to get away from there and never look back. It was the only way she would survive.

The eldest girl grinned as if she could read Sasha’s thoughts.

“Go ahead,” the youngest quipped. “Run!”

The older girl let go of the child’s hand, her mouth opening as her eyes narrowed on Sasha. The black sludge from the bathtub dripped from between her lips, staining her dress as it tumbled to the ground. Her stomach clenched. The frightened child disappeared at the sight of the girl's anger. A low growl filled the air as the creature took a step toward Sasha, her skin turning gray with each passing second until she was once again the creature from Sasha’s nightmares.

Sasha stumbled away from the creature, her heel catching a root and sending her tumbling to the ground. From the corner of her eye, she caught movement and quickly looked toward the house. The middle girl was standing between the house and the cemetery. She smiled and waved at Sasha as the older girl continued her approach. Scrambling back to her feet, Sasha ran from the cemetery in the direction of the house though she kept her gaze behind her, watching for the creature’s pursuit.

Her body came to a sudden stop, knocking the wind out of her as the impact shook her head. A stinging sensation coursed through her neck to her head. She looked up and took several steps backward. Wendell glared down at her, but his eyes weren’t his own. Instead of the disproving look she’d come to expect from him, there were only blackened spheres. He had no pupils. Sasha fought the urge to scream, knowing it would do her no good.

Wendell started to mumble, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying until one word caught her attention. Chelneau. He was speaking in the same dead language that the headstones were engraved with, the language the villagers seemed to know and occasionally use despite their denial of any knowledge. Wendell took a step forward as he chanted. She tried to back away again, but her feet wouldn’t listen to her command. Fear gripped her as he wrapped his hands around her throat.

Sasha fought against him, clawing at his massive hands as she tried to free herself, but she was no match for his brute strength. She tried to hang onto her consciousness, unsure if she would die in the dream and still come back to the world of the living or if she would join the other woman. What was Wendell’s tie to everything? Looking into his black eyes as the world faded around her, a haunting realization donned on Sasha.

The man had been close by each time something had happened to her. He was the one trying to kill her, not the spirits. Behind him, she saw the creatures appear, all three of them. Wendell’s grip on her neck eased some, though his back was to the spirits. She could tell he sensed their presence. For a split second, she was able to catch her breath, but her renewed fight only drew Wendell’s attention back to her, the ghosts all but forgotten. She screamed out once more before everything went dark.

21

Her head pounded as she shivered and opened her eyes. Beneath her, the cold ground sent chills to her bones. The grass around her was damp with early morning dew. Every part of her body ached from spending time on the ground. Her throat felt dry as she tried to cough. Suddenly, she heard her name being yelled and frantically scanned the horizon for the origination of the sound.

Jordan came into view. Pure fear emanated from his face as he dropped to the ground next to her, helping her to sit up. Her mind was buzzing with information. He was looking her over, talking to her despite her obvious daze. She knew he was talking, but his voice sounded far away. When his exploratory hands reached her neck, she winced in pain. It snapped her out of the haze.

“Jesus, what the hell happened to you? One second, you’re fast asleep next to me, and the next, I’m getting ready to call the cops, thinking you’ve been kidnapped!”

“I…I don’t know…I thought it was a dream. It was so warm. Everything was so surreal. They were there, all three of them.”

“My God, Sasha. Look at you! What if this had happened back in the city? You could have walked right into traffic!”

She shook her head vigorously. “No, this wasn’t sleepwalking. This happened because we’re here…I don’t want to be here anymore, Jordan. They’re trying to warn me. We need to leave.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered.

He wrapped her into his arms. She knew he didn’t believe her. He thought she was losing her mind, and maybe she was. She felt him pull away from her, but she didn’t let go. All she wanted was to be with him, back before things went to hell, before they’d ever heard of Harbor Hill. What kind of monster would own a home in such an awful place, riddled with death and sorrow?

“We should get you inside and call the doctor,” Jordan said.

She shook her head. “No, we can stop at the hospital on our way home. I want to leave. I can’t be here any longer. It’s driving me mad; can’t you see that? Please, Jordan. Don’t make me leave without you. I will if I have to, but—”

“Sasha,” he warned. “You know I won’t make a decision with you until you’ve calmed down. You’re obviously in a great deal of distress. Right now, we just need to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself beyond what we can see.”

“I didn’t do this,” Sasha stammered. “I swear to you. It wasn’t me. It was—”

“Wendell!” Jordan exclaimed. “Just the man we need. Listen, Sasha has been sleepwalking again. Would you mind helping me get her back into the house?”

Her stomach roiled as she spun around. The earth felt like it was moving as she glared at the towering man. He appeared indifferent as he bent down and pulled her to her feet. She pushed against his grip, trying desperately to free herself. It wasn’t until she heard Jordan yelling at her to stop that she realized she’d been screaming. Her stomach heaved as they lumbered down the hill. It was only when she gagged that Wendell set her down.

She tried to puke, but there was nothing in her stomach. Behind her, Jordan groaned and apologized to Wendell, going on to explain that she’d been having a rough time coping with the change of scenery. Sasha wanted to scream at him and tell them both they were wrong, but her stomach refused to cooperate. When it became clear there was nothing else, Wendell moved to pick her up again.

“I can walk,” she hissed. “Touch me again and I’ll claw your eyes out.”

Sasha almost lunged for him when he looked at Jordan for confirmation. Thankfully, her fiancé sighed and nodded his head for the groundskeeper to give them some space. Her first step made the ground spin again, but she managed to stay standing. With each step, it became easier for her to function despite the growing pain in her head and neck. Part of her wished he’d simply finished the job as she stormed into the house ahead of Jordan.

“You want to tell me what the hell is going on in that head of yours?” he yelled. “I’m starting to wonder if I should be concerned for my safety! You’re lucky he’s not pressing charges against you. I don’t think I’ve had to apologize for someone so much before in my life. What the hell, Sasha!”

“You don’t have to apologize for me anymore,” she snapped back. “I told you I’m leaving.”

She spun around a little too fast, bracing herself against the wall to keep from toppling over. Jordan was next to her instantly, helping her to sit down. After a couple of seconds, she was able to catch her breath, but the lingering effects of her night outside still worried her. While her mind had always given her issues, her body had always been resilient. Now, it felt foreign to her.

“Sasha, you can barely stand. If you want to leave, then fine, I’ll help you pack but not until you’re on your feet again.”

“You always have an excuse, don’t you? A reason for not letting me leave.”

He sighed and leaned away from her. “Are you back to this, then? You think that I’m out to get you somehow?”

She sobbed into her hands. “I don’t know anymore, okay? Nothing makes sense. You don’t believe me; you think I’ve lost my mind, but look at these bruises. How could I do this to myself?”

“Please, let me call a doctor to come to look you over. I think that will put both our minds at ease. If you have or had a concussion, it could cause serious problems.”

She had no fight left in her. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Jordan said with a sigh of relief.

Instantly, he was on his feet, his phone in hand. She listened as he called one doctor, followed by another before he was too far away for her to hear. Her phone vibrated from the kitchen counter. Sasha had completely forgotten she’d plugged it in the day before. They were all starting to blur together. Grabbing her phone, she saw a text from her mother but didn’t bother to read it before calling her. She was her rock.

“Mom?” Sasha whispered.

“Sasha? What’s wrong? You sound shaken!”

“Mom, I need you to come to get me. I’ll text you the address, but you have to come.”

“Honey, is this about the sleepwalking?” she asked.

Sasha swallowed. “How do you know about that?”

“Jordan called me last night. He was so worried about you. He said you kept getting up and destroying things but had no memory of it, and you said there were spirits making you do it?”

“Not making me,” she snapped. “They are the ones doing it!”

“Ah, yes, I apologize. Listen, Sasha, if you want me to come down there, I will, but this really is unfortunate timing. I was just about to leave for a little five-day cruise. All the book club ladies are going, were meeting an author and everything!”

Her heart lurched. Her mother had rarely gotten out and socialized in recent years. She didn’t want her to miss out on an opportunity to mingle with women her own age. It was only five days. She’d already survived that long.

“That’s okay, Mom. Would you mind picking me up on your way back through?”

“Are you sure, honey? I can cancel—”

“No, go and have a good time, okay? Please just stop on your way back, and one more thing…don’t say anything to Jordan about this.”

“Oh, I don’t think you two should be keeping secrets from each other—”

“I don’t know what’s going on with me, but I don’t want to keep adding to his burden. Can you please just promise me that you won’t say anything? I’ll talk to him when you get here, and if he wants, he can come back home too, but this place…it’s not good for me, Mom. I want to go home.”

There was a long pause.

“I don’t like the way you sound, Sasha. I’m going to come now—”

“No, I need some time to clear things up here. Five days is perfect. Go and enjoy yourself, we’ll talk when you get here, okay? I love you.”

“Sasha—”

“I love you, Mom,” she said. “Promise me this stays between us.”

“All right, I promise. Just take care of yourself until I get there, okay?”

“I will.”

Sasha ended the call as Jordan walked back into the kitchen. She did her best to smile at him, showing him her mother’s name on the screen.

“I was just checking in with her,” Sasha lied.

“Good. You should talk with her more. I know how much she cares. There’s a doctor on the way up.”

Her stomach flipped, but she didn’t let the pain show on her face. A sense of dread filled her. Sasha was no longer certain she would ever make it out of Harbor Cove again.

22

“I must say, in all my years of practicing medicine, I’ve never seen someone take a beating by their own hand quite like you have done…Miss…”

“Just call me Sasha,” she muttered.

“Doctor, is there anything we need to be worried about?” Jordan asked.

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. You’ve got some nasty bruises, and a few of them probably feel like they go right down to the bone. I’d say you knocked your legs up running up that hill or back down.”

“Well, it wasn’t down. We have Wendell to thank for that,” she snapped.

“Sasha…” Jordan warned.

“Ah! You’ve met old Wendell then? He’s a good chap. I can’t say I’m surprised if he was the one to find and take care of you, there isn’t a mean bone in that man’s body.”

“That’s what I told her,” Jordan quipped.

She glared at the two men. Despite her protests, Jordan had insisted she climb back into bed while they waited for the doctor. He’d brought her a clean nightgown, one that was far less revealing than the one she’d been carried down the hill in.

“I’d say take a couple aspirin and sleep it off. I thought you two might want to consider locking the doors at night for the time being. I can write you a prescription for some sleeping pills that might help as well?”

“No, thank you. I don’t like taking anything like that,” she replied. “I’ve had problems with it in the past.”

“Suit yourself. That does explain a little bit, though. Addicts, even former ones, can hallucinate and have lingering effects.” the doctor said.

“I wasn’t an addict,” she growled. “You don’t know me at all, so stop trying to pretend like you do.”

He glared at her. “If you don’t need me for anything else, I’ve got a booth to set up for the festival later. If you’re feeling up for it, you should still come down.”

“Still?” Sasha asked. “How did you know—”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Jordan interjected.

The two men disappeared from the bedroom, closing the door behind them. She didn’t want to lay there, nor did she feel much like sleeping. Her phone was on the nightstand where she’d set it before changing. Now it was her only lifeline to the outside world. It only took a few minutes for her to log into her social media account, and instantly, Guy’s granddaughter’s name appeared in the new messages.

As a journalist, it’s impossible for me to think that Harbor Cove and my granddad’s payout aren’t connected. Back then, it was pretty common for someone to buy a writer's silence. You know, he left a few boxes of his old journals back at my mom’s place. I put them in storage without thinking much about it, but I’ll check them out later today and see if they offer any insight. I’ve been thinking about going to Harbor Cove to get some answers of my own. Maybe this is God's way of saying it’s time for me to make that trip. Got room for one more?

Sasha wanted to reply right away and beg the woman to come, but she held back. How would she explain everything that had happened? Despite having a good feeling about the writer's granddaughter, it didn’t give her permission to invite her to stay at a home they were only borrowing themselves. Jordan would have to talk with the owner or give her his information to make contact herself. Suddenly, she remembered the liaison they’d met when they first had arrived, Lane.

Circumventing Jordan would tick him off, to be certain, but he wouldn’t have a reason for not letting the woman come to visit if Sasha already had approval from the home’s owner. Before she could reply, she heard footsteps approaching and quickly put her phone back down. Jordan gently shut the door behind him as he entered, a bottle of aspirin and glass of water in his hands. The pain in her head was getting more intense with each passing minute. She gratefully took two of the pills when he handed them to her.

Jordan sat down on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine, just sore,” she muttered. “I’m not tired. I’d rather get up and go do more research on this place and figure out who those girls were….”

Jordan sighed. “Sasha, this community has extended an olive branch to us. Don’t you think you’re pushing your luck by poking around and ranting about ghosts? I know they’re real to you—”

“Don’t patronize me,” Sasha snapped. “I know what I saw, and I’m pretty sure Wendell and the cemetery are tied in somehow. The middle girl…she’s different…she didn’t die like the others.”

“You sound insane,” he suddenly snapped. “Do you know that? How do you expect me to keep pretending like these delusions, these blackout periods, and sleepwalking aren’t affecting our relationship? Do you know the mental toll your games are taking on us, or do you just not care?”

“Maybe if you would take me seriously and not just accuse me of losing my mind, I wouldn’t be acting like this!” she screamed.

Sasha flung the blanket off her body with every intention of storming out, but a wave of fatigue smacked her like a brick wall. Her body felt numb as she collapsed backward into the soft pillows. Jordan was fuming but by her side instantly, lifting her legs back up and covering them once again. There was something wrong with her.

“What…” she slurred.

“Just take a deep breath now, sweetheart. The doctor said you wore yourself out. Your mind isn’t letting your body get the rest it needs by sleepwalking all night. It’s the fatigue.”

“No,” Sasha whispered. “You drugged me.”

Jordan tensed. “You saw the bottle, Sasha. You watched me take the pills out like you’ve seen me do a dozen times before. Just give yourself some time, okay? I’ll be right next door in the study if you need anything.”

“Wait, don’t go…” she whispered.

Jordan paused. “I’ll be back. I’m not going to leave you alone in this big house all by yourself.”

“Please just say with me until I fall asleep? Why is this happening to me? I wasn’t tired.”

“My sweet girl,” Jordan replied. “I know sometimes it’s hard for us to understand that we don’t have all of the answers, but as humans, we don’t. Your body has decided to take the matter of your mental health into its own hands, so to speak. Your sleepwalking and mental fatigue is a direct result of that.”

“But, Jordan, why am I seeing those girls? Who are they? I thought you believed me that they were real.”

“I believe you, princess. I just don’t think blaming a few spirits for everything that’s happened and then attacking the poor locals, and the groundskeeper is the way to get answers. Aren’t you always telling me that you catch more flies with honey?”

“I think, around here, you catch more flies with rotting flesh. Who are these people?”

He patted her leg. “They are just old-fashioned folks looking for a little good luck in this world. I don’t blame them for keeping to themselves. Look at what the world has done to you. Would you want your child being brought up in a world with rape, murder, drug addictions, and so on, or in a community where you knew your neighbors were watching out for you?”

“Watching out for you or turning you into the local nuthouse. This place is weird. I want to go home,” she muttered.

“And we will, I promise you. Right now, we need to get you back into fighting condition, though, so get some sleep. You can’t do anything when you’re all stressed out.”

“I don’t want to be a fighter.” Her words slurred. There were voices she couldn’t place moving through her head. What were they saying? She tried to focus, but her mind felt torn between the two worlds.

“I want to be a lover. I love people. I love you. I love my mom, too. I wish she was here. Please don’t make me fight.”

He chuckled. “It was just a figure of speech. No one thinks that you’re going to put up a fight.”

She could barely hear him now. “What do you mean?”

He kissed the top of her head as she started to doze. Even as the dreamlike state started to take hold of her, she watched him rise and slip back out of the room. The faint click of the key being turned and locking her in barely registered. Sasha wanted to be enraged, but she couldn’t be, not with everything she’d done. Her heart told her she hadn’t done the things Jordan accused her of, but her mind was slowly starting to comprehend that there was something wrong inside her.

23

When she woke again, the sky had returned to auburn citrus, but instantly, she noted the difference in noise. Unlike before, she could hear the distant sound of music and people outside the cracked bedroom window. Her body still lingered with aches and pain, but they were a pale comparison to the pain she’d been in before. Sasha stretched out her limbs, surprised by how rejuvenated she felt until she remembered the locked door.

Instantly, she was on her feet. The dizziness was gone as well as she darted to the door and jerked on the knob. It swung open with a dramatically unexpected flurry, smacking against the wall with a resounding thud. Within seconds she heard movement from Jordan’s office next door. Her heart melted when he saw the concern and fear in his eyes. She ran to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, apologizing profusely for the way she’d reacted earlier.

“I’m just happy to see you back on your feet and acting normal again. It looks like you’re feeling pretty good?”

She nodded. “I feel like I’ve slept for three days. I’m surprised it hasn’t been longer. The noise from the festival woke me up, I think. I can’t wait to go down.”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” he asked warily.

Sasha knew he was worried she was going to make a scene. It was true, she desperately wanted answers and had no intention of giving up her quest, but she had to be careful. Any sign that she wasn’t mentally stable, and she knew Jordan would be back to guarding her like a prisoner in one of his psych wards. She had five days before her mother was there. Five days to learn the truth about Harbor Cove.

She nodded. “I really want to go. Like I said, that sleep did something to me. I feel like a whole new woman. I can’t believe how crazy I must have sounded, ranting on and on about ghosts. I guess that’s what you get for falling in love with an artistic type.”

Jordan chuckled. “I knew what I was getting myself into, though the last few days have definitely made me thankful for my degree. So that’s it, huh? No more talk of ghosts and goblins? No more people trying to kill you in the middle of the night?”

Her jaw clenched, but she kept the smile plastered on her face, willing the blush of anger not to give her away as she bit her tongue. Instead, she simply nodded and kissed him on the cheek before turning toward the bathroom.

“I’ll only be a few minutes if you’re all done for the day,” she called out behind her.

“Actually, I’ve got one more call. It was an emergency that pays double for a half hour. Why don’t you go down and grab the typewriter, then I’ll walk back down with you, and we can explore when I’m done?”

“The typewriter?” Sasha asked.

“Yeah, your friend sent up a courier saying the part was in and it would be done by four. It’s a little past four-thirty now. You can probably catch him before he closes up for the day if you hurry.”

Sasha wasn’t going to argue with him. She wanted to see her friend and tell him everything that had happened. They’d planned on meeting that afternoon, and she knew Carver would be worried about her. She quickly tugged on clothing and grabbed her phone from the charger on the nightstand before shoving it into her pocket and knocking on the study door where Jordan had returned.

“I have my phone if you need anything,” she quickly said.

“Oh? Is it working now?” he asked.

She cocked her head and pulled it out again, tapping on the screen. Nothing happened. Holding down the buttons on the sides, she waited for it to turn back on, but the screen remained blank. Her stomach clenched.

“What’s going on?” Sasha muttered.

“I think it may have gotten wet. The kitchen counter was soaked earlier. I’d say you knocked over the glass of water I had sitting out when you went sleepwalking last night. Be happy it wasn’t your computer. Don’t worry; I’ve already ordered you a new one, and it will be here by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thanks,” she stammered. “It was working fine earlier. I wonder what happened.”

Jordan shrugged. “These things happen. Don’t beat yourself up over it. Your mom has my number if she needs anything.”

Sasha promised to be back within the hour and set off down the driveway. Already things looked dramatically different in the small community. The normally droll whites and grays that made up the shopping district were now covered with vibrantly colored vendors’ tents. Before she reached the outskirts, she could smell the enticing aroma of festival foods. Her stomach growled at the thought of an elephant ear.

People buzzed all around her, each wearing a different shade of white and tan. She couldn’t help but think of the plethora of films she’d enjoyed over the years that centered around a cult-like community. Every now and then, though, the spell would be broken by a rebellious youth wearing a brightly colored outfit, and despite how much Sasha wanted to believe she’d fallen into some alternate reality, there were phones and card readers at every booth.

She was engrossed and didn’t see the girls walk in front of her before it was too late, and she clipped one of the teen's shoulders. She started to apologize, but she was quickly met with stunned adoration. The girls were obviously twins once she looked at them closely though one had an affection for heavy makeup and the other wore none. The girl with the painted lips was clad in a pristinely pressed white polo shirt and matching tennis skirt. Her sister radiated uniqueness in a peasant dress that rivaled the sun's intense yellow.

“I can’t believe it’s you! You’re like…super famous,” the tennis sister stammered.

Sasha blushed. “Thank you, I’m not all that famous, though. I never thought I’d be recognized in a place like this, honestly.”

“Your last movie was absolutely brilliant—”

“Harper,” the other snapped. “Sorry about her. She’s always getting sucked into the latest big-city gossip. My name is Anna.”

Sasha chuckled. “Well, you already know who I am, but it’s a pleasure to meet you both anyway, and if we are being frank, I’ve always been a sucker for gossip myself.”

“See?” Harper quipped.

Anna rolled her eyes. “I suppose you two would get along well then. Personally, I’ve never understood stardom. Not when there is so much loss and turmoil in the world.”

“You’re always such a downer,” Harper grumbled before turning her attention back to Sasha. “So, what’s the city like?”

“Have you never been?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never left Harbor Cove, but I can’t wait until the day I can. I’m never going to come back.”

Anna glared at her sister. “We should get to the booth. Mom’s been working on getting it set up all day.”

“Fine,” Harper groaned. “Will you stop by? It’s the one with the yellow awning over there. We made soap. It’s all organic.”

Sasha laughed. “Absolutely. I just have to make a few stops first, but I’ll be by. Maybe then you can tell me more about Harbor Cove, and I’ll tell you about the city.”

Harper's eyes grew wide as Anna tugged her in the direction of their family's booth. The interaction left Sasha with a smile on her face and in good spirits as she made her way to Carver’s shop. She was surprised to find the normally empty storefront packed with people. Only the younger kids seemed to know who she was, while the older generation of shoppers looked at her with general disdain.

Her anxiety started to grow the longer she waited for her friend to make an appearance until the claustrophobia threatened to give her a panic attack, and she slipped back out of the store and into the alley to catch her breath. It took her several minutes to realize that the chain had been lowered.

When a cool breeze licked her cheek from the dark passage, she turned. Her feet carried her toward the darkness without command. She could smell the mold crawling along the walls. The damp air clung to her throat. Sasha’s heart started to race. Every drop of common sense inside her pleaded with her to turn and run, yet she could flee. Something was whispering her name.

24

“Excuse me, miss? You aren’t allowed to be back there!”

Sasha spun around. The elderly man had his arms crossed. She felt like a chided child as he looked down at her. He made no move toward or away from her as she started back in the direction of the main road. It was humiliating. Her cheeks flushed red as a cluster of onlookers whispered to each other. Whoever the man was, it was apparent he held some authority in the small community.

She wasn’t sure he was going to move when she reached the end, but as she reached him, his body was shoved aside by another. Carver appeared and grabbed her hand, dragging her into his shop and past the gawking crowd to the back room. He slammed the door shut behind them, locking it before pacing back and forth.

“What the hell were you doing back there?” he hissed.

Her brow arched. “Excuse me?”

He sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. I just saw Gavin standing there, and the crowd watching and assumed the worst—”

“What worst? Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

“No, well, yes…I don’t know, maybe. It’s just this place. If you don’t know your way around it, things can go wrong.”

“Wow, that doesn’t sound ominous at all. You want to elaborate?”

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know how. I know I must sound like a broken record, but…I’m not just here because of my business.”

She glared at him. “Okay, well, while you figure that out, I’m going to go back out there. You’ve got me more than a little freaked out.”

“That wasn’t my intention. It was the opposite of what I wanted to do.”

“Why are you here then, Carver?”

His eyes darted to the door as if he expected the mob outside to come bursting in at any point. There was a fear in his eyes that she didn’t understand. So far, Carver had seemed like one of the saner people she’d come across in her travels. Suddenly, she wondered if she sounded like the same madman when she tried to tell Jordan about the spirits. Taking a deep breath, she sat down at the workbench and indicated for him to do the same.

“All right, let’s start from the beginning. Why are you here?” she asked.

“I’m here because five years ago, my brother came here and never made it home,” he admitted.

Sasha gasped. “What?”

“He was ten years younger than me. My parents were so excited when they got pregnant with him. We all doted on him, and with good reason; the kid was smart as a whip with a heart of gold. Unfortunately for him, that heart led him here. He met a girl in college, and when she broke things off to return home, he followed after her.”

“Oh my God, Carver, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It had nothing to do with you. He brought her home for Christmas break before they split up, and there was something off about her. I tried to tell him things ending was for the best, but he was a stubborn kid.”

“What happened?”

“They said it was an accident, that he hit a patch of water on the road and lost control of his car while he was heading home, but I know that was just a lie. They’re covering up his murder, and who knows how many more.”

She wasn’t sure what to tell her friend as he rose and opened a toolbox drawer. Sliding a newspaper clipping across the table to her, Carver sat back down and cradled his head in his hands as she read. It was just like he’d said. The man, Cash, was heading back when his car slid off the road. The image showed what was left of his car wrapped around a cluster of trees. Her heart ached for Carver but knew that grief often caused irrational actions.

“Why do you think it was a coverup? It looks like he was really going fast.”

“Because Cash loved that old hotrod. It meant everything to him. He’d never take it out if the roads were slick. I don’t care if it was a mile drive or a million miles; if there was a chance of rain, he’d have taken his pickup.”

“So that’s what you’re going off of?”

“Not just that. He called me when he left Harbor Cove, and what he told me doesn’t match up with the police report or what that girl told them. Cash said she was thrilled to see him and they were going to leave that night. He was going to the nearest town to pull out cash and gas up then they were going to hit the road. I was happy for him; I could tell he was elated.”

“Maybe he lied to you. Is it possible he just wanted to spare your feelings, and the wreck was—”

“Don’t you dare say it,” he hissed. “My parents tried to tell me the same thing, but Cash wouldn’t lie to me. To my parents, sure. To his friends, if needed. Never to me, though.”

“Woman have come between brothers before. It’s not unheard of….”

He snorted. “You know, I thought you of all people would believe me given your circumstances. I don’t care if you don’t believe me, though. That doesn’t mean I’m going to watch this town eat you alive or sit around while you have an ‘accident’ like my brother.”

“Carver—”

“You can go,” he muttered. “Your typewriter is on the counter.”

Her heart ached for him. She wanted to believe him, but there was enough going on in her head already that the task seemed daunting. Remembering her connection in the city, she decided to do more for Carver than he could do for himself and made a vow to reach out as soon as she got a new phone.

“Listen, I believe you…or at least I want to. Just give me some time to see what I can find out, okay? I asked around yesterday about the curator…it didn’t go over well. Last night…” Sasha shuddered.

“You saw them again, didn’t you?” he asked.

She nodded. “How did you know?”

“Because that’s the other reason I know my brother was telling me the truth. He saw something that night, something that didn’t make sense until now, and I have you to thank for that. He said there were five girls standing at the edge of town. They waved to him as he was leaving, but there was something off with them, something that made him think they were in danger. I asked what he meant, and he said they were just standing there on the side of the road, dripping wet and covered in old scars. When he pulled over to help them, they were gone.”

“Five of them?” she asked.

“That’s what he said. He was born an atheist and lived like one his entire life, but he said them disappearing like that made him think there was something else out there. Now, why would five girls appear to him?”

“Why five when I’ve only seen three?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I was hoping we’d have time to figure that out together, but the more I see the way the people in this town watch you, the more I think we should both just be hightailing it out of here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you noticed they’re always looking at you? Always making sure they have a good line of sight? How far did you make it somewhere they didn’t want you to be?”

“I…I just thought it was in my head.”

He snorted. “Well, maybe you should start listening to that head of yours more and stop listening to what the rest of the world is telling you. If I’d have trusted my instincts about this place and the people who come from here more, my brother might still be alive.”

Sasha sat back in her chair as his words sank in. Suddenly, the walk back to the safety of her vacation house seemed like a foreboding task. There was no sanctuary for her there, not if what Carver was saying was true. The spirits were real, and they had a grudge to settle with her, if only she could understand why. If there was one thing that drove her more than fear, it was a need to know the truth.

“All right,” she said defiantly. “Let’s find out what happened to your brother. I don’t care who these people are. I’m trusting you, and I’m trusting myself. You can count me in; just tell me what to do.”

Carver smiled, letting out a sigh of relief as he reached across the table and squeezed her hand. Together they would unravel what was happening. Movement caught her attention beyond Carver’s gaze. The curtain blocking the back window fluttered despite the lack of wind. It tugged to the side, and Sasha gasped. The spirits were there.

25

“I don’t think now is the time for this,” Sasha muttered.

Jordan pursed his lips. “Sasha, when you agreed to do the sessions, it was every single day. That was a commitment. I understand you want to go down to the festivities, but—”

“You make me sound like a child. I just want to immerse myself in the culture.”

“I already agreed to a half-hour session for today, but that clock doesn’t start until we do, so what do you say we get to work?”

“Fine,” she growled.

He smiled and looked down at his notepad. “Now, yesterday, we decided to start slow, but after last night, I’d like to jump ahead a few pages in the metaphorical playbook.”

“It’s your rodeo.”

“Why don’t you tell me about the girls from your dream?”

Her jaw clenched. It hadn’t been a dream. “It was the same three as before, but one of them, the middle one, was excluded. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. She wasn’t killed like the other two.”

“And how were those two killed then?”

“If I knew, I’d have the police here arresting people for it, but I don’t have that answer, either.”

“Do you feel a deeper connection to this place than you have places you’ve lived before?”

She shrugged. “Not really, at least not until this all started to happen. Maybe it was just bubbling beneath the surface, and this place brought it out of me. Then again, it’s hard for me to feel a connection to any place.”

“Has it made you want to find out who you are?”

“No. I already know who I am,” she reminded him.

It was a constant battle between them. The doctor in Jordan had a dark fascination with Sasha’s attachment problems that stemmed from her biological parents’ abandonment, but she’d made it her entire life without breaking down that particular wall. Now was no different. Her lips pursed at his barely veiled attempt to press the issue. He sighed in defeat and turned back to his notebook.

“Have you considered the reason you may be lashing out at men trying to help you is because of what happened to your parents?”

“My parents are just fine, thank you.”

“Sasha…”

“Listen, just because you think I’m lashing out at you doesn’t mean squat, quite frankly. You’re biased. You think you’re helping me—”

“I was referring to the priest, and Wendell, and yes, myself a little, but I’m not the only man you’ve attacked recently. I’m just the only one who gets the emotional attacks; the rest just get physical ones.”

“Oh, great. Now you’re accusing me of assaulting Wendell, too? Who’d of thought! A little girl my size bringing down a big—”

“If you can’t take this seriously, then we should stop right now.”

“Great,” she snapped. “I never wanted to do this in the first place!”

She didn’t get up to leave. It had been a few years since she’d gone to therapy, but she knew outbursts were all part of working through things. Taking a deep breath, she counted backward from ten before turning her attention back to Jordan. He watched her with intense fascination. Sometimes she wondered if she was more of an experiment to him than a girlfriend. It wasn’t the time to dig into their relationship, though.

“Well?” Sasha huffed.

“The only reason we’re here is that you decided you wanted to try to better yourself. I can’t tell you how proud that makes me, but you knew it was going to get rough, that we would have to press the boundaries.”

“That’s not a boundary to push right now. I agreed to this because I thought it would help us communicate, but all I feel is attacked.”

“I’m sorry. We’ll drop the subject of your parents. Why don’t we move on and talk about what happened with Wendell? You claim he’s the one who did that to your throat in your dream?”

“Yes,” she growled.

“Did he say anything to you?” he asked.

“No, the only thing different about him was his eyes; they were black like you see people getting tattoos like that done now, but it was complete. There was nothing left of him inside.”

“I see…now you said that it wasn’t a dream, but then how do you account for the color of his eyes? Is he a demon walking among men?”

His tone was laced with sarcasm. She wanted to lunge across the coffee table and show him exactly how Wendell had strangled her. Sasha couldn’t help but grin at the mental image that popped into her head. Maybe she could blame it on the spirits. At least if she tried to choke him out, he’d have to let her leave. A chill ran up her spine, recalling the sound of him locking the door. Had that been part of the nightmare as well?

“I don’t know what I believe, but I know I didn’t do this to myself. I don’t have the strength to do this kind of damage.”

“Maybe not on your own but driven by your adrenalin and your mind hallucinating that it was someone else doing it, there is a chance. Mothers can lift cars off their infants under the right conditions. I see this as no different. Your mind created a scenario, and your body helped to solidify it. We can move on, though, if you’d like.”

She hated him for making perfect sense. “Sure. What’s next?”

“You said the other girl was on her own. What about her? How is she significant to this reality for you?”

Sasha despised it when he tried to analyze her, but she’d promised to play along. Despite not wanting to share the details with him, she found herself revealing every detail of the past several encounters. By the time she was finished, her fiancé looked properly shaken, but more importantly, the timer he’d set was seconds away from going off. When it finally chimed, she rose and smiled at him.

“Great session, Doctor,” she said with a wink. “Maybe tomorrow we can pick back up there—

“What else did they say to you?” he asked.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m not paying for overtime, and there is a festival calling our names. Don’t forget your wallet. I’ve been craving an elephant ear all day.”

Before he could argue with her, she skipped out of the room. He wouldn’t take the shop talk beyond the doors of his study. It was one of his golden rules. Sasha grabbed her purse and made her way to the front porch to wait on Jordan. She set her bag on the swing and fixed the cushion. As she turned to sit down, her heart skipped, and she yelped. Wendell was standing inches away from her. Sasha wanted to scream but knew he could snap her neck in an instant if she tried.

“Jordan is on his way down,” she hissed. “He won’t be long now.”

“It’s not him that I came to see.”

“What do you want from me? I know it was you last night. You can pretend like it was all in my head, but you were there. You strangled me.”

“Young lady, I might have done some terrible things in my past, but I’ve never laid my hands on a woman out of anger.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“I didn’t think I was on trial.”

“Forgive me for not trusting a man who tried to kill me then thinks he can just brush it off. I want you out of here, and I don’t want to see you again as long as we are staying in this house.”

“That’s not up to you,” he growled.

“Excuse me?”

The door opened, and Jordan appeared. He smiled when he saw Wendell, who promptly stepped away from Sasha. She was still shaken. Brushing past the groundskeeper, she moved behind Jordan. He gave her a strange look and continued on to Wendell.

“I was wondering if you were going to make it before we left. Do you mind checking the locks on the front and back doors and changing them out? Lane has all the approval emails if you need them.”

“I have them,” he growled. “I think it’s a waste of money personally, but what do I know. A groundskeeper should have the master keys. What if something happens?”

Jordan glared at him. “Last time I checked, I was the one in charge here. Or do we need to talk to someone a little higher up?”

“No need,” Wendell muttered. “I know my place. Just don’t see the point, is all.”

“I’ll be sure to let someone know you’re disgruntled about your position here.”

Sasha saw a flash of rage in Wendell’s eyes before it disappeared again. Not wanting to see a fight break out, she tugged Jordan down the steps toward the festival, now in full swing.

26

Everywhere Sasha looked was another laughing face. The people seemed to have completely forgotten about her presence there. It was a relief but unnerving that they no longer cared. It was a challenge for her to focus on any one thing. Everyone was having a wonderful time. She couldn’t believe it was the same community she’d faced down just a few hours before. Jordan’s hand had slipped out of hers as soon as they came within sight of people. Her panic was rising despite her enjoyment, thanks to the sheer number of people.

“Are you sure you’re ready for all this?” Jordan asked.

Sasha nodded. “I think I need to be around people. It’s strange not having the normal chaotic rush of the big city. Plus, everyone looks so happy. I want to get in on some of that joy.”

He chuckled. “All right, well, as long as you’re sure. I don’t want there to be any breaks or outbursts.”

“You know, if I can walk the red carpet, do interviews, and basically survive every day just fine, I don’t think I’m going to have a meltdown just from being around folks.”

“I know, I know. Things are different now, though, you know what I mean. There have been a lot more episodes since we came here.”

“And yet, you refuse to let me leave,” she hissed.

“Sasha…” Jordan warned. “You know that’s not true. It makes me sound like I’m holding you captive. I told you we could leave at any time. You’re the one who keeps changing their mind.”

“What can I say? This town just keeps pulling me back in. I wish I could get out of here, but I need to know what happened first.”

He groaned. “Please don’t start talking about that while we are here. The community was nice enough to invite us and try to make us welcome. I don’t want to be ‘those people’ who wouldn’t stop asking questions.”

“Are you telling me you aren’t in the least curious?”

“I didn’t say that,” he growled. “I just want to have a nice evening for once. Can we please not start fighting again?”

“Of course, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start another argument. You’re right that this was a good idea, and I promise I’ll be on my best behavior,” she said earnestly.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “I hope you know just how much I care about you, Sasha. My life would be over if it weren’t for you. I know how hard you’re trying. You’re going to be fine, I promise.”

Someone bumped into her and jolted her away from Jordan. She tried to find him in the surge of people, but his white shirt and casual slacks blended into the rest of the hoard. Trying to swallow back the mounting fear, Sasha backed away from the people until she felt the wall pressed against her shoulders. Closing her eyes, she tried to regain her composure as she counted to ten. Beneath the hum of the crowd, there was something else tugging at her. She felt drawn to it.

Peeking out, she realized she’d ended up on the opposite side of Carver’s shop, right next to one of the four alleys leading to the center of the town. It was impossible for her not to turn and look down the dark passage. As with the other side, the chain was down. Quickly glancing around, Sasha realized no one was watching her. Keeping a close watch on the plethora of people on the streets, she slipped into the alley.

Instantly, the air around was damp. The fresh smell of molding earth made her stomach churn, but she pushed forward. At any point, she expected someone to start screaming at her, but as the alley came to an end and the passage opened into a broad circle, her mind stopped considering anything but what she was seeing. Despite the illusion of being a small cubby, the central part of the town opened into a few hundred-foot circles. In the middle stood the well that had pulled her in with such intrigue.

She inched forward as the humming in her ears grew more intense. It was impossible to pinpoint the noise as it echoed off the carved sandstone walls that towered around her. The sun was completely blocked out, creating a chill in the air that brought with it an overwhelming sense of dread. Sasha wanted to turn back but couldn’t. The town didn’t want her there, and she was sure there had to be a reason why. The well was just inches from her now as she leaned over to look in.

Darkness consumed her, making her stomach roll as her heart raced. Their humming was more distinct now as she tried to focus on what it was. The reality struck her like a brick wall. There were voices coming from the well. Children were singing from deep in the beast's belly. She yelled out for them, searching the dark cavern for any signs of life, but the smell knocked her back away from it. Decay. Like nothing, she’d ever encountered before. It burned her nostrils as her eyes started to water.

Something deep inside moved. A flicker of life set her into motion again as she searched for some way to get down to the trapped children. She called to them, frantically reaching into the depths in the hopes of pulling them out. At first, there was nothing as the voices quieted. Then, she felt something on her hand, fingers moving up hers until they wrapped around her wrist. Instantly she knew she’d made a mistake. It wasn’t a warm child’s hand that gripped her but the cold grip of death.

Sasha tried to jerk away her hand, but the creature kept a tight grip. Her body jerked as it tried to pull her down the well. She screamed and pulled against the darkness, but it did no good. It was slowly gaining ground inch by inch until the only thing keeping her above ground was sheer willpower. Finally, she felt its grip loosen. The darkness consumed her screams as she tried to back away. Something was down there, looking up at her with red eyes.

A surge of self-preservation rocked through her as she jerked herself free. Stumbling away from the well, a branch caught her foot, and she collided with the ground. A pair of hands reached for her. Sasha frantically scrambled to her feet and darted out of the alley, only stopping when the voice behind her struck a chord of familiarity.

Back on the main road, she paused to catch her breath as Cameron ran up behind her. Sasha glared at the woman but said nothing. She was busy looking around them to see if anyone had noticed their escape from the center.

“You aren’t supposed to be back there!” Cameron hissed. “Do you have any idea what would happen if you got caught?”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “A big bloke with no personality glares at you. At least that’s what happened earlier. There was something down there in that well.”

“Well, of course, there was! Crows get trapped down there all the time! Why do you think they keep the whole place roped off?”

“It wasn’t roped off,” she pointed out.

“And see what happened? The first outsider who got curious went back there. Oh boy, I hope they didn’t see you.”

“Who? What are you so afraid of? What are you people hiding?” Sasha growled.

“Hey!” Jordan said.

Sasha jumped. She hadn’t heard him approach as she spun around. She was just about to go back to her interrogation when she realized Cameron had disappeared into the masses of people. Jordan was watching her skeptically. She could tell he thought she was having another mental breakdown. Taking a breath and clenching her teeth, Sasha painted a smile on her face and did her best to look like nothing was wrong.

“Hi, honey. I lost you in the crowd. You’re a hard man to find.”

“Why were you yelling at her?” He seethed. “I could hear you two blocks down. I thought we were going to have a nice night out, but if you’re going to act—”

“I’m not acting like anything,” she snapped. “I got turned around, and Cameron there was nice enough to point me back in the right direction.”

“And you thanked her by interrogating her?” he asked.

“Sorry, I guess I just got caught up in all the excitement. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Jordan muttered. “They’re about to start the opening ceremony. I thought you’d want to get your elephant ear before.”

Sasha nodded and continued to smile even when she found Cameron again in the crowd. If Jordan wanted to pretend nothing was wrong, she was more than happy to play along until she had the proof she needed to show him just how wrong he was about her losing her mind.

27

By the next morning, Sasha was back on the trail of who or what was killing little girls in Harbor Cove. The ceremony had been considerably more mundane than she’d anticipated. With her leads running dry, she was ready to broaden the search. Barb, Guy’s granddaughter, hadn’t yet replied to the brief message she’d sent earlier in the day.

Sasha had promised Barb she’d ask the owner if they could have a guest. The only way to contact him was through the property manager, Lane. He’d been kind enough to leave his contact information for them on the fridge. She tucked the card into her pocket and darted back to the sitting room where her computer was waiting. She quickly typed out an email asking for the owner's information and if she could have a friend from the city stay a few nights.

It was a surprise when the man responded promptly. Sasha thought since it was the weekend, he’d be nowhere near his office. The reply was cryptic.

Sasha,

Unfortunately, the owner has a strict policy on giving out his personal information. However, he has approved a guest pending they have no record and/or affiliations with the media. Please forward the individual's information to me and the dates when they will be staying.

She frowned. It was a disheartening reply. Unfortunately, Guy’s granddaughter was very much affiliated with the media, but she wasn’t ready to give up on the idea yet. She quickly replied with the name and address of a friend of hers who lived in the city. She knew he was away on vacation but would still play along with the ruse if they called. After sending the email to Lane, she sent one explaining the situation to her friend, Marcus.

With the emails sent, she turned her attention back to the script. It was driving her insane that the words had once against ceased to flow. As her eyes wandered across the room and landed on the restored typewriter, a new plot twist in the movie struck her. She darted to the typewriter and started writing again. Before long, she was immersed in the story. She jumped when someone touched her shoulder. Jordan stepped away from her.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for a few minutes. Didn’t you hear me yelling?”

She shook her head. “I had no idea. Sorry, sweetheart. I guess it just sucked me in.”

“Well, I’m happy to see you back at it, even if it’s not on the computer. Listen, did you tell Lane you wanted to have Marcus come out here?”

Sasha cringed. “Yeah, sorry. I was going to talk to you about it, but I wanted to make sure it was okay with the owner first. I didn’t mean to leave you out of the loop—”

“I really think you should talk to me before you invite men to come to stay with us, or anyone for that matter. We are supposed to be a team and share everything with each other, but it feels like you’re blocking me out. It doesn’t look good already, and now you want to parade a guy around here? What will people think?”

“Oh, please. First of all, you know Marcus, and he’s not exactly subtle about his gay lifestyle, and secondly, Marcus isn’t even the one I want to stay. I just used his name.”

“You lied to him?” Jordan hissed. “What the hell, Sasha? Why would you do that? You’ve put me in a terrible position. The owner and Lane both trust me on my word. Who do you want to come here then?”

“It’s a girlfriend of mine, you haven’t met her, but I know you’ll get along. She’s a big history buff and loves paranormal happenings like this place. She’s only going to stay a few nights, and I promise we’ll stay out of your hair. I really am sorry for putting you in a tight situation. I just didn’t want to burden you more with the little stuff.”

Sasha felt a little guilty for the lie. In earnest, she didn’t want Jordan to give her a hard time about inviting a stranger to the home they were borrowing. She had to meet with Barb, though, and find out about Harbor Cove, even if that meant telling a fib or two to get her own way. Her mother would be coming after her in five days, and there was a lot to get sorted out before then. Jordan wouldn’t understand her desire for answers nor her reasoning for leaving abruptly.

“Sasha!” he snapped. “I will not be a part of this deception! How could you do this to me? Am I being punished in some way? Don’t you think they’ll notice when it’s not a man who shows up? Who is this woman? Why haven’t I heard of her before?”

“You know I have a life outside of this relationship, and before we were together, I had friends. They all seemed to fade away, though, when we started hooking up. I already told you I was sorry for going to Lane first. I think you are blowing this way out of proportion, though. She’s just a girlfriend. It’s only a few days. It’s not like we are inviting over a serial killer or kleptomaniac.”

“For all I know, we could be! After all, you won’t tell me anything about this woman. Don’t project your inability to maintain healthy relationships on me. I’ve always encouraged you to spend time with the positive influences in your life. This is just surprising. How would you feel if I did this to you?”

“I thought you would be happy about this, honestly. If I’m spending time with her, I won’t be such a burden to you. You’ve done nothing but work since we got here, and it feels like you have no patience for what’s going on with me. The ghosts—”

Jordan groaned. “You aren’t ever a burden to me. I enjoy the time we spend together. I think the images your mind is manifesting—”

“You don’t believe in the spirits, I get it. I’m not asking you to anymore. We can’t see eye to eye on everything, right?” she asked. “I know you’re trying to keep an open mind, but I see it in your eyes. This isn’t an area you can fix, Jordan. I need someone here who believes the same as I do. Please, don’t make me beg for a friendship outside our relationship.”

He sighed and sat down next to her, taking her hand into his before kissing it and smiling at her. Jordan had a way of melting her heart like no one had ever done before. She loved him still, but something had changed. Harbor Cove had created a rift between then she wasn’t sure could ever heal. They were so different, but it wasn’t a battle she wanted to fight at that moment.

“All right, my love. If you think having your friend here will help, I’m all aboard. Why didn’t you just tell Lane who it was, though?”

“She writes for her local paper. It’s a small print a dozen states away, but I didn’t want to risk Lane saying ‘no’ just because of it. It’s not like he’s going to come here. You said he lived a ways away, right?”

“Yes.”

“Why did he call you anyway?” Sasha asked.

“Because you were also asking about who owned the property. I signed a non-disclosure act when we rented this place. That’s not something people like him take lightly in breaking. Those sorts of questions make people nervous. You like your privacy, right? He is the same way.”

“I’m sorry for any extra trouble I caused you. I was only trying to help stay out of your way.”

“It’s fine, sweetheart. Anyway, Lane said that ‘Marcus’ could stay, so you might want to message your friend and let her know.”

“Happy to have everyone’s seal of approval.”

Jordan kissed her on the forehead before leaving the room. She listened to him in the kitchen before following his footsteps upstairs. Something about his comment had bothered her. She’d been communicating with people through email since the start of their trip. It was probably nothing but the way he’d said “messages” almost sounded like he was sure, like he’d been snooping through her conversations. Her mind raced back to the library and what had happened with Cameron.

Sasha’s mind was playing tricks on her. She trusted Jordan implicitly, but she had to know if her gut instinct was right. Pulling up the app store on her laptop, she found a program to record each time a person activated her screen and downloaded it. Stashing the app in a secure folder, she closed back out of everything and returned to her typewriter, where the story once again captured her.

28

Everything was set for Barb's arrival in two days. Lane hadn’t seen any problems with the credentials Sasha had given him for Marcus, though he stressed some concerns about the man’s lifestyle. She was a little shocked to realize the depth of the scope that had been completed on her friend, but it reinforced her decision that telling them about Barb would have been a huge mistake. The morning after emailing Lane, Sasha was enjoying her coffee in a rare moment of complete solitude while Jordan shopped.

He'd wanted her to go with him, but she had no desire to explore any longer. Her curiosity was becoming dangerous. If she continued to muddle things with the locals before she had all the information, they might consider running her out of town. It surprised her when she heard his car pulling up just moments after leaving. Thinking he must have forgotten something, Sasha jogged to meet him, but it wasn’t her fiancée standing on the porch when she opened the door.

“Lane! What a pleasant surprise! I hope everything is okay with the paperwork?” she quickly said.

He looked uneasy but nodded. “Everything is fine. I’m just dropping off the non-disclosure for your friend to sign when he gets here. How is everything going?”

She hesitated just long enough for Lane to shift uneasily, his eyes moving past her into the house.

“Is Jordan home?” he asked.

“No, he just ran to the store, but if you want to wait for him, I don’t think he’ll be gone more than a half-hour.”

“No. That’s okay. Actually, you don’t even need to tell him I stopped by.”

She frowned. “Are you sure everything is okay? I don’t mean to pry, but you look terrible. I know how it feels to not sleep for days…and I know the look, too.”

“We need to talk,” he spurted out. “But not here. Not now. Don’t say anything to Jordan. Actually, don’t say anything to anyone. It’s not safe here.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s about your friend who’s coming to visit and not the Marcus fellow you tried to pass off, either. I think you know who I mean.”

“Jesus, Barb. How do you know about her?”

“That’s not important. You need to tell her not to come, not to ever set foot in Harbor Cove. You both need to forget everything. Stop digging.”

Before Lane could offer an explanation, Jordan’s car came up the drive. The man looked absolutely terrified for a split second before plastering a terribly fake smile on his face. Sasha’s heart was racing. Her partner looked confused when he saw Lane but not upset. She couldn’t figure out what was going on but knew she had to find out what the man wanted.

“When?” she whispered.

“Behind the antique shop your so fond of, ten tonight. Make sure no one is following you.”

Her stomach clenched. The well. “Make it midnight. He stays up late.”

Lane nodded before turning away from her and jogging to meet Jordan halfway up the walk. The two men talked for a few minutes, but Sasha couldn’t hear what they were saying. By the time Jordan reached her, he seemed perfectly content with things. She smiled and took one of the two bags from his hands before following him into the kitchen. Despite his lighthearted banter, Sasha felt like he was covering another emotion. An awkward silence filled the air until he finally retired to the study.

Immediately she darted for her computer, pulling up the shadow file that took the recordings each time someone logged into it. Her heart plunged when it came up empty. Sasha knew her anxiety was now bordering on paranoia, yet she’d been so sure that he was watching her. How did Lane know about Barb's pending visit? She ran her fingers through her hair, closing her eyes in disbelief.

The minutes passed slowly as Sasha struggled to get a grip on her mind. Each time Jordan moved around the office above her, her body tensed. She had to find out what was really happening. It felt like an eternity passed before her fiancé finally came back downstairs and offered to make them a late dinner. Sasha had no appetite and told him as much. It was after ten in the evening. Jordan shrugged and shuffled into the kitchen. She listened as he made himself a snack, silence filling the air as he ate before returning to look in on her.

“Were you able to get some work done? I tried to stay up there and out of your hair. Normally, you come to check on me at least once,” Jordan said.

Sasha smiled. “I didn’t want to bother you. I got a little bit done, but I hope tomorrow I’ll know more about the story.”

“Good, I think it’s important that you not be too hard on yourself or push too much. You’ve been working really diligently. I’m sure whatever you’ve come up with will be amazing. That’s one reason I love you, that crazy mind of yours.”

“Does it always have to be crazy?” she asked.

Jordan sighed. “I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it. I just meant that you’re artistic, creative. Your imagination knows no bounds. It’s a spectacular thing. Look at your last movie, for instance. I don’t know anyone else who could have cooked that story up.”

“Thanks,” Sasha muttered. “I think.”

“Are you coming to bed?” Jordan asked.

She nodded and rose to follow him upstairs. Hopefully, he would doze off without any problems. They got ready for bed in silence as Sasha stashed her clothing in the bathroom where she could easily reach it once he fell asleep. Jordan gave her a quick peck on the cheek before rolling onto his side. Before long, his soft snoring filled the room. Sasha kept her eyes on the clock sitting next to the bed. The minutes passed slowly until he had been asleep for over half an hour.

Carefully climbing out of bed, she slipped into the bathroom and quickly changed. His snoring continued, and she tiptoed to the bedroom door and carefully slipped out into the hallway. Sasha had spent the last few days getting to know which boards in the house creaked and which didn't. She navigated her way to the main floor before sneaking out onto the front porch. A chill ran down her spine as she started to walk quickly down the hill in the eerie silence. There wasn't a soul awake in the quiet town.

The alley came into view as Sasha slipped through the abandoned streets. She tried not to think about everything that had happened to her. Glancing at her watch, she was just a few minutes early for their rendezvous. Leaning against the brick wall, she tried to catch her breath. At one point, she believed that the worst anxiety that could be found was surrounded by the villagers. Now, she wasn't so sure. The silence seemed to amplify her distorted mental state. Her eyes moved to her watch again, just a few more minutes.

Sasha waited, counting her breaths and refusing to look down the dark passage. She knew a single glance would send her mind spiraling out of control. Two minutes passed from the time they were supposed to meet and then four. Each minute brought with it more anxiety as her heart raced. Before long, forty minutes had gone by, and she felt the world starting to close in around her. Racing away from the alley, Sasha darted back up the hill to the front porch of the manor, collapsing on the swing to catch her breath.

She knew she had to get back inside and in bed, but her chest was on fire from the mad dash back to the house. Using the same method she normally did for her anxiety, Sasha was able to get her breathing under control just as the church bells below chimed on the hour. Using their sound as a cover, she slipped back into the house, upstairs, and into the bedroom after stripping out of her clothes. The whole time her body seemed to move on auto-piolet. Her mind was still racing to understand what had happened and why Lane hadn’t shown to their meeting. The silence consumed her as she carefully slipped into bed next to Jordan. He groaned but didn’t otherwise stir.

Tomorrow, she would have to get ahold of Lane and find out what had spooked him. Sasha needed to get answers. Exhaustion took hold of her mind as she closed her eyes. It had become a nightly battle between her anxiety and fatigue. Her body needed the rest; her brain needed to shut down. Yet she knew what the night carried with it, the dreams, the nightmares, the suffering.Chapter Twenty-Nine

The only reason Sasha woke as early as she did was because of the pounding pain radiating in her temples. She felt like she had been hit by a semi. Rolling over, she groaned and tried to open her eyes. The sunlight seemed brighter than usual. Fumbling for her newly replaced phone, she checked the time and realized it was well past ten in the morning. It wasn't like her to sleep in. Dragging herself off the bed, she realized her entire body ached as much as her brain did.

Thankfully, the smell of coffee permeated throughout the house. Sasha moved slowly as she got dressed. She could still smell the dew on her clothes from the night before when she walked into the bathroom and saw them piled on the floor where she had left them. Quickly grabbing them and tossing them into the hamper, Sasha replayed the events in her mind. It still made no sense why Lane hadn't shown up. As soon as she was able to, she planned on calling him to make sure he was okay.

What bothered her even more, though, was the information she hadn't gotten. She thought about emailing Barb and telling her not to come but decided to hold off. It was entirely likely that Lane had simply had an emergency and would show up by the time Barb was set to arrive. Plus, she was no closer to getting answers, something Barb had promised her when she came. Even as Sasha bent over the sink to brush her teeth, she felt unsteady. The queasy sensation in her stomach had returned. Gripping the edges of the sink, she closed her eyes and tried to stop the world from spinning.

“What is wrong with me?” Sasha muttered to herself.

There was a soft rap on the bathroom door that made her jump.

“Is everything okay in there?” Jordan asked.

“Yeah,” Sasha quickly said. “I'll be down in just a second. I don't think dinner is agreeing with me.”

She waited for him to reply and ask if there was anything he could do for her. Instead, she heard his footsteps fading out of the bedroom and down the creaking steps. It wasn't like Jordan to walk away without checking on her. Her stomach plummeted. Did he know something about the night before? Sasha quickly finished getting herself ready despite the unfailing waves, a sickness that continued to assault her stomach.

Within a few minutes, she was walking slowly down the steps to where Jordan was sitting on the kitchen island. He didn't look up from the newspaper in his hands when she walked in. Sasha could almost feel the chill in the air brought on by Jordan's aloof attitude. With a bit more dramatic flourish than necessary, Sasha went about getting a cup of coffee before sitting down directly across from Jordan and glaring at him.

“You mind telling me what's with the attitude?” Sasha asked.

Jordan didn't look up from his paper. “I don't have an attitude. I'm just not going to chase answers anymore.”

“What are you talking about? If you're going to be cryptic, you might wanna let me in on the code.”

“Did you expect me not to notice that you snuck out, again, last night? How many times are you going to do this? I'm starting to wonder if you and Carver aren't a little more than friends.”

Her chest tightened. She hadn't even considered how it might look to Jordan when she left. In earnest, she'd been in such a blind hurry to find out everything she could about the community that she hadn't taken his feelings into consideration at all. Sasha wanted to kick herself for overlooking her fiancé’s feelings. It was no wonder he was being cold toward her. She was to blame for the rift between them, not him.

“Jordan, I promise you there is nothing going on between the two of us. I couldn’t sleep last night and needed some fresh air. I didn’t plan on going for a walk, and I didn’t see another living soul the entire time I was out.”

He glared at her, peering deep into her eyes to detect any sign of a lie, but Sasha knew he’d find none. Nothing about what she’d told him was a lie. She did need fresh air, and her rendezvous with Lane had gone unanswered. Apart from the eerie sensation of being watched that persisted, Sasha had been completely alone the entire night until she’d come back to bed with Jordan. After a few more long seconds, Jordan seemed to accept her answer and went back to reading his paper.

She groaned. “What do I have to do to get you to talk to me?”

“I’ve been trying for weeks to get you to open up to me, Sasha. All you do is shut down or try to fill my head with your conspiracy theories. I’m done.”

“What the hell does that mean?” She growled. “You can’t just tell me you are ‘done’ then go back to reading. Are you done with our relationship? With the argument? What?”

“Can we just drop it, please?” Jordan muttered.

Her jaw dropped. “No, I don’t think we can. You can’t make a statement like that, then just expect me not to want a little explanation. Listen, I know I’ve been off since we got here, but there is something wrong with this house…with this whole town if you ask me—”

“No one is asking you,” he snarled. “Can’t you see that? I wanted you to have a nice time here. I never once thought that this would end up ruining our relationship. As a matter of fact, I thought it would bring us closer, and you’d be able to see…it doesn’t matter. All you do is stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, and I’m left answering for it.”

“Jordan…”

He stood up with such force that the barstool he’d been sitting on topped over. Sasha’s body tensed at once. He rarely showed any emotion, and hostility wasn’t one she’d seen more than half a dozen times. It was disturbing, at the very least, frightening the longer he glared at her. He spun away from her without another word, leaving her sitting with her mouth agape in the empty kitchen.

Nothing he’d said had been wrong. Even as Sasha looked at the empty room, she knew there was no defense for her actions. He’d only spoken the truth, but his tone had cut through her like a sharp knife. After a few minutes, Sasha snapped herself out of the daze. She’d let the search for spirits consume her. Hell, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d touched her book or replied to the onslaught of work emails waiting on her.

In a few weeks, she’d become a completely different person. How could she blame Jordan for giving up on her? A wave of depression started to settle over her as she sipped at her coffee. It was more bitter than normal, turning her stomach. She desperately needed the caffeine, though. Her mind darted back to Barb's imminent arrival. Suddenly, a plan started to form in her head. If she could get Jordan to sit down with the journalist and see that others had tried to dive into the town as well, perhaps he would understand what it meant to her.

Lane’s warning had fallen on deaf ears. Sasha wanted her relationship with Jordan to be restored, and if tangible proof that something was off with the town would make that happen, Lane would just have to deal with it. Tugging out her phone, she shot the property manager a quick email before tucking it away again. If Jordan didn't want to talk to her, she had to find something else to do with her time. There was no desire inside of her to keep working on her screenplay. The thrill and rush that it had brought her before had almost completely faded away now.

Sasha wandered through the house aimlessly, looking for any clues she might have missed before. Her eyes fell on the basement door. It was slightly ajar though she knew she closed it every time she walked past. Old houses were funny like that. Yet she doubted it was the house that had taunted her. Taking a step closer, her mind tried to reason with her. There was nothing in the basement that could help her. The only thing it had brought her thus far was pain and misery.

She shuddered, backing quickly away from the open door to the outside. Taking a seat on the back patio, Sasha instead looked out over the land. The grass swayed beneath a gentle breeze. Something about the way it moved caught her attention. It seemed a trail had been mowed down at some point though she couldn't tell from where she was sitting if it was animals’ footprints or people. Setting down her coffee, Sasha slipped on her muck boots and started in the direction of the path.

29

Sasha tromped along the hill, reaching the path near the bottom. Whatever had crossed through seemingly came from the driveway. A quick glance on the other side told her there was no trail coming from the other direction. She walked slowly along it, careful not to disturb anything that she might be able to distinguish. Yet there were no obvious footprints, nor were there any signs of animals. Seemingly a dead end, she continued her walk up to the cemetery.

Despite the eerie feeling it gave her, there was no denying the serenity and peace that came with a location such as Harbor Hill. The closer she got to the small graveyard, the more she realized something was off. The beautiful gates that usually stood open were now locked. A glistening new chain wove between the dark and iron. At least she had the answer to her question. It had been a human who had passed their house to the hallowed grounds.

She ran her fingers over the keyhole, wondering who would do such a thing. It would be easy enough to scale the fence, but the disrespect alone made her shudder. If someone didn't want them in there, she had no right to go any farther. Still, the curiosity of who did it was dancing in her mind. With her frustration growing, she decided she needed to vent to the one person who could understand where she was coming from.

Stomping back to the house, Sasha quickly changed out her muck boots for her running shoes before heading out the front door. She didn't care what Jordan thought she was doing. There was little question in her mind that he was paying attention to her whereabouts after the way he'd spoken to her earlier that morning. Eventually, they were going to have to sit down and have a full discussion about their relationship. Sasha knew it wasn't something that would happen that afternoon, though. His work always had a habit of coming first.

Despite the festivities that were supposed to be taking place, Sasha didn't see another person on her walk in. She thought it was strange, given how packed the circle had been in the days before. It wasn't just the lack of people that bothered her. The more time she spent alone, the more she overthought everything. There hadn't been a supernatural occurrence and days. The only thing that still plagued her was the dreams. Was it possible everything else had been in her mind?

Her tension eased some when Carver’s storefront came into view. It wasn’t just his comforting nature that Sasha enjoyed. There was a closeness in their views of the world that felt cosmic. As she crossed the street, her pocket started to vibrate. She quickly pulled out her phone and answered the call despite not recognizing the number.

“Sasha? This is Lane.”

“Lane? Is everything okay?” she asked; he didn't sound like himself.

“Yes, I'm sorry we weren't able to meet up last night. I had a last-minute business emergency that took me out of the country. I hope you understand, these sorts of things happen. The clients I work for are all very high profile. These international lines always distort voice is a bit.”

“Okay,” she muttered. “What was it you were going to tell me last night? I hope I'm not overreacting, but this town it's starting to get to me. You seemed really frightened when we talked the other day. I just can't seem to make sense of anything anymore. Now Jordan is acting funny. I really need to speak with you.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Sasha didn't know what to think of it. For a moment, she thought the call had been disconnected. She was just about to ask if he was still there when she heard him clear his throat.

“Yes, about that, I don't know what I was thinking. We are fine with your friend Barb staying. There was no need for all the cloak and daggers. Sometimes, it just takes a little higher approval to get things done. I have been under a lot of stress. I don't know where my head was at. I hope you'll forgive me. Sometimes I have a flair for the dramatics.”

Sasha frowned. “Are you sure everything is okay? Yesterday you seemed really—”

“I told you, everything is fine. You don't want to get kicked out of the house, now do you?”

“Of course not! I'm sorry—”

“Listen, I really must go. Enjoy the rest of your stay. I hope this clears up any confusion you might have had. Please, if you need anything else, your fiancé can reach out to me.”

Before Sasha could argue, Lane had ended the call. It was only when she was looking at her phone with a blank stare that Sasha realized she was standing directly in the middle of the street. Yet not a car had passed the entire time. The eerie sensation had not passed since getting off the phone with Lane. Sasha thought hearing another person's voice might ease her gut. Yet, it had done nothing. Tucking her phone back into her pocket, Sasha looked at the ground as she quickly made her way to Carver’s shop. She didn't look up again until she was at the door.

Her first tug proved futile. Assuming the old oak was simply stuck, Sasha gave it another hard pull. Yet the wood wouldn't budge. It was then that she realized the door was locked. She peered through the tinted glass and saw no lights on inside. It was the middle of the afternoon. She had no idea why Carver's shop wasn't open. Giving the door a few hearty rasps, Sasha waited a few minutes on the steps before setting off on the sidewalk once again. It felt wrong to be standing there, waiting for him to answer when he obviously wasn't home.

She wasn't ready to go back to the mansion just yet. If she couldn't talk to Carver, she could at least use the library computers to look up more information before Barb’s arrival the next day. The walk from the antique restoration shop to the library proved just as eerie as when she'd walked down the hill toward the village. There wasn't another soul anywhere in sight. For the first time since arriving in the harbor, Sasha felt relieved to see the library come into view.

Cameron was high up on the list of people she didn't want to converse with, but Sasha was getting desperate for human interaction. It was starting to feel like her only choice was going to be Jordan. Still not ready to have the conversation, she trotted up the steps of the library to the front door. Her heart sank when the door didn't give. Only then did she notice the “closed” sign hanging on the door. Meanwhile, the library hours were clearly posted, and they should have been open. A chill ran down her spine.

“What the hell is going on here?” she muttered to herself.

Suddenly, she realized the familiar sensation of being watched had returned. Glancing up the slope to Harbor Hill, Sasha felt like it was ten miles away. She darted off the steps, walking at a pace that was merely a jog. The only thing that was keeping her from breaking into a sprint was the way it might look to someone else. She didn't want Jordan to be waiting for her on the porch and see the frantic look in her eyes. No matter what, Sasha had to keep her cool.

The only time she looked up from her carefully calculated pace was when she once again past Carver’s storefront. It looked no different than when she walked by moments before. When that alley next to it came into view, though, she skidded to a sudden stop. Her heart felt like it was going to be out of her chest. She could feel the blood rushing through her ears. A gate had been installed, its shape and structure matching that of the cemetery. Latching it to freshly cemented bricks on both sides was the same heavy style of chain she'd seen at the graveyard.

Sasha swallowed and started walking again at the same pace. Whoever had blocked off the cemetery had obviously been the same person to block off the alley. It wasn't just an individual looking to keep her out, she realized. The entire community wanted her to stay in her place. Jordan had been right all along.

30

“It was so bizarre,” Sasha whispered. “Mom, I’ve never felt like that before in my life. I think I need to get out of here.”

“Then you should go,” her mother quipped. “I wish I’d never gotten on this damn boat.”

“Please, I just called you to vent, not to worry you, okay?”

“How do you expect me not to worry when things like this are obviously upsetting you. To think that Jordan is being so hostile with you, too! I can’t believe him. He’s got a lot of nerve. He’s lucky I don’t come there and smack the sense right into him. That man is lucky to have you. I don’t know why you tolerate him.”

“He’s wonderful to me most of the time, I promise. This place is getting to him, too, I think. I don’t want to leave without him. If he’d just go with me back to the city, I know we’d be okay. This all must sound like the rantings of a nut job to you,” Sasha muttered.

“Don’t be silly! I know how smart and intuitive you are. Even if I don’t believe in ghosts and goblins and things that go bump in the night, it doesn’t mean they aren’t real. Everyone has a different path and sees things in a unique way. Maybe you’re right about getting Jordan out of there. Have you spoken to him about it again?”

“No, I don’t even know how to approach it. He thinks I’m losing it, Ma.”

“He’s a man, one with a brain at that, which makes it worse. I’d put money on him just being worried and not knowing how to express himself. Try talking again, and let me know how it goes. Think of the man you fell in love with and maybe remind him of all the good things you two have going for you back in the city.”

“Thanks, Mom. I know you’re right. We aren’t going to solve anything by not talking. Enjoy the rest of your cruise. I’m happy you were able to call after all.”

“I tell you, the modern marvels on these cruise ships, who would think I could call you like this! What a fun invention…”

Sasha listened as her mother rambled on about what a good time she was having while she painted her toes on the front porch. It was barely after two in the afternoon, yet she’d already had a stiff drink to ease her nerves. Booze was the only thing that took the edge off anymore. Her old love affair with addiction seemed to be worming its way back into her life. After a few more minutes of talking, her mother quickly ended the call to go sing karaoke, and Sasha was left alone in her silence again.

Summoning her courage, she tiptoed upstairs to Jordan’s temporary office and knocked softly on the door. His single-word command to enter told Sasha he was still fuming from earlier. Suddenly, her courage wavered, but she knew she had to try. They had been damn near perfect before leaving the city. All she wanted was to get back to the wonderful, comfortable place in their relationship. Surely Jordan wanted the same thing.

“Hey, do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“Can it wait?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Sure, I just wanted to figure out what we were doing, but that’s fine. It can wait, I guess.”

Jordan sighed and waved her farther in. “I have another call at three, so if you want to talk, let’s do it now.”

“I’m sorry for the erratic way I’ve been acting, but today just solidified that there is something weird about this place. I went down to town—”

“Without telling me, surprise, surprise.”

“Well, you're the one who is always telling me not to disturb you when you're on the phone with clients. It seems like you're on the phone with them all the time, too, so when should we talk? When can you pencil me in?” Sasha snapped.

“Hey, you’re the one who came up here to talk to me. I'm sorry things aren't going the way you want them to. It must be hard for you not getting your own way out here.”

She shook her head in defeat. “I came up here to try to reason with you, to try to talk to you about going back to the city. I can see that's not going to happen, though. If you wanna stay up here and be angry at me, fine, but then don't expect me to tell you where I'm going every second of every day. I'm not a child. I'm your fiancé. Right now, honestly, I don't even know if I wanna be that!”

Sasha spun around and stormed out of the room. She slammed the door behind her before stomping to their bedroom and pulling out her suitcase. Even as she was shoveling her things into it, she knew she couldn't leave. It wasn't simply the sensation of being watched returning that told her as much. The little girl she had seen in her dreams stood in front of her, just on the other side of the bed. She looked sad as she watched Sasha slowly stop packing.

“I can't stay here any longer,” Sasha whispered. “I'm sorry, I can't help you.”

“You can't leave,” the girl said. “You don't understand. You're so close!”

“Close to what?” Sasha asked.

“He's gone, you know. The one who comes here frequently. He pretends like he doesn't see us, but I know that he does.”

Sasha swallowed. “Are you talking about Lane? What happened to him?”

The girl put a finger over her mouth, pretending to whisper. “He's dead. He never should have come back here. We warned him. We warn all of them, but they just keep coming. You keep coming.”

She gasped. “No,” Sasha whispered as she shook her head. “That's not possible. I just talked with him on the phone. You must be mistaken. Who else has come searching for you?”

“Are you sure he spoke with him? Are you sure it wasn't just your head playing tricks on you again? It does that to you, you know. You're just a crazy writer... the crazy writer who will never make it out of here.”

Sasha felt the pressure in her chest starting to grow as her heart raised. The spirit seemed to be taunting her, though it had never shown aggression before. The air in the room felt thick and putrid. She stumbled away from the bed to the window, forcing it open though it did little good to take away the stench. Sasha covered her mouth, trying to stifle the gag rising in her throat. She glared at the girl.

“I'm not crazy,” she hissed. “I’m going to figure out what the hell happened here if it's the last thing I do.”

“Oh, you are crazy, all right! It doesn't matter, though. It never does. You can run, you can hide, you can try to get away, but they'll always find you. They always find them. It's in your blood as much as it's in theirs...”

“Get the hell out of my room,” she spat.

Sasha slammed the lid of her suitcase against the bed, violently pulling out the articles she'd already shoved inside, her eyes never leaving the little girl. The creature started to laugh menacingly. In an instant, the little girl disappeared just as Jordan burst through the door. He closed the distance between them at a jog, pulling her into his arms and holding her with such ferocity that she briefly thought he might squeeze her to death. Her anger started to dissolve. She knew that immense amount of pressure he was constantly under, and sometimes, an apology was better late than never. Sasha didn't want to leave without Jordan, but she knew she couldn't stay, either. Tomorrow, after Barb's arrival, she would tell her newfound friend they couldn't stay.

“Sasha! I'm sorry, please don't leave,” Jordan stammered. “I just got so upset last night. It feels like you never tell me anything anymore. I know I’ve been working a lot. Starting right now, I want to make more time for you. I’ve already cleared my afternoon. What do you want to talk about?”

All she could think about was the spirit girl. She’d wanted to talk with Sasha. That much was evident. How could Sasha have time to solve the mystery if Jordan was with her every second of the day? For some reason, the spirits never appeared around him. It was infuriating, to say the least. If they would simply show themselves to him, he would have to believe her. Although, she was wondering if he would take her at her word even then. His lack of faith in her was disturbing. Yet she had to give him credit. He seemed to genuinely be trying.

31

They spent the afternoon talking, but by the time dusk had rolled around, Jordan was once again working, though she couldn’t blame him. The conversation had gone round and round until exhausted. Neither could fight any longer. What was the point? He was still sure the things she’d been seeing and experiencing were in her head, but Sasha knew it was real. Tomorrow, Barb would be there.

She took a deep breath, enjoying the comfort that came with knowing she would soon have at least some of the answers she sought. Despite how early it was, Sasha felt the weight of the day on her shoulders. She yawned and rose from where she was swinging on the front porch and headed upstairs. After knocking on Jordan’s door, only to find him engrossed in work, Sasha stripped down and climbed into their massive bed. In a matter of minutes, she’d slipped into a deep slumber.

* * *

She looked out at the scenery as it flew by. Lush trees and brightly colored flowers blended together as her parents sang in the front seat. The radio in their car hadn’t worked for as long as she could remember. It didn’t matter, though. Her parents loved to sing to each other, serenading anyone who would listen with their angelic voices. They’d never gone so far from home. Her heart started to race.

She couldn’t remember where they were going or why. It frightened her, the unknown. Everything had happened so fast. One minute, she was playing with Roy in the house, and the next, her parents were waking her from her nap in the back of their car. They’d seemed cheerful enough but wouldn’t answer any of her questions. How she loved the endless days of summer. It didn’t matter that they had schoolwork all year. Most of the village kids were done before noon, leaving plenty of time to play and explore.

Already she missed Roy. What a goofy boy he was. Her mother didn’t like how he followed her around, but that didn’t matter. Even Great-Grandad said they were destined to be together as long as she was alive. He was her best friend, always looking out for her.

“Will we be back in time for me to finish my game of hide-and-seek? I was just about to win,” she grumbled.

Her parents fell silent. There was something wrong, and she knew it. She wished they’d tell her what was going on. She was going to be big soon, old enough to take part in the maypole dance even. It would be so wonderful. Roy could even be her escort if she’d let him, of course. Boys were silly. Roy especially. None of the others were allowed to play with her, not the boys at least. They were all too worried about hurting her. Like a bruised knee would be the end of the world. She wasn’t delicate like they thought.

Her mother was talking to her, calling her name, but she wasn’t listening. There were lingering questions in her mind. After a few more minutes of being ignored, she heard the frustration in her mother’s voice and felt guilt for acting childish. They’d expected better from her. She was, after all, very important.

“Do you want to play a game?” her mother asked, the smile returning.

“You didn’t tell me when we were going home,” she muttered.

“My wonderful princess, I don’t know how to answer that questions. Maybe a game will distract us both. How does that sound? Would you like to play?”

Sasha nodded. There was such a soothing tone to her mother’s voice. It was impossible not to find your nerves being calmed the instant she started speaking.

“Wonderful! Would you like to pretend to be spies?”

“Oh yes!”

She smiled again. “I thought you might. Now, the first thing that all good spies need is a fake name, so no bad guys can find you. What do you think your name should be?”

She pondered for a minute, her mind racing with ideas. There was a woman on television Sasha would watch when her schoolwork was done. Mama liked her, too. She was always baking and watching her show in the kitchen. Sasha didn’t pay much attention to the lady herself. It was the stories she read before the start of each cooking lesson that intrigued her. At that moment, she was halfway through a particularly captivating tale of a ban of misfit spirits haunting one house after another.

“Now,” her mother added, “it can’t be someone you know. That’s too easy. So, you can’t pick your friend Jane or—”

“I know, Mom,” Sasha replied indignantly. “I wanna be the lady on our show!”

Her mother laughed. “Perfect! No one would ever suspect you’re a spy then. Now, we have to get very good at using our spy names. So, for now, let’s pretend like they are our new names. We’ll use them all the time, it will be fun. I want you to tell me your pretend name ten times in a row.”

“Mommy, I’m not—”

“Now,” she growled.

The smile was gone, if only for an instant. Something inside the young girl stirred. Her mother seemed afraid. It was unnerving. She’d never seen the look before. Tears prickled her eyes, but her mother persisted. Tell me your new name.

“Sasha,” she whispered.

Again.

“Sasha.”

Again.

* * *

Sasha bolted upright, beads of sweat creeping down her forehead and neck. The room was warm despite the window being cracked open still. Outside it was light, indicating morning had come, yet Jordan hadn’t come to bed. For a moment, she wondered if he’d fallen asleep on the couch or in the study. After the arguments they kept having, she wouldn’t be shocked if it had been a deliberate move on his part.

Grabbing her phone, she checked the time. It was already afternoon somehow. It was no wonder Jordan wasn't still in bed. Panic started to set in when she realized that Barb would already be there. Without worrying about making herself presentable, Sasha darted out of the room to find her house guest. Even after calling out to Jordan, Sasha got no reply. He wasn't in the shower, nor was he in the study. She poked around the upstairs of the house for a minute before heading downstairs.

She called out to them again. Yet, still no one answered. The house had an eerie silence to it. Slipping on her shoes, she headed out the front door, yet there was still no sign of them. It made no sense. They never would have left without her. It was possible her fiancé might, but from the few times she'd spoken with Barb, she didn't think the woman would leave her like that. Suddenly, her phone chimed. Aggravated and confused, she unlocked it and pulled open her email.

It was a message from Barb. Sasha let out a sigh of relief as she opened it. At least the woman had tried to get ahold of her. It didn't explain where her fiancé was, though. She had to look at the message a dozen times before the pounding in her chest subsided enough for her to take a breath. The email was only two words; get out. Her stomach lurched; the phone felt somehow possessed in her hands. She dropped it as if it were hurting her. Sasha couldn't breathe.

The words glowed on her screen, the brightness somehow growing more intense the longer she looked at it. Sasha was scared to pick it up again, but something was happening. It was getting darker the longer she looked at it until suddenly, it went black. Flashes popped across the screen as she reached for it, trying to make out what it was until it became clear. There was a photo randomly flashing across her screen.

Sasha screamed when she realized the photo was an image of Barb, but her body had been mangled almost beyond recognition. Sasha wanted to puke but couldn’t take her eyes off the screen. It took her several minutes to realize the piercing siren she heard was her own blood-curdling scream. Suddenly the image was gone. Grabbing her phone, she darted to the landline and tried to dial out, but there was no tone. Again, she screamed for Jordan but heard nothing in reply.

Frantic, Sasha grabbed the keys to Jordan’s car and ran for the driveway. She had to find him and get out of there. The car peeled down the driveway at a speed far faster than she felt comfortable with. She pressed on the brakes, easy at first but harder with each passing second that they did nothing to slow her down. She realized they weren’t working at all, just in time to dodge the first tree but pulling the emergency brake did nothing.

There was no way to avoid a collision. Somehow, she managed to swerve down the road just as a herd of deer moved slowly across it before the edge of town. She jerked the wheel to avoid the collision as a massive tree trunk grabbed the undercarriage of her car. Smoke poured through the broken glass as her speed continued to pick up. Nothing made sense. It couldn’t be real. Sasha gave a final, terrified scream before the car was engulfed in flames.

32

Bolting upright in bed, Sasha struggled to gain a grasp on reality. The instant onslaught of sensations told her she was awake. Before, there had been no birds chirping or the subtle steps of Jordan as he shuffled around downstairs. Even in a home as well maintained as Harbor Hill, its weary old bones creaked with each step. She shuddered at the recollection of the dream. It was still playing vividly through her mind despite her best attempts at forgetting the mangled image of Barb's body and her own bloody demise.

Given her options, Sasha found herself longing for the simplicity of the spirits as they moved between her waking and slumbering world. At least she knew what they were after. The new dreams felt unusually cruel. Sasha shuddered again as she got dressed. Where had her day ended and the dream began? Barb was supposed to arrive soon. A pit churned in her stomach. Had the dream been a warning?

“Get a grip on yourself, Sasha,” she muttered to the mirror. “It’s just a house. It was just a dream. It’s no wonder Jordan thinks you’re nuts.”

Splashing cold water on her face, Sasha dried herself off and grabbed her phone. Barb would be there in less than an hour. She wanted some time with Jordan before her acquaintance’s arrival. They’d left things on bad terms, and she didn’t want to spend the rest of the day with a guest in the house and him in a lousy mood. Plastering a smile on her face and determined to turn things around, she jogged down the steps and followed the sound of Jordan’s phone.

He loved listening to talk radio. She’d learned to drown out the monotonous tones over the years. As she rounded the corner into the sitting room, butterflies started in her stomach. He was sitting with his back to her but turned when she cleared her throat. He looked as laid back as she’d expected. The house could have been burning around them, and his look of slight disdain wouldn’t budge.

“Hey, you,” she said as she sat next to him.

He gave her a sad smile, turning his body on the loveseat so that he was facing her. Sasha wasn’t sure where to take the conversation. It wasn’t like him to be so attentive. He’d turned down the volume on his phone before taking her hands in his and gazing into her eyes. In earnest, she was starting to feel nervous, though there was no reason. It was a beautiful morning. She could hear the occasional car go by in the village below as voices carried faintly through the opened windows.

“I hope it’s okay that I let you sleep in. You seemed to need it,” he started.

“I appreciate it. It’s not like I have a bunch of cleaning to do to get ready for Barb. This place is always immaculate. We should think about getting a housekeeper back in the city.”

“I don’t know how you can still be thinking about the city after being here, honestly. I love it. It’s so peaceful, well, with the exception of a few things.”

She laughed. “I think you’re talking about me! I never pictured you as the type of man to like a place like this. You’ve always mixed in perfectly in the city.”

Jordan shrugged. “I don’t mind either place, really. As long as I’m around people who love me and I care about, then I am happy.”

“I know things have been rough between us recently. Maybe we should talk about going back to the city early again. Or, at the very least, driving back for a weekend just to collect our thoughts. This place—”

“We came out here for you to work on your screenplay. How far have you gotten? I’m not trying to be pushy, but this was your dream. You’ve got a team of people waiting to review it, thousands of fans you’ve promised a second script to…I know that’s a lot of pressure and people to be let down—”

“Thanks,” she grumbled. “I hadn’t even thought about it that way. Is that what this is all about? The damn movie? If that’s the case, then I’ll go sit down right now and pound it out, and we can be packing for the road by tonight.”

He chuckled. “It’s not that I’m pushing you; I just want to see your dreams come true.”

“My dreams have already come true because I have you. I told them before they ever picked up the first one that I couldn’t promise anything more than that. I loved writing Gallagher, I thought I’d love writing the next one out here, too, but it’s just not working for me. I want to go back, Jordan.”

“All right,” he said.

“Really?” she asked, stunned. “Sorry, it’s just hard to believe. We’ve fought about leaving so many times, I’m not sure what to say. I promise this is a good move for us, and I’m so sorry I was wrong about coming out here. I love you. I just want us to work.”

Jordan smiled. “I know. Let’s stay until the festival is over, so we don’t offend anyone. You’ve become something of a local celebrity around here. Then, I promise, right after it’s over. I will take you home and never make you leave again.”

“Jordan—”

His phone rang, and he lifted a finger to pause the conversation. To her surprise, he stood and headed out of the room to take the call. She tried to listen in on the conversation, but he was already heading outside to the front porch. Instead of following after him, Sasha took in the silence, letting the warm breeze take her troubles away. Suddenly, the dream she’d had of her parents came flooding back to her. In the horror of her nightmare about Barb, she’d forgotten the prelude to it.

It felt so real, closer to a memory than a dream. What did it mean, though? Her name was Sasha, she was sure of that. It said as much on her adoption paperwork. Was that the end of it, though, or was there a life she didn’t know she had? Who was Roy? Sasha focused on the name, pleading with her mind to unlock anything else, but nothing came to her. She’d been young in the flashback, a child. The car felt familiar, and the name was one of a boy she’d cared very much about. Why couldn’t she piece it together?

Her body shook as she replayed the scene in her mind. Sasha didn’t hear Jordan come back in. She jumped when he touched her shoulder. She tried to keep a smile on her face so he wouldn’t question her about the shift in her mood. There was no way she could tell him she was now having flashbacks from a childhood she didn’t even know was real. It all made sense, though. As a child, her mother had told her that her mind blocked out the trauma of her childhood and parents. After all this time, why was her brain trying to unlock them?

“I think you’re right,” she muttered as he sat down. “I think I might be losing my mind.”

“Oh?”

“I’m joking,” Sasha quickly said. “I just keep having these crazy dreams. Was that a work call? If you need to get stuff done, don’t let me stop you. I might try to get some work done before Barb gets here—”

“Sasha…”

“I know, I know, you don’t think it’s a good idea that I’m having her come out. I appreciate your support on it. I’m sure if I can find out what this place is hiding, everything will smooth out, and I don’t just mean with the house, with us, too.”

“We need to talk about Barb.”

She glared at him. Instantly, she was on edge as she crossed her arms defensively over her chest. If he thought that he was going to ruin their plans at the last minute, he had another thing coming. She’d worked too hard to track down the journalist. Sasha wasn’t going to let it all be for nothing just because Jordan didn’t like the idea of having a visitor stay with them for a few days. Thinking again about her mother’s offer to come to get her, she set her jaw and planned on standing her ground.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she snapped. “You’ve got a lot of nerve thinking you can just change the narrative—”

“She’s dead.”

The breath depleted from her lungs despite how she gasped for air. She shook her head, sure that she hadn’t heard him correctly.

“What? You’re lying…I just talked with her yesterday. No, that’s not possible. He must be confused…”

“Why would I lie about something like that?” he asked. “That was the local police station. She had your name and address programmed into her GPS. They thought we’d like to know.”

33

“No…no, that can’t be right. I just talked with her. They’re lying to you,” Sasha stammered.

He moved to take her hand, but she quickly recoiled. The last thing she wanted was to be touched, especially by Jordan. He had to be lying to her. Barb wasn’t dead. It was some sort of a cruel joke. The dream! It was all just an elaborate nightmare. Anything could be faked, even the sun shining outside. She dug her nails into her wrists, but nothing stopped. There was no great blackout that transported her back to the safety of her bed.

Jordan saw the self-harm and grabbed her hands again, preventing her from doing it more. When the reality shattered through her traumatized mind, Sasha leaped from the couch. There was no one left. No one she could trust. Jordan had to be lying to her. It was some sort of ruse to get her to unlock and let go. Barb wasn’t due there for another half an hour, and she doubted her friend would show up on time. She shook her head again.

“I don’t know what the hell your game is, but it’s not funny. She isn’t dead. The police wouldn’t call you. They would call her family first—”

“They tried. She didn’t have anyone. I’m so sorry, Sasha. I can’t imagine how hard this is for you to accept, but the longer you postpone the reality, the harder it will be.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Sweetheart, please sit back down. You know I’m not doing anything. Somewhere deep down, you know I’m just trying to help you. This, what happened to Barb, it was awful, but you’ve got to process it.”

She still couldn’t believe it.

“What happened to her?” Jordan cringed. “They said her car went off the road. It’s deer mating season around here, and since it’s all protected woods, they are abundant. There are signs up for drivers to slow down all over. I guess she didn’t pay attention to them.”

“I didn’t see any signs when we came through,” Sasha hissed. “Do you really expect me to believe that she hit a deer and died because of it? I’m not an idiot.”

“No, you aren’t, but you are being a little bit irrational. I’m sure I could ask them to send over the report when they get it. These things happen, Sasha. She was going too fast.”

“Then where is her car? Where are pictures or a news report? Doesn’t any of that strike you as strange? I have questions.”

“As you should, you were her friend, it sounds like. I don’t know what further information I can get for you, but I’m willing to try. This must be hard for you to cope with.”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” she hissed. “Another major breakthrough for the doctor and the headcase.”

“Sasha! Where is this coming from? I understand you’re upset, but there’s no need to lash out at me.”

“I’m not upset, not at all! Why? Because I think this is all just some elaborate scheme for you to get into my head. Is that what you’re after? A peek into my insanity?”

Jordan frowned. “Maybe we should talk about getting you a sedative. Nothing strong, but you’re not making any sense, and I’m getting worried about you.”

Of course, he wanted her out. She wasn’t going to let him, though. Everything he said felt like a lie, some sort of cover-up that he was part of. It all made sense. Jordan didn’t want to leave Harbor Hill, and he was going to do everything in his power to keep her there. She felt the walls starting to close in around her as an anxiety attack threatened to take hold of her reality. Taking a deep breath, she started to count and could feel the air clarifying her mind. It was no wonder Jordan was worried about her. Sasha was starting to worry about herself.

“I…I don’t know what to say…I don’t know how to feel or what to do. It doesn’t seem real. Please, tell me it’s not real.”

“Don't beat yourself up. This is a lot for anyone to take in, especially someone with your background. I know it's hard to process.”

“I just don't understand why they would call you. They don't know you anymore than they know me. Yet, it seems like everyone here is more comfortable with you.”

Jordan shifted next to her. “You're starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist again. I think if you are going to keep getting worked up over this issue, you need to take something beforehand. Why don't you lie down, and I'll bring you something?”

Sasha glared at him. “I don't wanna take anything. I wanna keep a clear head from now on. I wish you would stop asking me.”

“And I wish I could feel safe sleeping in my own house!” Jordan snapped.

“This isn't your house. This isn't even our city,” Sasha whispered. “I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever see my home again.”

Her body shook. No matter how tightly she squeezed her arms around her body, she couldn’t seem to stop the trembling. She shivered despite the warmth in the air. Her mind was racing. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. The age-old mantra not to believe something until you saw it popped into her mind. With a sudden calm, her arms dropped to her side as she glared at Jordan.

“I want to see her body,” she whispered.

“Sasha…I don’t think that’s a good idea. Even it if was possible, which I’m sure it's not, I would never let you—”

“You’re lying to me then.”

“Please sit down. You’re being unreasonable. No one is going to show you a corpse. I know this hurts, but you’re vilifying me for no reason here. Come, sit. We will talk. I’ll even call the detective back if you want.”

“You said it happened here, right? It wasn’t outside this cursed forest?”

He eyed her warily and nodded. “Just outside of town. The forest isn’t cursed, though. It’s just big, which can seem intimidating.”

“Then she was brought here. She was dead when they found her, so there is no point in taking her to a hospital, right? Take me to her body, or I’ll go find it myself,” she snarled.

Jordan rose slowly. She took several steps away from him toward the front door. The wounded look in his eyes nearly broke her heart. It wasn’t his fault that she didn’t believe him. He hadn’t seen the same things that she did. How could anyone believe that what was happening to her was real? Doing her best not to continue moving away from him, she raised a hand in a silent plea for him to stop. He paused.

“Sasha, honey, I’m worried about you. I didn’t know she meant so much to you. If you want to go see her body, I’ll make it happen, okay? Just give me five minutes to make the call so we aren’t showing up out of the blue. The last thing I think you want is everyone seeing you like this, right?”

She hesitated. “No. You’re right. I don’t want them to think I’m crazy. I can barely stand you thinking it. There is something going on here, and Barb was the missing link. Someone did this. I have to make you believe me.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t think you are crazy. Everyone reacts to death in different ways. If this will help you get closure, I am happy to do it. All I care about is your safety. You’re my world. You have been for so long. Now, if it’s okay with you, I’m going to grab my shoes off the back porch and call the police officer back. We can walk or drive down there as soon as I come back, okay?”

Tears prickled her eyes as she nodded. She leaned against the banister as he approached her, kissing her softly on the cheek and squeezing her arm before moving to the kitchen. Why did she keep letting herself get so worked up? She heard him talking on the phone and the back door open. A few seconds later, the familiar squeak of his loafers moved closer until she felt his hand wrap around her waist tenderly. Sasha pressed her back against him, closing her eyes as she tried to steady her nerves.

The slight prick on her neck was barely noticeable. It wasn’t until the sudden rush of cool liquid moved through her veins that her eyes shot open. Her mouth tasted bitter as she tried to move away from Jordan, but his grip stayed firm against her stomach. He’d given her something strong, but the realization donned on her too late. She was already slipping away.

34

Her parents were there at the house with her, both of them. It wasn’t the people who had adopted her, but Sasha could still feel the love they had for her. Her mother’s arms wrapped around her protectively as they huddled together on the bed. She didn’t know what was happening, but she knew her father was angry. Not at her, never at her or Mama. He loved them both with all his heart, her brother included.

There was someone in the house he was angry with, though. Their voices carried through the walls despite her mother trying to block them out by singing. It was such a wonderful song, one that she’d know forever. Except…she couldn’t remember it. Sasha didn’t know what was happening, but the room was getting colder. It became darker as her mother started to slip away. How, when she was right there, could she still be disappearing?

Her fingers wrapped around her waist, searching for her mother despite the warm figure now being gone. Her father’s voice carried more weight; no beautiful songs to keep her from hearing him. There was a fear in his voice each time he said her name. Why were they fighting about her? Had she done something wrong? That wasn’t her name…her name was Sasha…what did they keep calling her? Sasha covered her ears to try to block out their words, but it was no use.

They would have her. No one could stop them from taking what was rightfully theirs. She was property, nothing more. Her father argued with him. She was so much more than property. She was adored. She was loved.

* * *

Sasha groaned. Her head was splitting. It hurt so much she could barely open her eyes. When she finally managed to crack them, she saw the sun hanging low in the sky beneath the silk shades. Every limb of her body vibrated as it came to life. She moved slowly until she was sitting up, the world still spinning slowly around her as the memory of what had happened returned. Jordan had drugged her, heavily it seemed from the aftereffect of the dosing.

Stumbling to her feet, she managed to make it to the bathroom just as the contents of her stomach came back up. For the next ten minutes, everything she’d consumed over the last few days seemed to find its way into the toilet. When it finally subsided, and she rose, her footing felt a little more secure, and things weren’t moving around in a circle any longer. The room was stiflingly hot, though.

Making her way to the door, she gave it a hard tug, but it didn’t open. Taking a deep breath, she tried again, but the results were the same. Her heart started to race. The door was locked. Instinctively, Sasha started to pound on it and call out to Jordan. She waited a few minutes for a response, but there was no movement in the house. She darted to the nightstand where she usually kept her phone, but it was nowhere to be found.

He must have taken it when he had locked her in the bedroom. On the other nightstand, though, sat her laptop. She darted across the bed and snatched it, opening it up in a rush or hurry. He had taped a note to the monitor. Her hands trembled as she peeled it off and opened it. Rage coursed through her as she glared at the single sentence. Write your screenplay. Sasha crumpled up the note and threw it at the door before turning on her laptop.

Jordan could rot in hell for all she cared! She was going to get out of there and never look back. It didn’t matter anymore if he believed her or not; drugging and kidnapping someone was still against the law and far past her boundaries for a comfortable relationship. There was a soft rap on the door before she heard the telltale sign of a key unlocking it.

Jordan poked his head in. “Hey! I’m happy you are awake! I was starting to wonder if you were going to sleep until tomorrow.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? You locked me in here! Jesus, Jordan, you drugged me! I’m leaving right now.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, Sasha. I think you need to work on your script. Really focus on getting that done. After that, we will talk.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Sasha marveled. “You have no right to keep me here or tell me what to do!”

“Sasha, we've been over this before. I only want what's best for you! You were ready to walk into a sleepy little town and demand to see a corpse. Those people are traumatized enough after this! I couldn't let you make things worse.”

“You don't get to make that decision for me,” Sasha replied. “I don't think I want to stay here anymore. I think you and I need some time apart. I don't know if it's sweet or messed up that you think you have the right to lock me in here, but either way, I am leaving.”

“You are determined to make everything difficult, aren't you? Why won't you just let me help?”

Sasha was too baffled to speak. For the first time, she actually felt worried for her safety with Jordan. She had always trusted him complicity, even when they had their differences. She saw him as a reasonable man with a sound mind and a knack for helping people. It didn't make any sense. He was acting like a completely different person. She'd known him for years, yet the man standing in the doorway, blocking her only exit, had a cold look in his eyes.

“Come now,” Jordan said. “Things would be so much easier around here if she would just work on your next manuscript and stop making everyone out to be villains. I hate to say it, sweetheart, but if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, chances are...”

Her jaw dropped. “Are you seriously trying to say that I'm crazy? You are the one who doped me, correct, and the one who locked me in this room?”

“Only after you became hysterical, and don't forget the bit where you are going to storm into a police headquarters and demand to see a corpse for a woman you barely knew. Does that sound like someone you'd like strolling around town?”

“When you say it like that...” Sasha whispered. “You're making it sound like I've lost my mind. I haven't! Doesn't it all just seem a little too coincidental to you? This place, Barb, Lane—”

“What about Lane?” he growled.

Her eyes narrowed. “He knew something, didn't he?”

“I think it's time you got back to writing,” Jordan said.

“You son of a—”

Jordan shook his head again but said nothing as he slipped out of the room. Sasha was on her feet in an instant, rushing in his direction to jerk it back open, but she was too slow. He had it locked by the time she got there. She pounded on the door and screamed at him through it for a minute before realizing it was futile. The situation had become dire; Jordan had turned on her. The only thing she could think about was getting out of the house.

The house was only two stories. She could make a rope out of the ties on the curtains and drop down the last few feet. All she had to do was make sure she was ready to run. Heading into town wouldn’t do her any good. They were all working against her. They were all working against her. The words rang in her mind... Suddenly Jordan’s actions didn’t seem quite so fool-hearted. After all, she was the one that was talking about conspiracy theories, dead children, and ghosts running rampant through the property.

The realization didn't slow her down any, though. Sasha jogged to the window and unlocked it, trying desperately to tug it open, but something was stopping her. A screw had been driven into the frame. It was wedged so deeply that the wood had split. For someone worried about what the owner would think, Jordan seemed more than happy to destroy the antique wood at her expense. Jordan had planned her captivity well, it seemed.

Her eyes moved back to the laptop. Much like a phone, it had an independent memory and Wi-Fi connection. At the very least, she would be able to get on a Zoom call with someone from her work and let them know the situation. Jordan was smart. He could create whatever narrative he wanted with the situation. Only a handful of people knew where they were at, and with her history of mental disorders, who knew what Jordan could be getting away with?Chapter Thirty-Six

Sasha darted back to her computer and flipped it open. The screen jumped to life. She immediately pulled up the video conference app, but to her horror, a bright yellow bar at the bottom alerted her to the lack of connection. Her stomach plummeted. Of course, he’d made sure to shut off the computer's data. The brief ray of hope she’d had quickly flittered away. She regretted the day they’d joined phone plans together. How he’d controlled her life without her even realizing.

She wasn’t going to sit around and wait for Jordan to decide her fate. Leaping back to her feet, she started to pound on the door with ferocity. When her hands felt like they were going to bleed, she switched to kicking it. Her shoes were all situated downstairs. She hadn’t had time to get them on before Jordan had attacked her. Outside, she heard the sound of approaching footsteps and slowly stopped her assault on the door. All she knew was that she needed to get out of there. How she hadn’t a clue.

Backing away from the door, she let Jordan poke his head through. He didn’t look disturbed in the least by the way she’d been acting. Frighteningly enough, her fiancé appeared rather pleased with himself. Sasha took a step toward him to gauge his reaction. Instantly, he was back on the other side. He’d always been a cautious man. Now it was going to act against her. A few seconds later, he popped his head back in, but the playful smile had faded.

“If you lunge again, I won’t open the door next time. Do you understand?”

“Let me out of here,” she hissed.

“I’m going to. I just need you to calm down first and agree to some things.”

“Fine, I’ll agree to whatever the hell you want, now let me go.”

He shook his head and chuckled, stepping farther into the room. Her eyes darted to the door, but he seemed ready for her, his hand moving to the knob. If she was going to get away from him, it wouldn’t be while he was standing there. Suddenly, she wished she knew more about picking locks. Or, at the very least, had taken her mother up on the offer to go to a self-defense class with her. Sasha never thought she’d have to use it, though, especially not against Jordan.

“I don’t want you getting any ideas,” he said. “I’m only standing here until you take a breather. If you want to run out, go for it, but you won’t get far. Every door in this house is locked, and I’ve already spoken with your mother and the authorities.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “You are only here and not in a holding cell because I was able to pull some strings. As of right now, I am the executor of your new conservatorship.”

“Excuse me?” she stammered.

“We found his body, Sasha. Well, the police did.”

“Whose body?”

“Lane. You know, it took me some time to piece it all together, but once I did, it all fit like a glove, just perfectly. It was almost like I’d planned it myself. You left the other night, which by itself wasn’t a big deal, but you failed to mention your meeting with Lane. His body was found while they were installing new gates downtown.”

“You're lying,” Sasha said. “I just talked with him yesterday. He was perfectly fine. I don't know how you knew about the meeting, but he never showed. I can prove it, too. Give me my phone.”

“Ah, my poor Sasha. I don't know what kind of games your mind is playing on you, but you haven't had a phone in over a week now. Don't you remember that? It's okay, though. We’re going to get you the best defense attorney there is. You're a beloved writer. People will understand you were just off your meds.”

“Are you kidding me?” she whispered. “You did this, all of this, didn't you?”

“I wish you would stop making me out to be some sort of supervillain. All I have done is try to help you. I even have the documentation to prove it. Of course, saying it would require a court order, but they were willing to give me that when they realized how bad things had gotten. So, as I was saying, I have some rules before you're allowed to leave this room.”

Sasha's mind went blank. She lunged at him in an angry rage; the guttural scream from her voice sounded foreign and like a wild animal. The fear in his eyes was almost enough justification for her actions, yet he was able to slip outside before she could get her fingers around his throat. He locked the door from the other side. She could hear him chuckling as he walked away. She continued to scream for several minutes, cursing his name and everything he had done to her.

Her rage turned to soft sobs as she sank down to the floor, her back against the door. Sasha couldn't help but question her own sanity. She knew she had spoken to Lane. His number would still be in her recent calls on her phone. Jordan was doing his best to break her, but she wasn't going to let him. No matter what he said, she had to keep believing that her sanity was still intact. After a few minutes of wallowing, Sasha looked around the room to try to form a plan. Even if she could escape, though, Jordan had ensured she would be a wanted criminal.

Her eyes fell to her laptop. Perhaps there was still a way for her to tell the world what was really happening. Scrambling to her feet, she sat down on the bed and opened the working manuscript. She worked for hours until her hands cramped, and her addiction pleaded for a cigarette. She didn't know how long it would be before she was out of the room. However, her nicotine levels were dropping to the point that she was ready to negotiate.

Swallowing her pride, she knocked a couple times on the bedroom door. It was after eight in the evening, but she knew Jordan was still awake. His constant movement downstairs told her as much. Before long, she heard the sound of him climbing up the steps and the key entering the lock. She took several steps back to give him space. When he poked his head into the room, she balled her hands into fists to keep from lunging for his throat.

“Have you had some time to cool off?” he asked. “I was wondering when I would hear from you again. Honestly, though, I figured you would hold out until tomorrow at least. I'm proud of you, honey. You have shown some real growth.”

“Don't call me honey, asshole. You can call this whatever you want, but I know it's bullshit. I'm not going to play your stupid games,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I need a cigarette. Anything you can do about that?”

“You know, I really never did support that addiction. Does terrible things to the body.”

“Yeah, well, you don't know the power of addiction. Is this the hill you're ready to die on? Because as someone who has needed a smoke for the last three hours, I can tell you I am.”

“You know, one of the first things I ever noticed about you was that you were a smoker. I couldn't believe it, to be honest! You! The epitome of the perfect female form, destroying what God created all for a few seconds of peace.”

“That's okay, sweetheart. I was starting to think we should see other people anyway. I'm sure you'll be able to find a nice non-smoker in prison. When I get out of this, I'm going to make sure everyone knows what you did here.”

He shrugged. “I guess that's where we'll have to agree to disagree, once again. You see, everything I’m doing is above the law right now. It really is a shame that you lost your mind like this, don't worry. I'll make sure your mother knows how much you loved her.”

“So, what's your end game here? Are you just gonna keep me locked up here until the owner comes back?”

Jordan said nothing in reply. Sasha could feel her nerves on edge.

“Fine,” she growled. “Just bring me a damn cigarette.”

He glared at her. “Fine, I knew I'd probably have to get the place repainted after this anyway. Just do me a favor and smoke in the bathroom.”

Sasha scoffed. “I'll be sure to take your deposit into consideration.”

His face contorted into a malicious grin. “Thanks, I just had the curtains replaced last year.”

35

The weight of his words didn't sink in until he'd already locked her back in the bedroom. She stood in stunned silence as she tried to decipher what he meant. How could he have them replaced unless he owned the house? Suddenly Sasha understood that their entire relationship had been a lie. Jordan wasn't the man he had said he was. Everything leading up to that moment had been a trick, a deception on his part, all just to get her there. But why? What was his role in everything?

When he returned thirty minutes later, he had a pizza box, soda, and cigarettes. She snatched the pack from him before retreating to the bed and lighting one up. Jordan glared at her, but she didn’t care as she tapped off the ash onto the bedspread. His cheeks flushed, but he still didn’t move from his position at the front door. Taking the barely smoked cigarette, she snuffed it out on the oak end stand before fishing out the emergency joint she kept in every pack. Jordan despised the smell.

“You are being very petty, you know,” he snarled.

“I’m not the one holding someone prisoner.”

“I told you, you’re being investigated for murder. You aren’t being held prisoner. I have a conservatorship in place for the moment. Once this is all cleared up, you’ll be free to go. I’d love for you to roam around the house…well…not if you’re going to destroy it like you are this room, though.”

“Why am I here?” she asked. “What ties do you have to this place?”

He shook his head. “All of that will be clear in time. We aren’t ready yet but soon, I promise you’ll have all your answers. We didn’t want things to happen like this, Sasha. You were just so persistent with the fake ghost stories, then reaching out to that woman…you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

Sasha wanted to keep pressing him and somehow earn back his trust, but she knew it would end up in another bout of rage with him slamming the door. He’d mentioned her having more freedom. At the moment, it was the only thing she could think about. She could head for the woods as soon as he wasn’t looking, but it was thousands of acres of wilderness, and she’d been in the city most of her life. Supplies were going to be crucial unless she wanted to make a break for the highway.

“I don’t want to be trapped in here. I’m sorry about your bedspread. I’ll pay to replace it and fix the nightstand.”

“You know you aren’t fooling anyone, right? I just want you to know this house is being watched; the entire town is. If you so much as blink, I’ll know about it. You have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.”

She thought about Carver. Jordan must have sensed where her mind went and scoffed.

“Don’t bother. He left town days ago. It’s amazing what some people will do for money. The poor sap was happy to go the second he got a letter saying there was money waiting for him back in the city.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t just kill him, too,” she hissed.

“I think you need some alone time.”

“Wait! Please! I’m sorry. I don’t want to be locked in here anymore. I need fresh air. I even wrote some scenes. You’re welcome to take a look at them!”

He eyed her, but before Jordan could make a decision, someone knocked at the front door. His eyes darted downstairs for a split second before moving back to her. He had a grin on his face.

“I should go speak with our guests,” he said. “I’ll be back soon. Remember, if you make a scene, you’ll be right back here in the bedroom, and this time, I won’t bring you anything. While you take some time to reflect on things, have a look at the file I added to your computer.”

Sasha said nothing as he closed the door. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of getting under her skin. Instead, she retreated to her computer, lighting up another cigarette and letting the ash fall on the bedspread. She had no intention of sleeping in the bed they’d shared as a couple. Whatever Jordan was doing was sick and twisted. He was going to spend a long time in jail for it. She just had to get out of there first.

With the order she kept on her laptop, it was easy to see the file with her name on it. Instantly she clicked on it. There were a few dozen files. The media types ranged from videos and audio files to scanned documents. Her stomach clenched when she read through the tiles. Before she could go through them all, she clicked on the first file. It was a sound clip. When she recognized her mother's voice, her heart shattered.

I hate to say it, but she’s been going downhill for a while. Her mind’s almost completely gone now. Jordan knows what’s best for her. He’s been taking care of her now for so long. If he thinks she needs to be medicated, then it’s best that we listen to him. As far as I’m concerned, the decision is up to him, and he has my full support. I think she should be institutionalized, personally, but I’ll allow him to try this method first. Please, just get her help. This isn’t the wonderful woman I remember anymore.

She couldn’t hold back the horrified sob as the recording started again. Her body was too shocked to move and stop it from playing. Not that it mattered. She remembered the conversation well. It had been a private one between her mother that they’d had almost two years ago. Everything in the conversation had been taken out of context, though. The person in question had been her grandmother, a wonderful lady who had died of dementia, unfortunately. Jordan had been instrumental in her care, now Sasha understood why.

Snapping out of it, she clicked on the next one. It was a photocopy of court documents. He had done his homework, filing all the proof and paperwork needed to secure the conservatorship. There was also a copy of the police record for Lane’s death. It had to be fake. Everything else was. She’d spoken to him. His voice was unique enough that she knew it was him. Still, doubt lingered in her mind. Jordan had manipulated the system; what would stop him from killing Lane?

The most incriminating evidence, though, had been Sasha’s own actions. Jordan had cameras stationed all over the house. She’d never believe someone if they’d told her he was watching her every move. What was his motivation, though? He had obviously been treating her like a subject, a person to study, for some time. She was calling everything into question. Their entire relationship had been a lie. The last thing she was going to do was cry over him. Instead, she used the new knowledge to fuel her determination to escape and bring him and his sick plot to justice.

Hours later, she heard the voices downstairs moving to the front door, and before long, Jordan was at her door. His smug smile infuriated her, but she didn’t let her demure appearance slip an iota. Her eyes stayed trained on his shoes as she fiddled with her fingers in her lap. He had to think that he had broken her. It was the only way she could see a way out. For the first time, he moved away from the safety of the door to sit on the chaise near the entrance.

“So, I take it you’ve had time to look things over?”

She nodded.

“Good, that should make things easier. Now, I hope you know I’ve only ever wanted what was best for you.”

“You said that you had some rules? You’ve got me over a barrel. I don’t want any trouble, okay?”

“See now, I told them this should have been our approach from the beginning.”

Her eyes darted half an inch up before she could catch herself. There were others. Suddenly, she felt like she was going to be sick again. How many people were tangled up in what was happening?

“Just tell me what you want me to do,” she whispered. “How long do you plan on keeping me prisoner here?”

“All I want is for you to get the help that you need. I’m sure, given enough time, we will work through your mental issues. Until then, you aren’t a prisoner. I want you to experience the outdoors. Heck, you can even go wandering into town if you’d like. Just don’t go beyond that, okay?”

“You really trust me?”

He chuckled. “Of course not. I trust my real family, and they will be watching your every move. If you think that someone isn’t, then you’re lying to yourself. This, Harbor Cove, is my home.”

36

She didn’t remember when she finally dozed off on the chaise. It wasn’t long after Jordan had given her his list of rules. Despite what he’d told her, Sasha hadn’t expected to find the door unlocked the following morning. It bothered her that the windows were opened as well. Someone had come into the room while she’d been sleeping. She shuddered to think of who it was. Knowing Jordan had kept his word didn’t make her feel any better. She knew she was being watched by people and hidden cameras alike.

Instead of running immediately for the front door, she got dressed and grabbed her laptop. Moving to the bed, she started working on the manuscript. No matter what happened to her, she wanted to get the story out there, to know that her worst nightmares would be between the pages. It soothed her soul some. She’d rewritten half the script by the time she’d finally fallen asleep. Now it pleaded with her to be written. Yet she still didn’t know the ending, her own final climax. Part of her still clung to the hope that she would find a way out of her ordeal, but the same voice that reminded her of her depression chimed in with its own morbid predictions of her fate. She just needed to focus on getting away from Jordan and whoever else was helping him. Surely there still had to be one decent person left in the small community.

Her fingers moved with little command as the scenes unraveled in her mind. With the flourish of a seasoned screenwriter, she embellished some points and omitted others from the story. It would do the world no good to know about her affections for Jordan. They would paint him as the villain long before she’d realized it. Looking back, she was mortified at how blind she’d been. He’d played her well, but there was still time to escape from his clutches. After several hours and thousands of words, Sasha stretched out and stood.

Her mind and body both needed a reprieve from the story. She half expected to find the door locked, a cruel joke played by her captor, but it opened instantly. From where the bedroom was, she could hear Jordan talking in the study. She didn’t move quietly, knowing full well the cameras would catch her every move. Sasha wondered if he was watching them from his perch at that very moment. Making her way to the back door, she tugged on her hiking boots and tromped through the house. She was sure to slam his precious door on the way out.

For a few seconds, she let the warm sun soak into her skin. Sasha wanted to forget everything that had happened, but it wasn’t possible. Not even the serenity that came with Harbor Hill could turn back time to before she’d met Jordan. If she’d felt like eyes were following her every move before, the sensation had intensified tenfold. As the town came into view, she noticed it had the same vacant eeriness as before. She had little hope that Carver would be there, yet she still tried the door. Seconds later, she found herself headed for the edge of town.

The sensation grew more intense with each second that passed. As the circles of the city combined into a single road, her heartbeat raced. He’d told her not to leave town, yet there was no one stopping her. For a moment, hope fluttered inside of her. She could see the city limit signs just a few hundred yards before the road dead-ended onto the two-lane that could take her back to civilization. Sasha tried to control her pace and keep from bolting.

Something rustled in the forest next to her. She jumped instinctively before freezing. It was the only way to stop herself from running at a dead sprint to the imaginary line of freedom. It didn’t take her long to find the culprit as a set of antlers popped above the thick brush. Though she couldn’t see the beast behind the foliage, it had to be massive, judging by the rack. With the danger passed, she started her power walk forward once again. Seconds later, she heard the movement once more but knowing what it was, she didn’t stop moving.

Instead, she glanced over and rolled. The antlered creature wasn’t alone now, and she could see it for what it truly was. Next to it stood a similar concoction, but instead of antlers, the creature had what appeared to be the horns of a Buffalo. There were people beneath the fur costumes, though the blood-soaked animal furs did little to hide their otherwise naked bodies. Had it not been for the dark stains of red flaking away from peach skin, she’d have wondered if they were living beings or cursed corpses coming to drag her deep into the underworld.

Suddenly, she knew she had to make a break for it. In a split second, she was darting for the main road. She didn’t stop when she saw the two appear on either side of the stop sign. Her steps faltered when more emerged until a line of grotesque creatures stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking her only exit. Sasha could see their builds. Men and women mingled with children in the horrifying row. How anyone could subject their offspring to such a monstrous display, she couldn’t fathom. Her steps halted when the morbid row took a step forward in her direction.

Her eyes darted to the tree line. She thought about making a run for the forest and trying to catch the road that way. To her horror, she saw the row of half-creature/half-humans extended into the wood line as far as the eye could see. Every villager had to be out there, waiting for her to try to flee. Sasha wondered if their gruesome show of force extended around the entire town or just the road. With no answers and no options, she started to slowly back away from the people. When she finally managed to turn around and take her eyes off them, her fight-or-flight kicked in, and she sprinted back through town.

Despite hearing no footsteps gaining on her, she didn’t let up until she hit the front gates of Harbor Hill. Only then did she venture to turn around. The main road was blocked by the town's building, not that she’d have seen anyone anyway. It was too far. For a minute, she wondered if everything she’d just witnessed had actually happened or if Jordan had slipped some hallucinogen into her while she slept. It shook her to the core that she couldn’t trust her own mind anymore. He’d made sure of that. Sasha felt the familiar rage bubbling to the surface as she started up the hill to the house.

By the time she reached the front steps, her breathing and heart rate had returned to normal. Had she not been parched, she might have sat on the porch for a while before going back in. If what she’d seen had been real, Jordan would undoubtedly know by now that she was trying to make a break for it. He’d be mad. Who knew what would happen after that? Suddenly, she regretted not continuing her run and trying to break the line. What was the worst that could have happened?

Her mind drifted back to the evidence that Jordan had fabricated. It seemed like he would stop at nothing to get whatever sick revenge he was after. If she didn’t cooperate, what would be the outcome? Sasha thought about her mother, still on her cruise and probably having the time of her life. She was the only person she cared about in the entire world. The gruesome wreck that had claimed Barb’s life flashed through her mind. Jordan was the monster that haunted people’s dreams.

There was no doubt now that Jordan was behind it. All Sasha had wanted from Barb was a few answers. If he was willing to do that to a complete stranger, she knew he’d do the same to her innocent mother. Her stomach clenched as she doubled over the edge of the porch. Sasha thought she was going to get sick again. Jordan had done a thorough job of making sure she was a prisoner in every way.

She turned back to look at the town, contemplating her options, when a noise caught her attention. It wasn’t Jordan’s rare but familiar laughter that made her cheeks flush with rage. Instead, it was the high-pitched and unquestionably female laughter that joined it that made her turn for the door. Sasha jerked it open, her eyes instantly landing on the duo standing in such close proximity there was no question about the relationship. Sasha’s gaze moved from Jordan to Cameron, then back again. She was ready to be the killer they’d accused her of being.

37

“I’m gonna need someone to tell me what the hell is going on here,” Sasha hissed.

“I was wondering when you were going to make it back from your little walk. Did you enjoy yourself?” Jordan asked.

“I asked you a question first. I didn’t realize you were so interested in the library!”

Jordan smiled. “Sasha, I thought we agreed we were done playing games.”

“Forgive me if I thought you would spend a few seconds mourning the end of our relationship,” she snapped.

“Our relationship, yours and mine, that was one of necessity. I was tasked with bringing you here at any cost. Now that I’ve completed that mission, I can get back to what really matters,” Jordan said.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with you people?”

“Don’t you see what an honor it is to be chosen?” Cameron asked.

“Listen, lady, the only thing I see is a couple of nutjobs, possibly murderous ones, who are holding me hostage!”

“I see what you mean now, my love,” Cameron said to Jordan. “The outside world has corrupted her so much. I can see now why you have been so lenient, don’t worry, I will take over things from here. I’ll call you if we need you.”

Jordan and Cameron separated slowly, their hands lingering together for a few extra seconds. Sasha didn’t care that their relationship had been a lie. Some part of her had been reserving the idea that he’d been faithful, at the very least, on an intimate level. Her disgust must have shown on her face. Cameron crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. Jordan chuckled, kissing the woman on her cheek before slipping past Sasha and out of the room.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Sasha snapped at him.

“I don’t take orders from you. I have never taken orders from you. It would do you well to listen to Cameron. She is one of the wisest among us. She knows what’s best for you. I have nothing more to say.”

“Jordan…”

It was no use. He had already closed the massive double doors that separated the sitting room from the main entrance. Sasha had never felt so confused in her life. She wanted answers, but she doubted Cameron would offer her any. So far, they seemed to be no more helpful in what they said than the spirits who constantly seemed to surround her. Turning her attention back to Cameron, she glared at the woman and thought about lunging at her. Then she remembered the cameras strategically placed around the house. Jordan would come to the woman’s rescue before Sasha could even get in a good swing.

“I understand you tried to leave?” Cameron said pointedly. “Why don’t you have a seat. You obviously don’t understand what’s happening, and I’ve been tasked with…keeping you here…should we say. As I said before, you have been given a huge honor! Isn’t that exciting? I know my beloved had hoped you’d finish your second film…but the lord doesn’t always fulfill our desire, only that which we need.”

“How is it possible I’m the sanest one in the room? How the fuck do you and Jordan know each other?” Sasha hissed.

“As you witnessed a little while ago, you aren’t going to be leaving town any time soon. However, we do have several things to tend to before the festival. We can’t be waiting for your next attempt—”

“Answer the question, you psycho,” she snarled. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear. Do you know what happens when you corner a rabid dog?”

“I know a good owner would shoot it before it got to that point. Don’t make me pull the trigger.”

“I am going to make you pay for everything that you’ve done,” Sasha whispered. “Why don’t you tell me what you did to those little girls?”

Cameron glared at her, the flicker of a smile sending rage through Sasha. The brief show of emotion passed quickly, though, as Cameron pulled her phone from her pocket.

“We still have two days before the final festival march. Since you can’t be trusted, we are going to have to change our approach. See now, I suggested we outfit you with a collar, every time you tried to run, we could just electrocute you.” Cameron sighed in disappointment. “But we can’t hurt the protected, now, can we?”

“The what?”

“So, you will no longer be able to leave the house. I love my parents but staying with them has been just awful. I’ll be taking back my bedroom with my husband—”

“Your what!”

“And you’ll be relocated to the basement.”

Sasha was too dumbfounded to speak. What was she supposed to say to something like that? Already she knew that her relationship with Jordan had been a lie, but to find out he had a wife and home that were just as baffling as he was, was too much for her to deal with. She tried to listen to what Cameron was saying, knowing that every bit of information might save her life later on, but it all seemed to come out as an incomprehensible jumble of words.

“Why not just kill me right now? Why all the pomp and circumstance? Does this have anything to do with the festival?”

Cameron shook her head. “How much longer are you going to keep fighting this? All you have to do is unlock who you truly are, accept it, and we will accept you. Why is this so hard for you to understand?

“Do all you people talk in riddles? Fine! I accept! Now tell me what the hell is going on!”

“See now, wasn’t that easy? Still, I think some time in the basement will do you good. It will give you a chance to reflect on your past. Plus, it’s time you started fasting anyway. I don’t know what my silly husband was thinking with this plan, but I love his dedication to his job. He truly is a loyal protector. Jordan did well. I’m choosing him.”

Sasha couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She thought about the time she had already spent in the basement. The nightmares alone had nearly killed her. It sent a chill of fear down her spine to think about being locked in the dark, wet, haunted sandstone prison. She thought about the spirits, and her panic started to grow.

She shook her head feverishly. “No, I won’t go back down there.”

“See now, this is where my wonderful husband and I have different opinions. He thinks your kind should be coddled and given everything they want. He claims you are a gift from God even. I see you for what you are. I’ve known your kind before. You are nothing but a spoiled, entitled princess. If it was left up to me, you’d have stayed in that basement since you were a child!”

“I knew it! I am from here! Tell me who I am! I don’t want to hear any more of your lies. I deserve that much.”

Cameron snorted. “You don’t deserve anything! I don’t have the right or the rank to tell you anything, but if I could, I still wouldn’t. I think your whole bloodline should be washed out, personally. They should have wiped you out when they dealt with your parents and brother!”

Sasha backed away from the woman as she started to laugh. She knew there was no escape, but if she was going to go down, she was going to make sure she took someone else with her. Without thinking, Sasha lunged at Cameron. The woman didn’t have time to react before Sasha had her pinned on the ground with one arm across her chest, the other landing blows anywhere she could make contact. Cameron fought back, though, with far more ferocity than Sasha had expected. They collapsed onto the floor, exchanging blows in a seemingly endless battle.

Finally, it seemed like Sasha had the upper hand, and she might just gain her freedom. Her fist collided with Cameron’s nose. The sickening crack that served as a precursor to the fountain of blood that followed was enough to alert Cameron to the dire situation. She screamed out a name, and Sasha froze. Cameron took the opportunity to scramble away from her assailant as she screamed out the name again.

“Roy!”

Sasha stumbled away from her, her back to the door. She was too baffled to speak. Despite hearing the heavy doors slide open behind her, Sasha didn’t turn around. She wasn’t sure if she had even heard Cameron correctly, but the pieces started to fit together in her mind. Roy, the boy from her dreams, he had the same eyes as him. They had always felt so familiar, so comforting. Now Sasha understood why. Before she could react, she felt something heavy come down on her skull before the world engulfed her in darkness.

38

They moved through the narrow crawlspace without needing light to guide their way. It was a route that both children knew well, one that their parents had taught them, just as their parents before had done the same. All of the children loved the games of hide-and-seek that could sometimes last for hours in the old mansion. There was always a place to hide, one you were sure had never been found before. Inevitably, others would find it as the minutes wore on, and you’d be left scrambling to find an even better spot lest they become the seeker.

It was an endless game in the summers, broken only by the bare necessities of eating, sleeping, and the cursed education. Sasha heard someone creeping up behind her. For a second, she panicked, thinking her brother had found her and she’d soon be the seeker. When she saw her dust-covered friend, she rolled her eyes and motioned for him to be quiet. Roy was always following after her. It was just like him to ruin a perfectly good hiding spot.

Wherever she went, you could count on finding Roy as well. She understood why he was always following her, but it didn’t make it any easier. How was she going to find a job and a husband with him always chasing after her like a lost puppy? They’d been friends for as long as she could remember. They were so close she could feel his body tense without turning to look at him. Her anger started to boil. Why did he insist on coming into the tunnels with his allergies? His breathing stopped, and she knew their cover was blown.

Roy sneezed. The small space vibrated with the sound as his body shook. Instantly her brother pulled open the bookcase and grinned down at the duo. She turned and glared at Roy, who looked properly chagrined, before climbing out and brushing the dust off her dress. Malachi’s laughter boomed through the study. It wasn’t fair. He was older and knew everywhere they could hide.

“Come on, runt, Mom and Dad want to talk to us. Roy, you should probably head home.”

The little boy frowned. “Daddy said—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Malachi groaned. “We all know you’re the protector and all. I think your job is about to get a lot easier, though. Head home. I’ll guard the fort for the rest of the day.”

“But—”

“Go,” Malachi growled.

Her jaw dropped, Roy’s tension and fear nearly palatable next to her. It wasn’t like Malachi to get worked up or lose his temper with Roy. He regarded him as a nuisance but little else. She would never understand what her brother's problem was. All he ever talked about was getting away from the village and their community. It didn’t make any sense, they had everything in life, yet he was never happy and always had his eyes on the road leading out of town.

The boy scurried past her brother as her nostrils flared. She was hard on Roy, but he was her friend. It was one thing for her to give him a hard time, but that didn’t mean other people were allowed to pick on him. In a blind rage, she shoved her brother, who stood at least two feet taller than her. He chuckled, completely unfazed by her aggression. Like a sack of potatoes, he scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder, still kicking and screaming.

“Put me down! I’m going to tell Mom and Dad on you! You aren’t allowed to be mean to me!”

“Awe, give it a rest. You don’t really buy into all that ‘chosen one’ crap, do you?” he asked as he plopped her onto the landing.

She crossed her arms defiantly. “Daddy said I was special; everyone in town knows it. Why do you think we always get free sweets when we go to the grocery?”

“Because our parents and grandparents are loaded, that’s why. It’s got nothing to do with how precious you are, kiddo.”

“Don’t tell her that,” their mother said.

Both siblings turned to see the woman coming up the steps. Every time she saw her mother, it shocked her. She was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. There was nothing in the world she loved more than her parents. They showered her with affection, both of the children actually. She ran to her mom’s arms, finding comfort in them as she kissed the top of her daughter’s head.

“You are both special, wonderful, and everything your father and I have ever asked for,” she told them. “That’s why we are going to take you both on a special adventure!”

She gasped, excitement flooding her as she gazed at her mom. “Really? When are we going? Where are we going? To the apple groves? Oh! We haven’t been yet this year!”

Her mother laughed. “Even better! We are leaving Harbor Cove this time. It’s a very special trip, my darlings. Your father and I want everything to be a surprise, though, so go get a bag packed quickly, and we’ll leave right away!”

She was on her feet in an instant, racing to her room to grab everything she could fit into the single suitcase she had for sleepovers. Suddenly, she realized her mother hadn’t given her any direction on what to pack. Popping her head back into the hall, she saw her mother and brother deep in conversation. Though she couldn’t hear what they were saying, she knew it was tense by their body language.

Not wanting to press her good luck, she retreated to packing again and emerged ten minutes later to set her bag victoriously by the front door. Something moved in the corner of the sitting room. She turned quickly, catching a glimpse of Roy’s shoes as they scooted behind the couch. Grinning, she darted for him. His terrified squeals made her laugh when he realized it was her. He looked properly enraged at her shenanigans.

“Malachi’s gonna whoop you!” she goaded.

“Don’t you tell him! I only came back because Mama said I had to!”

She rolled her eyes, “Sure she did. Your mama doesn’t care if you’re up here or not, but she sure didn’t send you, liar.”

Roy glared at her. “Don’t call me a liar.”

“Liar, liar, liar,” she teased. “Roy’s just a—”

“I know where you’re going. Mama said it was a sin, that your parents are gonna be disowned. That’s why you have to leave. The whole town knows; they hate your parents.”

She shoved him. “Shut up. Take it back, or I’m going to tell.”

He shook his head. “I won’t. It’s true. I’m here to get you so they don’t steal you, too.”

She took a step away from him, the look in his eyes frightening her for the first time. He wasn’t looking at her like she was his friend; instead, it had changed to a possession, like he might gaze at a toy he wanted. Roy lunged for her, but she darted away from him. Her mother called for her. She tried to yell for help, but he grabbed her ankle and pulled her down. Smacking her head on the wood floors, she cried out as he tried to tug her into the hidden passage.

Just as the world became dark, she saw her mother appear. The last thing she heard was her mother scream her name as she ran toward them. She fell asleep despite not being tired. It was a terrible dream that took hold of her, full of strange children, ominous headstones, and an eerie feeling of déjà vu. For a child who didn’t often dream of anything, it was enough to leave her shaking when she finally managed to fight her way back to the world of the waking.

She tried not to move at first. Her head hurt, and her hands were shaking, but there was extra movement. They weren’t in the house any longer. Her stomach did a somersault as she opened her eyes. It was the car that added to her queasiness. She’d never been able to read or sleep on the few car trips they’d taken beyond the evergreens. Everything seemed perfectly normal.

Once the world stopped spinning and she could sit up, she would ask about Roy and the incident that had happened. Her parents looked surprised and assured her the whole ordeal had simply been a terrible dream. She watched the landscape as it moved past. Despite her parents’ reassurance, she knew it had happened. Her mother was talking to her, calling her name.

“Thisia, would you like to play a game?” her mother asked.

39

“It’s never flooded before; I don’t understand. This house was built by our forefathers. The foundation is solid. That water in the basement smelled stagnant,” Roy muttered.

“Well, I don’t care. I just want her out of here!” Cameron hissed. “I know I should be grateful for everything I have. This was all supposed to be hers, but it doesn’t seem right that she’s here now. This is our home. I never wanted you to bring her back here!”

“Cameron! This is our destiny! Despite how you feel about her, she is still the chosen one, the one who will bring prosperity to our family and our people. Our daughter is destined for the same fate. Would you have her be treated the same?”

“Of course not! You know that I feel truly blessed to be a part of this! I’m sorry, darling, I just want it all to be over. I’ve missed you for so long.”

“Cam, the ceremony is in a few hours. She’ll be gone once and for all. She’s cuffed to the bed. Let's go get ready,” he whispered. “Pretty soon, the others will be here, and before you know it, you and I will be snuggled up together again.”

“Why don’t you go grab our little girl? She’s running around here somewhere. I bet she’s filthy!”

The woman chuckled. “Let her be dirty. She’s a chosen one, after all.”

Sasha used every ounce of self-control she had not to move from where she was cuffed to the bed. Even after she heard the pair leave and the door lock, her body was paralyzed with fear. Jordan, Roy, whatever he called himself, had given her a good blow to the back of the head. She could feel the blood sticking to her hair as it clumped and dried against the pillow. The cuff on her wrists didn’t concern her.

It didn’t matter that her head was throbbing and likely split open. The most chilling thing had been the conversation between the couple. They had a child, and it would soon be treated in the same manner as her. She knew what her name had been before now and how her life had been twined together with Jordan’s long before they had met that fateful day years ago. It had all been fabricated, calculated, and manipulated to get her back to that place.

She could feel the notch in the cuff from when she’d accidentally locked herself in them a year before. It had been an ill-fated attempt to be playful with Jordan. Now she understood why romance seemed so forced with him. To think he was coming back here to a wife and family? The thought made her body shake with rage. Rolling onto her side, she fumbled through her nightstand. Jordan would never venture to rifle through her undergarments.

She felt the delicate key on its chain and slowly pulled it out. From what she’d seen on the camera clips Jordan had sent, he didn’t have any in the bedroom. She slipped the key into her palm and worked the lock. The cuff sprung open instantly, eliciting a sigh of relief from her despite knowing she was far from out of the woods. Sitting up, she fought back the nausea that came with the spinning world. After this was all over, she was going to invest in a helmet to keep herself safe.

Sasha slipped off the bed as quietly as possible and moved slowly across the room. With each step, she prayed the boards wouldn’t give her away to the other occupants of the house. Everything was still coming back to her in waves. Sasha could recall the hidden tunnels scattered throughout the manor along with the lore surrounding their home. How could she have forgotten the forbidden burial ground?

There was still one thing that was missing from the puzzle. Her parents had adored her and Malachi both. They would never put either of their children in danger. Where were they, though? Had they survived the crash, she still couldn’t remember? Sasha’s mind raced as she considered her options. Trying to make it through the village was obviously out, leaving only the woods as a possible exit. She slowly crept over to the window facing the forest and cemetery.

The nails had been returned, preventing her escape. However, they’d been shoved back in their original holes, making them slightly loose. Moving quickly yet quietly, Sasha started to the bathroom to see what she could use to pry them out the rest of the way. It would still be one hell of a jump, but she was running out of time, and she knew it. The foreboding sensation in the pit of her stomach continued to grow with each passing minute. Her heart soared when she found what she’d been looking for, a metal nail file that she always kept in her makeup bag. She despised the sound of fingernails on a keyboard. By the time she made it back over to the window with her tool, another five minutes had passed.

It was impossible for her to move faster and risk someone hearing her down below. Still, her hands shook at the prospect of being discovered as she wedged the file beneath the first of two nails. The ancient wood ground each time she moved the nail, preventing her from working with any amount of speed. She knew her pending escape had gone unnoticed, though, by the sound of voices and laughter downstairs. It had been nearly an hour since she’d first woke, but as she pulled the second nail free and tucked it into the inner pocket, she knew she was close to freedom. Opening the window proved as painfully slow as the rest of her endeavor. Looking down from her perch, Sasha realized she would need to fashion a rope after all. While there was a good chance she would survive the fall, doing so without an injury would be almost impossible. She knew she had to hit the ground running.

She grabbed the sheets first, working quickly and quietly as she tied them together. Already it gave her enough length to be within five feet of the ground. Sasha had seen enough movies to know tying it to the bed frame would do no good. The weight, despite how heavy it was, would make it slide across the hardwood floors. Instead, she looped one end around the radiator at the far end of the room. She quietly pulled down the shower curtain and tied the silk length to the second bed sheet, giving her what she needed to get down safely. Just as she checked the final knot at the radiator, movement from out front caught her eye.

Instantly she froze, terrified that whoever was outside may have seen her. She turned slowly, backing away from the window at the site moving up the driveway. Sasha had never seen anything like it. It felt like something out of a nightmare. Moving up the driveway, like a morbid serpent, was a line of people. They were outfitted the same as those at the road had been, in blood-soaked animals she could only speculate or pulled from the surrounding woods. She tried not to panic as she backed slowly away from the window. Still, it was a terrifying sight to see. There had to be at least fifty men, women, and children, walking slowly in the direction of the house.

Suddenly, a new memory came flooding back to her. Though she wasn’t sure it was one she wanted. She could see herself in one of the masks, the blood dripping down her young body, and the thrill it gave her to know that she was one of the few, the chosen. It still baffled her what that meant, but she was happy to be a part of things. Now, as an adult looking out on the horrific scene, she could understand why her parents wanted her away from Harbor Cove so desperately. Sasha still didn’t know how she was tied to everything. Those memories seemed to be traumatic enough to stay locked away. Though she knew eventually, she would have to access them in order to know the truth about her heritage.

Even though she had moved away from the window, she could still hear their harrowing song as they moved in her direction. She couldn’t make out the words, but the accompanying humming was enough to send a chill down her spine. Downstairs, the conversation had obviously turned to the newcomers who were moving up the drive. Their animated voices could be heard throughout the house. Sasha didn’t waste any more time moving to the window facing the woods. She knew her life depended on getting out of there in a matter of minutes. Taking a deep breath, she said one final prayer before climbing out of the window.

40

Scaling down the wall was surprisingly easy given her recently active lifestyle. She still managed to misjudge her distance from the ground, though, and landed with less grace than intended. She only paused for a minute to listen for the voices inside before eyeing the tree line in the distance. Crouching down, Sasha propelled herself off the ground and sprinted at a dead run. It wasn’t a pace she could maintain long, but she was hoping it would be enough to get her into the trees at the very least.

It was hard not to turn back when she heard the voices behind her, but the trees were only fifty yards away. She scanned the dark row for any sign of the villagers, but none came into view. There was more than one chasing after her, though. What good would it do her to try to run? They had to know the forest well. It was their home, after all. Her pace didn’t slow, even when the first trees lashed at her exposed skin.

The hoard of people wasn’t far from her. She could hear them fanning out behind her. The woods weren’t maintained, left to nature. They snaked and wound through gullies and fallen timber. It was an obstacle course for a trained runner. For someone like Sasha, it was an accident waiting to happen. Thankfully, she was able to bob and weave through the thickening brush. The voices started to fade, but Sasha kept moving until she came to a small clearing.

They were still behind her, but she’d put some distance between herself and the group. If she could make it to the other side of the clearing, they might lose her trail. Crouching down, Sasha took a minute to catch her breath and gather her thoughts. She knew enough about the area to know that she could run for two days and still not reach civilization again if she wasn’t careful.

Survival wasn’t her strong suit, but it was better than certain death. Darting away from the safety of the woods, she ran at full speed across the open swath of earth. She felt someone watching her and looked to her left, expecting one of the locals to be near tackling her. Instead, her heart raced faster as the eldest spirit-child ran next to her, looking back toward the woods with the same crippling fear that Sasha now felt.

Behind the girl, though, wasn’t the angry hoard that followed Sasha, though. Instead, a single creature chased her, dark and menacing with glowing eyes and a darkness the setting sun couldn’t pierce. It emanated pure evil, sending a shudder through Sasha and kicking her speed into the next gear. She hit the woods again as the spirits dissipated, but the terror remained. The fear drove her forward carelessly.

She didn’t see the branch before it whipped out in front of her. Her body didn’t have time to react to her mind’s command to halt, or at the very least, duck. The thick sapling connected with such force that it knocked her on her rear. Sasha sat on the cold, damp earth for several seconds, trying to stop her head from simultaneously throbbing and spinning. Sasha could hear footsteps approaching, but her body refused to follow her command to flee. She tried to focus on the approaching figure and see who it was, but her vision had blurred since the sapling's assault.

When she realized it was a man, she once again tried to fight off his advance. She simply wasn’t strong enough, though she wasn’t going to stop trying. Her unknown assailant picked her up off the ground and started to carry her through the forest. To her shock, though, they weren’t headed back in the direction of the village. As her heart rate steadied and her body recovered from her run-in with the tree, she realized she recognized the soft and soothing voice of the man carrying her.

“What are you doing here?” she muttered. “They said you were gone, forever.”

Carver grinned. “You shouldn't believe everything you hear, kiddo. Especially in a place like this.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere we can talk for a few minutes. No one around here knows about it. I found it forever ago, back when we were kids. I don’t wanna stay there long, though. We need to get out of here.”

Sasha snorted. Something about the scenario felt absolutely hilarious. She could feel Carver eyeing her with concern as she started to laugh. Sasha had no idea what to believe anymore. She was starting to think that everything was a figment of her imagination. Maybe she had hit her head harder than she had thought. Carver was a welcome distraction, though his knowledge of the woods didn’t slip past her. He was a local, just like the rest of him, just like her. How did his story intertwine with hers? Her eyelids felt heavy.

“Stay with me,” Carver whispered. “We are almost there.”

“Are you going to kill me? Are you going to sacrifice me right along with them?” Sasha asked.

It was Carver who turned to chuckle. “No, nothing like that. I promise. The only thing I’m trying to do is keep you alive. This place, the deals they’ve made, the things they’ve done, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Try me,” Sasha muttered. “I think I can walk now.”

“Perfect timing. We’re here.”

Carver put her down just as a small cabin came into view. Had she not been looking for it, she never would have seen it amongst the thick trees. It was smaller than her bedroom back in the city. It looked like it had seen better days and was obviously uninhabited. She wondered how far they were away from the village and if there would be a way to get out of the woods. After the last few days, Sasha didn’t know what to think anymore or if she could trust Carver. To his credit, though, he seemed to notice her unease and was giving her space.

“We should go inside,” Carver said. “No one knows about this place, but that doesn’t mean they won’t stumble on it eventually.”

“Do you know where they are?” Sasha asked.

Carver noted, “They are half a mile from us, but the last time I saw them, they were moving in the opposite direction.”

Sasha eyed the cabin nervously before making a decision and heading inside. It was as rundown on the interior as the exterior had suggested. Still, she had to admit she felt a little better not standing out in the open. Yet when Carver closed the door behind him, she immediately searched for a second exit. Once again, the man picked up on her emotions and moved away from the door. He went as far as leaving it slightly ajar so she could see outside.

“I’m sorry!” Sasha blurted out. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You seem like you’re trying to help me, but… well, if I’m being honest, I just don’t know anymore.”

“I get it!” Carver quickly said. “Here, maybe this will help ease your mind.”

He reached behind him, making Sasha tense instantly. When he brought his hands back around, though, she saw there was no danger. Sasha let him approach her with a photo extended in his hand. The instant she took it from him, Carver backed away again. She turned it over and looked at the image, her heart racing in her chest as she took it in. It was a photo she knew well, a memory captured that she remembered. Her eyes glistened as she gazed over the image of her mother, father, brother, and herself. Sasha’s hand flew to her mouth when she read the inscription on the back.

“Dad, Mom, Malachi, and Thisia?” she whispered as she looked at him. “I don’t understand. I know this is me in the picture, but that’s not my name. It can’t be! If it is, that means everything I was told was a lie! I don’t want it to be a lie! What’s going on? Is that you in the picture?”

He nodded. “I was too old for them to change my name. They had no choice but to tell me everything going on. So, when we left, I just started going by my middle name. There is so much that I have to tell you, but we don’t have much time. If we are going to make it out of this, I’m going to need you to trust me.”

“I barely know you! How do you expect me to trust you?”

“Sasha, I’m your brother, and right now, that’s going to have to be enough.”

41

“I don’t…I don’t understand,” she stammered. “I’m trying to, but my head, it’s swimming right now.”

Carver chuckled and sat down at the decaying dining room table. Sasha had been unable to stand any longer and sat on the only sturdy piece of furniture on her end. At one point, it might have been a footrest, but nature had reclaimed it, giving the cushion a moss covering and unnatural feel. Still, it was better than standing. She wasn’t sure her legs could even hold her anymore. Thankfully, she felt no blood running down her face. The wounds only seemed to be superficial.

“It’s okay. I’ll try to explain what I can, but I mean it when I say we can’t stay here long. I’ve got a path marked to get us back to the village—”

“What?” she snapped. “No, no way I am going there. That isn’t going to happen. That’s what they want! You’re working with them, aren’t you?”

He glared at her. “They killed our parents, don’t lump me in with those bastards.”

She gasped. “They killed them? I…I thought it was a wreck?”

“That’s what everyone wanted you to believe. For a while, we were both lost in the system. Our parents had a will intact stating as much. They thought we’d be too easy to find if we were together. They knew something like that might happen.”

“But we were so happy here,” Sasha recalled. “The memories, they keep coming back bit by bit.”

“We were happy. You’re right about that. This place was a haven. It was pure heaven living here. We all loved it…but we didn’t love it enough to make the sacrifice they wanted.”

“The girls I keep seeing?”

He nodded. “I would have told you sooner, but honestly, I didn’t remember, either. When they hit our car, neither of us was strapped in. We’d barely left town. It wasn’t until the other night when you brought me the typewriter that the memories started to return, so I know what you mean when you say it’s confusing. But that script…I’d seen it before in my dreams. It’s what led me to Harbor Cove again.

“I don’t want to get into my backstory right now, but when I was adopted, it was with this key. I never knew what it went to until a few days ago. That’s when it hit me. Right before we left Harbor Hill, Dad gave it to me and told me it would answer all my questions someday. It took me forever to figure out what it went to, but I finally found it, Sasha. They had everything shipped out ahead of us, leaving bit by bit!

“The storage locker had everything inside, including letters from our father detailing what happened here, how long, names, dates, rituals, all of it. I got so caught up in everything that I didn’t realize how much time had passed. I got here as fast as I could and stashed my car on the other side of town.”

“What if they’ve already found it?” she asked.

“Not a chance. I’ve been watching them for months now. They never go farther than two and a half miles out. That’s where they wrecked your friend’s car, too. I’m sorry, by the way, for that. I wish I’d been here for you…I had no idea until I got back and overheard Roy talking about it earlier.”

“In the house?”

He nodded. “I was about to come to break you out of your tower when you dropped down. You were so focused on the woods, though. I didn’t want to risk spooking you by calling out. I’ve seen this ritual before, Sasha. It doesn’t end well for the chosen one.”

“That’s what they called me when I was little.”

“That’s because you were supposed to be the sacrifice. You still are. They spent decades tracking you down, then years getting you here, all for tonight.”

Her stomach lurched. “Jesus.”

“Yeah, so we need to get moving.”

Sasha couldn’t move. She knew he was right. Their safest bet was going to be getting out of Harbor Cove. They could always come back another time and bring the town to justice, but her life was in imminent danger. Yet she knew she couldn’t go. Her mind raced back to her youth, a wonderful childhood full of love and compromise. No one wanted to tell the chosen one they couldn’t have something. They were giving the ultimate sacrifice, after all. She’d been too young to understand what that meant beyond the special treatment she got.

“Carver, what happens if they can’t find me?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s never happened before, but I would imagine they’d move on to the next person in line. They aren’t going to risk losing everything by not making the sacrifice.”

“Losing everything?”

“Yeah, we’re going to want to talk about that on our way to town, though. That’s a whole new level of strange. There is a rucksack in my shop basement. It’s got two guns, ammo, and a survival kit. We need to get that before we get to the car. Otherwise, if they catch up with us, I don’t know how long we’ll be able to hold them off.”

Sasha hated the idea of going back through the village. She knew they were out in the woods looking for her, but there was no question they’d have sentries posted in town. It almost made her sick to think about it, but she knew there was no other way. Without the weapons, they’d never be able to hold their own against the mass of people looking for them.

“All right, well, let's go then,” she muttered.

Carver nodded in agreement. She was still leery of him but knew in her gut that he was telling her the truth. Their parents had entrusted him with their darkest secrets. She owed it to them to put her faith in Carver as well. They crept from the cabin quietly. Her footsteps seemed obnoxiously loud as they moved at a quick clip. Carver kept his attention split between watching the tree line and looking at his phone's GPS. Even though she knew he was her brother and they’d explored the woods together as children, she was still shocked by how well he navigated them.

Before long, Sasha saw the outline of Harbor Hill rising above the trees. She couldn’t believe how close they were to the manor. It looked foreboding against the landscape and setting sun. They came out on the edge of town, between the fences that separated the manicured lawns from the wildlife. The irony wasn’t lost on Sasha. They were fleeing the woods and the terrible creatures it held, yet the beasts came from civilization. To her surprise, the town felt vacant. It was hard to fathom an entire community participating in such horrors.

Sasha was ready to scale the fence, but there was no need. Carver had already cut away part of the wire so they could wedge through. It felt like they were walking through a ghost town. She kept waiting for someone to jump out and start chasing them, but it never came. A few minutes later, the duo was slipping into Carver’s shop and down a metal staircase Sasha hadn’t seen before. It was well hidden, like everything else in the village.

The small space felt more like a bunker than a basement. Carver grabbed a duffle bag and dropped it onto a narrow table before turning on a computer screen. It jumped to life, feeding them live views from cameras outside the front and back doors. Knowing they’d see anyone coming first gave Sasha a little reprieve as she watched her brother sort through the bag. She still had so many questions, but there was one thing she couldn’t get off her mind.

“How do we make it stop?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out as soon as we are out of here. I promise you that.”

“We can’t leave,” Sasha whispered.

Carver paused. “Sasha—”

“You don’t understand. If we leave, they’ll just move on to the next ‘chosen one’ like you said. I won’t have someone else’s blood on my hands. I can’t do it. You can go if you want. I won’t ask you to stay behind and risk your life…but I’m not going with you.”

He watched her for a minute before setting the bag back down. She was ready to argue with him if need be. Sasha didn’t want to be a martyr, but if she could help the spirits and save someone else’s life, she had to try, even if it was the last thing she did before the hoard of villagers finally got her.

“All right,” Carver announced. “We’ll stay. So, what’s your plan?”

Sasha grinned. “I have no idea. Start by telling me everything you know about this place. Maybe there’s a way to stop all this.”

“And if there isn’t?”

She shrugged. “We go down shooting.”

42

“Well, while I gear us up then, you might as well start reading,” Carver said as he handed her his phone. “I took pictures from Dad's journal. This entry will explain things a lot better than I can.”

Sasha took the phone, though she was hesitant. When she looked at the screen, her heart lurched. The image had her father’s handwriting. She could see some of her own style in the way he looped his letters. The small bond brought tears to her eyes as she focused on the task at hand. There would be time for mourning later. The man who had given his life for her wrote with a simplicity she envied.

There is so much to tell you, my children. It is my sincerest hope that you live your lives never knowing the horror of where you came from. Alas, your mother tells me I am a thorough man, and so I find myself writing in these journals, hoping they will guide you if you ever have the misfortune of stumbling upon your heritage. My memory only runs so deep. Bear with me as I try to convey the stories I was told by my father and his father before him.

These are the same stories that your mother I grew up hearing. She and I both hailed from Harbor Cove, and though our love and marriage were arranged, she was and continues to be my soulmate in every way imaginable. It is with her blessings that I started to send away pieces of our home, knowing someday we might have to flee. Neither of us ever took much stock in the traditions around Harbor Cove. Her family and mine had both been prosperous over the years, nay, over the generations.

There was simply never a time when our people struggled. Throughout wars, famines, food shortages, and dry spells, Harbor Cove has witnessed a shield of protection. To an outsider looking in, it might seem like a stroke of luck. There is no luck in Harbor Cove, though. There is only the curse that comes with being one of the chosen. Neither of us had seen a sacrifice in our lifetime. Though the stories of them ran rampant enough. Of the founding families, all of them have made a sacrifice at one point or another. Many of them have circled around and made two.

Our beautiful daughter was to be next in a move decided by the chancellor not long after she was born. There were tears at first between your mother and me, though we both understood the duty we had to the community. A sacred oath was taken by our forefathers, a deal made in darkness, to bring wealth to all those who resided in Harper Cove. In the months before her decision to leave became solidified, the city coffers started to dwindle. Well, a sane group of people may have determined that our stocks were simply down. The village of Harbor Cove came to the conclusion a sacrifice needed to be renewed.

The chancellor came to our house late one night; a decision had been made. We were to hand over our beloved daughter to him on her ninth birthday. In an act of mercy, he claimed we would not have to be present for the ultimate gift, her life. Despite how we protested, I’m ashamed to say, we both understood what needed to be done for the good of the town. After all, this was our home, these were our neighbors, this was our duty.

Then, the dreams started for my beloved wife. They would come to her late at night, little girls covered in blood and other gore that she couldn’t mention without crying. There was so much sadness in her during those days. My beautiful flower started to wilt. Late into the night, we would argue and fight over the future of our family, our lineage. How could she deny me the rights of my ancestors? She refused; God saved her. She refused to give up her child to them. It wasn’t long before she showed me the errors of my ways.

We knew we had to break the cycle. I started digging into the history of the town and its past almost immediately. I knew we wouldn’t have long before the chancellor came knocking. Sure enough, in my quest to show the community that the ritual sacrifice was insane, I myself was proven wrong. What I discovered baffled me. Before my very eyes, I saw the proof first-hand. There were dates, logs, bank transfers, even the deeds to the land surrounding Harbor. Everything matched up with frightening accuracy.

Each name in the logs corresponded with an influx of luck for the founding families. Avery, Bella, Constance, they are all here, the ones that were given to the gods…what god would ask this of their followers, though? I fear my family and that of my wives and the others have all been tethered to a demon at the beckoning of our ancestors. This creature doesn’t take the given souls into a blissful paradise, though, as they want to believe, no. It’s my profound belief that the dreams my wife has been suffering from are warnings from the previously chosen.

They have moved now from assaulting her mind only at night to appearing during the day as well. She fears being alone. I know we need to leave our home and everything we love behind, but I will not give over my beautiful daughter to a dark entity. It will do us no good to fight the council or the chancellor. I’ve already tried to speak with him on the matter, but he warned me against asking questions. I don’t believe our ancestors knew they were making a deal with a devil, but now, with what I’ve shared, there is no excuse beyond pure greed on their parts, and I’ll have none of it.

“The ghosts…those little girls…they were all killed here?” Sasha asked.

“Not just little girls, women, too. I took a look at everything he uncovered, but I didn’t get pictures of everything. Our old man was one hell of a sleuth. He got close to everyone in town to go snooping around in archives, basements, abandoned buildings, anything he could get his hands on. I think you and Mom both see the spirits because you’ve got a stronger connection to them than most. You are a chosen one, and so was she. They can feel you.”

“Jesus. Carver…I just wanted a place to work on my next movie.”

He grinned. “Guess you’ve really got some good material now then, don’t you?”

Sasha folded her hands in her lap after setting his phone on the table. Tears started to spill over onto her lap despite her best attempts to keep them inside. She couldn’t help it. Her heart ached for her parents and the injustice of what had befallen the others before her.

“Are they dead? Like really dead?” she asked.

Carver stopped for the first time and nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry. They both died in the accident. I saw the coroner’s report and the pictures of their bodies myself. That’s how I knew to come here when I did. I got a DNA kit for Christmas from a college buddy. It tied me back to the old case.”

“Then, they knew you were my brother the whole time?”

“Who? Roy and the others? I’d put money on it.”

Sasha snorted. “That explains why he didn’t want me around you. So why tonight? Why not just shoot for another night and call it a wash?”

“It’s all in the ritual. The festival is just a cover for it but sacrificing a chosen one has to be done in a very specific order. One of Dad’s journals said two people had to pave the way. A ‘hero’ and a ‘heretic.’ My guess—”

“Lane and Barb. Oh my God…”

“Hey, don’t start blaming yourself. They murdered two people, not you.”

“That’s not possible, though. I talked with Lane.”

“You probably talked with a recording,” Carver said. “The money around here runs deep. Who knows what they’re capable of pulling off?”

“Then it has to be tonight?” Sasha confirmed.

“Yeah. If they don’t, from what I was able to read, the whole deal is off. That’s why they timed everything so perfectly. If the sacrifice isn’t made by midnight, a tithing is due. Don’t ask me what that means. Dad didn’t go into much detail on that, but it seemed like something he didn’t want to be around here for. Which means they have to get you back or—”

“Find another chosen one, which is probably why no one is out there chasing me around. They’ve already got a backup.”

Carver cringed. “Roy’s girl.”

“Yeah. Great. So, all we have to do is stop an evil ceremony from happening while fighting against an angry hoard of people trying to kill us. Awesome.”

43

“Mom and Dad had a plan in case they couldn’t get out of town,” Carver said.

He unfolded an aged piece of paper and set it on the table in front of her. She had pulled the light closer to read the faded ink.

“Dad spent enough time researching the ritual to know exactly when everything was going to happen.”

Sasha scanned it over. “They were going to use me as bait?”

Carver shrugged. “Don’t forget, this was their fail-safe plan. They wanted to get us both out of town, which I guess they did. They knew, though, if anyone suspected anything, they’d be dragged right back into town. If it came down to it, they were ready to go up against the devil himself to keep you out of harm’s way.”

“This… This gives us less than half a few hours to save her? Am I reading that right? How does anyone expect to pull something like this off? Even with months of preparation, there’s still so much room for error! And we have less than two hours now.”

“Yeah, and if our timing is off by even a few seconds, we are all screwed. Listen, if you don’t wanna do this, no one is going to blame you. Least of all me. You’ve seen what these people are capable of. Any sane person would already be heading for the car.”

“I can’t do that,” Sasha whispered adamantly. “I could never live with myself knowing that a little girl died here and I could have at least tried to stop it. There has already been so much death. We have to give them peace.”

“All right, but don’t say I didn’t try to talk you out of this insanity,” Carver replied playfully.

Sasha sighed. “Just another day in Harbor Cove, I suppose. I’m going to need a vacation from this vacation when it’s all said and done.”

Carver grinned. “Fantastic! Maybe this time, you should screen your travel partners a little better. At least now you’re starting to sound like a local!”

As predicted, the angry horde did not continue to search for Sasha. Thanks to their father's journal, they knew the procession would be moving toward the center of town fifteen minutes before midnight. Thirty minutes prior to that, the siblings took their position behind the gated walls. There was enough that still stood of the decaying church to give them cover in the pitch black. Sasha despised everything they were doing. From waiting for the villagers to bring a human sacrifice to knowing the fear the young girl must be experiencing.

From where she was situated, she couldn't see Carver. If she were being honest with herself, though, the silence had given her time to reflect and process everything she had learned about her real family. For the first time in years, Sasha was excited about the prospects her future held. She still wasn't sure about the plan that she and Carver had concocted. It seemed to put a great deal of faith in her estranged brother. Sasha still couldn't be sure that he was on her side, but she had no other options.

Despite her heartbeat staying steady, she felt like a panic attack could take hold at any moment. While she'd never been a fan of small spaces, her hiding spot felt especially claustrophobic given the circumstances. The minutes had slowed to a crawl. Eventually, she would see a procession of people moving down the hill from the house she once had called home. She didn't want to look at her watch and risk the screen lighting up and alerting any early comers to her whereabouts. If only she could see Carver and know that it was almost time or that she wasn’t alone at the very least.

She'd kept her gaze trained on Harbor Hill for so long that, at first, she thought she was seeing things. It wasn't until the serpent of lights grew closer that she realized they were finally making their descent. It was an eerie sight to behold as they moved in silence through the streets. There were dozens of them at first, but the people slowly started to separate until only a few dozen remained, each holding a torch in their hand. Sasha wondered what the others knew about the ritual or if they even cared as long as things continued to go their way.

The cluster of people formed a circle around the well. Sasha had known all along it held nothing but evil. Having genuine proof of it, though, was incredibly validating in a very morbid way. It wasn’t a victory she enjoyed, knowing what it had cost her and so many others. Her heart ached for Lane and Barb’s families. If she made it out alive, Sasha vowed to tell them what had happened and how they’d died fighting for justice and to save the lives of other innocent people.

It had to be nearing midnight as the circle backed away from the well. Sasha’s heart lurched when she saw Cameron’s daughter standing on the ledge of the wellhead. Even in the dim light, Sasha could see the poor girl had been crying. Her hands were bound together. Her sobs grew intense when she nearly toppled backward into the well. Her poor body was shaking with fear as a gust of wind moved through the circle and the clocktower started to chime. It was the moment they’d been waiting for and one that scared the daylights out of Sasha.

Carver had prepared her. She knew what was going to happen next, thanks to him and her father’s note, but it didn’t make it any less paralyzing as the temperature dropped by a dozen degrees. Her body now shook the same as the girls. With horror in her eyes, Sasha watched as the flames flickered out one by one with each chime until only two remained. She prepared herself, holding the flashlight in her hands as if it were a bible. The last flame succumbed to the darkness, and Sasha started her count. The timing had to be precise.

Fifteen long seconds after the last torch had been extinguished, Sasha heard a blood-curdling scream from the little girl. The entire area was drenched in darkness, making it impossible for anyone to see what was truly happening to her. It was the queue Sasha had been waiting for as she leaped from her hiding spot and flicked on the power to the blinding LED flashlight Carver had given her. She was careful in how she waved it around, shining it into the eyes of each member as their circle broke and they lunged for her. Jordan’s commanding voice called them back to their positions, though, his booming laughter bringing silence from the others. Sasha turned the light on him. He glared at her, though she knew it must have pained him to stare directly at the light.

“Don't you see?” he hissed. “You’re too late! The ritual has already begun!”

Sasha had continued her silent countdown in her head as she hit thirty, the first of the torches became reanimated. It was followed in quick succession by the others until the circle was glowing again. Jordan laughed once more when he turned to find his daughter no longer on the ledge of the well. She didn’t know what would happen next, but it didn’t matter. From the small window inside Carver's shop, Sasha saw the signal she’d been waiting for. It wasn’t much, the slight glint of a piece of glass against the torchlights. It was all she needed, though, to know her brother and the girl were safely inside.

“I guess you’re right, Jordan, or should I call you Ray?”

“Does it really matter now? You are free to go, by the way. No one is gonna believe your fanatical tales.”

“And what about the murders? Don’t you think anyone will question those?”

He shrugged. “I assure you, our people have covered up worse. Don’t make me regret letting you leave, Thisia. You don’t wanna end up like your parents, do you?”

Sasha couldn’t help but laugh as the earth beneath them started to vibrate. It was a low hum at first, growing more intense with each passing second. Jordan's gleeful expression shifted to one of confusion until he saw the smile on Sasha’s face. She relished the feeling of victory as she watched it dawn on him what had happened. In an instant, he was running to the well, searching for a body that she knew he wouldn’t find. The horrified expression as he backed slowly away from the well sent a chill down her spine. He'd only made it a few feet away when she first saw the creature climbing from its depths.

She recognized it immediately as one of the cult's many victims. It was the girl she’d seen before, the one who always seemed to smell of decay. The pungent odor now filled the air as the creature advanced on Jordan. By now, the rest of the council members had started to grow noticeably frightened as well. Their eyes went for the exits. Sasha kept her eyes trained on the well, though, and watched as half a dozen more girls, sacrifices, crawled out from their hell. They went for the ones trying to escape first. In the beginning, Sasha thought some of them had simply slipped by. It wasn’t until two of the bodies hit the ground and their hideous masks tumbled off that Sasha noticed a pattern.

There was no time to try to make sense of it as the spirits finished off their victims one by one until there was only one man left. Jordan had pressed himself against a wall, pleading back and forth between the spirits and Sasha for help and forgiveness. She knew he would find none. The seven spirits covered Jordan as Sasha closed her eyes. She couldn’t watch, but the sound effects alone told her that he was being torn limb from limb. Sasha opened her eyes again when silence enveloped her, and the temperature returned to normal. For the first time since arriving in Harbor Cove, she no longer felt an evil presence watching her every move. She’d prepared herself for the gore she knew she was about to witness, but to her shock, there were no bodies when she opened her eyes. Carver stumbled into the alley, taking in the same scene that she was.

“Where are the bodies?” Carver stammered. “And what about those things? Where did they go? We need to get out of here.”

Sasha pointed to the well. Each of the seven men killed had been dragged into the depths. The only indication that anything had happened was the grotesque trails of blood that led from where they’d fallen to where they were pulled down. Carver slowly walked over to the well and looked down.

“Are you okay? Carver asked. “After everything went dark, I couldn’t see a thing. I damn near ran out here just to make sure you were safe. Honestly, I was kind of going off the hunch that they wouldn’t hurt you… whatever those things were.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I think I really am. I knew they wouldn’t hurt me, the girls, that is. There were so many of them. They are all dead, the chancellor and the members of the council. The spirits, all of them, they just went after them. The girl?”

“I guess they finally got what was coming to them. When everyone started to scream, I went to run out the front door, and she got the slip on me. Don’t worry; I saw her catch up with her mother a few blocks down. What about Roy?”

Sasha grinned and jerked her head in the direction of the well. “He is right where he belongs.”

Epilogue

Six months later

Sasha waved to the station wagon as it drove slowly past her and Carver on the main road through town. The duo stepped to the side to let another couple pass, their toddler sitting chipperly in the stroller with a stuffed teddy bear snug on her lap. Harbor Cove had been given a fresh breath of life after everything that had happened. Despite her mother’s pleas, Sasha had been unable to leave her hometown when the other ancestral families had left. Or at least what was left of them. Women and children moved away in droves, and those who were lucky enough not to be direct descendants found a distasteful turn of misfortune waited for them at every turn. The generations of good luck had stockpiled the bad luck that would normally cancel it out.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Carver asked as they approached the library.

Sasha grinned. “I was just wondering how all of the others were doing, like Cameron and her little girl.”

“You’re too good a person. I’m sure everyone who is innocent is perfectly fine. Look at you and me. Have you had any negative repercussions?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean anything. I wasn’t sad when the spirits claimed the guilty ones, but where do you draw the line?”

Carver shrugged. “Who knows? Listen, this is supposed to be a cheerful occasion. The Halifax families are the last ones. After they leave, we will be the only people left who can trace our lineages back to the founding fathers.”

“I’m just amazed at how they managed to do it all still.”

“Money opens a lot of doors. About half the families who lived here only came in the winter months. The other half were all direct descendants. They planned out their sacrifice perfectly so no one who wasn’t part of the ceremony would be here. Have you heard back from Barb’s family?”

“Yeah, they’ll be here next week to talk with us and the police, the same with Lane’s family. I hope we’re doing the right thing by opening up this can of worms.”

“As crazy as it sounds, the public deserves to know the truth. Are you ready to do this?” Carver asked.

Sasha laughed. “I’m not the one who has to go out there and talk to people. I’m just an innocent bystander!”

Carver shoved his little sister playfully as they approached the moving vans near the edge of town. As Harbor Cove’s newly elected mayor, Carver had taken it upon himself to assure everyone leaving was sent off with a final goodbye and warning. Sasha stood back a few dozen yards from him as he shook the couple’s hand and gave a high five to their son. Just because she supported her brother didn’t mean she wanted to make friends with the people who had tried to kill her. The Halifax family had gotten off easy compared to some of the others. The patriarch of the family had been adopted, and while they knew about and supported the rituals, they weren't allowed to participate. Despite not losing any members of their family, they had lost everything else. Stocks held by founding families had plummeted, leaving many with only their jobs which mysteriously vanished, and their homes which were quickly destroyed by the vengeful spirits. Now, it was all finally over. Carver waved to them one last time as he rejoined Sasha. They stood in silence and watched as the family climbed into their moving vans and pulled away. When they turned onto the main road, Carver started walking back into town, but something caught Sasha’s eye.

“Go back without me,” she told him. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Are you sure? Didn’t you say your mom was coming into town soon?”

Sasha nodded. “Yeah, she and my friend, Marcus, will be here in a few hours. I can’t wait for you to meet them! I’m so happy they’re staying for a few weeks. I still think you should reconsider moving into Harbor Hill with me.”

“Thanks, but that doesn’t look great on dating sites when a grown-ass man lives with his little sister. Speaking of the creepy mansion on the hill, did you have any problems getting the deed?”

“Nope, not a single one. Are you sure I can’t give you half of what it’s worth? It was our parents' house. After all, he didn’t exactly buy it legally.”

“Not a chance in hell! Do you know everything I found in that storage unit? If I needed money, I’d be set for life, so would you. I’m just happy you decided to stay around here. You don’t know how happy I am that we found each other.”

Sasha felt tears threatening to spill. “Get out of here before you make me start bawling like a baby!”

Carver laughed and turned to head back to town. He had been supportive of her and her unique desire to need time alone. Though this wasn’t one of those instances, Sasha was grateful that he didn’t argue with her. The girl stood a few feet in front of the stop sign, right at the edge of town. For a moment, Sasha started to walk in the spirit's direction. She paused when a second appeared, followed by a third, and so on until all seven were lined up across the road. Despite the distance between them, Sasha could hear the little girl when she whispered, “Thank you.”

One by one, the spirits started to evaporate into the sky. It was a mystifying sight to behold. Sasha stood, looking up at the clouds, for several minutes after the last spirit had vanished. With the last of the guilty villagers gone, they were finally freed from the chains that bound them to the town. She felt like a weight had been lifted from her heart. Sasha knew that she was finally home and finally free.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story!

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The Haunting of Brandt Manor

Prologue, the Early Years

Brandt Manor

Tibbets, CT

1935-1960

For as long as anyone who had ever called any of the small towns and villages in the northwest corner of Connecticut home, it had been far removed from what most of the state had to offer. Though not immune to progress over time, the setting had stayed true to its rural and bucolic roots. Much like today, this scenic and slower-paced retreat had always been an escape and getaway for many from their hectic lives…particularly New Yorkers who found the area a quick and restive destination. Though most long-time residents were not thrilled with the inevitable influx of tourists during fall foliage season and other seasonal draws, they knew their livelihoods and very survival depended upon this situation.

It was a trade-off, most figured, to be able to live there as their families before them had. And Tibbets, Connecticut, is a typical example of such a place. Other locales such as Salisbury and Canaan might have been more well-known than Tibbets, and for most locals there, that was just fine. Tibbets received the benefits of the influx to stay afloat financially while not being overwhelmed with the brunt of visitors, who sometimes made life less than ideal for people in towns more identifiable to the average visitor. Tibbets itself, except for the regular visitor from big cities who might have discovered the small gem by accident, tended to be just an overflow destination when their sister towns got too busy.

Tibbets was a simple and unassuming place, not quite what New Englanders would have called a town but more along the lines of a village. It had a single thoroughfare serving as the main street through what businesses and services were available. There was a café, Janice’s, that had been the center of all things social for locals since its establishment in 1952. Janice Turner, the grandmother of the current owner, Sarah Williams, was long gone, but Sarah had kept the name in honor of her beloved grandmother. It was not fancy, but then again, nothing in Tibbets would ever be classified or mistaken as such. However, the food was good, and it would be hard to find anyone who had lived in Tibbets any length of time who was not intimately familiar with the café to get all the gossip in town as well as a decent meal.

Also along the main drag in town was a post office, a gas station, a real estate office, and the looming façade of Tibbets General Store that had been a fixture longer than Janice’s had been around. It was kind of a catch-all for just about anything you might imagine…long before the big box stores of today came on the scene. You could also find Dr. Bill Anderson’s practice, the local physician, as well as a hardware store that might have specialty items that the general store might not carry. A few other smaller and more individualized stores and boutiques were scattered along the way, but they were more along the lines of what might be called “hobby businesses” and catered mostly to tourists. For all other needs and services, the residents had to drive over to Canaan or Salisbury.

The one remarkable thing about Tibbets, though, came about in 1935, but unless you were a long-time resident, it was unlikely you would have known about it. And it was, in fact, the basis and background for what became known to all around as the mystery of Brandt Manor…a true tale to some while just local legend to entertain to others. Among the parade of visitors who found their way to Tibbets in 1935, a man named Phillip Brandt stood out. It took some money and resources to make the journey to rural Connecticut for vacation or just to flee the city in those days. Brandt was no exception; however, in his case, his arrival had nothing to do with a getaway from the rat race of urban life. Brandt had arrived to stay.

From all accounts, he originally came from somewhere in the deep South, as was evidenced by what people of the day described as his thick accent, but no one ever seemed to know exactly where he had lived previously. Not only was his former home up for grabs, but what he had done before arriving was just as curious. Brandt never seemed to divulge it, nor did anyone care. All anyone could say for sure was that whatever it was that he had been employed in had paid him well. It was not that Brandt blew into Tibbets, throwing his wealth around. In fact, if it had not been for the real estate purchase and subsequent construction of his new home just outside town, it is unlikely anyone would have guessed at his financial standing.

Phillip Brandt was a quiet and calm man from all reports, and when he arrived and it became apparent that he was not just another tourist, his warm and charming character allowed him to soon be accepted as one of the locals, and people in general just shrugged off his background and money and went about their lives as they had before he had set foot in town. Brandt bought up a very large acreage in the thick woods just west of Tibbets and set about to construct a large home for himself. It was a brick structure, set nicely into the forest, and did not feel ostentatious or showy to anyone despite its relative grandeur of the day.

The manor itself was two floors and simple in design despite its size. The large oak front door led into a small foyer with a stone floor which then split into parallel corridors with a wide staircase between them. The lower level had multiple side rooms off the hallways, including sitting rooms, a library, a study/den, a formal dining room, and even a music room. At the back of the house, the hallways then reconverged and fed into a large kitchen area. The interior was highlighted with tongue-and-groove hardwood floors and tall walls adorned with much artwork that Brandt had apparently brought with him. For the few guests who did happen to visit Brandt at the manor, they described richly ornate furniture looking as if it might have come from another era, but no one could exactly say what era that might be. It was just very different from anything else in Tibbets.

The upper level had four bedrooms, each with its own full bath, including clawfoot tubs of gleaming porcelain against the green and gold tile of the floors and walls. At the end of the single corridor on that level was a solarium that took full advantage of the south-facing portion of the house where Brandt had decorated the inviting space with plants and a few sculptures. Over the entire upper floor was an open and unfinished attic accessible from a spiral staircase just off the solarium. From all accounts, Brandt had not yet decided what to do with the massive space, and at the time, it was serving just for storage as the manor had no cellar or basement due to occasional minor flooding that occurred in Tibbets from the nearby Hallick River.

Brandt had taken special care not to decimate the forest into which he had erected his manor any more than was necessary, and that sat well with his new neighbors. As well, he was often seen in town intermingling with everyone, and unless you knew the details of his arrival, it was likely you would have seen Phillip Brandt as just another long-time resident. Due to the stature of his new manor, there was definitely curiosity in town about the place, but in line with the behavior of the time, locals in Tibbets did not poke or prod as it seemed that Brandt preferred his privacy when he was not in town. From time to time, Brandt had small gatherings at his new home, but it seemed to all that he preferred to have just a few visitors at any one time as no one could ever recall any large parties or celebrations there.

It was not that Brandt had his favorites in town when having people over. More that for whatever his reasons, he just preferred smaller gatherings, which was fine with everyone. It was a situation that if you did have some interest in seeing the place, Brandt would eventually offer an invitation. No one ever reported that there was any feeling that he was snubbing or disallowing anyone to come. And so it was for many years with Phillip Brandt and his new home outside Tibbets.

Prologue, the Dark Times in Tibbets

Brandt Manor

Tibbets, CT

1960-1970

However, in the 1960s, this all changed dramatically. Brandt had not been a young man when he had arrived in 1935—probably in his late forties or early fifties by all estimations. His trips into town seemed to be getting fewer and further between. Eventually, it was discovered he had things he needed from town delivered. All assumed it was just his advancing age that had caused the change. But upon one delivery from town, a courier found the elder Brandt dead in his favorite chair in the lounge next to the dining room one day when he did not answer the door. The coroner declared his death just of natural causes due to his advanced age.

Even though not a native to Tibbets, Brandt’s death hit the locals hard as he had been well-loved and respected by just about all. His funeral and memorial service were overflowing, and from all reports, there was hardly anyone in Tibbets who did not attend. After some time passed following Brandt’s death, a young man appeared at the manor, known by then simply as Brandt Manor, who was later identified as a nephew of the late Phillip Brandt.

Timothy Edgecroft was his name, and it was later found out that he had inherited the manor from his uncle following a protracted probate and a rumored family dispute over the inheritance. Edgecroft, unlike his uncle, arrived in Tibbets and just kept to himself. He was not rude nor disrespectful toward anyone but just did not exhibit the same outgoing and extroverted personality that his uncle had seemed to possess.

It was a bit disappointing to all the locals, but in time they all just figured he had his reasons for keeping to himself and there was nothing more to it than Edgecroft was just a different man than his uncle had been. Many in Tibbets had been hoping that a new relative of Brandt’s might be made of the same stuff, but it was soon clear that was not the case. Edgecroft seemed to make no real efforts to get to know anyone in town, and his only appearances in Tibbets seemed to be to buy materials and supplies before rushing back to the manor once more. Many held out hope that one day Edgecroft would open up and want to be a part of town, like his uncle, but time went by, and it soon became obvious that he had no interest in that kind of thing.

Eventually, everyone in town just shrugged it off and went back to their own lives as their interest in Timothy Edgecroft and the manor became irrelevant. And for a period of time, that was just how it was. Edgecroft seemed to live almost hermit-like and alone in the huge manor and soon became considered more eccentric and odd than anything else to the residents of Tibbets. Most agreed that each had a right to live as they chose and as long as no one was being harmed, it was none of their business what the day-to-day routine of Edgecroft was. Surely, some even admitted, their own idiosyncrasies and quirks might seem a bit off to outsiders as well.

* * *

However, in the late 1960s, Tibbets underwent the first real serious crime spree it had seen in a long, long time…if ever. Even with all the civil unrest and protests against the war in Vietnam that had ignited the country in general, Tibbets had somehow remained somewhat insulated from it all. That was not to say that the topics were ignored or that the residents there were ignorant of all that was going on, but the violence, riots, and backlash from people looking for change was just not an issue. Actually, most of the crime in Tibbets had been nothing more than some minor vandalism, the occasional DUI, petty theft, or a domestic disturbance for as long as anyone around could recall. That was why what overtook Tibbets in the late 1960s was shocking on several levels. First of all, for the crimes themselves, of course, but also how it caught the small and relatively inexperienced police force unprepared to handle it.

Beginning in about 1967 or so, Tibbets started to experience sudden and unexplained disappearances of some of its residents. There was no common factor to link them, which made it extra difficult for the police as well—the disappearances included children, senior citizens, teenagers, and adults in their thirties and forties. The initial cases were thought to be runaways when kids were the first targets, but when the victims began to include just about every possible group of residents, a generalized sense of panic and fear spread over the small town. Tension grew when several bodies were discovered in shallow graves either deep in the woods or along the banks of the Hallick River.

Unfortunately, too much time had passed, and the elements from severe weather in Tibbets had taken their toll for anyone to figure out just how many of the victims had died. The only common key seemed to be the presence of a single normal playing card left with each victim that was found taped to their foreheads with duct tape. Nothing was written on the cards, and no notes were found—just simple unmarked playing cards, some face cards and some with just numbers. No fingerprints or other identifying marks were ever found on them, either.

There were never any obvious signs of their deaths—no gunshot wounds, no knife wounds, no signs of strangulation. Tibbets was a close-knit community, and it seemed impossible that anyone in town might have been responsible. As well, no one could recall any strangers being around for any length of time. The common link of the cards seemed to indicate this was the doing of one person or perhaps a team, but in either case, the same suspect seemed responsible. As is often when desperation and panic get a firm grip on such situations, people began to talk idly that perhaps it was the strange and solitary Timothy Edgecroft behind it all. He was unknown to them all, and no one had any idea what he did with all his time over at Brandt Manor.

Prologue, the Aftermath

Brandt Manor

Tibbets, CT

1960-1970

Panic soon turned the idle talk into paranoia, and pressure began to mount on the police department to investigate him as the prime suspect. To the long-time locals, Edgecroft was an unknown factor, and without any proof, the supposition that it was always these quiet, isolated loners who ended up doing these types of things became a mantra for the town. The police ignored the constant calls for him to be brought in for questioning as they had no basis for making such a claim. There was no physical evidence linking any of the murders to the man, nor had anyone come forward with any information that might suggest Edgecroft was responsible. They continued their investigation as best they could under the circumstances, but as the calendar turned over into 1968, they found themselves no closer to solving the case than when the first body had been found.

But in the spring of 1968, an anonymous call to the Tibbets Police Department caused the detectives to change their stance and opinion of Edgecroft. The caller had said that based on things they knew about Edgecroft from his younger days—prior to his arrival in Tibbets—it was likely that he was indeed the serial killer they were looking for. None of the specifics of the information from the tip were released to the public, but once some of the information of Edgecroft’s past was confirmed by the lead detective, the police decided it was time to have a chat with the man. They still had no physical or even circumstantial evidence to link him to the murders, but the detectives were hoping the interview with him might cause him to slip up and incriminate himself.

What the police did not know, however, was that before they could interview Edgecroft, he had somehow come to find out about this anonymous tip indicating his possible guilt in the crimes. No one ever figured out just how he had come to be privy to the call, but in a note later found in the manor, penned in Edgecroft’s hand, it was spelled out that he had. The police arrived at Brandt Manor to interrogate Edgecroft over the murders, but no one answered the door when they knocked at the time they had set up with him the day before. The detectives found the front door slightly ajar and went in but got no response when calling Edgecroft by name.

Sensing something was not quite right, the lead detective, Andrew Morrison, drew his service revolver and led the team toward the staircase. They spread out and searched the lower level but found no sign of Edgecroft anywhere. They were about to ascend the stairs when Morrison held up his hand for them to stop as he looked upward. His team followed his gaze, and together, they saw a spreading collection of water on the ceiling over the foyer that was just beginning to drip down. Morrison called out again but then did not hesitate as he dashed up the steps toward the sound of running water when Edgecroft did not answer.

The team followed him to the bathroom in the first bedroom on the right-hand side of the hallway, where they found the very dead body of Timothy Edgecroft submerged in an overflowing tub of water. His wrists were slit, and it seemed the man had committed suicide rather than become the focus of the police investigation. Between some cryptic comments in the note they found later that Edgecroft seemed to have penned, and just putting the pieces together with common sense, it seemed he had been overcome with guilt over the crimes and had decided to kill himself rather than face possible prosecution.

The investigation was closed when the police announced their conclusions based on what they had found at the manor. In a formal press conference, Andrew Morrison proclaimed the case solved, saying that Edgecroft had indeed been the murderer but that he had committed suicide before they could conduct an official inquiry to confirm that. However, based on what they had found at the manor as well as the timing of his suicide with their appointment to question him about it, it seemed certain that he had been behind it all. As well, no more murders occurred after Edgecroft was found dead, which seemed to further substantiate this theory. The police, along with the general population, agreed this was the case, and it became just a sad and black chapter in the history of Tibbets.

Brandt Manor went dark and shuttered for many years following the death of Timothy Edgecroft as a dark pall and sinister aura were attached to the place all around town. Only the very curious would even go out to the woods where the old mansion was located in those days as legends began to spring up about it. The tales ranged from it being simply cursed by the mere presence of the homicidal Timothy Edgecroft to wild legends of it now being haunted by the spirit of the evil and malevolent nephew of Phillip Brandt. There were portions of Tibbets who believed in each extreme, and the manor soon became the subject of wagers among teenagers on Halloween to see if any of them had the guts to spend the night in the desecrated old manor.

In any case, though Brandt Manor went dark and empty, its legend lingered and was soon drawing visitors from all around when journalists wrote of the “Curious Legend of Brandt Manor” in magazine articles and human interest sections of newspapers.

1

2012

7538 Redport Lane

Hartford, CT

Back in 2009, David Pragmore had taken the biggest risk of his professional life when he had resigned as just another beat writer at the Hartford Courant to pursue his lifelong dream of being a novelist. He had a great reputation and the respect of all his colleagues at The Courant, as well as a few of his competitors at rival publications across the state. He was paid well and, by all accounts, was a success in his field. But despite all of this, Pragmore was utterly bored and finding it harder and harder each day to come to work and write at the same level and with the same standards his editor had come to expect from him. It was not that his skill had dropped off or that there was any real underlying issue at the paper that was responsible, but David was finding it more difficult with each passing day feeling as if he had sold out his dreams for a regular and comfortable paycheck.

He knew he could not continue to tamp down the desire in his heart and soul much longer without going mad. David thought back to his childhood and how his own father had set aside his raw and undeveloped talent as an artist to provide for their family. William Pragmore had never said anything that had revealed experiencing regret or a lost dream himself, but as David reached adolescence, he could see it in his father’s eyes and wondered what his dad’s life might have been like had he pursued his true calling. Back then, he had promised himself never to let that happen to him. But now, here he was, finding the apple was not falling far from the tree.

David then recalled a quote from some motivational speaker he had heard somewhere. The name escaped him at the moment, but the quote had not.

“Despite the gamble and the high degree of improbability of my success at my true calling, I never wanted to wake up one day and wonder what might have been. I would have rather tried and failed, having given it my best effort, than to just play it safe and always wonder ‘what if.’”

After discussing his feelings with his wife, Susan, David took the quote that had stuck with him for all those years to heart and took the plunge. To the shock and consternation of his editor and colleagues, David turned in his notice and walked away to pursue his own writing dreams. He and Susan had set a deadline for this venture. It allowed him enough time to know if this had a reasonable chance of success while she took on the role of the primary breadwinner. It seemed realistic enough to both of them without putting an undue financial burden on Susan or having a negative impact on their relationship as a whole.

They both entered into his new arrangement and partnership with high expectations and excitement, but as time went on, David found himself struggling to find his niche. He had some limited success publishing a handful of shorter pieces with some magazines and a few online organizations, but it was not close to what he had envisioned when he had begun. Plus, it was hardly bringing enough money to sustain them once the deadline he and Susan had established arrived. She had been more than generous in her support of him in this whole crazy idea, and David could not ask Susan to do more. The deadline was just looming out there and now seemed to be racing toward him like a runaway train.

With limited options at making this experiment more than just a passing fancy, David dug back into some things he had written in his spare time while still at the paper, wondering if there might be an idea or two lingering in his dusty files to help him break through this rut he seemed to be stuck in. After a thorough search, David finally settled on picking up an old manuscript he had dabbled at on and off for years. It had a distinctive horror theme, but beneath the overall story were elements of the disintegration of the family unit and a protagonist who was battling his own demons that had nothing to do with the horror elements.

David had never considered the horror genre seriously. It was not, he felt, a real strength of his as a writer, and certainly, there were plenty of serious horror writers out there who would likely make his efforts seem weak and laughable. But time was running out, and David liked the ideas he had tried to weave underneath the main macabre plot. Feeling he had nothing to lose, he dove in, and to his surprise, the writing flowed quickly and easily, and before he knew it, he had what he thought was a pretty good rough draft.

As he always did, he had Susan read over his rough drafts before putting any real effort into editing and polishing a final product for submission. She was always honest and straight with him with his writing without being too harsh or overly critical.

When she finally finished the lengthy manuscript, Susan came to him and handed it back, saying nothing at first.

“That bad?” David asked with a grin.

“Um…actually…it’s stunning,” Susan replied with a neutral expression.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, this is like nothing you have ever done before, David. I marked up some minor edits I thought might work for you, but quite frankly, I think this is damn near ready to shop around.”

“Seriously?”

Susan nodded and smiled. “You remember my dad’s old friend, Charles Swanson?”

“Vaguely. Does he still work at some big publishing joint down in New York City?”

“Not anymore. He started up his own firm about a year or so ago. They’re small but looking to make a big splash against all the publishing giants.”

“You suggesting I send this to him?”

“Why not? I know Charley wants to establish a core of unknown but talented writers as his base. It’s worth a shot.”

“You still know him well enough to ask?”

“I think so…besides, David, this book is really good. I think the quality of it will far outweigh any personal favor Charley might think he’s making to take a look.”

* * *

And as usual, David commented later, Susan’s intuition and insight were right on the money. The only thing that had stunned David more than her positive reaction to the book was Charles Swanson’s. He more or less parroted Susan’s accolades, and he had some in-house editors polish the final draft David had sent him for consideration. The book was released with great critical review and became a runaway popular seller among the general public. So after the struggles and doubts and anxiety, David Pragmore found his dreams, at last, realized…even if it had come in a genre he might have otherwise ignored had he not been so desperate when faced with the deadline he and Susan had imposed on themselves.

Swanson signed David plus a trio of other new but highly talented writers to the first long-term contracts in the new firm’s short history. For David, he felt like this was some sort of dream as he signed the paperwork. But if it were, it was one he hoped he would not wake up from for a very long time. In his case, the one stipulation Swanson had added to their agreement was for David to give them another book as soon as possible so they might take advantage of his name while he was a hot commodity on the market. It seemed perfectly reasonable to David based on how well his first book was selling, and he was looking forward to jumping back into the pool, especially since this contract was beyond what even his ambitious aspirations had been when he envisioned his new career.

He and Susan celebrated the burst of success with a weekend away in New York City, both realizing their lives were most likely to enter a new phase that neither might have imagined even a year earlier. But when they returned from their short getaway, the joy and excitement at what had come to them took a huge downward slide.

2

As David came back to his office in their home in Hartford, he ran full force into a wall he had often heard of but had never experienced himself: the dreaded “writer’s block.” Unless you were some writing machine like James Patterson, David knew that most writers encountered this from time to time. But it was new for him, and he had no idea how to make it go away. Even when he had been struggling to get even short pieces published, he had never had an issue putting words to paper. Even then, it had been more that publishers just had no interest. David had always had more than he could handle to submit. He supposed he had been prolific, just not of a quality appealing to anyone he offered any of it to.

It was extra frustrating as his first foray into the horror world had come with such ease, and this time around, he had struggled from day one. Day after day, David sat and wrote, but at the end of each session, he looked over what he had come up with and just deleted the whole mess, embarrassed at his efforts. To David, it was all garbage. These new attempts felt hackneyed and trite and mirrored his fears over entering the genre in the first place of not being able to create anything worthwhile relative to what seasoned writers in the horror world were producing.

Both Swanson and some other executives at the firm had been calling, wondering why they had not received any tastes of the new book yet. They were polite and more eager than pushy or demanding, but the calls were getting more frequent, and David knew that eventually, the tone in the calls would change. He was facing missed deadlines with Swanson, which was also a new experience for David…in his professional life; this was simply inexcusable, barring some debilitating illness or death.

They were counting on him to follow up with another strong offering, and David thought that only reasonable considering how much faith and trust they had placed in him as a relatively unknown commodity prior to the surprise success of the first book. He also knew much of what Swanson had done was out of a personal favor to Susan’s father, and David didn’t want to put a black mark on that relationship, either. He and Roger Flint were as close as any son-in-law and father-in-law could be, he supposed, and he did not want Roger to see him as a failure after raving to everyone about his “daughter’s famous author husband.”

As was his natural inclination, David tried to understand and rationalize where this creative block was coming from and why. When he had begun this venture as an independent writer, he had never had any undue pressure or expectations weighing upon him other than that which had been self-imposed so he could honor the sacrifice Susan had made to allow him the opportunity. But maybe, he thought to himself now, as he stared at a continually blank computer screen that seemed to be mocking and laughing at him, was the fact that he had a written contract requiring him to produce responsible? David hated trying to blame any personal failing or shortcoming on anyone else or some situation, but who knew. He had never been in this situation before, and he supposed it was possible the contract could be shutting off his flow.

Or was he just overthinking the whole thing, and was this creative block just a phase? He seemed to recall even famous classic authors he had read when in school being affected by this, and it was just episodic and eventually lifted with time. However, with the business agreement he had entered into with Charles Swanson, that might not be a luxury he could afford—that of time. Swanson had been more than generous in the offer he had given David, and he had no excuse for not living up to his end of that deal. If this were just a phase, would it eventually just go away as inexplicably as it had come on? Would it be in a timely fashion that would not destroy his arrangement with Swanson?

Whatever the reason, David knew he was stuck, and he had to do something to get “unstuck.” Swanson had requested that David follow up his initial offering with another horror tale since the first had been so successful and the reading public would identify his name with that genre, making the need to get the new book published as soon as possible. Perhaps, David finally mused, a change in scenery would be beneficial to get him back on track.

There was more than one example of this in modern literary work where an author had found a renewed sense of creativity by inserting themselves into a new setting…sometimes a setting that was directly appliable to the book they were currently working on. The most blatant instance David could think of just then was the story about Stephen King and The Shining. There was this tale that had circulated following the roaring success that really put King on the map of how he had been inspired by a visit to The Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado. The hotel itself had been long-rumored to be haunted, and articles had been published saying King took his experience there as his genius inspiration for The Shining.

David seemed to recall from interviews that King revealed that the novel itself was about much more than just a simple haunted hotel, but it had, in fact, been a good source. Or maybe David was just imagining that the great horror writer had said such a thing and it was nothing more than just loose talk among talking heads on radio and cable TV. In any case, David began to think that a change of scenery might help. He was so blocked now that he figured anything new was worth a shot. And that was what spurred David to reread an article he had come across just the month before about this old manor up in the northwest corner of Connecticut that was rumored to be haunted. It seemed the perfect setting to recapture his muse and his creative streak that had vanished mysteriously.

He posed the idea to Susan using all the logic he had arrived at based on the Stephen King story…fable??...as well as a getaway for her while he worked. David knew he had become increasingly annoying and hard to be around lately since this creative block had fallen over him, and maybe Susan would see this as a nice break from their routines in Hartford. She loved the outdoors and nature, and he recalled how much she had liked that part of the state when they had visited three or four years ago. David was sure that framing it as part vacation for her and part buffer away from his work frustrations to give him a renewed setting to recapture his flow was the perfect proposal.

Susan agreed, readily giving off a silent and inner sigh of relief as she was beginning to wonder how this growing uneasiness and tension that had been building between them lately was to be resolved without rancor and conflict. Much like David’s writer’s block, this type of tentative and discomforting atmosphere between them was new to her as well. Susan had no idea if this would fix anything in the long run, but like David, she was open to trying. She could not continue on with him the way things were headed and hoped a venue change would be good for both of them on several fronts.

3

Susan looked at the article David had found regarding the old manor in this small town called Tibbets up in the corner of Connecticut where the state converged with New York and Massachusetts. She had never heard of Tibbets nor the Brandt Manor but agreed with David that their trip a few years back to North Canaan, just west of Tibbets, had been wonderful.

He seemed excited and hopeful about the prospects of writing his new book in a setting that had actual rumors of being haunted with the assumption that the mere idea of that possibility—true or not—would be beneficial. David was taking the reports of a possible haunting too lightly, though, Susan thought. She was well aware of his skepticism on anything surrounding the topics of the paranormal and the supernatural. Susan herself was teetering on the fence in that regard. In her younger days, she had experienced some things that had no other logical or rational explanation from her perspective.

For David, his writing office in their home in Hartford, though quiet and isolated from most of the city's noise and distractions, was suddenly beginning to feel more like a prison than a creative space. While Hartford was certainly not a massive metropolis like New York or Chicago or Los Angeles, he was still finding too many interruptions and disturbances lately to keep his focus. At least that was what he told himself when the writer’s block had first shown up in his life. More likely, David told himself, he was just using those things as an excuse. It had become far easier to let himself get sidetracked by any little thing than to write in the last few weeks and then use the everyday routines of life in Hartford as reasons why he could not work.

But even if he were in denial over it all, David knew he had to get into a new space if he were to ever get anything done and fulfill his obligations with Charley. Maybe going to a supposed haunted house for inspiration would be a bust, but at the moment, he did not want to ignore any options as writing in his home office was getting him nowhere. For sure, he was no believer in ghosts or haunted houses or anything even tangentially related to those things, but since his new book was to include at least some of those topics, David felt being around the environment could only help.

Whether or not the stories surrounding this aspect of the Brandt Manor had any validity to them seemed irrelevant to David. It was merely the supposition that mattered, especially since he thought it was all just crap anyway, just the stuff of movies and subject matter for writers like himself. So as they prepared for the trip west, David amassed and collected everything he could that had any mention of a supernatural element associated with the manor. He read them all for two reasons: 1) the psychological notion of a haunting getting into his brain might loosen the grip of the writer’s block, and 2) there might actually be something in the background of the manor that would serve as a jumping-off point for his new book.

He and Susan packed for the trip for what they supposed might end up being an extended stay, depending on what happened once David sat down to write. It was one of the big perks, they both thought, of what David did for a living. There was no schedule to adhere to, no meetings he had to be present for, and no office he had to report to regularly in this new career. Even with his new situation, Susan had held on to her position as a supervisory nurse for the public school system in Hartford. With his newfound success, it was not like she still needed to work, but Susan loved her job and the kids she was there to help. But as school was not in session for the summer, she was free to go along without having to worry about her own job.

If, for some reason, the writing project spilled into the fall, Susan figured she could always head back to Hartford while David continued on the book. And if the new locale did not pan out as a new source of inspiration and creativity for him…well…that was a circumstance she did not want to consider at all, at least not until she had to, jumping off that bridge when she came to it as the saying went. They packed the car, arranged for their good friends and neighbors, Lester and Helen Murray, to look in on their place from time to time just to make sure nothing serious had gone wrong—plumbing, electricity, water the plants, and such—and set off for Tibbets, each of them harboring personal anxieties over this idea.

As they drove to Tibbets, David mulled over in his mind just how fortuitous it was that the old manor there had been available for them to rent. The background that he had been reading about on the history of the Brandt Manor seemed just eccentric and mysterious enough to set the stage for his new book. At this point, he was still stuck on the specifics of a basic plot, but he was sure that once at the place, this problem would solve itself in short order. Based on the sheer size of the place, the low rental price was an added bonus David had not counted on when he had come across the manor in an online blog. He supposed maybe it had something to do with the time of year—late spring/early summer—and that demand was likely higher as fall approached and New Yorkers came to look at leaves…another avocation David had yet to ever comprehend the interest in.

Even more curious was that the rental agent he had spoken to did not seem to mind that they might want to rent some space in the manor for an extended period when he explained why he was interested in the manor. Most likely, David reasoned, the place is so large that they have tons of space available for anyone showing up later in the summer who might like a rental as well. As they got closer to Tibbets, David reached over and grasped Susan’s hand in his. She squeezed back, and he hoped this brief retreat would be as beneficial for her as for his writing. He knew just how much she needed a break from how difficult and moody he had been in the last few months.

They both relaxed as they passed through small towns west of Hartford they had not seen in years that were bounded by the Nepaug and Wyantenock State Forests. Each mile away from Hartford seemed to increase their ease and make all the tension that had been growing between them recently ancient history. The major state roads led them to less well-maintained county roads before they cruised into Tibbets, which sat off Lime Rock Road just before the prominent twin lakes to the west with the ponderous names Wononskopomuc and Wononpakook. As they had known when they researched Tibbets before the trip, there was not much there to speak of, but it looked quaint and wonderfully relaxing.

“What a cool little place!” Susan exclaimed as David let the car coast to a stop.

“I’ll say. I promised the rental agent we would meet her at the manor by eleven, though. I think we need to head over and see her first. We can come back later to explore. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

4

David punched in the coordinates that Sarah Fitzgerald, the rental agent, had given him for the manor into his GPS, and they drove slowly through town and then over some bumpy and winding dirt roads before coming upon a lone massive structure set among the trees just ahead. David looked up to see a young woman waving them over, and he drove closer before parking. He and Susan got out and met the lady as she came toward them, smiling.

“Mr. and Mrs. Pragmore, I presume?” she said with a chuckle.

“That’s us,” David replied. “I’m David, and this is my wife, Susan.”

“Sarah Fitzgerald. Call me Sarah, please. Any trouble finding us?”

“Not at all,” David replied. “We’ve been up in this neck of the woods before, but it’s been many years. We spent a few days in North Canaan but never got over to Tibbets. In fact, until I found out about the Brandt Manor, we had never even heard of Tibbets.”

“You are not alone in that boat, folks. Tibbets is a pretty well-kept secret. It’s not that we are hermits or anything here, but as a community, we like how we are kind of unknown, you know?”

“Sure,” David replied. “Hard to find a peaceful and quiet spot anywhere these days. It’s one of the reasons we came.”

“That and the manor itself, I am betting, huh?”

David hesitated as he registered the look she was giving him. It was one of possible recognition, but he was not positive. After the book tour to promote the novel, David realized his face was now not so anonymous as it once was, and he was still adjusting to that situation.

“You read my book, huh?”

“I did…and I must say it was wonderful and plenty creepy as well. I’m guessing you may have heard the rumors about the manor being haunted and you thought maybe there was another book for you here?”

“Guilty as charged, Sarah.”

They all three laughed.

“I don’t mean to discourage you from any creative possibilities you might have imagined for yourself here, David, but I think you will find the Brandt is just a normal old manor despite what the internet bloggers might have led you to believe.”

“I guess we shall see,” David replied with a smile, “sometimes the suggestion of an idea is enough for us writers.”

“Fair enough, but if your new book is half as scary as your last one, I’m afraid I may be sleeping with a nightlight on for a long time.”

They all laughed again.

“I will take that as the ultimate compliment, Sarah.”

“Getting back to Tibbets itself,” Susan interjected, “are you a native here?”

“I wish…no, I moved here about ten years ago, but now I can’t imagine wanting to live anywhere else.”

“It sure looked cute when we drove through.”

“We think so,” she said.

“We’re hoping to go back and explore some once we get settled here.”

“You absolutely should. I think you’ll find out right away why I call this home now. Speaking of which, if you follow me, we can get you set up so you can shoot back into town and poke around a bit.”

They walked behind Sarah and just looked up in awe and wonder as the Brandt Manor came into full view once they cleared the trees that enclosed it like a glove. Though the exterior was obviously old and had taken some beating over time from the New England winters, David was utterly enthralled at what he saw. The photos online had not done the place justice. The scope and immensity of the structure was something, he thought, that could only be appreciated live. Sarah stood calmly by as they gaped and gazed, something she never tired of when new people came to stay. Even with the passage of time, the setting of the manor was nearly identical to the historical photos of the place David had come across in his research dating back decades.

“A bit more than you imagined?” Sarah asked.

“I’ll say,” David replied, “I don’t mean this to be derogatory at all, but this place must have really been something in its day.”

“That it was. You know anything about the place?”

“Oh, only what is out there on the internet, just odds and ends,” David replied, not letting on as to just how much background research he had done.

“Well, it was built back in the 1930s by this millionaire, Phillip Brandt, who just showed up out of nowhere one day. The rumor is he was from New Orleans, but no one really knows for sure. The place got passed down through several layers of heirs after that, and the new owners are trying to figure out just what they want to do with it now.”

“Kind of a work in progress?” Susan asked.

Sarah laughed. “Don’t let the outside fool you, Susan. Frederick and Diane—the new owners—have taken great pains to revamp the interiors all around to make it as much of a showcase as when it was first built. Some is still, as you say, a work in progress, but I think you will be very impressed with what they have done. The exterior is the last part to be dealt with due to our rapidly fluctuating weather here. As soon as the last couple of bedrooms are finished, my guess is that the exterior will be addressed. And as I’m sure you can imagine, that project will be extensive and expensive.”

“With the sheer size of it, I can’t imagine what a huge job that will be,” Susan replied.

“Want to show us around, Sarah?” David asked.

“Normally I would, but I have another appointment out of town this afternoon. However, I asked Ralph Edmunds to drop by and do the tour for you. He is the Brandt’s groundskeeper and overall handyman who keeps the place up and running on a daily basis. He has forgotten more about the manor than I ever knew in the first place and will be a much better guide. He will also be your primary point of contact with any problems that may arise while you are here anyway.”

She handed them the keys and then waved as an older man approached from the side of the manor.

“There he is now. Right on time! Over here, Ralph!”

5

Sarah introduced David and Susan and then took her leave after giving them her card and telling them to call her with any questions or issues they might have that Ralph could not handle, or if they decided to change the length of their stay since the original agreement had been pretty fluid when David had first contacted her. They walked along with Ralph toward the manor, and the closer David got to the old place, the stronger were the feelings in his gut that the manor was going to be the answer to his stifled creativity. It seemed impossible, but as they neared the front door, David’s brain was suddenly flooded with fresh ideas for the new book, something that had eluded him for months back in Hartford. He wished he had brought along a notepad just then as the ideas were coming in so quickly he could not keep track of them all. He hoped they would not elude his memory later once he had a chance to jot them down.

Edmunds talked as he led David and Susan around the immense manor so they could begin to get oriented. He walked them through both levels and pointed out all that had been done so far in terms of renovations as well as what was still on the to-do list. Susan noticed that Sarah had not been kidding when she had said the interior was being brought back to life to as near mint condition as possible. Unless you knew the manor was as old as it was, she assumed most people would guess this place had just been built recently… with the exterior being the exception.

The ground level was done in total, and only two of the bedrooms on the second floor were still not quite ready for occupancy. In one, the windows needed to be replaced and the floors refinished, and in the other, tiling was about half done in the bathroom, and some lighting fixtures were missing. But otherwise, it appeared as if the manor were well on its way to being completely transformed inside. David had already picked out a nice space on the ground level that looked like a prime spot in which to write. It was, Edmunds told him, the former study/den area Brandt had set up in the original design. The floors gleamed with a shine that defied the age of the manor, and it was obvious that no expense was being spared in the renovation. They dropped off their luggage in one of the finished bedrooms on the second floor after David had stashed his files and computer in the study. Edmunds walked them back to the front door.

“That’s the place,” he said with obvious pride. “There is an unfinished attic over the entire structure, but there’s really nothing to see there. Just storage for construction supplies and all while the work goes on. There shouldn’t be any work taking place while you’re here in the two bedrooms still unfinished. We try to put a hold on any construction when we have guests, and since I am sure you will need quiet for your work, David, I made sure the guys know not to disturb you. But otherwise, feel free to use any of the manor not under construction.”

“You mean to say we have full run of the entire place?” David asked incredulously.

“Yep. It’s early in the season, and right now, there has been no other interest other than yourselves. That may change if you stay on into the height of summer or fall, and if so, we can make the necessary accommodations. I understand from Sarah you are a writer and may be here a while working on a new book?”

“Yeah, I am,” David replied, hesitating to see if Edmunds knew who he was since Sarah had been well-acquainted with his work.

He was just beginning to get used to being in the spotlight since his first book had gone gangbusters and was still not something he was completely comfortable with. David sighed with relief when he realized Edmunds had no idea who he was.

“Did Sarah fill you in on the place at all?” he asked.

“Just a bit,” Susan replied. “She said this Phillip Brandt built it way back in the 1930s?”

“Yeah, that’s right. The story got passed down from generation to generation, but that’s the beginning as far as I know. He came from somewhere way down South, they say with tons of money and had the place built.”

“All by himself?” David asked, “I mean, no family?”

“Not that I know of. No family to speak of until an heir appeared after he died. Anyway, from the story I got from my people, Brandt was beloved in Tibbets despite his financial standing. He was never stand-offish like some outsiders can be. Maybe it was his Southern roots. I have no idea. Not many newcomers get taken in just like that in Tibbets, but Mr. Brandt did. It was a sad day in Tibbets when he died, so I’m told. The new owners are distantly related to him, though I have no idea what that relationship is.”

“And Sarah says they’re the ones renting this place out now while they try to figure out what to ultimately do with it; is that right?”

“It is. I’m on staff here just to keep the place up and running for any rentals that come along and address any minor maintenance issues that might arise day to day. The new owners seem to want to eventually sell the place, but as you can see, a ton of work still remains to be done before that can happen.”

“Plus, I’m sure the available pool of people who might be able to afford this place once it is finished is pretty limited,” Susan added.

“I’m no real estate expert, Susan, but that would be my guess. The manor was quite expensive even in its day in the 1930s. However, I’m sure there is someone out there who will come along if they decide to go that route.”

“Thanks, Ralph,” David said as he shook the man’s hand at the door. “I’m sure we will be fine. It’s a very charming and intriguing place.”

“You have no idea,” Edmunds replied. “But in case anything comes up—plumbing problems or the lights go out or anything like that—just call me, and I can drop by and take a look. I live just off the property in the small bungalow back toward Tibbets. You might have noticed it when you drove in.”

David and Susan nodded.

“It’s an old place, and some of the basic infrastructure is still being hammered out, so to speak, so don’t be surprised if little problems arise. That’s why I’m available anytime when we have guests.”

He handed David a piece of paper with a phone number on it, and they stood at the door and watched Edmunds wander out to an old pickup truck and drive off, leaving a cloud of dust hanging in the warm summer afternoon air. David put his arm around Susan’s waist and pulled her close as Edmunds drove out of sight.

“Is it just me or was there something about Ralph Edmunds that seemed…I don’t know…just off?” Susan asked.

“Off? What do you mean? He seemed a likable and friendly guy to me.”

“I’m not sure. I guess that comment he made when you referred to the manor as quite charming and intriguing.”

“What was that? I guess it went right past me.”

“He said, ‘you have no idea.’ Didn’t that strike you as slightly cryptic?”

“At the time, I guess not, but now that you mention it, it does seem an odd reply.”

“What do you think he meant, David?”

“Hard to say. I mean, we just met the guy, and who knows what he meant, if anything. Maybe he was just referring to the long history here or something about the renovation that rubbed him the wrong way, or maybe it was nothing.”

“Maybe…maybe…I guess it was more in the tone of his voice than what he actually said that caught my attention.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know…like he was hiding something about the place, or he knows something more about the backstory of the manor that might give paying guests pause.”

“Wow, Susan…with that vivid imagination, maybe you should be the writer and not me.” David chuckled after he spoke as she poked him playfully in the ribs with her elbow.

“Very funny, pal. You think I’m just seeing something that’s not there?”

“Maybe, maybe not, Susan. It is hard to say not really knowing the man very well.”

“I guess so. It just struck me as odd, is all.”

6

“Still interested in running back into town to have a look around?” David asked as they stood in the doorway and listened to the calm and quiet of their new and temporary surroundings after Edmunds had disappeared from view.

“You bet!” Susan replied immediately, “Why don’t you get your office set up while I put away our stuff in the bedroom, and we can take off in…oh…say ten minutes or so?”

“Sounds great…”

Susan jogged off and went up the stairs while David retreated to the space he had picked out for throwing himself into his writing. As she went about opening suitcases and putting away clothes and arranging their bathroom accessories, Susan found a mixture of emotions coming into her head. She was thrilled that David seemed so infused and energetic again with the new book after months of getting nowhere back home. In general, he was not a depressive or moody man, but the last stretch with him had revealed a side she had never seen before. They had not really argued in that stretch. In fact, Susan could not remember the last time they had really had more than a simple difference of opinion, but this odd cloud of tension and even mild hostility had come between them.

David was often snapping at her and even occasionally terse with his communication toward her, and she knew it was all due to his frustration over the new book and the huge contract he had signed with Charley. For a time, she had done her best to ignore it and recognize it for what it was, but the longer his dry spell went on, the worse it had become. And despite all her efforts, Susan knew she was following suit right back, and she did not like it, not with herself and certainly not between the two of them. But ever since they had arrived on the property here, it was like this giant hand had reached down and pulled the black shroud off of David’s shoulders that had been transforming him into a man she just did not know.

They had both been overly impressed with the Brandt Manor when they got out of the car and got their first real look at the place, but with David, she had sensed something much more crucial. During those awful months back home, not only had his personality morphed into something foreign to her, but he even seemed physically different. His normally happy and warm eyes had gone sullen and dark. She did not want to sound overly melodramatic, but it was almost like some entity or some force, or something had taken over his being. But their arrival here seemed to have blown that away like a gust of wind that often precedes a strong rainstorm.

The shine and sparkle she typically saw in his eyes were magically back, and though she was sure she perhaps imagined it, he even looked to be standing taller and carrying himself with more confidence rather than what she had perceived as becoming a stooped and haggard form back in Hartford. Susan had no idea how the mere change in location could have been responsible for that, but as far as she could tell, that was what was happening, and it was lifting her spirits as well. It was just a guess for sure, but Susan was sure David was already mulling over new ideas of the book. It was nothing he had said or had even done so far, but just the look on his face and in his eyes that she knew well when he was revved up to write.

That was the positive part. On the downside, Susan still could not shake what Edmunds had said to them regarding the manor. Maybe David was right and it was nothing—just an odd quirk of how the man talked—but all the same, it gave her pause. Certainly, all the material she had read about the Brandt and its supposed haunted element was not helping. She knew David had little to no patience with such “nonsense” as he often referred to anything of a supernatural or paranormal nature, but for her, she was not so sure. Susan liked to think she had an open mind about everything, and these topics were still something she thought might have some validity…despite David’s skepticism. Did Edmunds know more than he was letting on just so as not to freak them out?

As well, Susan was a bit concerned and apprehensive over the new project overall. Until his first book had just exploded in critical acclaim and public popularity, she had never known David to venture very deep into the horror genre. She did not have any regrets that he had finally begun to have the success he had strived for and struggled after for so long, but it was like the mere subject matter of that first book had touched him on some deeper level when he had been writing it than his previous work seemed to have. It was hard for her to pinpoint her concerns over that, but she definitely had seen a change in David’s personality and mood during that project.

He had never been one of those writers who got absorbed in a plot or a character like some of David’s contemporaries she knew of…kind of like actors who adhere to and profess the need for method acting to create the character they are portraying. But there was a shade of blackness that had overcome him during the work all the same. Plus, when she had read his first draft of the book, she had been shocked and astounded that such a macabre and dark thing could come from his mind. It was so out of proportion to who she knew David to be deep inside. And now he was embarking on, if not a sequel to the first book, certainly a follow-up in the same mold.

Susan understood Charley’s desire to ask for this. It was purely a business and marketing strategy to dovetail on the success and popularity of the first one. But now that they were in this possibly haunted place with David’s eyes set firmly on another horror novel, she had personal worries. She just hoped this new one would not be as grim and morbid an offering as the previous one. She still recalled with a cold chill just how much that first book had terrified her to the core. But this was where David’s success had come from and whatever the outcome of this one, Susan knew they were locked into the situation.

However, Susan also realized her intuition had often blown up in her face in several embarrassing instances that David still playfully kidded her about. And now that he seemed to be excited and eager to get back to work, she was not about to make a big deal out of this when it was likely nothing. She sat as she changed out of her loafers into a pair of tennis shoes she figured would be more appropriate for a tour of Tibbets when she caught some movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked quickly and thought for just a second that she had seen a shadow of some sort passing through the doorway between the bedroom and the bathroom and heard a minor creak in the flooring.

Susan got up tentatively and went to the doorway but saw nothing except the sparkling new renovated bath and the things she had arranged there just moments ago. She shivered briefly anyway and wrapped her arms over her chest as she furrowed her brow. Was she really letting all the stories about this place, as well as the book David was about to begin, play on her vivid imagination and making her see and hear things? Just then, a gust of wind arose and blew the limbs of a nearby tree just next to a window between the two rooms back and forth. The clouds and the leafy branches let the sun in and then blocked it again, and Susan laughed at herself. All it had been was just the sunlight coming and going, and her eyes had tried to make her brain believe it was something more—that was it.

Susan shook off her embarrassment and headed back downstairs to check in with David o see if he was ready to head out. She walked along the corridor, still admiring the impressive new digs all around her until she came to the room where David was just finishing up arranging his files and getting his laptop set up so he could begin writing right away. He was seated at the desk, scribbling away furiously as she came into the room.

“Ready to go, David?”

“Just one sec, Susan. I want to get these ideas down on paper before they all just vanish. My memory is not quite what it once was. A bunch of possible plots came to me when we arrived, and I’m not sure which of them might be the best to pursue.”

“Sure, take your time.” Susan smiled to herself, realizing her perception of what David was experiencing here had been on the money.

She moved around the room slowly and, not to break his concentration, looked at what the new owners had done to decorate the space. Like the rest of the manor, it was amazingly beautiful and left no doubt in her mind that they were sparing no expense in their efforts.

“Okay, that’s the last one. Let’s go!” David said as he stood up and smiled broadly.

7

They drove back into Tibbets proper, parked on the street about halfway down the main drag, and then just looked up and down the road. A few people were out and about, and it was a pleasant change from the annoying congestion in Hartford.

“Maybe take a look at some of the stores and then grab some lunch before hitting the grocery store for stuff we will need back at the manor?” David asked.

“Sure…lead on.”

They walked leisurely along the entire length of the street, occasionally stopping to go inside a store or to poke around before crossing over and coming back up the opposite side to do the same. People they passed along their walk gave quick waves or a brief smile but did not seem to really be going out of their way to welcome them to town. Susan thought it mildly odd, but then again, they were strangers, and she had come to realize that was how it was in most parts of New England she had been to. About halfway along their way, they came to Janice’s Café.

“How about this?” David asked.

“I think it is our only option, but sure. It looks cute.”

They went in, and the woman behind the counter told them to just sit anywhere.

“Out on the patio in the back okay?” David asked her as he pointed in the direction of the small outdoor seating area he had spied once they came in.

“Sure. Make yourselves comfortable, and I will be out in a second to get your order.”

They sat at a small wicker table under some leafy elm trees and took in the warm afternoon breeze as a lazy little creek gurgled and bubbled just to the side.

“Your first time to the café?” the woman asked as she brought them water and menus.

“It is,” Susan replied. “We’re visiting from Hartford. Our first time in Tibbets, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh yeah…” the woman replied. “You must be the author who’s staying out at the old Brandt Manor, working on a new book?”

“We…uh…yeah, I am,” David replied shakily, wondering how she knew all of this. “You have some sort of ESP or something?”

She laughed heartily. “Hardly. Tibbets is a small town. It’s near impossible to keep anything a secret here.”

David and Susan laughed with her.

“Are you Janice?” Susan asked.

“Oh no, honey. Janice is long gone, but we kept the name anyway. My name’s Sarah. Janice was my grandmother who first owned and ran this place…kind of a tip of the hat to her, I guess.

“Well, it looks really cute, Sarah.”

“Thanks. We all like it. Janice’s is kind of the place for great food as well as all the dirt and gossip in town.”

They all laughed again, and she took their order. David and Susan chatted easily and casually until their food arrived, and then Susan spoke up.

“What do you think of Tibbets now that you’ve taken the grand tour?”

“Pretty cool,” David replied with a chuckle. “It’s easy to see why the people who live here year-round love it and why tourists would come as well.”

“I know…such a different and relaxed setting than back home for sure. Speaking of the people who live here year-round, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Did you pick up an odd vibe or something from more than just a few of the people we passed along the street when we were walking around just now?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was just me, but it seemed like some of them were looking at us…like…I don’t know…like they wanted to keep their distance almost.”

“Now that you mention it, I guess I did see a bit of that. But I would chalk it up to how New Englanders are in general. They just like their routines and little cliques without disruption, you know?”

“Think maybe they recognize you from your book cover and all the PR with the tour?”

“I think you are way overestimating my very limited public persona, Susan. Though I appreciate your thinking that you’re married to some sort of a celebrity now.”

She snorted with laughter.

“Besides,” he continued, “I think it might be more of a combination of what I just mentioned on top of our faces being unfamiliar and it is likely common knowledge as to why we are here based on what Sarah just said.”

“I guess so….”

“It was not like she knew me, either. I mean, she didn’t call me by name or anything.”

Susan nodded and smiled as she finished up her iced tea, but at the same time, she could not completely discount the expressions she had seen aimed at them. It was like the people did not want to be outright rude but did not want to get too close, either. She wondered if it possibly was more than David was trying to write it off as, and it all sent her right back to Ralph Edmunds and his odd comment earlier in the day.

They paid their bill, said so long to Sarah, and then headed back to the car to head out to Salisbury for groceries and any other items they thought they might need for a possible lengthy stay at the Brandt Manor.

“You going to be okay on your own while I work, Susan?” David asked as they drove.

“You bet. I know you will need your own space for this. Don’t worry about me. I can use some time alone in nature before I have to be back among the little munchkins when school ramps up again in August.”

“Good. It’s not like I’m going into total seclusion or anything, but you know how I get when the muse strikes.”

“I certainly do. No problem. It’s just good to see you so energized and anxious for new work again.”

David smiled. He could not agree more.

8

After unloading the car and stowing away all the groceries and other supplies they had picked up in Salisbury, David and Susan headed out back to where the new owners had installed a screened-in porch area over what had once been just a plain stone walkout. Though it was slightly out of character with what seemed like a valiant effort to recreate the old mansion as it had been decades ago, they both appreciated the modern touch. It was still early in the season, but they had both been in New England long enough now to know that it was never too early to have to wage war with the ever-present insect population. This part of the state was more vulnerable to that than most.

The day had been long but productive, and David nodded in quick agreement when Susan suggested they sit and relax with a bottle of wine. The sun was just heading down toward the treetops that formed an inviting border along the western edge of the property, and a mild breeze that had sprung up again after a dead-calm afternoon was a welcome treat. They sat back as David deftly removed the cork from the 1972 cabernet and let it breathe a few minutes before pouring them both a glass.

“Here’s to my next book. Hopefully just as successful as the last one,” David said as they clinked glasses and sipped.

Susan was pondering whether or not to bring up her concerns about this new genre he seemed to have found a calling for and finally decided to at least put it off for a bit, figuring another direction for the conversation might be a better decision at the moment.

“Seems like you suddenly have a lot of ideas about it, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s odd. It’s like just walking into this place lifted whatever has been lying over me for the last few months. Back then, I couldn’t have bought a fresh idea or direction in which to go. I’d hate to say it’s the supposed curious backstory of this place that some here in Tibbets seem to buy into, but whatever it is, I’ll take it. I was beginning to think I might have to either renegotiate my agreement with Charley or just have the whole contract voided.”

Susan had not realized David had been feeling that desperate, even though she knew he had been struggling and anxious. Even with her concerns, she was glad he felt as if his temporary creative drought had passed.

“I saw you jotting down a bunch of ideas earlier. Any of them jump out as you as the one to try out initially?”

“Not yet. At the time, it was like this flood of inspiration and I just wanted to get them all written down for reference later. It was the strangest thing, Susan.”

“Strange how?”

“Well…the number of ideas that came to me when we arrived was like nothing I have ever experienced before. The only analogy I can compare it to is the old adage of trying to take a sip of water from a fire hose.”

Susan saw her opening to begin to voice her concerns, but she wanted to ease into it so as not to throw David off his newfound excitement. “So…do you think it could possibly be the house itself or something else?”

“No idea. I’m sure on some level, it’s just a psychological effect as all that reading I’ve done on the old manor is still floating around in my brain. But my guess is it more just the new environment itself.”

“Maybe a combination?”

“Could be, I suppose, but you know how I feel about taking the idea of this place actually being haunted seriously.”

Susan nodded. “There is one thing I would like to run by you, though, David.”

“Sure, what’s that?”

Susan took a deep breath, set aside her wine glass, and told David of her concerns regarding this new book in relation to just how dark and disturbing and, quite frankly, how out of character the first book had been for him…at least from her perspective.

“I’m probably making something out of nothing, but I did see changes in you when you were working on it. It just makes me nervous that you could be venturing back into that mindset again with this one, especially when it could be further reinforced by being in this place.”

David also set aside his glass once she was done and nodded his understanding. “I appreciate your concern, Susan, but it’s just a book, okay? I guess at the time, I didn’t see it, but yeah…I think there is something to what you’re saying and picked up on during that time. To some degree, I will admit that I occasionally try to slip into the mind of one of my characters to really imagine how to realistically craft the plot. But it’s not to the degree of say…the stories you hear of how Robert DeNiro prepares for a role…not that immersed.”

“Okay…I just wanted to have my say is all.”

“Sure. How about this? If you should see or sense that I’m going over an edge this time, just come to me, and we can talk about it. And likewise, if I should spot any specters or hovering entities, I will alert you immediately.”

Susan knew he was trying to make light of the situation as she smiled when he made this last comment as a joke, but to her, it was not a completely unfounded idea. But over time, she had also known not to even try to have that discussion, so she just nodded and agreed.

“I think I have had enough for one day. Ready to turn in?” Susan asked as she gathered up the empty glasses and bottle.

“Yeah. Me too,” David replied as the dark of the night finally won out over the glow of twilight outside, and some chirping nocturnal insects and few scattered fireflies were the only signs of life around them.

9

They prepared for bed, and Susan fell asleep right away, true to her word that the day had finally worn her out completely. David lay there by her for a bit, but he just could not nod off. He tossed and turned before finally giving up, realizing that all those new ideas down in the study he had set up for work were calling to him. His mind refused to shut off just yet, and he knew there was no point in fighting it any longer. He eased himself out of bed, slipped on his robe and slippers, and then padded quietly out of the bedroom so as not to disturb Susan, who lay peacefully asleep.

He walked through the silent hallway and then down the wide oak staircase as a crescent moon provided enough illumination along the way that he did not have to turn on any lights. He turned left and made a quick detour into the kitchen to retrieve the remnants of the wine they had not quite finished off before backtracking to the study to begin sorting out all the new ideas that had come to him. He spread out the notes he had made on his legal pad and turned on the lamp that sat on the corner of the desk. He made an initial arrangement of the ideas based on just a rough category division and then began to try to prioritize them by the ones he thought either had the best chance of developing into a full-blown novel or that, for some reason, just spoke to him.

This was a process David realized had no logical basis, but in the past, when he had been blessed to have multiple options from which to choose, he had found this strategy successful. In the end, he narrowed them all down to three options and then read those all again, one after another, before one of the trio seemed to be the one. Once again, the basic storyline—though certainly not a true sequel to his first novel—was still just as dark and creepy as that one had been. He thought back to what Susan had said earlier but decided to forge ahead regardless. Somewhere in some region of his mind, he knew this was the one, and he would remind himself as he worked to remain vigilant to what he was thinking and how he felt as he worked…just in case Susan was onto something more than he had realized.

David gathered up the remaining ideas and clipped them together in a folder he marked “possible future ideas” and added them to his other files. You never know, he told himself, just when one of these might come in handy down the road…and also maybe the one I have picked is not going to be “the one” in the end. Rather than finding this procedure making him ready for bed, David felt more and more energized now that he had selected the story to pursue. He powered up his laptop and took a long sip of wine while the computer went through all of its machinations for use. He sat still in his seat, his fingers poised over the keyboard, as he considered if this rebirth of creativity might require a different approach.

In all the time he had ever done any creative writing, David had never worked off an outline or even a sketch of bullet points to guide him through a piece. He knew this was antithetical to how most writers worked—at least that was what he had read and heard anyway—but to date, it was how he had always written. Typically, David had taken just a basic idea—sometimes nothing more than just a sentence or two or even just a simple “what if” scheme and then run with it. He would begin writing and just proceed as he went, usually not having any idea where the story would go or how it would turn out until he arrived there.

And so far, it had served him well. He saw no reason to change anything now just because this new project had come on in the manner that it had and was almost wanting to explode from his brain onto the screen. In fact, if he had been tempted to craft an outline, he was afraid that the mere process would stifle what he could sense racing toward a precipice like water in a waterfall. He did not want to make any delays in case this inspiration might become diluted somehow. For now, he left the title simply as “TBD” and began to type. In his past, David had often experienced times in which the words just came to him from somewhere out there that he could not identify and jumped from his fingers to the keys.

He was unsure where the source of his output often was, and this time was no different. Well, not really this time around. As before, the words and ideas and phrases and transitions from character to character flowed easily. But in this instance, it was almost like his fingers would not work fast enough to translate the electrical impulses from his brain to the screen. This time around, it was like his mind and body had been overtaken by some external force of which he was unaware and it was working through him to create the story before him. In his logical mind, David knew that was crazy, but he had never found himself as deep into a zone when writing before as he was now.

David was no expert on the old writer’s block phenomenon, but right then, as he typed away furiously, he was convinced that all he had needed was a new environment…a new setting…even if that setting needed to be a “haunted house.” In his former desperation and panic, David would have likely made a deal with anyone for anything if he could have just found his muse. He was totally focused and oblivious to everything around him as he worked as he smiled broadly while he observed the new book beginning to unfold before him as if by magic. It was only when he felt a nagging cramp in his lower back and along his thighs that David forced himself to stop typing and sit up straight and relax.

He looked over at the clock on the wall just to the right of his desk and saw that he had been at it for just over three hours. David saved his work and reluctantly stood to stretch out the cramps in his muscles. He exhaled with fatigue but realized it was not an unpleasant tiredness. Instead, it was a tired feeling that normally came with the completion of a good, dedicated, persistent effort to one’s job. David gave one final long stretch to his back, his arms high overhead, knowing he would soon need to turn in. He would be no good to anyone, as well as his writing the next day, if he did not get a few hours of sleep.

He walked back to the desk and looked down to see that he had already typed out an amazing dozen pages. David’s past was filled with sessions in which he had often had spurts of creativity. Such amounts of work were not unheard of, but not in just the three hours or so that he had just experienced. He sat again to finish off one last section he had been in the middle of when he had forced himself to stop. With that done, he could then turn in and know he had made a great first effort at the book. He just wanted to wrap up one last thought and plot point before calling it quits. Nothing bugged him more than leaving a story in mid-thought and then returning to find that he had no idea where he had been going with it after taking a break.

But David had not typed more than a few words before he jerked in his seat, his hands pulled rapidly from the keyboard as if it were a hot stove that might burn him. His head snapped around in response to a loud banging noise coming from the kitchen down the hall as his heart pounded and his pulse raced.

10

David’s initial reaction and assessment of the disturbance was not so much out of fear or apprehension when the racket tore him away from his computer, but more of uncertainty and the assumption that some unfortunate critter from the surrounding woods had probably found its way inside and was now rummaging through the kitchen, looking for food. Though the kitchen was among the portions of the manor that had been fully renovated, David had no doubts that an ingenious and curious squirrel, rabbit, opossum, or maybe even a groundhog of some ilk would be able to find its way inside through some route the builders had failed to seal properly.

David himself was a city boy through and through and had no idea what you were supposed to do when some woodland creature came calling inside your house. But just in case he might be able to convince the misguided thing to just move along back outside, he saved the few new words he had added to his manuscript and walked cautiously down the hallway toward the kitchen. The worst-case scenario, he figured, though it would be pretty embarrassing, would be to call Ralph Edmunds and get him to dispatch whatever it was and maybe find out how it had gotten in to begin with. He would hate imposing on the man so early on in their relationship and so late at night, but if it turned out to be something bigger or more aggressive than a squirrel, David had no experience in such matters…and he had said they could call anytime.

But when David came into the kitchen and flipped on the overhead lights, fully expecting to scare off some little furry intruder, he stopped and just stared, furrowing his brow and his mouth hanging agape, as he looked around. He had prepared himself to find a mess on the floor and counters from some woodland creature having torn into some of the new groceries they had stored away in the cabinets. But when the lights went on, the floors, as well as the counters and the large butcher block table in the center of the room, were just as they had been when he and Susan had come in from the porch earlier. However, what he did find, and what had obviously been the source of all the racket he had heard, was staring him in the face.

There was no cabinet door, a utility drawer, or any other possible storage access point that was not wide open. It was like someone had come along and just gone around the room and systematically opened everything. The cabinet doors stood as far open as possible, and the utility drawers were all sitting at angles as their rear frames were all that was holding them in place and preventing them from falling to the floor. Otherwise, nothing seemed amiss. Nothing was missing from any of the cabinets or drawers as far as David could tell. There was no mess on the floor…no broken dishware or glassware, and all the utensils sat in place just as they had been since they had arrived.

David walked about but did not touch anything as he tried to make sense of the scene. It was like someone was searching for something but had not made any effort to go through any of the contents looking for whatever it was they had come looking for. Unless he imagined it all from some bizarre hallucination from lack of sleep, it just made no sense. Just out of curiosity, he went back upstairs to see if the disturbance had been loud enough to wake Susan, but when he peeked in on her, she was still fast asleep, not even having changed her position on the bed since he had come back downstairs earlier to write. As unlikely as it seemed, David then returned to the kitchen just in case he had somehow imagined it all or had maybe been in some sort of fever dream, though he had never before in his life suffered from either of those extreme possibilities.

But on his return to the kitchen, nothing had changed. David was still baffled by the whole thing, but at least, he told himself, he had ruled out his imagination. With those options eliminated for an explanation, his mind then flitted to several other more serious and disturbing answers. Neither was comforting, but otherwise, he could see no rational explanation. The first thing that came to his mind was that maybe some kids in town had too much time on their hands and had come out to the manor to prank the new “city folk” visiting. More than once since their arrival, he and Susan had been reminded that Tibbets was a small town, and from all indications, everyone around was aware of who they were and why they were here.

David could recall with ease the hijinks and mischief that he and his adolescent buddies had often gotten up to when he was a kid and could understand that the kids here might think it a hoot to try to freak out the newcomers. And there seemed to be little if anything in the way of entertainment here for kids growing up. He could easily see some teenager egging on his pals to pull this type of thing. Certainly, the legends that the Brandt might be haunted would give them a good backdrop for such an outing. But if that were the case, why not take it one step further and at least throw around some contents as an added ruse to “ghost activity.” At least that was what all those ridiculous blogs and websites dedicated to such nonsense constantly touted as real when a ghost was in your house.

But the other option that soon came on the heels of what first popped into David’s mind was a bit more concerning: a possible break-in. He knew this came to him primarily from an adult life of city living and the petty crime and worse that came along with an urban location. From all accounts, Tibbets was relatively crime-free other than the minor stuff that seemed to go on anywhere in America in those days regardless of where you lived. Maybe this was a bit more serious and someone had thought they might slink inside the manor under the cover of darkness to see if the well-heeled visitors might have anything worth stealing. David supposed it was possible, but if that were the case, the kitchen drawers and cabinets hardly seemed the best spot to go looking for anything valuable.

Regardless, David decided to ring Ralph Edmunds up if for no other reason than to alert him to a situation that he and the new owners might want to be aware of. Plus, having been the long-time resident that he was, Ralph might know of someone in town—kids or worse—who could be capable of such an incursion and maybe had been known to do such things in the past.

“Hello…” Ralph Edmunds said with a tinge of sleep in his gravelly voice.

“Hi, Ralph,” David said sheepishly, “it’s David Pragmore up at the Brandt. I’m sorry to call you so late, but there has been a bit of an incident here, and I thought you should know about it.”

“Incident?” he asked, his voice clearer and more alert at once.

“Not a real emergency, I don’t think, but it seems as if someone broke into the kitchen just now. Maybe just kids pulling a goof, but with us being so far out in the middle of nowhere, I’m a bit concerned for the safety of my wife in case it’s something more serious.”

“Can you describe what happened?”

“Just drawers and cabinets in disarray. No real damage, but you’d have to see it to understand.”

“Okay…no problem. Give me about ten minutes, and I’ll be right there.”

11

David waited patiently in the kitchen until he heard the distinctive rumble of Ralph Edmunds old pickup come lumbering up the drive to the manor. He got up and met him at the front door and led him back to the kitchen so he could see firsthand just what David had discovered. He stood back as Ralph walked around the kitchen and took it all in.

“It was just like this when you found it?” he asked.

“Yep. I was writing in the old study and heard all this noise down here. When I came in, this is what I found. Really odd. Any thoughts?”

“Well…we do have a couple kids in town that I think could possibly have decided to try some stunt like this, but the one I would guess who might initiate such a prank is away with his folks up in Maine for a few days.”

“Have you guys had any problems with break-ins during all the renovation here?”

“Not to my knowledge…at least the builder and his crew haven’t mentioned anything missing or damaged. As you can imagine, some of their tools and equipment are quite pricey, so I’m sure they would’ve said something if that had occurred.”

“Maybe someone that knew we were here and maybe thought we’d have something of value to grab?”

“Always possible, I guess, but Tibbets just doesn’t see that kind of thing. But just to be on the safe side, why don’t you and I take a look around and see if there are any other signs of an intruder or anything out of place or missing.”

“Sounds good. Should we get something for protection first?”

“Not a bad idea, David. Let’s grab a pair of pokers from the fireplace in the library, just in case. Your missus still asleep?”

“She is. I’d rather not get her all upset and worried for nothing, though. Maybe do our search without waking her?”

Ralph nodded, and David followed him down to the library and took one of the fireplace pokers from him as they began their search of the manor. Reasoning that sticking together might be a safer way to search, the pair walked as quietly as possible and made a thorough search of the entire lower level, including closets and other hiding places they thought any intruder might be holed up in. But in all cases, there was no one to be found. Skipping the bedroom Susan was still sleeping in, they made a similar search of the second floor as well, but all seemed just as empty as when David and Susan had arrived.

David followed Ralph up the narrow spiral staircase to the attic but a careful and detailed examination of all the dark corners of the empty space with flashlights revealed the same result as the lower floors.

“Maybe a quick look around outside?” Ralph suggested.

David nodded, and they went back down and looked as well as they could in the dark. All the windows seemed intact with no signs of any tampering, as did the front and back doors. Ralph even scanned the ground where he could, and there were no signs anyone had been anywhere around the manor at all. They clicked off their lights and went back inside to the kitchen, where all the drawers and cabinets still sat wide open as before.

“Beats me, Ralph,” David said as they went around the room and reseated the drawers and closed all the cabinet doors. “Maybe it was just some kid out on a lark.”

They sat down at the table in the center of the room, and David passed a cup of coffee over to Edmunds.

“Maybe,” Edmunds replied hesitantly as he sipped, “but even so, I would expect some sign left behind if it was just some kid. I have never known kids to come and go without leaving a trace when they are up to no good like this.”

“Well…if it wasn’t a break-in and it wasn’t some burgeoning juvenile delinquent from town, then what do you think it was?”

Ralph set his cup on the table and exhaled as he looked David in the eye. “What are your feelings on considering an explanation other than from a living, breathing human?”

“You mean some supernatural thing, Ralph?”

He shrugged and grinned. “The place does have some talk associated with it for such things if you are so inclined to consider them, David.”

David waved away his statement in a friendly, dismissive gesture. “I’m well-aware of the stories surrounding Brandt Manor and that some here in Tibbets believe it’s cursed or haunted. In fact, it’s one of the reasons Susan and I came. This book I am writing?”

Edmunds nodded.

“It’s a follow-up novel to my first book, which was a horror thing, and I was hoping the setting would provide some good inspiration and atmosphere for the new one.”

“So you do believe in such things after all?”

“Me? Not really…please take this in the spirit intended, Ralph, but to me all that is just fodder for people like me who write fiction and for Hollywood movies and television shows.”

“Well…you do know that we have people from all over come here to stay because they do think stuff like that is very real.”

“I’m sure you do, Ralph, and that’s fine and good. But I just don’t buy into it, is all. I have just never seen anything in my life that would make me believe such things are real.”

“Okay…fair enough. Let’s just say that in my lifetime—and I have a few more years under my belt than you—that I have seen things I can’t explain any other way, David.”

“At the Brandt Manor?”

“Not here, but other places I have worked and lived over time. But the legacy that comes with this place would not make me rule that out entirely.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I know that probably most of what you read about the Brandt when you were looking for a place to bring out your creative endeavors was likely related to the various reports of some haunting here, right?”

“As a matter of fact, it was…there’s more?”

“Well…the new owners try to downplay some of it. I guess so as not to scare away any potential buyers down the road if and when they decide to sell, but there have been some unfortunate incidents attached to the place.”

“Really?”

“I can give you the highlights, but please don’t let it get back to anyone that I told you anything, okay? It could cost me my job, and I really need this position at the moment.”

“Of course…” David replied as his curiosity grew.

12

Edmunds sat back and told the sad tale of Phillip Brandt, which David was already aware of, but he said nothing as it seemed Ralph needed this intro to tell him some things he might not be aware of. He did, in fact, relay the old story about the young nephew of Brandt’s who inherited the manor and was later found dead inside, having committed suicide after being suspected of being responsible for a series of unexplained murders.

“It’s kind of a black chapter for us here in Tibbets, and no one really likes to bring it up. For a quiet and peaceful place like Tibbets, it’s just inconceivable that we had someone like that among us and had no idea what he was capable of, you know?”

“I do…and that’s why the new owners try to keep a lid on it, I’m guessing. Not exactly the kind of thing that will have potential buyers beating down your door when it comes time to sell.”

“Exactly. Anyway, there’s some thought here in Tibbets that due to his strong emotional attachment to the manor he built, Phillip Brandt still roams the halls and rooms of the manor, unable to leave behind the home that was the love of his life. And likewise, that due to his sudden and violent death, his nephew remains attached as well, unable to move on until he can come to terms with his own demise.”

“Two ghosts for the price of one, huh?”

“You can joke about it, David, but a lot of people here in town take both of those stories very seriously even if they do not openly talk about it.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of it or make you feel like I was mocking the situation.”

“No offense taken, David. Just be careful around town if the subject should come up. A lot of older folks in the area might not take so kindly to having this laughed off as just a legend.”

“Okay…thanks. And thanks again for coming out on such short notice and at so late an hour. I really do appreciate you taking the time to help me look around and ease my mind.”

“No problem, David. It’s part of why I’m here. But please keep what I told you in mind even if you do not necessarily feel it is true…and mum’s the word on how you found out, okay?”

“Loose lips sink ships, Ralph. My lips are sealed.”

They shook hands, and Ralph smiled as David walked him out and made sure he got off without any problems. Since he had known him, every time Ralph Edmunds fired up that old pickup of his, David was never sure it would actually turn over and run. He closed the front door and went back to the office, where he put the final touches on the section of the manuscript he had not wanted to leave half-written before everything in the manor had gone crazy earlier. He saved the final version, closed up the laptop, and was finally ready for bed after all the unexpected excitement and intrigue.

David took one last look into the kitchen just for kicks. Everything was back in place, and it was like it had all been some bizarre dream. If he had not seen it with his own eyes and touched it all with his own hands, he might have talked himself into believing that that was all it had been. He clicked off the lights as he returned upstairs to bed, where Susan was still sound asleep, completely unaware of all that had gone on. David knew he would eventually lay out the entire night’s events to her, but for now, he was glad she had slept through the whole thing. He had this sinking feeling she was likely to give Ralph’s possible explanation of some supernatural phenomenon at work in the manor more validity than he felt at the moment.

* * *

The next morning, David came downstairs to find Susan in the kitchen already up and nursing a mug of coffee as a rare morning rainstorm began to brew outside. The crystal-clear skies from the night before when he and Ralph had methodically searched the manor inside and out had been replaced with a low bank of clouds that hung over the treetops all around the manor like a cottony blanket. Despite a stiff breeze wagging the thin branches near the tops of the trees, the clouds seemed to be hanging on for dear life. David rubbed at his face, stubbled with whiskers, as he plodded into the room headed for the coffee pot to try to get some caffeine into his body to jump-start his day.

He glanced at the clock and saw that he had had just a scant three hours of sleep, and his body felt like it weighed a ton as he plopped into a chair near her at the table. No sooner had he sat back and sipped at his own cup than a distant rumble of thunder echoed across the sky from down in town, making David jerk slightly at the unexpected noise.

“Rough night?” Susan asked as she refilled her mug.

“Just not very much sleep,” David replied as he welcomed the warm drink down his throat.

“Too wired over the book?”

“Um…sort of, I guess. After we went to bed last night, I just couldn’t shut off my brain, and I came back down to organize my ideas and maybe pick out one of the most promising to use as a template.”

“Any luck?”

“More than you might think.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I picked one that seemed to speak to me more than the others, and well…you know my writing habits, Susan. What would you say is a good output for me when I first begin?”

“Oh, maybe a few thousand words when you are getting going. Why?”

“Well, last night, the idea I picked out just grabbed me, and I went with it full bore. Ready for this? When I finally came up for air—about three hours or so later—I had almost twelve pages typed out.”

“Are you serious, David? In just three hours?”

“Yeah, I know. It shocked me as well when I finally stopped to get up and stretch my back and legs.”

“No wonder you’re looking so wiped out this morning. What did you get last night, maybe four hours of sleep?”

“Not even…” It was then that David saw his opportunity to fill her in on all that had gone on, and he downed the last of his coffee before getting a refill himself.

“I would think that kind of production would have sufficiently dimmed your bulbs.”

“Normally so would I, but the writing was not all that went on last night, I’m afraid.”

Susan felt a slight shiver as the words left his mouth and just kind of hung there in the air like some conversation bubble in a cartoon.

“Uh-oh. If I were not already sitting, I’m guessing doing so might be a good idea, huh?”

David gave a slight inner chuckle at her way of putting that, but quite frankly, it was closer to the truth than he was sure she knew. Susan sat quietly and sipped at her coffee while David went into great detail and told her what he had found in the kitchen just as he was wrapping up his work for the evening. He went on to relate to her how Ralph Edmunds had graciously dropped by, despite the late hour, to ease his concerns by helping him search the manor for anything that might be amiss.

“But there was nothing else wrong or any sign of a break-in or anything?”

“Not that we could find.”

“So what’s the explanation then, David?”

13

He exhaled and set his mug aside as he went into everything Ralph had suggested regarding some supernatural event as well as the curious backstory about the Brant Manor that he was sure she was unaware of. He watched her face as he described the former residents of the place and how Ralph was not ignoring the possibility of some sort of paranormal environment here that was more than just a local legend. What he saw was what he had expected but dreaded all the same. Susan appeared as if she might be leaning more toward the camp of that story than what he believed was just some adolescent prankster from Tibbets with too much time on his hands.

“So you had quite an evening, it seems,” Susan replied when he was done. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“It didn’t seem necessary at the time. I looked in on you, and you were so sound asleep that I didn’t want to disturb your sleep. I know you had a long day yesterday, and…well…having you upset and worried just didn’t seem as if it would make any sense just then. It didn’t feel as if rousing you while we searched would serve much of a purpose, is all.”

Susan nodded, appreciating his concern for her and agreeing that her being up and wigged out would likely have just added to the overall anxiety. “But you are not buying Ralph’s suggestion, right?”

David shrugged. “You know how I feel about all that stuff, Susan.”

“But how about with all we now know about the history of this place…a passing of the original owner and then the violent death of his nephew? At least as a writer who depends on his imagination and the working mindset of anything can be possible, doesn’t that give you pause? Or at least not to just reject it out of hand without considering it?”

“Let’s suppose, for the sake of argument, that Ralph’s right. From what I have read, ghosts or poltergeists or whatever you want to call them tend to be pretty messy and leave behind quite a disarray in their wake, right?”

“No one likes a smart-ass, David,” Susan replied curtly, feeling he was beginning to perhaps belittle her consideration of the explanation.

“I’m sorry, Susan. That was uncalled for, but you know you and I are not on the same page about this type of stuff…and that’s fine. These types of events are fine for books and movies, but as far as I am concerned, that’s all they are…just subjects for fiction. Perhaps I’m being a bit closed-minded on the topic, but for now, that’s just where I am, okay?”

Susan nodded, knowing this had been a point of much debate and back and forth that they had engaged each other in for years. It had never become adversarial, but more along the lines of just a spirited difference of opinion and disparate belief systems. Right then, she supposed she could have pushed back a bit more and argued not to wave this off so quickly, but she knew David well enough to know when to push back and when to back off. And for now, more insistence that Ralph Edmunds might have a valid explanation was likely to be in vain. As if to punctuate their talk of otherworldly entities, a piecing and jagged shard of lightning slashed across the sky just then as a massive boom of thunder shook the house and rattled the dishes in the cabinets. They both jumped slightly and then laughed at their reactions as what had been a slight drizzle or sprinkle picked up steam and a moderate to heavy downpour began.

“A sign from the great beyond?” David said as he smirked.

“Very funny,” Susan replied with a grin.

“What are your plans for the day?” David asked to change the subject and steer them away from a discussion he knew they both knew better than to keep hammering.

“Well, before this storm, I was thinking of trying one of the hikes I had read about that heads off from those twin lakes just outside Tibbets. But now, I’m thinking a recovery day and snuggling down to read might be a better option. You grabbing a nap after your short night last night?”

“That’s tempting, but after last night’s huge jump start, I don’t want to wait to get back to it. Typically, I have found that once I get one of these spurts and have some momentum, it’s wise to try to maintain my progress. Plus…after two blasts of caffeine, it’s unlikely I would be able to sleep anyway.”

David leaned over and kissed her before heading off to the study to pick up where he had left off just hours ago. Susan watched him walk away before cleaning up the mugs and coffee pot, knowing full well just what he meant by not letting any time pass by when he felt “the zone.” She was no writer, but for her own interests and creative outlets, she knew that feeling and it was always risky to ignore the muse's call when it came. The last thing David needed right now—though she doubted it would be an issue based on how infused and energized he seemed here—was another case of writer’s block by not striking when the iron was hot.

She eased up to the study where she spied David already hunched over his laptop and typing away in a fervor like she had not seen from him in she did not know how long. Susan stopped briefly and smiled at this situation before padding by in her slippers to go back upstairs to retrieve her tablet so she could continue reading the new Michael Koryta book, The Prophet, that she had begun back in Hartford. She collected her device as well as a comforter and headed to the solarium down the hall that the new owners had revamped.

Despite the season, the day had taken on a decidedly unseasonal chill, and Susan sank into a sofa in the solarium, wrapping herself in the comforter and firing up the tablet. She gazed out at the storm as it gained a bit of force and smiled, realizing it had been a fortuitous interruption to her original plans for the day. It seemed her body was not quite prepared for a jaunt into the woods just yet, and the combination of her book and the storm felt a perfect substitute for resting up. Susan read for a few minutes until her eyes began to get heavy, and she set aside the tablet and pulled the comforter up to her chin as she looked out at the gale lashing at the woods just beyond.

Before dozing off, Susan could not help letting her mind wander back to the story David had relayed to her from the previous night and what Ralph Edmunds had suggested. She was certainly no dyed-in-the-wool believer in such things as many were, nor was she a total skeptic as was David, but something in his explanation stuck a chord with her. She knew it was related to what she had experienced back in college, and she was not willing to just ignore this possibility as easily as David did. With that, Susan’s eyes went closed, and she snoozed away the late morning.

14

For several days, David and Susan fell into a natural and relaxed rhythm for both of them, one they had each envisioned when they had decided to try this new spot to try to recover David’s old creative fire. Picking up where he had left off following the still mysterious incident in the kitchen from their first night in the manor, David had been totally consumed with writing, coming up for air only to eat and take some brief strolls around the property to stretch his muscles when they got too achy and sore to allow him to fully concentrate on the book.

As for Susan, the weather had been brilliantly clear and sunny ever since the storm that morning after the kitchen ordeal, and she had, as planned, taken to the woods and gone hiking and exploring on a variety of trails she had found recommended in a guidebook about the area. She was growing a bit more concerned about David’s total immersion in his work, but she did not want to do anything that might possibly throw him off track or distract him now that he seemed unstoppable in his efforts. As they had discussed earlier, she did check in with him from time to time just to make sure all was well, and he seemed fine.

He was talkative and upbeat when they shared meals, and other than his appearing to be totally oblivious to all when he was typing, he seemed like the old David to her. Susan was seeing no real signs of that dark and almost morose aura that had come over him during the first book, which was a relief. As well, she knew better than anyone that his total focus and concentration when he wrote was just how David was. After months of frustration and exasperation, it was actually wonderful to see when she walked by his office. Susan knew he was making great progress on the new novel and was dying to get a preview of it, but as always, she waited until the offer was made as David traditionally did not want her to take a first read until a complete rough draft was complete.

However, on this particular day, her concerns and mild anxiety over what had gone on that first night began to creep back into her brain. Susan topped out on a long climb just north of the lakes north of Tibbets, revisiting this wonderful view she had found several days prior. She stopped and sat on a large flat rock to catch her breath, and as she took in the majestic sights that stretched into the neighboring states, Susan was finding her mind going back to what Ralph Edmunds had suggested and wondering if maybe there might actually be more to it than David was willing to consider.

There had not been any other similar or new episodes since, but still, she could not get the whole thing out of her mind. That night, despite being worn out and fatigued from her outing, Susan could not get her brain to shut off and let her get the rest her body sorely needed. She tossed and turned, still disturbed that David was so quick to dismiss anything beyond some explanation that could be linked to a mischievous teenager. For once, David had turned in at the same time she had—he was happy but exhausted from his day’s writing, she knew—and she arose as he snored lightly and dozed peacefully beside her. Knowing it was useless to keep on fighting it, Susan slipped out of bed and made her way down the corridor to the solarium where she had been going to read and just relax with tea after her days hiking.

She found the décor of the new solarium comforting, and she sat and looked out into the dark of the night as a half-moon cast its light across the property all the way to the dense forest. There was no wind and just a few lingering thin clouds to the east. Susan sighed, wondering how she might resolve this annoying touch of insomnia that had come to her. She knew it was directly related to this whole thing with the kitchen and the opposing views of David and Ralph Edmunds to explain it all. The underlying issue was what she had seen and heard back when she had been a young and somewhat naïve freshman in college long before she and David had ever met.

Granted, the “kitchen incident,” as they had come to refer to it now, was minor relative to what had happened to her now over twenty years ago, but her concern was that this time around what might be waiting in the wings, following up what had occurred in the kitchen, might be much more serious. The benign “kitchen incident” could possibly be an ominous warning of more to come. She sighed and gazed out at the quiet night and closed her eyes as her mind slowly went back to that awful night when she was just eighteen and away from home for the first time ever as a new college student at Wesleyan in Middletown, Connecticut.

Until what had happened in the kitchen upon their arrival in the manor, Susan had not thought of her experience in college in a long, long time. But despite the many years that had passed since that day as a student, Susan could picture it clearly, as if it had happened just yesterday.

15

Susan let her mind wander as she saw herself roaming the picturesque campus once again, tentative and quite naïve about everything away from her small-town roots and the protective arms of her parents. Once she had gotten a few semesters under her belt and since she had graduated, Susan came to realize they had been overprotective, actually, but back then, she did not see it. And because she did not have that interpretation of their well-meaning but sometimes near-suffocating concern for her, Susan had found herself involved with Danny Sorenson, who was a junior at the time.

Danny was charming and confident and quickly swept her away as Susan let him step in and take the place of her parents’ role as well as her first real love and intimate sexual partner. Susan felt as if she were walking on clouds when Danny had come along in her life, providing not only a welcome rescue from her loneliness and isolation as a new out-of-state student who knew no one and found Connecticut awkward and unsettling. Despite her relative inexperience romantically, Susan soon found herself following his every lead and suggestion and was head-over-heels in love…at least, that was how it had felt at the time. As time went by, though, Susan came to realize it was just a young, lonely girl’s fascination and appreciation of a protector and guide in her life.

Once they became lovers, Susan was ready to follow Danny anywhere and do anything with him. And it was this attachment and trust in him…partly from how he just always seemed to know just what to do and say in nearly any situation, but mostly from just how transcendent she always felt after they had sex. Susan had nothing to compare this to, having been a virgin prior, but it was the most wonderful experience she could imagine at the time. So when Danny came to her dorm room one day and proposed they take part in this dare he had received from some of his good friends at Wesleyan, she never hesitated. Danny always knew how to deal with anything.

Even when he announced that the dare was to go into and possibly spend a night in this old, decrepit, and abandoned house on the outskirts of rural Middlefield, one that had a widely accepted belief of being haunted from a long history of violence and suicide since its origins back in the mid-1800s. Susan never hesitated, though inside, she wondered if maybe she might be getting in over her head. She did not necessarily believe in ghosts or hauntings or possessed old buildings, but it was hard to ignore all the legends and folklore that surrounded the old Klingman place. Everyone at Wesleyan seemed to be aware of it, whether or not they bought into the stories that hovered around it.

So without another serious reservation, Susan set off with Danny and another couple they often hung out with to take up the gauntlet that had been thrown Danny’s way. As they approached the old house, Susan felt her nerves getting taut as her imagination began to run wild based on many of the over-the-top horror movies she had seen as an adolescent. But Danny seemed unfazed, and she took comfort in his bravado and confidence. The four of them piled out of the car, just as the sun was nearing the western horizon, and walked toward the old wood-frame structure that looked as if a good wind could blow it over at any moment.

She supposed Danny had picked up on her growing apprehension and quickly took her hand and assured her that it was fine and they would be perfectly safe. When she pointed to all the warning signs that had been left behind by other visitors over the years, Danny just waved it off, seeming to be totally unaffected by the messages spray-painted across the boarded-up windows and doors. To him, it was all just a joke. They pried off a loose board on a window on the right-hand side of the house, and Danny and his buddy, Kevin, went inside so they could help her and Kevin’s girlfriend, Amanda, up over the windowsill.

The inside was just as rundown and neglected as the exterior, but there was plenty of evidence that many before them had come for a look. Remnants of temporary stays were strewn around—empty liquor bottles and dented beer cans, old cigarette butts, and even an old, shredded, cotton sleeping bag that looked as if it had become the source of material for rodent nesting. The floors were filthy with dust and grime of the years gone by, and fragments of broken glass and furniture were everywhere. Susan felt her heart pound as she looked around and felt the chill of the night come on as the sun disappeared behind the tall trees outside.

Danny and Kevin cleaned up a spot as best they could so the four of them could stretch out and make the best of the night. Danny set up some lanterns while Kevin arranged several video devices so they could record their night as proof against the wager. The wind picked up abruptly later in the evening after they had eaten the cold food they had brought along. Susan felt the house quiver in its wake, but the creaking and groaning of the old wood passed as the wind calmed, and she sighed with relief.

They stayed up and laughed and joked with one another late into the night as Susan was finally beginning to relax and feel as if Danny had been right all along and that the Klingman legend was just that and nothing more. These types of tales and fables that got passed along to many places in New England had just not been a thing for her back home, and she was sure it was just another of one of those situations that were part of the charm and allure of the region that the locals loved to keep alive. But what had happened in the next hour or so had chilled her to the bone, and Susan had never looked upon anything with a supernatural or paranormal association the same again.

16

Just as they were beginning to doze off, they all came alert nearly simultaneously as the sound of heavy footsteps seemed to be making their way across the floor just above their heads, and the floor creaked in response as if a heavy weight were being supported. The steps were staggered and uneven as if whatever were making them was coming from an unwieldy owner. Susan moved close to Danny as her heart beat madly, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn it was about to take flight from her chest cavity. Susan looked over and saw that Amanda seemed just as freaked out as she felt, but Danny and Kevin just furrowed their brows and then chuckled. To this day, Susan still could recall what Danny had said in response…because it was the last thing Danny Sorensen had ever said to her…or anyone else for that matter.

“Man, those guys will do anything and go to any lengths to win this bet, won’t they?”

As Susan and Amanda huddled together, Danny and Kevin just laughed as they looked at one another and shook their heads in amusement. Like Danny, Kevin was convinced they were being pranked by their friends from school, hoping to make them run from the old house, thus losing the silly bet. They got up and walked as silently as possible to the rickety-looking staircase just down the hall from where they were staying and began to ascend, hoping to surprise their prankster friends and have the last laugh.

Susan and Amanda stayed where they were and looked upward, as the movement above them had not gone away. Even as careful as they were trying to be, she and Amanda could discern the steps of whatever it was that had awakened them from the creeping footfalls of Danny and Kevin. Then with no warning, the house began to vibrate and tremble, and Susan was sure the whole thing was about to come down on all four of them. The vibrations were soon followed by a bright and glaring red light that leaked through all the fissures and cracks in the floor above them, and Susan and Amanda shielded their eyes from the glow.

The heavy footsteps that had set off this whole scenario then abruptly changed directions, and horrendous and terrifying screams belonging to Danny and Kevin followed before the ceiling overhead began to crack and splinter. Danny and Kevin fell through and landed heavily just feet from where Susan and Amanda were sitting, shaking. Susan looked up and saw this dark and amorphous form hovering over the hole above her head as blood dripped off the sharp, jagged boards that had torn away at Danny and Kevin’s flesh as they had passed through.

And as if that were not enough for her to process, Susan saw that both Danny and Kevin had been ripped open from chin to waist as if some razor-sharp talon had split them apart. The thing above roared and wailed as it coalesced into a dense, oval mass and then just blew apart as if it had been hit by a bomb. Though it seemed impossible that Danny and Kevin could have survived whatever assault had befallen them, Susan looked over in one last horrible and unforgettable moment as she saw them both writhing and screaming for help, their internal organs pouring from their bodies as they tried to crawl and scramble in the slick, slippery pool of blood beneath them.

Sure that she was having some inexplicable hallucination or a nightmare from which she could not awaken, Susan sat frozen, unable to move. Just as the screams and pleas of their boyfriends reached a deafening pitch that Susan was sure she could not bear another second, a new fissure opened up in the floor nearby. It began as a barely audible crack in the old boards at the wall but soon grew louder as the wood began to lift up as the opening progressed to where Danny and Kevin lay howling in pain. A thin tendril of mist then rose through the aperture and took the shape of a pair of skeletal hands as each set of fingers grasped firmly to the boys and pulled them down through the new opening.

Once they were gone, everything went silent. Danny and Kevin’s screams had been silenced, the house had stopped shaking, and the whole place was as still and as quiet as when they had arrived. Susan and Amanda held each other and cried in near-hysteria even as everything went dead calm. As they looked over, there was no indication that there had ever been a disruption in the floorboards of the room. It was just the same filthy mess it had been when they had set up for the night. And overhead, the ceiling was intact as well. It was like it had never happened.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Susan and Amanda fled the scene and ran to the woods where they hunkered down in the thick brush and looked back on the old house, wondering what in the hell had just happened. Then to top off the evening, a tremor rumbled across the earth all around them, and they watched in horrific and incredulous disbelief as the house began to fall in on itself and crumble to the ground. They fell to their knees as they put their hands over their ears to block out the massive implosion. In just a few minutes, the world stopped shaking, and they looked up to see that what had once been the old Klingman place was now just an empty space as dust hung in the air over the rubble.

It was utterly traumatic and harrowing to them both, but in the aftermath, they just never reported any of it. What possible explanation could we give anyone, Susan had asked Amanda, that would not make people think us insane? There was no mention of any bet when they returned to campus and when the news reports revealed that Connecticut had experienced a mild earthquake overnight—nothing big, just a 2.3 in magnitude—that was accepted as to why the old Klingman place had finally collapsed. Tremors there were rare but not completely unheard of. There was no deep interrogation for Susan or Amanda when the disappearances of Danny and Kevin arose later, either, but it had been a well-known fact that both of the guys were on the verge of dropping out of school anyway for poor grades.

Both Susan and Amanda told the police they had no idea where Danny and Kevin might have gone, but they had disappeared without saying anything to them. At least that part had been true. Neither boy had said anything when whatever it was that was occupying the Klingman house of horrors had taken them away. They both shivered at the mere thought of what Danny and Kevin had endured that night, still trying to accept that what they had seen had actually happened. Susan had never seen nor spoken to Amanda again after they had been cleared of any involvement in the disappearances of Danny and Kevin by the police. As far as Susan knew, Amanda went home to Maine, and she transferred to the University of South Carolina to put her whole experience at Wesleyan behind her. She still occasionally had nightmares, even after moving far away, but with time they faded as well, and Susan eventually put in in the rearview mirror of her memory banks.

17

Susan woke up suddenly, realizing she had actually nodded off in the easy chair that sat in the solarium next to what had become her “reading sofa.” Her neck was stiff, and she rotated her head slowly to work out the kinks as she still had the lingering remnants of the day Danny Sorensen and Kevin Elmont had vanished from the face of the earth. She knew it had not been a dream or a nightmare over the incident since those days were long behind her now. It had been more, she figured, just a renewed memory being revisited based on her stay here at the manor. It had to be since she had not given that old waking nightmare of her youth a single thought until they had arrived here…that and what Ralph Edmunds had suggested in response to the “kitchen incident.”

She stood and stretched, letting the comforter she kept in the solarium fall to the floor as she glanced at her watch. It was just getting light out, but still, it surprised her that she had dozed off and slept right through until just before six am. Susan normally was an early riser, but even to her, six in the morning was a bit too much. But even with her disrupted sleep, she knew there was no way she would be able to go back to sleep now with her college days still buzzing around her brain like some frenetic honeybee looking for pollen. She wandered back to the bedroom to brush her teeth and then head downstairs to put on a pot of coffee to keep her going.

As much as Susan was an early riser, David could not have been more of an opposite. He was hardly a morning person, favoring to work in the evenings—often into the wee hours of the morning when he was on fire—which presented Susan with yet another surprise that morning when she saw that David’s side of the bed was empty when she opened the door gently so as not to wake him. The combination of revisiting that disturbing day in her life from college on top of finding David up and gone at an hour unheard-of for him sent a brief tic of panic through her spine. Had this memory come back to warn her that something more insidious from this old manor had arrived and David was the target?

She skipped her dental hygiene for the moment and hustled down the hallway and then down to the ground level, her heart still beating faster than normal. But as she approached the old study David had set up for his workspace, she sighed with relief when she caught sight of him plugged in and typing away as if his very life depended on it. Susan waited for a beat or two to let her now unfounded rising panic subside before calling out softly to him to see if he wanted some coffee. But even after several tries, David just typed away, apparently oblivious to her presence.

Susan supposed she should be annoyed, but it was hard to feel that way when she saw him so engaged and productive. She walked over and gently put her hand on his shoulder. David jumped at her touch until he saw it was her.

“Jesus, Susan! You scared the shit out of me!”

“Sorry. I called out to you from the door, but I guess you didn’t hear.”

“Oh…sorry about that. I guess it’s just this new book. Seems like I can hardly sleep anymore with how this thing is going.”

“It would seem so…I can’t remember the last time you were up this early.”

“Me either, but since being here, the plot and the words are just flying at me nonstop, and I don’t want to do anything to stop the flow, you know?”

“I do…I was worried that maybe the section you were working on was a bit too creepy—even for you—when I touched you on the shoulder and you jumped.”

David sat back and smiled at her. “Is that a veiled attempt to get me to give you an early preview?”

“No, no, no….not at all. I totally respect your tradition of keeping your cards close to your vest until the rough draft is in the can.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“That is unless you think I might….” Her words trailed off as she gave him a wicked grin, and they both laughed.

“Not a chance, Susan. Until this first run-through is on the page, I’m afraid you just have to settle for Michael Koryta.”

She chuckled, knowing how they both admired the former crime beat reporter turned best-selling author had become an instant favorite for both of them. David had never actually said it out loud, but Susan suspected that he harbored some inner feelings of seeing himself evolving in his own career now in a similar manner based on his former gig at the Hartford Courant.

“Fair enough. Coffee?”

“That would be great!”

“Want it in here or can you take a break and spare a few minutes with your wife?”

“Give me ten more minutes and I’ll join you in the kitchen.”

Susan kissed him and headed into the kitchen to let the coffee machine do its thing while she ran back upstairs. While she brushed her teeth, Susan briefly considered having another conversation with David regarding Ralph Edmund’s take on the “kitchen incident.” She had never told David about what had happened to her as a college freshman at Wesleyan. In fact, she had never told anyone else, not even the therapist she had seen briefly when she transferred from Wesleyan to the University of South Carolina.

It had taken a while for her to overcome the trauma of that last night with Danny, and she was finding herself plagued with nightmares and insomnia. The therapist was to help her adjust to her new school and address those issues, but even so, she had never revealed the incident. It was just too risky, knowing the real story would likely land her in a facility of some ilk despite the so-called “confidentiality” the therapist said she was bound by. But the more she considered it, the less she liked the idea. David was already a firm skeptic to the whole idea of what Susan was pretty sure she had experienced back then, and she could not imagine what his reaction to this might be. As well, he seemed so focused and dialed in now that she did not want to do anything that might throw a wrench into the works and cause him to lose his momentum.

By the time she was back, the coffee was made, and she poured them both a mug just as David came through the door, smiling broadly.

“That’s a pretty big grin, pal.”

“Really? I assure you it wasn’t conscious. I guess when you’re hitting on all gears, it just comes naturally.”

“Oh, I was wondering if maybe you had something else on your mind this morning?”

“Like what exactly?” David teased.

Susan did not say anymore but simply stood and shed her robe. David smiled and tossed off his own T-shirt as he pulled her close and kissed her hard.

“I suppose I could schedule a brief break from the book just now.”

“If it’s too brief, there will be hell to pay, buddy.”

They both laughed and returned to the study, where there was an oversized couch that they put to good use immediately.

18

After a thoroughly enjoyable diversion for both of them, and they showered and dressed, Susan followed David back downstairs to clean up the kitchen while he went back to work. She hoped she had not caused him any undue distractions that morning, but from the look on his face after and the bounce in his step as he went back into the office to continue writing, Susan was not worried. He was not the only one who was feeling a renewed sense of energy and pep at the moment.

“What are you up to today?” David asked as he looked back at Susan while the laptop came to life.

“Well, I was thinking of doing this loop around this other lake I heard about, but the sky looks kind of sketchy this morning.”

David glanced out the window as he brought up the manuscript and brought the cursor back to where he had left off before Susan had “distracted” him. “I guess it is at that…plan B then?”

“I guess so. Maybe just pop into town and take a closer look at Tibbets. I heard they have a great little local bookstore we must have missed earlier.”

“Sounds good. Always a plus to hear of an independent owner who hasn’t been forced out of business by Amazon.”

She smiled at his comment, knowing that even though David had utilized Amazon in the past to try to generate some book sales, he was not a fan.

“Anything in town we need while I’m out?”

“Nope. I think we’re good. Have fun, and I’ll see you for dinner…. Seven-ish sound good?”

“It’s a date!” she replied as she leaned over and kissed him, letting her lips linger a bit as she thought back to their impromptu sex on the couch earlier.

* * *

As Susan hopped into the car and got ready to head into town, she realized her decision had been a wise one. No sooner than she had closed the driver’s door than a sudden downpour began and thunder rumbled in the distance. But even if the weather had not been so unsuited for hiking that day, Susan had decided while brushing her teeth that she would spend the day poking around Tibbets to see what else she might be able to dredge up regarding the Brandt and some of the local gossip in town that Ralph Edmunds had said was more often than not taken for fact versus just a legend. She supposed that at some point, she would revisit her concerns with David over the “kitchen incident,” but until she had some more research behind her, it seemed like a wasted plan.

Tibbets for sure was no metropolis, but Susan suspected that somewhere in the bowels of a library or a bookstore or a historical society of some sort, she might find more about the manor and this so-called legend than she currently knew. Her disrupted night of sleep plus Edmunds’s beliefs had spurned this, and Susan was determined to see if there was actually anything out there that might bolster her curiosity. The heavy rain fell off to a moderate shower by the time Susan made the very short drive to town, but the cloud cover seemed to be thickening by the minute while a few bright but seemingly innocuous bolts of lightning lit up the dark skies.

Susan reckoned the best starting point for any more information might be to go back into some archives that may exist telling the tale of this little talked about nephew of Phillip Brandt’s who was said to have committed suicide there. To Susan, if there was any validity to a supernatural connection at the manor, then it seemed to her a suicide on the grounds was a prime target. An elderly man—Phillip Brandt—dying of natural causes in his old age seemed extremely unlikely to be the source of any haunting issues if they did, in fact, exist.

With that in mind, Susan popped up her umbrella and went to the small public library just past the general store down the road from Janice’s Café. She spoke to the woman at the front desk and got directions to where they kept archived copies of the local paper, The Tibbets Daily, to dig back in time to see what had actually been reported about the nephew from the 1960s.

“You know how to work a microfiche machine, Susan?” the woman asked.

“That I do.”

“Great. I’m afraid we’re a bit behind the times here in technology. All that digitizing and all…but all the older papers are there. Go down the hallway to the left, and you will find a series of rooms with machines where you can take a look. You some historian or something?”

“No, not really,” Susan replied, “just visiting and am curious about the old place we’re renting while we’re here. Just my natural curiosity, I guess.”

“I see. Where are you staying, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Not at all…the Brandt Manor, just out of town.”

Susan looked at her as her face paled a bit and she swallowed hard. She knew the woman was doing her best to hide her reaction, but she was not a very good actress, Susan thought. It was the same reaction they had been getting from several people in Tibbets once they found out she and David were staying at the Brandt, making her more confident that she was onto something…even if it was just a local folk tale.

“Oh, the Brant Manor…” the woman replied weakly as she tried to smile but came off looking more nauseous than friendly. “I hear the new owners are making it over.”

“That they are. It looks wonderful so far.”

“I’m sure it does, Susan. Well, you just let me know if you need anything else.”

Susan nodded as she watched the woman scamper away as if just being near someone who had come from the Brandt might infect her somehow. “Paydirt!” Susan said to herself as she went down the hall to begin her research.

19

Fortunately, the microfiche files were well-ordered, and Susan found the Tibbets Beat articles that preceded and then followed the suicide of Timothy Edgecroft. Susan sat back and took her time to get herself up to speed on what had fallen over Tibbets in the 1960s and how this previously tranquil retreat in the woods had become plagued with a series of unexplained and curious murders. Most of the articles prior to his death, naturally, seemed to be focused on the panic and fear gripping the small town and how the police seemed not to be getting any closer to finding the murderer than when the first disappearances had begun. As she panned through time, the paper’s tone soon morphed from the initial fear and terror of what was causing people not to even want to venture out of their doors anymore to increasing pressure on the police to get help if they could not solve this hideous crime spree.

Then, the articles seemed to be totally absorbed with placing suspicion, if not unfounded blame, on Edgecroft since he was a newcomer to town and never mingled with anyone in Tibbets. He was often described in the paper as “an unfamiliar loner, who lives like a hermit way out in the woods with no known source of income or occupation.” Susan could see where this was heading but decided to read on to get the whole version of the story from the only official accounting of it that was in Tibbets outside of a police investigative report. After reading the final wrap-up of the case, Susan shut off the machine and returned all the files she had gotten to look over.

The dim and cramped confines of the small microfiche room made her uncomfortable, so Susan decided to get some air and maybe make a stop off at a coffee shop—if Tibbets had one—to mull this all over. Something about the way the paper had reported the incident just was not sitting right with her. She wanted to thank the woman at the front desk who had helped her out, but as Susan came out to the lobby, she was sitting back in an office with windows that gave her visibility out to the front desk. She looked up and saw Susan but made no indication she was coming out as Susan waved and mouthed “thank you” to her. Whatever was going on here, Susan thought, the mere mention of the Brandt Manor seemed to be enough to make you radioactive if you went there.

The weather had not improved much as she went back outside. The heavy clouds were still just as thick and looming as if they were in place for the day as they had been when she had driven into town. The rain was now just a light shower, but the temperature had dropped unexpectedly, making Susan wonder if a true summer was ever going to come to Tibbets. She decided to leave the car where it was to walk to give her mind time to begin to process what she had read. Besides, Tibbets was so small that there was virtually nothing around that was not within easy walking distance, and she needed to stretch her legs after sitting in one position for so long.

As she strolled along, Susan prayed for a small coffee shop or some other hidden café she and David might have missed. She was not too anxious to return to Janice’s at the moment since Lauren—if she were the lone waitress there—was around based on how she had reacted to them earlier when they had brought up the subject of the manor. She walked on past the café, and low and behold there, just past Dr. Bill Anderson’s medical office, was a small and unassuming little coffee shop, The Daily Grind. It was so far removed from the main cluster of businesses in town and so out of the way that Susan had no idea how they did any serious business. It seemed to her that a more central location would have been a better choice, but then again, maybe this was all they had had to pick from when opening. In any case, it was perfect. All she wanted now was a quiet and secluded spot in which to sit to try to get a handle on what seemed to her an event that had a lot of still-unanswered questions hanging over it.

She went in and ordered a large latte before taking a seat at a table near the window. There she put her raincoat over the empty chair next to her, sat, and then sipped at the drink, which was the ideal thing to ward off the chill of the day. The young girl behind the counter had not engaged Susan in any conversation outside of her order, which was fine. Susan did not need yet another Tibbets’s local giving her that odd look she had been picking up on all over lately. The rain picked up again as she set her cup aside, and a rumble of thunder gave an idea something heavier might soon be on its way.

What was really gnawing at Susan was how convenient and tidy the investigation over the unexplained serial killings had been concluded. Certainly, she understood the desire for the crimes to be solved and put behind them, but from the editorials in the paper, it felt to Susan like the police had possibly taken the easy way out and made Edgecroft a scapegoat for the murders. It was also obvious from the severe tone of the paper that pressure was likely mounting as each day passed when the detectives here were seemingly getting nowhere. The articles were peppered with plenty of quotes from locals to support the editor’s suggestion that Timothy Edgecroft was a likely suspect and that he was baffled about why the police were not looking more seriously at him.

From all the places Susan had lived over the years, she knew as well as anyone that sometimes all that was required to get blamed for something—especially in small towns like Tibbets—was to be new and to keep to yourself. Was this what had happened here? The longer she mulled it over, the more it was feeling just like that. She had seen nothing reported in all that she had read following Edgecroft’s suicide that provided any real motive for him being responsible, though serial killers, she supposed, often needed no motivation other than they just liked it. But in addition, nothing turned up in the way of evidence, either from the victims themselves or within the manor itself, that would link Edgecroft to the crimes.

As far as Susan could tell, the town had just taken his suicide as an admission of guilt and never looked any further. She sipped again and sighed as the thunder got louder. Certainly, that could have been the actual situation, but something in the back of her mind told her it just seemed too convenient and tidy. And what if Edgecroft had just been set up as the murderer by the real one so the police would lay blame there and stop the investigation? Susan knew this was a stretch, and one likely fueled by the numerous crime dramas she and David often watched on television, but with the relative inexperience of the police force in Tibbets, it seemed a likely possibility.

The police could announce the case solved, laying responsibility on Edgecroft’s shoulders, erase the town’s panic and fear, and get rid of all the pressure on them at the same time. True, the murders had stopped once Edgecroft had died, and there had been some note of some sort described in the paper found at the manor indicating that Edgecroft had admitted to it all before killing himself, but still Susan wondered. Maybe there was someone else in town who might have more information concerning the incident than the paper had been willing to or able to report? But regardless of the actual truth of the crimes, the real impetus for Susan was trying to track down a link between Edgecroft’s suicide—murder?—and what had gone down that first night in the kitchen.

20

As Susan finished her coffee, she decided that a hunt around town for some sort of historical society might be a good next step. Small towns like this, in her experience, had limited research facilities in general, but they almost always had some type of place that documented their history, even if it was just a lone long-time local who took it upon themselves to take on this task out of love for their hometown. She thanked the girl at the coffee shop and headed out to see if she could locate anyone here serving that function as so far it seemed a waste of time to just ask around town about the old crimes based on how no one seemed too keen on discussing them…just as Edmunds had told them.

So in an indirect strategy, Susan decided to manufacture a little white lie that might encourage someone around to point her in the right direction, leaving the Brandt and her suspicions out of it. And as much as she did not want to go back and face Lauren at Janice’s Café again, there was really no one else in Tibbets that Susan could think of who might know anything. She exhaled in resignation and set off back up the street until she reached the familiar awning of the café and popped in out of the rain. Susan shook off the water and looked up to see an older woman she had not run into before.

“Sit anywhere, ma’am,” the woman said with a smile.

“Actually,” Susan replied, “I just came by to ask Lauren a question about the town. We met her when we first got here. Is she around?”

“Oh, she’s off today, but maybe I can help you. I’ve been in Tibbets about as long as anyone, I guess. I’m Cynthia Belmont…”

“Susan Pragmore. Nice to meet you…that would be wonderful.”

Susan then launched into a story she had crafted during her stroll up from the coffee shop about how she was working on this book about small towns in southern New England and their regional history that had helped shape the various states. Tibbets, she told Cynthia, seemed a great choice to include, and she wondered if she knew anyone in town who might run a local historical society.

Cynthia thought for a moment and then snapped her fingers as if it had just come to her.

“That would be Maggie Gleason,” she replied with a grin.

“Would I find her at a formal society location…maybe part of the library?”

Cynthia laughed. “No, Maggie just kind of does this on her own, I think. But if there is anything that would be appropriate for your book, Maggie is the one to talk to.”

“You have a number where I can reach her?”

Cynthia snorted. “Nah…but just drop by and tell Maggie I sent you. She won’t mind. She loves to talk up Tibbets

Susan got directions to Maggie Gleason’s house and thanked Cynthia before heading off to find her. She needed to get moving before her ruse became public knowledge and people in Tibbets began to reveal Susan’s actual identity and she got herself being treated even more as persona non grata as she already was based on her association with the Brandt. Maggie lived on the outskirts of Tibbets in the opposite direction of Edmunds and the Brandt, and Susan eased to a rolling stop when she came up to the small but meticulously maintained bungalow that matched the address Cynthia had given her.

She knocked cautiously on the front door and stood back when a very elderly woman answered and looked at her suspiciously. Susan quickly introduced herself and told her of her interest in the history of Tibbets, using the same backstory she had given Cynthia since she had no idea what Maggie’s feelings over the Brandt might be. The woman’s face brightened into a smile as she opened the door and let Susan inside. Cynthia had apparently been correct about how Maggie was always eager to talk about all things Tibbets. She accepted the tea offered, and they sat in a couple of old overstuffed chairs to chat.

“Book on the history of small towns in southern New England, you say?” Maggie asked as she sipped her tea.

“Yes, ma’am. Cynthia over at Janice’s said you were the one to see.”

Maggie nodded and smiled. “First off, please drop the ma’am if you don’t mind. I do have a few years on you, but that is way too formal for me to help you. Call me Maggie, okay?”

“Of course. I’m Susan.”

“And second, if I’m to help you, Susan, then how about we drop this pretense of you writing some book.”

Susan felt suddenly embarrassed and exposed, like when she had been caught in a lie as a kid. Her face reddened, and she wanted to hide.

“How did you know?”

“Did anyone here mention that Tibbets is a small everyone-knows-your-business kind of place?”

Susan grinned as Maggie chortled and touched her gently on the arm. “I think that might have been brought up a time or two. So you know about my husband, David, and me already?”

Maggie shrugged.

“It serves me well to be on the inside track here, Susan. How is his book coming along?”

Susan shook her head and laughed out loud, immediately feeling at ease and loving Maggie’s style and directness. It was a nice change from all the subterfuge and off-putting looks she had gotten elsewhere.

“It’s coming along, Maggie. He hardly comes up for air except to eat anymore.”

She laughed as the deep wrinkles on her face smoothed out slightly as she smiled broadly. “As young as you are, dear, I hope that is not all he takes breaks for….”

Susan blushed deeply as she recalled their recent tryst on the sofa in the library. “No, Maggie,” Susan said as she laughed with her, “we manage to work in other breaks….”

“So, what can I help you with? Something weird going on over at the Brandt?”

Susan was taken aback by her perception and straightforwardness. With relief, she sat back and told Maggie everything she knew about the manor from Ralph Edmunds, plus what she had discovered in the Tibbets Beat coverage of Edgecroft’s death and subsequent blame for the murders, plus what had occurred in the kitchen on their first night at the Brandt. Maggie just nodded along as Susan spoke. She had no idea what Maggie’s feelings were on the subject of a possible haunting at the manor, but based on their conversation so far, she figured she was about to find out.

“I can’t speak to the incident in your kitchen, Susan,” Maggie finally said as her former jovial expression turned serious, “but I can offer you my own theory on what I think really happened over there with Timothy Edgecroft and our so-called police department’s investigation of this whole mess.”

21

Susan sat back and savored her tea as Maggie began, obviously relishing her chance to tell the story she felt was closer to the truth than what had been accepted years ago, and Susan was fully enthralled at being in the presence of a master storyteller.

“Back after they found Edgecroft dead inside the old Brandt, I came across this old journal that had been overlooked by our detectives.” Maggie held up her hands and used her fingers to indicate air quotes as she said the word “detectives” as she smiled slyly.

“It dated back to when the poor man was much younger—way before his arrival in Tibbets—that centered around some distant relatives of his, Diane Simpson and Frederick Allen.”

“The current owners?” Susan asked as her mouth went open wide in an O.

“The very same.”

Maggie then went on to relate what had been recorded by Edgecroft in that time, detailing the hard feelings between Simpson and Allen and Tim Edgecroft, at least from his perspective, anyway. Susan sat mesmerized as Maggie laid out the bitter and protracted legal battle that finally awarded Edgecroft sole ownership of the Brandt as stipulated in Phillip’s will.

“And you think there might be something more sinister behind his death here based on that bit of family history?”

Maggie nodded and sipped to wet her dry lips. “From Edgecroft’s record, there had been bad blood between the three of them since they had been kids, and there was a near-riot at the reading of the will when Brandt had passed on the manor to his nephew as opposed to Simpson and Allen who would have been the expected heirs.”

“Holy shit!” Susan exclaimed before she realized what she had said. “Sorry, Maggie.”

“No need,” she replied as she waved away Susan’s expletive. “I think holy shit is quite appropriate considering.”

“So you suspect that Simpson and Allen set up Edgecroft to take the fall for the crimes so they could step in as the next in line for the manor?”

Maggie shrugged. “I can’t prove it, but it is a possibility that feels worth considering to me.”

“Maybe they killed Tim Edgecroft and made it look like suicide?” Susan asked quickly.

“That’s a big jump, Susan, and without any real proof, that is near impossible to make any more valid than just a theory.”

“Did the police see this journal back then?”

“I have no idea. My guess is that based on how slipshod the force was at the time that they either just ignored it or looked it over and decided it was irrelevant.”

“So, how did you come to get this journal then?”

Maggie just winked at her and did not answer her question right away. Susan grinned and did not push.

“Let’s just say this all goes back to what I told you earlier when I said it was important for me to be on the inside track here in Tibbets.”

“Wow…this is incredible!” Susan replied.

“Ready for the other shoe to drop now?” Maggie asked as her eyes sparkled.

Susan nodded eagerly as she was impressed at just how deftly and carefully Maggie was crafting the story. She truly was a master storyteller.

“If you recall my reference to the somewhat less than competent police at the time, that ties into this as well.”

“A cover-up….an inside plot with Simpson and Allen?” Susan asked as she sat forward, eager to hear more.

Maggie lifted her frail shoulders in a who knows gesture. “Again, I can’t prove it, but the timing of all of this seems to support that supposition. The lead detective at the time—Andrew Morrison was his name—oversaw this investigation. Morrison always seemed a bit sketchy to me…like he was always working some angle while he did the job he had been hired to for the department. Anyway, he just seemed a bit too anxious and quick to wrap up the case. And I do realize what pressure the cops were under back then to find the killer. Believe me, I was as frightened as anyone in Tibbets over it all.”

“But you think maybe he was colluding with Simpson and Allen?”

“Just a suspicion. When the case got suddenly solved with no real solid evidence linking Edgecroft to the killings and then Morrison just mysteriously vanished from Tibbets…well…you can connect the dots as well as I can, Susan.”

“Maybe you do not know this, Maggie, but I will ask anyway.”

“Sure…”

“Were Simpson and Allen the anonymous informants who finally prodded the police to contact Edgecroft and set the wheels in motion for all that then transpired?”

Maggie smiled and looked at her silently. Susan was stunned.

“I tend not to like to repeat myself, Maggie, but this seems like a bigger holy shit moment than before.”

“I would agree. There was just nothing solid that ever came along to support all of this, but as I said, the timing of it all sure feels right to me.”

“And now Simpson and Allen are fixing up the Brandt to sell it off and make a small fortune for themselves.”

“So it would seem, ” Maggie replied.

* * *

Susan thanked Maggie profusely for her time and her frank honesty surrounding all that she felt had gone down at the Brandt back in the 1960s…despite the prevailing opinions to the contrary. She promised to keep all that she had heard from her secretive as to where she had come to know it all. Maggie had made it clear that she still had to live in Tibbets and that if this got back to the wrong people—namely Simpson and Allen—that it might have a dangerous effect on whatever time she had left on the planet.

Susan drove back to the manor slowly, her head still spinning over what her day had unearthed. When she had come to town, she had never in her wildest imagination envisioned she would find herself immersed in a murder mystery. All she was hoping to have found out was if anything was tying what had happened that night in the kitchen to deaths in and around the Brandt. On some level, she supposed that had happened as well, but now there was so much more layered on top of that curiosity.

If what Maggie had told her was true, then with Susan’s beliefs that supernatural and paranormal events were indeed real and often attached to violence in old houses, it was a real possibility—at least to her—that Timothy Edgecroft was reaching out to exact his revenge on his jealous and possibly murderous relatives. Or if revenge was a bit too strong, then maybe justice was a better fit. Susan was dying to spill it all out to David, but she was still a bit hesitant, not wanting to get into a big argument over things he was still likely not ready to accept just yet based on her conversation with an what he was sure to describe to Susan as “just some old eccentric biddy in town.”

As she pulled into the drive and parked the car, Susan sat and thought as the light rain continued to dance in a comforting sound on the car roof. She needed to really think this over and come up with a better way to tell him than to just blurt it out right now, even though that was what her heart wanted. Susan jogged inside to find David still typing madly away just as he had been when she had left that morning. She glanced at her watch and saw it was coming up on 6:30, so she did not disturb him but instead put away her raingear and headed for the kitchen. She would just prepare their dinner as if nothing unusual had happened for her that day. But first, Susan needed a strong drink…maybe two.

22

After a simple dinner of vegetable stew and some fresh Italian baguette slices with a small green salad, David headed back to work which Susan had expected. The evenings and late nights had always been David’s prime hours for serious work, and she gave him his space after cleaning up the kitchen. She headed back upstairs to get into her fleece and grab her tablet so she could finish her book and maybe see what she wanted to download next.

Their dinner conversation had been light and thankfully allowed Susan to steer away from what she had really been up to all day. She had never lied to David before, and she was glad she was able to tiptoe around what she had found in the library archives and from Maggie Gleason. It would only have progressed into a discussion she was not quite ready to have, and David had been more than happy to chat about his book anyway.

Just as Susan was settling onto the solarium sofa to read, David quickly returned to work again, picking up right where he had left off before dinner, his hands still flying across the keyboard as the new novel began to take real shape. He knew by that point that he had picked the correct plot from the pile he had originally considered, and even though he had no crystal ball on these things, he felt as if this would easily surpass his first offering once it hit the market.

About an hour later, just as he needed a break to stretch and work out some cramped muscles, David looked at his manuscript and realized he had come to the first major crossroad in the plot. This was a normal situation when he wrote—he assumed all writers hit these literary intersections as well—where he had a choice to make as to which direction the story was to go. At one time, he had created separate scenarios when he hit these forks in the road, but lately, he had found that if he really listened to his inner voice, his intuition, and slipped into his primary protagonist’s skin for a bit, that his gut reaction—the first option that filtered across his brain—was the way to go.

As David paced the room and got his muscles moving and turned his head from side to side to chase away the crick in his neck, the overriding path to take this time came to him in a flash. With yet another burst of excitement and passion, David began to hurry to his laptop again, anxious to keep the flow of the story moving and to ride along with Ken Langston, his main protagonist, to see what would develop. But before he could strike a single key, David was distracted by another racket in the kitchen…very similar to the previous one.

However, the timing of this episode was especially annoying, and David rushed to the kitchen to see what was going on. His anger tempered slightly as he considered that it might be something simple like Susan having come down to make a snack or get a drink and accidentally knocking something over or Edmunds maybe poking around at some minor repair. He knew both of them would not purposefully cause any noise to break his focus, so the next thought was to nab the returning teenage prankster red-handed before he had a chance to flee the scene. But as he burst into the room, there was nothing amiss.

The room was empty and spotlessly clean, just as Susan had left it, and there was no sign of Susan, Edmunds, or a mischievous kid. David flipped on lights as he moved and went out back to find the source of the racket. There, sitting on top of a heap of trash, with the lid having been tossed away, were a pair of chunky raccoons searching madly for food. One can was on its side and garbage was strewn about while they were busy digging into the second. The beam from David’s flashlight scared them off, and he picked up as much of the mess as he could and secured the cans tightly before heading back in.

But when he got back to the study, he looked down at what had been an empty screen when he had dashed away. He had set up a new chapter and had not yet typed anything when he had gotten sidetracked. But there, on the blank screen, someone had typed the word “MURDER” in all capitals over and over, line by line, until the whole page was filled with the script of the six alarming letters. David stood frozen in place, not knowing what to do. He finally walked into the hallway and did a quick search around the ground floor before coming back to the study.

There was no one anywhere, and he knew without even another thought that there was no way Susan would have tried such a juvenile and immature prank. She respected his work way too much. He walked over to the screen again, just in case his overstimulated mind had somehow decided to play a trick on his senses. But the script on the screen was just as it had been when he had first discovered it. David sat down slowly as he tried to get his rational brain to explain it. The only logical thing would be that he had somehow subconsciously done it himself, but he knew for sure that the page had been empty when he had run off to dispatch the raccoon twins.

With no other explanation, David’s mind began to wonder if all his skepticism and denial over anything paranormal or supernatural might have some validity after all. The Brandt was rumored to have some of this going on to anyone so inclined to accept the possibility…was it actually possible? The longer he pondered it all, the less he could make sense of it. In fact, now all David could recall was that scene from the Stanley Kubrick adaptation of the Stephen King novel, The Shining where Jack Torrance finds that someone has gotten to his typewriter and entered:

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy…”

over and over…reminiscent of what he saw now. David wondered if maybe he was just losing his mind.

23

David sat a few more minutes just staring at the incomprehensible script on the screen, not knowing if he should just erase it all and go on as if nothing had happened or wondering if just trying to ignore the…what…message?...would just lead to something worse. He ran back through about half of what he had written so far, and nothing had been erased or edited anywhere as far as he could tell. As David rolled the pages back to the mysterious new script, it was still there, appearing as if it had just been added and nothing more. Since the repetitive lines were still there in front of his eyes, David ruled out some hallucination or worse, but it still did not explain it.

The big question, though, at the moment, was that since this did indeed appear to be real, was whether he was having some sort of nervous breakdown or had Ralph Edmunds, in fact, been onto something. If it was the latter, then he knew he had no other option but to give Ralph Edmunds’s suggestion about what had happened in the kitchen that night more weight. But to do that, David knew it would require him to take on a whole new belief system, and the mere idea that things such as ghosts and spectral possessions of buildings and hauntings still felt utterly absurd to him. And though the breakdown was a more rational and logical one, it just did not sit well with him.

But just then, as he sat and tried to wrap his mind around exactly what was going on, he heard Susan’s soft footsteps in the hallway and looked out just as she was passing by as she concentrated hard not to disturb him. He caught her eye and called to her to come in.

“Taking a break, or are you done for the evening?” Susan asked as she came over, her teacup in hand that she had been taking to the kitchen to clean up before calling it a night herself.

“Actually,” David began, “I’m not sure…you got a second to look at something?”

It was an odd reply, but Susan nodded as she furrowed her brow. She then came closer, taking the seat he offered her. The look on his face was one she had not seen before, and she got a knot of anxiety in her stomach as she set the cup aside.

“Sure…want me to look over some of your first rough draft after all?”

“Um…sort of….”

“Sort of? What’s going on, David?”

“Let me just show you. It’s easier to explain that way, I think.”

The screen saver had put the screen on sleep mode, and David reactivated the power again and let her read what was there without any commentary from him yet. He sat back and watched her face as the “murder screen” came into view. David saw the confusion on her face but did not offer any explanation yet.

“What the hell is that? That part of the new book?” Susan finally asked, wondering how exactly it would fit in with anything serious in his new effort.

David exhaled slightly and then explained how he had come to find this on the blank screen after he had returned from chasing off the mischievous raccoons out back.

“You pulling my leg, David?”

“I wish I were. I was hoping to see if you had some logical explanation for it. At this point, I sure don’t.”

“You certain you didn’t type it in and then maybe nod off and hit the repeat text function or something?”

David looked at her and rolled his eyes.

“Okay…okay….just a thought.”

“I’m out of explanations, Susan. Unless I’m losing my mind and am typing stuff that I’m later just blocking out.”

But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he saw Susan’s face pale visibly and was not sure but thought that maybe he saw her shiver slightly as she sat and thought.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah…I…uh…well there is one other explanation, you know.”

“Edmunds and what he told us about what he believes?”

Susan shrugged. “Just because you are skeptical, David, doesn’t make it impossible. You know the old saying about how science does not care if you believe in it or not; it just is.”

“You can’t possibly be comparing this to actual science, are you?”

“No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just an analogy to make my point.”

“So some ghost just stopped off on his way to wherever he was going tonight to give me a hand with the book?”

Susan bit her tongue, knowing a rejoinder to his sarcasm would only make it worse.

“Just a possibility, David…that’s all I am saying. If you rule that out, how do you explain this then?”

David said nothing but just looked at the screen again. She couldn't tell if this meant he was just pissed at her for trying to write this off with a paranormal basis or not because it was in her own belief system or just searching his mind for some other answer. Perhaps it wasn’t the most optimal timing, but Susan decided on the spot that there might be no better opportunity to lay out all of what she had come across that day. She had been hoping to get some more information to support her theory, but with what had happened just now, waiting seemed ill-advised.

“Can I offer some insight to this that might bring some clarity to the whole thing?” she asked.

“Please,” David said with exasperation in his voice.

“Okay, but please do not interrupt me until I’m done and try to keep an open mind about it all. Okay?”

David nodded with a quizzical expression in his eyes, wondering where in the hell she was going and what was on her mind. He knew what was likely based on her belief in the supernatural, but specifically, he had no idea what it might be.

24

Susan exhaled and began, bracing herself for his reaction. “My story for heading into town today to look for a bookstore in which to poke around in?”

David nodded.

“Well…that was a bit of a rouse, I’m afraid.”

His face went from neutral to one of curiosity and wonder, and Susan quickly stepped in to make sure he understood that her “little white lie” had been innocent and just out of her overwhelming curiosity about the Brandt and all that Edmunds had put in her mind. Over the next hour or so, Susan went through her day step by step, beginning with the library archives and ending with her meeting with Maggie Gleason.

Once she was done, Susan then tacked on her suspicions that linked what Maggie believed with her own personal theory of what had truly gone down in the 1960s with Timothy Edgecroft and his supposed suicide when he became the cops’ primary suspect over the serial killings. To his credit, David sat quietly as she talked and did not give any indication that he believed her or thought it was all just another interesting but fabricated tale.

“Let me ask you this, Susan,” David said when she was done. “How is it you have come to have such a…shall we say…willingness to accept paranormal or supernatural events as something more than ideas from a fiction writer’s imagination?”

Susan had never told him of what had happened to her years before back in Wesleyan when she was just eighteen, and it seemed that maybe now might be the time to spill that. But then again, she knew just how unbelievable the truth of that whole experience sounded to anyone who had not been there. Outside of Amanda Cox, no one else knew of it. For the moment, Susan decided to honor that decision she had made to keep it that way. But to answer his question, she supposed that she could at least offer some generalities of what had happened without divulging the event itself.

“I never told you this, David, but back when I was still an undergraduate at Wesleyan University in Middletown, I was part of this outing at this old house with some friends. It was a bet we took up regarding an abandoned home that was supposed to be haunted.”

“Don’t tell me…” David prodded.

“All I will say, based on what I know you to believe, is that we all saw and heard some things that night that I can’t explain any other way.”

He nodded, appreciating her telling him, but he still gave no indication of how he viewed it. “And just who is this Maggie Gleason you spoke with today who has this alternative theory of Timothy Edgecroft and the backstory of this place?”

As best as she could, Susan described Maggie to him, saying she had been referred to her by an employee at Janice’s as the go-to person in Tibbets for any historical tidbits.

“Not that flighty, little twit Lauren that we met, was it?”

“No. Lauren was off today. This was a much older woman who I never met before.”

“This Maggie woman…what credentials or qualifications does she have to make her convince you of this?”

“Nothing official, David, but she has lived here all her life. I would guess she is maybe in her mid to late eighties, though that’s just a guess. She sure seemed convincing to me.”

“So now you want to solve the mystery of the Brandt Manor as well as prove to me that we have ghosts here? What’s gotten into you, Susan?”

“I think you are being a bit melodramatic, David. I just found all this out, but quite frankly, with what I have seen in the past, the episodes we have experienced so far here make me very nervous. I worry that the next one might not be so benign. If a true answer could be unearthed regarding what went on back then, that would be great, but I’m not sure it’s worth putting our lives at risk over something that’s not really any of our business.”

“Now, who is being melodramatic?” he asked snidely.

Susan shot him a glare, and he immediately regretted what he had said.

“I’m sorry, Susan. I guess that was kind of a snotty thing to say.”

“Apology accepted. I just don’t know if I want to stay here any longer. The place is beginning to really give me the creeps.”

David exhaled deeply. “Look, Susan…I get your point, okay. And I’m not discounting what happened to you back when you were a kid in school. But we’ve already paid for the rental here, and if we hadn’t come, I’m not sure where I would be with this new book.”

He gestured at the laptop behind them.

“In the past, I have certainly experienced bursts of creativity and times when my writing just flowed easily, but nothing like it has since we got here. I can’t explain it, but that’s the situation…whether it’s just a psychological effect of the manor or something else.”

She nodded her understanding of his rationale but felt a cold fear grip her as she could see where this was going. David had no intention of packing it in and possibly destroying his progress to fulfill his obligations with Charley.

“And as to this story from Maggie Gleason? Please take this in the spirit intended, but as fascinating and curious as her theory is, I’m just not on board with it.”

“Because she is some old woman without any formal education or some certificate giving her validity?” Susan shot back.

“That’s not what I’m saying at all, Susan,” he replied, though if he were really honest with himself, David had to admit she had hit pretty close to the truth. “All I’m saying is this is just one person’s opinion…nothing more. Didn’t you say she really had no hard, tangible evidence other than that journal?”

Susan sank back, realizing he was making a good argument. It was exactly what she had said, and now Susan was questioning herself as they debated the issue. Had she been so ready to find a story to make her believe the manor was actually haunted that she had just glammed on to the first account that fit? Other than her gut feeling and instincts over Maggie Gleason, what did she really know about the woman anyway? All of a sudden, her blazing fervor over what she had found out seemed a bit weak and questionable. It was then that Susan knew she should have waited until she knew more before springing it on her skeptical but well-meaning husband.

But with what he had shown her tonight, it had seemed like she couldn’t wait. And even though he had no other way to explain the foreign typing on his manuscript, Susan knew she would likely never convince him of what she suspected, nevertheless. She would put off her desire to go back to Hartford for now and just play it by ear. Maybe David was right and she was just trying too hard to believe something that might, in fact, be just another local legend, even if her gut was telling her that was not the case. In the meantime, Susan figured she could continue to poke around and see if there was anyone else or anything else to back up Maggie’s suspicions.

25

Several weeks went by without incident, and Susan was really beginning to question what she had been sure of just the previous month. Despite the unexplained oddities at the manor, which seemed to have no explanation other than something paranormal, all had gone curiously quiet since the script had appeared on David’s computer screen. As well, Susan had not been able to dig up anything around Tibbets that fell in line with what Maggie Gleason had told her.

To top it off, the local opinion on Maggie was pretty split as to whether she was still in complete possession of all her mental faculties, which was giving Susan second thoughts as to whether or not she might have jumped on that bandwagon too soon. Again, maybe she had just been too anxious to have someone—anyone—tell her something she wanted to hear that would make the Brandt a true home for lingering spirits.

Then one night after a long day hike, when she should have been thoroughly exhausted and fallen to sleep quickly, Susan experienced another night of insomnia. When she had been hiking that day, everything Maggie had revealed to her had consumed her mind, and as she lay down to rest, it was still flitting about nonstop in her brain. Despite David’s objecting over the woman and some negative opinions in town over Maggie herself, Susan had come back once again to feeling this nagging thread of truth in what she had said that Susan could not ignore.

Seeing as how sleep was eluding her at the moment, Susan arose and walked in an almost meditative trance as she pondered it all and tried to see if she could figure out any other options to help her land on one side of the fence over this for good. She stepped carefully down the stairs, using the edges of the sometimes creaky steps so as not to distract David. He had been more on fire lately than usual with his book, and she knew how annoyed he would get if yet another racket in the manor broke his focus, even as minor as some groaning wooden steps might be.

Other than the faraway rapid clicking of the keys on his laptop, which were spilling out of the study down the corridor, the house was still and silent as Susan hit the ground floor and turned to go to the kitchen. The moon was hidden behind a bank of clouds left behind from a short and minor shower that day, and the hallway was dark save the light from the study leaking out in a warm and pleasant glow. Susan continued her way, being as quiet as possible, and saw David hunched over the screen, just as he had been when she had gone upstairs earlier to turn in. She would have loved to just pop in and see how it was going, but that was just not an option she knew.

Besides, with all that had gone on recently, Susan was afraid that even innocently tapping him on the shoulder to check-in would startle him too much, and his concentration and absorption in writing would be destroyed. She just smiled and walked by, considering some warm milk or another tried-and-true home remedy to help her sleep. Even with her disrupted sleeping brought on by the thoughts of Timothy Edgecroft and what might have gone on here back then, Susan saw David continuing to make wonderful progress, and at least there was that on the positive side of the ledger. After all, that had been the primary purpose for them coming here in the first place.

She flipped on the overhead and light and went over to the refrigerator. She peered in and was about to reach for the milk when she recalled how lately milk was just not sitting too well in her stomach. She had always loved it, ever since she had been a kid on her parents’ farm back in Ohio, but now it seemed as if she were perhaps beginning to develop a digestive issue with lactose. She wondered if that were even possible at her age as she gently shut the door.

With that option eliminated, Susan settled for a cup of some herbal tea marketed as a sleep aid. Susan was not sure that was anything but some clever ploy to sell the stuff to the vegan crowd, but she loved the taste and waited patiently as the hot water sat on the bag in her cup. When the tea was ready, Susan tossed the bag and took her cup to the small table near a window that looked out onto the rear of the manor. She blew gently on the tea and then sipped, savoring its delicate flavor.

Susan sighed and gazed out the window into the dark, trying to make sense of all she had stumbled into. Just then, the clouds blew lazily off the moon, and its near-full phase lit up the property between the manor and the forest behind it in an eerie, yellow light. She stopped suddenly as a figure slipped onto the open space from the thick trees making the low brush tremble in its wake. Susan felt her pulse pound in her ears as her anxiety level rose. She went quickly to the back door and pressed her face close to one of the panes in the French door design to get a clearer look, suddenly afraid that another episode was about to befall them at the Brandt.

But when the innocent and timid form of a doe deer came into full view, Susan felt her body sag with relief, and she exhaled, chastising herself for letting her imagination run away with her so easily. She shook her head and returned to the table to retrieve the empty cup and then to the sink to wash it out and let it dry in the rack. She put her hands on either side of the sink and sighed in embarrassment, wondering how it was that she had let all of this put her so on edge. Before they had arrived at the manor, she had never been so jumpy and suggestive. Was it something about this place and all the local legends surrounding it making her behave like this?

She had no idea, but with this drastic overreaction to a simple denizen of the woods—one she knew was out there and in strong numbers—Susan really began to question where she had allowed her mind to take her. She had no idea, but all of a sudden, she was feeling the fatigue of the day finally hitting her full force, and she pushed off the counter to go back up to bed. As she walked across the kitchen and turned off the light, Susan began to look at the “kitchen event” and the mysterious script on David’s computer in a new light.

Certainly, they were odd and still a mystery, and perhaps they were worthy of a paranormal explanation. But if she viewed them both with a subjective and unbiased eye, she had to admit they fell more along the lines of mischief than any actual danger to them. If they were to be explained away by some ghostly existence here at the manor, then she now saw them more as just some entity making its presence known. In her mind, Susan still felt that was a possibility but that she had—perhaps based on what had happened to her back in college—thought they were a prelude to something truly harmful. Now that she had experienced this revelation, Susan was finding herself migrating to the opinion that if these events were not dangerous to either her or David, then what difference did it make?

It did not reconcile how she felt about Maggie Gleason’s theory on what might or might not have actually happened to Timothy Edgecroft—possibly at the hands of the new owners—but then again, Susan told herself, she had found no one else in Tibbets who had expressed a corroborating or even similar tale. Maybe David was right and Maggie was just a lonely, even mildly cognitively impaired, old woman, looking for an audience. She pushed any thoughts she had been harboring about the Maggie Gleason issue from her mind wondering how she had even gotten herself thinking that maybe she was some amateur detective based on one old woman’s wild, unsubstantiated ramblings. It was time, she decided, to begin thinking with her brain and not her heart and her imagination.

26

Susan left the kitchen and decided to take the corridor on the other side of the staircase just as an added buffer against possibly disturbing David, though with what she had seen on her way past him before, it appeared as if a speeding locomotive would not have much bothered him. She chuckled to herself as she visualized that scene and the gaping hole in the wall as the train sped away, leaving an unaffected David Pragmore in its wake while he continued to type feverishly away as debris flew through the ragged hole in the wall, pulled along by the train’s wind. She smiled again, realizing it was the first real laugh she had experienced since this whole inexplicable time at the Brandt had begun.

Letting the tea have some extra time to really do its thing—if its sleep-enhancing claims were to be believed—Susan wandered aimlessly and slowly along the hall, stopping and popping into a room or two along the way to take a closer look at some of the artwork and décor she had not really paid much attention to previously. The furniture, as well as the area carpeting that the new owners had chosen, was indeed stunning and really made Susan travel back in time in her mind to the time in the 1930s when Phillip Brandt had lived there. Though it was from a bygone era, it seemed to fit in well and truly enhance the interior décor in general that they were obviously trying to bring back to life.

As well, the artwork just added to the effect, and Susan gazed at the portraits and landscapes that adorned the walls as she padded along, wondering if Simpson and Allen had somehow managed to get their hands on originals of the day or if these were incredible copies. She knew as much about art as she did nuclear physics, so it was a nondebatable point, but it was a curious thought to her all the same. As Susan was approaching the halfway point in the corridor and the light from the moon was blocked by the lack of windows allowing its beams in through windows to the dark passageway, she felt her eyelids growing heavy and was suddenly exhausted and knew it was time to stop dawdling along and just hit the sheets. Maybe she would have to apologize to the herbal tea makers about her eye-rolling opinion of their claims after all.

She exhaled deeply and began to focus on just putting one foot in front of the other as she was determined to head straight to bed and then get up in the morning refreshed and renewed, having put all the legends and other tales behind her as nothing more than just local idle talk…maybe try to jam one more quick hike in before it was time to head back to take up her responsibilities at school again. Susan perused her memory, trying to pick out a good trip to head off on in the morning that might possibly be her last one before taking off. It would, for sure, have to be relatively unknown to tourists if she were to enjoy the solitude she craved, as she had begun to notice a perceptible uptick in people coming to Tibbets lately, to grab a quick last-minute summer getaway.

That mental distraction caused Susan to miss what was beginning to materialize and take on a more defined shape just a few feet ahead of her. She finally looked up, pulling herself away from her thoughts of one last hike in the bucolic surroundings of Tibbets and getting back onto the treadmill in Hartford with the impending fall semester, and just came to an abrupt stop. The fatigue and heaviness she had been experiencing in her eyelids were instantly wiped away as Susan stood frozen in place and gaped at the vision just ahead of her and blocking her way to the foyer and the staircase.

Initially, she was sure it was just some waking dream, but as she stood and looked closer, Susan realized this was no dream as the amorphous ball of mist began to condense and eventually took the shape of a human being. She did not know if it was just a coincidence or if all her mental machinations regarding trying to write off everything going on there had promoted this unexpected apparition, but without any further need of an explanation, Susan knew in her heart that this was another sign—another message—to get her to believe in the paranormal reality of the Brandt once and for all. The grayish-white mass slowly but steadily came together from the walls and ceiling of the hallway to eventually appear to her in the shape of a young man.

Oddly, Susan did not feel any fear or panic toward the situation. After the hideous and grotesque thing that had taken Danny Sorensen and Kevin Elmont back when, a simple ghost-like man seemed, if not unusual, then certainly benign. Neither she nor the figure before her moved any closer, and Susan just looked at him and waited to see what might happen next. His vague and undefined features began to take a sharper focus, like someone twisting the lens on a pair of binoculars or on a microscope to get a clear image. When a few more minutes had elapsed, Susan found herself facing a young man—maybe in his thirties if she had to guess, though as a spectral image, it was just a guess—dressed in the typical garb of someone from the 1960s.

Susan herself had come through that era and the raggedy attire of the times came back to her in a flash as she recalled how she and all her friends had dressed in those days. The man was thin—almost anorexically so—and his long, straggly hair hung down to his shoulders as a few stray locks crept over his face as a breeze Susan could not feel blew them awry. His eyes were sunken and somewhat distant, as if he could not focus on anything. Then again, Susan told herself, if she had passed on to the other side, she might not seem as alert and present as she was when she had been alive, either. This made her chuckle lowly as she needed an emotional release at the moment.

He held out his arms and turned them so that his palms were facing up, and Susan could not miss the jagged gashes that ran from his wrists to his lower forearms. And though it was surely impossible, there still seemed to be fresh blood dripping from the open wounds. It made Susan grimace a bit but not enough to cause her to flee in horror. She looked into his face just then, and though he did not speak—a thing she was eternally grateful for as that might have made her feeling of safety around him change drastically had that happened—she could detect a definite attempt from him to secure her help.

When this feeling came over her, Susan began to piece together just what was going on. She immediately thought back to all the materials she had reviewed regarding the death of Timothy Edgecroft. Even without all that, Susan knew now that this was somehow and in some way the young Edgecroft before her. But his facial features and what she remembered from the newspaper coverage of his case confirmed it for sure. The Edgecroft-thing stood barefoot and shirtless before her, not moving any farther as Susan stood still and pondered what might come next, hoping she had not misread his intent and maybe put herself in harms’ way by assuming it was all so benign. What if this was to be a repeat of what had gone down in Middletown when she was eighteen and Edgecroft just appeared sad and pleading to pull her in?

27

But somehow, Susan just could not see that transition happening, though she had no idea why…just a gut feeling. But even so, Susan was feeling a tinge of hesitation and reluctance as she thought back to her younger days, and suddenly, she was struggling for breath and preparing herself to flee if this all went south. But then the sensation passed, and Susan remained right where she was and waited, hoping there would be some sort of communication—either verbal or through some other form—that would help her understand what it was he wanted from her. There was only so much she could discern from her weak ability to deduce anything from his gestures and body language.

Though she knew she was likely just projecting her own thoughts and hopes Edgecroft’s way, Susan began to wonder if he had, in fact, come to her just now sensing she was the only one in Tibbets who might be able to help him, if that, in fact, was what he was after by appearing to her. At the moment, she was operating solely on her own intuition and best efforts to figure it all out. As Susan considered trying to communicate with the apparition but having no idea how you went about that—did one just speak out loud or just think of what to say—the Edgecroft-thing bought its formerly blank and what had seemed to her previously as unseeing eyes from the floor to her face.

Though there were not truly eyes in the hollow, sunken holes where normal eyes would have been, it got Susan’s attention as a golden glow began to pulse from the openings in his head that made her gasp slightly. Had her thoughts of considering to communicate with it actually been somehow picked up by the specter and prodded him to speak to her? That seemed like a wild and imaginative supposition to her at the time, but then again, who knew? This was new to Susan, and she just went with whatever was happening and decided to react on the fly. She felt a tingle in her chest as the mouth of the ghost opened slightly and mouthed the words:

“Help me make it right.”

Or at least that was what Susan understood the cracked and withered lips on its face to be trying to say to her. She had taken some lip-reading classes back in Hartford in order to better communicate with the few deaf children enrolled in the system, and though Susan was still working on refining her ability to make this skill a reliable tool in her professional arsenal, that was what it looked like. There had been no audible sound coming from it, nor had there been some transfer of language by just hearing the word in her head as she had recalled a movie she had once watched that used that premise in a similar situation.

Susan felt her breath catch in her throat once again and quickly tried to decide if that was what had actually happened. The whole thing was now starting to feel like some dream, and she wondered if maybe she would just suddenly wake up in her bed and shake off the remnants of a bizarre nightmare. It was silly, but all the same, she pinched herself on the arm. Her grandmother had once told her that if she suspected she was dreaming, she could pinch herself to make sure…that you would not feel the pinch in a dream. Susan shuddered in place as the slight pain from her arm told her brain this was no dream. Whatever was going on was for real.

So now what? Susan wondered as she looked into the lifeless but somehow very animated face of the Edgecroft-thing. Would it hear or understand her if she spoke aloud, or should she just think a reply back? And if she did respond, what should she say? She was hardly in a position to promise something she could not follow through on, and even though this was some spectral being, there was a small part of her that did not like to make promises she could not or was not able to uphold, even as the idea of coming to the aid of a ghost made her head spin. Susan said nothing and tried to keep her mind as blank as possible just in case that ridiculous movie premise about communicating mentally might be true.

And that was when everything really went to hell. In her delay in making any kind of response, Susan had somehow begun to prod a transformation in the entity before her. Even before it began to change physically, Susan could somehow sense an alteration in the being’s emotions and psyche, if that were possible. Later on, she could never have explained it to anyone without them thinking her utterly insane or at least just one of those weird New Age people David was constantly making fun of—the ones who believed in all this stuff lock-stock-and-barrel. The only way she could have explained the shift, had she been inclined to do so, was to say there was this feeling of mild electricity in the hallway that flowed through the air randomly.

And the change that began to take over the emanation came on slowly but progressed steadily forward as if there needed to be some element of time required for it to happen. Susan was unsure if that was making it more comfortable to deal with and understand, versus just having the thing suddenly snap into another state, like someone flipping on a light switch or shutting on a faucet full-blast. But, in the moment, it was what it was, and she really had no say in the matter. She drew back slightly as the golden light from its empty eye sockets faded away and they went dark and black again, looking like long tunnels leading into some sort of uninviting mound.

The apparition once again mouthed some words, but this message had taken on a new feeling and vibe to Susan as she watched the lips move once more as she focused with all her effort to read them.

“You must help me, Susan, or all is lost.”

She felt her body overtaken with an icy chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Not only were his words now beginning to come across as more insistent and demanding than just the simple plea earlier, but Susan was also petrified when the thing had said her name. Her heart began to pound. And though in retrospect she supposed that beings of this ilk might, in fact, have the ability to know all in the physical realm—though she certainly did not have the comprehension of how that was—the simple fact that it had known her name and then mouthed it to her as she stood there just then terrified Susan beyond anything she could have imagined when the whole ordeal had begun.

Again, she said nothing back, as her mind was now focused on what might transpire next and whether or not she had put herself in some danger from which there might be no escape. That thought was then intensified when the physical form and actions of the Edgecroft-thing began to morph as well, and Susan wondered if she would survive the night.

28

The apparition began to expand and grow in size until it nearly filled the physical space of the corridor. Though the golden glow from the eye sockets had dimmed and faded from view, Susan felt an abrupt trepidation, bordering on fear, as bright-red lights came to life and were seeping out through the fingertips and toes of the thing as well as from all its pores, assuming it had them. It was like some inner fire had been ignited and struggled to find a way out of the form through any available exit. The formerly placid and pleading expression on its face had changed over as well into a look of pain or perhaps even a growing scowl of annoyance and anger if Susan were truthful with herself.

It raised its arms over its head, its fists clenched so tightly that the sharp and jagged nails bit into the soft flesh of its palms and multiple rivulets of blood began to trickle away from the wounds and trail down over its shoulders. As the tracks of fresh blood made their way over its chest and back, it tilted its head back and uttered a piteous and mournful howl that made Susan fall to her knees and clasp her hands over her ears to try to block it out. At the time, she was sure David would soon appear as the racket seemed as if it must be shaking the whole manor. But when he failed to materialize, Susan wondered if this sudden verbal assault were something only she could hear, or maybe it was just all in her head.

As she knelt and cowered before the railing, the macabre and grisly memory of Danny Sorensen and Kevin Elmont flooded her mind. Susan recalled how she and Amanda had huddled together when the old house near the Wesleyan campus had come to life back then in just such a posture before the ghouls or whatever they had been had shown up. Just as Danny and Kevin had been viciously and inexplicably ripped open that night, Susan was now shaking visibly as she wondered if her failure to respond to the Edgecroft-thing had pushed it to attack her in some similar manner. With all her heart, she wished she could stand or at least scuttle backward and run, but it was like her legs had forgotten how to work.

The ghost was now no longer, it seemed to her, concerned with a gentle and subtle request for help and had decided that a more direct approach was required. Was this just to really get her attention, or was it so enraged now that it was going to rip Susan apart since she refused to acknowledge what had been asked of her? She shrank down as far as she could, hoping to somehow protect herself from what seemed inevitable next, crying hysterically and regretting that it was likely she would never see David again. It was a weak and passive gesture, she knew, but it was all she could muster.

The floor began to rumble as the emanation continued its tirade toward her as artwork that had been hanging in the hallway fell to the hardwood flooring, making the delicate frames splinter apart as the glass covering them shattered into a million tiny shards. Susan felt an overwhelming sense of inertia and then almost catatonia take her as she was able to only peek out through her fingers and see a ripple racing down the hallway toward her as the two centerboards in the floor began to buckle, revealing a thin but visible opening to what lay below. It was just a repeat of what had happened when she was eighteen before Danny and Kevin were dragged away to whatever hell they had been pulled to. Susan closed her eyes and waited, sure the end was near.

But just as she began to hyperventilate and brace herself for some monstrous hands from below to drag her through the opening, the hallway went quiet and still. After a brief pause, while she tried to convince herself that the uproar and devastation were really over, Susan looked up to find the corridor empty. It was just her crouched down in a ball, her hair matted to her head in a sweaty mess, her face streaked with the telltale tracks of hot tears. She pushed back her hair off her forehead and wiped her face dry as she slowly raised herself to her knees and looked around wildly as if the Edgecroft-thing might be hiding in some recess or in some shadow or maybe just around the corner of a door of one of the side rooms to launch a second attack, catching her by surprise.

But as the seconds ticked by, nothing changed. It was just the long, empty hallway, lit intermittently as the moon shone through the open doors of a few side rooms on the west side of the manor. The length of the hallway was littered with the broken and decimated remains of artwork that had been hanging on the walls. And the buckled ridge of floorboards sat before her, having run from where the hallway met the staircase up near the foyer up to where she was kneeling. Susan, needing a release, laughed humorlessly as she looked along the floor and saw what in other circumstances might have been the progression of some demented long snake or maybe a crazed garden mole burrowing its way along the passage.

The only sign of the vision of Timothy Edgecroft that remained as she finally got her breathing under control and managed to get back to as close to normal as was possible was a thin and wafting mist that hovered a few feet off the floor and was making its way through an unseen crevice where the wall met the floor. Susan cried out and shook all over as she realized she was still alive and unscarred, well, physically anyway. With time, Susan regained her feet, as her legs finally seemed to recall what their job was, but she stumbled when she first put all her weight on them and had to reach out to the wall to steady herself. She closed her eyes as a brief wave of vertigo raced through her.

Despite all that had happened and sure that it had been real, Susan counted to ten before opening her eyes again, praying she had somehow had some bizarre hallucination and that all she would see now was the long, dim corridor adorned with the artwork that Simpson and Allen had decorated it with. But when she opened her eyes, nothing had changed. The hallway looked like a war zone, with its flooring torn up for half its length and debris from broken glass and picture frames littering the way. She glanced at her watch, sure that several hours must have gone by since she had first come into the corridor from the kitchen, but unless it had been somehow affected by the melee as well, she saw that only about twenty minutes had passed.

Stepping over broken frames and avoiding as much of the shattered glass as possible, Susan began to slowly make her way back toward the kitchen. The farther she got away from the scene, the more stable her balance became, and by the time she got to where the other hallway fed into the kitchen, she was in a near run as she headed for the study to get David—something even worse might have happened to him while she had been busy wondering when Edgecroft or some other entity was about to end her life. As the fear and panic over that possibility set in—and it seemed just then that there could be no other explanation since David had never come to investigate what had been a deafening assault on her—Susan raced on, praying she was wrong and not too late.

29

Susan rushed up to the door to the study and slid to a stop, grabbing the door frame with one hand as she arrived to slow herself as she dreaded what she might find there, assuming David was still okay and had not had a similar visit from some resident of the Brandt no longer in human flesh. But as she regained her balance and stopped her momentum, Susan was stunned to see David still sitting at his desk, typing away as always. She was not sure now what was the more incredulous incident of the evening…having just encountered the calm, pleading, then rage-filled presence of Timothy Edgecroft or that David was still sitting there oblivious to all that had happened just moments ago.

Her panic and near-debilitating anxiety over possibly finding him dead or worse were supplanted with annoyance and an almost boiling over anger that he could possibly have ignored what she had gone through just now. Was he really so locked into this book that he could not have heard it all? Not to mention, how could he have been so callous and unfeeling to see if she was all right? Susan knocked loudly on the open door, now not giving a shit if she interrupted the “genius at work” any longer. Susan had never before been this angry at anyone she could think of, but unless there was a damn good reason, David would have some explaining to do.

David jumped in his seat and whirled around to look to see what was hammering away at the door when he caught sight of Susan standing there, glaring at him. “Susan!” he exclaimed, “you scared the shit out of me!”

She said nothing but just stood and stared at him, measuring her words before exploding in a rant that would seem as far out of character for her as he had ever seen.

Only then did David get up and came over to her, his expression one of shock and obvious incomprehension. “What the hell happened, Susan? You look as white as a sheet.”

It then dawned on Susan that something else was amiss at the Brandt. David might have a few minor character flaws; who didn’t? But he was truly in the dark about this. There was no way he could have heard it all and now just be pretending he had not. David Pragmore might be a great writer but acting…not so much.

“You mean, I look like I saw a ghost?” she replied sarcastically as her temper cooled.

David looked at her matted hair and her red-rimmed eyes, obviously from having been crying over something. That, plus her overall disheveled appearance, made him furrow his brow in total confusion. “Ghost? What the hell are you talking about, Susan?”

“You mean to tell me you didn’t hear all that racket just a few minutes ago?”

“Sorry, but it’s been as quiet as a church here. You’re a mess. Have you been outside in the rain or something?”

“No, David…I just…”

She stopped, knowing to tell him what had happened to her would just make him accuse her of having been dreaming or having some sort of hallucination. Susan knew showing him the carnage in the opposite hallway would be necessary before launching into a story that she hoped would finally change his position on the supernatural.

“Follow me. There’s something you need to see.”

David could see she was very upset about something, and though he hated to stop when he was rolling, in this case, he got up and went after her once he had saved his work. He walked along behind Susan, noticing that her gait was a bit wobbly. Though Susan was not that much of a drinker, David wondered if maybe she’d had one too many. They passed through the kitchen and then came out the other side as Susan began to lead him into the parallel corridor on the west side of the Brandt. She had picked up her speed as they had hit the kitchen, but as they came into the other hallway, Susan slowed to an amble as she looked down the length of the passage, peering as if she had never seen it before.

About a third of the way along, Susan came to an abrupt stop and flipped on the light switch located on the wall to her right, which lit up the dark corridor overhead situated the entire length of the space. Susan just stood and stared, not believing her eyes. There before her was the immaculate and expertly decorated passage, its hardwood floors gleaming in the reflected overhead lights from around the long, narrow Oriental runners that Simpson and Allen had put in place. All the artwork was sitting just where it had always been. The floor had no torn-up and disrupted furrow, and there was no debris anywhere to be seen.

David waited on her to explain, but he could see she was baffled and trying to work out something in her brain as they both stared down the hallway. When she remained silent for what was becoming an uncomfortable stretch, David spoke up.

“What am I looking for, Susan? I mean, it’s just the corridor that matches the other one.”

“No…” Susan said quietly, more to herself than to David. “It can’t be…I mean…it was all different.”

He was now getting worried about her and had no idea what she might have led him there to see.

“Different?”

“Yeah…just a few minutes ago…the floor was torn up…the artwork was all destroyed….”

David stared at her like she had lost her mind, but knowing Susan as well as he did, he was sure there was more to whatever it was that she had thought she had seen than explained by her disjointed and fragmented words now.

“What’s going on, Susan?”

“It, uh…I…can we sit down and have a drink?”

David nodded as he led the way back to the library, where they had left a bottle of scotch they had purchased to celebrate milestones over the book as David progressed. It was still three-quarters full, and David poured about an inch of the dark liquor into two glasses. He walked over and handed one to her and then sat facing her while she took a healthy swig and exhaled as the burn of the scotch ran down her throat.

Susan set her glass aside and then went through all the details of what she had seen and heard after she had left the kitchen earlier. Though David sat quietly and listened to her story patiently without interruption, she could see in his eyes that he was having trouble buying into the idea that the ghost of Timothy Edgecroft had appeared to her, ostensibly to attain help in disproving that he had committed suicide. He was well aware that Susan was still clinging to the core of what Maggie Gleason had filled her head with, but now it appeared as if Susan had unintentionally birthed some creation in her own mind to show that it was more than just an old woman’s tale.

30

Susan was as level-headed and grounded as anyone David knew, but unless she was experiencing some hallucinatory episode or had had some very realistic nightmare, there seemed to be no other explanation than she had just made this all up to try to sway him. But Susan was no liar, leaving David to suspect that her imagination and strong desire to get him to believe in the supernatural being at work at the Brandt were responsible.

When she was done, she threw back the last of her scotch and sighed.

“I know how incredulous and impossible it all sounds, David, but I swear, it really happened.”

He nodded and set his drink on the table beside her empty glass.

“So what about the hallway?” David said softly, trying to get her to see this for what it probably was.

“I can’t explain that, David…but I swear that was how it looked when I came to get you.”

“Okay, so this apparition, this emanation or whatever came to you, asking you to what was it…help make it right?”

“That is what he said.”

“And when you didn’t reply, that’s when it all went nuts?”

“I know how it all sounds, David, especially when the hallway looks normal now. Maybe I’m losing my mind.”

David finished off his own drink and looked at her while he held her hands in his.

“I don’t think you’re losing your mind, Susan. But what I do think is that maybe digging into all of the legends and stuff about the Brandt and Tibbets has made your mind overly susceptible to suggestion. I also realize your past experience is contributing to this as well. But there just seems to be nothing here to back up your story, okay?”

Susan said nothing, knowing this was David’s way of trying to be sensitive and supportive of her while simultaneously letting her know his stance on the supernatural had not changed…that it was just the stuff of movies and books. And quite frankly, if she had been in his shoes, she thought herself likely to see a situation like this just as he was. She also knew that he most likely suspected she had been drinking something a little stronger than herbal tea, but at least he’d had the decency not to suggest she had been drunk.

Without any proof of what had happened, and the fact that David swore he had heard nothing gave Susan real concern that he might, in fact, be closer to the truth than she was. Had she just been wandering around amid a nightmare? Or had she been the victim of some mind-altering hallucination brought on by her curiosity in the manor and Maggie Gleason’s story? Neither felt right in her gut or head, which left Susan the really terrifying last possibility: had perhaps this been real, but all in her head? Had everything she had come across in the last month or so been so vivid and alive in her subconscious that the spirit of Timothy Edgecroft had somehow managed to pry his way in and present all that had happened to her that night like some twisted, sordid movie?

That last notion, though horrifying to her, seemed utterly absurd. If David thought all things supernatural and paranormal were only the products of novelists and screenwriters, then boy, did she have an idea for him! No…that was just too over the top even for her to believe. Susan was still sure what had occurred had indeed been real, but she just could not explain it based on what was in front of her own eyes now.

Whatever the case, Susan knew she could not stay in this place another day. If all of this was just in her mind, either a dream or a hallucination, then remaining here was not going to make it any better. And if it were real and Edgecroft had somehow managed to either make all the proof vanish or had done it all in her mind’s eye, then she did not want to be around for Act II. She still could not shake the feeling that something much more might be on its way.

The fall semester was just around the corner as well, and Susan knew she would have to be heading home soon anyway for the faculty prep work before students returned. Maybe it would be better for her, in the long run, to just leave a bit early, put everything about the Brandt Manor in her rearview window, so to speak, and let David stay behind until he finished the book. It was obvious he needed this place to make the book happen and seemed totally unaffected by the possibility of any ghostly effects of the manor—real or not. Making David pack up and go back to Hartford seemed unfair and possibly taking a chance on putting him right back in the creative black hole he had been when they had left back in the late spring.

Besides, David was fully capable of taking care of himself and sure did not need all of her neuroses over the manor and the town to throw him off track. And Ralph Edmunds was always available in case things went really bad, she figured. David might not buy into hauntings but knowing that Ralph did to some degree was an added comfort should she take off and leave him behind. And if things got really nasty, it was not like she would be able to ward off any supernatural incursions anyway, like some Eastern European priest with a fistful of garlic and a wooden stake when the vampires came calling in Transylvania.

In a logical and measured proposal, Susan offered this scenario to David, and he seemed to understand while at the same time giving off the vibe that he was concerned about her state of mind, even back in Hartford, and being alone.

“I’ll be fine, David,” Susan replied when he voiced his concerns, “Lester and Helen Murray are right next door if I need anything. And once school kicks in, I will be much too busy to give the Brandt and Tibbets any real thought.”

She was actually more concerned for his welfare as he seemed utterly oblivious to everything around him when he was writing. Even if he did not believe in what she suspected was living among the current residents at the Brandt Manor, she thought he could be at risk. But she saved her breath; it was pointless. They both agreed that the next morning David would get Susan packed and then over to the train station so she could go back to Hartford while he stayed behind to polish off the book he owed to Charley as part of his new contract.

31

Susan’s sleep that night was troubled and slow to come but not causing her to toss and turn as she had on several nights since they had come to stay at the Brandt. She knew this was driven by her inability to decide just what she truly believed regarding all she had experienced and found out lately. On top of that, she was still not completely sure that having David stay behind was the best idea in case her worst fears came to fruition regarding the manor and whoever or whatever it was that might still be lingering on the property from years long gone by.

However, she knew that if he were to finish the book, there was no way she would ever talk him out of leaving before it was done. If he did and the issues with his creative flow came to a standstill when they got back to Hartford—as she was pretty sure they would—then she would never hear the end of it, as well as him having to go to Charley and explain. As it was, it seemed as if whatever might be going on in the manor that David did not, for the time being anyway, appear to be a target…that honor had been bestowed upon her.

Susan did not know if that was because she had made the decision to dig deeper into the background of the place, or perhaps it might just be that she was open to such ideas. If the ghost of Timothy Edgecroft had indeed come to her for help, it seemed likely to assume that it was because she was open to the idea and had lifted the lid off what had been a lie for almost fifty years…if Maggie Gleason were right. In all that had gone on, David had either been blissfully oblivious, had refused to accept any explanations for the weirdness other than some tangible logic he could see or touch, or was just not seen as a source of aid based on his skeptical mind.

When morning arrived, Susan was no closer to feeling a resolution in her mind about what she believed and knew she had not changed her mind. She was heading back home. Maybe, she said to herself, with her gone, whatever efforts to recruit some help by the Edgecroft spirit would just fade away when it saw there was no credible source of assistance to go to. She walked down the stairs and met David in the foyer as he was taking her last bag out to the car and slamming the trunk shut. She was exhausted and filled with anxiety as the time had come to drive over to the train station to head back home, but it would only be worse, she reckoned, if she did not pay attention to her intuition and stayed put.

Besides, school was to begin in less than a couple weeks, and then she would have no choice. Hopefully, David would have the rough draft of the book wrapped up by then, though she had absolutely no idea how far along he was. Her stomach was churning and her head throbbing with a headache that she had awoken with as David came back inside to see if she had anything else to take along.

“Still sure you want to take off, Susan?” he asked.

She sighed with resignation. “Yeah…real or not, I have let this place get under my skin, and I just can’t stay another day. Besides, school conferences begin the week after next, and then the kids will come streaming back, so I’d have to leave for that anyway.”

“Good point…”

“You sure about staying here on your own?”

“Absolutely. Until I get the entire rough draft in the can, there is no way I can take a chance on doing something to shut off the inspiration or whatever it is that seems to be driving me forward right now. There is too much on the line, both from a financial as well as a professional reputation level, for me to take that chance. Okay?”

Susan nodded and smiled weakly. “Any idea how much more you have to go on this one?”

“Nope. You know me. The story will be over and resolved when I get there, along with my characters. I still see several possibilities to take at this point, but I have no idea which of them will be where I end up and thus no idea how long it will take.”

“Okay…I’m just a bit concerned based on…you know…”

David nodded and hugged her. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. And like you said, Ralph is just around the corner. If anything really crazy begins to go on…”

She knew she had said that earlier, but now that she heard David parrot the words back to her, they sounded weak and useless. Susan was truly afraid that if something more serious happened in her absence, having Ralph Edmunds just down the road would be irrelevant. Hopefully, with her no longer in the manor, all would just cool down, but this was just an unknown that she knew she was grasping at to put her own mind at ease. With nothing more to discuss about their decision, Susan got into the car. David drove off, taking them back through Tibbets and to the train station in Salisbury.

Susan held David tight as the conductor announced the final boarding, not wanting to leave him behind but knowing this was how it had to be. She looked back at him through the window as the train pulled away, as a vision of an old movie from the 1940s, maybe a Humphrey Bogart or Peter Lorre film, flashed in her mind. David waved to her, and then he was gone from sight. Susan sat back in her seat and closed her eyes. Was this the last time she might see David?

David drove back to Tibbets and then out to the Brandt once again after stopping off at Janice’s Café for a quick lunch, knowing his meals from this point on while at the manor would be a sad version of what Susan had been preparing. He was capable of cooking, but that took time, and David wanted to sink every available minute he had into the book so he could get the first draft to Charley as soon as possible. He hoped she had perhaps loaded the freezer with some stuff he could easily whip up without it being too much of a distraction from his work. Lauren waited on him at the café and still seemed friendly enough, but in her eyes, he could still see she was a bit reserved with him now versus the time he and Susan had initially stopped by.

There was no real chit-chat or visiting with her as had happened back then…at least until she had found out why they were in Tibbets, which David was relieved about. He had no interest in explaining where Susan was and why he was alone, though he was sure it would eventually become public knowledge just like everything else in Tibbets. To some degree, she treated David like a stranger when she took his order and then brought him the check, and that was fine. David needed to get back to work, and a good portion of the day had already been eaten away with the trip over to Salisbury. He was not complaining, though. The trip had been necessary for Susan’s mental health and well-being. It was more that David was just anxious to get back at it to see where the storyline was going. It was times like this that he felt as much a part of his work as the protagonists he had created.

32

David jogged back inside after parking the car and headed for the study. Though it was mid-afternoon already, he gave it no mind as he knew his best productivity normally came in the evenings and late nights. But as he sat at the desk and waited for the laptop to power up, he was suddenly overcome with an unexpected sense of loneliness and isolation. Granted, his near hermit-like behavior with the writing was as solitary an experience as he could imagine; the manor now seemed extra cavernous and empty with Susan no longer around. She had never interrupted him or caused him any undue distractions when he was writing, but now, he realized how nice it had been just knowing she was close by.

The computer came to life, and he shrugged off the feeling of melancholy that had come over him, figuring it was just an initial reaction to her departure. David scrolled back through the last chapter he had written to get a better idea of just where he wanted the plot to go before just plowing ahead. But as he opened the new page for the next chapter, he was inexplicably lost as to how to proceed. Remembering how an old teacher of his had once recommended not overthinking as you wrote, David just plowed ahead, taking her advice and just putting words to the screen as if on autopilot. He stopped after a few minutes and read it over. It was horrible! He erased it all and began again.

That routine went on for several attempts until David was struck with the realization that the cold grip of the writer’s block was trying to worm its way back over him. What was happening just then was exactly the same frustration he had experienced back in Hartford, and he could feel an uncontrollable panic beginning to grow inside himself. What the hell was going on? What had happened to the steady flow of ideas and inspiration that had been dragging him along ever since he had set foot on the Brandt’s property? Nothing had changed. It was still the same house and the same room and….

Then it hit him.

No, it wasn’t. Well, physically, he supposed it was, but emotionally it had all changed. Susan had left. Had having her around been that critical to his newfound muse? Or was it just the break in his progress after the events that made her decide she could no longer stay in Tibbets? The longer he thought about this, the more David was inclined to take the latter thought as the best reason for his current drought. Whether he truly bought into her description of an encounter with the ghost of Timothy Edgecroft as real or not was irrelevant. But what was relevant to him was how real it had seemed to her and how concerned and worried he was for her afterward.

David assumed he was still carrying some of the emotional upset he had experienced seeing her so scared. That was what was coming between him and more of the book at the moment, he was sure. After staring at the blank screen for a few more minutes and trying to force the words to come to him, David saw it was no use and decided that even though it was a break he did not necessarily want just then, there was no point in letting the frustration and exasperation over it build until he was totally blocked again like back in Hartford. He shut off the laptop, grabbed a beer from the kitchen, and wandered to the library to scan through some of the stuff Susan had compiled about the Brant and its backstory from Maggie Gleason.

What he needed was a diversion to prevent his mind from going down a dark hole he did not want it to go. He had been quite dismissive of all that she had unearthed, and since Susan was not some flighty and gullible person, maybe he owed it to her to at least give the material a serious read. Besides, he told himself, maybe looking through all of that might even give him an idea he had not considered when it was time to get back to the book itself. Also, he knew his great progress so far had put him well ahead of the schedule he had imagined when he had begun, and certainly, one night off was not going to make much of a difference anyway.

Initially, David had thought everything Susan had unearthed might be an entertaining diversion at the least with the outside possibility of jump-starting his brain from its being stuck in this mire to a new direction for the book. He sipped at his beer and scanned over it all to get just an overview to see if some detail might grab his attention so he could get back to his writing. But nothing was really jumping out at him in that regard. But what did make him sit up and focus more intently was just how detailed and thorough her research had been and how logical and carefully crafted she had arranged her approach and progression.

Though he was still quite skeptical over all the paranormal aspects of her summary, which were peppered throughout her notes, the narrative over the background and this new theory on how an investigation to accept placing the blame on Timothy Edgecroft over the serial killings seemed to have been rushed and taken as more in desperation than truth. David began to see what Susan had been getting at as he read over the bullet points she had typed up as well as the handwritten questions she had jotted in the margins along the way.

With a few more professional sources for historical events in the area than were available to Susan, David began to wade into his own research to see if there might be anything of value to add that she might have missed or that was more substantial than just Maggie Gleason’s suspicions. For this, David wandered far outside just the local reporting on the incident and was shocked to find that it had gotten considerable press beyond the Connecticut state lines.

The 60s had been a time of great upheaval in the country. More than a few journalists had gotten drawn into the Tibbets case in editorials and other pieces as proof that even small, isolated towns in America were not immune to the wave of decline engulfing the country, at least that was the bias used to support the coverage. But putting that aside, David read deep into as many articles as he could dig up, finding the one common thread being that a panicked rush to accept Edgecroft as the guilty man was odd. However, it seemed no one anywhere really put any pressure on the police or prosecutors in Tibbets to look at any other possibilities. Edgecroft was their man, and that was that, and life went on both in Tibbets and elsewhere.

David sat back and took a long draw on his beer as he pondered it all. Though he had been quick to dismiss both Susan and Maggie Gleason when she had first told him about what she had found, David was beginning to wonder if there might, in fact, be something to it. He still felt the supernatural aspect within the manor itself was a stretch, asking him to believe utterly ridiculous and absurd ideas, but as to the crime wave itself and the somewhat questionable investigation that followed, that was a different situation altogether.

Even if it was just nothing more than an old woman’s wild imagination and accusations without solid proof, David thought that maybe a talk with Maggie might be worth his time. He was struck with the idea that once his current book was done, maybe this old and forgotten piece of Tibbets history might make an interesting research project. He had never really done any serious nonfiction writing before, not since he had been an undergraduate student and it had been a required assignment in a writing course he had been enrolled in. But with his name in the literary spotlight at present, he thought he might float the idea by Charley and see what he thought.

David was well aware that the book needed to get wrapped up before any of that, but at the moment, he still was not feeling any more inspiration or creative direction on what was to happen next than when he had sat down earlier, staring at a blank screen. It was frustrating for sure, but he knew from experience that trying to force himself to continue when his brain was disconnected from the work was a futile gesture. He was sure he just needed to let some time pass between what had been a fairly upsetting experience causing Susan to return home early and his next attempt at the novel’s conclusion. In the meantime, though, he thought his curiosity would not be quelled until he talked with Maggie Gleason.

33

Despite the small nature of Tibbets, David had absolutely no idea how to find Maggie Gleason, but he did recall that Susan had said an older waitress at Janice’s Café had been the one to tell her about Maggie. After a short but restful night, David popped into town and was relieved to find Lauren again nowhere in sight as he went inside the café and sat at the counter. He had no idea if the woman waiting on him was the same one who had helped Susan but seeing how the café seemed to operate on a small staff, David took a chance.

He introduced himself, and the woman smiled warmly as she recalled Susan’s visit vividly.

“Sure, I remember her, David. How is your book coming along, by the way?”

“It’s getting there,” David replied, not wanting to go into all the details of his temporary dry spell.

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, Susan came home with this really interesting story after meeting with Maggie Gleason, and it got my curiosity up. She said you were the one who told you about her.”

“That I was. She’s a real fixture here in Tibbets even though we rarely see her out and about much anymore.”

“Do you have a phone number for her?”

The woman chuckled. “I will tell you what I told Susan…just drop by. She won’t mind. I think she actually likes to have company, seeing as how she is not so mobile these days.”

She scribbled off an address and handed it to David.

“For your book?” she asked with a grin. “I mean…the reason you want to talk with her?”

David hated lying to people as much as Susan, but this time around, he had no choice. The last thing he needed getting out was that he might be poking around in the old murder case and how the police here might have botched the investigation.

“Possibly,” David replied as he sipped from his coffee to try to cover the lousy poker face he knew he had when he was forced to lie. “I’m at a crossroads in the novel, and I think based on what Maggie told Susan regarding some old history here in Tibbets that it might make an interesting addition to the plot.”

“Wow,” she replied with a smile, “that would be the biggest thing to hit town since…well…ever!”

David laughed with her, paid his check, and thanked her again before making a quick exit to avoid any further questions. Following her lead, David drove over to Maggie’s small cottage and went in when the gracious woman welcomed him with open arms when she found out he was Susan’s husband, the author. They chit-chatted a bit as David accepted her offer of tea, but he soon steered her to why he had come in the first place.

“Susan gave me a summary of what you suspect about the old Edgecroft suicide investigation, and it really got my curiosity worked up. Would you mind running through it again for me?”

“Not at all, David. In all this time, no one has really cared or even considered any other possibilities for what that poor boy got railroaded into, in my opinion anyway. I’d love to get your thoughts.”

David sat back and listened to her progress through her theory and suspicions. There was nothing really new that Susan had not already made thorough note of that he had already read, but all the same, it was still intriguing to hear Maggie tell her tale first-hand. As she went along, David’s naturally cynical and suspicious mind when it came to money and family inheritances gone awry began to grind its gears. He agreed with her that something seemed out of whack and that a police cover-up as well as some seemingly nefarious relatives—namely Diane Simpson and Frederick Allen—might have been up to something vile.

“Would it be possible for me to borrow that journal of Timothy Edgecroft that you came across, Maggie?”

“I suppose…as long as you promise to return it safely.”

“Absolutely. I can imagine how important it is to you after all this time.”

“You thinking of some sort of book or something about the whole mess?”

“It has occurred to me, Maggie. There just seem to be too many loose ends here, and quite frankly, from a purely financial and selfish personal interest, I think it would be of interest to the public. True crime stuff is hot these days. I just want to make some of my own notes and then run a rough proposal by my agent and the publishing house.”

“How interesting! You think it might cause enough of a stir to have anyone in an official capacity look at the old case again?”

David chuckled. “I appreciate your faith in my power to move mountains with my writing, Maggie, but nonfiction is not really my forte. However, it is an interesting premise, and when it comes to money, there are few motivators stronger to make people do desperate things to get it. But then again, you never know.”

She grinned at him knowingly before pulling out the worn and battered leather-bound journal and handing it over. David tucked it away in a deep pocket of his coat and assured her that it would be returned in the same condition as when she had given it to him before thanking her for her time and heading back to the Brandt. David rushed from the car to the manor as a sudden and heavy downpour came on as he wanted to keep his promise to Maggie about taking care of the journal. The rain continued to pound down as David slipped into the foyer and shut the door solidly behind him to block off the strong gusts that had begun making the rain move at an angle. He laid the journal aside, exhaling in relief when he saw that he had protected it well from the storm, and he hung up his dripping coat and wiped the water from his face.

A distant rumble of thunder echoed across the sky back toward Tibbets as David slipped on a sweater to ward off the growing chill of the afternoon. He collected the journal and then headed for the library to read through its entirety to see if what Edgecroft had supposedly recorded back in his youth really lined up with how Maggie had interpreted it. There were quite a number of pages included in the log, but as he read, David was just drawn ahead, his curiosity and wonder held fast as he came to see that Maggie’s interpretation of the journal was spot on…at least to him. She had not seemed to put any personal spin on the record, and David was now sure she was actually onto something.

He knew this was not where his priorities should be focused at the moment—he was neglecting the novel sitting patiently on his laptop for him to come back to it—but the journal had completely consumed his attention, and his commitments to Charley had become an afterthought. He went back to the study and pulled out a legal pad and made notes for himself, using the journal as a guide, so he could see without all the minutiae of Edgecroft’s entries just what the key points were for a proposal to suggest that the suicide might not have been so clear cut. What David wanted was a concise set of possibilities and suspicions that he had come away with if he were to propose that the death of Timothy Edgecroft had been more than it had been accepted as back in the 1960s.

34

For the next hour or so, David jotted down notes, going back and forth between the journal and his own interpretation on the yellow pad, as well as some keen insight from Susan in her evaluation. Satisfied that he had summarized the key points that might lead him to a proposal to Charley for investigative inquiry into it, he sat back and scanned his scribbling to see how it felt to him:

A wealthy owner who made the decision to rewrite his will, making his favorite nephew the sole beneficiary of his home, thus bypassing the normal succession arrangement of heirs.

A contentious and combative fight in probate following the reading of the will when Simpson and Allen discovered they had been cut out of the expected inheritance of Brandt Manor

A rushed and highly suspect investigation by a detective who seemed to be acting more under the pressure of public opinion and media editorials to solve the crime spree than to get to the truth

Once the investigation was over and declared “solved,” the same detective mysteriously vanished from Tibbets even though he had been praised by his fellow officers and the mayor for finding the murderer. It seemed as if he would want to stay put and revel in his success, but as soon as the verdict came down officially, Morrison was nowhere to be found, and no one had heard from him since.

In her margin notes, Susan had jotted a question about him being worn out from all the pressure he had been under and that maybe he had just decided it was time to retire. But then she had written a note saying Detective Morrison was far from retirement age and had crossed out her inquiry. According to Maggie Gleason, Morrison was just scraping by financially prior to the case, and it made no sense to her how someone like that could just drop out with no warning. Plus, she had made it clear that Morrison just felt like he was up to something—playing all the angles while he did his job.

This is where Susan had written in all caps:

CORRUPT COP???

COVER-UP???

IN COLLUSION WITH SIMPSON AND ALLEN???

And to top off the whole fiasco, Simpson and Allen were now the legal and joint owners of the Brandt when the inheritance that they felt they had been cheated out of had come to them based on a codicil in the will. Upon Edgecroft’s death, they were next in line.

David read his notes over a second time, and though he still had no more concrete evidence than either Maggie or Susan did, the whole thing just stunk to him. It reeked of circumstantial evidence, but without the proverbial smoking gun, all he really had was just another suspicion based on his naturally cynical mind of the world and what lengths people often went to when large sums of money were at stake. The real gap in proving anything untoward was Edgecroft’s death itself. David was sure it could be done by people in the know about such things, but overall, he reasoned that making a murder look like suicide was not as easy as they made it look on television.

And while Simpson and Allen might indeed be guilty of such a thing, it seemed perhaps beyond the scope of everyday people. Unless they had hired help, he pondered…Was that where Morrison had come into play? Had there been some payday for setting Edgecroft up to take the blame for the crimes so they could assume control of the Brandt? David shook his head and laughed at how carried away he was letting himself get just then. This is why, he said to himself, you write fiction, my friend.

It would make a great story, he supposed, but as far as trying to make it a serious investigative one, that seemed unlikely. With his lack of real talent in that arena plus just a bunch of unsubstantiated rumors, all David could see such an effort leading to was an expensive slander suit from Simpson and Allen that might very well bankrupt both him and Charley.

But what he did have, he considered, was a great idea for a fictionalized adaptation of what Maggie Gleason suspected in combination with what the officials had decided was really at play when they saw Edgecroft as the killer following his suicide based on feeling guilty over the crimes. He took his notes as well as Susan’s materials and created a new folder that went into his “possible new ideas” file that he wanted to run by Charley once he finished the new book. And speaking of which, David knew he had blown off way too much time on the Edgecroft investigation. It was time to suck it up and get back to work. Otherwise, there would be no new projects between him and Charley.

David downed the last of his beer and fired up his laptop again, ready to get back on track after an interesting but quite frankly pretty nonproductive diversion. It was late, but then again, he knew that was when he often kicked into high gear. He exhaled, his fingers poised over the keyboard, as the blank page for the new chapter stared back at him. Once again, he made several valiant attempts to forge ahead, but each time he found himself disgusted and embarrassed with what he had typed relative to what he felt had been real gold so far. That old fear of writer’s block again wrapped around his heart like an icy claw, and David felt lost.

What the hell was wrong with him? Had he really lost his focus and direction for good? He could feel his heart pound with anxiety as a wave of inescapable panic began to build inside him. He had thought that maybe Susan’s departure had thrown him off his game temporarily and that after delving into something completely unrelated that it would give him the time to recover. But after all the time he had just spent on the Edgecroft case, nothing had changed. This was no longer just some bothersome chink in his work that would pass with time, it seemed, but a real concern that he was about to become a “one-and-done” writer in an analogy to rock and roll bands that had one hot singe and then just faded away into obscurity.

David did not especially care about the fame and the spotlight. In fact, all those things that came along with his success annoyed him, but he did not want to blow apart the faith and expectations that everyone around him who had supported him without question had offered. Plus, what was he to do moving ahead if his contract with Charley got voided? Word would soon spread, and it was likely he would never publish anything again with the label of failure hanging around his neck like an albatross. Writing was all he knew how to do, but he would almost rather just flip burgers somewhere than go back to a soul-draining job like he had held at The Hartford Courant.

35

David could feel himself slipping into an abyss of depression, panic, and self-reproach all simultaneously as he finally gave up for the night and shut off the laptop. He had no idea what to do or what else to try to climb out of this quagmire that he seemed to be slipping into gradually ever since Susan had taken off. David went to the kitchen and opened another beer and drank as he stared out into the dark of the night. He could not do it tonight based on how late it had become and that it would throw her into a panic of her own, but maybe just hearing her voice would snap him out of this. But the more thought he gave that, the less it felt like a good idea. Whatever was going on with him, this was his problem to solve. All a call home would do would unnerve Susan and likely make her want to race back to Tibbets.

He polished off the beer in several big gulps and then shut off the lights as he went heading to bed and hoping a new day would present him with a clean slate and a solution to this new block. But as David lay in bed, he tossed and turned, not able to let go of his worry that maybe he had reached the end of a very short writing career. When he looked over at the clock and saw it was 2 am and that he had been restless for over an hour, David gave up and threw back the covers in anger and frustration as he shouted an expletive to the empty manor.

Though it made no logical sense, he went back to the office, retrieved the “possible new ideas” file, and pulled out the material about Edgecroft again. Later on, David could not have said why he did this exactly but told Susan it was like this unseen force was pulling him to the material when he was blocked over the novel and could not sleep. In the dim light from the desk lamp, David plowed through it all one more time as if there was some magical bit of information that had somehow escaped his eye before. But nothing new came to light. It was just the same information from before that he had decided was unsubstantiated to make any more of it than just rumor. However, later on, David would readily see why this force or feeling that came to him was vital in everything he experienced after…

But as he put away the file one more time, David finally felt fatigue coming on that he knew was going to allow him to finally nod off for good. With weariness and downtrodden posture, David once again made his way upstairs and fell into bed thoroughly exhausted, and before he knew it, he was fast asleep. The last thing David recalled before dropping off was that at least the repetition of the Edgecroft material had been enough to dim his bulbs, even if he were still chastising himself for not making any more progress on the novel or finding anything new that would provide a solid and tangible thread of evidence in the Brandt Manor mystery.

* * *

Once asleep, David drifted into dreamland almost immediately, which was not unusual for him. Ever since he had been a kid, he had rarely woken in any given day in which he could not recall having had at least one dream that he could pull up and describe with ease. He supposed this part of his makeup was what gave him his ability to write with such great depth and description in his novels. But even as a young boy, David could not recall the themes or subject matter of any of the dreams being overly disturbing or frightening. Most of his dreams growing up seemed to be more along the lines of performing acts that his human body would never have allowed or seeing incredible sights that defied the physical laws of nature.

However, on this night, David found himself in the middle of what he would truly have characterized as a nightmare, his first one ever, despite his recent descent into writing horror themes. In this dream, David found himself walking down a long and deserted corridor that was dimly lit, but the source of the lighting was mysteriously absent. In a lot of ways, it resembled the double passageways of the Brandt, but the walls in the dream were rough and grainy as if they had been hand-dug eons ago.

There were no paintings along the hallway either and no doors anywhere that he could see that offered any way out of the long walkway. It was just this dark, dank hallway that seemed to run on forever with no end in sight. David walked along the length of it at a casual and measured pace as though he were searching for someone or something, but in the dream, that purpose seemed unknown. There was no sound other than the soft echo of his footsteps off a hard-packed dirt floor. Then with no warning, a soft violet glow began to form far away from where he was, having just shown up from out of thin air as there seemed to be no way in or out.

He did not know why in the dream, but David went toward the enticing light more out of curiosity and a feeling that he just needed to go closer. As he continued down the corridor, the light got brighter and larger and was soon filling the entire width and height. Finally, David reached the outer perimeter of the glowing orb, and he stood still as the color deepened a bit and then quickly took on a human shape of a man just about his size standing just a foot or two away. David supposed that under ordinary circumstances, this experience should have frightened him, but here in his dream, it did not feel threatening. The man exhibited rough facial features letting David know he was a human being, but not so well-defined that David could say who he was or if he recognized him.

It was only when it spoke to him, in a manner that a friend might converse, that David began to feel something was just not right. He felt his feet stuck in place as the vision began speaking, somehow unable to flee even though that was exactly what he would like to have done had he felt he had control over his physical body. But the words that came to David, though easily understandable and clear in their content and meaning, felt as though they were all in his head as the mouth of this thing never opened.

“Do you know who I am, David?”

David felt an icy blade of fear along his spine, wondering just how this thing knew his name…even in a dream.

“I do not,” David replied out loud.

“I thought not. So based on my limited time here and how you feel about beings such as myself, I will be quick.”

David said nothing but just stood, unable to move as the thing went on.

“I know you may not believe in me, but my name is Timothy Edgecroft. I’m sure I don’t need to go into any more explanation based on what you already know. I know you’re desperately looking for some answers and some evidence regarding my demise at the Brandt, so listen carefully and then decide what you will do with it.”

David, even in his dream form, felt weak and terrified. In just a few moments, the Edgecroft apparition went into as much detail as he felt he had time to describe to David how his distant cousins, Diane Simpson and Frederick Allen, had set him up to take the fall for the unexplained murders in Tibbets back in 1969. He also told him that his suicide had—as Susan and Maggie had theorized—been staged with the help of a friend that Frederick had on the Tibbets police force. The plan, which was readily accepted by just about everyone, was to make their desire to have privacy translated into being a homicidal loner open up ownership of the Brandt for them.

“There are obviously more nuances to this situation, David, but as I said, my time is short, and I’m sure an intelligent guy like you can connect the dots with this framework. It’s true, and I’m counting on you to take this knowledge and bring it to life.”

“Wait!” David cried, “I—”

But before he could utter another word, the apparition dissipated into a whirling mist and was gone and David was standing alone again in the corridor that seemed to have to way out on either end.

36

David then woke suddenly gasping for breath and drenched in sweat, still trying to understand what had happened. After a few moments, he came to realize it had been just a dream, but the reality of it was so rich and textured that the conclusion was slow in coming to him. He looked out through the window to see it was still dark outside, but the storm from earlier had passed, leaving a clear sky full of stars. He felt like he had been asleep for a long time, but the clock indicated that it was but 4:30 am. David tossed his sweaty gym shorts and T-shirt that he had been wearing into the hamper and put on dry clothes before walking to the bathroom and splashing cold water onto his face.

He looked at himself in the mirror as water clung to his eyebrows, nose, and chin and dripped into the sink below. The two-day-old stubble on his face felt prickly as he ran his hands over it and made him feel years older as he gazed at his reflection. But it was not just his whiskers that made David feel older than he was; it was the dream he realized as he reached for a hand towel and wiped away the remaining water from his face. All he could think of at the moment was where the hell had that come from and what did it mean? And what was he supposed to do with it? To David, dreams had always just been that and nothing more, but he was not so sure this time. Certainly, his obsession over the Edgecroft case in the last twenty-four hours or so had likely brought it on, but now what?

As he went back into the bedroom, David had the sudden and wild notion that made him come to a complete stop. He sat heavily as he pondered the options of what had just filtered into his brain. If it all had just been a dream, that was one thing, though he knew as well as anyone that sometimes your subconscious offered you a dream for reasons that might have some other purpose. But what if it had been something else altogether? This was what had made him sit before his legs gave out. Because this consideration would require him to suspend his previous skepticism over the paranormal, and David was not sure he was ready for that just yet.

For the sake of argument, he let his mind suppose that ghosts and all could be a real thing. And if they were, then had Edgecroft somehow gotten inside his head? He knew that sounded as wild as any horror novel’s premise that he had come across in his time, and the more he thought about it, the more ludicrous and laughable it felt. No, he told himself, that is crazy. It was just all the talk from Susan about ghosts and haunted houses topped off by the inordinate amount of time he had been spending on the case of Timothy Edgecroft. Just a dream…period.

But even so, was his subconscious trying to show him that there might be a way to show that Edgecroft had been innocent and Simpson and Allen were the real murderers? Not the serial killers, he did not think, but of Edgecroft. Certainly, if he could find some way to link all of this together, it sure seemed likely. But for now, he was no closer to finding that connection than when he had gone to bed, even with Edgecroft laying it out from beyond the grave. For now, what David did know was that there would be no more sleep that night. He got up and went downstairs to put on a pot of coffee while he mulled over what to do next. He really needed to work on the novel, but there was no reason to believe that his creative block had somehow magically lifted following his few hours of sleep. Besides, his mind was being pulled in so many different directions just then that concentrating on the book would have been impossible.

David was padding through the hallway on his way to the kitchen to fire up the coffee maker when he saw the unmistakable glow of his laptop emanating from the study and into the dark hallway. He was sure he had turned it all off before he had gone to bed, but with all that was going on right then, nothing was a given. David grimaced as he hated to put any extra burden on the internal battery that was unnecessary, and he turned to go shut it off while he made coffee. But as he neared the open door of the study, though, he slowed his pace as the soft tap-tap-tapping of the keyboard was drifting across the study.

He froze in his steps, his mouth agape as he watched the keys go up and down as though someone was madly typing away. The only problem was that his chair was empty and there was no one near the laptop. Script rapidly filled the empty pages as new pages came up only seconds after the last one had been filled. David finally broke from his inertia and went closer. Once he got within an arm’s length away from the desk, the typing stopped. David scrolled the new pages back to the beginning and read:

help me make it right help me make it right help me make it right help me make it right

help me make it right help me make it right help me make it right help me make it right

help me make it right help me make it right help me make it right help me make it right

help me make it right help me make it right help me make it right help me make it right

The phrase was typed over and over with no spacing either from side to side or top to bottom, and David saw that the character count was in the thousands over about a dozen pages or so. It had not added to nor replaced any of his manuscript—thankfully, he sighed—but just set up as a new document. David did not erase any of the script or shut off the computer as he had planned. He knew then that he had not inadvertently or absent-mindedly left it on. He just walked out of the room and down to the kitchen, where he put on some coffee as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. As the coffee percolated and dripped, David was really in the mood for something way stronger than caffeine. But he knew better after what had happened because he was afraid that if he began drinking just then, he might never stop.

37

David waited patiently as the coffee maker finally finished up and poured himself a large mug as he went to the table near the window that looked out on the property between the manor and the forest in the back. He felt like he was swimming against a strong current as he sat and tried to decide just what was going on, what he could accept, and what to do next. All that this trip had been designed for initially was to try to lift him out of the creative black hole he had found himself in back in Hartford. Though he had known superficially of the wild rumors and local legends surrounding the Brandt Manor, he had never taken any of it seriously. I mean, all those things were just the stuff of entertainment and a child’s imagination, weren’t they?

With all due respect to Susan and taking into account what she had experienced while a student at Wesleyan, David still refused to acknowledge that any of it really existed. But following the nightmare and now this new mystery typist, what other explanation was there to make sense of it? Either he was truly losing his mind—which David thought a highly unlikely scenario, though possible, he supposed—or he would have to alter his belief system and consider that there might, in fact, be something to a world of supernatural and paranormal life. What was really chilling him now, though, was that he suddenly realized that the phrase that had been typed over and over on his screen was the same one that Susan had said the Edgecroft being had said to her in the vision she had described just prior to her departure.

Apparently, Susan had endured some horrific and traumatic experience when younger—though she had still not revealed any specific details to him—that had made her have no doubts that it was all very real. In all the time he had been with her, both before and after they had been married, David had never known Susan to be anything but grounded and measured in her thinking and decisions. With that in mind, and with what had come to him in just the last few hours, David decided it might be time to let go of this adamant skepticism that he’d had held on to for so long. What had originally been a desperate plan to find his literary voice again had now dropped him into the middle of a possible haunted house—an actual one he reasoned—as well as an old murder mystery that he could not let go of, even though the unfinished book sat on his laptop, waiting for him.

Even if he had not been overcome with a second wave of writer’s block, David did not see how he could possibly get back to it with any semblance of quality and believability while this murder mystery was filling his mind. It might, in fact, be the end of his association with Charley and the lucrative contract he was under, but turning in a hackneyed and poorly completed submission for their review seemed more troubling to David than just saying he was unable to meet the milestones that had been set. Maybe he could explain to Charley all that had happened since he had begun the project—except the ghost issues, of course—and he would understand and give him some extra time.

For now, though, David was back to how the message from Timothy Edgecroft as well as the new script on his computer—he assumed Edgecroft was the typist—would help him try to come up with a case to get someone in authority to take another serious look at what had happened back in 1969. By the time he had finished his coffee, David was utterly convinced that the spirit of Timothy Edgecroft was indeed still in residence at the Brandt. From articles he had read over time regarding supposed paranormal events, David recalled the recurrent theme of how spirits with violent deaths or an unresolved association with their earthly lives might be stuck. That they were somehow trapped in a space, unable to move on to wherever it was that these beings were to go until the trauma surrounding their demises were addressed and then healed.

In the past, David had laughed this off as fanciful and wishful thinking to explain phenomena he was sure had some logical and rational explanation if the believers in such things were not so eager to embrace a supernatural agenda. Much like how the people of Tibbets had been so eager and willing to accept Edgecroft as the serial killer without any real solid evidence, David had seen believers in the paranormal behaving likewise. But that was then, and his present situation made him evaluate everything that had gone on in the Brandt in a whole new light.

However, the question remained of what to do next. He supposed he could consult with Maggie Gleason again, but as he thought back to his long meeting with her just a day before, David did not think that talking to her again would provide any real new clues. All that Maggie had on her side was her own suspicions based on her long history in town and the journal from Edgecroft’s youth. The same journal that David now had in his possession. It occurred to him to read back through it as well, but that seemed as useless an exercise as calling on Maggie again. His multiple reads and concise summary of Edgecroft’s recordings and his own conclusions were so vivid that David was sure he could almost quote passages from the journal by heart.

So how could he go about trying to link a journal record that merely suggested a motive for Simpson and Allen from decades prior—one of youthful jealousy and resentment or possible envy—to Maggie’s suspicions and some visits from a ghost? What he needed was tangible proof, and that was the one item that seemed to be in short supply at the moment. In fact, bringing up the paranormal aspect was likely only to make things worse and possibly even get him committed for observation in some facility as Simpson and Allen would easily be able to say his imagination and what he did for a living—write wild and creative fictional tales—had tainted his mind and his grasp on reality.

If he looked at that possibility subjectively, David realized he would have to agree. As far as most everyone in Tibbets was concerned, the case against Timothy Edgecroft was over and closed. It was one no one cared to discuss anymore, like it was some bandage over a wound that no one thought to rip off, making the wound bleed again. Even the mere mention of the Brandt Manor seemed to freak people out. Other than Maggie Gleason herself, David could not recall anyone he had spoken to in Tibbets who did not clam up and pale visibly when the property was spoken aloud. He sighed with disappointment and frustration as his next move seemed beyond his grasp.

But as David went to the sink and gazed out at the subtle hues breaking across the morning sky as the sun began its climb toward the eastern treetops, and he rinsed out his mug and set it in the drain rack, a couple ideas came to him. Both were long shots, he knew, but for the time being, it was all he could come up with, and he had to start somewhere. Hopefully, one of them would pan out to point him to the next place for help. And if not, well, then he supposed he would finally just have to let the whole thing go and get back to why he had come to Tibbets in the first place.

The first idea that popped into David’s brain was Ralph Edmunds. Certainly, Ralph was just as much of a believer in the paranormal as Susan. However, his beliefs came from things he had seen and heard away from the Brandt. That was the downside. If he had been completely honest with David, that was. He was sure that Ralph had not been deliberately dishonest with him when he asked if he had seen such things during his tenure at the manor, but maybe he had just not wanted to scare them off following the “kitchen incident.” It might be worth a second visit with him and get his feelings after laying out all that he and Susan had experienced during their stay.

However, his second thought soon became the primary notion moving forward, even being a stab into the dark. It had been a lot of years since Detective Morrison had fled Tibbets following the conclusion of the Edgecroft investigation. And perhaps the atmosphere and climate at the police department had grown and evolved since those days. Maybe Morrison had been an outlier of questionable procedures. If Maggie Gleason were not the only one who felt that way, that is, and there might be someone still around who, if not directly involved in the investigation, might have some access to the filed reports that he could talk them into letting him take a peek at.

This latter possibility seemed to hold more promise as David realized that any surviving officer involved in the actual investigation would have to be almost as old as Maggie Gleason by now and either long retired or deceased. After a brief consideration of these ideas, David decided that taking a run at the police department was his best first ploy. He had not ruled out speaking to Ralph Edmunds completely, but an official report might give him the credibility he was looking for to launch a new accusation. As an aside, there might also be someone still around the force who had not been so keen on how the investigation had been run and willing to offer something not in any official report.

If he could get anything from either of those possibilities, David felt he could begin a serious and genuine inquiry with the current police personnel to reopen the old case. With how residents in Tibbets were inordinately averse to talking about it and how long ago it had all been “solved,” David realized this would be an uphill battle. And for sure, Diane Simpson and Frederick Allen would not take a new inquiry lying down. Any new probing would put their acquisition of the Brandt Manor at risk and throw a major wrench into their financial future. David made a mental note to keep that in mind before making any official request to take another look. Based on what he suspected had actually happened back in 1969, he saw no reason that the pair would hesitate to do whatever they felt necessary to protect their interests.

38

David slogged back to the study once he had cleaned up in the kitchen and the sun had broken over the tops of the towering trees east of the manor. His night of disturbed sleep had made his body lethargic, but his brain was still firing on all cylinders. He collapsed onto the sofa off to the side of his work area and ran his hands over his scratchy face as he tried to create a plan of action. Even the large dose of caffeine he had just downed was beginning to wear off. He looked over at the laptop, now sitting closed and quiet after he had deleted the mystery typing and shut off the power. In fact, he was so paranoid over it by now that he even disconnected the computer from the electrical cord that ran to the outlet in the wall.

It was ridiculous, he supposed, but he was taking no chances on getting another guest writer dropping in. Though in his new shaky but growing belief system over the paranormal, he supposed that if Edgecroft were determined to keep prodding at him for help and had decided that speaking to him through his computer screen was the most optimal, then shutting off the power to the machine was a useless gesture. As that thought passed through his churning mind, David shook his head, smiled grimly, and laughed to himself at how this concept would have been out of the question for him just days earlier.

Overlying that issue was his unfinished book…and reminding himself that that was why he was here and that his future livelihood as an independent writer depended on having a final product—at least in a rough draft anyway—to submit before Charley’s patience and generosity with him ran out. David stared at the square form of the laptop, knowing it was calling to him but feeling in his bones that he had nothing new or creative to add just then. It made him feel embarrassed and disappointed in himself, but with his mind preoccupied on this mystery over Timothy Edgecroft and his envious relatives, David knew any efforts at continuing with the book would be futile. It was pointless until he could resolve the mystery…one way or the other.

David wanted to pursue this new approach to digging up any new information that might help him attain a real and viable case against Simpson and Allen, but he knew he needed to give this some real thought and planning before just barging into the police station and demanding they hand over the old investigative reports, assuming they still existed. From his experience in Hartford working at The Courant, David knew police there held onto everything. Even if old files were relegated to some dank and rarely visited storage facility or the files got digitized and exiled to “the cloud,” they never got rid of anything. There were just too many over-eager lawyers out there these days who might want to re-open some case.

The last thing the police needed, with their overall shaky reputation with the public at the moment, was to have to say, “Well, gee…We would love to help you out, but darned if the files accidentally got shredded or discarded.” But this was Tibbets and not a city where there was a larger police force with more personnel in charge of such things. And as Ralph Edmunds and Sarah Fitzgerald had both pointed out when David and Susan had arrived, there had been rarely, if any, serious crime in Tibbets.

Granted, this was probably the most serious one that had ever popped up there, but if, in fact, the investigation had been as questionable and unprofessional as Maggie Gleason was suggesting, then it was also likely the official files had been discarded quickly to add to a possible cover-up from Detective Morrison before he fled town. With this in mind, David had to temper his optimism for getting anything out of a visit to the precinct in Tibbets, as well as the high likelihood that there would be a wall put up since he was just a temporary resident. And on top of it all, no one appeared willing to even talk about the Brandt anymore.

But he had to at least give it a shot. There was always the outside chance that some cop somewhere was untouched by what might have been an order to squash any remnants of the old investigation to protect the department’s reputation and integrity. So what was his strategy, then? The sun was glaring through the window off to his right, and David decided to take advantage of this sunny day, which seemed to be a rare event over the past week, to take a stroll and formulate an approach. He had often found walking and thinking had worked well for him when trying to come up with a new idea for a book. Maybe this would extend to this situation as well. Besides, he was afraid if he just sat and stewed, he would soon either fall asleep or just continue his self-flagellation over ignoring his book.

David sighed and forced himself to his feet and set off to walk around the property on a faint game trail that went back into the dense woods he had passed routinely when he had come and gone from the manor to town. The branches lower down on the trees and the dense brush that had grown to a height of about mid-calf impinged on the path as David made his way through the initial opening from the road to the bulk of the forest, but the trail was easy to pick up and stay on thanks to the deer and other natural inhabitants of the land where the Brandt Manor had been constructed.

Even though he was not the outdoors aficionado Susan was, he still had an appreciation for the natural beauty and solitude of places off the beaten track. He smiled slightly as he appreciated just how careful and respectful that old Phillip Brandt had been when he had built the manor. He had cut away only what was absolutely necessary for the house plus some limited open greenery as opposed to the modern-day technique of clear-cutting everything in sight because it made the construction process easier. Perhaps it was just the era when it had been built, he supposed, but somehow he got the feeling that Phillip Brandt had possessed a deep degree of respect for the land as well as the people of Tibbets.

David continued moving further into the woods, pushing aside intruding vegetation when need be as he let in the fresh air and mild breeze trying to make its way through the trees. He was still quite tired from his lack of sleep the night before, but being out in nature was beginning to wash away his fatigue and allow his mind to tap into a strategy that he hoped would be his best bet at finding a crack in the “thin blue line” of the Tibbets police force. The longer he hiked and the more his body got some long-overdue exercise, David began to form an idea, as he tried to put himself in Susan’s mindset and intellect, that he thought had a better chance of success than other possibilities.

David knew himself well enough to know that being direct and sometimes oblivious to others’ feelings and sensitivities would be a liability here. It was not that he purposefully meant to be rude or impertinent, but just part of who he was from time to time. Of the two of them, Susan was the diplomat and the one with the softer touch that drew people to her way of thinking even when deep inside they might not agree with her point of view. He began up a nearly imperceptible rise in the terrain as the thin sheen of sweat on his face and down across his chest and back began to coalesce into fat droplets. He came out into a slight clearing at the top of the rise to see a small pond that he had recalled Susan going on about in some detail at dinner one night following having hiked here.

David found a large, flat rock just off the edge of the water, and he sat to catch his breath and wipe away the sweat from his eyes as a blessed cool breeze wafted his way, sending a series of slight ripples over the placid, glassy surface of the pond. After a few deep exhalations, David opened his eyes and looked across the water to the other bank where a pair of white-tail deer had emerged from the trees to get a drink. He smiled as the image of Susan came to him at once. Just how would Susan go about trying to manipulate—well, maybe manipulate was a bit harsh. Perhaps influence was a better choice of words—officials in town to let her have a look at the investigative reports surrounding the Edgecroft case?

The deer looked up from their brief stop to stare at David, and then as if by magic, an approach and strategy came to him. It was so obvious and impossible to miss. David had no idea how he had not been able to divine it on his own back in the manor. It was definitely not in his wheelhouse, so to speak, of how he interacted with people in general, but he supposed he could pull it off with some determination and finesse. He stood, smiled, and offered a mock salute to the deer as he touched his index finger and middle finger of his right hand to his brow in thanks for their inspiration before the timid creatures leaped back into the trees with no warning.

39

After taking a quick shower, David returned to the study and sat at his desk to map out just what approach he was planning on using with the police. Based on his own realization of what a lousy actor he was and even worse liar, David thought it in his best interests to sketch out a brief outline of how he imagined the dialogue might go when he went to inquire about the old investigative reports. Though he had never really used an outline or an overview of any kind when he wrote, this was a different scenario. This was not just another one of his fictionalized narratives, though the heart of his idea here was going to be a bald-faced lie.

Mapping out his approach to try to match what he imagined Susan might use plus what he had already told the one waitress over at Janice’s, David sat back and reviewed what he had written to see if it looked as believable in print as it had when it had formed in his mind. Seeing as how Tibbets was so small and that any conversation seemed to be public knowledge within a matter of days, David thought it best to not try to contradict or even come up with an alternative justification for wanting to see the reports than he had given the woman at the café when he was tracking down Maggie Gleason.

Maybe he was just overthinking it, he mused, but if word began to spread of multiple stories from the visiting author about long-buried events in Tibbets, he was afraid it would raise too many eyebrows and kill any possibility he had of finding out anything more definitive before he had a real chance to look. He had told the woman he wanted to speak with Maggie in order to possibly use some historical details from Tibbets as part of a plot twist or new avenue in the book. Keeping that in mind, David thought the same ploy should be adhered to as closely as possible when he went to the police precinct.

He did not necessarily need to follow that script verbatim but sticking close to the central theme of that story, he figured, would prevent anyone in town from asking why the visiting writer was asking so many questions about an issue, that almost without exception, the residents of Tibbets wanted to be left alone…the old “let sleeping dogs lie” aphorism. With a slight twist of what he had said so far, David decided to go to the police, saying he wanted to add a new side story to the book's main plot. That what he was thinking of doing was to interject a subplot of a crime that had appeared, which would eventually impact his main protagonist as he struggled with his own inner demons from a former life as a fugitive.

David scripted his upcoming dialogue with the police to say he had heard of this old crime wave in Tibbets and that there might be some aspects of the crime itself, as well as the investigation that followed to solve it, that would add an air of reality and believability for his purposes in the novel. He read it over a third time, making notes and slight edits as he went, trying to prepare for what he suspected was going to be a hard sell, but then sat back and decided to go with what he had created. It would be a long shot, he knew, but seeing how excited the waitress at Janice’s had been when he had mentioned the possibility of Tibbets and its residents being incorporated into the new novel, it seemed worth the gamble. Hopefully, there would be a cop or two anxious to see himself portrayed in print as well. At least Tibbets was not some major city where police mentalities ran cynical and suspicious by nature. Maybe small-town cops still had some shred of naivete and would be more open to this ploy.

When David set aside the legal pad, he was shocked to see that the day was almost done, and the long shadows of the late afternoon were stretching across the open space of the manor’s property, the tall tree trunks casting thin shaded towers like gnarled, bony fingers of a giant hand. Feeling it was a good sign of a successful day’s work, David stood and stretched before heading to the kitchen to fix some dinner and make an early night of it in order to have his wits fully about him for his trip to the police precinct in the morning.

* * *

David arose, feeling well-rested and ready to put his plan into action. Even though his productivity on the book had been far beyond what he had anticipated when they had left Hartford, and he had always seemed to be filled with energy and inspiration when he had been writing—at least until the last few days anyway—it had been a long time since he had experienced such a restful night. He had been wondering if Edgecroft or some other entity might again visit him in his dreams, but as far as David could recall as he sat on the side of the bed, his bare feet flat on the cool hardwood floor, his night had been dream-free. Maybe, David mused to himself, Edgecroft saw that an effort was being made on his behalf and was just sitting back to let David do his thing before intervening again. Did ghosts actually sit back and chill out?

He laughed at how this had floated into his brain as he showered and then headed downstairs for a quick breakfast of toast and coffee before driving into town to talk to the police. As he pulled up outside the precinct, David felt nervous and exhilarated at the same time. He shut off the car, blew out a huge exhalation of nerves, and headed up the short series of cement steps that led to the small lobby where a young, smiling woman sat at a reception desk. David knew immediately that she would be way too young to know of Detective Morrison, but he felt making his initial inquiry with a woman already was giving him a bit of an edge. Women in general, David thought, were more approachable and open in such sensitive inquiries than men.

40

“Good morning, sir,” the woman said as David got near. “How can I help you?”

David saw the name Miller on her nameplate and recognized her rank from the stripes on her sleeve from some research he had done for this novella he had published back in Hartford as that of a sergeant.

“Hi, Sergeant Miller,” David replied, hoping to gain her to his side by letting her know he was savvy enough to know her position within the force. “My name is David Pragmore, and I was wondering if there was anyone here I might speak to about some information regarding an old, closed case?”

“Oh yeah…” she replied with a tinge of excitement in her voice, “the author we all heard about. I’ll see what I can do. Maybe a good place to begin might be to find out just why you might want to look at it?”

David nodded, trying to conceal his surprise at her hitting him with that question right off the bat. He had been hoping to dole out some questions to get her more interested first before having to see how good of an actor he was on this particular day. But as he replied, he then saw this as a good intro. Maybe her curiosity at having him lay out a scenario in which her department might figure prominently in one of his books would get him a better shot at what he was hoping for. David nodded his understanding and smiled slightly as he launched into the fabricated basis of his interest. In the sparkle of her eyes, he could see her curiosity arise, taking the bait on his hook.

“You mean we might all get included in one of your books?”

“It’s possible, Sergeant. I wouldn’t know for sure until I had a chance to map out my idea more fully, but as a tip of the hat to your department, I wouldn’t hesitate to avail myself of any information that you would be willing to let me use. Everything would have to be approved by your captain, of course, before anything got published.”

“Wow!” she exclaimed, “How exciting! Let me get some more details from you, and I can have someone take a look. Do you know the year of the case you are interested in?”

“Late 1969, as far as I know,” David replied, trying to ease further into the inquiry.

“Man, that’s going back a bit. Way before my time, for sure. How about the lead detective or the focus of the investigation?”

David hesitated just a beat, wondering if this were where the wall would go up. But he forged ahead, knowing he had no choice now.

“From what I have read, the lead detective was Andrew Morrison, though, after all this time, I’m pretty sure he’s no longer with the department.” David was not about to let on that he knew all about the rumors surrounding Morrison and his sudden and unexpected departure from Tibbets following the verdict of the investigation.

“And the suspect?”

David swallowed hard. Based on how touchy everyone in Tibbets was over Timothy Edgecroft’s legacy, he braced himself for Miller’s reaction. Likewise, he figured this was as good a time as any to get the name of the Brandt out in front of him.

“Timothy Edgecroft. He used to own the Brandt Manor.”

“Okay…great. None of those names rings a bell with me, but I’ve only been here a couple of years. Let me run back to see Lieutenant Decker. He would be the best one to talk to about getting you a peek at any files. He’s been here longer than anyone else other than Captain Reed, who is out today on sick leave. Normally we don’t allow this sort of thing…you know…letting civilians have access to investigative files, but under the circumstances of your request, we might make an exception.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate any help you an offer.”

“Grab a seat over there, and I’ll have the lieutenant come get you.”

She pointed to a hard wooden bench by a long window, and David took a seat to wait. David was not sure how long he would have to wait and sweat out the whole thing, but in just a minute or two, Miller returned with a much older man on her heels, not looking quite as cheerful and friendly as his desk sergeant. The man opened the security gate that led down a hallway behind the reception desk as Miller took the spot where David had seen her when he had come in. The lieutenant looked annoyed and put out while the formerly receptive face on his desk sergeant looked as if it had been wiped away permanently. David stood as the man approached and shook the proffered hand.

“Mr. Pragmore?” he asked.

“Yes, sir…Lieutenant Decker, is it?”

“Yes, sir. Why don’t you come back to my office where we can talk.”

David nodded as he saw several new people coming into the precinct. He assumed Decker did not want to discuss this in public. However, by his expression and the way he looked at him, David was pretty sure this conversation would not be good. He followed Decker back when Miller buzzed them through, and Decker pointed to a chair that sat at a forty-five-degree angle off his desk as he sat in a chair behind the desk after firmly closing his office door. Not wanting Decker to get any more of an advantage that he already had, David took the lead.

“So, did Sergeant Miller fill you in on what I was hoping to take a look at?”

“She did, Mr. Pragmore, but I am afraid that is just not possible.”

“It’s David, please. How come? Are the files missing?” David could tell from his demeanor and expression that was not the case, but seeing as how things were going south now, he was decided to pull out all the stops.

“No, Mr. Pragmore. It’s not that at all.”

David did not miss that he refused to use his first name even though he had offered it. This was really not going well.

“Are you familiar with what Timothy Edgecroft did back in 1969?” Decker asked.

“Just from what I dug up on my own from old newspaper reports and articles that different magazines printed when the story began to get national attention.”

“Well, as you can imagine, it’s a chapter of history here in Tibbets that most of us would like to just leave be, if you get my meaning. If it were any other case, I might consider your request since you are not some lawyer or a journalist looking to dredge it all up again. Even though our general policy is not to let civilians inspect official files. I’m sure you can appreciate our position.”

David had anticipated this response. But the odd thing was that the man had just suggested that if it were any other case, he might have considered it. This was either an outright lie to try to appease him, or there was really something about that investigation that no one in the department wanted anyone outside the force to see. David suspected the latter, though he also suspected there was no way that they would agree to let him look over another investigation if he now said, “Sure, what else do you have that I can peek at.” Also, David was certainly no expert in body language and other nonverbal clues, but there was something in Decker’s eyes and on his face that indicated something was not completely above board here.

“Of course, Lieutenant. I was just hoping my reason for the request would suffice.”

“It has to be Edgecroft?”

David shrugged and grinned. “Well, with where my plot is going in this book, I just felt from what I have read about the case that I would be a perfect fit for my primary protagonist is all.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pragmore, but it just is not possible.”

David saw there was no point in pushing it further in regard to the files. But he was not done. “Could I ask you something else, Lieutenant?”

Decker indicated for him to go ahead.

“Do you have any idea if Detective Morrison is still in the area or if there is any way for me to talk with him? Maybe an interview with him would be just as good since he was the lead.”

Decker’s face went dark and cold, and David could see the muscles in his jaw working. “No, sir,” he said flatly but with a growing tone letting David know he was nearing the end of the man’s patience discussing the matter. “Morrison is long gone, and to anyone’s knowledge here, his whereabouts are a mystery.”

David said nothing just then but found it curious that Decker had used the word “mystery” to describe the current location of the former detective. But even so, David knew he was out of luck here. What was the old quote from that movie he and Susan loved? “What does one with nothing to lose have to fear once condemned…” or something like that? What the hell, he thought…

“How about anyone else in the department who might have been around back then? Or maybe Captain Reed? Sergeant Miller said he had been here longer than anyone.”

Decker stood, his hands in fists as he pressed his knuckles to the top of his desk and stared at David, the veins on his neck standing out prominently as his face reddened. “We are done here, Mr. Pragmore! Do not contact anyone else on staff about this! And definitely do not try to do an end-run around me to Captain Reed! I assure you no one in the Tibbets Police Department has anything to offer you in regard to the Edgecroft case. It’s done…closed….get it? You think you can find your way out without any assistance?”

David just nodded, knowing he had likely gone a step too far and had no desire to be tossed from the building by the now-angry lieutenant. He thanked him for his time regardless as he left and waved so long to Sergeant Miller. Back in the car, David knew he had struck a nerve; he just did not know exactly what it was. For whatever reasons, the Edgecroft case was still being a well-guarded secret among the police. David smelled a cover-up. Now all he had to do was prove it.

41

He sat in his car, pondering his next move. Other than Maggie’s suspicions and unfounded theory, David knew he had nothing much else to go on. He had tried the police inquiry first, as it seemed at the time, like his best option. But that had blown up in his face as he knew in the back of his mind, it might. Moving down his priority list, he looked at who else in town he might go to who would be willing not only to talk about the old crimes and investigation but also might have anything worthwhile to add in order for him to have a reasonable and solid basis for getting anyone to take a hard look at Simpson and Allen.

While Maggie, he was sure, was onto something, without another corroboration, all that would be was one person’s opinion. And for all David knew just then, Maggie could very well have some sort of ax to grind herself with the police or Simpson and Allen themselves, though he had not come away from his meeting with her having that impression. And as reluctant and even adamantly close-mouthed as most of Tibbets seemed to be over the episode, that did not leave him many choices. Quite frankly, the only two people David could come up with, as he had when he had been mapping out this strategy the day before, were Ralph Edmunds and Sarah Fitzgerald.

He was about to drive over to see Ralph at his home when he stopped reaching for the key in the ignition switch as a cautionary thought came to him like someone waving a huge red flag in front of his eyes. Despite how open and forthcoming Edmunds had been with him so far, David suddenly wondered if Ralph might somehow be tangled up in any collusion with the new owners. And as far as that went, if that were a possibility, then Sarah Fitzgerald likely could be part of it as well. He needed to get away from the fiasco of the police building to think this over. Not wanting to be any more visible in town than he had to, David drove just the block or two to the out-of-the-way coffee shop he remembered Susan telling him about.

He ordered a cappuccino and sat at a small table away from the door in the empty shop, grateful that there had been no conversation with the barista over him and “how the book was going.” The less said for now between him and the residents of Tibbets, the better, David reasoned, at least until this mystery was resolved. Plus, the last thing he needed right now was yet another reminder that he was neglecting and abandoning the reason he was even in Tibbets—the book. He sipped at the drink and really thought out all his suspicions carefully, knowing his next step as likely the make or break point in his efforts.

Sarah Fitzgerald appeared intimately tied to whatever plans Simpson and Allen had over at the Brandt. It seemed reasonable to assume she might have a financial stake in seeing the renovation of the old manor come to fruition and as soon as possible. Was it possible that she was part of some nefarious collusion as well? Sarah had seemed mild-mannered and delightful when they had met, but David knew from harsh experience that the mask people sometimes wore could often come back to bite you in the ass. Perhaps he was a bit paranoid, he pondered, but with where he was in this probe, he did not feel like he could take any chances.

And if Sarah were somehow involved, didn’t that make Ralph Edmunds a potential part of it as well, just by his association with her? They sure seemed to have a close working relationship, and David wondered if maybe Ralph was the go-between for anyone staying at the Brandt to keep them away from what might be going on below the surface. He had been so available and helpful to David when the weirdness first cropped up at the manor, which made David feel guilty that he might suspect the old caretaker of such a thing, but to give his plan any chance of success, David knew he had to consider all possibilities.

He would file Sarah and Ralph away for now as an absolute last resort just in case. So, where did that leave him? All he could think of was another trip out to see Maggie Gleason and hope that maybe she knew of or had withheld, for some unknown reason, another source that might firm up her story. He had no idea where Maggie might stand on paranormal events, but as he left the coffee shop and headed for his car to drive over to see her, he thought he might have to divulge that piece to convince her that her suspicions might be a lot more than just her suspicions. Maggie opened her door, and David grinned when the look of surprise came over her.

“Hi, David. I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

“Yeah, I know. A lot has happened since we last talked. Do you have a few minutes for me?”

“Of course. Come on in.”

David followed her into the same room they had met before and sat when she offered her hand.

“Tea?” Maggie asked.

“Um…actually…do you have anything a bit stronger?”

Maggie grinned back. “This going to be one of those conversations, huh?”

“Afraid so…”

“Hang on. I’ll be right back.” She came back in just a minute or two with a tray holding a bottle and two small glasses. “Scotch all right?”

David just nodded as he chuckled quietly. “Normally, this would be a bit early in the day for me, Maggie, but if you are joining me…”

She set the tray onto the coffee table and handed him a drink before sitting just a few feet away in an easy chair with her own.

“To better days…” she said as they clinked glasses and sipped. “So what is going on, David? You look pretty serious this time.”

“Couple things, I guess. First of all, I need to ask you something. And I need you to be completely honest with me, Maggie…okay?”

“Shoot.”

“If you think all this stuff is crazy talk, just say so, but what is your opinion on the paranormal world?”

Maggie hesitated a beat as she sipped again. “You mean ghosts, spirits, haunted houses…that kind of thing, I’m guessing?”

David nodded, having no idea what she would say.

“You and Susan seeing or hearing some odd things over there at the Brandt?”

David went silent, not knowing exactly how to reply. Had she known of something like this at the manor all along? Or was she just guessing based on how he had framed his question? Whatever the case, it seemed like it was a topic she did not think out of the realm of possibilities.

“A few…yeah….”

David spent the next few minutes describing as best he could all that had occurred, beginning with the “kitchen incident” and ending with his mystery typist the night he had experienced the vivid visitation dream from Timothy Edgecroft. She said nothing but just nodded from time to time as he spoke.

“And you feel like this was real?” she asked when he sat back.

“Honestly, Maggie, at first, I was as skeptical as anyone could have been. Susan bought all in on it due to an experience she had when she was younger, but me? Not so much.”

“You said at first….”

David nodded and finished off the scotch in his glass. “I did. Right now, I just can’t explain any of it any other way, Maggie. It’s a new thing for me, but, yeah, I would say I feel it is very real.”

“And Edgecroft basically laying out exactly what did go down back then…you believe that as well?”

David shrugged. “Sure seems a likely scenario, but without any real proof, it’s hardly anything that can be used to get anyone in an official capacity to care.”

“Has it occurred to you to try to go to the police and see if there is any way they might see their way clear to letting you look over the reports that were filed back then?”

“Funny you should mention that, Maggie,” David replied as he laughed slightly.

“Funny? How so?”

He gave her a quick summary of his visit to the precinct just that morning and how he had been summarily dismissed with the warning to just let it go. “Lieutenant Decker made it clear I was poking into something that was none of my business as just a visitor here.”

“You got a feeling from him, though, that they are still trying to hide something, didn’t you?”

David nodded, amazed at her perception. “Without any of that to try to highlight holes and perhaps total inconsistencies or outright lies, I feel stuck.”

“So you came back here to see if I had any other ideas?”

David grinned with her and tipped his glass her way.

42

David told Maggie about his initial idea to go to Ralph Edmunds and/or Sarah Fitzgerald but then how he had had second thoughts since he had this nagging concern that they both might have some connection to Simpson and Allen. “You think they might be part of this thing, Maggie?”

She sighed and looked out the window. “Truthfully, I have no idea, David. But certainly, I agree with you that there could be a strong financial incentive for them to help maintain the façade I think Simpson and Allen are trying to portray. I’ve known Ralph for ages, and it seems inconceivable to me that he would sign on to such a scheme.”

“Is it just me, or is there a but coming up here?”

Maggie grinned. “No…not just you. Ralph had this problem with gambling…has had it for years, actually. That’s what makes me wonder about him. He’s getting on in years, just like me, and he may feel he’s in the position that he’s being forced to make decisions just to survive, you know?”

“Sure. How about Fitzgerald?”

“That’s another issue, David. She’s new to Tibbets. I don’t know her well, but I don’t know…there just seems to be something about the woman that makes me uncomfortable.”

“Like with Andrew Morrison? Someone who always seemed to be playing some angle to get ahead?”

“Exactly…”

“Thanks. I’m so new here it is hard for me to get a read on anyone. Ralph has been very helpful to me out at the Brandt, but as for Sarah…well, I do have to say there has been something about her that rubbed me the wrong way ever since we first met.”

“So you are afraid of talking to the wrong person and sending a warning or some kind of heads up to Simpson and Allen?”

“Yep.”

“And you want to see if I have anything else up my sleeve, so to speak?”

David laughed as he shrugged, appreciating more and more just how savvy and intuitive Maggie Gleason was despite her advanced age. “Kind of, Maggie.”

She refilled their glasses and took another healthy sip. “Okay, from what you have told me, it seems like all we need is just one connection to make all of this come together. There is one man who might be able to do that, but I promised him I would not reveal his part in the whole mess unless it was a matter of extreme urgency.”

“You think this qualifies?”

Maggie nodded and sipped again. “Let me give him a call and explain what’s going on, and if he is willing to work with us, then I will fill you in completely. Fair enough?”

“Okay…and if he’s not?”

“Then we may have to take a chance with old Ralph, I suppose.”

* * *

Just a day later, Maggie sat down with David to give him the good news.

“I spoke with Bill Patterson—the man I told you about—and he has given me his verbal okay to use him as a source in this probe if we need him.”

“So who is he, and how does he fit into all of this?” David asked as he felt a real sense of forward motion at last.

“Bill is the half-brother of Diane Simpson. When she and Frederick Allen first began to talk about and create this plan of theirs to get their hands on the Brandt Manor after they felt they had been robbed of their rightful inheritance, Bill came along for the ride. It seems that Timothy Edgecroft was not thought too highly of in his family outside of his Uncle Phillip. Bill agreed to join them in their efforts until it became clear there would be no lengths Simpson and Allen would not go to in order to acquire the property.”

“Got cold feet and backed out?”

“Yep. When he found out just how committed and desperate they were and that the scheme was likely to include murder if necessary, he bailed.”

“But wouldn’t that make him pretty vulnerable knowing all about what Simpson and Allen were up to?”

“Indeed. That’s why Bill was forced to flee from his home once he backed out for fear they would come after him as a loose end in their plans.”

“But he let you know?”

“He did. I got to know Bill years before when Timothy Edgecroft was still alive and he came to Tibbets for family functions. Bill and I were…well…close.”

David did not push her as he saw her blush slightly and exhibit a real sense of loss in her eyes as she spoke of him. “Sure, Maggie. I get it…go on.”

“Anyway, when the details of the plan began to get way more twisted and nefarious than he wanted anything to do with, Bill came to me and told me everything with the understanding that I was to keep it all under wraps.”

“A kind of insurance policy in case they went looking for him?”

“Exactly. He came to tell me he was going far away until things cooled off but that he wanted someone he trusted to know the real story if a time should ever come when it would need to be revealed.”

“If this is too personal, just say so, Maggie, but he left you?”

She nodded as she sighed. “I tried to get him to take me with him, but he was terribly afraid it would be too dangerous if I came along. In fact, even today, I have no idea exactly where Bill is…just a phone number.”

“But wouldn’t Edgecroft’s death have been the time to spill it all?”

“I suppose, but then again, it was just our word against theirs, and he was afraid Simpson and Allen might throw the blame on Timothy’s death on him to save themselves if they became suspects. I mean, he did know of the plan from the beginning.”

David nodded. He understood but felt bad that Maggie had gotten caught in the cross-fire of this family war and lost the man who had meant so much to her.

“But he’s willing to talk now?”

“He is. Based on what is going on, plus all you and Susan have dug up, he feels it will be enough once his information is brought out to nail Simpson and Allen and finally clear the name of poor Timothy Edgecroft.” She handed David a piece of paper. “This is his number. I have told him all about you and why you are here in Tibbets. Feel free to contact him anytime, and I think the two of you can finally turn this whole thing upside down.”

“One other item, Maggie….”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. How approachable and agreeable do you suppose the police will be to have it made public that one of their own—even one who is no longer on the force—was involved in a criminal cover-up? I mean, that’s a big bowl of shit to have to swallow.”

“It is, but regardless of it all, if the evidence is there, I don’t think they can just brush it off any longer.”

“I realize no one there now was in on the collusion, but still, isn’t that going to give their reputation a big hit?”

“Too bad,” Maggie shot back. “Any cop at any time could have stepped up and done the right thing. Laziness and turning a blind eye is no excuse in my book. Time to pay the piper.”

43

David thanked Maggie profusely once again and wasted no time calling Bill Patterson, as in the back of his mind, he felt that time might be running out to get the jump on Simpson and Allen. He knew Maggie would never divulge anything, but just how deep and how long the cover-up within the police department went, he had no idea. And as he had seen over and over since arriving in Tibbets, rumor and innuendo seemed to travel at the speed of light. To David, it felt like information traveled faster here than by computer.

He reached Patterson right away, and the man agreed to meet him in a place called West Adams, Massachusetts. David had never heard of it but found the town easily just a two-hour drive north of the Connecticut line. As he drove into the small and unassuming town, David was taken by how West Adams was remarkably similar to Tibbets in that its charm and allure had not yet been overrun by tourists, at least as far as he could tell. He followed the directions Patterson had given him and slowed to a stop just outside an attractive, but thankfully, a mostly empty coffee shop with the oddly grand name of The Common Ground: Coffee and More.

He went in and saw a lone man sitting far away from the windows in the front of the little café who matched the description Patterson had given him over the phone. Again, following his request, David acted as if he had no idea who he was, ordered himself a coffee, and then wandered back, pretending to admire the various pieces of art available for sale by local artists along the walls. He moved closer to Patterson and spoke while never looking his way.

“Bill Patterson?” David said in a low voice.

“David Pragmore, I assume,” he replied without looking up.

“Mind if I join you?” David asked, just as Patterson had instructed him to do…just like they were old friends hanging out in the shop.

Patterson finally looked up and smiled as he indicated for David to sit.

“Thanks for helping us out, Mr. Patterson,” David began.

“No problem…and it’s Bill, okay?”

“Sure. David here. It’s none of my business, but you seem quite guarded about all this, Bill…almost paranoid.”

“That I am. Once you hear my story, you’ll get a better idea of why.”

“Fair enough. Maggie says you have enough information to bury both Simpson and Allen, yes?”

He could see a light of recollection and fondness in Patterson’s eyes when he mentioned Maggie’s name. His own regret, David supposed, at having been forced to leave her behind for her own well-being.

“I do, I think. But first, how is Maggie?”

“She’s good, Bill. Sharp as a tack and one of the most delightful people I have ever had the pleasure to meet.”

Patterson sighed and looked away, his emotions threatening to overtake him. “That’s wonderful. You know there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t question if my decision to walk away, leaving her behind, was a mistake. But at the time, it was just too risky as I saw it.”

“That’s what she told me.”

“Anyway, you didn’t come here to hear about some old man’s shortcomings and failures in his personal life. Why don’t you fill me in on all that you know and even might suspect, and then I can tell you everything I have that I think will wrap this up.”

“Sure. A lot of it I’m certain you already know through Maggie, but a lot of weird things have been happening to my wife and me while we have been staying at the old Brandt Manor in Tibbets.”

Patterson nodded, and David proceeded to tell him everything as well as all the paranormal phenomena as part of his dilemma. Patterson sat quietly and just sipped at his coffee while David went through it all, not interrupting or even making any indication of how he felt about the story.

“Not sure where you stand on paranormal stuff, Bill, but what I have seen at the Brandt has made me a believer…after a life of strident skepticism. It’s what sent me back to talk to Maggie when I felt I couldn’t trust anyone else in Tibbets.”

“Not sure where I stand on that, David, but from the few times I was at the manor after Timothy passed, I would not rule anything out. Okay…here’s what I have that I think will help you and Maggie and me make people in an official capacity not be able to ignore the truth.”

David sat back and let Patterson spin his own tale. He brought out a weathered and worn valise from under his feet and laid it on the table between them. In the course of his presentation, Patterson told David how he had been a willing partner with Simpson and Allen back in the day to try to recover legal ownership of the Brandt from Edgecroft when all three of them felt absolutely robbed upon the public reading of Phillip Brandt’s newly amended will.

Without going into any real specific details, Patterson made it clear that it had been an emotional and visceral reaction on his part as he had never gotten along with Edgecroft when they were younger. Simpson and Allen had promised him a significant portion of the proceeds of the sale of the manor once their plan was complete.

“I’m afraid, David, that in those days, I let money sway me way more than I should have. Though I did have a personal animosity toward Timothy, it was really the promise of a financial windfall that drew me in.”

“But things changed to make you want out?”

Patterson nodded and grimaced as if he were still deeply pained at what he had done. “What had initially seemed like a perfectly legal and above-board, hostile take-over—kind of like in the corporate world as I saw it—it soon became clear to me that when Diane and Frederick were not going to succeed through legal channels that they were not averse to doing whatever it took to get their hands on the Brandt.”

He took a pause to drink before continuing.

“One I realized just how desperate and mercenary they were, I began to back away, not wanting to get caught in the mess as it was spiraling out of control, at least for me. As you can imagine, if this had become known to them, it was likely I would have been added to their list of hindrances, just like poor Timothy.”

“So you decided to protect yourself before just running?”

Patterson grinned at him and chuckled. “I have never read anything by you, David, but Maggie tells me you are a gifted and talented writer. I can see that now with how your mind is working on this.”

44

“That I did. I could see just how deranged and obsessed the two of them were becoming over what had once seemed a reasonable idea, and I knew it was nothing I wanted any part of. But also, knowing a sudden and inexplicable parting of the ways was likely to put my own life in jeopardy since I knew everything, I hung on as if I were still on board. But in this latter association with them, I began to amass and hide away any legal documents and other paperwork that as evidence of our original plot.”

“Holy shit, Bill…”

“Wait…there’s more. As well, unbeknownst to them, I was making secretive recordings of our clandestine meetings as discussions began as to how we would bypass the legal route and just grab the manor for ourselves once Timothy was no longer alive.”

Patterson tapped the valise.

“It’s all in here, David. It is all we’ll need, I’m sure.”

“So…did what I suspect really go down? I mean, they set up Edgecroft and then made his death look like a suicide so they could make a grab for the Brandt?”

“In a nutshell, that’s it. They used the serial murder crimes as the perfect ruse to get him in the crosshairs of the public finger. They then joined forces with Detective Morrison—who I am sure you know all the background on already from Maggie—offering him a bribe to get the pressure off his back when he couldn’t solve the crimes.”

“Let me guess, Morrison announced he had a prime suspect, namely Edgecroft, who the residents were already suspicious of since he kept to himself and had arrived shortly before the killing spree began. Then in cahoots with Simpson and Allen, he agreed to let them stage Edgecroft’s death as a suicide, after which he could claim it was obvious Edgecroft had been the murderer and that his guilt had pushed him to kill himself rather than face prosecution for the murders.”

“Very good, my friend. Maggie was right; you’re very good!”

“But from my understanding, the murders did stop after Edgecroft’s death. If not him, then who?”

Patterson shrugged. “I have no idea. For some reason, they did once he was dead, but trust me. Timothy Edgecroft was just not capable of such horrendous and vile things. I might not have been so fond of him when we were younger, but to suggest he could be a serial killer is absurd. These serial killers are hard to understand, David. Maybe whoever was really responsible just moved on…beats me.”

“And Morrison got some payoff before he took off?”

“I assume so, but I have no solid proof to back up that suspicion. The stuff in this valise, though, will likely show that inevitable conclusion even without a solid connecting line.”

“This is incredible, Bill.”

“Oh, I almost forgot the clincher as to motive.”

“More?”

“Yeah, there is. The manor itself is valuable; make no mistake about that. But the real impetus for Diane and Frederick was this—and probably still is—old Brandt family legend that Phillip buried some treasure of some sort from his days in New Orleans. From what I know, it is said to make the price tag on a sale of the manor minuscule by comparison.”

“You believe that is true?”

“Maybe, maybe not. It has always been part of the Brandt legacy, but I have never seen any evidence of it. However, Diane and Frederick were convinced of its existence. I guess that’s all that really matters, right?”

“So why sell the manor then if that might be buried somewhere on the premises?”

“Just a guess, but I have a feeling they just wanted a controlling interest in the property so they could search for this alleged treasure. It would sure explain why a simple renovation is taking forever. It’s a pretty good cover for a treasure hunt, wouldn’t you say?”

David nodded as he was stunned over all that he had heard. Granted, he was a good writer, though perhaps Maggie’s praise of gifted and talented was a bit superfluous, but this was by far a better story than he had ever come up with from his imagination. And it sure appeared as it were all real…frighteningly so…

“One more question, Bill.”

“Sure.”

“Doesn’t making all this information available,” David replied as he touched the valise, “put you at high risk, though? I mean, if it leaks back to Simpson and Allen, I can’t imagine them not coming after you. And even if you ignore that piece, what about your early partnership with them? Won’t that make you somehow like an accessory or an accomplice or something?”

“I have considered all that, David. As to your first concern, Diane and Frederick have no idea where I am or how to reach me. I have erased my trail from Tibbets thoroughly since I fled town. Not even Maggie knows in case they had the lack of scruples to try to get that out of her. And as to the second one? Well, it has bothered me all this time that I did not step up earlier with all I knew. I do not have a suitable justification for that other than I did have some close calls with the two of them before I got out of town completely.”

“Thus your extreme steps to cloak yourself until now…what I earlier posed as paranoia?”

“Yep. I am happy to help now, David, because I’m ashamed at how I just ran to save myself. It has hurt a lot of people along the way, especially Maggie Gleason—a transgression I can never atone for in full. My hope is that maybe it’s not too late now to do the right thing.”

David nodded his understanding and felt bad for the burden Patterson had apparently been shouldering all these years. He thanked him for his time and shook Patterson’s hand as he stood, clasping the handle of the valise in his left hand. But as he turned to leave, David stopped when Patterson called out to him.

“David, please be very careful. Diane and Frederick are ruthless and callous. It is likely they will stop at nothing now to get their hands on this supposed fortune as well as the manor itself. At this point, they may not know how much you have been poking around over the old investigation, but I am sure by now you know just how quickly information gets around in Tibbets.”

David nodded as a cold shiver ran down his spine. Until now, it had all been just this unsolved mystery, like some really intriguing novel he was reading, but that was then. Right now, he took Patterson’s warning very seriously and began to wonder just how much danger he could be in by refusing to let it go and just focus on his own work. He started his car and began the long drive back to Tibbets as a new thunder and lightning storm began to brew overhead. The unnerving echo of thunder and the occasional bolt of electricity above gave David an uneasy feeling in his gut. Without trying to be too overly dramatic about it, he hoped that was not a dark omen of things to come.

45

It was still only mid-afternoon by the time David got back on the road to Tibbets, but the storm that had sprung up made it feel much later. David was anxious to get back to town to sort out all of what Bill Patterson had told and given him, but the weather, which had grown worse and seemed to be lying over the skies as far as he could see, was forcing him to drive much more cautiously and slowly than he would have preferred. The roads from West Adams to Tibbets, though not major highways, were fine, and there was little, if any, traffic for him to deal with. But the volume of water falling from the dark, heavy clouds above had him running his windshield wipers at full speed, and the wind was sending occasional curtains of rain sideways to add to the poor visibility.

After what seemed like an eternity, David finally exited off the last road he had followed to get to Massachusetts and eased onto the familiar route that went through Tibbets and then out to the manor. As he dashed to the manor through the persistent downpour, David was grateful for the valise that Patterson had given him to protect everything from the storm. He slipped inside and slammed the front door closed as a huge gust of wind swept by, making him struggle to keep the weather outside. David set the valise aside and hung his raincoat on the coat tree just inside the door as a thunderous echo ripped across the sky just over the Brandt, rattling the loose figurines and other nick-nacks that had been set about on tables and shelves as part of the renovation décor.

David jumped slightly at the crack of thunder before leaning over to retrieve the valise and heading down to the office to set everything out and arrange the material in a way that he could more efficiently look it over again and see just how it all could be used to for what was next. But before he did anything else, David went and got a beer from the refrigerator so he could take a few minutes and truly examine what it was he had found himself in the middle of and to see if he truly wanted to take the next step. When he returned from the kitchen, beer in hand, David sat heavily on the sofa and took a long draw. He looked over at his idle laptop and felt a deep sense of indecision all of a sudden.

He knew he had ignored working on his book way longer than he should have, but at the moment, he saw no reasonable way to just drop everything he had been handed regarding the mystery of the Brandt Manor. Though he was fatigued from the drive back and forth to West Adams, David was unable to shut off his excitement and nervous energy that he might actually be holding everything that would solve it once and for all. He knew that having all of this new evidence in his hands now precluded any more writing on the book…no matter that it was what held his financial and professional future alive.

He had a brief notion of putting the material from Patterson to the side and sitting to write while he sorted what to do out, but as he looked at the computer sitting on the desk, he knew it was no use. The one plus, he said to himself in a moment of black humor, was that the idle machine was just that…idle. Edgecroft or some other entity had not felt it necessary to drop in again and leave him any more messages on the screen. But otherwise, David knew trying to continue on with the novel would be a useless gesture. His head was just filled with too much over the Edgecroft situation to even consider giving the book any more attention that would be acceptable to both him as well as his publisher. Until he resolved this mystery one way or the other, David knew the book would have to wait.

With that decision made and a firm resolve to move ahead, David opened the valise and organized all the stuff Patterson had given him. He reread and then listened to the recordings a second time just to make sure there was not some part of his mind that could create an argument that what Patterson had was not valid…or at least not valid enough to proceed. When David agreed that it was all rock-solid, the question then formed in his mind about what to do with it all. As far as David could see, he had only a limited number of options to avail himself of.

Initially, he considered just contacting a journalist and offering the story for public consumption, but it had been a long time since the verdict against Edgecroft had been handed down. He was afraid no one much would care. And…a lot of print media these days, not to mention the biased television versions, was automatically rejected out of hand as just one writer’s opinion. Plus, getting anything written up and accepted by an editor that way, assuming it would even be considered, would take way longer than David had in mind. He was looking for something with more immediate results.

The other pair of alternatives had equal risk and hazards associated with them as well. With little else to consider, David saw two avenues of attack: 1) going directly to Simpson and Allen with the accusations and proof, or 2) going to the police with the information and hoping either Lieutenant Decker or Captain Reed might see the light and re-open the investigation.

Going to Simpson and Allen had its obvious pitfalls. This was taking a huge risk based on how ruthless they appeared based on what Bill Patterson had told him. But perhaps, David wondered, if faced with overwhelming evidence that they had been found out, maybe it would be enough to make them finally give in and confess.

As to the police? Well, based on his previous interactions with Decker, David thought this very unlikely. Even with all the wealth of proof and evidence he now had, David was hesitant to go to the police in case Morrison’s corruption with Simpson and Allen ran way deeper than just him. If Reed and/or Decker had been part of the scheme, how likely would they be to just throw in the towel and have their careers and reputations destroyed? David sat back and sighed heavily as he pondered his options. None were great, and none seemed to have the potential for any greater chance of success than the others. Actually, they all felt a bit flawed and weak now, even when he was holding the facts.

He drained the last of his beer and went to the kitchen to rinse out the bottle. As he stood at the sink and stared out the window into the raging storm, David came to a decision. It was, he realized, still fraught with unknowns, but he could not just do nothing. He had to try something and hope he had chosen well. David went back to the study and made copies of all the documents that Patterson had given him and then fired up his computer and made CD copies of all the recorded conversations as well.

With that done, he returned the originals to the valise and stored the copies he had just made into a hiding place only he would know of. Between his review of the material and making secure copies of them all, David was shocked to see it was just after midnight. His plan would be launched the next day after he got some sleep…or at least he would try…and he checked in with Maggie Gleason to let her know what he was about to try to ask her to act as his insurance policy…unless she had a better idea.

46

Tibbets Realty and Property Management

Tibbets, CT

2012

David arose early the next morning after yet another unexpected but blessedly quiet and uneventful night. Even as tired as he had been when he had turned in, David was not sure he would get any real rest based on all that had gone for him in the last twenty-four hours and with what he had planned for that day. After a quick breakfast of coffee and some leftover cold pizza, David set off for Maggie Gleason’s to fill her in on his plan. She waved away his apology for coming over so early unannounced and ushered him back to her kitchen, where she was still lingering over her own coffee.

“Coffee, David?”

“Sure, that would be great.”

They both sat at her small kitchen table, and David gave her a quick rundown on all that he and Bill Patterson had spoken of. Much of it was old news to Maggie, so David focused on the hard evidence he had come back with.

“By the way, Maggie, Bill had a lot of questions about you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah…how you were, what you were doing these days, and so forth.”

Maggie blushed and wiped a tear away. “Does he look good, David?”

“He does, Maggie. And he is still carrying a lot of guilt over leaving you behind, even though he still thinks it was for the best.”

She nodded and sighed as she looked away briefly.

“Anyway, with all that I got from Bill, I have a plan I’m thinking of putting into action to see if we can’t rattle a few cages. But I wanted to get your thoughts first.”

“Shoot.”

David sipped his coffee and then went into what he was thinking of, including all the options he had come up with and why he had discarded them all but the one he thought had the best chance of success.

“Well, David, I agree it is risky, but with limited choices, I would agree a direct confrontation with Simpson and Allen is your best bet.”

“Good…and this is where you come in, Maggie.”

“Me? How?”

David explained how he wanted to leave the original materials from Bill with her while he took the copies he had for his meeting with Simpson and Allen.

“My plan is to call up Sarah Fitzgerald and see if she can arrange a meeting with them for me. Some bogus excuse of history of the manor for the book or some other lie…so I can spring this on them with no warning. I can then present what I have found out and see what their reaction is. I just wanted some insurance against a bad reaction and do not want them to have any access to the originals. Plus, knowing someone else has the evidence is another layer of protection. Bill says they have no real moral compass anymore, and he would not be surprised at any steps they might take to protect their scheme.”

“You could be putting yourself in real danger, David.”

He shrugged. “A little, I guess, but if Sarah is there, I doubt they would try anything in front of a witness.”

“Unless she is in on it as well….”

That was a thought that David had had, but he decided it was a low-level risk he was willing to take. “None of these ideas are foolproof, Maggie. But I think that is one possibility worth risking. And don’t worry…I would never let anyone know that you’re the one holding the evidence as insurance.”

“I was never worried about that, David. Should I be ready to go to someone in an official capacity if you don’t come back within some time limit?”

David had not even thought of that one. “Yeah, probably a good idea. Let’s say if you do not hear back from me by the day after tomorrow, then it is safe to assume that something went really badly.”

Maggie looked at him sadly. “You know you don’t have to do this, David. I mean, maybe we should try the police first or something else?”

“I appreciate your concern, Maggie, but I think this has the best chance. I’ll talk to you soon.” He handed her the valise and took off, hoping for the best.

David dropped by the rental office where Sarah Fitzgerald was that day and laid out his fabricated ruse of wanting to get some detailed background on the Brandt Manor in relation to how it had come to be from Phillip Brandt…that he saw a really unique way to weave such a situation into his novel. He waited while she called Diane Simpson and was both relieved and petrified when she hung up, saying she and Frederick could come by her office later that afternoon to see if they could fill him in on whatever details they might know of to help him out. David thanked her and then headed back to the Brandt to go over the materials one more time to make sure there were no gaping holes in his logic and to practice just how he was going to spring this surprise on them, as well as how he would deal with their reactions—both positive and negative.

David came back to Sarah’s office at 2 pm as requested, carrying a soft-sided case that he had used from time to time to protect his laptop while in transport. He felt his heartbeat pick up as his sweaty fingers gripped the case as the contents of Bill Patterson’s evidence against them tapped on his leg as he walked. A small part of his brain was still telling him this was a huge mistake, but as he grasped the handle to open her door, he realized it was time to tell those brain cells to shut up. It was too late to turn back now. He was committed to the plan. Sarah looked up from where she sat with a man and a woman in a sitting area that led to a series of private offices down a short hallway and smiled as she waved him over.

David had never actually met Diane Simpson or Frederick Allen before, but this apparently was them. He did not know why, but they looked a bit older than he had anticipated. However, as he thought about it more, it made sense if they had been trying to get their hands on the Brandt since the 1960s. He moved closer as Sarah went to bring him over for introductions, but without a single word, David’s intuition told him these were sneaky, dishonorable people. They both flashed easy and warm smiles as the hellos were made, but behind their eyes and beneath their faux geniality, David sensed a reptilian presence and no doubts now that everything Patterson had told him was true.

He put on his best face as he shook their hands and smiled back, but all David wanted to do after touching their skin was get a shower to wash away the black aura he felt pour off of them both. Sarah led them all down the hallway to a small meeting room where she said they could have more privacy as both Diane and Frederick did not necessarily want any of their family history overheard amongst anyone else in the rental office.

“So what do you think of our little town and the Brandt, David?” Frederick asked.

“We had been in the area a few years back, but never to Tibbets. Both Susan and I have found it really charming. And the manor…wow. I’m sure it will really be something when the renovation is complete.”

“Yeah. We love it here, and the manor has become a real labor of love,” Diane piped in.

David almost had to literally bite his tongue when he heard that load of crap, knowing what he knew about the lengths that she and Frederick had gone to in order to dig around for this “buried treasure.”

“Sarah tells us you came here hoping to get some real inspiration for your book based on the stories of the place being haunted.”

“That’s right,” David replied. “The book is a follow-up to my first novel that came out last year, and the atmosphere of the Brandt sure seemed to fit the bill.”

“So, have you found the place to have spirits like some of our older residents in town believe?” Diane asked with a chuckle.

Ordinarily, David would have stammered and stumbled to conceal what he knew but seeing as how this whole meeting was set up on lies, he felt no remorse as he denied knowing anything.

“Afraid not, Diane…but the setting and the feel of the place have sure helped me along.”

They all laughed.

“So…” Frederick interjected, “We understand you have some interest in the place’s history with our family for possible use in your book? What could we tell you that might help?”

David took a deep breath as he picked up the case he had brought with him containing all the accusatory evidence as to what the two of them had been up to and, until now, probably figured they had gotten away with scot-free. The niceties were about to end, and the proverbial shit was about to hit the fan. David hoped he had guessed right about not being in real danger by pursuing this direct confrontation. He really did want to live to finish his second book, and seeing Susan again would be a real plus.

47

David decided that perhaps easing into his real reason for wanting to talk to them was a better approach rather than just an abrupt and sudden revelation, even though his mother had always told him that the best way to remove a Band-Aid from a wound was in one swift motion.

“In a way, Frederick,” David began, “this place has been around for so long and has such an interesting legacy beginning with Phillip Brandt that my real interest actually goes all the way back to him.”

“Really?” Diane added with great surprise in her tone. “That really does go back a long time…so far before us that I’m not sure we have much that we could tell you.”

David could see the uncertainty in her eyes which had turned a touch colder and less inviting than they had been just moments before…and they had not been so warm then. “Oh, I’m sure you know plenty, you treacherous, vile bitch, David said to himself. It’s just whether or not you’ll come clean.”

“Well, what I was really interested in was just how you and Frederick came to acquire the Brandt Manor. From what I read, it had been initially bequeathed to Timothy Edgecroft following a pretty chippy probate fight.”

Frederick Allen’s expression now matched Diane’s cold eyes as David had completely caught them off-guard, which had been his intention all along. David knew it would not be long now before the real animosity began. To her credit as their rental agent, Sarah Fitzgerald stepped in to provide the long-accepted, but as David knew, very false background on Timothy Edgecroft. David let her talk, acting as if it were news to him before firing off his big guns.

“Actually, Sarah,” David replied evenly, “I know all about Tim Edgecroft and how he was accused of the murder spree in Tibbets back in the 1960s. How he was railroaded into taking the blame for it and his subsequent alleged suicide. I was just curious if Diane and Frederick had any thoughts on how it was that they then came to be next in line for the inheritance so quickly and easily when Phillip Brandt had specifically excluded them originally?”

“I’m not sure I care for your insinuation, Mr. Pragmore,” Fredrick said with growing irritation.

Boy, David said to himself…it sure does not take much in this town to lose your first name status when you say something negative about this manor.

“Well…I mean, it must have infuriated both of you to lose what you were sure was a given in Phillip Brandt’s will. And to Tim Edgecroft, who I understand neither of you especially cared for, right?”

Anger was flaring in Diane Simpson’s eyes, but she let Frederick do the talking since she knew she was not likely to control her temper.

“Look, Mr. Pragmore,” Frederick continued angrily, “I’m not sure what your game is here, but we were awarded the Brandt Manor along purely legal means once Timothy died. And referring to him being ‘railroaded’ over the murders in town and his suicide being ‘alleged’…perhaps you would like to explain yourself unless you would prefer us to take some legal action for slander against you?”

David smiled broadly, which he could see confused all three of them. This was immediately enjoyable for David, but Maggie’s question about whether or not Fitzgerald was part of the whole arrangement seemed on target…this was not so enjoyable. He hoped he had not stepped into it too far. But David did not let his inner concerns override his outer expression.

“It is interesting that you think I’m playing some game, Frederick. Not sure I would label cold-blooded murder and a conspiracy with the police as a game but have it your way.”

As Diane and Frederick looked at one another slyly and David went on.

“Does the name William Patterson ring a bell with either of you?”

Diane Simpson was very pale to begin with, but David was sure the little bit of color left in her face had drained away when he mentioned Bill’s name. Frederick tried to cover up, but even as stoic as he tried to remain, David saw he had made a direct hit.

“Bill is my half-brother, Mr. Pragmore,” Diane finally replied. “We have not spoken in years. What does he have to do with anything here?”

“Oh…quite a bit, I would say,” David said as he began to unzip the case he had held on his lap. “Seems the two of you entered into an agreement with Mr. Patterson some years ago in a scheme to take the Brandt Manor from Timothy Edgecroft without…what was it you called them earlier, Frederick…‘purely legal means’ I think was what you called it. Well, it seems that Mr. Patterson wasn’t too enthralled at just how desperate you two were and to what lengths you might go to force Edgecroft out.”

“What nonsense are you playing at, Pragmore?” Frederick asked.

“This nonsense, my friend….” David laid out all the documentation and CDs that he had copied from Bill Patterson’s generous archives.

“It’s all there. Your plan from the beginning, which shows your strong-arm tactics to steal the manor away as well as frame Timothy Edgecroft for the murder spree which the led detective, Andrew Morrison, was more than happy to assist with once he got his cut of your inheritance.”

All three of them looked down at the array of material on the table, but no one said anything. David now knew Fitzgerald was in on it as well. Probably, as Maggie had theorized, she was enabling the slow renovation while the “murder twins” tried to dig up the rumored treasure by bringing unknowing guests in to keep a cash flow going while they searched.

“Feel free to keep these if you like. I still have the originals, and they are being held in a safe place,” David said smugly.

“This is preposterous!” Frederick exploded as he swept the files and discs off the table as he stood over David and bellowed, “We all know about your writing skills, Pragmore. All this is, I guess, is some elaborate fiction from your mind aimed at some ulterior motive. Trying to blackmail us out of our rightful inheritance.”

David had expected as much, and though disappointed, he thought it only fair to give them one last chance. “You can try to spin it that way if you like, Frederick, but I assure you this is very real and can be confirmed easily. I appreciate that you think I could come up with some incredible fictionalized tale like this, but trust me, this is beyond my skill as a writer. The truth often is.”

“You son of a—” Frederick began before David held up a hand to stop him.

“Spare me the dramatics, Frederick. It appears to me as if you have two options here. Number one, you can just come clean and confess to the whole thing. We then take it to some officials—certainly not the local cops in Tibbets, though due to their collaboration with you—and you can be tried in a court for your crimes.”

“Number two?” Diane asked weakly, now suddenly not so icy and haughty-looking.

“Keep denying everything, and I will just take the issue up with a higher authority.”

This last piece was just a bluff on David’s part as he had no idea who or where he might go. But there was always the hope that one of the three would fold at the threat.

“And Sarah?” David added, “You might want to think of your part in all of this and whether or not you want to share a jail cell with these two for the next thirty or forty years. You were just an accessory, so it’s likely your sentence would be less. But still…going to jail for any length of time is not pleasant, I would imagine.”

“Get the hell out of here, you asshole!” Frederick exclaimed as he stood, pressing his fists onto the table, much in the manner Lieutenant Decker had. “This is all just a figment of your over-active imagination!”

“Okay, very well. Have it your way. If you change your mind, you know where to find me,” David said as he stood and saw himself out. The vehement denial had removed any remaining doubts David had about the veracity and accuracy of Bill Patterson’s information.

On his walk to his car, he was experiencing a mixture of disappointment and joy. He knew he had let them know they were caught, but at the same time, he had been hoping for a confession. Though after meeting them just then, he saw how unlikely that scenario had been. These were two horrible, immoral human beings who were never going to let go of what they had begun. He was now very glad he had left the original documentation with Maggie as an insurance policy.

The only thing that really bothered David as he drove off was just how violently and how desperately they might strike back at him after his stunt. He certainly did not want to die over it, but at least Maggie had it all with her with instructions if anything should happen to him. But in the meantime, David planned to take extra care with his daily movements and his security at the manor.

48

Just as David coasted to a stop in front of the manor following the meeting, his cell phone rang, and he looked down to see that the ID on the screen was that of none other than Sarah Fitzgerald. He had assumed there was still the outside chance that he would hear from one of them after he had dropped his bomb and that Sarah was the most likely candidate seeing as how he could not imagine her wanting to get thrown in with all that both Simpson and Allen had been directly involved in. In fact, he was sure she would have enough common sense, not to mention a high enough degree of self-preservation to get herself out in front of what was sure to be a major indictment once the proper authorities were availed of what David was now referring to as The Patterson Files. He just did not think a response would be coming this quickly.

“Hello, Sarah,” David said as he sat in the car. “Someone suddenly have a change of heart or feel obliged to listen to their conscience now?”

“That was quite a performance you put on for us just now, but, no…I’m afraid not.”

“That’s too bad, Sarah. I was hoping you at least were looking for a way out from under this mess. What can I help you with then?”

“The three of us talked after you left, and I’m afraid that I’m going to have to ask you to leave Brandt Manor.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. Frederick and Diane do not feel they can trust you any longer, and they have instructed me as their agent to inform you that you have twenty-four hours to gather all your belongings and vacate the premises.”

“I am paid up for another three weeks, Sarah.”

“They will gladly refund you any outstanding payments minus any damage found upon your departure.”

“So you have decided to go down with the ship then?”

“David, I’m not interested in any further conversation with you regarding the highly fictionalized if not entertaining story you are trying to peddle here. If you have not fully vacated the premises in twenty-four hours, we will consider this a case of criminal trespass and you will be arrested.”

David considered taking one more shot at her to try to get her to see the light, but from her tone and attitude, he could see she was a lost cause. Whatever Simpson and Allen had promised her, it was apparently a much greater incentive than the threat of going to jail. Maybe they had found this so-called treasure and they were all planning on fleeing the state now that they knew someone was on to them. That was just a guess, but what David did know was that if Sarah were unreachable, then there was no way Simpson or Allen would ever come around.

“Okay, Sarah. I’m sorry the three of you have decided to go this route. I can assure you that what I have in hand is not some creation out of my own mind. You are making an enormous mistake, but I will adhere to the wishes of you and your clients. If you—”

But David said no more when he realized that Sarah had hung up him after having passed along the edict from her clients. He got out of the car and went inside, reminding himself to call Maggie before he began packing up and figuring out just where it was he was going to go now. Even though his plan had fallen flat, she needed to know that he was okay, and they might need to discuss another option to bring Timothy Edgecroft some justice. He needed to turn this matter over to someone else who could get some real action accomplished so he could get back to his book at last. David felt as if he had done all he could on his own and that his efforts at amateur sleuthing were over. Maybe Maggie could suggest someone.

He went inside and tossed his keys onto the table just inside the front door as he headed for the kitchen to get a beer to help him calm down after the tumultuous events of the day. Where to go once he was ready was the big question after talking to Maggie to get her suggestions on who to hand off the information to that he felt would ultimately nail the three remaining co-conspirators. Whether or not Ralph Edmunds was tied up in it all was still a possibility, but at this point, David did not see that as especially relevant. Most likely, he was just a minor supporting figure, if at all, much like Sarah Fitzgerald. But in his heart, David really hoped Ralph was not involved. He really liked the man, and it seemed inconceivable based on the character of the three certainly responsible that he would have joined up.

However, first things first, David figured. He polished off his beer and set off to pack up, not trusting Simpson and Allen to honor this so-called “twenty-four-hour window” to leave the property. What better way to try to silence me, David thought, than to have Captain Reed burst in at any time to arrest him and lock him away, where he could not talk to anyone, like Maggie, about moving their investigation forward. He packed up all his files and laptop in the car first since they were of utmost importance to him before heading back inside to gather the few personal items he had brought along for their stay at the manor.

As he slowly ascended the stairs, David racked his brain for where he would go now to work once he had turned everything over to Maggie. When they had arrived, the Brandt had seemed so perfect to get him back on track, but ever since this mystery had cropped up and Susan had gone back to Hartford, whatever influence the old place had provided him seemed long gone. He was just as frustrated and lacking in creative ideas now as he had been back at home. He was hoping it had just been the distraction of it all and was temporary, but that still was not giving him any clues as to where to go now. Going back to Hartford was the simple and logical option, but David was sure he would be as clueless about continuing the book there as he had been before.

The afternoon light was beginning to die as David folded up his clothes and began putting them into his suitcase before going into the bathroom to collect his toiletries. He took a brief pause to gaze out the window in the bedroom that sat between the bed and the bathroom door when the sun finally sank behind the horizon and night took over outside. He sighed sadly as he felt he had fallen short of his plan to come here to get the book finished up and sent off to Charley so the editors could step in and do their thing, moving his follow-up effort along for publication. But circumstances had changed, and there was nothing David could do now but try to find inspiration elsewhere. All the same, it had been a great run.

But before he could take another step toward the bathroom, the lights in the bedroom all went suddenly dark, plunging a startled David into a pitch-black room.

49

He gasped slightly at first but then relaxed as the power outage reminded him what Ralph Edmunds had said early on about how lights and water might be hit and miss from time to time as the renovation went on and they got all the bugs worked out. But as he felt his way around to try to locate the emergency flashlight he kept in a zippered compartment of his suitcase, David’s mind began to wander to other possibilities. Perhaps because his belief system had changed so recently regarding the paranormal, he immediately wondered if this was Edgecroft-related. Had Edgecroft somehow been watching over him and become aware of how he had been stone-walled when he had confronted Simpson and Allen? And was this the lead-in to another message or clue for him to convince him not to give up so easily?

It seemed possible, David supposed, but from his interactions with Edgecroft so far, he suspected the ghost would be more direct and apparent in its efforts for offering him more help than just dousing the lights. The more he thought about it, it seemed not so likely when nothing more materialized after waiting a few minutes. David stepped gingerly and cautiously toward the bed where he had left his open suitcase so he could feel around for the pocket where he had stowed the flashlight. From his memory, he did not think there had been anything between him and the bed that he might stumble over to get the suitcase, but with all that was flying through his brain just then, David did not want to take any chance of forgetting about some piece of furniture or another impediment that would send him sprawling.

But as he made his way across the room, holding his hands out in front of him to detect any obstacles, David stopped suddenly when he was sure he heard the subtle but unmistakable creak of a board in the floor off to his left. He hesitated and listened hard, but there was nothing more. Probably just my agitated state, he told himself. Then with no warning, David felt a heavy, blunt object smack hard into the back of his head. The last thing he thought of before he lost consciousness and everything went black was that whatever was going on with the lights had nothing to do with Timothy Edgecroft.

* * *

When David finally came to, his vision was still a bit blurry, but when he blinked a few times, it finally cleared, and his head was killing him. He tried to stand but found that he was securely tied to a hard, wooden chair, his hands behind him and his ankles lashed together as well. He looked around at the dimly lit room and tried to figure out where he was, though his brain did not quite want to cooperate while he gathered his wits and senses again. After a few moments, he looked around as well as he could against his restraints and saw bare earthen walls and a floor. It did not immediately register until David recalled the night that he and Ralph Edmunds had gone searching for a possible intruder following the “kitchen incident.”

Though the manor no longer had a proper cellar due to flooding that had become a regular issue over time, there were still the remnants of what Phillip Brandt had put in when the place was built. They had briefly searched the rough room during the search, and David knew that was where he was now. But he knew he was now in deep, deep shit. Without having to see anyone else, he knew that Simpson and Allen were responsible for his abduction based on what he had confronted them with. Either they thought he had been lying about having left the evidence with another person, or they just did not care and had decided to dispatch him before fleeing Connecticut.

He glanced off to the side to see a long hand-dug tunnel that was completely dark. David assumed this was where the great treasure hunt had been going on. If they had, in fact, found the storied cache, then he knew his hours were numbered. Just then, he heard several sets of footsteps coming down the stairs, and Diane Simpson and Frederick Allen stood before him. The former look of surprise and having been caught at their nefarious scheme was now gone from both their faces and replaced with expressions of power and confidence.

“You should have just kept working on your book, Pragmore,” Frederick said coldly as he shone a light into David’s eyes.

David squinted against the glare. “Everything I left with you is soon going to be available to the media and more no matter what you do to me, Allen,” David replied with his own confidence.

“Save your lies, Pragmore,” Frederick shot back. “That’s all bullshit, and we all know it, okay?”

David shrugged as much as his restraints allowed and grinned. Inside, he was petrified as to how long they would let him live, but he was determined to put up a brave front on his face. “Well…” David went on, “ I guess we’ll see when the police come to get you, won’t we?”

“Shut up!” Simpson screamed as her eyes flashed deep hatred and a look that made David know just how desperate and vile she was.

Frederick put up a hand to silence her.

“Easy, Diane,” he said calmly. “Mr. Pragmore is lying just to save his own hide. We both know that as well as he does. But I’m betting that he might value his own life a bit more than he is pretending to. No one wants to willingly die when they can prevent it…right, Pragmore?”

David said nothing, wondering where this was going.

“You may not approve of our desires or methods, Pragmore, but I will make an offer to you like you did to us back in Sarah’s office…one last chance before things get very serious here.”

David looked up at him but did not reply.

“With all the information you got from Patterson, I’m sure he told you the whereabouts of the treasure we know is here somewhere. Tell you what…you give us the location, and it may save your life.”

David knew this was a lie. No matter what he told them, he knew they would never let him live. He was just one more loose end—like Bill Patterson—had to be wrapped up. The only reason Patterson was still alive, David reasoned, was that they had no idea where he was. Besides, in all his talking with Patterson, he had never revealed anything about knowing where the treasure was, or even if it existed anywhere other than in the imaginations of Simpson and Allen. In fact, he had said just this: that to his knowledge, the alleged buried treasure that Phillip Brandt had supposedly brought from New Orleans and hidden away was just a fairy tale.

But seeing that his life seemed to have a very short shelf life at the moment, David decided to spin a tale to try to drag out any time he had left, hoping that somehow their inattention or focus on this treasure would present him an opportunity to escape. It was his only chance, he figured.

“Okay, Allen, that seems reasonable. Patterson did indeed fill me in on the location of the treasure intended for Edgecroft, but if it saves my life, I guess I have no choice.”

Allen grinned, and Simpson sneered at David, assuming they had finally broken him down after all his dramatic bravado when he had met with them earlier. Frederick was right back at Sarah’s, Simpson told herself, he’s just another weak and easily manipulated pawn for us to use. No one could stop them…no one!

50

David stiffened as Simpson came over to him and began to carefully loosen his bindings while Frederick kept a serious-looking revolver trained on him. Once he was free and had a second or two to get the blood flowing into his limbs again, David pointed down the long, dark tunnel indicating that was where the treasure was located.

“I told you we were close, Frederick,” Diane said curtly. “You never listen to me!”

“Not now, Diane. You first, Pragmore. And no tricks, or they will be your last, understand?”

David nodded and began down the corridor, still not sure when his chance would come, especially with a gun aimed at his back. But this was his only hope of surviving these maniacs…surely something would come to him. Then, with no warning, the ground under their feet began to tremble as if some disturbance in the land under the manor was experiencing a minor earthquake.

“What the hell?” Diane exclaimed as they both reached out a hand to steady themselves against the moving floor of the tunnel.

David felt his heart skip a beat as well, having no clue as to what was going on, either, until he looked farther into the tunnel and saw the glowing apparition of Timothy Edgecroft before him, smiling broadly. He smiled in return and sighed in relief, knowing Edgecroft had decided to intercede on his behalf to put a stop to these fiends once and for all. Frederick squinted against the glare of Edgecroft’s form, sure that he was having some sort of hallucination.

“Edgecroft!” he cried, “It can’t be. You’re dead! We killed you, and you’re dead!”

Diane stood frozen in place, almost in a catatonic shock, not able to comprehend what she was seeing. Frederick raised the gun as David dropped flat to the ground and fired three shots into the Edgecroft-thing. The bullets passed through him with no resistance and were embedded into the wall. David then looked up to see Edgecroft soar over him and rip the revolver from Frederick’s hand and toss it back into the inky dark of the tunnel beyond them. Needing no more prodding and not wanting to wait another second, David scrambled to his feet and dashed out of the tunnel past Simpson and Allen as Edgecroft held them in abeyance. David did not know if they were physically restrained or just unable to move from overwhelming shock and fright, and just then, he did not care.

He ran out of the tunnel as the vibrations all around him began to grow in magnitude. He glanced back briefly to see that Edgecroft had expanded his presence to fill the width and height of the tunnel, blocking the frantic and near-hysterical pair behind. Small and then larger pieces of the tunnel began to cave in on the pair as they screamed and pleaded for help.

“Pragmore!” Allen screamed in the most desperate and hopeless voice David had ever heard, “Please, for the love of God, help us! You can’t just leave us here to die like this!”

David took one last look their way, as their bodies were being bombarded by falling rocks, dirt, and large fragments of timber. They were cowering on the floor, trying ineffectively to protect themselves from the progressive collapse all around them and blood streamed down their faces as Edgecroft blocked any escape. He had never felt that he was an especially vindictive person, but at that moment, David reveled in the harsh hand of justice being dealt out from beyond the physical world. He watched until the debris and clouds of dust obscured any other sight of the pair and then waited no longer.

Not wanting to end up as unintended collateral damage from Edgecroft’s timely intervention on his behalf, David raced up the stairs as the whole foundation began to shake and tremble all around him. The last things that David recalled in his flight out of the cellar were the final cries of anguish and utter terror as the whole tunnel came down and buried Simpson and Allen alive, snuffing out their voices forever. In a manic and desperate effort, David dashed back up to the bedroom and grabbed his suitcase, slamming it shut without bothering to get anything from the bathroom.

The rumbling and shaking of the foundation under the cellar had, by that point, begun to spread upward, and the walls around him began to form huge cracks as the whole manor seemed to be coming apart at the seams. David zigged and zagged back down the stairs, skillfully dodging falling portions of the manor as he headed for the door. He shot out the front door and put as much distance as he thought was necessary between himself and the crumbling manor as he could. He collapsed against the fender of his car as his suitcase popped open and the contents flew in all directions.

As he looked back, David was truly thankful he had made the decision to extricate his laptop and his work files before having gone back for his personal effects. He could not imagine having to start over on the book from scratch, considering just how much he was struggling at the moment to write even an intriguing and coherent paragraph. He stuffed his things into the suitcase and secured the clasps before tossing it into the back seat and crouching down behind the car to avoid being injured by any errant debris from the manor across the drive. David rose to his knees and peered over the hood of the car as he tried to wrap his logical brain around what he was seeing.

There in front of him, the huge Brandt Manor—the one that had withstood the severe weather of countless New England winters and brutal summer heat, not to mention the concocted legend of Timothy Edgecroft and the corruption of the police engineered by his envious and jealous relatives—was falling in on itself, brick by brick and floor by floor. As he watched in fascination and utter disbelief, all David could compare the melee to was an old film adaptation of the classic Edgar Allen Poe story, The Fall of the House of Usher starring Vincent Price, where the filmmakers decide to actually have the house collapse on itself at the end.

At the time, David had seen the scene as cheesy and unbelievable, but now that it was actually happening right before his eyes, he was changing his opinion. It was like some huge chasm had opened up in the earth’s surface under the immense structure and was swallowing the manor bit by bit. A jagged fissure had expanded under the manor from front to back and was widening as David looked on, his mouth agape. As if from a pressure that had been held back too long, a massive blast of steam shot through the fissure, enveloping the entire structure as this hideous and near-deafening wail of anguish and agony filled the air all around him. David clasped his hands over his ears to block out the bulk of the howl as the manor continued its gradual implosion and collapse into the ragged opening.

When the mournful howl finally ceased, David looked up to see that the once impressive and majestic Brandt Manor was now nothing more than a pile of rubble and smoking embers. He stood and saw the jagged fissure had closed up as well, leaving just a cratered indentation in the ground as if the weight of the fallen manor might have left upon its fall. David stepped from behind the car, realizing that Edgecroft had not only put an end to his duplicitous and conniving relations but an end to the manor as well. A treasure—if it had even existed in the first place—was now buried deep under the remains of the Brandt along with Simpson and Allen, who had been more than capable of killing at will to get their hands on it.

Epilogue: 3 Months Later in Tibbets

Maggie Gleason’s House

Tibbets, CT

2012

Following the collapse and destruction of the Brant Manor, the official verdict that came down from several state geologists was that the manor had been the victim of an unstable landmass that had apparently existed for years, even before Phillip Brandt came along and purchased the acreage for the construction. Though the northwest corner of Connecticut is not exactly a hotbed for seismic activity relative to somewhere like San Francisco or Los Angeles or other areas well-associated with major fault lines, there have been minor tremors from time to time if you go back in the historical records and dig around enough.

The USGS scientists reported that a minor disturbance had been detected by some of their equipment in both their regional offices in Hartford, Connecticut, and Springfield, Massachusetts. While by comparison, the 2.5 quake was deemed minor, the lead geologist who came to investigate the report of the manor having collapsed said even that minor rift had been more than enough to cause it all once they looked at all the data for the flawed land upon which the manor had once resided. The epicenter seemed to have been located just on the Connecticut and Massachusetts border, but oddly, no one anywhere could be found who noticed any real tremor in their own towns, including Tibbets.

David had hung around Tibbets long enough to listen to what the scientist had to say since he was well aware of what had actually caused the manor to collapse and fall to rubble. While he waited on the official announcement, David dropped by Maggie’s to fill her in. Everything had happened so quickly that he wanted to get to her before the rumor mill in Tibbets passed along their version of it all. She sat utterly enthralled and fascinated as David gave her a blow-by-blow account of what had gone down, beginning with his confrontation at Sarah Fitzgerald’s office, then his abduction by Simpson and Allen, and ending with Timothy Edgecroft’s timely intervention to end it all.

“So I guess we won’t need any of the detailed records Bill kept after all, huh?” Maggie asked when he was done.

“Cute, Maggie, real cute,” David replied as he laughed along with her.

“You suppose Tim Edgecroft is satisfied enough now to move on?” she continued as she sipped her tea.

David shrugged. “Hard to say, but it sure seems logical, or at least as logical as can be expected, all things considered, I guess.”

She nodded but still had a look of curiosity in her eyes.

“Something else on your mind, Maggie?” David asked.

“Just wondering if this elusive buried treasure actually existed, or was that just some story Phillip Brandt spun to amuse himself and see how it would churn up his relatives.”

“No idea for sure, but Simpson and Allen sure seemed convinced. If Phillip did this as a lark, it sure came at a high cost—three dead and a string of collusion with the police going back over forty years.”

“Did Bill give you any indication, when you met with him, that it was real or just a myth?”

“Not really. When Simpson and Allen recruited him to join in on the original plan, they used it as the carrot to entice him. You know, a piece of the pie if he helped them pull it off. But after he backed out, he told me he had no idea if the treasure was real or not and that maybe they had just spun that as another lie to get him on board.”

“Hmm….probably one of those things best buried deep with the two of them, David. Just remove the temptation for anyone else to come along and try to go hunting, you know?”

“My thinking exactly, Maggie. The only thing that still bothers me and that can never be cleared up now since Simpson and Allen can never be brought to justice is that Tim Edgecroft’s name will always be that of this homicidal maniac.”

“I thought of that as well, but my guess is that Tim has little, if any, concern in the afterlife as to what any of the busybodies with too much time on their hands in Tibbets say about him.”

David laughed out loud. “Good point. I guess in his own way, he got his revenge and a version of justice that he wanted.”

“So, you heading back home now?”

“I suppose so. I came here running away from a severe case of writer’s block, but I have this feeling it will no longer be a problem when I go back.”

“You thinking of inserting anything about the mystery of Timothy Edgecroft into the book now?”

“You are an extremely intuitive and insightful woman, Maggie Gleason. Anyone ever tell you that?”

She laughed this time. “It may have been pointed out to me on occasion.”

“Can I ask a personal question?” David interjected as he stood to go.

“After all this? Hit me.”

“Now that this is all resolved and the threat to Bill has been buried—no pun intended—think the two of you will get back together?”

“Funny you should ask, David. Bill’s coming to visit next week. We shall see…”

David hugged her warmly and held her for a few seconds. “It has been an extraordinary pleasure meeting and working with you, Maggie. An unexpected and delightful part of this trip I could never have predicted when we left Hartford.”

“Same here, David. Finish that book, though. I’m looking forward to reading it soon.”

David smiled and headed for his car but stopped when she called out to him.

“David! Just remember, if you feel compelled to include me in your novel, please change my name. The last thing I need is a bunch of yahoos pounding down my door, wanting to meet one of the characters, even fictional as it may be, from the creative mind of the famous David Pragmore!”

“You’re a pip, Maggie! Take care.”

“You as well and tell Susan I said hello.”

And Then Back in Hartford…

7538 Redport Lane

Hartford, CT

2012

David rolled back home with no idea if he would have the same issues writing as he had experienced when he left for Tibbets back in the spring. But as soon as he saw Susan standing in the doorway of their modest home, he just knew he had nothing to worry about. For two days, he did nothing but get settled back in and regale her with what had been an adventure beyond anything he could have ever written. Susan was not sure what had stunned and shocked her more, the details of how David had inserted himself into trying to solve the mystery of the Brandt Manor or that he was now a card-carrying advocate for the paranormal. They sat out on the deck behind the house and lingered over beers as David wrapped up his time in Tibbets after she had taken off.

“So the only people who know what really happened up there are you and Maggie Gleason?”

“And now you, yeah. There is no way anyone would have taken us seriously, and the geologists seemed to be a very convenient cover to avoid any serious inquiry as to why I might have survived a mysterious collapse of a historical house that had experienced zero structural issues since its construction back in the 1930s.”

“You not interested in spending some time in a mental facility?”

“You’re a regular laugh a minute, Susan.”

“I do what I can,” she replied as she laughed with him.

“And the book remains only partially done still?”

“Charley still chomping at the bit?”

“Can you blame him?”

“No, not at all. But that’s the next silver lining in all of this.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah…it may not be fair to Timothy Edgecroft, the man in life, but with all that happened, I think it is enough to finish the book.”

“I’m not following you, David.”

“Okay, all that was left of the Brandt were minor remnants once they hauled off as much of the rubble as they could. As far as the people of Tibbets are concerned, Tim Edgecroft is still the same homicidal killer who avoided prosecution by committing suicide. All that happened when I pursued the mystery has done nothing to damage the legend the locals still love to talk about, even if they say they don’t in public.”

“Don’t tell me, this is the new ending to the novel?”

“I’m not sure who is more clairvoyant, you or Maggie Gleason. Anyway, with all I have written so far, using what went on in Tibbets is the perfect framework to polish it off.”

“What about your writer’s block?”

“I won’t know until I sit down to write here again, but I can’t imagine having any issues in that regard having come out of the experience I have just had.”

“How serendipitous, David.”

“Yeah, I know. It is uncanny how well what I have written already was tailormade for the mystery of the Brandt Manor to be included.”

“Don’t you suppose there will be at least some local interest in the manor after all that has been written about it over the years?”

“Probably, but none of them have access to the inside track like me. All that will just be supposition and conjecture.”

* * *

Susan nodded her agreement as she left him alone the next day to get back to his book. And just as David had anticipated, his issue with writer’s block was gone as he blew through the remaining plot of the novel using the mystery of the Brandt Manor as a tantalizing twist to his second horror novel that would never have been possible without all that had happened in Tibbets. As usual, Susan read the rough first draft and handed it back to David, smiling.

“I wouldn’t change one word, David. Charley and his editor gurus may want to shuffle it around, but from my perspective, it’s good to go as is.”

David took her at her word as her opinions on his writing had never been off yet. He overnighted the manuscript to his grateful agent and then just sat back and relaxed for the first time in many months, David realized. He had no idea how it would strike everyone at the agency, but David was not concerned. How could an honest-to-God ghost story, one that he had lived through, not be literary gold?

Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story!

Writing has always been a passion of mine and it’s incredibly gratifying and rewarding whenever you give me an opportunity to let you escape from your everyday surroundings and entertain the world that is your imagination.

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Again, thank you so much for letting me into your world. I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it!

The Haunting of Quenby Mansion

1

Last Will and Testament

It was dark, and the moon was full. Georgia bugs chirped in the humid air. A breeze rattled the leaves of fat Southern oaks. At the end of the brick road, ominously named The Path, stood the momentous Antebellum relic. Seventeen rooms, 2.5 stories high, and a survivor from a bygone era, the Quenby House was rich with history and had a set of colonnades on both the first and second floor. Spotted with little white flowers, vines and ivy climbed the mansion’s chipped white paint and around the tall glass windows. More roses and thorns bloomed around its base.

In the night, silhouettes of neglected cabins and a struggling cotton field were visible beyond the massive building.

A dim glow leaked from one of the mansion’s upper windows.

Apart from the flame dancing on a candlewick, the study was dark with tall bookshelves, chairs with cracked leather cushions, and a number of wilted flowers that decorated the windowsills and tabletops. There were other antiquities too, but none were a concern to Maxwell Quenby.

Hunched over his great grandfather’s desk, Maxwell, a forty-eight-year-old man with sunken cheeks, a patchy beard, and red-rimmed eyes, heard movement in the long halls of his Antebellum-era home. In the candlelight, sweat glistened on his creased forehead and greasy black/gray hair. He hadn’t bathed in days, and though the study was spacious, his natural odor seemed to hang in a cloud over his head. His calloused hand scribbled feverishly on the page before him.

It was the most important note of his life.

The first and last thing he’d say to the daughter he never knew.

Since the widow Cecilia and her lover Abel Quenby I completed the plantation decades prior to the civil war, every important document was signed on this heavy wooden desk. From the purchase of the first slave in July of 1843 to the final cotton sale in March of 1875, the deep scratches and ink stains on the desk’s wooden surface ran as deep as the family’s blood.   

Muffled voices leaked through the walls.

Maxwell twisted back at the sound. They found a way into the corridor. His nearly black, beady eyes returned to the page. His vision blurred from his lack of sleep. A bead of sweat raced down his nose. Moving his lips, Maxwell read his draft. It was garbage. He balled up the page and tossed it back to the mountain of crumpled paper.

He pulled another sheet of paper from the pile and let his pen go to work. His hair tumbled down over his tired eyes. He should’ve cut it ages ago, but time escaped him. Time always seemed to escape him.

The doorknob to his study jiggled violently.

Maxwell’s heart throbbed in his chest. His breath quickened.

The next draft of the letter dragged. He crumpled it up and threw it with the rest.

Light seeped through the bottom of the door.

More indistinguishable voices. They got closer.

Last time, Maxwell promised himself and made the note brief. It wasn’t loving. It wasn’t rude. It wasn’t perfect, but it was what it needed to be. Maxwell forwent that perfectionist’s voice and folded the letter with his trembling hands.

The door rattled on it hinges. The lock wouldn't hold much longer.

Maxwell slid the letter into a red envelope. His tongue traced the envelope’s lip, and he sealed it tight.

Wood cracked behind him as something heavy slammed into the door.

Maxwell scribbled the day and time he wished the letter to be opened. If all else failed, the delivery must be precise.

Crack!

He set the letter aside and pulled open his drawer. His trembling hand withdrew a dusty snub nose revolver. Candlelight bounced over the tight frame. He checked the cylinder. Six rounds. He prayed to God it would be enough.

With a crash, the door swung open.

In the threshold, the figures looked like shadows, but Maxwell knew they were so much more. His finger squeezed the trigger desperately. The gun misfired. Maxwell leapt from his chair, knocking it over. The figures charged him. Their hands grabbed at him and tore the weapon from his grasp. He reached desperately for something to grab onto, but his efforts failed him. He was yanked from the study, screaming the only name that came to mind: his daughter’s.

2

Evelyn

Detroit had its own pulse and noise. Sirens, shouting, and the bays of unseen dogs were the natural sounds of the manmade habitat. Iron clouds blanketed the stars, though even on a clear night, the city’s glow would hide them.

With shifty eyes, Evelyn Carr watched the multi-story tenement from the opposite sidewalk. Her hair was blonde and her body slender. The pockets of her belted, black, double-breasted raincoat warmed her hands. Through the coat's lining, she felt the extendable baton concealed under the jacket.

An ambulance screamed down the damp road, splashing water on the curbside and on the toes of Evelyn’s black heelless ankle boots.

Standing between the glow of two hooked streetlights, Evelyn withdrew the picture of the girl a final time. Twenty-two years old, raven black hair, and floral tattoos up her arms, upper chest, and neck, Molly was a college dropout, a societal failure, and another shadow in a city of faces. No one cared that she had been missing for seventy-two hours except her high school friend Alice, a good Christian girl, and the burnt-out thirty-three-year-old private investigator Evelyn Carr.

Evelyn refolded the picture and tucked it away. Looking both ways, she crossed the street. A granite-faced man smoking a cigarette on the tenement steps glared at her as a wisp of smoke seeped from his busted lip. His hard look was one Evelyn was used to. Just like most places, she wasn’t welcome here.

Evelyn pushed through the double doors. The sound reverberated through the entrance hall followed by her boots clacking on the scuffed tile floor. She reached the elevator without passing another soul. It hummed and rumbled as it climbed the building, finally spitting Evelyn out on the seventh floor. The ceiling light flickered in the hallway that ended at room 712. Muffled heavy metal music thumbed through the closed door. Evelyn hammered her fist on its face and took a step back. Harsh bass and wicked guitar riffs replied.

She knocked again, much harder this time.

The doorknob jiggled, and a moment later, Evelyn faced a skinny man wearing only tight jeans unbuttoned above the zipper. Though not muscular, the pasty-skinned twenty-something year old had a toned body painted with skulls, naked ladies, and other decadent tattoos. A happy trail climbed from his beltline and to his innie belly button. His jet-black hair was combed to the side of his roguish face. Casually, he rested his forearm in the frame of the door. His dark eyes licked Evelyn from head to toe. The foggy haze lingering in the dimly-lit apartment behind him drifted over her.

“I’m here for Molly,” Evelyn stated.

The shirtless punk smirked. “You her mom or something?”

Evelyn ignored the comment. “Tell her to come out here.”

“She fine where she is.”

Evelyn shook her head slightly. “No.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Evelyn pushed past him. Their shoulders knocked together, and the unsuspecting boy stumbled back.

“Hey!” the punk shouted.

Evelyn stepped into the apartment den reeking with the stench of all sorts of herbal substances. Poster of various metal bands and scantily clad woman were tacked to the wall. Old food and used heroin needles sat on the glass coffee table in plain view.

The punk yelled at her again. Evelyn guessed he was commanding her to leave, but the overwhelming music drowned out his words. There were empty beer bottles in the kitchen sink and pizza on the stove, but no sign of Molly. Wasting little time, Evelyn bustled down the hall that became further mystified by thick smoke. From behind, a hand grabbed Evelyn’s forearm. She turned back to the punk. He screamed over the speakers. “I will call the police!”

Evelyn stared at him with a cold face. “Really?” she asked sarcastically, bouncing her eyes to the drugs before yanking herself from his grasp. The punk stood dumbfounded as Evelyn reached the bedroom door and shoved it open.

The room was painted crimson like blood, with cheap red candles glowing on the dresser. It was like a scene out of some low-budget vampire movie. At the edge of the bed, Molly rested her head on the shoulder of another shirtless punk. She held a burnt spoon in one hand and a lighter in the other. Both of the twenty-something year olds sat up in alarm at Evelyn’s approach.

The punk behind Evelyn spoke up, “She just walked in, man. I don’t know what to do.”

“Molly,” Evelyn said, revealing her P.I. license. “You’re coming with me.” She grabbed the girl’s wrist.

“Ow!” the girl shouted as she was pulled from the bed. “What are you doing?” she said with angst.

The punk on the bed rose to his feet in defiance. “Hey, let her go!”

Evelyn gave him a look that caused him to sit back down. He mumbled a few unpleasant words. Molly’s wrist in hand, Evelyn twisted back to the shirtless punk who greeted her at the door. With her free hand, she withdrew the baton from under her coat and extended it with the flick of a wrist.

The punk’s eyes widened.

“Excuse me,” Evelyn said, feeling his tension. The ball of the baton pushed up the man’s chin. He raised both hands and stepped aside.

“Jared?” Molly called as she was led out of the room, expecting the punk to do something.

The punk didn’t move.

Taking Molly with her, Evelyn hustled out of the apartment and back to the elevator. When the door closed and the rumbly descent began, Molly wrenched free of Evelyn’s grip. The goth girl rubbed her sore wrist. “You a cop or something?”

Molly’s lack of resistance spoke volumes. There was hope that she’d be saved after all.

“Alice sent me to find you.” Evelyn watched the digital floor numbers tick down. “She was worried that you relapsed.”

“Alice?” Molly scoffed, but then averted her gaze.

Evelyn put away her baton. “When this door opens, I’m going to my office to meet with your friend. You can come with me or stay in the elevator.”

“You didn’t give me much of a choice back at the apartment,” the girl mumbled.

“I thought you could use some persuasion, but I can’t hold your wrist forever.”

The elevator dinged. Evelyn stepped out without looking back. The girl’s fate was her own. The elevator door closed. Quiet footsteps followed behind Evelyn. In silence, the two women walked the sidewalk together.

Black hair tossed by the wind, Molly crossed her arms over her chest. Goose bumps speckled her pale skin. “What are you? A private investigator?”

Evelyn stepped in a puddle. “Something like that.”

“Are you allowed to be dragging people around?”

Evelyn didn’t reply.

Two blocks down, they reached the parking meter and dingy minivan. Corrosive spots and peeled paint revealed the metal of the hood.

“You’re taking me in that?” Molly complained. “Will it even run?”

“I didn’t take you as a woman of class,” Evelyn climbed into the driver seat, not waiting to see the girl’s reaction. Reluctant, Molly took shotgun. They drove on damp streets and by skyscrapers spotted with glowing windows. The Tuesday night crowd gathered in long lines outside of nightclubs. Hobos and other street crawlers huddled under awnings that still dripped from the evening rain forty-five minutes ago. Cop cars zipped by, rushing to the scene of a crime.

Evelyn turned the car through an alleyway beside a cheap buffet restaurant. A gruff chef with an apron stained with greasy fingerprints tossed a bag of trash into the growing mound outside his back door. A skeletal cat ran out from behind it.

Evelyn parked her van in the small lot behind the adjacent office building: an old brick structure that had been standing for nearly a century.

“Do my parents know that I was...” Molly’s voice trailed.

Evelyn turned the key in the ignition. The car sputtered off. “It was Alice that reached out to me. I’ve heard nothing from your parents.”

“Figures,” Molly replied. She covered her eyes with her palms. “Ugh. I’m so high right now.”

The comment didn’t surprise Evelyn. She turned to the girl. “Ready to go up there?”

“No,” Molly replied. “I mean, I don’t know. All my stuff is still at the guys’ apartment.”

“I’ll pick it up in the morning,” Evelyn replied.

Molly met eyes with her. “Why?”

Evelyn didn’t have an answer. After locking the car, they hiked up the metal stairs at the back of the brick building. Evelyn sifted through her key fob and tried the lock. She had to jiggle it a few times before it opened. The room was little more than a metal desk and few chairs. Rusty street light oozed through the window blinds faded from exposure to the elements. Cinnamon caches placed through the room gave it a lively smell.

Dressed in a floral-patterned blouse, nice jeans, and spotless white tennis shoes, Alice stood by the desk and chewed her nail. She was a cute girl with a bob cut and an air of naiveté.  

“Molly!” She squealed and hugged her tattooed friend. Molly didn’t reciprocate the warm embrace.

“How did you know where I was?” Molly asked.

“I didn’t,” Alice replied. “She found you.”

They both turned to Evelyn silhouetted in the doorway. Evelyn could’ve explained how she used the location finder from Molly’s social media pictures to lead her to the various nightclubs, bribed the bouncers, reached out to club regulars, jotted down descriptions of the men, found one of their angry exes, got the punk’s address, and waited until they had settled in their flat before making her move. Instead of saying all that, Evelyn smiled with pursed lips.

“Stay with me tonight,” Alice said, taking Molly’s hands in her own. “We’ll take you back to rehab tomorrow.”

“I got out last week,” Molly replied. “I can’t go back like this.”

“This is the best time to go back,” Alice replied. “Before you backslide any worse.”

Molly grunted. “I’m not backsliding. I was only having fun.”

“That fun almost killed you last time, and if not for Mrs. Carr, it may have killed you this time,” Alice said. “Did you even know those guy’s names?”

Molly didn’t reply.

“Oh,” Alice perked up. She pulled a white bank envelope from her back pocket and handed it to Evelyn. “I almost forgot this.”

Evelyn took it and opened the tab. She counted a few fifty dollars bills inside. “That’s very generous of you.” Evelyn reexamined the money. I really need to raise my fee.

The two girls said their goodbyes and exited. Evelyn closed and locked the door behind them. She removed a cash box from her desk and studied the contents within. It was never a good month when she could see the bottom of the box. The last few months were bad. It wasn’t a matter of how hard she worked or how good she was. Her livelihood depended on the client and how much they were willing to pay for her services. It sucked, but that was the reality of her business. Evelyn finished locking up the office and headed upstairs to her rented apartment.

The familiar sour stench of wood polish splashed Evelyn as she entered. After all these years, it was a surprise the chemical hadn’t killed her sense of smell. Her husband Terrence stood amidst curled wood shavings littering the floor beneath the kitchen table. His large hand brushed a stained rag across the body of a freshly carved violin. A half-dozen violas and fiddles dangled from a taut metal wire connected to two walls. A wide wooden tool rack was nailed to the adjacent wall. It held chisels, clamps, wire cutters, strings, and other luthier tools.

“Hey,” Terrence said without looking back.

“Hey,” Evelyn replied and pressed her body against his back. She wrapped her arms around his chest, snuggling herself ever closer to the love of her life. “Hungry?”

“I have rice on the stove and the crock pot going.” Terrence put down the rag. He turned to Evelyn, keeping his stained palms on the table’s rim. Terrence stood over six feet. He had dark skin and a little chin beard he took pride in. As a blues and country lover, his shirt always had some sort of instrument pattern decorating them. Tonight, it was little guitars--the first instrument he learned to build--that were the size of polka dots. “How was it today?”

“Long,” Evelyn replied. “You?”

“Made a sale,” Terrence said with a smile.

Evelyn didn’t want to remind him that bills come early tomorrow morning.

They enjoyed their meal in relative quiet. Conversation hadn’t been either one of their strong suits. Both of them worked odd hours, and even though they thought about having a child, the timing and cost never seemed right. After they finished clearing their plates, they took a shower together. Water cascaded down the deep grooves on Evelyn’s back. The scars reminded her of the “accident” all those years ago. She thought the crash would be the end. Instead, she met Terrence. The man who had saved her life. They were very different people. Evelyn bent the rules. Terrence was by the books. Evelyn folded to the back of most crowds. Terrence liked to be front and center. Pessimist: Evelyn. Optimist: Terrence. Evelyn could go on and on with their differences, but it was their commitment and love that kept them strong.

The sun came up too early. Evelyn untangled herself from her strong husband. She flipped on the kitchen lights and made an omelet filled with red peppers, diced ham, and shredded cheese. She glanced at the cluttered dining room table that had slowly become Terrence’s workshop over the last few years.

Evelyn slouched on the couch and put her plate on a cheap collapsible table. She sifted through the bills and rubbed her brow. It would be another close month. How many more of those would she have left before the close calls caught up with her? As she sealed away paid bills, she found a letter addressed to her by an attorney named Duncan Peters. Evelyn stared at it for a moment. The name didn’t ring any bells. She opened it and pulled out the document.

The letter began, “I write to you in regard to your father’s estate...” Evelyn paused. Rays of the morning sun climbed across the carpet floor and her pale cheek. She re-read the sentence and stopped at the word “father.”

She had no memories of the man, or her mother. Evelyn was an ugly baby. A little pink screamer no one wanted. Her youth was a blur of orphanages, where she was too “unruly” to get adopted. At eighteen and with no parents, she was on her own.

Until she met Terrence.  

Evelyn continued reading the letter. Its contents were vague about the inheritance and who her father was. It seemed more like an invitation than a legal document. Evelyn gave the lawyer a call.

“I’m sorry, but I’m under specific obligation not to discuss the contents of the will over the phone,” Duncan Peters said.

“You expect me to drive two hours with no information about my father or his will?”

“If you wish to collect your inheritance, you will need to arrive in person. That was the deceased's final wish. I must adhere to it.”

After the call ended, Evelyn let the couch swallow her up.

“What was that about?” Terrence said, standing in the hallway in his boxer briefs, toothbrush in his mouth.

“My father,” Evelyn said, almost disbelieving.

Terrence stopped mid-brush. He stepped back to the bathroom, took out his toothbrush from his mouth, and spat in the sink. “Babe, that’s great.”

“I suppose,” Evelyn put the letter aside. “It seems fitting that the only contact I’ll have with the man is reading his will.”

Terrence folded onto the couch next to her. “I’m sorry, but hey, maybe you’ll finally get a chance to find out who he is.”

Evelyn rested her head on his shoulder. A stir of emotions swirled inside. She didn’t know if she should weep or rejoice. Why leave her the inheritance when he never once reached out to her? Was the letter a mistake?

Evelyn made a trip to the punks’ house to clear her head. They opened the door slightly. “You know why I’m here,” Evelyn said.

The punk slammed the door in her face. Evelyn kept her hands in her coat pockets until the door reopened and the bundle of Molly’s clothes was thrown haphazardly into the apartment’s hallway. Evelyn made the trip to the rehab center and dropped off Molly’s stuff. The girl said some kind words and ended with the conversation by saying “I hate this city.”

Of that, Evelyn agreed.

Terrence and Evelyn made the trek to the lawyer’s office. The room had been painted a drab gray and displayed several paintings of large ships and beautiful mountain vistas. Duncan Peters was a heavy-set man with a droopy face, graying brown hair, and rimless glasses. He sat with fingers locked on the table. Terrence and Evelyn sat opposite of him in cushioned chairs designed to make the process easier. Evelyn found them uncomfortably soft.

Peters gave them both a pitying smile. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Carr.”

“I didn’t know him, but thank you,” Evelyn replied.

“Let’s begin,” Peters lifted the weathered red letter from the top of his desk and cleared his throat. He read the handwritten print on its front. “To Notary Duncan Peters. Whether or not my body is found, deliver this letter to daughter Evelyn ten years after I’m presumed dead. Only on the tenth of March.”

Evelyn leaned forward. March 10th was the day I was put up for adoption. “Ten years?”

“Yes,” Peters said stoically. “I’ve had this letter in my possession since that time.”

“Shouldn’t you have told me about this?” Evelyn asked.

“I was left clear instructions not to,” Peters replied. “Shall I proceed?”

Under the table, Terrence squeezed Evelyn’s hand. Evelyn nodded.

Peters ran the sword-shaped letter opener across the envelope. He removed a single sheet of paper from within. “To Evelyn, my daughter. My heir. I failed you in life. I will not make excuses or justify my actions. That time is dead and gone. I will leave you with the only thing I have to give: my estate. Enclosed within this note is the key to our family home. May it give you more peace than it did me. Your father, Max.”

Silence hung in the room for a moment.

“Is that all?” Evelyn asked.

Peters nodded and handed her the old gray key. “The address as well. 1 Quenby Avenue, Adders, Georgia.”

“Adders? Never heard of it,” Terrence said.

“Most people haven’t,” Peters said. “It’s hardly a blip on the map.”

“You lived there?” Terrence asked.

“I got out as soon as I could,” Peters said, leaving no room for further questioning.

Evelyn took the key. It was heavy and spotted with rust. She locked eyes with Peters. “In his will, he said that if he is presumed dead. What does that mean?”

“Maxwell vanished from his home ten years ago. All of his possessions were accounted for. However, the body was never recovered.”

“What happened to him?” Terrence asked.

Peters shrugged. “The police have been asking that question for many years.”  

On the drive back, Evelyn pinched the key between her finger and thumb and spun it slowly before her eyes.

“I didn’t expect that. I wonder what happened to your father?” Terrence kept his eye on the road as he turned right.

Evelyn had about as many answers as Terrence. None. “If he was alive, someone would’ve known. But it’s been ten years… and he wrote a will.”

They drove farther up the road. Terrence smiled. “I wonder how big the estate is?”

Evelyn tucked away the key. “I don’t know. Either way, we can try to flip it.”

“It’s your family home,” Terrence said, as if Evelyn didn’t know.

“It’s in Georgia. What are we going to do with a house in Georgia?” Evelyn asked rhetorically. “I’ve never been south of Tennessee.”

“I say we check it out,” Terrence said, smiling. “It could be an adventure.”

“Who’s paying for it?” Evelyn replied, harsher than she had anticipated. Maybe the ordeal was doing a number on her after all.   

“We have a little in savings,” Terrence replied. “I thought you’d want to know more about your heritage?”

“I do, but… the timing’s wrong,” Evelyn replied. She studied the key again. The timing’s always wrong. Her investigative instinct pulled at her like an itch she couldn’t scratch. She knew practically nothing about her father and even less about her mother. “Ah, hell, let’s do it. I could use a vacation.”

“Now you’re talking,” Terrence said with childish glee.

They took a stack of money from the lock box and packed up the minivan with a month’s worth of supplies and Terrence’s luthier tools. If they were traveling that far down, they needed to clean the place and get it ready to put back on the market. Evelyn didn’t know if she’d make it back down to Georgia again.

It was a long drive down south. Evelyn and Terrence spent most of it on highways that descended into woodland areas. Terrence woke her up when they passed the state sign. Welcome to Georgia: the state of adventure.

Following the GPS, they reached Adders without a hitch. Established in 1837. Estimated population: seven thousand. Once they got to town, Evelyn had to rely on a map to find Quenby Avenue. They drove through the small downtown area made up of farmer’s markets, old brick and wood buildings, and rubbernecking locals. Beyond the town were sprawling cow pastures and horse farms.

The rusty minivan turned into a street flanked by pastures outlined by wooden fences similar to what one would see surrounding a civil war reenactment sight. Clusters of sprawling old trees spotted the outcropping. Evelyn lowered the window and allowed herself to take in the breeze. Unlike the city, the air was fresh, cool, and seemed to revitalize the soul.

Evelyn watched black and white spotted cows blur by. Her mind wondered as it did when she was a child. Were her parents rich or poor, happy or sad, nice or cruel? She stopped asking questions in her teens when she realize no one would adopt her. Back then, she was the ugly kid with long limbs, pepperoni face, and a bad attitude. The last part was an act. Evelyn didn’t want to be adopted. She wanted to wait for her real father to return. After high school, Evelyn got a woman’s body and well-structured, beautiful, but intimidating face. It didn’t make her very approachable, and the reality set in that she’d be alone. Focus on the house, Evelyn reminded herself. If it was worth something, it could be the big break she needed to start her family.

They continued down a single lane road. Terrence pulled to the side of the street, allowing a big truck with a dead buck tacked down in the bed to pass by. The tobacco-chewing locals gave them curt nods and kept on.

“We aren’t in Detroit anymore,” Terrence said.

“What gave it away?” Evelyn said with a small smile.

Terrence playfully squeezed her knee. “There’s that smile I’ve been missing.”

“Keep your eyes on the road, buster,” Evelyn said.

They drove by an old, two-story farm house. “You sure we’re going the right way?”

Evelyn studied the map. “This is Quenby. It should only be a matter of finding the address.”

A small road came into view. A white wooden sign was staked in the ground beside it. “The Path,” the engraved blue text read. Below was the number 1. Terrence turned in, driving between rows of ancient, mossy-covered oaks that curled over the road.

“Look at this place,” Terrence said with wonder.

Evelyn straightened her posture, awed by the beauty that she almost didn’t notice the massive three-story plantation house at the road’s end. Green vines with little white flowers climbed its walls and colonnades. Untamed bushes and weeds sprouted from its base. It looked like it came right out of Gone with the Wind.

“This can’t be it,” Evelyn said. The white paint was chipped but well-kept. The windows were dusty but intact. Acres of farmland sprawled out behind it along with a half-dozen wooden cabins and a vast cotton field.

“Is that what I think it is?” Terrence asked as he parked.

“It looks like it. Come on,” Evelyn climbed out of the van. The spring Georgia air was soothing. Plump white clouds surfed across the indigo sky. Weeds grew between the cracks of the red brick road. The large shadow of the house cast over them as they approached. The set of colonnades on the first and second floor gave the building a look of unparalleled grandeur that captured the Georgian ideals of symmetry and order. Evelyn and Terrence stopped before the massive house.

“There’s no way,” Terrence said and chuckled. “There’s no freaking way!”

Evelyn smiled at him. “Race you to the door.”

They bolted between the pillars, laughing until they stopped at the door. Evelyn fished out the key. Taking a deep breath, Evelyn slid the key into the lock and twisted.

Click.

The door opened with a rickety groan. The mansion smelled of dust and old books.

“This is your father’s house?” Terrence asked and rubbed both hands up his shaved head. “Holy crap.”

They stepped into the large foyer big enough to host forty people. Clouds and angels were painted on a vast mural on the domed ceiling. Two sets of symmetrical stairs bowed up to a balcony with a hand-carved railing. Paintings in gold leaf frames decorated the walls boasting images of the mansion, the pastures, and the cotton fields in their prime. The floor had a thin red carpet over hardwood. It was dirty and dusty, but nothing important had been damaged.

“I’ll get this out in the open,” Evelyn said. “If we learn that my parents were a bunch of slave-owning bigots, you can’t divorce me.”

“Deal.” Terrence craned his head back to one of the paintings on the wall. “I’m no art dealer, but that--if it’s original--is worth at least four grand.”

Evelyn wasn’t the crying type, but today seemed the exception. “Terrence...” She wrapped her arms around her husband and turned her gaze to the painted angels on the ceiling. They had sly smiles, rosy cheeks, and long golden trumpets. Their soft eyes seemed to follow Evelyn as she moved. Age gave the mural the texture of cracked dirt.

Terrence finished speaking for Evelyn. “We’re standing in a gold mine.”

There were flame-shaped bulbs on the massive, multi-tier silver chandeliers overhead. Evelyn flipped the light switch. No luck. That wasn’t unsurprising since the last resident hadn’t paid the bills in a decade. Evelyn would be relying on fans and open windows to cool her. Even if she did have access to air conditioning, cooling this house for a day would cost more than her monthly rent.

Terrence and Evelyn grabbed some flashlights from the car and explored the halls. They were decorated with portraits of various men through the last two centuries. Their faces were stern and handsome with similar noses and jawlines, though some were inclined to plumpness and their eye colors were all a little different. Evelyn shined the light over each face, looking for a similarity between her and the men she assumed were her ancestors. The last portrait was from the 1930s, but the years descended down the hall ending at the oldest painting. It was a woman with long, braided blonde hair, alluring blue eyes, and small nose. Terrence looked at her and then Evelyn. “Yep. There’s the one.”

They continued the tour through the house, finding rooms where modern life clashed with the Antebellum era. They found stock investment books from the nineties, modern lamps, and updated plumbing in a few bathrooms. By the time they finished the tour, hours had passed. The house had seventeen rooms. These included three bathrooms. One needed new floors. Another appeared to be never used and had leaves filling the tub from an open window. The final bathroom was usable, but they’d need to get the water running before risking it. There were five bedrooms that were in various states of disrepair. All had different sized beds, wallpaper, and furnishings. Her father must’ve lived out the master bedroom because that was well-kept with a king-sized bed covered with an awning, a massive wardrobe, coat closet, two seater table, and more. The rest of the rooms included a study, billiard room, a bedroom containing objects like arcade machines and pool tables, two living rooms, a lounge, an art room, kitchen, and walk-in pantry. Finally, there was the basement that was a maze of clutter. There was an area in the center of the dark, sprawling, and dusty basement that had a couch, a TV, and two shotguns sitting upright on the cushion. There were a few boxes of shotgun shells that wore a coat of dust and were sealed.

“Oh,” Terrence said and picked one up. He examined it. “It’s loaded.”

“Try not to blow a hole in the wall,” Evelyn said, half-joking.

Terrence flipped on the safety and handed it to Evelyn. She was surprised by the weight and readjusted her posture to get a better grip on it. Terrence retrieved the other gun. “Let’s see if these work.”

“I don’t know if we should be messing with them,” Evelyn said.

“Everything here is yours, Evelyn,” Terrence reminded her. “We can do whatever we want.”

Evelyn rolled the gun in her palms. She smiled at her husband. “See if we can find some old cans.”

“Now we’re talking,” Terrence replied and rushed up the stairs. Gun in hand, Evelyn followed soon after. This house has got everyone acting spontaneous.

They headed out the back and walked through the garden. It was lively, with all sorts of roses and other colorful flowers. There were a number of stone statues set up across the other grown brick path. Terrence would mimic their poses to get Evelyn to laugh. It worked. It was a good day to be alive.

They saw the cotton field to their left and the cabins nearby. There was also a stone building with a cotton gin and extra storage. Terrence found a nice spot on the rolling green plain spotted with oaks older than the plantation and roots so firm that they’d never be removed. Terrence set up a stand from scrap wood in one cabin and lined a few cans on top of it. He was a good shot. Evelyn was better. They were a little nervous someone would call the cops, but this wasn’t a big city. Shooting a gun in the backyard was a rite of passage.

By the time they finished, it was sundown. Evelyn put the guns back downstairs and noticed a black spot on the ceiling. Terrence and Evelyn went upstairs and tried to find the room that had a leak. It seemed like it was beyond the hallway with the paintings, but there was no room behind that wall.

Terrence’s stomach growled. They decided to head out.

On their way to dinner, Evelyn reached out to the local power company. The worker was a kind man with a Southern twang.

“Please, call me Jimmy.”

It was dark when they rolled into town. “My husband and I recently moved into the plantation on Quenby.”

“Maxwell’s place. I know it.”

“You knew my father?”

“I sure did. My family knew most of the Quenbys. They always paid for electricity years in advance. It ain’t the smartest business decision in my opinion, but it kept us loyal to them.”

“What can you tell me about Maxwell?”

“He was a reclusive man. Kind, though. Sad he went out the way he did.”

They pulled into a mom-and-pop restaurant parking lot. “What do you mean?”

“Folks say he had enough. Went out to the woods one day and killed himself. No evidence of that, but it makes the most sense. I wish I knew more.”

“Well, Jimmy, I’m his daughter. You think you can spot me a month's worth of power, just until my husband and I decide what to do with the house?”

“Daughter? I thought… never mind. I’ll take care of you. Tonight hopefully. For Maxwell’s sake.”

“Thank you, Jimmy. You’re really going above and beyond.”

“I wouldn’t treat a Quenby any other way.”

Evelyn said her goodbyes and hung up, noticing that Terrence was staring at her with his handsome dark eyes.

“You get a lot done when you’re nice.” Terrence smiled.

“There’s a time for war and a time for peace,” Evelyn replied.

That night, they enjoyed some Southern deep-fried food, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Terrence nodded along with a Southern blues band playing in the corner and joked about buying a cowboy hat. After they finished eating, he purchased a seventy-dollar white cowboy hat from the shop next door.

“Howdy, partner,” he said when they climbed into the van.

“I don’t mean to ruin your hootenanny, but shouldn’t we be saving our money?” Evelyn said as they drove to the plantation for their first night.

“Eve, baby, it’s all good. We own a mansion. We should live like it.”

“That’s what I call flawed logic,” Evelyn replied.

“Come on now, girl,” Terrence said in his best redneck accent. It was comically bad.

Evelyn laughed. “Fine. You can keep the hat. Only because it makes you look like a sexy cowboy.”

“They call me the Black Stallion.”

Evelyn couldn’t remember the last time she laughed so hard. Terrence chuckled too, but it was clear he thought the name was much cooler than it was.

As the car rumbled down the red brick road flanked by symmetrical trees, light streamed from the mansion’s upstairs windows.

“That was quick,” Evelyn said, eyeing the house cautiously.

“I thought things moved as slow as molasses in the south,” Terrence said and parked the car. “I guess they must’ve really liked your father.”

“I guess.” They stepped out on the circular brick driveway next to a stable house fit for a carriage and an accompanying hitching post. The grass around the brick was unruly and sprinkled with wild flowers just like the vines that climbed the dirty white walls. They pushed through the groaning double doors and flipped the switch. After flickering once or twice, the chandelier and various stained-glass covered lamps glowed with light and gave the house an elegant glow. By the dimmed shading, the chandelier’s creator was going after the illusion of natural candlelight.

Evelyn tried out the sink. Water gushed from the faucet. It was dirty and brown for a few seconds and then became clear like crystal.

“This Jimmy guy, he’s something else,” Terrence said.

“I’m going to call him. Make sure he knows how grateful we are.”

Evelyn left a voicemail and traveled upstairs to where the light streamed through the window. She couldn’t find its source. Odd.

It was way past dark and Evelyn was tired. She climbed into the bathtub and washed her scarred body. The water was hot and steamy, filling the room in fog. How many elegant ladies had bathed in this tub? Evelyn felt giddy to think herself as one of them.

Suddenly, the faucet stopped and the power cut out. Evelyn soaked in hot water, with the room completely shrouded in darkness.

“Terrence?” Evelyn called out, letting water slosh out the side of the tub. She stood and felt her way to a towel. Wrapping it around herself, she tiptoed into the hall, careful not to slip.

“Terrence? Are you there?”

The hall light switch didn’t work, either. The house was a black void. Evelyn felt her way to an oil lamp stand she’d seen earlier in the day, shook it to see if it still had oil, and then lit it up with the match set next to it. Being able to see about six feet in front of her, she navigated to the bedroom and pushed open the door. Terrence wasn’t there.

“Terrence?” Her call echoed through the house.

“Down here!”

“Where are you!” Evelyn shouted back, heart pounding.

Using the lamplight, she carefully trekked through the creaking halls, by the odd vases and sculptures, and down to the foyer. She looked around, spotting the open basement door.

“Baby? Are you down there?” Evelyn said into the abyss before her.

No reply.

Carefully, she inched downstairs. Her light shined over the shotguns on the bed. She heard something through the adjacent red brick wall. It was a faint scratching noise.

Evelyn put her ear against the cold brick.

Scratch.

Scratch.

Scratch.

There was something behind the wall much bigger than a rat.

3

Cool Down

It sounded like someone was clawing on the other side of the wall. Evelyn couldn’t bring herself to stop listening. The clawing was mesmerizing. Calming. Evelyn felt the scratching getting closer, like it was burrowing through the wall and toward her.

“Evelyn!” Terrence yelled from upstairs.

The lights flickered back on. The power returned to the house.

The scratching noise silenced. Evelyn pulled away from the brick wall. Her head was throbbing. She took inventory of herself. She still held the lamp. She was still wet from her bath. Hurrying upstairs and away from the long shadows of the basement clutter, Evelyn blew out the lamp and rested it on a nearby vase stand.

Terrence, dressed in his briefs and white t-shirt, looked back and forth through the hall until he spotted Evelyn.

“What were you doing down there?” Terrence asked

“Looking for you,” Evelyn replied, holding her towel in place with her free hand.

“I went searching for the breaker box,” Terrence admitted.

“I guess you found it,” Evelyn replied, glancing at the lightbulbs illuminating the hall and foyer beyond.

“Yeah,” Terrence replied “Still, we should get an inspector in here tomorrow. I don’t want to be living in a house with faulty electricity. Even for a month.”

“I heard something down on the other side of the basement,” Evelyn confessed.

“What was it?”

“I don’t know it. An animal maybe. It’s hard to describe.”

Evelyn led Terrence back down to the wall in the basement where she heard the noise. “Here?”

With pursed lips, Evelyn nodded.

Terrence knocked on the brick. “It feels solid.” He put his ear against it. “Weird. I don’t hear anything.”

Always a little superstitious, Evelyn decided to give the basement a wide berth for the remainder of her visit. She reminded herself that she was an adult and should not be scared of such things. Nonetheless, she jogged up the stairs upon leaving the basement. She got dressed into her fitted but comfortable pajamas. As she put on her top, she studied her scars in the bedroom mirror. The deep etchings curved around her ribs just beneath her breast. She could shut her eyes and see the hazy fog lights of the semi-truck blasting toward her. The truck’s horn blared like death’s toll.

“You shouldn’t be alive,” the EMT said when they pulled her from the car that was crushed like a soda can. Terrence, a handsome stranger who stumbled upon the wreckage and called the ambulance, smiled genuinely at Evelyn as the EMTs took her away.

Evelyn curled in next to Terrence on the massive king-sized bed. She didn’t know how old it was, but the mattress was more comfortable than anything she’d ever slept on. Terrence’s snores slowly filled the silent house. Wind rattled the windows. Every time she closed her eyes, she could hear the soft scratching in her ear canal. Before Evelyn knew it, morning birds sang outside the window.

She twisted out of bed and opened the blinds to the acres of rolling land. It was all hers now. From a dingy P.I. office to living like Vivien Leigh, Evelyn could barely make sense of it all. With a house this big, it made Evelyn wonder why her father put her up for adoption. Surely he could’ve hired a nanny.

She took a morning run down the red brick road. The air here was clean and crisp, something that was foreign to Evelyn in the big city. If not for the years of wear and tear, the house would’ve been perfect.

Evelyn jogged under the shadows of the large oaks that ran parallel to the private road. She could imagine planters nurturing small seeds in the surrounding ground nearly two centuries ago. Now, the trees were mammoths. Evelyn reached Quenby Avenue and took a breather. A street named after my ancestors, now that’s a story to tell, Evelyn thought with a smile. She didn’t realize how badly she needed a vacation until now. No more cases. No more stresses. Only a big private house, at the end of a private street, where she was completely free.

On her way back, Evelyn thought about Terrence and how he might be feeling. With the cabins and cotton field in the back, Evelyn wondered if that made him uneasy. Terrence was of African-American descent but from the north. Most of his family were musicians, entertainers, and later factory workers. Like Evelyn, Terrence never had much money growing up. That was probably why both of them didn’t fret scraping by every now and then. As Evelyn jogged back to the monumental three-story house, she wondered if she’d be spoiled by the extra space. At the moment, she was still inclined to sell the mansion for boocoo bucks and get a nice house in Birmington, outside of Detroit.

At Terrence’s behest, the inspector made the drive over. He was a Georgia boy through and through with meaty muscles, scraggly beard, and a bent bill ball cap. Evelyn and Terrence traded looks, trying not to judge a book by its cover but hoping for a studious-looking person to inspect their electricity.   

Stepping out of his white van, Inspector Hanson made a whistling noise at the sight of the mansion. “This is what we call a Twinkie.”

“A what?” Evelyn asked, unsure if she heard him correctly.

“Like the treat,” Hanson replied. “Clean on the outside. Messy on the outside. See, houses like this were never built for the twentieth century or any century beyond their own.”

“Well, you could at least see the place before making an accusation,” Evelyn replied. To rewire the house would be very costly.

They walked under the massive colonnades and into the foyer. Hands in his pockets, Hanson stared up at the mural. “Tell me what your issue is.”

“Last night the power went out,” Terrence explained. “I was able to restart the breaker, but we want to make sure the electricity is sound before we run into any more issues. Evelyn can state that I’m much better with instruments than electric stuff.”

Hanson cracked an unassuming smile. They hiked down to the basement. Hanson flashed his small flashlight over the wiring on the ceiling. He mumbled a little bit and continued touring through the house until he found an outlet.

“Let’s see,” he said, and unscrewed the outlet casing. Crouching low, he flashed his light through into the hole in the wall. He did this at a few more locations before finally turning back to Terrence and Evelyn.

“Y’all got quite the house. The electric setup here. It’s not just functional, it’s neat. That’s a rare thing for many houses,” Hanson said.

“Can you tell us when it was last upgraded?”

Hanson thought for a moment. “Just looking by the wiring and set-up technique, possibly in the last twenty or twenty-five years.”

Terrence wrapped his arm around Evelyn, pulling her closer to his side. “Maybe your father redid it.”

“Seems logical,” Evelyn said.

The inspector stayed for a few more hours, checking out the foundation, plumbing, and the rest of the house’s essentials.  “It’s old, but as solid as any house. I’ll say this, y’all found yourself a treasure. Touch up the paint, replace a few tiles, and clean up the clutter and this house could be ready to be put on the market.”

Terrence paid him in cash, and they waved goodbye from the exterior second-floor balcony. They pulled up old metal chairs and scooted in front of the railing. They could see the tall oaks and red brick road that branched into Quenby Avenue. At one point, horses and carriages walked this path. Some were guests to parties, others transported servants. Evelyn found it cool to think about.

“It seems like a dream, don’t it?” Terrence leaned back and rested his feet on the railing. “I mean this place, it’s gorgeous.”

“Once we get it cleaned up, we can start looking for a realtor,” Evelyn said.

“Is that what you want?”

“I thought it’s what we both wanted.”

“Sure, but when are we ever going to live in a place like this?” Terrence asked. “I mean how many of these houses are still around and habitable? I could clear out the shed and set up my workshop. Blue grass is a big deal here. I’m sure it won’t take long to get established. You can get an office in town, that way work and home don’t get mixed together.”

Evelyn sighed. “It is dreamy, I’ll give you that, but… I don’t know. How are the two of us going to take care of a place this big? If we sell, we can get a nice cozy home that’s roomy but not overbearing. Do we really need a mansion to be happy?”

Terrence squeezed her hand. “As long as I’m with you, I’ll be happy. But to live in a mansion--isn’t that what people work hard for? One just fell in our laps. I can see it now, little Terrence and little Evelyn running through the front yard. Our own private chef in the kitchen. Cold beers under the starry night. Shotgun shooting. Horseback riding. County fried steak.”

Evelyn smiled at her husband’s positivity. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. My father didn’t leave us any money. He only left us the property. We’re still dirt poor.”

“I prefer the term financially challenged. We sell half the stuff in that basement, and that will change. ‘Sides, aren’t you interested in learning more about your father?”

Evelyn felt that. “He’s dead, Terrence. I track living people.” She got up. “We can make a decision after we clean the place up.”  

Evelyn put on some old stained clothes and got to work. She grabbed her dust mop, broom, and box of trash bags and started in the bathrooms, knowing they would be the worst. Getting the leaves out of the bathtub, scrubbing away the mold with a sponge, and running the water until all of the dark gunk was out of the faucet, she realized that the cleaning would take much longer than she thought. She grabbed her tablet from the master bedroom and took pictures of the rooms. Using a picture-taking app to draw colorful circles of various damages of the room, she was able to take inventory of every nook that needed cleaning and tile that needed to be replaced.

Terrence headed outside to see what needed to be rebuilt or repainted. It didn’t look like all of the paint was original, so another few touch-ups shouldn’t hurt the resale value.

As Evelyn traveled between two upstairs rooms, she got a sudden chill. Her skin crawled like she was blanketed with baby spiders. Slowly, carefully, she followed the cold breeze to a closed door down the hall. It was a room she’d yet to explore. She gave the knob a twist. It didn’t budge. She felt the breeze escaping through the cracks, pushing her away.

Evelyn put her shoulder into the door. It slung open into… a nursery. It wasn’t what Evelyn expected to find. The wall paint was pink and chipped. The bed was tiny and broken in on itself. The mattress had no blanket and was stained. Toys and dolls from a bygone era littered the floor. They were posed in odd ways. A doll faced the corner of the room. Another had both of its arms folded behind its back. Set off to the table was a massive dollhouse, reminiscent of the plantation where Evelyn stood. There were a number of hand-sewn dolls positioned through the miniature replica. However, the tiny replica of the nursery appeared to empty.

Evelyn approached the open window at the end of the room. Did Terrence open it, had it been open since they moved in? Using the tips of her fingers, Evelyn dropped the window like a guillotine. She stared at the cotton field beyond. It was acres of weeds and cotton plants that tangled into one another like a rat’s nest. In the center of the field was a massive scorch mark.

Evelyn set aside her cleaning supplies and headed outside. A number of blackbirds cawed at Evelyn from the tops of cabins. Terrence smiled at her from atop his ladder as he sprayed down a hornet’s nest.

The cotton field was just far away from the house that it made it an unpleasant journey. Evelyn stepped through the tangle of weeds and thorns, catching a few in her elbow. Why was there a scorch mark? No one had any reason to start a fire here. The question buzzed inside of Evelyn’s head as she pulled a thorn from her arm. A teardrop of blood trickled down her forearm as she stepped onto the burnt earth. Lying in the center of blackened dirt and weeds was a doll of a little girl. It had no legs and was made of fabric. The eyes had been carved out, leaving beneath plooms of dirty cotton on the sockets. Its dress was white and red plaid, reminiscent of the Antebellum era.

Suddenly, the world tilted. Evelyn became lightheaded. Something about the doll was familiar. It was like the key to an old memory that Evelyn couldn’t quite recall. She scooped it up and returned to the nursery. The black birds watched her with cocked heads. Doll in hand, Evelyn approached the dollhouse. It fit into the nursery, completing the set. Evelyn took a step back. She couldn’t shake the feeling of familiarity.

Evelyn and Terrence reconvened and made a trip to the grocery store. They stocked up for the month, knowing that the house required more than just a basic cleaning. Walls needed painting, faucets needed to be replaced, and a number of rat infestations were found throughout the basement and first floor. Evelyn and Terrence made a plan to take it a day at a time. “To mitigate stress,” Terrence explained. They weren’t in a rush, but if Evelyn knew anything about time, it’s that it caught up to you when you least expected it.

That night, they cuddled under the covers and sighed simultaneously.

“I took care of most of the wasps,” Terrence said.

“Good,” Evelyn replied. “I can’t stand it when you get stung.”

“Hey, I only cried for a few hours last time,” Terrence joked.

They chuckled and lay back.

“There’s something about this place, Terrence,” Evelyn said, her hands behind her head as she lay flat on the bed.

“Yeah, I feel it too,” Terrence replied. “It’s too good to be true. Heh, if my pops could see me now, lying in a plantation master’s bed with his sultry daughter--”

“Sultry?” Evelyn interrupted with a cocked brow.

“Hey, let me finish. My pops would be proud of me for sticking it to the man. He was all about that, working in a union factory and all.”

“And you?” Evelyn snuggled up next to her husband.

“I’m just looking for a good time.” Terrence kissed Evelyn on the forehead. “Come on. Let’s get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”

Evelyn closed her eyes. She dreamed of the scorch mark in the cotton field, of smoke in her lungs, of fire licking her skin. She felt herself sweat. First normally and then blood. The crimson droplets snaked down her burning, thorn-pierced skin. Just out of view, shadowy figures watched her.

“Evelyn,” one said, his voice deep and almost demonic.

Evelyn’s body was scalding hot now. She needed to cool off. The flames rose. The pain started to become real and the smoke palpable.

“Evelyn!”

She thrashed against her will. Her dream was incomplete. She didn’t know if she was on a stake or on the ground. All she knew was fire and the silhouettes watching her from beyond the waving flames.

“Wake up!” The demonic voice became Terrence’s.

Suddenly, there was no more fire. She stood in blackness. Freezing-cold blackness. Her body kept swaying back and forth. Her eyes shot open.

Evelyn stared at white shelves. It took her a second to realize she was looking inside the open refrigerator. The contents were thawing around her bare feet. The liquids were swirling between her toes in a concoction of milk, orange juice, and beer. It stank. Her body was goose-skinned. With wide eyes, Terrence stood behind her. His hand was on her shoulder, shaking her awake. “Are you okay?”

Evelyn stepped away from the fridge and nearly collapsed. Terrence caught her. Evelyn’s legs felt like jelly.

Terrence steadied her and shut the refrigerator door. “What were you doing out here?”

4

Neighbors

“I don’t know,” Evelyn replied. Her head throbbed and her body trembled. She didn’t realize it until now, but she was naked.

Throughout the multi-colored puddle, Evelyn felt various cool liquids swim between her toes and plop on the floor like a leaky faucet. Fog had tumbled from the open refrigerator and rolled across the wood floor. An eerie light shined over her snow-white skin, as if the large appliance was a portal to some otherworldly plane.

Terrence helped Evelyn steady herself. She could sense his fear and confusion. The feeling hitchhiked onto Evelyn. She clung to him, her fingers clenching the loose fabric of his shirt. He rubbed his hand down the scars of her back. “Were you sleepwalking?”

“I never sleepwalk.”

“Not even as a kid?”

“Terrence,” Evelyn looked him in the eye. “I’m telling the truth.”

They had been a couple for three years and married for two. Terrence should know better than anyone. Surrendering his shirt to Evelyn, Terrence led his wife back to the bathroom to take a shower in the bathtub. She washed away the gunk from yesterday's groceries and strung her fingers through the blonde hair on her scalp. She sniffled and sneezed so hard that it hurt her chest. How long had she been standing out there to catch a cold, she wondered as she watched the water spiral down the drain between her feet. After she got dressed, Evelyn joined Terrence back in the kitchen. Groggy and mumbling to himself, he soaked up the liquid concoction with a hand towel. Evelyn squatted next to him, picking up lunchmeats and empty beer bottles.

“You get some sleep,” Terrence said. “Please.”

“I’m sorry-- I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s not your fault,” Terrence said, but his tired inflection said otherwise. “Go on, I’ll clean this up.”

Not in the mood to argue and feeling a wave of fatigue, Evelyn returned to the bedroom and covered herself. Outside, the moonlight bled through the windows, gales howled in the night, and owls screeched. It’s stress. It must be stress. Evelyn tried to make sense of the situation as she stared at the droopy canopy over the bed. Still, stress was part and parcel in her everyday life. This vacation was probably the best thing that had happened to her in years.

Evelyn didn’t sleep that night. Maybe it was fear she’d sleepwalk again. Maybe it was the scratching sound that dug deep into her ear canal.   

The sky turned from indigo to crimson to gold and then to blue. Evelyn forced herself out of bed. Shuffling could be heard in some nearby room. Terrence cleaning, most likely. After all, Evelyn saw him get up before sunrise. Feeling his gaze on her, Evelyn had closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. She knew it was childish, but she couldn't escape the shame from last night.

She felt her stomach rumble and realized that there was, unsurprisingly, nothing in the refrigerator.

Evelyn walked outside to the balcony to clear her head. Green meadows, tall oaks, and red brick road. Birds fluttered on the blue cloudless sky. She closed her eyes and let the morning wash over her. Evelyn took a deep breath and exhaled all her worries. It didn’t work. She decided to take a walk.

The backyard was breathtaking. Dozens of flowers of different shapes and colors tumbled out of raised garden beds and sprawled across the ankle-high grass. Fat-bodied bees sucked on nectar while beetles chewed the lush green leaves. Leafy vines climbed the back wall of the mansion, masking most of the chipped white paint. Evelyn stepped out into the back lawn. She could see the rows of cabins, six in all, three on one side and three on the other. A skinny dirt path snaked in between them and to the cotton field and cotton press that was a wall-less wooden structure with a pyramid roof and a massive wooden screw that ran into a box where the cotton was fed. The arms jutting out from the side of the structure were designed to hitch donkeys.

Evelyn walked the dirt trail, wondering what sort of people her ancestors were. They had slaves certainly, not more than ten by the looks of it, but were the masters cruel or just? Did they free the slaves after the civil war or lie to keep them like some plantation owners did? Adders was closer to Augusta in the center part of the state. If Evelyn remembered correctly from her college history classes, Major General William T. Sherman swept down to Atlanta and set the city ablaze along with many other plantations and cities. That was a hundred and forty-five miles west of here. Quenby seemed to have avoided the fires. Still, what did her family do after they lost? Were they broken like much of the Confederacy or stronger than before? Evelyn had no answers.

She found latches outside of the cabin doors, to lock the slaves in at night, Evelyn assumed. The wood door pulled out toward Evelyn but got stuck halfway on the dirt path.  Evelyn sucked in her belly and slid through the crack. The cabin had a floor of packed dirt and featherbed mattress that was disintegrating. Fleas and other winged bugs crawled across the natty covers and feathers. They buzzed away at Evelyn’s approach. There was a small wooden chest tucked against one wall, a wooden chamber pot on the other, and a small barred window too small for a child to fit through. Evelyn closed her eyes, seeing a family of three curled up in the sorry excuse of the bed. A mother and father huddling with their child in the middle of a cold night. They were covered in fleas and coughing.

Was this my origin? Evelyn shivered at the thought.

Slam!

A strong breeze slammed the door shut, causing Evelyn to jump. She walked over to the entrance and tried pushing the door open. It didn’t budge. The latch had closed her in.

“Terrence!” Evelyn shouted and put her weight into the door. “Terrence, can you hear me?”

No reply.

“Perfect,” Evelyn mumbled with an angry scowl.

She pulled out her cell phone. One bar of service. Of course. She dialed him and listened to the ringing until the call dropped.

“Just wonderful. Absolutely wonderful,” Evelyn paced and slammed her shoulder into the door. It rattled the latch, but it didn’t open. A shadow moved by the window. Evelyn twisted back to see… no one.

“Terrence. Is that you?” Evelyn asked, feeling for her extendable baton but realizing that she left it in the bedside drawer. “Can you hear me? Hello?”

Evelyn tried the door again. Her efforts were futile. Not the type to wait around, she slammed her shoulder into the door again and again and again, building frustration and anger with every painful hit. Finally, the nail in the latch wiggled loose and Evelyn got the door open a foot. Taking a breath, she squeezed through the gap and back outside. Her shoulder pulsed in pain. A few loose bangs tumbled on her face. She brushed the strands away and massaged her bruised arm.

She saw a large diesel truck rumbling down the red brick path and pulling up to the front of the mansion. A man and woman got out and stood outside the front door. Evelyn looked around for Terrence. He wasn’t outside. Evelyn walked around the side of the house and greeted the strangers. Middle-aged and graying, the man was tall and lengthy with a hooked nose and boil-ridden face. The woman was a similar build with a similar nose. They were twins, but the woman had a lazy eye.

“Can I help you?” Evelyn asked as she approached.

“You live here?” the man asked, taking off his cap and holding it against his belly. He wore a polo and slacks. The woman had a jean skirt and button-up shirt. His legs and arms looked like twigs jutting from the clothing.

“Yeah, this is my place now,” Evelyn replied. “It was my father’s house. Did you know him? Maxwell Quenby.”

The twin exchanged looks.

“No,” they said simultaneously.

Awkwardness hovered for a moment.

“Say,” the man started. “You got any water?”

“I’m sure we do,” Evelyn said. “Tap water, if that’s alright.”

“That’ll do,” the woman replied.

Evelyn entered and closed the door behind her. She rubbed her throbbing shoulder. What do these people want? She trekked through the large foyer, through the hall of portraits, and into the massive kitchen once tended to by a handful of servants. She turned the faucet knobs added in the late fifties. Evelyn knew this because of the research she’d been conducting since she moved in. She grabbed two dusty glasses from the cupboard and washed them out before filling them with water.

She heard a door open in the foyer.

“Hey, Terrence, we have guests at the front door. I think they’re neighbors or something!” Evelyn yelled through the house.

Glasses in hand, Evelyn returned to the foyer to see the two siblings inside. The man was halfway up one of the two curved staircases while the woman snapped photos of the various paintings with a small camera.

“Uh, what are you doing in here?” Evelyn asked, feeling the hairs on her neck rise.

The twins turned to her at the same time.

“Taking pictures,” the woman replied.

“I can see that. Why?” Evelyn said.

The woman shrugged off the question.

“Don’t go harassing my sister,” the man said.

“No one’s harassing anyone,” Evelyn said as calmly as she could. “But, I never invited you inside.”

The twins traded a look like Evelyn was crazy. They went back to doing what they were doing, whatever that was.

“Excuse me,” Evelyn set the glasses aside. “I want you to tell me why you think it’s okay to come into my house without my permission.”

“It’s not your house,” the man said casually as he continued walking up the red-carpeted stairs.

Evelyn felt her blood pressure rise in a mix of fear and frustration. Before Evelyn could reply, the woman snapped a picture of her face. The strobe blinded Evelyn for a moment, prompting her to blink away the flash.

“No more pictures,” Evelyn commanded.

The woman took one of her twin hiking up the second-story inner balcony.

“Hey, stop that,” Evelyn ordered.

More photos.

Walking speedily, Evelyn grabbed the camera by the lens and ripped it from the woman’s hands. The woman staggered back, horrified and with teary eyes. From the railing, her twin glared at Evelyn with hawk-like eyes.

“Get out of my house,” Evelyn said, unsure what to do with the camera now that she had it.

In a feat of rage, the male twin stomped down the stairs. Evelyn took a step back while the twins joined each other in front of Evelyn. With nearly identical eyes, they glared at Evelyn.

“Leave,” Evelyn commanded.

“Not till we get the camera back,” the male said.

Evelyn smiled angrily. She opened the camera settings and clicked FORMAT. All the pictures were erased in an instant. “All yours,” she replied.

The woman’s face went red as cherry. “Do you have any idea what was on that?”

“I don’t care,” Evelyn replied. “Out.”

The back door opened. Footsteps traveled through the downstairs hall. The double doors between the double curved staircase opened and Terrence entered the room, sweaty and sticky from yard work.

Neither the twins nor Evelyn turned to him.

“What’s up?” he asked the crowd.

“Is this your wife?” the male asked him.

Terrence nodded slowly, still trying to comprehend what was happening.

“She deleted my sister’s photos. We demand compensation.”

Evelyn boiled and turned to Terrence. “They were taking pictures of our house, Terrence. I never invited them inside.”

Terrence stepped closer, palms out in a nonthreatening manner. “Everyone needs to calm down.”

“No one’s doing anything until we are compensated for our damages,” the male said.

“You’re not getting anything,” Evelyn replied.

“Clearly there was a misunderstanding,” Terrence said and fished out his wallet. “Will a twenty make you feel better?”

The twins scoffed.

Evelyn turned to her husband. She wanted to scream, What are you thinking?

Terrence picked up the hint quickly. He pulled out the twenty and handed it to the woman. “Twenty is all you’re getting. Now please excuse yourself from our property or we’ll call the police.”

The woman quickly pocketed the money.

The man studied Evelyn for a moment and then Terrence, as if committing their faces to memory. He grabbed his sister by the arm and hurried out the front door. Terrence quickly locked the door. Evelyn pushed aside the curtains and looked out the window. She watched the pickup grumble to life and screech down the brick path, leaving behind two nasty black tire marks on the red brick.

Wide-eyed, Terrence shook his head. “Weird people.”

Without a word and with gnashed teeth, Evelyn started toward the bedroom.  

“Where are you going?” Terrence asked with genuine concern.

Evelyn turned back to him. “Why did you give them money? You know they're going to come back, right? That’s the type of people they are. The more we give them, the harder they’re going to press.”

“Hey, I’m not the bad guy here,” Terrence said.

“Save it,” Evelyn replied and hiked upstairs.

“Evelyn, I’m sorry!” Terrence shouted as she got farther up the stairs.

Evelyn headed into the bathroom and washed off her face. Purple circles curved under her blue eyes. She was feeling her two nights without sleep. If she could only get rid of that scratching noise in her head. After taking a moment to collect herself, Evelyn walked back to the balcony railing. Terrence was no longer in the foyer. He must’ve gone outside to keep on working.  

Evelyn checked out of the window to make sure the truck hadn’t returned and then started down on the right-side hall that didn’t have portraits like the hallway adjacent. Frankly, the hall was quite drab with peeled paint and a rickety floor. It was like Maxwell never walked this way to this side of the house. Now that she thought it about, Evelyn could piece together her father’s daily path by which rooms were up-to-date and which had fallen into disrepair. The kitchen, portrait hall, foyer, master bedroom, and master bathroom seemed to be the most well-maintained. The study followed, and then the bedroom full of arcade machines, trinkets, and other hoarded items.

Still feeling her heart racing, Evelyn sniffled. She used her phone to snap pictures of the hall’s wall. Grabbing the van’s keys from the countertop, she drove into town. She arrived at the paint shop and picked up proper supplies and a few cans of different shades of paint. She needed them for other rooms and decided to kill three birds with one stone. She arrived back at the mansion to see Terrence out beside the house and trimming weeds. He smiled sadly at her as the van rolled to a stop. When he saw the paint cans, roller, and brushes, he threw aside the hedge trimmers and rushed to Evelyn’s aid.

“Thanks,” Evelyn said, and handed him a paint can.

“Of course.” Terrence followed her to the dingy hallway. “Have you decided what shade you're going to paint it?” he asked, obviously trying to put the fight behind them.

Evelyn admired his effort even if she couldn’t let go of her irritation. “I guess I’ll match the original.” She stared at the off-white shading. Other rooms had a baby blue or light khaki tint. That or patterned wallpaper.

“Can I lend you a hand?” Terrence asked.

“I got it,” Evelyn replied. “Keep it up with the back yard. You’re doing a good job.”

Terrence nodded to himself and slipped away from the hall, cracking the door to the foyer behind him.

Evelyn set out the plastic sheeting on the hardwood floor and popped the top of the paint can. She pulled out her stepladder, got the roller lathered up, and got started on the fresh coat. Somewhere deep in the basement, she heard a faint scratching. She forced herself to ignore it and kept on painting. It grew louder, like fingernails picking at her brain.

She closed her eyes, trying to ignore it. You’re just tired. You’re only stressed. The scratching grew louder. Evelyn clenched her eyes tighter. The noise subsided. She reopened her eyes and stumbled back, falling from the stepping stool and landing on her bottom on the hardwood floor.

Painted over the old drab coat of paint was a mural the length of the wall, displaying the cotton field, the black scorch mark at its center, a man with a featureless white mask, and a little girl standing amidst the thorny crops. The details were immaculate. Two black smudges like black holes were the eyes on the man’s featureless white mask. The little girl had a yellow dress with a belt around her petite waist. Her hair was sandy blonde like Evelyn’s. Her expression was neutral.

Slowly, Evelyn examined her own palms. They were crusty and dry with different shades of paint. She cursed under her breath and noticed the diminished paint cans nearby. One of them was tipped over and running white away across the plastic sheeting and into the gaps between the floorboards.

Evelyn got to her feet, keeping her wrists curled and her hands from smearing paint on anything. She rushed to the kitchen and washed away the paint. Dry chips clung to the bottom of the sink. She looked out the window, noticing it was nearly sunset. Her heart raced, and she realized that her fear kept her blinking and her mouth dry. She trembled lightly and, without drying off her hands, she walked out the front door.

Dirty and sweaty, Terrence was making quick work of the tall weeds and bushes around the front of the mansion. Wiping his brow, he squinted at Evelyn standing on the covered porch. After a second, he noticed her ghostly expression and rushed up the stairs.

“What happened?”

Evelyn parted her lips, but no words came out. She led them through the foyer and into the freshly painted wall. Terrence’s eyes bounced from the spilled paint to the mural dripping down the wall.

He turned to his wife before going back to the impressive piece of art. “You painted that?”

“I… I don’t know,” Evelyn whispered. “I don’t remember.”

Terrence rubbed his hand up his bald head and studied the mural that leaked on the plastic sheeting. The little girl and masked man were turning into runny blobs of color before their eyes.

“Do you want to go to the hospital?” Terrence asked.

Evelyn thought about it for a moment. “Yeah. Yes.” She nodded.

“Let me get changed,” Terrence said and kissed her on the forehead.

Evelyn stared at the cotton field, the little girl, and the masked figure that made her skin crawl.

Terrence returned downstairs wearing a shirt covered with miniscule violins. He brought Evelyn a nice shirt. She changed out of her paint-stained garb, and they climbed into the van.

She looked out the Georgia meadows and flatlands, chewing her fingernail. The ride was silent. Terrence fidgeting proved that he had questions, but he didn’t voice them. Good, as Evelyn had no answers. An hour later, and they arrived at the hospital one town over. Adders didn’t have one of their own. The doctor took the last-minute call and allowed them both to enter. He was a tall man with hollow cheeks, blue eyes so light they were almost silver, and thin white hair. His smile was small, secretive in a way, and his glasses were circular with a gold rim.

He shined a small light over Evelyn’s pupils. “Have you ever experienced blackouts before?”

“No,” Evelyn said, staying as brave as she could. “I’ve never painted anything in my life either.”

“Has your diet or sleep schedule changed in the last few weeks?”

“Neither have been particularly ideal for the last few years. Worse lately, though. No sleep the last two nights,” Evelyn admitted.

The skeletal doctor nodded to himself. “Does your family have a history of blackouts?”

“I don’t know,” Evelyn said. “I’m an orphan. My father passed away recently. I don’t know anything about my mother.”

“I’m going to prescribe you some medication,” the doctor said after a moment of studying her. “It’s still undergoing tests, but I believe it will nip the problem in the bud.”

Terrence squeezed Evelyn’s hand.

“Okay. I’ll take it,” Evelyn replied.

“Get lots of rest too,” the doctor warned. “Blackouts are sometimes caused by sleep deprivation. Painting while in such a state is highly uncommon, however.”

Evelyn took the signed prescription paper for a medication with a name she could hardly pronounce. As she stood, the doctor cleared his throat. “Oh, one last question.”

Evelyn lowered herself back on the bed. Terrence awaited the doctor’s words.

Tube ceiling lights reflecting in his glasses, the doctor’s silver eyes met Evelyn’s. “You’re Quenby’s girl, right?”

Evelyn nodded. “You knew my father?”

“In passing,” the doctor said. “He stuck to himself. Many people stayed away from him.”

“Why?” Evelyn asked, her interested piqued.

“He’s a Quenby. None of your family has been liked in a very long time. Now, go home and rest,” the doctor said, leaving no room for further questions.

Evelyn persisted anyway. “You’ve got to give me more than that.”

“I’m not an Adders local. There’s not much I can say.” Off Evelyn’s look, the man said, “Maxwell visited me a few times. Mostly for antidepressants. If there was ever a closed book, it was him.”

Unable to get any more information out of him, Terrence and Evelyn went to the pharmacy and then headed back to the mansion. It was dark then and Evelyn felt wired. Terrence offered to clean up the paint and plastic sheeting.

“What about the mural?” Evelyn asked.

“I don’t see why we should get rid of it at the moment,” Terrence replied. “Paint’s expensive, you know.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Keep it,” Evelyn said, feeling uneasy even thinking about what she drew. After showering and putting on her nightclothes, she got a glass of water and drank one of the huge sleeping pills. She climbed into the bed and drifted quickly to sleep.

She didn’t hear any scratching that night and could scarcely dream. All would’ve been well that evening if she didn’t wake up in a cow pasture fifteen miles from her home.

5

Raw

The first emotion Evelyn felt when she awoke was fear. Quickly, she pushed her palms against the cold, hard earth and rose from the tall grass. In the night, the cattle pasture seemed like an endless sea of dark green waves. The grass on top of them bent their will to the wind. The icy gales caressed Evelyn’s skin like death’s cold touch. Evelyn twisted about where she stood, trying to make sense of where she was and how she got here. She had a million questions and no answers.

Sleeping cows spotted the field. In the far distance, the silhouettes of fence posts could be seen jutting from the earth. Evelyn looked at her dirty and wrinkled pajamas. Dirt caked in her blonde hair and under her fingernails. She felt her pockets. No cell phone. No wallet. No car keys. Did I walk here? Evelyn wondered. By the soreness of her calves, thighs, and bare feet, it felt like she had run a marathon.

Evelyn overcame the initial shock of the situation the only way she knew how: not thinking about it and focusing on what was in front of her.

“Get home, I just have to find my way home,” she mumbled to herself. Her small voice seemed like the only noise in this dark night. Under the blanket of stars, Evelyn hiked to the fence. Dirt and rocks bit into the bottom of her heels throughout her trek. She reached the metal mesh of the fence and forced herself over. Hugging herself, she kept forward in search of a road. Her teeth chattered. The stress made her heart hurt.

It took a while to find the street. It was a single-line asphalt road stretching forever between the Georgia fields. There were no road lights or telephone booths. Evelyn craned her head to the stars, trying to make sense of what direction she was going. Astronomy wasn’t her strong suit. She picked a direction at random and started walking.

The farther Evelyn traveled, the colder the night seemed. Insects chirped out of sight. Something scurried in a nearby bush. Evelyn kept shifting her eyes. Georgia and the south in general was still a foreign place to her. She didn’t know what dangers or what beasts lurked in the darkness. Part of her was glad she didn’t know, for sometimes the truth was scarier than fiction.

As much as Evelyn tried to keep a clear mind, fears and anxieties poisoned her thoughts. The mural, the blackouts, and the scratching in the basement made her chest tighten. Was she stressed out, or was she losing her mind? Was this hereditary? Did mental illness course through the veins of her father or mother? How would she ever know? Maybe it was a stress thing. Was she too young to have a mid-life crisis at the age of thirty-three? Evelyn had no qualms admitting that she wasn’t the most stable person, but she’d never experienced anything quite like this before, and that terrified her. For the first time since she arrived Georgia, she missed her apartment and dingy office in Detroit.

Lights showed in the distance. Evelyn held her dirty hand in front of her eyes to keep from being blinded as the vehicle hastily approached. She waved her other hand. The truck rumbled to a stop beside her.

“Looks like you could use a ride,” the hook-nosed man from the driver seat said. Evelyn felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, realizing that he was one of the twins that came to her house the day before.

“Don’t you look at me like that,” the man hissed. “You should be happy I even pulled over.”

Evelyn turned back to the road. She still didn’t know if she was even walking the right way.

“What are you doing out this late?” Evelyn asked.

The man looked her up and down. “I could ask you the same thing. Does anyone know you’re out here?”

His question made Evelyn squirm. “My husband,” she lied.

The man smirked. “I’m sure he does. Well? Are you coming along or are you walking?”

“Will you take me back home?” Evelyn asked.

The man looked at her with a neutral face. “No. I’m going to blow your brains out across my dashboard.”

Evelyn’s eyes went wide.

“That was a joke,” the man clarified and looked at the road. “Last call. You in or out?”

Biting her lip nervously, Evelyn walked around the back of the truck and hopped into the passenger side. She had no means of defending herself. Her hair rose when she looked at the man in profile. His eyes were buggy, his jaw was sharp, and his hair was clearly cut and silky smooth. He wore a blue and white two-tone polo, khakis, and slip-on shoes. Apart from his twangy accent, the man didn’t fit the Southern look. Still, he sped down the roads like someone familiar with the land.

“I don’t forgive you for deleting my sister’s photos,” the man said.

“What did you think would happen?” Evelyn retorted.

The man’s face became stern. “Remember who’s driving this truck.”

“Why did you come to my house anyway?” Evelyn asked.

“Something there belongs to me,” The man said.

“What?”

The man didn’t reply.

“Whatever it was, you had ten years to get it back,” Evelyn replied.

“You think I was going to break in?” the man said, taking offense. “I’m not some two-bit criminal.”

Evelyn stopped herself from reminding him there was little difference between breaking in when no one was home and walking inside her house uninvited.

They drove a little farther. In the dark, Evelyn couldn’t tell if the roads were familiar or not. She looked at the glowing digital clock on the dashboard. 4:05 a.m. She cringed, thinking about how much sleep she was losing. Even worse, on where she had spent the last six hours if she’d been sleepwalking.

“I never got your name,” Evelyn broke the silence.  

“I’m not going to fall for that,” the man said.

He turned onto Quenby Avenue and rolled to a stop at the beginning of the red brick path to Evelyn’s mansion. “Is this far enough or are you going to call the cops?” the man asked sarcastically.

Evelyn ignored the snide comment. “Thanks for the ride,” she said and opened up the door.

“I suggest you be careful out here this late at night,” the man said. “Not everyone’s nice to strangers intruding on their pastures.”

Evelyn twisted back to him. “Those were your cattle fields?”

“Who did you think owned them?” the man asked rhetorically. “Now, get out of my truck. I don’t want to see you nosing around my property again.”

Evelyn hopped out and slammed the door behind her. Burning rubber, the truck roared down the street, hitting sixty miles per hour in a thirty-five.

With sore feet, Evelyn limped down the cool brick path to the plantation house. No light shone from it. The sprawling branches that flanked either side of the road and made a canopy overhead waved at her. Evelyn passed under the white colonnades and tried the front door. It was unlocked. That made her feel uneasy. Like all noise in a quiet house, even opening the door felt extremely loud. No lights were on. It didn’t look like Terrence was awake. Good. She climbed into the shower and put on a fresh change of clothes before climbing into bed with her snoring husband. It felt good to rest her legs, but she couldn’t keep her eyes closed.

The sun came up much faster than she would’ve liked. Sleepily, Terrence rolled over to face her and scratched his cheek. Keeping his eyes closed, he whispered, “Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” Evelyn lied, not wanting to tell him that the medication failed and that she took a ride with their creepy neighbor.

“Good,” Terrence said with a small smile.

“I was thinking that we can hire some locals to clean this place while we go back home,” Evelyn said.

Terrence opened his eyes. “Why would we do that?”

Because this place terrifies me. “It feels like the right time.”

Elbow planted firmly on his pillow, Terrence rested his head on his knuckles. “Baby, we still got mountains of work to do here before we’re ready to sell. If we do sell. The view, the space, the idea of my own private workshop… this place is growing on me, Eve.”

“I’d rather just have the money,” Evelyn admitted.

Terrence gawked at her a moment. “It’s… look, let’s agree not to make a decision until we get the place cleaned completely up. If you’re still not comfortable, then we’ll sell. Deal?”

Evelyn was too tired to argue. “Sure. Deal.”

Terrence kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks. I’ll make you some breakfast.”

Evelyn watched him leave the room and then fell feebly back to her pillow. She stared at the bed canopy and sighed. When Evelyn finally forced herself up, she ate her breakfast quickly and, with a half can of paint, returned to the hall with the mural. She looked at the faces of the little girl and masked man that leaked down the wall in multicolored tears for a final time and used the paint-dipped roller to create a white stripe down their vestiges. A half an hour later, and it was like Evelyn had never painted the mural.

Picking up her painting supplies, she went to the next room and got started. After she finished touching up the downstairs rooms, she started taking inventory of the furniture. She snapped photos of every room before she got started, thinking it would be a neat selling point to see the before and after of the house. Outside the window, Terrence kept on with the yard work. He piled bushels of weeds and trimmed branches in a few tall stacks next to where he pruned bushes and flowers.

Evelyn stepped into the lounge. It was a wide room with velvet red furnishings, a large bookshelf, carpeted floors, fluffy curtains, and a fireplace with hand-carved wooden finishes. A four by four foot painting of the house hung above the desk. It displayed a horse and buggy parked out on the brick path with a number of well-dressed patrons waving from the second-story balcony while others were in mid-strut to the front door with their lady in hand. There was a sense of family and community. Evelyn looked at the painting with longing and then estimated its worth.

She started by adjusting the chairs and candlesticks into their proper locations. As she dusted, her mind went back to the cattle field and what would prompt her to go to such a place. Evelyn vacuumed the floor and fluffed the pillows. She checked the wallpaper, finding small tears on its surface but nothing that would diminish its value. Evelyn shut the door behind her, not planning on returning until the first open house. She tackled the cleaning process like her private investigative work: systematic and with the least amount of backtracking as possible.

The guest bedroom marked Evelyn’s next stop. It was equipped and ready to settle in, dust notwithstanding. Evelyn approached the dresser’s drawers that had been left open for who knew how many years. She studied the old clothes within. The shirts and pants were reminiscent of the seventies. They appeared to be owned by a female. Were these my mother’s or my aunt’s? Evelyn sifted through them in search of some clue to the owner’s identity. Nothing. She made a pile on the bed and a mental note to wash them later. When the room was cleaned, she headed out into the laundry room in search of a hamper.

When she returned to the bedroom, all of the dresser’s drawers were open again.

Evelyn eyed the room cautiously before stepping inside. She slowly pushed the drawers back into the dresser, watching the wheel track within to see if it was slipping. It was not. In actuality, the drawers would stick inside the dresser. She reminded herself that she needed sleep and tossed the pile of laundry into the washer. As the machine rumbled, Evelyn turned about the large basement. Her eyes went to the wall where she heard the scratching noise on their first night in Adders. The more she looked at it, the more claustrophobic the basement felt.

She headed outside for the first time since she got out of bed. The breeze was nice and the sky was blue. Terrence listened to blues playing from an old music player. The sound was slightly muddled but the soul was still there.

“Like my new toy?” he asked as he yanked a deep root from the ground.

Evelyn looked at the old music player. “Where did you find it?”

“In one of the storerooms. I found a record player as well. One of the good ones.” Terrence said with a wide grin.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Evelyn said, squinting next to him.

Terrence yanked up another weed. A clump of dirt hung on the dangling root. “I don’t want you getting any blisters.”

“Oh please,” Evelyn chuckled.

Smiling, Terrence gave her a hand spade.

They started on the brick road, stopping for a moment to study the skid marks left by the twins a day prior.

Getting down on their hands and knees, they began pulling patches of grass growing between the cracked bricks. “I was thinking that we should see the town some night. I hear they have great live music.”

“That’ll be fun,” Evelyn said with a little less enthusiasm than she had hoped. Terrence noticed.

“Can I bribe you with a deep-fried country-style funnel cake?”

“Do you want to give me a heart attack?” Evelyn jokingly replied.

Terrence leaned in close. “I want to go on a date with you, that’s what I want.”

Evelyn scooted away. “I’d rather focus on the house right now. We can go out after we’re all done.”

“That’s probably the smart way of doing it,” Terrence said, trying not to sound disappointed.

 His phone rang. Trying not to get the phone dirty, Terrence held the device gingerly and answered. “Terrence Carr speaking… Leo, how’s it hanging?... Oh yeah, I know that feeling,” Terrence chuckled and got up.

He muted the phone against his shoulder and whispered to Evelyn. “It’s the blues musician from the restaurant we went to the other night.”

Evelyn gestured for him to take his call. Terrence put the phone back up to his ear and returned inside.

Alone, Evelyn kept on working. The afternoon sun baked down on her. The air became humid and buggy as the day went on.

Dressed in a nice blue button up and slacks, Terrence hustled out the front door. Still on the ground, Evelyn brushed a strand of hair away from her eye and gave him her attention.

“We must’ve made an impression. The guy wants me to make him a guitar. I’m going to head over to his place and hash out the details,” Terrence said. “It will only take a few hours.”

“You don’t need my permission,” Evelyn replied.

“Thanks, baby,” Terrence replied with a smile. “I would kiss you, but you’re all dirty and sweaty.”

“Oh, you’re such a romantic,” Evelyn teased.

Terrence rushed over to her and planted a wet one on Evelyn’s lips. “There,” he said in accomplishment and unlocked the rusty bucket minivan. “Relax for the rest of the day. I can’t have my beautiful wife working in this heat.”

“Enjoy yourself,” Evelyn said and rose from the brick pathway. From inside the minivan, Terrence waved her goodbye and putted down the road. When he was gone, Evelyn returned to de-weeding the bricks. She was able to knock it out much quicker than she thought she would. After filling up a glass of water in the sink, Evelyn thought about the next project that would get her mind off her abnormal sleeping habits.

Not wanting to do work inside the house, Evelyn headed to the toolshed. The door was loose on its hinges, and Evelyn thought it would be a good time to learn some new skills. Finding a few old nails and a hammer within the shed, Evelyn got to hammering the door properly on its hinges. It didn’t take too long before she stubbed her thumb. It swelled and throbbed, and her fingernail turned black. Walking off the pain and regretting that she didn’t listen to Terrence’s words, Evelyn caught a glimpse of someone standing out in the cotton field.

She pulled her thumb out of her mouth and called out, “Hey!”

The figure took off into a sprint in the opposite direction. Keeping the hammer with her, Evelyn took off after them. She brushed against the untamed cotton crops as she gained on the stranger. The person moved too quick for Evelyn to catch a good look. What are you doing? Evelyn asked herself as she ran. Call the cops. Yet, her P.I. instincts kept her tailing after the stranger.

She slowed to a stop on the black scorch mark dead center of the field. Her pulse quickened and her breathing staggered.

Standing amidst the cotton plants was a blonde little girl and a tall man in black wearing a white mask with button-size slits cut over the eyes. The world spun under Evelyn’s feet. She tried to steady herself but could find nothing nearby to prevent her from falling. So, she fell.

By the time her bottom hit the packed dirt, the figures vanished, and a wave of tiredness hit Evelyn suddenly. Her head cramped. I need sleep, she told herself. Abandoning the work on the shed, Evelyn returned inside via the back door. She noticed something was amiss when she entered the foyer. All of the priceless paintings were scattered across the carpeted floor, the chairs and sideboards were turned on their heads, and flower vases were in shattered heaps.

Evelyn froze, wondering if whoever did this was still in her house.

She dialed Terrence.

“Pick up. Pick up,” Evelyn muttered, afraid to go any farther into the house.

“Hey--”

“Terrence, listen.”

“-- You’ve reached the voicemail of…”

Evelyn hung up and tried again.

Voicemail.

The floor above her creaked. Someone was walking around up there.

In her line of work, Evelyn had been to some shady places and encountered an assortment of suspicious individuals, but none had ever been in her home before. The threat felt real, tangible, something that she wasn’t used to.  

Something smashed upstairs.

The smart thing would’ve been to get out of house, but the knife in the kitchen called Evelyn’s name. No part of her wanted to go up the curved foyer stairs, but letting someone destroy her father’s things wasn’t something Evelyn was going to allow. With the knife’s cold hilt in hand, she conquered the first step.

SMASH! Something else broke.

Evelyn conquered the next step. She kept her fear hidden behind her stone-like expression. The steps groaned under her shoes. Her clothes stuck to her from the cold sweat dosing her body.

More movement. It was something big.

Evelyn had the element of surprise on her side.

Then, her phone rang. The noise echoed through the house.

The movement upstairs instantly ceased.

Stopping halfway up the stairs, Evelyn pulled out her screaming phone and answered, keeping her eyes on the balcony above her.

“Hey, it’s me,” Terrence said. Laughter sounded on his end of the line.

“Terrence,” Evelyn whispered, “There’s someone in our house.”

There was a pause on Terrence’s end.

“Call the cops. I’m on my way home now. Wait outside.”

“Okay. Okay. Hurry,” Evelyn stepped down from the steps and fled out the front door.

Keeping the knife with her, she faced the plantation. Her eyes bounced between the upstairs windows in search of moment. None. Her phone must’ve scared the intruder. She dialed 911.

In six minutes, a squad car came screaming down the road. A burly officer with short gelled gray hair stepped out. His face was square and flat with two different colored eyes: one green and one brown.

“Michaels,” he introduced himself and stared up the house with a small confident smile on his hard face. “I’m here to help you. What can you tell me?”

“I last heard them upstairs,” Evelyn explained. “I didn’t see them. I believe there’s only one, but there could be more.”  

Officer Michaels nodded to himself. “Wait here.”

Before Evelyn could reply, the officer was pushing through the front door.

Evelyn awaited his return. She sucked on her swollen and bruised thumb. Minutes went on like hours. Michaels was nowhere to be seen.

Five minutes passed.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen minutes.

Evelyn heard the radio crackle inside the police cruiser. “Michaels. This is Dispatch. Over.”

Evelyn stared at the vehicle. Its blue and red lights reflected in her blue eyes.

“Report in, Michaels. Over.”

The front door of the mansion opened. Officer Michaels stepped out. His face was neutral and unreadable.

Evelyn awaited his response. “Well?”

The officer snapped out of his daze. “It’s clear. There’s no one there.”

“You’re sure?” Evelyn asked.

“See for yourself.”

Evelyn walked into the house and down the hall.

“Anything missing?” Michaels asked.

Evelyn looked over the clutter. It made it hard for her to take inventory over everything. “It doesn’t look like it.”

She searched upstairs. Chairs were tipped on their sides, windows were open, and bedsheets were pulled from their mattresses. The vandalism seemed random and reckless. Evelyn walked through the master bedroom and bathrooms. “It looks like all of it is here,” Evelyn told the officer as they marched down the stairs. She picked up a painting and hung it back on the wall. Thankfully, it was not damaged.

They headed into the basement. It was the only part of the house untouched by the rampage. That’s what Evelyn thought at first until she noticed that both shotguns and all the shells were missing.

“Whoever was here stole our weapons,” Evelyn told Michaels.

“Is there anyone you’d suspect?” the officer asked her.

“I’ve not communicated with too many people since I got here. The only ones that come to mind are these twins in their thirties. I never got their names. They stopped by yesterday. I never got their names.”

Michaels jotted down a few notes as they returned to the foyer. “I’ll see if I can’t find them. Call if there’s any more issues. Even if something feels wrong. We’ll be here as fast as we can.”

“Thank you.” They returned outside as Terrence arrived.

He hustled out of the minivan and gave Evelyn a hug. “I got here as fast as I could. Tell me what happened.”

“Someone broke in,” Evelyn explained. “They took our guns and trashed the place.”

“Are we safe, Officer?” Terrence asked.

“We’ll be ready to answer your call at a moment’s notice,” Michaels promised. “I’ll look into those twins and see if I can’t find anything.”

Holding hands, Evelyn and Terrence watched the police cruiser drive away.

“I can’t believe this happened,” Terrence said. “I’m sorry for leaving you here alone.”

“It’s not your fault,” Evelyn replied. “Let’s get this cleaned up. I want to make sure nothing’s damaged.”

The vandalism was not as costly as they thought. Most objects were just tossed across the room, not stomped or smashed. A few vases were shattered, but nothing irreplaceable suffered heavy damage. Evelyn tried looking at that as a positive, but it was still hard to get over the initial shock that someone broke into her home.   

“You think we should get a hotel?” Evelyn asked as they put drawers back into a dresser.

“Leave all our stuff here? No way.” Terrence replied.

“They have weapons, Terrence.”

“I’m not going to let them do any more harm.” Terrence said sternly. “This house is our only chance to live big in this world. I’m not leaving.”

Evelyn gawked at him for a moment. He kept on working, but his motions were jerky and motivated by anger.

That night, they double-checked all the locks and kept a baseball bat under the bed. Neither one of them spoke or slept for a long while.

Evelyn’s sleep deprivation finally caught up to her well past 1 a.m. She closed her eyes for what seemed like an instant and then woke up three hours later. Terrence wasn’t beside her.

Groggy, she sat up and called her husband’s name. She tried the light switch. It flickered, but the lights didn’t turn on. Grabbing the oil lamp and matches, she walked out of the room. “Terrence. Answer me.”

No reply.

Evelyn heard a scratching noise seeping out of the basement.

Her heart raced. The hairs on her neck stood. She turned the glass knob. The basement door creaked open. She took it one step at a time. “Terrence?”

She held the lamp high, illuminating the vast basement and blanket-covered objects within. The scratching noise got louder. Was she dreaming? She pinched herself. This was real. She saw someone standing by the far brick wall. Evelyn stopped. The person’s back was turned to her. Their fingers scratched the coarse brick. The skin on the fingertips was raw and bloody.

“Terrence,” Evelyn said quietly. She stepped closer.  “What are you doing?”

Something inside told her to run away.

She put her hand on her husband. He didn’t react to her touch, just kept on clawing until tears of blood snaked down the wall’s coarse surface.

6

The Key

Terrence’s eyes were shut. Drool trickled down his lip. His fingers kept raking across the wall. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Evelyn shook him. He didn’t stop clawing.

“Terrence. Terrence. Wake up.” After a moment of hesitation, she slapped her husband across the face with as much strength as she could muster.

Terrence didn’t react. A red handprint formed on his cheek.

Evelyn felt the world spin. She grabbed her husband and pulled him away from the wall. Terrence’s arms desperately reached out to keep on clawing, but the moment they were a few feet away, both his arms fell limply to his sides. Evelyn stared at him. She put her hands on his cheeks and turned his face to her own. He was still asleep.

Evelyn looked around the basement for something to stop his peeled fingertips from bleeding. She pulled a white sheet from atop a pagoda lampshade, shook out a cloud of dust, and swaddled Terrence’s fingers with the cloth. She tied both of his hands together, unsure if her pacifist husband would turn violent. Grabbing his wrists, she led him up the rickety stairs. He shambled behind her. Using the oil candle to navigate the massive mansion, Evelyn guided Terrence through the large foyer and up the curving staircase.

Evelyn narrowly missed a shard of glass she failed to clean after the break-in. Every few steps, Evelyn forced herself to look at her sleeping husband. The wrappings around his fingertips were staining maroon. Breathing heavily, Evelyn reached the interior balcony: a place where the Quenby greats would watch over dozens of patrons attending an evening dance. She walked through the long hallway, flanked on both sides by closed doors, and then into the master bedroom.

Terrence tore his wrist from Evelyn’s grasp and toppled face first on the king-sized bed. Evelyn stared at him with bloodshot eyes. He began snoring. Tense, Evelyn sat in a nearby chair and watched her husband sleep until the oil lamp flickered out.

Terrence called her name.

Evelyn jolted awake. The oil lamp fell at her feet and spilled across the hardwood. Feeling the sun beating down on her back, Evelyn got to her feet and wiped her drooling mouth with the top of her hand.

Terrence sat at the edge of the bed. With a horrified expression, he bounced his gaze between her and the maroon-stained rags on his fingers. “What happened?” he said with a hoarse voice.

“You were sleepwalking,” Evelyn told him, joining him by the bed.

He raised up his rag-bound hands. “How…”

“You hurt yourself,” Evelyn said, unable to bring herself to tell him about the specific cause of his injuries.

“And my face?” he asked, grimacing.

Evelyn smiled tiredly. “I slapped you.”

Terrence looked at her, dumbfounded.

“Come on, let me get those bindings off of you,” Evelyn said and untied the knot. Terrence winced when his hands were free. He went into the bathroom and washed his fingers in the sink, sucking air as the water touched his tender and broken skin.

Hands dripping, he returned to the bedroom. “Do we have any Band-Aids?”

“There might be some in the minivan. Inside the first-aid kit.”

Terrence groaned and headed for the door. “This doesn’t make sense. I’ve never had a blackout in my life.” He cursed under his breath and left Evelyn’s sight. Her beaten-down reflection looked back at her in the makeup table’s mirror.

She went outside. Her husband’s body was halfway out of the van. He grumbled to himself as he sifted through the contents under the seats. Defeated, he pulled himself from the vehicle and faced Evelyn. “I can’t find it. I’m going to make a store run.”

“Do you want me to drive?” Evelyn asked.

Terrence shook his head. “No. Get some sleep. I need to clear my head anyway.”

He walked around the front of the vehicle and climbed inside. The minivan sputtered to life and disappeared down the road. Once Evelyn knew it was gone, she hunched over and felt her chest tighten. She controlled her breathing. In and out. In and out. It seemed to help the panic and confusion that was flooding over her.  Was there something in the water? Are we both sick? Evelyn straightened her posture and inhaled as deeply as she could. Part of her knew that wasn’t the answer. There was something wrong with this house. She needed to find out what.

The power had returned at some point during the night. It reset all the clocks, causing them to flicker at 12:00. Evelyn pushed open the basement door and gazed into the abyss below. She flipped the light switch, watching the large room flood with light. Slowly, carefully, she descended a single step at a time. It seemed much smaller in the daytime, and the shadows didn’t stretch as far. Most of the articles within were odds and ends pieces of furniture stored for a later day. The couches were moth-eaten and the leather chair cushions were cracked. The small lounging area where Evelyn discovered the shotguns seemed to be the only place that had been used in the last decade. The couch there was stained. A box TV sat on its stand. A sheet of dust clouded its black glass face. Evelyn approached the brick wall. The few droplets of her husband’s blood hardened on the ridged surface.

Why here? Why this place? she wondered. She traced her finger across the surface. There was nothing intricate about the brick. Nothing unique. Was there something behind it? Evelyn pressed her ear against the wall and listened. No sound. It was rock solid. Still pushed against the wall, she knocked on different points of the brick. No sound. No hollowness. Was the clawing random? Maybe, but this was the same place Evelyn had first heard the scratching sound that seemed to cling to her psyche like a parasite. As she turned back to the basement, she caught a glimpse of the black spot on the ceiling. It was a stain of sorts, possibly from an old leaking pipe.

She headed upstairs and into the portrait hall. She glanced up at the nameless man immortalized by paint. Many of them had stern faces and intense eyes, much like Evelyn, though none were blonde except the intriguing and beautiful woman that began the Quenby line. Terrence and her had been through this hall before, looking into the origins of the black stain but finding nothing. The wall behind the paintings had a hollow quality. There was something back there, but Evelyn had no idea how to access it without taking a sledgehammer to the wall. Something told her that wouldn’t help the resale value.

She slid up the corner of one of the paintings in search of a breach in the wood that she could glance through. A few paintings later and without results, Evelyn stopped before the portrait of a chunky man dressed in a caramel-colored tailored suit standing next a cotton gin. She checked behind it and found something she never expected: a keyhole.

Evelyn peered through it but could only see blackness. She pulled herself away. What did this have to do with the blackouts, the scratching, the scorched cotton fields, the masked man and the little girl in the mural, and her father’s demise? Evelyn didn’t know. This could mean nothing, but she wouldn’t know until she found the key unless… she rushed back to the master bedroom and tore apart her travel bag. She grabbed her lock-picking tool that she used in her P.I. business and the key her father left her.

She tried the key first. No luck. It wouldn’t even fit into the tiny hole. She fished out the lock-picking tools and gave them a try. They met resistance partway through. Something was stuck in the keyhole. Evelyn shined a flashlight within, making out what seemed like part of a key that had snapped off. She searched her husband’s tools, finding some glue. She slathered it on the back of her lock-picking tool and jammed it inside the keyhole. After a minute, she jiggled the lock pick out. The tip of the key that was once lodged there was now glued to the lock-picking tool’s end. Evelyn peered through the keyhole. There was a room back there, but it was too dark to make out details. She tried unlocking it with her lock-picking tools again. However, the intricacy of the lock made it impossible. What was he trying to hide back here? Evelyn wondered.

She searched the floor of the hallway, the ring posts in the kitchen, the drawers in the master bedroom, and the desk in the study before returning to the portrait empty-handed. She stroked her chin. Searching every nook and cranny of the house would take weeks. She thought back to her private investigative work. Every missing person leaves a trail intentionally or unintentionally. It was inevitable. Secret keys were a different matter entirely. The owner would intentionally leave a trail, but one only he could follow. Evelyn knew nothing about her father, so digging into his past would not help her here. She had to rely on her own experiences and ask herself the fundamental question that began with “If I were trying to BLANK, how would I do it?”

Evelyn started with the obvious: leave a subtle reminder in the surroundings. The door was hidden behind family portraits, did that matter? Evelyn didn’t know their names or their gravestones, so seeking the dead wasn’t practical, plus that would be too obvious. Evelyn would want to hide the answer in plain sight, but not so plain that one searching would guess at first. Evelyn looked for subtle clues. She gazed at the portrait with the rotund man and the cotton gin behind him. It must’ve been painted when the cotton gin was still new. Evelyn studied the other portraits. None of them had buildings in their background, so why would this man choose to put one in his portrait’s background? Evelyn snapped a picture of it with her phone and went outside. She walked through the tall grass and toward the cotton gin house. It was a wooden two-story structure by the cotton press. Its wood was dark, nearly black and gray. The first floor looked like a car garage with multiple ports where workers would pile cotton. Evelyn hiked to an outdoor ramp that connected the ground to the second-story door. She pushed open the old wooden door and stepped inside the building. Dust, hay, and a sparse amount of cotton littered the groaning floor planks. Some were broken and others were thin and weak. At its center was a crude cotton gin. The device was made entirely of metal, with an opening on top to feed the cotton and an area in the back to receive it once it had been funneled through. Evelyn withdrew her phone and studied the picture. At the time the portrait was drawn, the cotton gin was outside. She approached the metal tool and spotted something within its metal teeth. Nearby, stuck in the metal, was a key that had been lodged inside.

Evelyn saw that the tip of it had been broken off. This is the one.

She reached her hand inside and pinched the key with her fingers. She felt a sharp tug, and suddenly her arm was being pulled into the gin. Before she could realize what was happening, the metal teeth within were flaying her hand and wrist, sucking her deeper into the machine. Evelyn gasped, unable to scream from shock, and attempted to tug her hand free. It only went deeper. With her free hand, she grabbed her captured wrist and pulled with all her might. The metal teeth bent for a moment and then snapped as her hand was yanked out. Evelyn fell on her bottom and gawked at her hand, expecting to see tattered flesh and bone. Her hand was perfectly fine and held the broken key.

Evelyn closed her eyes. I’m losing my mind.

Key in hand, she returned inside, washed her face, and returned to the portrait hall. She took the piece of key glued to the lock-picking tool and glued it to the rest of the key. After it set, she gave the keyhole a try. A tall and skinny three-feet wide portion of the wall opened. Evelyn stepped back and peered into a tight corridor. Dust flakes danced. The walls and floor were unpainted wood. I guess my father had secrets. She stepped inside and walked through the hall that ended at a door. The door wasn’t fully closed. The hinges were warped. The wood around the doorknob was splintered. The lock was broken.

Like every door in the old mansion, it groaned as Evelyn pushed it open. Inside was an office about a quarter of the size of the other office, but dense with objects. There were piles of old books spilling out of a dusty bookcase, a desk covered with documents, an old globe, a rusty bed frame and lived-in mattress, and dirty plates, cups, and silverware. There was a scattered pile of balled paper that rested on the floor. It looked like rats took a bite out of it.

Evelyn knelt down and picked up one of the balled pieces of paper.

It read, “To my beloved, in a less cruel world, we could’ve been together. It was never my desire to send you away, but sometimes sacrifices must be made for your safety and for mine. I write to you with my final breath. Come home. Take what is yours and do with it as you please. You are free of the burden of this town and family. Enjoy it, Evelyn, and know that I will always love you. Sincerely, Maxwell, your father. P.S. by the time you read this, I’ll be ten years gone. I know you do not understand nor will you, but know this is better for us all. Wounds will be healed. Life will be stable.”

Evelyn read the note again before swiftly unballing another paper wad. “I am in great danger, which is why this must be brief. I surrender my estate and everything I own to Evelyn Quenby, my daughter. Burn this house or sell it. Nothing good will come from this place. -- Maxwell.”

Evelyn picked up another. “Evelyn, there’s so much I wish I could’ve told you. There’s so many things I wish I could’ve seen. From your first step, to prom night, to your wedding, I would’ve loved to be there for all of it. I imagine you grew up to be beautiful and smart, like your mother. Though I’m ashamed that I never got to see you personally. Enclosed in this letter is my will…”

Eyes watering, Evelyn read another and another and another, learning about her father’s love for her, his guilt, and this ominous danger that prevented him from telling her more. Evelyn felt her heart twist and a conflicting stir of emotions tear at her insides. If Maxwell loved her so much, why surrender her to the foster system? Why not reach out? Evelyn’s frustration grew the more she read. Every draft of his letters was vague and filled with regret. She flattened them out on the old mahogany desk. Part of her wanted to burn them. The other part of her wanted to hug them close to her chest and cry.

Sniffling, she thought back to the danger Maxwell mentioned. It sounds like he was murdered. Evelyn shivered at the thought. If so, no one knew. A body was never found. By the smashed door into this private study, it may well have happened where Evelyn stood. An overwhelming sense of dread filled her. She wanted to run as far as she could from the room. Suddenly, she noticed something nailed on the desk panel. Cautiously, she approached. Her mouth dried. She turned the photograph towards her. It was sepia tone and showed a little girl, between seven and ten years old, with sandy blonde hair, freckles, and a wide smile. Evelyn recognized her from the cotton field and from the mural she drew.

Evelyn took a step back and covered her mouth. She looked around the dusty room cluttered with clothes, odd philosophical books, and a number of rolled papers. The walls seemed to close in on her. The old, rusty bed made her mind go to dark places. She thought about the scorch marks in the cotton field. The child’s toy she’d found. What was the connection?

Evelyn felt like she was going to faint. She bolted out of the room and back into the hall of portraits. The front door opened.

“I’m home,” Terrence shouted.

Evelyn shut the secret door panel behind her and put the painting back in place. She pocketed the key, composed herself, and walked out into the foyer to meet him. She knew her face was still stark white, but she did well to hide it. None of this made sense, and bringing Terrence into the fold would be a distraction she couldn’t afford. Like in Detroit, Evelyn would work her cases alone unless she needed help.

Terrence had Band-Aids around each of his fingers. He held a large camera bag in his hand.

“You were gone for a long time,” Evelyn said, followed by asking, “What’s that?”

Terrence unzipped the bag and pulled out the massive video camera. “I rented this for a few days to monitor our sleeping habits. I hope that’s not an issue.”

“No,” Evelyn said. “I think it’s smart.”

Terrence smiled at her. “Good. I’ll set it up.” He bounced up the steps.

Evelyn looked outside the window. The sun was falling. Her mind went in circles, thinking about the blonde girl. Today was full enough already. She’d look first thing in the morning when she was better rested.

Terrence and Evelyn heated up some soup and ate in the vast dining room fit for twenty patrons. They didn’t say much. Both were lost in thought. Between the break-in and blackouts, Evelyn could see the toll on Terrence's face. There was a tension in the air, fearful of what the night would bring.

After dinner, they went to bed. Evelyn felt odd having the dark camera lens watching her as they slept. Both of them doubled down on the doctor’s recommended medication and drifted to sleep.

Evelyn dreamed of fire licking her skin.

She awoke before the sun came up and took a shower. When she got out, Terrence was awake. He had the video camera on his lap and was reviewing the footage on the small screen. Evelyn scooted in close to him. Terrence’s Band-Aid-wrapped finger pressed the play button. They fast-forwarded through the first hour of tossing and turning, and then they both got out of bed with closed eyes. They walked out of the room.

Evelyn and Terrence traded worried looks.

They continued to fast-forward the footage until they watched themselves return to the frame an hour ago. Sleepwalking, both Evelyn and Terrence carried the missing shotguns. They stowed the weapons under the bed and returned to their sleeping positions. Terrence pressed pause. Evelyn stood up from the edge of the bed and peered under. A moment later, she returned with two shotguns.

“What did we do last night?” Terrence asked.

Evelyn knew she wasn’t going to like the answer.

7

Gunner

Evelyn checked the cartridge of the shotgun. One shot had been fired. The second gun told the same story.

Evelyn and Terrence sat in quiet for a moment, overwhelmed by the mansion’s silence. Outside, trees swayed calmly in the wind. The unmowed grass spotted with dandelions, weeds, and other wildflowers bent as if bowing to the high sun.

Without a word, Terrence grabbed one of the guns and unloaded the shells within. By the time he finished, ammo was spilling from his palm onto the painted white floor. He trembled slightly and started on the next gun, getting frustrated when one of the bullets jammed in the chamber. Evelyn put her hand on his thigh to calm him. Terrence tensed up.

“I don’t know what the hell we did last night,” Terrence said with a trembling voice. “But I’m not going to take any chances.”  

“We need to stay levelheaded,” Evelyn said.

Terrence shook his head, ignoring her words. “I’m getting rid of these guns.”

Before Evelyn could say a word, her husband was choking a shotgun in each hand and his pajama pockets were packed with ammo. Evelyn followed his march out the door. They walked out into the expansive backyard and far beyond the cotton field. Morning dew wetted their feet in their open toe slippers. Evelyn chewed her nails as she walked. Her other hand clenched a shovel. Terrence never asked her to pick it up, but Evelyn took the initiative. Sleepwalking with a high-powered weapon was not something she’d ever want to do again. Terrence dug a shallow hole, wrapped the weapons, and tossed them in. While Evelyn kicked the dirt over the shotguns, Terrence buried the ammo half an acre away, swaddling them in a towel before placing them in the hole.

After throwing their dirty clothes into the wash and showering, they put on their day clothes, sat on the walnut-colored sofa with green and gold floral upholstery in the living room, booted up their portable Wi-Fi hotspot, and opened their laptops. For a good hour, they browsed the local news in search of murders or gun crimes committed the night before. She found articles regarding an upcoming farmers market special and other small local events. There was nothing about murder or shots heard in the night.  Evelyn didn’t count her blessings. The day was still young.

“Maybe we’ll never know what happened,” Terrence said, his dark eyes glued on the computer screen. “Maybe it’s for the better.”

Evelyn nodded. In most cases, she’d want to know all the gritty details, but something about what happened last night made her stomach churn. She was hoping she’d have some recollection, but that hadn’t happened for the other blackouts, and she knew that it wouldn’t happen for this one.

“Life goes on,” Terrence said, talking to himself more than Evelyn. “We move on. No need to talk about it. We’ll get some medication, clean the house, and hit the road back to Detroit. Simple.”

“We can’t go back,” Evelyn said, watching the news anchor with unblinking eyes.

Terrence turned to her with his lips slightly parted.

“If we committed a crime, and I pray to God we didn’t, fleeing is the last thing we want to do.”

“Just yesterday, you were the one who wanted to leave.” Terrence turned her words against her.

“That was before the shotguns. Now let’s delete the footage from last night and finish our month here, and then we get the hell out of this house and don’t look back.” Evelyn thought that her words were a little extreme, but ninety-five percent of the time, someone got arrested for a crime because they acted hastily. Whether they did anything nefarious last night or not, she needed to play it safe. Only for a few more weeks.

Hair pulled back into a ponytail and wearing a white zipped-up track jacket, Evelyn went on a morning run through the property. With blackouts, the break-in, the revelation that her father may have been murdered, Evelyn needed something constant in her life right now. The pain shooting up her calves with every swift step and the sweat on her brow were her salvation at the moment. Acres away, Evelyn could still see the monumental Quenby House. Its tall white walls, Greek-style pillars, and blanket of flower-spattered vines nearly stole her breath every time she took a second to look at the artifact. A blessing and curse, that house. A heart-stopping beauty built on the back of slaves.

Drenched, Evelyn began her journey back. She hadn’t traveled far in terms of the scale of the property. She guessed they had between 20 and 25 acres total. A large portion of that was the cotton field, and another portion was for hay and livestock, of which there was none.

She returned inside and used a cloth in the large kitchen to dry her face. Resting her bottom against the countertop, she looked at the wooden kitchen island, the pantry the size of a small bedroom, and a small door leading to the meat freezer. Like the basement, the walk-in icebox was an extension added a century after the mansion’s inception. Overall, the kitchen looked like it could fit five chefs and servers.

Following the sound of tools scraping wood, Evelyn stepped into the one of the empty spare bedrooms Terrence had converted into his office. Thought usually slow and precise, Terrence worked furiously on the guitar frame with the wood shaver. Dripping with perspiration, he turned his gaze up to Evelyn. His shirt with different instruments was unbuttoned partly down the chest, and the sleeves had been rolled up past his elbows. The laptop was open nearby, still displaying generic news articles.

“Whenever you’re ready, let’s visit Dr. Waxen,” Evelyn said and walked away.

Terrence refreshed the browser page and went back to working on his newest guitar.

An hour and forty-five minutes later, and they were back at the hospital. Skeletal and silver-eyed, Dr. Waxen welcomed them into his office. He sat behind his imposing desk. On the wall, diplomas and certificates hung over his gray head. Skinny fingers locked on the desk’s top, he bounced his drooping but lively eyes between them.

Evelyn slid the pill bottle across the desk. “It didn’t work.”

“You’re still experiencing blackouts?” Dr. Waxen asked with his soft voice.

“We’re still sleepwalking,” Terrence injected and presented his Band-Aid-wrapped fingertips. “And we’re hurting ourselves while we do it.”

“Huh,” Waxen said with acute fascination. “How about you, Mrs. Carr? Any unexplained phenomena?”

Too many to count. “I believe I’m hallucinating. I find things I thought I moved back in their original location. I’ll see things I know aren't real. I’m not crazy,” Evelyn thought she should clarify. “I think there’s something in the water or maybe a gas leak in the house.”

Terrence shifted in his chair. “The home inspector would’ve told us that, and when were you planning on telling me about all that stuff?”

“I thought it was sleep deprivation,” Evelyn replied. “I didn’t want to worry you with it.”

“Well, I’m worried now,” Terrence huffed.

Doctor Waxen cleared his throat. “The medication I prescribed you is the strongest I have. I can up the dosage and see if that helps, but I must say that the side effects are less than favorable.”

“What are we talking about?” Evelyn asked.

“Nausea, headaches, cramps, drowsiness. Some find themselves steering the toilet seat every now and then. In summation, it’s not a fun time, but you’ll sleep like babies.”

“Screaming and crying at 3 a.m.?” Terrence said to lighten the mood.

Waxen stared at him with hollow eyes. “Soundly.”

Evelyn traded looks with Terrence. “We’ll take it.”  

“I would suggest you stay somewhere other than your home for the next few days. Stress plays a large role in these types of situations,” Dr. Waxen said as he wrote them another prescription and had a coughing fit. Evelyn and Terrence traded looks.

With most of their clothes still packed in their suitcases, Evelyn and Terrence found the Sunnyside Motel on the outskirts of town. It was a cute place, single story, and owned by a nice elderly couple with friendly smiles. At 44 dollars a night, the price couldn’t be beat. The room was as “quaint” as the owners described, with a queen-sized bed, 20-inch TV, outdated microwave, and mini fridge. Evelyn knew she wasn’t going to be storing much food in there. It appeared she’d be enjoying the continental breakfast for the next few days. Though neither one of them said it, their massive room in the Quenby House was miles better. Evelyn didn’t like that revelation, knowing that adapting back to her low-income Detroit lifestyle would not be easy.

Sitting at one of two chairs on the circular table, Terrence checked his wad of cash and rubbed his creased brow. “We need to start selling stuff.”

“I agree,” Evelyn said, plopping down at the corner of the bed. “The break-in did a number on us. The paintings survived, thankfully, but a lot of the vases broke and the furniture that got pushed over is chipped.”

“It’s a good thing we’re getting a few days away from the house. It keeps us humble.”

“Half glass full?” Evelyn smiled tiredly.

Terrence returned the grin. “Always.”

The light-heartedness helped push the horror of last night from Evelyn’s mind, but only for the moment. The stress returned. She opened the small spiral-bound notebook she kept in the inner pocket of her black double-breasted raincoat. Chewing on the end of the eraserless pencil, she thought of the best way to clean up the plantation. They needed landscapers and to research what was actually worth money. After all that was finished, they’d need someone trustworthy to put an estimate on the house and property. It would be smart to search Maxwell’s desk for any documents regarding the house’s history. Evelyn guessed that would be a big selling point if the person could look past the ideas of slavery. Terrence seemed to be doing a good job of it, or at least a good job at not expressing his concerns to Evelyn. They never took the time to broach the topic seriously, and Evelyn was happy for that.

They spent the next three days at the Quenby House, cleaning, organizing, and getting the landscapers to start on the yard surrounding the house. Wearing green polos and driving a green van, they hustled out and worked swiftly at mowing and pruning the bushes. When the leader approached Evelyn in regards to the vines growing on the mansion, she replied. “Leave them. I think they’re pretty.” The workers were quick but not cheap. Thankfully, Terrence lucked out with the tractor owner. It was a friend of the musician from the bar, and he offered to cut the hay for free as long as he could keep the bales. Wearing his white cowboy hat, Terrence signed off on that and subtly directed the man to avoid part of the patch of grass behind the cotton field. Terrence didn’t need to explain the reasoning to Evelyn. No one needed to know about the guns they buried.

During the evenings, Evelyn and Terrence set up the video camera and took the medication. When they woke up, they felt like they were experiencing the worst hangover ever. The dimmest light blinded them, their limbs felt weak, and their heads throbbed. As Dr. Waxen had promised, there were no blackouts and no sleepwalking. They checked the news. Still no word on any sort of gun crime committed. Terrence thought they might dodge a bullet. Evelyn was still holding her breath.

With all the activity, the Quenby House lost its signature silence. The tractor hummed in the distance, lawn mowers rumbled, and yard workers shouted instructions to one another. Evelyn snapped pictures of every antique she could find and felt convicted when she compared them to similar items on the Internet. Though she didn’t know her father or her family, it felt like she was guilty of some sin by selling the family relics.

When no one was watching, Evelyn slipped into the portrait hall, turned the key, and snuck into her father’s secret study. She clenched the little circular knobs on the desk drawer and pulled it out. Sharp ink pens and unorganized old documents lay within. Evelyn removed a black and white photo of a family of three standing out in front of the mansion and a 1960s Duesenberg car. There was a massive crease down the middle of the picture where someone had folded it many times. It showed a nicely dressed middle-aged couple with black hair and dark circles under their eyes standing behind a boy of seven wearing a sweater vest and slacks. Like his parents, his hair was dark, his eyes were underlined with black, and he didn’t smile.

Evelyn turned over the photo. In cursive, a message said, “The Quenbys. John, Alice, and little Maxwell. Spring 1966.” Though they were her grandparents, all Evelyn could think was that this was a big house for a small amount of people. She rested it on the stack of unfinished wills and removed the other documents. There were sales records for cotton and livestock, plummeting in price and quantity since the end of the civil war. By the looks of it, the Quenbys couldn’t maintain the place after slavery was abolished. Their final cotton sale was in 1875. The closer she got to the bottom of the stack of documents, the more brittle and stained the pages became. Evelyn was surprised that the paper had survived as long as it did. With a gentle touch, she removed the original land deed dating back to July of 1824. The mansion was completed in 1832 and the first slave was purchased in 1843. When Evelyn searched the town of Adders on her phone, she realized that the Quenby property was older than the town itself.

With surviving receipts from every cotton auction, it was a wonder how this place hadn’t been converted into a historical landmark. That’s why Maxwell must’ve wanted to keep this gem hidden. Evelyn assumed. The locals say he kept to himself. Continuing her procrastination streak instead of cleaning, she shifted through the other documents. Money was funding the plantation from some unknown source. Evelyn wondered what it could be without the sales of cotton to support them.  

As she sifted through legal and sales papers dating back one hundred and fifty years, Evelyn caught glimpses of the picture of the little blonde girl nailed onto the desk’s backboard. She felt dread crushing her and pulled the photo from the nail. She looked into the little girl’s eyes. For a moment, it was like the little girl was looking back. Evelyn shuddered and put the photograph face down. Focus on the sale, Evelyn reminded herself, yet like an itch she couldn’t scratch, her mind went back to the girl.

The fourth night at the Sunnyside, Evelyn and Terrence scooted close together on the bed, with only illumination from the TV to light the small room. It felt like their Detroit home. The medication began to kick in, and Terrence rushed out of bed and into the bathroom. He dry-heaved for a little bit before returning to bed. Neither one of them had vomited as Dr. Waxen had said, but they’d gotten close.

They fell asleep a little bit before ten o’clock. Evelyn dreamed of Quenby House backed by the hot sun. One moment, she was standing before the massive house and next she was running from it. Suddenly, someone or something grabbed her by the neck of her shirt and dragged her down the hall. She realized that she wasn’t her adult-self but a child. Her small hands reached desperately for something to grab onto while she was being taken, but there was no hope. She was dragged across the yard. Her screams were muted by a dry rag. Her legs and arms thrashed as she was pulled through the tall grass and into the cotton field. She was picked up and thrown down. Her little body thumped on the hard earth and the wind left her lungs. She smelled lighter fluid and gasoline, heard laughter, and was doused with liquid. It dripped through her blonde locks.

Evelyn thought she’d wake up from the nightmare when she saw the match produce a flame. A shadowy figure flicked at her and flames burst across her body. She screamed as loud as she could but out here, no one could hear her. Her flesh melted and her little heart raced. She thought she’d be dead by now, but the flames only grew hotter until all she knew was fire and agony.

Evelyn jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat. Her heart sank when she looked at the cow pasture around her. Millions of stars speckled the sky. Cold air cut right through her pajamas.

Terrence sat cross-legged behind her. His eyes were closed and he was rocking back and forth, mumbling to himself. Evelyn pushed on his shoulder. “Terrence. Get up. Terrence.”

Her husband’s eyes shot open. He stared at Evelyn with a horrified expression, and then twisted around to study the field of rolling grass behind them.

“What--where?” Terrence tried to stand, but his knees buckled and he fell down to his shins.

Evelyn put her hands on his cheeks and turned his scrunched-up handsome face to her. “Shh. I know where we are.”

“Wha… how?” Terrence said.

“Trust me,” Evelyn replied. “Come on. We need to move.”

Evelyn helped Terrence up. Her leg wobbled beneath her. A throbbing headache rattled her brain and she started seeing double. The drug hadn’t worn off yet and the side effects hit her like a train.

“For all his diplomas, Dr. Waxen doesn’t seem to know what the hell he’s talking about,” Terrence said through chattering teeth. He was only wearing a wrinkled white t-shirt and boxers. The only warmth they found was from each other’s hand.

They raced across the cattle field, avoiding cow patties like landmines, until they reached the road. Evelyn recalled the path that the twin had drove down and started that way. They grimaced as they stepped on the rough road with their dirty bare feet.

“Where are we going?” Terrence asked, struggling to keep up with Evelyn’s speed walk.

“Home,” she replied. “It’s a few miles down this way.”

Terrence cursed. “It makes no sense that we walked that far without waking up.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Terrence. You know as much as me.”

“Whatever we have, it’s not a normal medical condition.”

“Really?” Evelyn said sarcastically.

“This is way past screwed up,” Terrence mumbled.

“Hey, at least we don’t have guns this time,” Evelyn said to make up for her husband’s lack of optimism.

“We might have. Who knows anymore? I sure don’t.” Terrence grumbled. “Hell, it might be good to have weapons in the middle of nowhere.”

“You’re acting uncharacteristically grumpy,” Evelyn pointed out.

“I feel grumpy,” Terrence retorted angrily.

Evelyn kept her mouth shut. About a half mile into their journey, their jog died into a painful walk. No cars drove by. No lights illuminated the street. They navigated inky blackness, feeling their hairs stand whenever they heard a critter or movement just out of sight. An hour passed, or at least what felt like an hour, it could’ve been more, before they reached Quenby Avenue. With lazy footsteps, they stayed on course until they reached the red brick path. Evelyn sneezed and Terrence coughed. Despite the walk, the cold never seemed to leave their bodies.

Through the long columns of trees, the mansion slowly revealed its tall, white colonnades. Panting, Evelyn and Terrence shambled towards the house. A crescent moon hung above it. There was a light on the second-story window. Evelyn and Terrence turned to one another.

“Did you turn that on today?” Terrence asked.

Mouth still dry from the long walk, Evelyn said, “No.”

Cautiously, they pushed open the unlocked front door and stepped into the dark foyer. She marched to the kitchen and armed herself and Terrence with knives before proceeding up one of the curved stairways. Evelyn walked on the sides of her feet or heels due to the tenderness of her soles. They reached the second floor and silently walked through the long hall. The floor groaned and creaked, causing them to pause and trade looks with one another. Evelyn wished she had the shotgun as she approached the closed door with light streaming out from its seams.  

Getting on either side of the door, Terrence turned the knob slowly and opened it into the nursery. The light was on. The toys were in the same place Evelyn saw when she last visited the room. Not seeing anyone inside, Terrence entered. Evelyn followed. The ceiling fan whirled above their heads.

“There’s no one here,” Terrence said with relief.

They turned back to the door, only to see the little blonde girl and the tall man in a white mask staring at them from the doorway.

Evelyn opened her mouth to scream. The light suddenly cut out.

With a gasp, Evelyn shot out of bed in her Sunnyside Motel room. She looked at Terrence, who was sleeping soundly beside her. She took inventory of herself. It was a dream, she said, feeling her heart pounding.

Drenched in sweat, she swiveled her legs over the edge of the bed. Her tender feet touched the cheap-carpeted floor. Evelyn didn’t like that feeling. She lifted one foot and studied the bottom of it. It was bruised, raw, and dirty. Panicking, she pulled the covers off of Terrence. His feet were dirty too.

“Terrence,” Evelyn rolled her husband over. His body was limp. His head was covered by a featureless white mask.

8

The Call

The tight cotton mask encased Terrence’s face, almost as if sucking at his skin. The point of a crude knife had cut out the two crude eye holes the size of buttons, and the two ear holes the size of peas. A burnt musk lingered on the mask. Terrence’s stomach rose and fell with every breath. Band-Aids decorated his fingertips. Evelyn looked at her husband with fear and uncertainty. Her muscles were tense and her breathing ragged. She brushed her fingers across the smooth cotton texture before clenching the mask in her hand and tearing it off her husband’s face. Still sleeping, Terrence’s head rolled limply.

Evelyn faced the mask as if it were a decapitated head. When she looked into the dark eye holes, the crackling of fire and the screams of a little girl filled her ears. Without hesitation, Evelyn threw the mask at the wall. It hit with a soft pat and plopped to the ground, wrinkled like a tissue. She turned back to Terrence.

Like worms, red veins reached to brown irises as Terrence stared at her with wide eyes.

Evelyn scooted away from him as a horrifying thought snaked into her mind. Whoever she was looking at wasn’t really her husband. He may look like him, he may smell like him, but he wasn’t her Terrence.

“What happened?” Terrence asked. “Baby, you look worried.”

Evelyn didn’t speak. She stared at him, ready to bolt out of the room in an instant.

Sensing Evelyn’s worry, Terrence sat up.

Evelyn got out of bed.

“Babe--”

Evelyn interrupted him. “What happened in the child’s playroom last night?”

Terrence cocked his head in confusion. “Playroom?”

“Don’t play coy. The nursery.”

“I don’t--” Terrence swiveled his feet out of bed.

“Stay there!” Evelyn shouted.

Terrence put his hand up in a non-threatening manner and stayed in the bed. “Okay, okay, I’m not going anywhere. Evelyn, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Were you thinking about hurting me?” Evelyn asked with frustrated suspicion.

“What? No, Eve, of course not. I’d never.” Terrence replied. “Why would I?”

Evelyn didn’t have a solid answer. “Something happened last night when we were at Quenby House. Whatever it was caused you to wake up with that on your face.” She pointed to the white mask scrunched up on the floor.

Terrence gulped when he looked at it. “I was wearing that?”

Chewing her thumbnail, Evelyn nodded.

Terrence’s eyes turned to glass. “The last thing I remember is taking the medication and going to bed with you.”

Evelyn felt the breath leave her for a moment. “The pasture, our walk, the little girl and masked man, you don’t remember any of that?”

“I’m telling you the truth. I can’t remember anything. You gotta believe me, babe.” He looked at his dirty and raw feet with horror.

Evelyn paced, trying to get control of her frustration and fear. It only made it worse. Usually, she was good at hiding her emotions. Not now. She swept away a tear before it could fall.

“I’m scared,” Terrence wiped his eyes. Where those real tears or was it an act? Evelyn wondered. She couldn’t shake the pit in her gut that said this was not her husband.

“What the hell is happening to us?” Terrence asked.

Evelyn hated the words she spoke, but she could find only one explanation. “It’s that house.”

Terrence turned to Evelyn, giving her his undivided attention.

“Before we arrived, we lived normal, crappy lives, but not a single thing has made sense since we walked through that mansion's front door.” Evelyn forced herself to be honest. “I don’t know if demons, or karma, or spirits, or any of that unexplainable hocus pocus is real, but there is something going on here that defies explanation.”

“Evelyn, maybe we’re just sick,” Terrence said softly. “Or the side effects of the medication--”

“Let’s be honest with ourselves, Terrence. This happened way before we met the creepy doctor. Sick people don’t paint the Sistine Chapel on their hallway when they can hardly doodle. They don’t claw on the basement wall without reason.”

Terrence stretched out his bandaged fingers. “That’s what I was doing?”

Evelyn glared at him.

Terrence pursed his lips and averted his eyes.

Evelyn continued, “This all ties back to the girl, the mask, and somehow my father.”

“Girl? Mask? I don’t understand,” Terrence said honestly.

Evelyn felt herself squirm. “Just trust me, all right?”

“I do,” Terrence said feebly. “But… what should we do? Run? Burn the house down? Call an exorcist? How does any of this information help us if we don’t have a solution?”

Evelyn ran her hand through her disheveled blonde hair and up her scalp. “We’ve been out of the house for a few days. Waking up with that mask proves that there is still a connection to the mansion even when we’re away.” Evelyn didn’t know if her words were phony or gospel, but it sounded right and made a miniscule amount of sense in some weird way.

Startlingly quick, Terrence got out of bed and bee lined for the deflated-looking suitcase on the ground.

Evelyn took a step back, hitting her spine against the wall behind her. “What are you going?”

“Getting the hell out of here,” Terrence said with vigor as he jammed dirty clothes into the suitcase.

“I just told you it won’t make a difference,” Evelyn argued.

“I get you want answers,” Terrence said as he began putting on new clothes. “You’re an investigator, I don’t fault you for that, but, at the moment, I don’t care about truth or the explanation. I care about my safety,” Wearing his shirt on backwards, he shoved the wrinkled pajamas into the suitcase. “And I care about yours. To hell with the rest. Get packed. We’re leaving.”

Not since Terrence pulled Evelyn’s broken body from the crashed car all those years ago had he ever been so demanding. Not wasting time to take a shower, Evelyn threw off her pajamas and put on jeans and an orange and black striped long-sleeved shirt. Holding a bobby pin between her teeth, she put her hair into a loose bun. Terrence zipped up the bag and reached for the wad of cash next to the Gideon bible. Evelyn grabbed the money before Terrence could touch it. Off his confused look, Evelyn replied. “I’ll hold on to it. You get the suitcases.”

Not wanting to argue, Terrence heaved up both suitcases. The cords of muscles in his arms went taut as he hustled out the door. Evelyn slung on her double-breasted raincoat and shoved the money in the inner pocket. If there was something wrong with Terrence, she needed to make sure she was prepared to survive on her own.

The grass was still dewy and the sun was low and golden. In the nearly desolate parking lot, Terrence shoved the suitcases in the back cargo hold of the minivan. He slammed the truck so hard that the van’s windows rattled, and he clambered into the front seat. Evelyn took shotgun with hesitation, hoping that her suspicions of her husband were wrong as he turned the key in the ignition.

The minivan puttered to life and reversed so fast that the tires screamed and another hubcap fell off. Terrence put the vehicle into Drive and raced down the road flanked by pastures and a few pine oaks. The car wasn’t a speed demon, but that didn’t stop Terrence from stomping the gas. They had left so quick that Evelyn forgot to return the room key… and pay the landscapers. Running away from it all felt weak and impulsive, but her life was on the line. Evelyn rested her head against the window and watched spotted cows and red tractors reaping hay blur by. Less than an hour later, the green sign for Adders, Georgia was in their wake.

They drove in silence and slowed to the speed limit. In a few hours, they would be out of the state. Many hours after that, they’d be home. Evelyn wondered what she’d tell her kids, if she could ever have children, when they asked about their grandfather. She thought she’d lie to them, tell them she knew nothing about the mysterious Maxwell or where he lived. All of what happened in Adders would be mere memory. One locked away till the end of her days.

Evelyn watched the road and felt a wave of tiredness flood over her. Must stay awake. Must keep an eye on Terrence. She tried to blink the sleep away. It didn’t help. The rumble of the road calmed her much more than the mansion’s bed ever had. She wanted to shut her eyes.

Only for a second.

She awoke to the smell of gasoline and fumes. Another nightmare. Her neck cried out in pain. Her nose throbbed. She opened her eyes to the cracked windshield and the tree beyond it. It was dark outside. A gasp of pain escaped her lips as Evelyn sat up and rubbed her neck. She tasted blood on her lips and noticed a crimson smudge on the dashboard in the shape of her nose. A million questions raced through her mind. She twisted to Terrence before answering them. Her husband’s face was buried in the deflated airbag. His arms were limp by his side.

“Terrence.” Evelyn’s voice cracked. “Wake up.”

She shook his shoulder, causing his whole body to rock. He didn’t react. Dread fell over Evelyn. She pushed her fingers on his neck. Nothing.

“Oh God,” Evelyn whimpered and readjusted her fingers.

Nothing.

“Oh God,” Evelyn felt herself cry as she readjusted her fingers again.

The faintest pulse thumped against her fingertips. Evelyn inhaled deeply. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She unbuckled her seatbelt and fished her hand into her pocket. The simple action caused pain to shoot through her body. Dialing 911, Evelyn staggered out of the car, leaving her unconscious husband to rest.

“State your emergency,” said the mechanical-sounding dispatch lady.

“Car crash. My husband and I.” Evelyn felt the ground move as she put her feet down. The world tilted. She blinked a few times, finding her balance.

“What is your current location?”

Evelyn waddled around the side panel of the vehicle. Over the white fumes wafting out the crumpled and corroded hood stood the mighty Quenby House backed by a pregnant moon and thin, drifting clouds.

“My house,” she said with defeat before she gave the dispatch lady the address and let the phone fall from her hand with a clack on the red brick road.

Fate stabbed her with a knife and twisted the blade in her chest. Her car, her only means of escape, was jammed into an oak tree running alongside the path to the house. Her husband was unresponsive and possibly a replacement of his true self, and the theory about her connection to this place was unfortunately true.

She sank to her knees.

“What do you want from me?” she mumbled to whatever force was toying with her.

The midnight wind shrieked in reply.

In a fury of flashing lights and screaming sirens, the ambulance and police cruiser arrived. The young and strong EMTs that looked like poster boys for 1950s America dragged Terrence from the car and loaded him onto the gurney. Grabbing either side of the stretcher, they carried Terrence into the back of the ambulance.

“Have you ever been in a car accident before?” The brown-eyed and brawny EMT standing by her asked.

“Once. Years ago,” Evelyn said, her eyes a thousand yards away and looking at the house. “When I tried to kill myself. Terrence saved me.”

She had no clue why she told the boy her darkest secret. Not even Terrence knew the cause of the accident.

“Well,” the EMT said, unsure how to reply. “Your neck appears to be okay. It’s just a minor sprain. Likewise with your nose. All things considered, you’re very lucky. We’ll take you to the hospital while a tow truck takes care of your vehicle.”

“And Terrence?” Evelyn asked.

The EMT gave her a pitying smile. “He’s alive, but we can’t say much else right now.”

A police officer approached Evelyn after the EMT left, asking how much she had to drink that night.

“My husband and I are sober, Officer,” Evelyn replied with a little more attitude than she intended. “We got distracted on the way home and he hit the tree. I think it must’ve been deer.” Evelyn lied with a straight face.

The officer eyed her for a moment and then jotted down the answer.  

In the sterile-smelling white walls of the hospital waiting room, the nurses gave Evelyn aspirin and a small neutral-colored cup of water. She quickly downed the items and slouched back in the uncomfortable but cushioned chair. With every heartbeat, her nose throbbed. Did Terrence black out or did he mean to drive us home? Both answers scared her.

“Mrs. Carr?”

Evelyn didn’t hear the man approach. The handsome doctor had a square jaw and big eyes with streaks of natural silver in his dark hair. Putting her palms on the arm rests, Evelyn tried to stand, but he said otherwise. “You need your energy.”

“Dr. Gregory,” Evelyn read his nametag. “Any word on Terrence?”

“He’s still unconscious. The airbag cushioned most of the impact. We believe the force of the accident rattled his brain, but honestly, we don’t have a definitive answer. His vitals are fine. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be waking up.”

Evelyn had nothing to say. If Terrence were here, he’d make a positive quip. “Hey, at least I’m alive.” But Evelyn didn’t have much optimism before, and there was even less now. Maybe it was good he wasn’t waking up. Evelyn shunned that thought the moment it passed through her mind. After spending five years with the man, she couldn’t imagine a world without her good-natured husband.

“I noticed that your health insurance is out-of-date,” the good doctor said. “Would you like to discuss payment plans now or tomorrow?”

Evelyn almost laughed at the amount of crap being dumped on her.

“Now,” she replied, and felt the wad of cash in pocket that would be much smaller come this time tomorrow.

“You may stay here for the night if you wish. We have a few extra rooms,” Dr. Gregory said as he handed her the proper paperwork. Evelyn glanced about the empty waiting room.

“Is it free?” Evelyn asked cynically.

“I’m afraid not.”

Evelyn nodded to herself, paid her dues, and vanished out the hospital’s double doors.

She saw a nurse approach Dr. Gregory before the machine doors shut.  With the breeze brushing her hair against her cheek and lip, Evelyn pulled out the picture of the little blonde girl, torn at the top where the nail had been planted.

The doctor raced out of the door. “Mrs. Carr!”

Under the streetlight and with apathetic eyes, Evelyn turned back to the winded doctor.

“I’ve decided to cover your expenses.” Dr. Gregory handed the money back to her.

“Why?” Evelyn asked skeptically.

Gregory stared at her. “I didn’t realize that you’re a Quenby. Come back inside. I’ll get you something to eat.”

Her cramping stomach replied for her. Gregory opened up the cafeteria door and flipped on the lights.

“No one's supposed to be in here this late,” Gregory said as he slipped behind the counter and into the kitchen. “That never stops the nurses though.”

Evelyn stood in the large room with rows of tables. “I didn’t realize my family name carried so much clout,” Evelyn yelled to Gregory.

Gregory returned with a few yogurts, apples, and juice cartons. “For many years, the Quenbys donated to this hospital. We’re indebted to you.”

Evelyn was taken back by that, wondering how much sway her family had over this town. “Do you know about Maxwell’s disappearance?” Evelyn said while she accepted the food.  

Dr. Gregory paused at the question. “My guess is that he ran away. He probably went stir-crazy in that mansion and wanted to say goodbye to it all. See, Maxwell wasn’t the most well-liked of the Quenbys. When he vanished, things were... better.”

“Tell me about him,” Evelyn insisted.

“Prideful,” Dr. Gregory said with venom. “He thought he was untouchable in his big house. Never worked, took whatever he liked and, unlike his father, he was stingy with his money. That’s normally not an issue, but the Quenbys had a reputation for generosity, and many facilities relied on their annual donations. When Maxwell decided to withhold his support, he lost a lot of friends.”

“You don’t seem to like the man very much,” Evelyn said.

Dr. Gregory’s smile betrayed him. “I did, actually. At one time.” His fingers drummed on his juice carton before he gulped it down. “It’s nearly 11. I must get going, Evelyn. Do you mind if I call you that?”

“I don’t see why not,” Evelyn replied.

The handsome doctor smiled in a way that would melt many girl’s hearts. “Enjoy your meal, Evelyn. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Taking her food with her, Evelyn ventured down the hall into the room the nurses had prepped for her. She requested that the nurse lock the hospital door while she slept. Suspicious, the woman granted the request.

In the clean and crisp hospital room, Evelyn flopped onto the stiff mattress. She couldn’t sleep even if she wanted to, which she didn’t. She locked her fingers together on her slender stomach and thought how best to find the blonde girl or her body.

Sunlight crawled over the carpeted floor, up the bed, and across Evelyn’s determined face. The nurse unlocked the door and entered with a metal tray. An orange juice carton and eggs rested on the tray top. Evelyn ate quickly, for energy over taste. “Tell Dr. Gregory I said thanks,” Evelyn said mid-bite.

“You sure you don’t want to tell him yourself?” the nurse replied.

“No time,” Evelyn said and slung on her jacket. “Call me if Terrence wakes up.”

She took a cab back to Quenby House. The landscapers were working feverishly as always. The tractor rumbled in the hay fields. Everything seemed… normal. Evelyn glanced at the plastic bumper left behind at the base of an ancient oak and went inside of the mansion. She marched to the foyer and through the hall of portraits. Moving aside the corner of one painting and turning the key, she slipped into her father’s private study. She scoured every inch of it, finding a wide-brim fedora from the 1940s, stacks of old National Geographic, and various religious texts and textbook examinations of the supernatural. Was Father looking for answers too? Evelyn pulled open the drawers of the desk, put aside the documents, and opened various travel brochures. One was from Hawaii, and the original stamped plane tickets were tucked away inside.

Evelyn kept sifting through old knick-knacks and Antebellum-era artifacts stored away for safekeeping. She found two ruby earrings covered in a sheen of dust and an empty ring box. Evelyn wondered if they were owned by her mother. She discovered a large stash of crosses hidden under the bed and a slit in the mattress used to store small objects. Evelyn reached her hand inside, feeling feathers and cotton but not finding anything. As she walked around the room, Evelyn felt a loose floorboard under her foot. Stopping, she looked at the wooden plank before putting her fingertips underneath and pulling it up. Inside was a green hair ribbon and a lock box. Evelyn removed both objects and blew on them. The dust rolled off like a miniature sandstorm. She clenched the hair ribbon and re-examined the photo of the little girl. Atop the girl’s sunny hair was the vibrant green ribbon tied into a bow. Evelyn used her lock-picking tools to open the box and found a stack of children’s drawings. It showed a tall man and a blonde girl standing out of a crude rendition of the Quenby House, another with them in the cotton field and in a series of other locations. The hairs of Evelyn’s neck stood when she realized they shared the same orientation as the blonde girl and masked man in the mural Evelyn had painted.

Evelyn flipped the drawings to their back. Written in crayon, the text read, “Max and me.”

Evelyn lowered the children’s drawings.

“What did my father do to you?” Evelyn asked aloud.

The house was silent. She needed more evidence. She needed to know this girl’s name. She researched “Adders, Georgia murder” on her phone. There was a story about a husband who shot his cheating wife in 90s, but that had nothing to do with a little girl or Maxwell. She tried more in-depth searches but found nothing under murder. She leaned back in the leather desk chair and scratched her swollen nose. She winced at the action and searched, “Adders, Georgia kidnapping.”

No results.

“Adders, Georgia missing girl.”

A hit. Actually, multiple hits. But one with a familiar face stood out. Evelyn clicked on it.

Evelyn opened the photocopied version of a news article on her small phone screen. June 29, 2003 was the date on the news article, over a decade ago. It displayed a picture of a cute blonde girl with big blue eyes, a wide carefree smile, and faint freckles on the bridge of her nose and under her eyes. Mary Sullivan, seven years old, left in the morning to visit friends, the report said, before vanishing. She was known to bike everywhere and frequently left the house. Her guardians didn’t report her absence until 8:42 pm that night. No trace of her was ever found.

Evelyn glanced through the rest of the web pages. There were reports of other girls missing over the last three decades, but nothing more on Mary.

Using a photocopied version of the Mary’s missing person poster, Evelyn found the names and contact information of Jack and Angie Sullivan, her aunt and uncle/legal guardians.

Evelyn dialed the number.

After a few rings, she heard a “Hello?” It was a male’s voice, gruff and brutish like a frontiersman.

“Mr. Sullivan?” Evelyn’s voice echoed slightly in the hidden study.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

“It’s about Mary.”

She could practically hear the air leaving Jack’s room. “What about her?”

“I want to help you find her. My name is Evelyn Carr. I’m a private investigator.”

“Mary’s long gone. Don’t waste your time.”

“All I need is a few moments with you. It won’t cost you anything, I swear.”

“It will cost me, Investigator Carr. Only I’ll be paying with my peace, not my wallet.”

“Can we meet this afternoon?” Evelyn asked, not willing to take no for an answer.

Sealing up the secret study, Evelyn headed to the Sullivan residence. It was a single-story house with drab paint and junk-littered front yard. Multiple big dogs barked at Evelyn from a wide, fenced-in pen beside the house. Jack opened the screen door upon Evelyn’s approach. He was a tall man with a keg-like torso, more muscle than fat, and a bushy, soot-colored beard that covered half of his face and fell a few inches past the V-neck of his white t-shirt. Deep lines were etched around his unreadable blue eyes, and wrinkles snaked over his untamed brows and across his forehead. His breath smelled like PBR and, from what little Evelyn could see beneath the mustache that ran over his upper lip, his teeth were slightly crooked and yellow.   

“What happened to your nose?” Jack asked.

“My husband’s a bad driver,” Evelyn replied, stepping past him and into the dirty home.

“I’ve heard that one before,” Jack said behind her.

Dog fur and dirt gathered in the corners of the house, a handful of dirty dishes jutted from the sink, and a black splinter crack disrupted the image on the large living room TV screen. The home’s sour scent combatted the cheap air fresheners plugged into nearly every outlet. Evelyn noticed there were no pictures of Mary on the walls or anywhere for that matter. When asked about it, Jack replied, “You wouldn’t want to be reminded of your failure all day, either.”

Evelyn took a seat on the couch with cat claw marks on the lower portion of the armrest. In between the cushions, she could see powdery Doritos fragments and loose change. Was the messiness a reality of Mary’s childhood, or a result of her vanishing? Evelyn wondered.

A willowy woman stepped out of the bathroom and seemingly floated to the nearby recliner. Angie’s arms and leg looked like sticks of skin and bone jutting out of her yellow floral dress and sandals. Her upper ribs pressed hard against her pale skin and could be seen at her neckline. Sunken and touched by age, her green eyes spoke of sorrow. Her hair was cut evenly just below her jawline and was splashed with the color of wet ash.

The Sullivans waited for Evelyn to say the first words. “I want to know about Mary’s disappearance.”

“You aren’t local, and never has an outsider cared what’s happened in Adders. Why does my niece concern you?” Jack lingered nearby with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“I make my living looking for the forgotten,” Evelyn said.

“You said this was free,” Jack reminded her.

“It is,” Evelyn retorted. “Mary has some significance in my life, let’s just leave it at that. Now are we going to talk or waste even more time?”

Jack and Angie traded looks and then gestured for Evelyn to proceed.

“Tell me about Mary. What was she like?”

A tiny, sad smile formed on Angie’s hollow face. “Mary loved to play. She loved the outdoors. Every summer day, she’d ride that bike of hers. Up and down. Up and down. It had little tassels on the handlebars. Do you remember the tassels, dear? The little ones on the handlebars?”

Jack stared at her a moment. “Yeah,” but the word sounded more like a grunt than anything.

“Did she act any different leading up to and on the day she vanished?” Evelyn inquired.

“No,” Angie replied, her reminiscing smile fleeting. “The only change is that she never came home for supper.”

“Describe her home life,” Evelyn asked.

Angie gave Jack a sharp look. “Peaceful. Happy. Normal.” Something about her tone suggested a more sinister reality.

“Discipline and order, that’s what keeps a house in line,” Jack said with gruff resolve.  

Evelyn began to realize why Mary was away so often. “Was there anyone who wanted to hurt Mary?”

“Apparently someone did,” Jack said.

“Did she have any stalkers or people you suspected after she vanished?”

“There was one,” Angie said, looking Evelyn in the soul with her jaded eyes. “Maxwell Quenby.”

9

The Trio

Jack boiled at the mention of Maxwell’s name. He grumbled what seemed like the foulest assortment of curse words he could muster.

Evelyn ignored him and spoke to Angie. “Tell me about Maxwell.”

“He lived in that old plantation house outside of time,” Angie said. “Some days, Mary would bike down his street. Maxwell would give her candy and other gifts. We thought he was harmless, truly, but then Mary vanished.”

“That police, incompetent as they are, wouldn’t arrest Maxwell,” Jack said. “Not enough conclusive evidence, they said. To hell with them. Everyone knows that the Quenbys donate to the department every year.”

Evelyn jotted down the information, realizing that her family had their hand in a lot of honeypots. “Did Mary visit Maxwell often?”

Angie and Jack traded looks.

“I don’t know,” Jack admitted. “Mary would bike all over the place. God knows the people she met during her travels.”

Evelyn tried pressing them for information regarding Mary’s other friends and the times she’d stay out late. Jack and Angie answered the best they could, but time had clearly muddled their memories. None of the information was useful. Before she left, Evelyn asked a final question. “What happened to Mary’s parents?”

“One’s in jail, and the other is dead.” Jack glared at Evelyn. “Don’t have an affair.”

He let Evelyn piece the rest of the story together. After the meeting, Evelyn called a cab and thought of her next move. Her mind drifted back to her father, a man she’d never seen, and his odd reputation. She wondered what it must be like to live under a parent's shadow and to shoulder that burden alone. Maybe he did run away? Or did he become the man in the white mask and Mary was his victim? If that was true, what did that mean for Evelyn? Would the revelation be enough to end her and Terrence’s plight?

She returned to Quenby House. The white flowers on its vines shimmied in the breeze. Such a beautiful place for such evil. Evelyn entered the house. The afternoon sun vanished as she shut the door behind her. She rested her back against it and took a deep breath. Her busted nose throbbed and had her head pounding. If my father is a monster, what am I? Evelyn struck down the thought. She’d never defined herself by her parents or lack thereof. Why start now?

She glanced up at the mural of trumpeting angels painted across the domed ceiling.

“Help me,” Evelyn mumbled to the cracked mural of heaven. She noticed something shift on the ceiling, almost as if the paint was moving. Suddenly, the baby-faced angels began to swirl around the inside of the dome. Their little mouths opened to scream, but no sound escaped. Within seconds, their snowy skin blackened as if they were being grilled. The paint blue sky turned black. The puffy white clouds turned blood red. All the angels screamed and burned, yet no sound escaped their lips.

Evelyn clenched her eyes shut. The air inside the house became thick. Stop. Please stop.

After counting to ten, Evelyn reopened her eyes. The ceiling painting had returned to normal. The atmosphere was normal. Evelyn hunched over, feeling like she’d vomit. She was uncertain if this was a vision or a hallucination.

She noticed that the foyer had grown dark around her. It was 1 p.m. when Evelyn arrived. She twisted back to the door and windows, seeing the sunset. No way. She looked at herself. Specks of dried paint were splattered on her fingers and shirt. She noticed the door to the hall was open. She stared at it cautiously. Half of her wanted to see what lay within; the other half wanted her to run like hell. Remembering that the car would put her back in the house no matter what, she carefully approached the door. Heart racing with fear and anticipation, she peeked her head into the pitch-black hall.

Evelyn found herself holding her breath as she flipped the light switch. The bulbs flickered in ceiling-mounted glass cases. Across the very same wall where she had painted the last mural, there was another, fresher painting that was triple the size and stretched over the entire wall, door to door. Ceiling to floor.

With the ceiling lights still flickering, Evelyn stepped into the hall. With each flash, a portion of the mural revealed itself. The nearest showed a road that looked a lot like Quenby Avenue. A blonde girl on her pink bicycle was in the process of stopping in front of three people wearing white masks. Black splotches had been used for their eye holes. From them, inky tears dripped down the wall and unto the hall’s floor.

Another light flicker later, and Evelyn saw the next part of the mural. The girl was riding her bike into the woods as three masked figures chased after her.

The light kept strobing.

The third part of the mural showed the masked figures carrying away the blonde girl while her bike was abandoned by a fat tree with an owl hole.

Evelyn walked through the hall that seemed to blink out of this existence every other second.

The fourth showed three figures dragging the girl by the plantation house and towards a cotton field.

The fifth and final aspect of the mural displayed an orange, yellow, and red fire blazing up from the center of the cotton field. The masked figures stood around it. Two looked into the flame. One looked directly at Evelyn.

Evelyn covered her mouth, involuntarily tasting the paint on her palm. She felt herself shake. Her steel resolve shattered. The lights suddenly stopped flickering and returned to normal. The wet mural began melting away the images.

“What do you want me to do?” Evelyn asked the house, which felt like the most insane and most sane things she’d done since she first heard that scratching sound in the basement. A cold breeze drifted through the house. She felt her chest tighten as she looked at the painted fireball dripping away.

Evelyn exited the house and allowed the clean Georgia air to circulate through her. “If I find those men, will you set me free?”

Silence. Like always.

Evelyn tucked her blonde hair behind her ears. She knew she was on her own.

She walked down the red brick road and onto the street. Evelyn tried to imagine herself as Mary. The little girl’s hands on the bicycle handlebars. Her tiny feet churning the pedals. Evelyn turned to her right. The single-lane street ran in a line, well past Quenby House and into a more heavily trafficked street that was too far away to be seen.

Evelyn kept on, keeping an eye out for any evidence left behind after a near twenty-year murder. The odds were slim, but she had to try. She walked into the trees opposite of her property.

Twigs cracking beneath her shoes, Evelyn marched deeper into the woods. Soon the road vanished in her wake and only sentry oaks surrounded her. Their points reached to the cloudy heavens. Their shadow cast over Evelyn in oddly-shaped blobs while unseen birds screamed out of sight. Beetle and other ground bugs scurried under felled leaves upon Evelyn’s approach. Evelyn stopped in front of a massive oak with an owl hole. Evelyn twisted about the wooded area. No bike. Figures. With a case this cold, she was grasping at straws. If the killers were smart, they would’ve hidden the evidence.

That’s when she saw it. The pink plastic casing from a handlebar pressed into the earth by time and nature. Tattered but glittery plastic tassels streamed out of the end of the casing. Just like Angie said.

Evelyn was alone, yet she felt someone’s eyes on her, seemingly watching her from all directions at once, if that was possible. Evelyn shut her eyes, collecting herself. You’re tired. That’s all, Evelyn lied to herself. Deep down, she felt like a pawn in someone else's game, meddling with forces of which she had no comprehension.   

Digging her fingernails into the packed dirt, Evelyn removed the handlebar’s plastic casing from the ground. The rest of the bike was nowhere to be found. On her hands and knees, Evelyn crawled and dug around the area, looking for more of Mary’s items.  She saw a corner of a half-inch binder sticking out from the earth. Evelyn pulled at it, removing the white, three-ring binder from the soil. The papers inside were completely washed out and decomposed into small misshapen squares. One laminated page survived, with faded Sharpie writing. “6-29-2003.”

Evelyn shook off the loose dirt on the drawing and used her hand to get rid of the rest. Created with crayon, it showed a little blonde girl clutching a doll in one hand and using her other hand to hold the hand of a beardless man in front of a huge house with pillars. Maxwell and the Quenby House. Evelyn recognized the doll, too. If she wasn’t mistaken, it was the same one she found in the scorched cotton field. A shiver danced down Evelyn’s spine.

The picture included three more stick figures in the background. They had frowns and angled brows, watching in the distance. All three looked nearly identical, except one had long brown hair and the other two had short hair.

Evelyn brushed her thumb across the three jealous stick figures and removed some excess dirt from their faces. Mary knew she was being stalked. Why didn’t she tell her guardians?

Evelyn studied the back of the drawing. She re-read the Sharpie note. The date stuck out. June 29, 2003. The day Mary vanished. Evelyn removed her phone and reviewed her picture catalogue. She opened the photos she took of her father’s secret study and swiped through the images until she found one of Maxwell’s plane tickets to Hawaii. That was dated 2003. He left June 27th and got back on July 2. Her father couldn’t have taken Mary during that time. Unless, Evelyn thought of another possibility, Maxwell returned home during that vacation time. It was unlikely, but he had a few days to do so. Also, Hawaii seemed like such a random destination.

Evelyn focused on the three stick figures. These were the people she needed to find.

Brushing the dirt off herself, Evelyn left the woods and contacted the cab driver.

“Have you lived in Adders for a while?” Evelyn asked the driver as he rolled to a stop twenty minutes later.

“My whole life,” the man replied. “This town has a way have sucking people in and keeping them forever.”

Evelyn tried not to be creeped out by the man’s cryptic answer and asked, “Do you know about the disappearance of Mary Sullivan?”

The man thought for a moment, pulling at one side of his thick mustache in a provocative manner. “Many believed she was murdered, not kidnapped.”

“Why say that?”

“Because Mary wasn’t the only person who vanished. None of the others were ever found either.”

Evelyn remembered the Missing Persons reports from all those decades ago. “You think the same guy took them all?”

The cab driver shrugged. “I have no idea. Besides, that’s old news. The little girl was the last one to go.”

Evelyn processed the information. “Did anything else happen that year?”

“I don’t think so. If you’re so curious, I can take you to the police station. Sheriff Yates knows more about it than anyone.”

“Take me to him,” Evelyn commanded.  

Looking at Evelyn’s paint-stained hands and swollen nose in the rearview mirror, the drive said. “You’re not very normal, you know that?”

“Good, I’ll fit right in.”

The driver took Evelyn to the sheriff’s office. The building was rectangular and brick with an American flag post jutting out of the front lawn. Unsure how long the meeting would take, Evelyn told the cab driver to go on.

Evelyn bounced up the steps and pushed through one of two glass doors with the sheriff department decal on it. She approached the young woman at the receptionist’s desk, who didn’t look a day over twenty-one. She had short blonde hair, a cute, naive face, and a yellow blouse. A deputy wearing a green uniform and black felt hat leaned on the counter with a lusty grin on his face. “Come on, Sunshine. Come out with me tonight. I’ll show you my secret spot.”

“I’d love to, Deputy, but Avery’s already invited me to go line dancing tonight.”

The deputy frowned. “Your loss.”

He straightened his posture and brushed by Evelyn, turning back to check out her bottom before he left.

Evelyn approached the desk.

The girl smiled sweetly. “My name’s Claire. My friends call me Sunshine. How may I help you?

“I’d like to discuss something important with the sheriff. Is he available?”

“Can I have your name?”

Evelyn told her and waited by patiently while the receptionist picked up the old cord phone and dialed one. She smiled at Evelyn as she waited. “Yes, Sheriff. It’s Sunshine. There’s a woman here who’d like to discuss something with you. She says she has evidence for a case regarding Mary Sullivan… Uh huh… Thank you… Yes. I’ll get you coffee too… Thank you.” Sunshine hung up. “He’s ready to see you.”  

Sheriff Garrett Yates opened the door for Evelyn and allowed her passage into his office. Yates had red hair and a red beard touched with gray on its sides and seemingly painted on his face. By the air of maturity about him, Evelyn could tell he was much older than he looked.

“What can I do for you?” he asked and sat at the rim of his clean desk.

Evelyn showed him the laminated drawing. “Mary Sullivan drew and had this laminated the day she vanished.”

Yates grabbed the drawing in both hands and studied it.

“I believe the three men in the background are responsible for her disappearance,” Evelyn continued.

Yates set the drawing on his desk. He put his hands in his pocket. “Could be. But this was drawn by a seven-year-old. It’s not exactly foolproof.”

“I guess you’re not going to reopen the investigation?” Evelyn said.

“I never closed the investigation,” Yates replied. “But we’ve hit enough road blocks that it’s not a priority at the moment. May I ask why it concerns you?”

“My father was Maxwell Quenby. He may be responsible.”

“You are a Quenby, huh?” the sheriff said. “I didn’t know there were any of you left.”

“Here I am,” Evelyn replied. “Will you help me prove my father’s innocence? My family gave a lot of money to this department over the years. I think it’s time to cash in on the investment.”

Yates chuckled. “Just like a Quenby. I’ll tell you what: you bring me something solid, I’ll prioritize this case. Deal?”

Evelyn let out a sigh. “Deal. Can you answer a few questions first?”

“Sure.”

“Who were the suspects?” Evelyn asked.

“Maxwell for one, but the plane tickets proved otherwise.”

“How about the scorch mark in his cotton field? Was that evidence?”

“Never noticed it.” Yates replied casually.

Evelyn nodded, suspicious of the man. “Any other suspects?”

“Andrew Doyle,” the sheriff replied.

“Where can I find him?”

“In the Adders cemetery. Six feet underground,” Yates said, charmed by his own wit.

Evelyn wasn’t amused. “How did that happen?”

“That’s another case, Mrs. Carr.”

“Cut me some slack,” Evelyn pressed. “Why did you suspect him?”

“Because his body was recovered the morning after Mary vanished with a self-inflicted gunshot wound. There was evidence that he was moved and dumped there,” the sheriff said. “My wife says I’m forgetful, but I never forget a case.”

“There was no information of the murder online,” Evelyn said.

Sheriff nodded. “You must be new to Adders. Let me give you a tip. We live in a bubble. It’s a nice bubble, but a fragile one. One poke and POP, the whole town goes poof.”

Sunshine walked in and gave Yates his coffee. He sniffed the steam in ecstasy. “Look into Doyle or don’t,” the sheriff said. “It’s not going to change the fact that Mary Sullivan is long gone. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Carr. I have work to do.”

Suspicious, Evelyn left the sheriff’s office. She looked up Andrew Doyle on her phone’s Internet web search and, after about twenty minutes, found his obituary. He was thirty-two when he died. Andrew was a stone-faced man with a big nose, soft eyes, and silky hair. Something about him looked familiar. Evelyn noticed the date of his death. June 8, 2003. The day after Mary vanished. At least she knew the sheriff wasn’t lying. No cause of death was listed. The obituary read, “lived on by his brother and sister: Catherine and Stephen Doyle.” Evelyn searched for them as well, finding a picture of Stephen on a farming website. She recognized him as the twin who entered her house uninvited. Evelyn felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck, starting to connect the dots.

Evelyn couldn’t find Stephen's address. She recalled the place where she woke up in the cow pasture and headed that way in a cab. After driving down a single-lane country road, she spotted an old two-story house tucked away at the end of a long driveway. She had the cab driver pull up to the front, and Evelyn knocked on the door. Hands in her pockets, she waited for someone to answer.

After a moment, Stephen opened the door. His bug-like eyes scrutinized her. His mouth was tightly closed above his sharp jaw. His short hair was silky smooth and nicely cut. He wore a white polo, khaki shorts, and gray slip-on shoes.

“Hi Stephen,” Evelyn said.

“What do you want?” he asked, looking past her and at the cab. “Did you leave something in my pasture when you were sneaking around, or are you here to threaten to call the cops again?”

“Nothing like that,” Evelyn reassured. “Have you ever heard of Mary Sullivan?”

“No.”

“She went missing years ago. Your brother died the day after.”

Stephen clenched his fist so tightly that the blue veins bulged. “Get off my porch.”

“Stephen--” Evelyn said.

The man stepped out of the door frame and glared down at Evelyn. He shoved his finger at her. “Go!”

“Can’t we--”

Stephen did not wait for her to finish before he turned back around and slammed the door in Evelyn’s face.

Evelyn looked like an idiot standing on his front porch. Any other case, she would’ve pressed him for more information, but this was a delicate game. She needed to rethink her strategy.

Ring!  

Evelyn’s heart nearly stopped at the sound of her own phone. The light ceased its flicker. Evelyn didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?” she answered, unable to take her eyes off the mural.

“Mrs. Carr, this is Dr. Gregory. I have some good news. Your husband is awake.”

“Tell him I’m on my way,” Evelyn said and hung up. She gave the Doyle house a final look before rushing to the hospital.

Terrence rested against the backboard of the hospital bed, dressed in patient’s garb. His dark face seemed gaunter since Evelyn last saw him. A nurse stood by, checking his vitals on the monitor.

“Could you excuse us?” Evelyn asked when she entered. It came out much ruder than she would’ve liked. Giving Evelyn a disgusted look, the nurse exited, keeping the door open. Evelyn shut it and turned back to her husband.

“They said I was in a car accident on the way back,” Terrence said, almost disbelieving. “Is your nose hurt because of that?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter.” Evelyn replied.

“Of course it matters,” Terrence retorted. “I could’ve killed you. Eve, this is--”

“Shut up and listen to me, Terrence,” Evelyn said quietly as she moved towards him.

Terrence opened his mouth to speak but then shut it and reluctantly gave Evelyn his attention.

Evelyn still felt that heavy, inexplicable feeling inside that she couldn’t trust him. Nonetheless, she needed an ally. She twisted back to the hospital hallway to make sure no one was listening and then turned back to Terrence.

“I think I understand what’s happening now.”

10

Death at the Doorstep

Evelyn paced as she explained the case to Terrence. “Three people killed Mary. Two had short hair. One had long hair. That translates to two guys and one girl. Andrew, Stephen, and Catherine Doyle. When Maxwell was away, they came to his house and committed the murder. Maxwell wasn’t arrested, but his reputation was destroyed. He ran off or maybe killed himself. I don’t know, but I feel this is more about the girl than my father. If we catch these killers, the girl finds peace and all our problems end.”

“Evelyn,” Terrence said with hesitation. “Should we be getting involved in this?”

Evelyn glared. “Yes, Terrence. It’s the only way.”

“But how do we know?” Terrence asked.

“The murals, as I explained. It’s all linked together. Don’t give me that look. You were the one who drove us home.”

“You can’t blame me for that. You know I had no control over it,” Terrence argued.

Or did you? Evelyn wanted to ask but knew it would get her nowhere. For the sake of her sanity, Evelyn needed to trust that the man was her husband.

Terrence averted his eyes. “I only want us to be safe. Confronting someone who burned a seven-year-old for no reason doesn’t sound very safe.”

Evelyn approached, got on her knees, and took his hand in her own. She looked into his eyes. “Please, Terrence. I have never begged for anything in my life.”

Terrence looked at her with empathy. “I’m with you, Evelyn. I’ll always be with you. I only--”

Evelyn pulled close to him and planted her lips on his. She felt her courage returning. Their kiss ended when the door opened. Dr. Gregory stood in the threshold. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yes, but we’re finished now,” Evelyn said, turning back to him.

“I’m going to have to steal your husband away,” Dr. Gregory said.

Evelyn and Terrence traded concerned looks.

“Why?” Evelyn asked.

Dr. Gregory replied, “There are still tests to be done. His condition, it’s an abnormality and must be evaluated before he can leave.”

“How long will that take?” Terrence asked.

“Three or four days at the most,” Dr. Gregory said. “It’s for your safety.”

Terrence leaned into Evelyn and whispered, “Can you wait that long?”

Evelyn whispered back with fiery determination. “We need to end this, Terrence. Once and for all.”

For a moment it looked like Terrence was going to protest. Instead, he turned to the doctor. “We’re checking out now.”

“I would not recommended it,” Dr. Gregory said, friendly but stern. “The hospital has already taken care of the fee. Take advantage of the opportunity.”

“We appreciate everything, Dr. Gregory, but we have something we must do.” Evelyn rose from the floor.  

“This is not a jail. I’m not going to lock you up,” Gregory said, trying to keep a lid on his frustration. “But if anything happens, like another car accident perhaps, it’s on your heads.”

“We understand the risks,” Terrence replied. “Can I get my clothes back?”

Once Terrence had changed back into his jeans and tan button up shirt with little instruments on it, they exited the hospital.

“How are you feeling?” Evelyn finally asked as they waited for the cab. Stars speckled the night sky.

“Could be worse,” Terrence said. “I’m still in one piece. What’s the plan?”

Evelyn explained it to him.

Even at night, the flat Georgian landscape was alive with green grass and wildflowers outside of the small town. Clusters of ancient trees spotted the fields. The cab driver let them off on the side of the road, flanked by two cattle pastures. Evelyn fished out some cash and thanked the driver for his services. He drove off. Terrence approached the fence. It had wooden pins connected by wire mesh. A number of black and white cows grazed on the tall grass spotted with dung. Terrence turned back to Evelyn. “I should’ve brought my cowboy hat.”

“Just climb the fence,” Evelyn said, a small smile betraying her seriousness.

After checking the streets for any oncoming cars, Terrence planted his hands on top of the post, put his feet into the mesh, and heaved himself over. His feet landed on the other side, narrowly missing a cow paddy. Evelyn followed Terrence over. Under the cover of darkness, they scurried across the open pasture. Terrence had suggested they bring a flashlight, but Evelyn knew that would draw unwanted attention.

They swatted off bugs and steered clear of the livestock. Evelyn wondered if the blackout led her here because the supernatural force knew the Doyles were guilty. It seemed plausible. Were the shotguns for the Doyles too? They said they were looking for something. Evelyn didn’t know. She felt dread sink in, still unsure what Terrence and her shot that night.

Jogging until their calves were sore and their shoes were stained with dried poo, they noticed the silhouette of a two-story house in the distance. Light streamed from its windows. There was a sedan parked in the driveway. Terrence and Evelyn hunched low to the ground as they neared the property. By the time they reached the fence, they were completely prone and crawling up the itchy grass on their bellies.

“House or shed?” Evelyn asked herself.

“This is my first breaking and entering, but I’d say shed. If we find what we need, there’s no reason to go inside,” Terrence whispered, keeping his eye on the house. It was an old building made in the thirties with a covered porch, wooden window shutters, and a symmetrical box design.

“Stephen’s truck is not here,” Evelyn noticed.

“Do we come back later?” Terrence asked.

“No. The night Stephen picked me up out here, he was driving around at 4 a.m.”

“Doing what?” Terrence asked.

“I have no clue,” Evelyn replied honestly.

They waited a half an hour, but it felt much longer than that. Finally, the lights in the house shut off. After a moment, Terrence and Evelyn hurried over the fence. They ran up the driveway and to the shed. It was a rectangular structure made of unpainted wood. There was a window on each side made up of four glass panes. The door had a wooden X on its front and a master lock on its rusty metal latch. Terrence flipped over the surrounding rocks.

“Looking for a key,” he replied off of Evelyn’s look. The moon reflected on the sweat of his bald head.

Evelyn checked her pockets and pulled out her lock-picking tool. “Never leave home without it.”

She fiddled with the lock until it popped. Keeping the open lock on the latch, she opened the shed door. The interior was musty and cramped with tools, lawn mowers, and old car parts.

“Keep guard,” Evelyn told Terrence.

He nervously looked around while Evelyn pulled out her smartphone and turned on the flashlight. Every sharp rake or paint can that the light brushed across cast long shadows through the room. Evelyn tiptoed across the dirt floor. She spotted a few gasoline tanks over varying capacities and liquid levels. One of them had rust spots on its tin frame and dated back to 1988. Still, there was no possible way she could link that to Mary’s death. Evelyn headed to the back of the shed. She glanced at the wall of hammers, screwdrivers, and other tools. There was a heavy-duty metal tool trunk beneath it. Evelyn popped the latch and opened it. She removed the tray of tools from inside. Her eyes widened and her heart quickened as she looked down at the white cotton mask lying at the box’s bottom.

It’s him. Evelyn knew at once.

“Evelyn!” Terrence called with a loud whisper.

Evelyn twisted to the door in time to see the large truck pulling into the driveway. Its headlights grew closer by the second. “Close the door!” Evelyn commanded.

“What?” Terrence replied, panicking.

“Do it!”

Reluctantly, Terrence shut Evelyn inside and fiddled with the lock to make it look like it was set. He rushed by the right-side window and vanished behind the shed. Evelyn turned off the light on her phone and ducked down. The truck’s high beams sliced through the slits between the shed’s plank walls and created jail bars over Evelyn’s chest and face. She held her breath as the vehicle shut off.

The door opened, spilling country music into the night.

Evelyn stayed still.

The music died with the headlights.

The door slammed. Someone yawned.

Footsteps neared the shed.

Turn around. Evelyn silently commanded as the figure approached the shed’s door. Why are you coming here?

A key ring rattled together.

Evelyn looked for a place to hide. She ducked behind the ride-on lawn mower.

The figure outside hesitated as he saw the door. He lifted the unlocked lock and pushed open the door. Evelyn hunched low and covered her mouth. The figure was silhouetted in the door frame. He glanced around the room and lifted his t-shirt. A holster with a small pistol was tucked between his belt and pelvis. He withdrew it, clicked off the safety, and took his first step inside.

Evelyn frantically looked for a weapon as beads of sweat trickled down her brow. Her hands found a hand shovel made for gardening. It had a pointed edge. It would have to work.

The man took another step inside, fully entering.

Evelyn could hear his nasal breathing. His hand reached for the beaded string dangling from the ceiling light bulb. His fingers wrapped around it, preparing to tug.

Evelyn clenched the small spade in her paint-stained fingers, ready to lunge the second the light turned on.

Crash!

The man and Evelyn both twisted back.

The noise sounded behind the shed.

The man rushed out of the room and ran around back.

Evelyn leapt to her feet and started running. She slipped on something, nearly smashing her face on the paint cans. She looked at what caused her to stumble.

It was her minivan’s hubcap.

Evelyn didn’t investigate further. She ran like hell out of the shed and over the pasture fence. She dropped prone in the tall grass and watched the man walk around the shed in search of the cause of the noise. Evelyn spotted Terrence crouching behind the air-conditioning unit behind the house.

Gun raised, Stephen approached Terrence’s hiding spot.

Don’t move, Terrence. Don’t move. Evelyn wished she could yell. She could see Terrence tense up and get looking for a place to run.

Stephen got closer and closer. Evelyn picked up a rock, ready to throw it at the truck in hopes the car alarm would deter him.

Stephen stopped about six feet from Terrence, scanned the area, and holstered his gun. He walked back to the shed and entered. The light flicked on and he closed the door. Keeping low, Evelyn moved up parallel to the shed and, at a distance, peered through the window as Stephen lifted the cotton mask and looked it in the eyes. By the time Evelyn pulled her phone from her pocket and got the camera ready, Stephen had put the mask away.

Terrence clambered over the fence and gestured for Evelyn to run his way. Reluctant, Evelyn followed after him. When the house was just a black blob in the distance, they slowed their sprint and caught their breath.

“That was too freaking close,” Terrence panted, drenched in sweat.

Hunched, Evelyn rested her palms on her knees. Perspiration glued her blonde hair to her forehead. “It’s him, Terrence. I saw the mask.”

“So him and his twin are the other two killers?”

Evelyn nodded. “That’s my theory. They had our hubcap, too.”

“What? How?”

“He followed us to the motel,” Evelyn said, her mouth still dry from the run.

“But no one knew we were there,” Terrence replied.

“He did,” Evelyn said. “Let’s get back home before he starts looking for us. Tomorrow, we’ll call the cops, tell them about the hubcap robbery, and get them to search Stephen’s shed. If they find the mask, pray to God they arrest him.”

The walk was long and sticky. By the time they reached Quenby House, Evelyn’s feet were screaming to get out of her shoes. With slumped shoulders and defeated eyes, the couple shambled toward to the plantation house.

“I’m not going to be a happy camper if we sleepwalk tonight,” Terrence said as they stumbled through the front door.

“I don’t know how you can still joke after all this,” Evelyn hiked the foyer stairs, using the railing to heave herself up. They reached the master bathroom and climbed into the tube and turned on the upper shower head, washing away the sweat, dirt, and cattle dung.

Still wet, Evelyn and Terrence flopped on their bed and stared at the canopy. Evelyn’s heart still pounded, though she couldn’t tell if it was from the excruciating walk or the encounter with Mary’s killer. A small fear pinged in the back of her mind. Stephen saw you. He is coming.

Under the watchful eye of their Sony video camera, Terrence and Evelyn struggled to keep their eyes shut. Evelyn gripped Terrence’s calloused hands and waited anxiously for dawn to break.

At 3 a.m., something broke.

Evelyn and Terrence shot out of bed at the sound of glass shattering.

They turned to one another, only able to see each other’s silhouette and the whites of their eyes. Evelyn opened the dresser drawer, feeling around for her extendable baton and smartphone. Terrence leaned over the bed. He returned with his fingers coiled around the grip of a wooden slugger.

“Wait here,” Terrence whispered.

“No,” Evelyn replied.

That was the extent of their argument.

Together, they headed for the door. Terrence flipped the light switch with a Band-Aid-wrapped fingertip. No light came to their aid. Before they left the room, Evelyn headed for the oil lamp. Terrence grabbed her wrists and shook his head. He picked up the camera off of its tripod, fiddled with the buttons, and turned on night vision.

Pressed shoulder to shoulder, they looked at the monitor of the camera. Its verdant glow illuminated their sharp chins and eyes. On the screen, the room before them was shades of dark green and black, but clearer than that, the abyss in which they currently stood. To ensure they could both see their path, they needed to walk closely together, constantly bouncing their eyes between the monitor and the real world. If Evelyn had it her way, she’d hold the camera and be on the offensive. But in reality, it would be too jarring. Terrence must’ve realized this, as he handed the camera to Evelyn before tightening his grip on the baseball bat.

One hand on the baton and the other on the camera, Evelyn was ready to see what they’d find. The bedroom door creaked as Terrence pushed it open. They stepped into a hall, hearing the old floorboards groan beneath their weight. Apart from that, the house was as silent as death.

Side by side, Evelyn and Terrence walked the hall, scanning the walls and doors with the camera’s large black lens. They approached the grandiose inner balcony that overlooked the foyer and stopped at the railing. The window nearest the front door was shattered. The howling wind stirred the large curtains, causing them to flap like crimson capes.

Before Evelyn could say call the cops, she saw a figure clad in black with a white cotton mask staring at her from the base of the curved foyer stairs. She didn’t see the gun until the muzzle flash flickered, and the gunshot thundered through the house.

“Run!” Terrence yelled before Evelyn knew what the bullet hit.

They twisted back around, noticing all the hallway doors were slung wide open. What the-- Evelyn couldn’t finish her thought as she heard footsteps racing up the foyer stairs. Evelyn and Terrence ran past the first door: a bedroom with an old bed frame and 19th century marble-topped dresser, but nothing else. In the monitor screen, Evelyn saw the back of a gorgeous woman, late 30s, in a glossy jade dress that accentuated her hourglass body. The woman peered over her shoulder, looking at Evelyn with sultry green eyes. A rivulet of thick blood seeped from her jade neck ribbon into her bosom.

Evelyn’s jaw dropped. She wanted to scream, but nothing escaped her lips. Not even the faintest breath. She kept running and glanced in the next room. It was a spare bathroom that once had a tub full of leaves. In the monitor screen, there was a naked fat man with an oblong head, stretch marks, and sagging tits watching Evelyn run by. A long horizontal slash across his meaty belly revealed his innards.

Evelyn felt her eyes water. Instinctively, she followed Terrence into the third door.

The nursery.

As soon as they stepped through the door, it slammed shut, along with every door in the hallway. Terrence cursed. Evelyn shushed him. The blood had left her face and she couldn’t remember the last time she blinked.

The wall paint was pink and chipped. The bed was tiny and broken in on itself. A massive dollhouse—an exact replica of the plantation--rested on a big table. On the floor, toys and dolls from a bygone era sat in a semi-circle facing Evelyn and Terrence.

Through the thin walls, they could hear footsteps moving through the hall. A nearby door opened and slammed shut.

Stepping over the spectating toys, Evelyn rushed to the window. She put down the camera and the baton and tried to slide open the window. Seeing her struggle, Terrence rushed over to assist her. He grimaced as he put his damaged fingertips under the window.

“It’s jammed,” Terrence barked.

Evelyn tried to lift it again. Her face turned cherry red. A vein bulged in her neck. The window didn’t budge. Winded, she turned to Terrence. “Hide.”

Another door opened. It was closer. Much closer.

Terrence rushed behind the dollhouse and ducked under the table. Grabbing her equipment, Evelyn rolled under the broken bed. Feathers from the split-open mattress brushed across her swollen nose.

The doorknob jiggled.

Evelyn laid on her belly. She watched the door swing inward and the masked figure step inside. In the darkness and clad in black, the stranger looked like a floating head. He kept his gun in both hands. He slowly scanned the room, eyeing the corners. His muddy boot stomped a doll. Cocking his head, he studied the odd arrangement of toys. He stepped toward the bed.

Click.

Down the hall, the bedroom lamp flickered on and spilled golden light across the hall. The masked figure turned back and walked out of the nursery to investigate.

Evelyn crawled out from under the bed, and Terrence removed himself from behind the dollhouse. He removed his cell phone and dialed 911. A mechanical high-pitch screech rang into his ear. Terrence quickly pulled it away and looked at the phone that had just spontaneously fried its circuitry. His already horrified expression became ten times worse.

Grabbing the camera and the baton, Evelyn tiptoed to the doorway and peeked her head out, seeing the lights on in the master bedroom but no sign of the figure. With her baton, Evelyn gestured for Terrence to follow her into the hallway. Sprinting silently, they ran out into the hallway and to the balcony railing.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Bullets zipped past their heads. Staying low and zigzagging, Terrence and Evelyn separated and dashed down the left and right side of the stairs. Evelyn tripped on the third step and watched the world spin as she careened headfirst down to the bottom of the steps. She landed with a thunk! She mouthed a scream and clenched the top of her head. Hundreds of black specks danced in her peripherals. Eyes watering, she looked up from the floor and the muddy boot in front of her.

Trembling, Evelyn glanced up at the figure with a white mask arcing a woodcutting axe over its head. The glistening edge cut through the air and down on Evelyn’s pretty face. She rolled to the side as the axe head slammed into the wood.

Still on the ground, Evelyn reached out for her baton that had rolled against the wall.

The female figure yanked the axe from the floor, leaving behind a two-inch deep notch in the hardwood.  

Evelyn swatted the baton against the figure’s knee. The stranger grunted as their leg bent inward.

“Get away from her!” Terrence shouted as he charged the axe woman and swung the bat. The slugger bashed in the figure’s forehead and it staggered back, a crimson rose blooming on the white cotton mask. Terrence brought the bat down on the figure again, knocking the stranger prone.

“Terrence,” Evelyn screamed.

Her husband turned back to the inner balcony railing and the mask aiming a gun at him. He opened fire.

Suddenly, all the lights in the mansion flickered. The jiggles of arcade machines screamed through the house, louder than the gunfire that rained down on Evelyn and Terrence. The front door was too far. They ran for the nearest exit, leaving the cracked video camera at the bottom of the stairs. The masked gun looked around at the chaos, cursed aloud, and then headed for his limp partner’s axe.

Evelyn and Terrence dashed through the hall of portraits. The lifeless, painted eyes seemed to follow their trek.

“This way,” Evelyn commanded and stopped before the portrait of her overweight ancestor. She pushed aside the corner, revealing a keyhole. She pulled out her key fob and shoved the proper key within. Terrence guarded her back. The key clicked and a three-foot wide rectangular portion of the wall opened from floor to ceiling, revealing a tight, dusty corridor with walls made of unpainted wooden slats.

“He’s coming!” Terrence yelled. Evelyn didn’t look back. She pressed onward toward her father’s hidden study. Terrence slammed the secret door behind them and followed.

THUMP!

An axe battered the portrait wall.  

Evelyn and Terrence pushed through the study door that was already battered from an assault a decade ago. The hinges were warped. The wood around the doorknob was splintered. The lock was broken.

THUMP!

The flickering light and screaming arcade sounds seeped through the new hole in the wall behind them.

Evelyn and Terrence slammed the door behind them and shoved a chair under the knob. Terrence rubbed his hand up his bald head. “He’s going to smash through that wall within the next five minutes.”

Evelyn felt her heart cramp. She put her hands on her father’s desk, shifting her thoughts away from the horrific and the unexplainable to how she would survive.

“We’re going to need to make a stand,” Evelyn declared.

Terrence’s jaw tightened. He nodded. “Two of us. One of him.”

“We get rid of his gun, we win,” Evelyn said, wiping sweat from her brow.

THUMP!

She turned back to Terrence. “I’m sorry I brought you down here. We should’ve stayed in Detroit.”

“Hey,” Terrence brushed aside a hair from Evelyn’s cheek with his bandaged thumb. “No time for regrets. Besides, we’ve faced worse odds.”

Evelyn cracked a smile. “You only lie that bad when you’re trying to get into my pants.”

“Can you fault me?”

Wood cracked and the mumbled curses of the masked figure could be heard through the three-foot wide corridor.  

Evelyn and Terrence turned to the concealed study door.

“He’s here,” Evelyn said, their moment ending.

Boots thumped through the corridor and an axe head slammed into the study door. Evelyn and Terrence stood on either side of the doorway, ready to hit the masked man the moment he breached.

Evelyn’s skin crawled as the room temperature plummeted twenty degrees. She noticed Terrence’s teeth chattering and felt someone’s eyes on her. Both Terrence and her twisted back to the seven-year-old little blonde girl and the tall, white masked figure standing beside her.

Both Evelyn and Terrence froze in fear.

The axe splintered the door’s face inward.

While looking at Evelyn with emotionless blue eyes, freckle-faced Mary Sullivan raised her right arm and pointed at the mahogany desk.

Evelyn and Terrence turned to one another. The axe head punched a hole between them. It started to wiggle free.

Mary kept pointing at the desk.

The man with the white mask watched Evelyn through the black button-sized eye holes on his tight white cotton mask.

Evelyn dashed to the desk and looked across the piles of old documents on top. “What is it?” she screamed at Mary.

The little girl remained emotionless and silent.

The axe punched another hole into the door, spitting splinters on the floor.

Terrence readied his bat. He bounced his eyes between the door and his wife.

Evelyn saw a finger-sized hole on the floorboards beneath the desk cubby. Using her index finger, she opened the trapdoor, revealing a circular pit, tight enough for a person, black as tar and similarly endless. Evelyn gulped and turned back to Terrence.

The axe smashed through the door. One more hit and the gunman would have enough space to aim his gun.

Evelyn didn’t wait for that. She nodded at Terrence and slid into the abyss.

She slid down the slick metal chute, feeling jets of wind against her face. Maybe she was a fool to trust the little girl. Evelyn would know when she hit the bottom. The tunnel twisted and a moment later, she was free falling into a black pit.

Bottom first, she hit the ground. She gasped in pain as something jabbed into her thigh. Her hands felt something hard, dry, and chalky. Her eyes tried adjusting to the darkness. They didn’t. The world was black and cold. She lifted her thigh and grabbed hold of the curved pointy thing that nearly pierced her flesh. She pulled it free. The wound was tender but didn’t feel deep.

The ceiling grumbled and spit Terrence out. Evelyn moved to the side to allow him to crash down nearby. He groaned. “The trapdoor shut behind me... Where the hell are we?”

“I don’t know,” Evelyn whispered. “I can’t see anything.”

Evelyn felt someone grab her shoulder.

“It’s me,” Terrence said.

Evelyn stayed tense.

Around the room, lantern hinges on pointed metal hooks lit up. Their tiny flames cast an amber glow throughout the massive room, across its brick walls, and down its cratered floor. Evelyn and Terrence sat at the center, bathing in dry bones. Evelyn dropped the curved pointy thing--a human rib--into the rest of the pile of human vertebrae, pelvises, femurs, and skulls.

Before she could process the horror, footsteps approached from all sides. Evelyn looked up from the pile of bones and saw the emotionless people surrounding her: the sexy slashed-throat woman in a green dress, the naked fat man with a horizontal cut across his torso, a teenage goth girl bleeding from the back of her head, an old man in a sweater vest with blood flowing from his lips, a seventeen-year-old boy in a football jersey missing his right wrist, and sweet Mary Sullivan.

Terrence pulled close to Evelyn and stuttered. Evelyn held him tightly, feeling his warmth for the last time. Tears streamed down her face. “What do you want from us?” she screamed.

Mary locked eyes with them. With her small, childish voice, she said, “Help us.”  

The others echoed her plea. “Help us. Help us. Help us.”

Their cries grew louder and louder, echoing off the brick walls where Evelyn first heard the sound of scratching.  

Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story!

Writing has always been a passion of mine and it’s incredibly gratifying and rewarding whenever you give me an opportunity to let you escape from your everyday surroundings and entertain the world that is your imagination.

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Again, thank you so much for letting me into your world. I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it!

11

Black Bird

Clad in black and pasty-skinned, fifteen-year-old Zoey Pinkerton shielded her eyes from the oncoming high beams. The light bounced with the vehicle as it sped down a cattle pasture-flanked road. Like most nights in Adders, Georgia, the world was an inky black void. Just the way Zoey liked it. Or at least that’s how she branded herself with her use of black eyeliner, black hair dye, and black lipstick. In truth, she loved nature, animals, and art of all varieties. She was even a sucker for those cheesy rom-coms her other girlfriends enjoyed, though she’d never admit it.

The car slowed to a stop beside her. It was an expensive, fuel-efficient BMW. Zoey crossed her arms over her chest and raised a brow.

The window rolled down. The black interior of the car shrouded all but the man’s soft hands. Hands that had never worked a day in their life. It was probably another middle-aged creep looking for a cheap thrill with “damaged goods.” Even in a small town like Adders, pigs like this weren’t that rare.

“I’m not interested in whatever you’re doing,” Zoey said snarkily. As an only child, making her demands known was never difficult.

Completely silent, the man’s hands tightened and loosened their grip on the steering wheel as if he were using a stress ball. Goose bumps rose on Zoey’s skin. She took a step back from the car and flipped open the phone within her hoodie pocket. She wasn’t going to threaten to call the police. She was going to call them now.

“I’m sorry,” the man said. His soft but stoic voice lent to a handsome face, though Zoey still could not see it. As she subtly dialed 9 on her number pad, Zoey opened her mouth to ask “why?” but the glint of the abnormally long and skinny barrel shut her up with its quiet pint sound.

A sharp pinch hit her throat. Her hands touched the long-feathered dart protruding from her flesh.

The ground came up and punched her jaw.

Her limbs disobeyed her.

The world twisted, becoming ever so dark.

Zoey dreamed of falling into a pit. Her parents were watching her from high above. Their expressions were judgmental and their frowns heavy. Zoey’s tongue was thick in her mouth, preventing her from speaking. She felt weak.

The teenager awoke in a sprawling hay field with an electric lantern on the ground a few feet away. In the light, black beetles and ants scurried under stomped hay. Zoey pulled her wrists. They were tied to the arms of an old wooden chair whose right front leg was a little shorter than the rest.

She jerked in her binding and looked out at the endless field. Eyes watering, Zoey screamed. “Somebody! Help me!”

The night sucked up her cry.

The wind screamed back.

Grass crunched behind Zoey.

Zoey trembled. He’s behind me. Her breathing became disjointed. Her heart pounded.

“I’ve killed a lot of people,” the man admitted, almost with pity. “Poison. Knives. I haven’t found a method that I like. That’s weird, is it?”

“Untie me,” Zoey said through her teeth. She had to clench her jaw. It was the only way to keep it from chattering. “Do it.”

“I can’t, Zoey. God knows I’ve tried for many years.”

How does he know my name? Zoey felt dizzy. “Who are you?”

He bent down and whispered his name into her studded ear. Zoey trembled. It didn’t make any sense. Why him? Why was any of this happening? The man grabbed the crown of her head and held it in place. Zoey attempted to shake out of his grip, but he was stronger than he sounded. As she struggled, Zoey noticed a large building in the distance. In her peripherals, she saw the man lift something sharp and pointed.

“Hold still. You really don’t want me to miss,” he said.

Zoey clenched her eyes shut, telling herself to wake up from this nightmare, but with each passing moment, fear built and the man lined up the sharpened stake for the kill.

12

Bed of Bones

In the black of night, rain fell on the quaint town of Adders, Georgia. Homestyle restaurants, Baptist churches, and ancient barns were silhouetted in the inky blackness. Far beyond the rolling pastures and barbed wire fences resided a single-lane red brick road fit for a horse-drawn wagon. Towering, moss-covered oaks flanked its side. Tattered lichen dripped from the trees’ high and sprawling branches that arched over the road and touched each other's skeletal fingers. At the end of the wet brick road stood Quenby House: a symmetrical 19th century masterpiece.

Bowling green grass blanketed the front yard while large trees bordered the massive seventeen room, three-story estate, emphasizing the home’s importance. From the distance, the mansion was monumental. Up close, it was breathtaking. Drooping white flowers spotted the vines that climbed the mansion’s chipped white walls and its grand colonnades--one set across the house’s face, and a second like it but rising out of the second-story balcony. Above that, arched windows jutted out of the wide truncated roof.

Muddled noise and flashing lights escaped the mansion’s many windows.

The window nearest the front door spilled shattered glass across the red carpeted foyer--a massive hall with a parallel curving staircase that ended at the opposite ends of the interior balcony. Bordered by gold leaf frames, authentic early 19th-century oil paintings of the mansion and its surrounding lands decorated the high walls.

Every light, even those on the massive multiple-tier chandelier, flashed rapidly. Annoying arcade jingles screamed from the billiard room packed with hoarded 1980s gaming paraphernalia. The distorted sound rattled the window and shook the walls, crescendoing louder and louder as the stutter of every light quickened.

In the cluttered basement, past the mountain of sheet-covered furniture and dust-dressed Antebellum relics stood an unassuming brick wall. Droplets of dried blood crusted in its coarse ridges where fiddle-maker Terrence Carr had mindlessly clawed at it weeks ago.

If one pressed their ear against the cold brick, they would hear faint scratching on the other side, but not the voices. Those were reserved for someone else.

Wearing cyan boy shirts and a low-cut black t-shirt, thirty-three-year-old blonde and slender Evelyn Carr sat on a bed of bones. Chalky femurs, ribs, and human skulls pooled over her toned legs and dug at her flesh. Just like the tears running down Evelyn’s pale cheeks, beads of wax leaked down lit and dying candlesticks that systematically lined the four doorless and windowless brick walls.

Evelyn’s only warmth in the frigid room came from her husband’s hand. Lost in fear, Terrence squeezed so tight that pain crippled Evelyn’s palm and fingers. She was too terrified to resist.

Band-Aids wrapped the tips of Terrence Carr’s fingers. His skin was dark, his head was bald, and his face was well-structured and kind with a little black beard on his chin. He wore pajamas decorated with little string instruments. Foggy breaths escaped his ajar mouth. Like hungry snakes, red veins squiggled toward his dark irises.

Under the hole of the secret ceiling chute, the married couple sat in the cratered floor where the dry human remains seemingly sucked them in deeper into the nearly two-hundred-year-old plantation house.

Six individuals stood around them.

An old man in a sweater vest and white slacks. His thin hair was combed to the side and his eyes were flat black. Thick blood leaked from his lower lip and down his shaven, sagging chin.

Next to him was a gorgeous woman wearing a glossy jade dress to accentuate her hourglass figure. Like her dress, her eyes were green and sultry. Her hair was thick, luscious and velvet red. Crimson seeped into her full bosom from the slash across her skinny throat.

Naked and with a horizontal opening across his belly, a fat man with an oblong head stood next to the woman in green. His face was neutral.

By him and wearing a 90s football jacket, a seventeen-year-old male with devilishly handsome features and dimpled chin seemed in perfect form apart from the wet nub where his throwing hand once resided.

Then there was the goth girl. Fifteen, raven black eyeliner to match her black hair and black lipstick. There was a hole in the back of her head.

Lastly, seven-year-old Mary Sullivan with sandy blonde hair and freckles spotted under her blue eyes and across the bridge of her nose. Her killer--a man in a featureless white cotton mask--was upstairs, looking for a chance to put a bullet in Evelyn and Terrence’s skulls.

In her tiny voice, Mary repeated her plea. “Help us.”

The other five mimicked her words. “Help us. Help us. Help us.”

Their cries echoed off the cold walls of the fully enclosed chamber and into Evelyn’s mind, drowning out all sounds and thought, seemingly taking root in her skull.

Evelyn searched for the right words, but she could barely control her breathing. Her heart pounded until it cramped in her chest. Goose bumps grew across her body. Dust from the ceiling rained down upon Evelyn’s messy golden hair as Mary’s killer stomped around upstairs. The masked man was one step away from finding the trapdoor that ended in this candlelit pit.

Suddenly, as quick as the mangled strangers had appeared, they vanished. All that remained was their plea resounding off the walls and the corners of the doorless and windowless square room.

Evelyn and Terrence sat in the cold quiet, lost in the sound of their ragged breaths and racing hearts. The world had returned to normal, but under the surface, Evelyn’s foundation was shattered. The divide between life and death blurred along with reality and fiction. In a stir of confusion and fear, a million questions raced through her mind. No one could answer them.

Terrence let go of Evelyn’s hand. He stood, taking a moment to steady himself. Pain thumped in Evelyn’s hand, but that seemed to be the least of her problems.

“Are they…” Terrence’s voice faded.

“I don’t know,” Evelyn answered his unspoken question. For all she knew, the ghastly strangers were hiding just out of sight. They could return any second and shred Evelyn apart, and she’d have no way of stopping it. As a generally self-sufficient woman, being stripped of control left Evelyn feeling as exposed and naked as the bloody fat man that branded her thoughts.

Terrence’s body trembled. He craned his head up to the circular holes cut into the ceiling. The chute in the middle led to Maxwell Quenby’s hidden office: the place where he wrote his last will and testament to Evelyn before vanishing a decade ago. Evelyn never knew her father. Their only connection was the key to this accursed estate. She recalled his crinkled note.

To Evelyn, my daughter. My heir. I failed you in life. I will not make excuses or justify my actions. I will leave you with the only thing I have to give: my estate. Enclosed within this note is the key to our family home. May it give you more peace than it did me. Your father, Max.

Terrence stretched out his shaking hand to Evelyn. It took her a moment to process before she accepted his gesture and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Evelyn turned back to the bones and saw the world twist. She steadied herself on her husband.

“We need to get out of here,” Evelyn declared.

“Funny,” Terrence said weakly. “I was thinking the same exact thing.”

13

Family

Leaning on each other, Terrence and Evelyn shambled out of the bone pit and onto the wood floor. The icy kiss from the dusty surface made their toes curl. Terrence looked at the wax candles in sconces on the wall and shivered. Their spontaneous ignition wasn’t even on the top ten list of abnormal events that transpired tonight or any night in Quenby House.

They approached the nearest brick wall. Terrence put his ear on the surface and knocked. He tried his knuckles at different locations while Evelyn kept watch. There was a chance that the killer still lurked upstairs. Evelyn clenched the rib bone that had been digging into her thigh. Its point wasn’t sharp but with enough force and jammed in the right place, it could be deadly. Evelyn attempted to forget the fact that it originated from one of the six people that had loomed over her. The rib’s dry texture and odd density did a horrible job of hiding that fact. The idea made Evelyn queasy.

Terrence pulled away from the wall. “It’s hollow. We just need a way to bust through.”

They needed a sledgehammer. Evelyn wasn’t crossing her fingers. The room was a pile of bones away from being empty. A morbid thought came to mind as she looked at the bones and the wall, but the skeletal remains were too old and brittle to MacGyver anything.

Evelyn sniffled. The cold was getting to her. They needed to get out of this room or risk getting sick. Or worse, starve. Terrence traced the walls with his hand. He pressed on random bricks, disappointed by the lack of result. In any other place Evelyn would’ve laughed at him, but her father’s mansion was full of secrets. Like the hidden wall in the hall of ancestral portraits that had been axed apart by the masked killer.

If there was a way to the ceiling, Evelyn would try it. But even on Terrence’s shoulders, Evelyn feared that she wouldn’t be able to hoist herself into the corpse chute. She wondered if any of the bodies down here were tossed before they died. Alone, cold, bleeding and surrounded by death, it was hard to imagine a worse fate. As a pessimist, Evelyn could probably think of one, but she’d rather not.

Terrence, an optimist at heart, “pressed” every brick he came across, but to no avail. Evelyn turned her sights on the bones, gulped, and knelt beside them. She brushed aside skulls, vertebrae, and knuckle bones. In the near darkness of the room, it reminded her of a Halloween party game where the participants are blindfolded, feeling different objects and trying to guess their not-so-sinister reality. In this case, the reality was pretty glum. Terrence twisted back to her at one point, opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. He mumbled something and went back to “pressing” bricks.

Pushing aside the bones quickly became a frustrating process as they kept falling back on her hands every time. Instead, Evelyn set them aside, unintentionally categorizing the skeletal remains. Skulls in one spot, arms in the other, etc. She blamed it on her methodical investigative skills.

Soon Evelyn got the pile organized. She looked at the dip. It was nothing but a structural weakness in the hardwood. She plopped to her bottom and hugged her knees close to her chest. She looked up the ceiling chute, feeling the paranoia cripple her. Get your head on straight, she commanded herself. It didn’t work. She watched Terrence press away, seeing his movements becoming rushed and frustrated.

Taking in the surroundings, Evelyn put her P.I. skills to the test. She found putting herself in the missing person’s shoes helped her retrace their path. In this case, she thought about the killer who designed the place. Firstly, she’d assume that the room was a body dump, not a torture chamber. Still, the killer would want to account for any potential escapees. The victim would be beyond desperate and try every nook and cranny for an escape. Assuming that the candles were not lit, the victim would be fumbling blindly. The smart placement for a switch would be in a high place. Somewhere out of reach but not inconvenient. If the killer was six feet, the switch wouldn’t be higher than eight feet to toggle. Evelyn scanned the room. The candle sconces matched the height. Tell me you’re more creative than that. She got up and started feeling the various candlesticks, wondering if Terrence would make some innuendo-esque comment.

“You sure this is your first time?” Terrence joked as he felt up the wall.

“Ha. Ha.” Evelyn replied dryly. Wearing a small smile, she turned back to the task at hand. If they weren’t laughing, they’d be crying.

After five stiff candlesticks, what little hope Evelyn had fleeted. She pinched the bridge of her slightly swollen nose. It was 3 a.m. when the killer broke into her home. It was probably 4ish now, but after her trek to Stephen Doyle’s house hours before, exhaustion hit Evelyn like a steam train. The only thing keeping her on two feet was the threat against her life.

Evelyn tried another candlestick, wishing the killer wasn’t that creative. On her way to the candlestick, she noticed a brick jutting a little farther out than the rest on that wall. Holding her breath, she pressed it. Nothing. Irked, Evelyn hammered her fist against it. “Stupid--”

Cha-Chunk

Something rattled in the wall. Evelyn stumbled back, bracing herself. No rolling boulders. That was a relief.

After a moment of stillness, Evelyn outstretched her skinny arm and pushed against the wall. The five-foot section of the wall opened, meeting resistance on the dirt floor. Evelyn pulled a candle off its stand and held it out like a torch. The amber glow lapped against the packed dirt and periodic vertical wooden posts holding up the damp, mine-like tunnel. A tear of hot wax slithered down Evelyn’s fingers as she stared into the abyss. Terrence joined her in her scouting.

“It was the first brick you pressed, wasn’t it?” Terrence asked.

With pursed lips, Evelyn nodded.

Deadpanned, Terrence replied, “Neat.”

Grabbing a candle of his own, Terrence walked with Evelyn through the corridor. The ground dipped and widened at random intervals, but the path stayed straight. Insects, worms, and other deep-earth creatures wiggled away from the candlelight. By the time Evelyn and Terrence reached the old wooden crop cart and sketchy ladder beyond it, their hands were stiff with hardened wax dripping stalactites from the bottom of their fists.

At the center of the decrepit crop cart was a faded maroon stain. Body cart. Evelyn wondered if the killer stripped the victims before or after trotting them down here. After all, there were only dry bones in the basement. No articles of clothing.

Seeing Terrence’s tension, Evelyn allowed him to climb the ladder first. The aged rungs groaned under his weight. He pushed hard against the trapdoor. It didn’t budge. Locked from the other side. Terrence got off the twelve-rung ladder.

He planted his dirty bare foot on one of the long cart’s handle and pulled the wooden pole to him. Forehead vein bulging, he yanked back as hard as he could. There was a snapping noise underfoot and then the handle broke away. Terrence sucked air, handed the broken handle to Evelyn, and lifted his foot. Grimacing, he extracted a long splinter burrowing into the front layers of his sole. Hopping on one foot, he returned to the ladder and used the rounded tip of the broken handle to ram against the wooden slats of the trapdoor. Setting her dwindled candle aside, Evelyn grabbed ahold of the bottom end handle and helped punch the trapdoor. The rusted hinges loosed. Evelyn and Terrence proceeded to hit it a few more times until the rusty hinges gave way and the trapdoor fell towards them. Evelyn and Terrence ducked out of the way, avoiding an unnecessary headache.

Taking a breath, Terrence climbed up. After a moment, he gestured for Evelyn to follow. As she climbed, cool wind chilled her skin. She glanced about the shed before fully exiting the portal. Old gardening equipment and rusty tools were scattered about. A scrunched-up rug had been used to cover the trapdoor. Though windows were covered with old towels, small slivers of light escaped through moth holes. Terrence opened the shed door, allowing both of them into the back yard.

A flock of birds scattered across the dark indigo sky. The sun peeked up the long grassy field. Hay bales spotted acres of field. Cotton plants swayed not far from a cotton gin and six servant cabins. Down a dirt road, the back of the Quenby House faced Evelyn. Unlike the mansion’s front, there were no colonnades, but the upstairs porch was more accessible. There was a number of raised flower gardens and chipped Roman-esque statues in the back lawn.

Arms around one another’s shoulder, Evelyn and Terrence dragged their bare feet across dewy grass and toward the mansion. Their only key was inside. Evelyn walked around front. No vehicles. Terrence didn’t say anything, but Evelyn knew they had the same question. Are the killers gone? They peered into the shattered front window. A portion of the red carpet floor was soaked with rain water. The masked killer’s partner that Terrence had beat with a bat no longer rested at the foot of the foyer stairs. Alive or dragged away? Evelyn didn’t like either option. A corpse would’ve been concrete evidence that they defended themselves.

The front door was slightly ajar. Evelyn grabbed the fist-sized metal knob. Before she could twist it, Terrence put his large, calloused hand on her shoulder. He shook his head. Evelyn took a step back as Terrence pull out his cell phone. There was a large black smudge on the back where the circuitry had spontaneously fried last night.

Evelyn withdrew her own cell phone from the small pockets on her cyan boy shorts. After seeing the results of Terrence’s cell phone use and not having service underground, Evelyn hadn’t tried hers. Arm outstretched and body spinning, a little bar appeared on Evelyn’s screen. Good enough for 911. She dialed, half expecting the mobile device to explode. Maybe the night was finally over. Maybe it was all a bad dream. She peered through the shattered window and at the video camera on the floor. Terrence bought it after they had started sleep-walking. Last night, it was used to see the first guest, the woman in the jade green dress. That would be their proof that they were not crazy.

Squad cars and an ambulance rumbled down the red brick road. Their flashing lights illuminated the moss-covered oaks and then the vine-covered house. A duo of officers--Davis, 30s, a short and stout man with an angry mug, and Bailey, a granite-faced woman with fiery red hair and Georgia twang--pressed through the front door, hands on their holstered pistols. Through the open front door, Evelyn watched the officers sweep through the vast foyer. Davis and Bailey stopped at the bloodstain at the base of the curving stairs. They drew their handguns and vanished into the hall of portraits.

It seemed like forever before the duo returned. Evelyn attempted to read their expressions, but like Evelyn, they did well at hiding their demeanor. Truly, the only person Evelyn was transparent with was Terrence.

“It’s secure,” Officer Davis replied. “You said something about bones?”

Evelyn walked them to the shed, recounting the home invasion. She kept the story simple: invaders broke in at 3 a.m., Evelyn and Terrence knocked one out and ran to the private study. That’s where they found the trapdoor and landed in the bone pit. That was the gist of what happened, anyway. The reality was much more complicated.

Davis and Bailey traded looks. Terrence gave Evelyn a worried look of his own.

Evelyn pushed open the shed door. “We’ve only been in town for a few weeks. I inherited this house from my deceased father.”

They descended down the ladder and into the dirt corridor. The officers moved with caution and kept a close eye on Evelyn. She didn’t blame them. This could almost be construed as a trap. They entered the bone room. The candles had died down, so Officer Davis held his huge flashlight. He illuminated the multiple piles of bones organized into different categories next to the dip in the floor. Evelyn felt her heart spike. She forgot to put them back in the pit after looking for a key.

“Did you do that?” Davis inquired about the organized bones.

“Yes,” Evelyn painstakingly admitted. “I was looking for a way out.”

The officers glanced at one another.

This is bad.

“We’ll get Forensics down here,” Davis said. “Y’all wait up top.”

Officer Davis led them back to the front of the house. He didn’t ask any questions and didn’t take his eyes off Evelyn. In her boy shorts and low-cut t-shirt, the officer was getting an eyeful, but something about his gaze hinted that he was looking for a deeper truth. Evelyn felt the hairs on her neck stand. He doesn’t trust us.

Terrence leaned in to ask Evelyn a question. She shook her head. “It can wait.” The reply was curt, but the last thing she wanted was to have their words twisted against them.

Davis’s radio buzzed. He answered.

“Stephen and Catherine Doyle are not at their home,” said the officer on the other end. “We’re putting out an APB.”

Over the next two hours, the forensic photographers, analysts, and more people from the state arrived. Only having a population of twenty thousand, Evelyn assumed Adders didn’t have its own forensics unit. Soon, bones were being carried out in bags and tarps. The officers bombarded Evelyn with questions about her father and the house. She had little information to give.

By the time it was dealt with, it was almost dark. The specialists gave Terrence and Evelyn odd looks. A few chatted quietly about the freshly painted mural across one of the downstairs halls. Days ago, Evelyn had blacked out and painted seven-year-old blonde and freckled Mary Sullivan being stalked by three white masked figures and then being burned alive behind Quenby House. Before the blackouts, she couldn’t draw a stick figure to save her life. The work inside was a disturbing masterpiece. Evelyn found plane tickets that proved her father, Maxwell Quenby, was out of town during the days Mary went missing/was murdered. Nonetheless, she did not know Stephen, Catherine, and Andrew Doyles’ motivation behind the killing or why they chose Maxwell’s property to do it.

Finding missing people, Evelyn could do. Solving murders was a different ball game.

“We advise you to stay in a hotel for the coming days,” Officer Bailey said. “We’ll reach out if there’s any developments.”

“Thank you,” Terrence said with relief.

“Uh huh,” Bailey replied. “Y’all be safe now.”

Evelyn and Terrence hunkered down in a cheap hotel for a few days. They religiously watched the news for Stephen and Catherine Doyle. Both had vanished without a trace. The news only reported the discovery of the bone pit. There were five complete skeletons. Mary Sullivan and the decade-dead phantom in the cotton mask--Andrew Doyle--were not among those, but Evelyn knew they both died on the property, and that was enough to lock them in the house for eternity. As for the twins Stephen and Catherine Doyle, they were gone.

“Do you think they got them?” Terrence sat on the edge of the bed and watched the TV, his shoulders slouched.

Evelyn stared at the screen intently. They hadn’t talked about the encounter in the pit since they got out. “I don’t know, but we need to go back.”

“What?” Terrence protested. “I don’t know if I can stomach that, Evelyn. We don’t know if they're a threat, and even if they aren't, I see no reason to go back.”

“They need our help,” Evelyn said.

“But... they’re dead.”

“They may know about my father.”

“The truth will come out.”

Evelyn glared at him. “We came down here to sell the mansion, but now it’s so much bigger than that. This is my family home. It’s my responsibility.”

Terrence looked in shock. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“I didn’t,” Evelyn admitted. “But seeing them… I don’t know, Terrence. I can’t shake the feeling that I have to do something.”

Terrence took a breath and turned off the TV. He smiled softly at Evelyn. “Whatever you want to do, I’m with you.”

After picking up their minivan from the mechanic and burning through a layer of their dwindling cash bundle, they parked in front of Quenby House. Its shadow grew like the angel of death. Evelyn and Terrence slammed their doors in unison and hiked toward the front door. The excitement and awe Evelyn had felt when she first found out this property was her inheritance twisted into uncertainty and fear that crawled beneath her skin.

Terrence and Evelyn took a breath and pushed against the front door covered with zigzagging caution tape. Creaking like a death rattle, the entrance opened into the foyer. Gusts of wind bombarded the plastic sheeting on the nearest window. They stopped at the center of the room. On the painted domed ceiling, trumpeting angels with cracked faces watched Evelyn with lifeless eyes and innocent smiles. For a moment, it almost seemed like they were swirling across with artificial clouds.

“Mary?” Evelyn called out. Her voice bounced off the hall walls.

Outside, wind whistled and Evelyn swore she heard whispering.

“Evelyn,” Terrence said in a shaky voice. His eyes locked onto the interior balcony.

In a yellow dress with a belt, the little girl sat cross-legged behind the wooden bars, staring at Evelyn with dry, unblinking blue eyes. She murmured an indistinguishable chant.

Words lodged in Evelyn’s throat. She took a step forward. The massive crystalline multi-tier chandelier flicked briefly as the little girl cocked her head. At the motion, thin blonde hair flooded down the girl’s freckled cheek.

“What do you want from us?” Evelyn asked, mindful of the chandelier dangling from rust-spotted copper chains above her head.

Mary stood and slowly walked down the curved steps. Her little hand glided down the smooth railing. Terrence went tense. Evelyn fought to keep her composure. The little girl approached, eyes unblinking, and turned into the hall.

Seriously questioning their life choices, Evelyn and Terrence followed the ghostly girl. Every ceiling light Mary passed under flickered, casting a glow across the massive mural Evelyn painted from one side of the hall to the other. The paint failed to dry properly. Inky droplets melted away the featureless white masked strangers. There were three in all. Two male and one female, the Doyle family. From their blotchy eye holes, black tears hardened. Terrence shuddered when he looked at the artwork. Evelyn walked closer to him. Their shoulders scraped. They traded glances and looked back at the little girl a few feet ahead.

As a private investigator, Evelyn could travel to the seediest locations with only her wit and extendable baton to keep her safe. From swapping orphanages for her first eighteen years to couch surfing and hitchhiking across the country, Evelyn had learned to survive. There was no other choice. All that said, it got her nowhere when she got into her car “accident” that etched her body with deep scars. The grooves across her back were reminders of her old life. One of substance abuse, deceit, and more meaningless vices. But the moment Terrence pulled her from the wreckage of her car, everything changed.

Tall, handsome, an all-around blues lover, Terrence came from a line of lower-class musicians and union workers and took up the luthier trade--someone who makes string instruments. Unlike Evelyn, he was always good for a laugh, drank his glass half full, and liked playing the peacemaker even if it compromised his agendas. Also, his parents were the sweetest couple you’d ever meet. His father, a tall man with white curly hair, laugh lines, and a love of suspenders, was poor, but more generous than anyone Evelyn ever knew. His mother, a short plump woman with a welcoming smile, could cook like Betty Crocker and always knew the right thing to say. However, Terrence was not without faults. It wasn’t until after their wedding that he admitted to having an eleven-year-old daughter somewhere in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Nonetheless, she couldn’t imagine spending her life with anyone else.

Keeping her eyes ahead, Evelyn interlocked her fingers with Terrence, her last and only anchor in this crazy world.

Getting progressively colder with every step, they tailed Mary into the lounge. The room was devoid of light and consisted of bookshelves packed with dusty books, an unlit fireplace, and an assortment of lounge furniture. Evelyn passed through the threshold.

Suddenly, the fireplace burst to life. Its warm glow lapped against the wall. Lamps flickered on. A wisp of smoke climbed from the Sherlock pipe held in the old man’s chapped lips. He wore a neutral-colored sweater vest and intense gaze. His white hair was trimmed and combed to the side. When he pulled the pipe from his mouth, blood leaked from his lower lip like sap from a tree.

The sexy woman in the glossy jade dress slouched in the loveseat, free of all the cares in the world. Her plump lips curled into a smile on her perfect heart-shaped face. Her lipstick was as red as the blood pumping from her slashed throat.

Sitting cross-legged on a nearby recliner, the goth girl read an old book with stained yellow pages. She wore black jeans with torn-out knees and a zipped-up hoodie decorated with pins that read “Save the Earth” and “Go Green, Idiot!” She glanced up at Evelyn and Terrence with an apathetic expression. Though Evelyn couldn’t see it at the moment, she knew there was a bloody gash on the back of the girl’s head.

In the corner, the naked fat man with an oblong head “watered” withered flowers with an empty watering can. Humming to himself, he paid Evelyn and Terrence no mind.

Lastly, the one-handed jock stood at the center of the room. He wore a varsity jacket with the number thirteen sewn on it. He rubbed his right wrist just below the place where someone cut off his hand. Seeing him, Mary smiled and took off into a sprint. With a dimpled grin, the jock lowered to a knee and allowed the little girl to jump into his arms.

The goth let her gaze linger on the handsome football player before quickly returning to her book. The jock hoisted Mary up with his good hand and faced Evelyn. The whole cast of bloodied strangers turned to Evelyn and Terrence with expectant looks.

Terrence mumbled something.

Trembling, Evelyn bounced her wide eyes between them. With the crackling of fire and wisp of smoke, the room seemed like something out of a lucid dream. How did her life come to this? She traced back the confusion to the moment she had inherited this house.

Silence filled the lounge.

The old man cleared his throat.

Evelyn and Terrence give him their attention.

“I’m Barker.” the old man declared, using the top of his hand to wipe the blood from his lower lip. He gestured to the naked fat man with an oblong head and who was probably in his early forties but looked much younger. “That’s Winslow. He’s a few cards short of a full deck.”

Winslow bared his teeth in what could be interpreted as a smile. His underbite was horrendous.

“That fox is Alannah,” the old man continued.

“A pleasure,” the woman in glossy green said, her voice silky and smooth. The slash in her neck moved as she spoke. Wearing a devious smile, Alannah studied Terrence. Eyes wide, Terrence slowly turned to Evelyn with a look of pure horror.

Barker gestured to the goth girl. “And there’s--”

“I can speak for myself,” the goth replied and, with dismal enthusiasm, said, “My name is Zoey.”

Barker smiled widely at the comment he was about to make. “All you need to know is that she’s angsty, and she has her eyes on Pe--”

“Shut it!” Zoey threw her book at him. Barker sidestepped out of the way, careful to keep his pipe from harm.

“I’m Peter,” the jock introduced himself with a million-dollar grin. “This is Mary, the mastermind of this whole operation.”

The little girl kept a neutral face when looking at Evelyn. Evelyn wondered why she wasn’t gory like the rest of the specters. She had been burned in the cotton fields behind the house. Surely there must be some residual effect. The answer hit Evelyn as she looked at the pattern. Her heart must’ve given out before the fire got her. Perhaps there were rules to the ghostly dimension: the killed kept the wounds that ended them.

Standing in the shadow of the farthest corner, the man in the white cotton mask stepped forward. The black eye holes were the size of buttons. The ear holes were the size of peas.

Terrence cursed and took a step back. Evelyn familiarized herself with the nearby table lamp.

“That’s Andrew,” Barker declared with disgust. “He keeps to himself.”

Andrew Doyle, Evelyn knew. His body was discovered the day after Mary vanished. Stephen, Catherine, and Andrew must’ve killed Mary, but did they murder the rest?

The masked specter stood firm and followed Evelyn’s movements with his head.

Evelyn struggled with the words. She closed her eyes, trying to think of them as normal people. It didn’t help. “I’m Evelyn,” she finally said. “This is my husband, Terrence.”

“Hi, Terrence,” Alannah said with seduction in her voice.

“Uh… hey.”

Mustering a little courage, Evelyn addressed the room. “You want our help. Tell us what we need to do.”

14

Romance

Mary’s eyes were dry, uncanny and deep blue. In her sweet and tiny voice, she said. “You need to stop the boogieman.”

Evelyn’s spine tingled at the words. Her vision bounced between the massacred victims and their brutal wounds. Bile crawl up the nethers of her throat. She fought it down.

“We’ve been trapped here for so long,” Mary continued.

“So, you possess us?” Evelyn retorted. “Make us sleepwalk? Make us claw on the brick walls or wake up in a cow field?”

“Don’t yell at her,” Barker said. “She’s only a little girl, and she’s much stronger than you think.”

“I needed to talk to you,” Mary said. “I needed to make you understand.”

“Understand what?” Terrence asked feebly, finally finding his voice.

“That we can’t free ourselves,” Mary said seriously. “Only you can. You must stop the boogieman.”

Zoey combed her black hair with long black fingernails. “And then we can leave this crappy world.”

Evelyn tried her best to process it all. “How do you know that will work?” she asked daringly.

Alannah sat up. “Because we feel it, darling.” She got off the loveseat and, hips swaying, walked up to Terrence. He took a step back as she grabbed his hand and put on her bloody chest. “We feel it right here. Don’t you?”

Completely in shock, Terrence watched blood pool around his fingers. “You’re so warm.”

Boiling, Evelyn grabbed at Alannah’s wrist, but her hand swiped through the woman’s arm.

“My apologies,” Alannah said to Evelyn. “Married men are my weakness.”

She released Terrence, and locking her sultry eyes on him, backed to a comfortable distance. That is, if there ever was a comfortable distance for a woman like that.

“Keep away from my husband,” Evelyn told her and then glared at Terrence.

“... Yeah, stay back,” he replied, not as firmly as Evelyn would’ve liked.

“Who is the boogieman?” Evelyn asked Mary.

The little girl shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

Evelyn turned to the crowd. “Do any of you remember?”

They were silent.

Barker spoke up. “It’s not easy, you know, recalling one’s death. There are some things better left forgotten.”

“Yeah, except that doesn’t help us or you,” Evelyn replied. “Did Stephen Doyle do this?”

“Maybe,” Mary said softly. “I think so.”

The man in the white mask said nothing.

“Did Stephen, you know, to all of you?” Evelyn asked.

Peter shrugged. “We don’t know. That’s why we need your help. The moment you find the killer, we’re out of here. Otherwise, we’re benched in this house.”

Breathing loudly, Winslow nodded many times in agreement.

The jock continued. “If we had a better play, we’d tell you. So far Mary’s been the only one able to reach out through Terrence and you.”

“Did you deal with the gunman from the night of the attack?” Evelyn asked.

The ghosts traded looks and shook their heads. “We scared him away.”

“Well then, Stephen is our best bet at a lead,” Evelyn said. And our only lead.

“So you’ll help us?” Mary asked.

The ghosts looked at Evelyn, awaiting a response. Evelyn looked to her husband, who looked at his hand that was completely clean of blood. “Your call,” he said quietly.

Thinking back to why she became a private investigator, to help the downtrodden and neglected, Evelyn replied. “Yeah. We’ll help, but no more blackouts.”

Mary smiled. “Deal.”

Barker chuckled to himself and put his pipe back in his mouth. “Boy, am I glad to hear that.”

Within a blink, the room fireplace snuffed out, the dust on the furniture and books returned, and the specters were gone. Evelyn and Terrence stood in the musty room.

“Did that just happen?” Terrence said, rubbing the hand that touched Alannah.

Evelyn studied her quiet surroundings and empty chairs. It felt like the longest dream. When she awoke, she would be back in Detroit, in the small apartment that smelled like wood finish. However, a deeper truth screamed inside. One that said it was all real. “We need to find Stephen Doyle.”

“He tried to kills us,” Terrence argued. “He killed them.”

“Terrence, this is probably the most significant moment in our lives.” Evelyn did not want to sound dramatic, but it was true. “And the only thing that makes sense is that those people need rest.”

“What if they’re wrong and we’re hunting a serial killer for no reason?” Terrence replied.

Evelyn grabbed his hand, the one that touched the woman, and took it in both of her palms. “If it were me, wouldn’t you do the same?”

“I’d go to hell and back,” Terrence said with the passion that made Evelyn’s heart skip beats.

“They’re no different,” Evelyn replied. “We’re all human. We all deserve a chance.”

Terrence inhaled deeply and then cracked a smile. “I knew there was a reason why I married you.”

“That’s not the best thing to say after groping another woman,” Evelyn replied with a deadpan expression.

Terrence fidgeted. “You can’t blame me for that. The woman had me spellbound.”

“You’re really not making a good case for yourself,” Evelyn said and headed for the door.

“Babe. Come on,” Terrence pleaded in the way men do.

“I’m going to the Doyle house,” Evelyn said as she left the room. “You coming with?”

Terrence looked back to the place where the sexy woman once stood and then followed after his wife.

They climbed into their minivan. It was a sad vehicle with a chipped hood spotted with brown and burgundy rust. Evelyn tossed Terrence the keys and let him drive. Down Quenby Avenue were pastures of short green grass with clusters of tall trees every now and again. The sun was high and the sky blue. With the windows down, Evelyn let the country breeze soothe her soft skin. Her blonde hair danced in the wind and blew against her cheek. Cows and tractors blurred by. She thought that calling the police would be the best way to find the killer, but Mary’s plea was more personal. “You need to help us.” The words replayed in her mind, getting progressively more direct and personal each time. If she could get the police to help, then great. If not, Evelyn braced herself for the days to come. She was under no illusion that this would not get messy. By the bullet holes in her house and the bones in the basement, it had already gotten messy.

The old two-story farmhouse came into view beside two cattle pastures picketed with wooden posts and wide metal mesh. The house had a symmetrical design with wooden shutters like washboards and a covered porch that had three stairs leading into the jaws of the house. Evelyn and Terrence checked for cop cars. None. Since days had passed since the Doyles had vanished, the sheriff possibly assumed that they had skipped town. They may have gotten a warrant to search the premises. Evelyn didn’t know. The only thing she was sure of was that answers awaited her inside.

She stepped out of the minivan. Gravel crunched beneath her heel-less black boots. She wore a long-sleeved violet shirt and form-fitting jeans. Terrence was dressed in a short-sleeved collared button up with a violin patch above the right pec. At Evelyn’s command, they both wore plastic gloves.

A shed stood beside the house. That was where Evelyn saw Doyle’s white cotton mask. She would’ve taken a picture of it to send the police, but Stephen returned a moment later. Keeping her extendable baton attached to her waist, Evelyn peered into the windows. Curtains kept her from seeing what lay within.

“What should we be looking for?” Terrence asked while Evelyn lifted the welcoming mat, revealing disturbed pincer bugs and dirt.

“First the key.” Evelyn stood on her toes and ran her fingers across the top of the door frame. “Then anything that might tie Stephen or his twin sister Catherine to any of the victims.”

Terrence checked inside a nearby flower pot. No luck.

“Screw it,” Evelyn said and pulled out her lock-picking tools. It would leave scratches on the lock, and if the police came back to the premises, they’d know someone broke in. But Evelyn was not one to waste time.

“Aha,” Terrence said, removing the key from under a rock. He hiked up the stairs and twisted the key while Evelyn put her lock-picking tools away. The door opened smoothly into the welcoming residence. Pictures of Stephen and Catherine, both in their 40s with hooked noses and slender frames. Their eyes were buggy. Catherine had a lazy one. More family photos spotted the various stands. A few even showed Andrew Doyle, the other brother who was a few years away from his siblings, who had a similar nose and intense eyes.

Closing the door behind them, Evelyn and Terrence scouted the house. When they knew they were alone, they started their investigation. There were dishes on both sides of the sink and leftovers in the refrigerator. All the cupboards were closed and there was a rag on the stove.

“I don’t think they ever came back here,” Terrence said.

“Or they did, but only grabbed the things they needed.”

The living room had an outdated box TV and blue sofa. There was a DVD player and a tall stack of country rock CDs. Upstairs, both of the twins’ bedrooms were roughly the same size. They had a bed, dresser, and other furnishings common in most houses. Terrence tried one room and Evelyn tried the other. When they were both done looking, they would trade to make sure neither of them missed anything. Evelyn pulled open the bedside drawer, finding sleeping medication, a box of pistol ammo, and a Cosmopolitan magazine. She didn’t know what to think about that.

Under the bed were a number of plastic containers filled to the brim with old clothes fit for a Goodwill drop-off. She put them back, finding more women’s fashion magazines. She thought she was in Catherine's room for a moment until she saw the big wooden letters above the inner door that said Stephen. She returned the items and tried the closet. As she walked to it, she heard Terrence rummaging in the other bedroom.

“Anything?” Evelyn asked.

“Um, I don’t really know… what we’re looking for,” Terrence replied honestly from the other room.

Evelyn curbed her frustration, remembering that he’d never done any investigative work. “Journals, photographs, mementos from the victims. Think Barker’s pipe for example. Or Alannah’s brassiere.”

“It was an accident!” Terrence shouted back.

Evelyn smiled to herself.

She opened the closet doors and sifted through a number of all-season jackets and hunter garb within. On top of the horizontal coat rack were a series of shoeboxes. Evelyn took them down, one by one, examined the contents, and put them back where she found them. In the second to last box, Evelyn found a number of keepsake items. Most of them were souvenirs from various national parks along with accompanying brochures. Evelyn sorted through them, taking a trip down Stephen’s memory. He had quite the road trip from Georgia to Yellowstone. Oddly, he was alone for most of it. Before Evelyn put back the box, she noticed a cardboard flap cut to the size of the box and intent on hiding an item below. Evelyn had seen plenty of these in her P.I. work. Most people used them to hide ecstasy tablets or naughty pictures. Things that helped launch Evelyn’s investigation. Sticking her finger in the circular hole of the cardboard, she removed it from the shoebox.

Her eyes went wide as she looked at the picture of a younger Stephen and Alannah sharing a smoothie with two straws. It was dated 1998.

“Terrence,” Evelyn called out. “I think I got something.”

15

Breath

There was no doubt about it. Stephen Doyle had a connection with Alannah. But, why didn’t the ghost reveal this information, and how did her body end up in the bone pit? Evelyn recalled her first encounter with Stephen. He and his sister showed up at her front door, invited themselves inside, and started taking pictures of the foyer. “It’s not your house,” Stephen replied when Evelyn demanded that he leave. Evelyn hadn’t thought much of the statement, but it seemed to carry weight now. Was it because of the bones that he said such a thing, or was there any other reason Evelyn hadn’t accounted for? Perhaps it was just empty words from a homicidal maniac.

Evelyn racked her brain, trying to link the investigation back to her estranged father. She had two connections that drew Maxwell Quenby in these murders. Number one and a huge red flag, the bones were hidden in his family estate. Number two: Maxwell’s connection to Mary. By the hair ribbon found in his secret study and the number of Mary’s drawings that showed them together, the two of them shared a bond. Evelyn hoped it was innocent, but her pessimism seemed to get the better of her.

The rest of the time spent searching the Doyle house turned up fruitless. If anything, Evelyn garnered a new outlook on her sadistic neighbors. Stephen owned a lot of polos, shorts, and slip-on shoes. He ate a lot, a whole lot, of chicken broth, and the most expensive thing in his house was a new washer and dryer. The Doyles lived simple lives: hand-washing dishes, folding clothes, watching old reruns of I Love Lucy on the tube. They had a few stuffed game trophies mounted on the walls, a leaning stack of board games inside the storage closet, and an uncompleted game of Scrabble on the kitchen table. Judging by old pictures of the house and their droopy-faced grandparents, the Doyles were long-time Adders locals. Evelyn made note of that. She needed to suspect that Stephen and Catherine knew the town and its secrets.

Evelyn and Terrence double-checked the rooms to make sure everything was put back in its proper place and then reconvened in the minivan.

“Back to the mansion?” Terrence asked.

Evelyn nodded. Soft blues filled their silence.

They bumped down the red brick road, passing under the sprawling branches that dripped clumps of moss. They hopped out of the car and cautiously returned to the lounge. The room was dark and dusty, just how they left it.

“Alannah? Mary?” Evelyn called out into the empty room. She felt completely stupid as she waited for a reply.

“Hello?” Terrence asked the lounge. “We have some questions about your relationship with Stephen.”

A few moments passed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Evelyn said.

“Maybe they didn’t hear us,” Terrence said, trying to cheer her up.

Evelyn sucked up her pride and asked again to speak with the dead. No reply.

“If you want our help, show yourselves,” Evelyn demanded.

As seconds ticked by on the wall clock, seeds of doubt grew in Evelyn’s mind. Was the first encounter a vision? The sights, the smells, and everything else felt so real. By Terrence’s perplexed face, he had similar doubts. That was a good thing. It meant that he definitely saw it, too. Nonetheless, after having blackouts and a number of uncanny visions, reality blurred and Evelyn didn’t trust her mind. Unfortunately for her, the mind was her most reliable tool.

Tick-tock, the clock kept on. Waiting around wasn’t getting them anywhere. Evelyn felt a crushing weight to solve this mystery and return to her life with some semblance of normalcy. Good luck, a little condescending voice told her.

“What’s the play?” Terrence asked.

Evelyn glanced about the room. “We proceed without them.”

Part of her longed to learn more about the other victims, but she needed to prioritize. If she couldn’t find Alannah, she would need to find someone else. Leaving the lounge behind, Evelyn booted up her computer in the upstairs study because the secret study in the downstairs hall of portraits was in need of serious repair. The cotton-masked person, Stephen or his sister, took an axe to the thin wall and inner door. It wouldn’t help the resale value, nor would the discovery of human remains beneath it. Some people were superstitious. They might think the place was haunted.

Terrence had the video camera set out on the desk. Its tumble down the foyer stairs cracked the lens and distorted the footage. He attempted to replay the footage from the night of the invasion, catching glimpses of Alannah in her jade green dress and naked Winslow. Terrence shuddered. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

“We might not be supposed to,” Evelyn replied, getting quick flashes of leaking wounds in her mind. Her pity for the victim was the only thing keeping her from vomiting.

Sitting upright in the leather rolling chair, Evelyn researched local missing persons on her laptop. It wasn’t hard to find the news column in such a small town press. The first picture showed Alannah’s perfect face and alluring smile. The second image showed police officers surrounding a red convertible parked off the road.

“Missing: Alannah Gimmerson, age 38,” Terrence read. “Authorities discovered the local performer/songwriter’s vehicle parked on the side of Meadows Road. The front tire was flat, undamaged but lacking air, and bags of groceries spoiled in the trunk. Authorities are seeking any information regarding Alannah’s whereabouts.”

Evelyn tapped the screen. “March of 2001. Mary Sullivan vanished in 2003.”

“And Mary was the last victim, right?” Terrence asked.

“To our knowledge, yes,” Evelyn replied. “Alannah could’ve been the pre-ultimate one.”

Terrence pulled at his little chin beard. “Hmm. What if… never mind.”

“What?” Evelyn asked.

Terrence continued. “What if the flat tire wasn’t random? If the killer let the air out, knowing that Alannah would pull over. The car looks clean to me and the doors are closed. It doesn’t look like Alannah resisted her attacker.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Evelyn replied. She looked up at Terrence and smiled. “You’re not bad at this.”

“Maybe I can be the big-time investigator and you can be the humble guitar guy,” Terrence joked.

“I’d rather not.”

“You can wear my cowboy hat,” Terrence bargained.

“Tempting,” Evelyn replied dryly.

She swiveled back to the laptop. The screen’s glow reflected in her bloodshot blue eyes. She researched further, finding archived newspaper slides. There was a small section from a paper a few years back, inviting anyone to Alannah’s funeral where they buried an empty casket. Alannah’s mother, Ida, organized it. Doing the math, Evelyn figured that Ida was retirement age and sought out retirement homes and local assisted living facilities. She got a bite for an ALF facility a town over and headed that way. Terrence joined her.

The building was single story, with diamond-shaped tiles across the floor. Brochures seemed to be set out on every surface of the entrance area. The receptionist, a short and kind woman, asked, “What is the nature of your visit?”

Evelyn flashed her P.I. license. The receptionist used the intercom to contact Ida and then led Evelyn and Terrence to the dining area. The room was largely barren this time of day apart from several round tables in the back where residents mingled. An elderly couple nodded at Evelyn and Terrence as they walked into the social area. The receptionists pointed at an elderly woman dressed lavishly with a fashionable cloth scarf around her neck. Drinking hot tea, she worked on a puzzle that displayed an 18th century ballroom. Pieces were missing from the picture, but Ida was moving along nicely.

“You have visitors, Mrs. Gimmerson,” the receptionist said before she headed back to her desk.

Terrence and Evelyn sat down opposite of Ida. Like Alannah, the woman had dazzling blue eyes that seemed untouched by the age of the rest of her body. Her gray hair was cut into an expensive bob. Gemstone rings decorated her fingers and a silver necklace sparkled under the ceiling light. Evelyn introduced herself and Terrence.

“I don’t get many visitors,” Ida said. “Especially ones as handsome as you.” She winked at Terrence.

“You’re very polite, ma’am,” Terrence replied.

“Oh, and you’re a gentleman,” Ida said with a small smile curling up her seventy-seven-year-old but still pretty face. “And please don’t call me ma’am, it makes me feel dreadfully old.”

“I’m under the impression that women age like fine wine,” Terrence replied.

Oh, brother.

“You’re a beautiful liar,” Ida said, chuckling. “I know you didn’t come all this way to woo an old woman.”

“I’ve taken an interest in your daughter Alannah’s case, Mrs. Gimmerson,” Evelyn stated.

Ida’s eyes glossed over. She blinked a few times and her normal demeanor returned. “My, it’s been a long time since I heard that name.”

“I want to bring closure for your daughter and you,” Evelyn said.

“Dear, I found closure when I put that empty casket in the ground,” Ida replied. “What you bring is a scalpel to my stitches.”

Evelyn pursed her lips. Guilt plagued her heart. “That’s not my intention.”

“Intentions are funny things,” Ida said, looking into the mug of tea. “Roads paved on good ones lead to disastrous ends.”

“Evelyn is the most brilliant investigator you’ll ever meet,” Terrence reassured her. “If anyone can find out the truth about your daughter, it’s her.”

Evelyn held onto her husband’s compliment.

Ida sipped her tea, adding another lipstick stain to the mug’s rim. She bounced her piercing eyes between Evelyn and Terrence. “It beats looking at this puzzle for another hour. What do you wish to know?”

“Let’s start with her disappearance,” Evelyn said. “What do you recall about the days leading up to that?”

“Alannah took after me. A little too much,” Ida reminisced. “She preferred more challenging men, and that often got her in trouble. For years, she had been living on her own. Writing songs, singings at private galas across the nation, and enjoying the wealth her boyfriends showered her with. She lived like that until the end. I noticed no change in her mood.”

“Was she seeing anyone during that time?” Evelyn asked, taking out her notepad.

“Alannah always had a warm bed. Whether or not those were long-term arrangements, I cannot say. I don’t know any names. She abhorred kiss and tell.”

“Was there anyone that showed up at the funeral that you may have suspected?”

Ida sighed. “Despite her copious amount of lovers, Alannah’s burial was quite barren. Angry wives don’t allow their husbands to send off their mistresses. Surprising, I know. Still, for such a loving girl to leave this world alone, you would think she’d at least receive some flowers.”

Evelyn let the words sink in for a moment and then asked about Stephen Doyle.

Ida smiled to herself. “Oh, Stephen. Such a sweet boy.”

Evelyn and Terrence traded wide-eyed looks.

“Sure we’re talking about the same person?” Terrence asked.

“The twin,” Ida clarified. “He had a heart for Alannah since they were children.”

“Did they…” Evelyn let Ida fill in the blank.

“Oh heavens, no. My daughter had her eye on bigger fish, and poor Stephen was like a lost pup. In his schooling days, he’d bike all the way across town to see Alannah with hands full of wildflowers or cheap candy. He even bought the same tabloids as her so they would have something to talk about. As Alannah filled out, so to say, Stephen’s visits became more frequent, though I doubt he got far in his romantic endeavors.”

“Do you know the state of their relationship during the time of the disappearance?”

“Unchanged, but at a lesser degree. Alannah’s lovers didn’t like having him around. After my Alannah--” Ida choked on the words. “After it happened, Stephen would visit me daily.”

“To comfort you?” Evelyn asked.

Ida looked out the nearest window, blinking away the wetness in her eyes. Failing, she turned back to Evelyn. “That’s how it started, but then he changed.”

Evelyn lowered her pen, engrossed in the story. “How?”

“He turned bitter.” Ida’s words were loaded with venom. “He became obsessed with finding her and admitted to driving all hours of the night in search of some clue. Foolish boy, but I respected his efforts. The police had given up at this point. Stephen was all I had. A few months later, he burst through my front door, shouting something about a lead. I found Alannah’s killer. He said it with a crazed fire I’d never seen in anyone since.” Ida locked eyes with Evelyn. “Maxwell Quenby.”

Evelyn sucked air. She held it in her lungs as fears about her father became realities.

Ida continued. “He tried to explain how he came to that revelation. It had something to do with Maxwell being seen following my daughter, but he was speaking so fast I couldn’t make sense of it. The next time I saw him, he arrived with his twin sister and quiet brother. The brother, I didn’t mind so much. He was an odd duck but never a threatening person. The sister I knew, however. Back in her schooling days, she became notorious for killing and dissecting squirrels and other small critters. And when she got her camera as a teenager, Alannah told me rumors that Catherine took pictures of roadkill and other dead things. Catherine was the only one who came into this meeting with a smile, I remember, while Stephen was fuming and Andrew was trying terribly to hide his discomfort.”

Ida peered into the dark liquid in her mug. “He took away what I love. I’ll take away what he loves. Stephen vowed it. I didn’t see him until the funeral four years later, and he left before it was through.”

“Maxwell went missing during that time gap. Mary Sullivan too,” Evelyn thought aloud, forming the timeline in her mind.

“I can’t say if Stephen hurt anyone because of my daughter,” said Ida. “I’ve learned in my age that there are things I don’t wish to know about the world and its evils.”

“Is there anything else you can give me?”

“Yes. Don’t bother with Alannah,” Ida said and smiled sadly at Terrence. “Enjoy your time with the living.”

Under the table, Evelyn took Terrence’s hand.

“Now if you’ll excuse me. This puzzle requires my full attention,” Ida said.

Unable to get any more information, Evelyn said farewell to Ida Gimmerson. I have a puzzle of my own.

As they left the assisted living facility, Evelyn said to Terrence, “You were quiet in there.”

“I’m used to carving wood and tightening guitar strings. This is a different ball game. Don’t get me wrong, solving crimes and stopping bad guys was a childhood fantasy, but I didn’t expect the viscosity of it all. We’ve been seeing visions, learned about murders, broken into someone’s house. It’s an adrenaline rush, but I don’t know how you do this on a daily basis.”

“It takes some getting used to,” Evelyn admitted. “This case especially. There are reasons why I don’t like to talk about work. I understand if--”

“I never said I’m backing down,” Terrence interrupted. “I told you that I am with you, and I won’t make myself a liar.”

They arrived back at Quenby House at sunset. Scarlet rays blasted over the massive white and vine-covered plantation house. Thin clouds stretched across the sky like pulled cotton.

She yawned, thinking about the bedroom. Sleeping in their massive canopied bed would never be the same, but despite the long and grueling day, Evelyn knew there was still much more work to be done. She resolved to herself that she wouldn’t be getting rest anytime soon.

They stepped into the large foyer. Terrence shut and locked the door behind them. They hiked up one side of the curved stairway, and at the top of the inner balcony, Evelyn noticed splintered wood on the railing. She crouched down next to it.

A bullet. From the night of the house invasion, no doubt. “The police missed it,” Evelyn told Terrence.

He didn’t reply.

With a crinkled brow, Evelyn turned back to a figure in a featureless white cotton mask. Shoulders broad. Clothes black. Little button-sized eye holes stared into Evelyn’s soul. Speechless, Terrence backed a step away from the figure.

“Andrew?” Evelyn asked with doubt as she stood.

The man in the mask didn’t reply.

“Say something,” Evelyn demanded, able to keep a still face but not a steady heart.

If this was Stephen or Catherine, Evelyn had nothing to defend herself with. All it would take was one simple bullet or a shove over the balcony and it was lights out. No more P.I. work. No more planning a family with Terrence. Will I come back like one of them? She didn’t know if she wanted that. They were trapped here, forced to “live” with the blow that killed them. Perhaps it was better than the alternative... or miles worse.

The figure raised its hands and grabbed the sides of the mask. Carefully, it pulled it from his head, revealing a man with a hard mug, soft eyes, and silky hair. There was a hole in the back of his mouth that was a clear shot through the back of his head. It was Andrew Doyle.

Before Evelyn could speak, Andrew grabbed Evelyn’s shoulders and pushed her against the balcony railing. He locked his silvery blue eyes with her. Her body became like pudding. The walls and floor began to melt into blackness. She saw a glimpse of Terrence grabbing at Andrew, but he fell through the phantom.

Blackness swarmed in... but only for a moment.

In brief flashes, only a breath length long, she saw through the small eye hole of a cotton mask. The taste of booze lingered on her tongue. Sweat stuck the fabric to her face. Two more figures in masks dragged the screaming blonde girl into the clearing amidst the cotton field. So young. A thought raced through Evelyn’s mind. It was not her own.

The breath ended and another began. She was looking at a tower of fire rising up in front of her and into the blue Georgia sky. Her gloved fingers held an empty can of lighter fluid. The two other figures reveled at the flames. One took joy in the vengeance. The other, in sadism. Evelyn felt nothing but dread. You’re here for the family. Doyles stick together.

A breath.

One of the figures blasted the little charred bones with a fire extinguisher. The other watched apathetically. We all deserve to die. In her hand, Evelyn felt the cold weight of the pistol.

A breath.

Evelyn looked down the weapon’s iron sight. At the other end of the barrel, the masked figures stared at her in confusion. “Andy,” one said condescendingly.

A breath.

The mask was pulled up past Evelyn’s nose. She smelled the pillar of black smoke. She tasted the metal barrel in her mouth. The masked figures were moving in, arms out in a non-threatening manner. One said. “Andy, now you wait a--” She squeezed the trigger.

Suddenly, Evelyn was back at Quenby House and in her own skin. She looked into Andrew’s eyes, tasting gunpowder residue in the back of her throat.

“Let go of her!” Terrence shouted at the man holding Evelyn by the shoulders. Andrew listened and backed away. Terrence instantly jumped in front of Evelyn.

“Evelyn, babe, are you okay?”

“...yeah,” Evelyn replied whimsically.

Andrew slid on his mask and walked away, vanishing into the darkness of the upstairs hall.

Terrence twisted back to Evelyn. His eyes were intense and damp with terror. “What did he do?”

“He showed me how Mary died. How he died.” Evelyn said, still trying to make sense of it all.

“Okay. We’re leaving this place,” Terrence declared

“No,” Evelyn said defiantly. “We’re in this, Terrence, like or not.”

“But--”

“--If you saw what they did to Mary Sullivan--”

“--I saw her body,” Terrence cupped his hands on Evelyn’s cheeks and looked her in the eyes. “I feel the responsibility too, but they’re abusing us, Eve. As much as I pity them, they are stripping us of our will.”

“They’re communicating with us,” Evelyn counter-argued

Terrence stepped away and paced in frustration. “We know it’s Stephen Doyle. Police are already going after him. Case closed. What can we do?”

“Stephen and Catherine killed Mary,” Evelyn said. “But they didn’t kill Alannah or the rest. Ida’s testimony, Stephen’s motivation, it all proves that Stephen is not the serial killer.”

“Then who murdered the other five other people in our basement?” Terrence asked, meaning the question to be rhetorical. Evelyn didn’t take it that way.

“I intend to find out.”

16

Broken Lives

Though their eyes were closed, Evelyn and Terrence lay awake in the king-sized bed. An uncanny silence hung in Quenby House, as it did every night. In any other time or place, the quiet would’ve offered a certain comfort of being alone and private.

Not here.

The spirits of the dead could be watching Evelyn at this very moment, but there would be no tell of their presence. Evelyn bundled up under the thick covers and allowed the divine mattress to swallow her up. She listened to her husband’s soft breaths and remembered a time where the biggest stress was paying the bills and getting clientele. It wasn’t as easy then, and that conflict was only put on hiatus, but it seemed so trivial now. There was something about helping the dead that brought a fulfillment Evelyn hadn’t felt in a long time. She wondered if Terrence felt the same way.

Evelyn got up at the crack of dawn. She took a hot shower while standing in the bathtub and got dressed in her typical dark blue jeans and a white t-shirt. She kept her black, belted, double-breasted raincoat nearby. The forecast predicted another incoming storm. She sipped black coffee from her mug and stood at the threshold of the lounge. Her ringed eyes scanned the places where the victims had stood and sat. Are you watching me? Evelyn wondered.

Dust danced in the air. There was a slight depression in the loveseat’s second cushion. Evelyn couldn’t recall if it was always there. She took another sip from her mug and returned to the kitchen.

Terrence was up and about, making scrambled eggs on the kitchen stove. He wore a collared shirt, pants, and two mismatched socks with different sets of instruments on them. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Evelyn replied.

Terrence pulled out the block of cheese from the fridge and grabbed Maxwell’s grater from a drawer. “I counted our money.”

“That good, huh?” Evelyn replied and glanced about the room, wondering if anyone was eavesdropping.

“It might be a smart choice to start selling some stuff,” Terrence said, grating the cheese over the fluffy scrambled eggs.

“Will we make it till the end of the month?” Evelyn asked.

Terrence handed her a plate. With hesitation, he said, “I think so. If we’re not dealing with any more car issues, motel stays, and hospital visits.”

Evelyn took her plate and ate a bite, staring at nothing in particular.

“Maybe our roomies will lead us to a hidden stash of money,” Terrence said, trying to lighten the mood.

Taking her plate, Evelyn headed to the study. Terrence tagged along. They booted up the laptop and started their research. Alannah and Mary were the only two victims that Evelyn knew the last names of. She had a fair understanding of their disappearances and personalities, but the others were still strangers. She jotted down a list of the names. Barker, Winslow, Zoey, and Peter. Today, she’d focus on them and hopefully establish a strong profile for each one. A guarantee that Evelyn gave all her clients was her ability to work quickly.

Several locals vanished between the 1980s to the early 2000s, but Evelyn’s search in Quenby started in 1998 with Dr. James Barker. In the black and white photo online, he wore his signature sweater vest and slacks with an elegant tobacco pipe in his hand. He vanished at the age of 74. No trace of him was ever discovered.

In 1999, Winslow Darvey, age 42, vanished from the butchery where he worked. In his picture, his smile was crooked and ruined by his underbite. No trace of him was ever discovered.

2000, varsity player Peter Calhoon, 17, vanished without a trace. The local news described his loss in great detail and made mention that a recruiter from University of Georgia had visited on multiple occasions though he was only a junior in high school.

2001, Alannah Gimmerson, 38, vanished.

2002, Zoey Pinkerton, 15, never returned home. Her missing person picture was blurry and not chosen with much care.

2003, Mary Sullivan, 7, vanished, though Evelyn believed that her disappearance was connected to Stephen Doyle, not the killer of the other five individuals.

“There’s a pattern here,” Terrence stated the obvious.

“A victim a year for five years,” Evelyn said. She studied the missing persons reports, tracing the killer’s descent into evil. He/she started with an old man and ended with a girl. Younger and younger the victims became and then suddenly all the vanishing stopped. That meant one of three things: the killer was over a decade dead, the killer had run away, or the killer was lying dormant.

As much as Evelyn wanted to focus on the killer, there was not enough information to build a location profile. She needed to look at the victims, starting from the beginning: James Barker. After some digging, Evelyn discovered he worked as a professor in East Georgia State College, which was about a two-hour drive from Adders. He retired at the age of 65.

Evelyn would’ve liked to ask him where he lived but, alas, the phantom did not reveal himself. Are you testing me? Evelyn wondered. Or am I doing something wrong?

She contacted the number on the Missing Persons page. It was out of commission. She contacted the college.

“We cannot disclose any of his personal information,” one of Barker’s old colleagues said over the phone.

“I’m a P.I,” Evelyn explained in what she expected would be the first of many times today. The man gave her the runaround for a bit before Evelyn pressed him. “No one else is looking for your friend. At his age, they probably suspect he is dead. Give me a chance to find out the truth.”

The colleague grumbled on a bit about college policy, but at the end of it all, he revealed Barker’s retirement address, which was in Adders. Light rain pattered the windows of the mansion and turned the world steel and gray.

Evelyn pulled her black double-breasted coat on while Terrence grabbed the car keys. A sudden chill gripped them.

“What? You aren’t going to say goodbye?” A voice said behind them.

Barker stood at the railing of the inner balcony, looking down on them with a smoking pipe in his hand. He used the top of his other hand to wipe the blood leaking from his tight mouth.

Terrence and Evelyn exchanged glances and felt the tension in the room.

“The two of you need to relax,” Barker said with small smile. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Good one,” Terrence said, unsure how to react.

Evelyn couldn’t get used to this, no matter how many times she’d encountered the supernatural. Taking a step forward, she said, “We’re going to visit your home.”

“I think you’ll like the place. Sally’s a great interior decorator.” Realizing that Evelyn was unfamiliar with the person he mentioned, Barker clarified. “Sally. My wife. She’s the most beautiful, lively, and intelligent woman you’ll ever meet. A little snarky, I might add.”

“We could just ask you about your demise,” Evelyn said, crossing her arms.

“It’s a pathetic story. Old man goes on a walk as per the doctor’s request and then… the rest after that is blurry. Apart from the chlorine.” Barker’s face went bitter. “I can still taste that.”

He hit his pipe. Smoke and blood fell from his lips.

“He made you drink…” Terrence said, becoming wheezy.

“He, she, I don’t know.” Barker admitted, wiping his chin. “Scotch has always been more my poison.”

“Did you know my father?” Evelyn asked.

“I knew the name. I mostly called him the guy in the big house.”

“Do you think he did this to you?”

Barker looked around the vast foyer. “I’m in his house, aren’t I?”

Evelyn felt her stomach drop. She couldn’t draw a conclusion. Not yet. But the evidence was building. “Is there anything you want to say to Sally?”

Barker seemed stunned by the question. He recomposed himself. “Tell her… tell her that she made life a joy and to keep on living until I come home.”

“We’ll tell her,” Terrence promised.

Barker stared through them, seemingly unable to hear Terrence’s words. Blood seeped from his lips. This time, he didn’t wipe it away.

Evelyn knocked on the front door of the ranch home. Weak rain pelted its cobblestone exterior while wind swayed the small and pointy evergreen trees sprouted across the house’s face. Terrence held the black umbrella over Evelyn’s head while a little rain pattered the back of his charcoal gray fleece that Evelyn bought him one Christmas. With Evelyn wearing black, too, they must’ve looked like they were returning from a wake.

A Hispanic woman in blue scrubs answered the door. “Yes?” she asked suspiciously.

“Does Sally Barker live here?” Evelyn asked.

The Hispanic woman nodded slowly. “She won’t be taking any visitors.”

“What happened?” Terrence asked with concern.

“I’m afraid her health is failing.”

“We’d like to talk to her about her husband. Could you tell her that?” Evelyn asked.

The woman eyed her. “Wait here.” She vanished inside without another word. She returned a moment later. “You may enter, but her nap time is nearing, so be quick.”

Terrence frowned at the woman’s rudeness, but Evelyn kept her expression flat. This was nothing new to her. There were very few lights on in the house, and the walls were shades of blues and grays. Pictures of James and Sally in their 50s and 60s backed by the Louvre, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the unique colorful buildings of Amsterdam, and more breathtaking European travel destinations. Terrence cracked a smile. He nudged Evelyn. She didn’t share the same enthusiasm. Not because she didn’t long to see the world, but because she knew she’d never have time.

They entered the bedroom. Whatever bed had been there before was replaced with an adjustable one from the hospital. The woman lying on it had long white hair, paper skin, and a sunken face. An IV needle was trapped into her inner elbow. Her gaze was cast at the rain cascading down the window. Evelyn could feel the dread hovering in the room and knew that time was not on Sally’s side.

“You can go, Lucile,” Sally said in her froggy voice.

The Hispanic woman whispered, “Don’t upset her. Her heart can’t take such things.”

She slipped into the hall, leaving the door open behind her.

Sally turned to them. “Did you find my husband?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Evelyn replied as she approached the bedside. Terrence followed behind.

“Did he run away or is he gone?”

“Gone,” Evelyn replied honestly. She couldn’t lie to a woman nearly a century old.

Sally shut her eyes for a long while. Her breath was so faint that Evelyn thought that she may have left them. “How?”

“We’re figuring that out,” Terrence said.

“Tell us about him?” Evelyn asked.

“A talker. A doer. More of the former,” Sally said with a slight smile. “He stole my heart when we were fifteen.”

“Before he disappeared, did you notice a change in his attitude?”

“James was James. He was never one to stay mad for long, though he did complain a lot. Also, he would always smile before he made a witty remark. I rolled my eyes to show him how impressed I was.”

Evelyn looked at her blank notepad. “Did he have any enemies or anyone angry with him?”

“Restaurant waiters,” Sally nodded seriously. “He was a lousy tipper.”

James chuckled.

“The last thing James ever said to me was, I’m going on a mundane stroll. I’ll be stinky and sweaty when I get back, so have the bath ready. That was it. Never saw him again. I waited beside the cold bath water for an hour before I went after him. Old Sycamore Trail is the place where he hiked. Five-minute drive from here. Police found nothing.” Sally said and turned to Evelyn. “There are days when I... feel him, but now that I know he’s gone. Really this time. There’s not much left to hold onto.”

Terrence took the woman’s hand. “He’s not as far away as you think.”

Sally’s brown eyes widened.

“We’ve talked to him,” Evelyn said, overcoming her struggle to admit to the ghostly encounter. “A part of him still remains.”

Terrence nodded in agreement.

“How--What did he say?” Sally asked with a small voice.

“He said, you made life a joy.”

Sally shivered and cried softly.

“And to keep on living until he comes home.”

“Oh, James,” Sally said through her tears. She talked to the ceiling. “You promised we would leave this world together. I’ll wait on you for another nineteen years.”

The nurse lingered in the doorway with her hands on her hips.

“Get your rest, Sally,” Evelyn said. “We’ll get James home much sooner than that.”

Evelyn and Terrence left and traveled to Old Sycamore Trail. In the rain and without talking, they walked the smooth path through the woods, but found nothing that hinted at James Barker’s disappearance.

“You think we should’ve told her?” Terrence asked as they drove back.

“We gave Barker our word,” Evelyn replied.

“I know but… what if we fail and he’s stuck in the mansion for good?”

“Hey, there’s only room for one pessimist in this relationship.”

“You’re right,” Terrence replied. “I was just hoping we would’ve learned more from her.”

“We have three victims left,” Evelyn reminded him. “One of them will know something.”

Following the killer’s chronology, they started with Winslow, the second victim. A little ways outside of town, Evelyn and Terrence arrived at a large, drab, industrial-style building that had multiple semi-trucks shipping grass-fed meats across the state. Tipton’s Slaughterhouse.

Avery Tipton greeted Evelyn and Terrence at the front door as he said he would over the phone call. He was a man of average build and height, with the beginnings of a second chin and a thin crown of hair around his head. He wore a blue collared shirt and welcomed Evelyn and Terrence aside.

“I’m glad you’re taking an interest in Winslow. God, I loved that boy. My wife and I helped raise him. Well, ex-wife.” Avery said as he led them to the office. Evelyn noticed his finger swelling around his undersized and weathered wedding ring.

“Did you adopt him?” Evelyn asked.

“Not officially,” Avery sat on the edge of his metal desk and moved his hands when he spoke. “The boy’s father was never in the equation, and his mother would beat him and call him names. Nasty stuff. I was locking up the church one afternoon and saw the boy sitting on the steps. The mother left him there and skipped town. For the better I think. I took him in, originally for just a few days, but he had such a gentle heart, my wife and I kept him. We raised him with our other two boys.” Avery fidgeted. “My ex-wife and I.”

“You gave him a job here?” Evelyn asked.

“Winslow wasn’t…” Avery searched for the right word, but didn’t find it. “He had strengths and weaknesses like the rest of us. One of the traits was strength. The boy could lift a cow, I kid you not. Eat a whole one too.” Avery sighed. “Yeah, I miss him. He worked a lot harder than the clowns I have now.”

“He was forty-two years old when he went missing,” Terrence recalled. “How old was he when you adopted him?”

Avery rubbed the back of his neck. “To be honest, I was never quite sure. Communication wasn’t Winslow's strong suit. I was in my early thirties when I got him. He was probably seventeen or so. Innocent as a child though. I’ll always see him as a boy, despite the age factor. What made you so curious about him anyway? Someone hire you?”

“It’s a personal project,” Evelyn said. “My father went missing too. I’m seeing if there is any connection. Maxwell Quenby. Heard of him?”

“Quenby. Yeah. I heard of him.” Avery’s face twisted to disgust. “I never knew he had a daughter.”

“Yeah, sole inheritor,” Evelyn replied. “What’s your issue with Maxwell?”

“Nothing personal, but I’m sure you’ve heard of the Sullivan girl.”

“Mary.”

“I’d bet my bottom dollar that Maxwell had something to do with her disappearance.”

“Any reason you think that?” Terrence asked.

Avery frowned heavily and shook his head. “Just made sense. Maxwell lived in that big house all by himself. He looked down on us normal folk. He had so much money and clout, cops wouldn’t even give him a speeding ticket. If anyone could get away with murder, it was Maxwell Quenby. That’s why I’m glad he’s dead and gone. No offense, but this town has been quieter since no one's been in that house.”

Evelyn changed the topic. “Tell me what happened to Winslow.”

Avery stopped leaning on the desk. “Let me show you.”

They walked into the meat locker.

Massive slabs hung from hooks across the ceiling. Cold fog thumbed through the icy room.

“I hope blood doesn’t make you squeamish,” Avery said.

“Not anymore,” Terrence replied.

In the far corner of the room, Avery pointed at the gash in the wall and then went back to hugging himself.

Evelyn approached and brushed her fingers across the groove. “Meat hook?”

“Yep,” Avery said. “Winslow was manning the graveyard the night he vanished. In the morning, I learned he was missing, the back door was open, and there was this scrape on the wall. The police said that there was a fight. That Winslow used a hook to defend himself. But they found no blood. A few days later, I realized one of my curved butcher knives was gone. If that doesn’t scare you, nothing will.”

Evelyn recalled the long slash across Winslow’s belly. “Anything happen leading up to the attack?”

“Something,” Avery said. “Winslow was flipping out. I didn’t understand what he was saying, but I knew he was scared. I told him that it was nothing and to get to work.” Avery shook his head. “Boy, I was wrong.”

17

The Lost

Peter Calhoon was a poster child for any high school, anywhere. He had a clean-shaven boxed jaw with a dimpled chin and shy smile that kept girls swooning. His blond hair was cut neatly, and his grade card boasted a 4.0 GPA in all advanced placement classes.

“No one could’ve asked for a better son,” Mrs. Sheerly Calhoon said. She was in her early fifties, with highlighted blonde hair and small rectangular glasses that made her look like a sexy secretary.

Evelyn placed the school photo back on the fireplace shelf and looked at the picture of Peter. Kneeling in a football field, he wore an indigo football jacket with yellow sleeves and text. He died in that jacket, Evelyn thought.

“He was varsity captain and named junior prom king,” Mrs. Calhoon explained.

Mr. Calhoon, a middle-aged version of his son with the same chin, dashing looks, and silky hair, rocked in the fluffy recliner. “Nearly broke the school record with the longest pass. A fifty-seven yard missile right into the end zone.”

“Your son sounds like he was really something,” Terrence said, admiring the glass trophy case that seemed to fit perfectly in the McMansion. “I played a few years myself.”

“Yeah?” Mr. Calhoon said. He stopped rocking. “What position?”

“Wide receiver,” Terrence replied.

“Really?” Mr. Calhoon exclaimed. “Shotback?”

“Split-end,” Terrence said proudly. “Only for a few years, though.”

“Coach moved me between shotback and flanker. It pissed me off when I was young. Everyone wants to be quarterback.”

“I enjoyed my position. Still, I’m glad your son got to live that fantasy for you.”

Mr. Calhoon licked his molar and mumbled, “Yeah. He was going to be the next Fred Crawford. I could see Pete throwing an eighty-five yarder to a legend like Eddie Kawal.”

Mrs. Calhoon used her index finger to rub away a tear welling in her left eye. She blinked a few times.

Evelyn turned away from the fireplace and looked up the large living room. Though it was a selfish thought, Evelyn found it hard not to compare homes. Quenby was bigger for sure, but the modern classiness of this place seemed much more functional than her pre-civil war relic. Evelyn refocused. “What do you think happened to your son?”

Mr. and Mrs. Calhoon traded looks. “Murdered.”

“What makes you think that?” Evelyn asked.

“He would never run away,” Mrs. Calhoon said. “His future mattered to him too much.”

“Our son was happy,” Mr. Calhoon added.

“Is there anyone you suspected of harming him?”

With red-rimmed eyes, Mrs. Calhoon said, “Everyone.”

“People were jealous of Peter,” Mr. Calhoon added.

Mrs. Calhoon looked ill. “Behind their smiles and compliments, they couldn’t stand that my son was better than theirs.”

“What are your thoughts on Maxwell Quenby or Stephen Doyle?”

“I don’t know any Doyles,” Mr. Calhoon said. “Maxwell, though. He attended a few school board meeting events. At first I thought it was his chance to chase some tail. He had this mysterious way about him that drew in women. But after my son’s disappearance and women started going missing…” Mr. Calhoon balled up his fist. “I’m glad Max is gone.”

Evelyn gnashed her teeth. The more people suspected her father, the less she wanted it to be true. Blame it on her rebellious nature or her empathy for the underdog, but if she could prove her father was innocent, it would be a beautiful thing.

Without getting more help from the Calhoons, Evelyn sought out her final lead: Zoey Pinkerton.

The house was at the other end of town. It was quiet, quaint places with a few mares grazing in the fenced-in pastures. Wind chimes hung on the porch. Unmowed grass carpeted the earth. Gnats and chiggers leaped between leaf blades and weeds. Evelyn and Terrence exited their crude minivan as the day neared its exodus.

Zoey was the final victim before Mary. Evelyn reflected on what she’d learned while she waited for the next of kin to answer. Firstly, the killer was testing the waters in the beginning. He killed an old man, then a middle-aged one and followed by a teenage male. Then he switched to an adult female and then teenaged girl. Mary’s killing would’ve been the logical step, but that was the Doyles’ doing. So what stopped the killer, and where did he go?

As for her father, she knew Maxwell had a friendship with Mary, was disliked by seemingly everyone, and seemed to draw in women. Also, Maxwell knew of the plantation mansion’s secret study. If he was the killer and died, the phantoms would have peace, right? Unless they wanted Evelyn to chase a ghost. A fool’s errand that would be. Either Maxwell lived, which there was no proof of, or the killer was someone else who knew the house’s secrets.

The door opened. Dressed in a wrinkled shirt and faded Levis, a short man with a shaggy goatee and tired blue eyes stepped out. Evelyn introduced herself. The man inhaled deeply through his nose. “Come in. I’m making tea.”

The house was minimalist, but not in a stylish way. The kitchen table was devoid of cloth. Sparse paintings decorated the neutral-colored wall. There were a few pictures of Zoey as a kid. She had lush brown hair and a big smile. Between ages 9 and 15, something changed. It could be puberty that led her to her goth persona.

“Is it just you?”

“Wife passed a few years ago,” the man said.

“I’m sorry,” Evelyn replied.

“She made her choice.”

Evelyn averted her eyes. She remembered her own “choice” years ago. It ended with Terrence, a complete stranger at the time, pulling Evelyn’s broken and bleeding body out of the ruins of her car. If only everyone had such luck.

David gave them mugs of hot tea and took a seat at the head of the square dining room. They crowded around three of the four seats. “Did Zoey run away or was she killed?” David asked.

“Killed,” Evelyn said. “The news will disclose the victim's information soon enough.”

“My wife was right after all,” the man said.

“I promise you, Mr. Pinkerton, we are doing everything in our power to make sure your daughter finds peace.”

“Why?” the man asked.

“Eve and I believe that we can help the restless find closure,” Terrence said. “In doing so, we hope you’ll find peace.”

“And you’re doing this for money?”

“Any other case, yes,” Evelyn admitted. “Not this one.”

“Then what do you hope to gain?” David Pinkerton eyed her.

Terrence and Evelyn looked into each other’s eyes. “The truth.” And some overdue peace and quiet.

Mr. Pinkerton chuckled sadly. “If my wife knew there were people like you when our daughter first vanished, things might have been different.”

“Tell us about Zoey.”

“She was a hermit with a brilliant mind,” David said. “She hid behind shades of black, but her heart was good. She was good, even if I didn’t agree with her in most things. I only wished I had told her that instead of doing what was best. She vanished after we had a big fight about her music and attitude. I was a different man back then.”

“Did she say where she was going?” Terrence asked.

“She didn’t say, but I knew. It was to her godfather’s house.” Tired lines etched around his eyes. “Maxwell Quenby.”

Evelyn’s heart skipped a beat. “Godfather?”

“Yeah, I gave Quenby the honors. I worked his land. Taught him how to ride horses. If there was ever a man who was misunderstood, it was Max.”

Finally. Someone who doesn’t hate him. “Tell me about him.”

“I thought you were here for Zoey?”

“I’m here for both,” Evelyn replied swiftly and with fire.

David raised his brows. After a moment, he returned to a normal tone. “He didn’t want the family name. The Quenbys were always movers and shakers here in Adders. They liked keeping an eye on the town and its money, and made sure the old blood stayed in power. They had blackmail material on everybody and when they made an investment--cattle for example--they’d cripple the competitors. Some people believe that’s why Adders never grew in size. In a small town like this, most people were okay with that. It was the outsiders who got the shaft.”

“But Maxwell was different?”

David nodded. “Night and day compared to his father. Maxwell had no desire to flaunt his wealth or extort anyone. After his father died, Maxwell wanted to live a quiet and peaceful life with a family and kids. The town’s institutions--police, judiciary, big business, small business, you name it--wanted his family’s knowledge and continual donations. They pressed him day in and day out. There was a time where he had different guests every day, some would stay from breakfast to dinner. Maxwell hated it. After a while, he voiced his opinion but no one listened. To open their ears, Maxwell destroyed his family’s blackmail material, stopped all funding, and shut himself in.”

“Why name him Zoey’s godfather?” Evelyn asked.

“I swore I’d take that to the grave.”

Evelyn leaned over the table. “Please.”

David grumbled. “All I can say is this: he had to give up his own daughter for reasons unknown and the mother was never in the equation. Because I counted him as my closest friend, I let him help raise Zoey. It brought some joy back to his life. Though our parenting styles differed back then. When Zoey was around fourteen, I kept her away from Max. A few years later, he found someone else to fill that emptiness inside. Little Mary Sullivan.”

Evelyn let the revelations sink in.

“Evelyn is Maxwell’s daughter,” Terrence told David.

He studied Evelyn. “You don’t look like him. Why did you come back?”

“She inherited the plantation,” Terrence explained. “We came down here to sell it, but… our plans changed.”

“What else can you tell me about my adoption?” Evelyn said, ignoring all that Terrence had said.

“I’ll tell you when you find my daughter’s killer,” David bargained.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all. You find who killed my daughter and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Reluctantly, Evelyn agreed. “Did you ever suspect Maxwell hurt Zoey?”

David locked eyes with her. “Never. Not in a million life times.”

“What if I told you her remains were found hidden in his basement?” Evelyn asked.

The vein in David’s neck bulged. “Then I’d call you a liar.”

Evelyn decided not to say any more about it. She asked more questions about Zoey’s disappearance. Just like the other victims, not a trace was ever found.

Five victims in five years, and not a shred of evidence. Whoever Evelyn was up against was good. Very good.

Terrence and Evelyn ate dinner at a local mom-and-pop restaurant in the heart of town. It couldn’t get more Southern than country fried steak, green beans with bacon bits, and a glass of sweet tea. Unlike the rest of the family patrons enjoying their Thursday evening, Evelyn and Terrence had trouble keeping their eyes open. The emotional roller coaster of the day ended with more questions and heavier stress.

“I’m going to need a vacation for my vacation,” Terrence said, midway through the meal.

Evelyn cracked a smile.

They returned home. Evelyn gazed up the painted angels on the domed ceiling. Terrence took a shower and crashed on the bed. Evelyn wasn’t as fortunate. At about 2 a.m., she was staring at the ceiling growing frustrated, but she couldn’t turn off her mind. She walked downstairs to the hall of portraits. The oil painting of her fat ancestor was cast to the side and the wooden wall with a secret door had a massive gash on it. The broken planks formed crooked teeth around the hole like a circular jaw. Evelyn didn’t bother unlocking it with the old key. She stepped through the portal.

The hallway to the secret study was three feet wide and seven foot tall. Unpainted wooden planks made up the interior. Dust flowed through the creaks. The floor groaned under Evelyn’s slippers. At the end of the short hallway, the door to the secret study was wide open, with an arm-sized axe hole at its core. During the night of the invasion, Evelyn and Terrence fled here while the masked killer took an axe to the door’s face. Mary pointed Evelyn to safety using the secret trapdoor beneath the ancient mahogany desk. It spit them into the bed of bones.

Evelyn scanned the decimated room. It looked like the killer knocked over every light, tore every book from the shelf, and turned over the various Antebellum antiquities. Evelyn picked up some of the clutter. Many of the books were classics in their earliest edition. If they were in a little better condition, they could fetch a good price. She approached the desk and swiped her hand across its top. Within lay the original land deed and slave purchase receipt. Evelyn guessed this was where the blackmail material used to be as well. Quenby House was built on blood and deception, and her father wanted to make it right. Evelyn liked that thought. She pulled open the drawers and shuffled through the contents. A small picture of freckle-faced Mary Sullivan was lodged in the back corner. Evelyn stared at the child, wondering what it would’ve been like to be raised by Maxwell. Evelyn had seen Mary’s drawings. They were always pleasant. She put the photo aside, allowing the small thought to warm her in this dark, cruel world.

Something else caught her eye. A knob the size of tack at the back of the upper drawer. Evelyn pulled it, revealing a small cache. It was made for a notebook that could fit in her palm. Evelyn opened the thin leather bindings. Within were a number of random names. Some were circled while others were crossed out. She didn’t recognize any of the names. A lot of them were terribly misspelled. Drunken text or a code. She turned page after page of misspelled names until she reached the end of the first third of the booklet. There was one blank page, but the page following it had a list of dates and locations. Six in all, and each coinciding with one of the victims found in the basement. Even Mary Sullivan, whose remains were ash somewhere on Quenby land.

Evelyn stared at it for a long while. Why would you have this?

Evelyn must’ve fallen asleep because she awoke in the master bedroom and Terrence wasn’t beside her.

She got up and took a shower. Getting dressed in a blue and black striped long-sleeved shirt and dark capris, she headed downstairs. “Terrence?”

Voices seeped through the foyer. Cautious, Evelyn followed the noise to the mural hall. She silently pushed into the lounge. Terrence sat in the loveseat with his eyes glued on his laptop.

“What are you doing in here?” Evelyn asked.

Terrence looked up from the screen. She realized he was watching the news.

“I needed to see if they knew anything about this,” Terrence said in a harrowing tone.

“About what?” Evelyn scooted in next to him.

He tilted the screen her way.

The local news anchor spoke objectively. “At eleven o’clock last night, local nine-year-old girl, Bella Day, vanished. Authorities are looking for any information about her current whereabouts.”

Evelyn felt a chill. She glanced behind her, seeing Barker, Alannah, Zoey, Mary, Winslow, Peter, and Andrew standing sentry.

Immediately, she knew that the killer’s cycle had just restarted.

18

The Vanishing of Bella Day

With rich brunette hair cut at the shoulders and big brown eyes, Bella Day would be a looker when she grew up. If Evelyn could rescue her.

She twisted back to the phantoms. “Do any of you know about the Day family?”

Terrence looked them up and down, unable to take his eyes off their fatal wounds.

“To take a girl that young…” A look of disgust scrunched Peter’s handsome face. He put his one hand on Mary’s shoulder.

Barker took a puff from his pipe and wiped the blood from his chin. “It stinks of the same bastard who killed us. I can feel it.”

Evelyn stood to face them better, but also to keep the couch as a barrier between her and the phantoms, not that it would help. “You’ve got to give me something. All our leads are busts. So think. Andrew showed me how he died. Can’t the rest of you do that?”

The phantoms turned to Andrew. His featureless white mask displayed no hint to his expression. He glared at Evelyn through the black, button-sized eye holes.

The blood left Terrence’s face. “Evelyn. I don’t think--”

“That little girl is going to die,” Evelyn barked at her husband. She redirected her attention on the victims. “Please.”

Zoey, the goth, said, “You’re going to regret this.” It wasn’t a threat. It was a warning.

“Try me,” Evelyn replied.

With a sad smile, well-endowed Alannah reached over the back of the loveseat’s backboard and put her hands on Evelyn’s cheek. “I’m sorry, darling.”

“Hey,” Terrence yelled at the woman in the jade dress. “What do you--”

Evelyn didn’t hear the rest of it. She was too busying having her throat slashed. Her red fingernails dug into the old wooden chair’s arms. Her long, perfect legs kicked in all directions. Her heels crunched away at the dirt. In the night, tall yellow hay swayed around her as crimson seeped from her opened throat and into her bosom. Her blurry eyes met the glowing lantern set on the stomped grass a few feet in front of her.

Evelyn returned to the lounge, grasping her neck. She staggered back and sucked in air. The phantoms had formed a circle around her. Alannah stepped back. Peter put his only hand just above Evelyn’s chest.

Terrence stared in horror.

Evelyn was back in the field, seated on the wood chair, looking at both her hands bound at the forearms. They were Peter’s hands. She glanced up at the silhouetted figure standing between her and the lantern. He raised the meat cleaver. Moonlight reflected on the polished metal. Then the blade cut the air and dropped on Peter’s right wrist. A quick splash and then cold shiver.

The vision ended. The shakes didn’t.

Winslow grabbed Evelyn’s shoulders with his large hand. His meaty nude body and slash across his belly made Evelyn queasy. Winslow mouthed something, but the underbite made it impossible to interpret.

“Get off her.” Terrence tried to pull at him, but phased through the body.

Evelyn stood in a meat locker. Something moved in the other side of room, swiftly passing between the slabs of dangling meat. No one was supposed to be here, she knew. Papa won't like that. She grabbed a loose hook from the rack and readied herself. Though the room was freezing, Evelyn--in Winslow’s body--was sweating profusely. She saw something running to her from the corner of her eye and swung the hook at them. It scraped against the wall. She blinked and awoke, suspended with her bound wrists dangling from a hook in some sort of basement that wasn’t Quenby. Winslow closed his eyes--Evelyn couldn’t see either-- as the figure worked the blade across her belly. No one heard the screams.

Evelyn was back in the lounge. She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t find words. Her whole body was burning up, but she was shivering.

Barker stepped up and took her hand in his that was cold and clammy.

The next kill began in the same basement, seated at a table and drinking a tall glass of chlorine while feeling a gun barrel on the back of her head.

Evelyn could taste the chemical as she returned. The enfeeblement of every vision clung to her like her only slice of hell. “No…” she mumbled.

Terrence pulled at her, trying to get her out of the circle, but some unseen force locked her in place.

With a look of guilt, Zoey stepped up and put her hands behind Evelyn’s head. Tears fell down Evelyn’s red face. They met eyes and Evelyn saw the approaching car on Quenby Avenue, the shadow-shrouded driver, odd tranquilizer gun, and hay field where a sharp metal pole was jammed into the back of a skull.

Back in the lounge, Evelyn crumbled to the floor. Her body trembled. Her eyes were blinking but lifeless. Her body was an empty shell, imprisoned by the sights and feelings of five deaths.

Terrence rubbed his hands up his bald head and stared at the phantoms with utter horror. After a moment, he dropped to his knees and held Evelyn’s wrist to stop her from shaking. “Eve, baby. Oh, come, baby, stay with me.”

Evelyn tasted the chemicals on her tongue. She felt the cold blade across her flesh in every place the victims suffered injury. The fear made her heart beat rapidly and then slowly and then rapidly again. Her chest cramped. Images burned into her mind, horror and nightmares she couldn’t escape.

Yellow hay sprouted from the floor and swayed in the darkness. The walls of the room fell away and she was back in the chair. She saw a house in the distance. Quenby? She couldn’t tell. She heard a mechanical scream as some unseen power tool turned on right behind her head. A circular saw neared her head. This wasn’t from one of the visions. What the hell was happening?

Terrence twisted back to the victims, “What the hell did you do?”

Mary stepped forward. “They showed her.”

“Whatever you did, reverse it!” Terrence demanded.

“We can’t, darling,” Alannah replied with pity. “What’s seen can’t be unseen.”

Terrence turned his shaking hands into fists. “Get out,” he fumed. “Get out of my house!”

The phantoms stared at him, almost confused or hurt by his words.

“Go! Go!” He grabbed the lamp off the couch table and slung it through them. It shattered on the wall.

The phantoms stepped back. In a blink, they were gone and Quenby House was deathly silent.

“Terrence,” Evelyn said weakly from the floor.

Terrence turned back to her and brushed her blonde hair away from her cheek. “What did they do to you?”

Still in the hay field, Evelyn saw her husband’s wide eyes. Suddenly, the world returned to normal and she was back on the floor of the lounge.

“Don’t blame them,” Evelyn said, cycling through the five deaths in her mind. “They don’t remember. They never saw his face.”

Terrence helped Evelyn sit up. Evelyn rubbed her hand down her sunken face that seemingly aged twenty years in two minutes. The feelings of the victims’ deaths faded, but didn’t disappear. How long the phantom pains would remain, Evelyn didn’t know. She looked ahead at her next goals. “We need to visit the sheriff. See if he’s learned anything about the bones and Bella Day.”

“Evelyn, this is insane,” Terrence argued. “I know you want to do the right thing, but they’ve gone too far.”

Evelyn forced herself to stand. She closed her eyes until the sense of vertigo left her. “I wanted them to show me.”

“You didn’t know what you were asking.”

Evelyn pursed her lips. She hated that her husband was right. “If the cycle restarts, more good people are going to die.”

“And why is that our responsibility?” Terrence retorted. “I make fiddles for a living. You--you find missing people. Living people. For money. I went along with you for so long, Evelyn. First, it was sneaking into Stephen Doyle’s shed. That ended with two gunmen under our roof. Then, I followed you to this lounge where I find myself questioning my sanity with every second that passes, and now we’re going after some little girl we don’t know because there’s a chance a serial killer has her. I could go on about the sleepwalking, death visions, the way you looked at me like I was some monster some days ago, but that was only the start of the fiasco. It’s the finale that worries me. How do you think it’s going to end? Tell me. Because I don’t know.”

Evelyn soaked in his words, finding logic in them and growing angry because of it. She shut her eyes and attempted to clear her mind. “The evil that happened here has caused a ripple in so many lives. Don’t tell me that doesn’t affect you?”

Terrence looked like he was chewing gravel. “It does, but we have our own lives to worry about.” Terrence approached her and put his hand on her belly. Evelyn tensed up. Terrence didn’t let go. “And whatever life we bring into this world.”

Evelyn tried to imagine Terrence and the son and daughter they talked about during those late nights. She could only think of the wounds of phantoms and the broken families they left behind.

Evelyn put her hands on Terrence’s. Gently, she removed it from her torso. She thought he would be mad and mentally braced herself for resistance.

Terrence was as silent and hollow as the mansion.

Evelyn brushed some dust off her pants. “I’m going to visit the sheriff. See if he can’t put me on as a consultant.”

Terrence averted his eyes.

Unable to find anything more to say, Evelyn left the lounge and walked down the hall displaying a mural of Mary Sullivan's death. There was another that needed saving now.

In the driver's seat of her rusty minivan, Evelyn pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to kill the headache but failing. She shoved the key into the ignition and twisted it harshly. With a sad sputter, the vehicle awoke.

She put the car into reverse when the passenger side door opened and Terrence climbed inside.

“I’m not changing my mind,” Evelyn said.

“And I’m not letting you go alone.” Terrence slammed the door behind him.

Is this a mind game? Evelyn looked at him for a moment.

Terrence stared back at her expectantly. “Well? Are we going?”

Evelyn held her breath and reversed the car. She didn’t let it go until they were halfway down the red brick path.

The skinny, blonde, peppy receptionist named Sunshine greeted Terrence and Evelyn as they entered the sheriff’s office.

“Have a seat,” Sunshine said with the friendliest smile. “The sheriff will call you in when he’s ready.”

If not for the sheriff’s seal on every wall and window, Evelyn would’ve thought she was waiting for a dentist appointment. After a few moments, Terrence grabbed a Forbes magazine off the stack.

As soon as Terrence opened the front page, Sunshine said. “He’s ready.”

Perturbed, Terrence slapped it back on the stack and followed Evelyn into the office.

Sheriff Garrett Yates had red hair and a red beard touched with gray on its sides and cut so short it was seemingly painted on his face. By the air of maturity about him, Evelyn could tell he was much older than he looked. Standing behind his desk, he clenched his tall mug of coffee in both hands and sniffed the divine aroma. With closed eyes, he took a gulp, a small smile curled on his face as he savored the moment.

Evelyn cleared her throat.

Yates opened one eye, looked at her while he finished his gulp, and then pulled the coffee from his thin lips. “Mr. and Mrs. Carr, I’ve been meaning to have someone check up on you. How have you been feeling since the, for lack of a better term, home invasion?”

“We’re surviving,” Evelyn said curtly.

Yates took another sip of coffee. Another sip of his own personal heaven. “On behalf of the town, I apologize. In Adders, stuff like that just doesn’t happen.”

Right. Evelyn kept her expression neutral. “I want to consult with you on the Bella Day case.”

Yates raised his reddish-gray brows. “Wow. You come right out of the gate with it.”

“I believe the same person who took the girl is linked with the bones found in my basement,” Evelyn said.

Yates set his coffee on the desk. “That’s quite the accusation.”

“Nothing like this has happened in over a decade,” Evelyn explained. “And now this whole town is in a fritz.”

“You know what’s funny?” the sheriff asked rhetorically. “Adders was quiet before you two arrived.”

Evelyn crossed her arms. Terrence glared at Yates.

Yates grinned. “That was a joke. Eh, there are a few grains of truth in it. You have been visiting an awful lot of people lately. Disturbing the peace, some might say.”

“You’ve been following us?” Terrence asked.

“I’ll tell you what I told your wife on her first visit. Adder’s a bubble. Inside it, everyone knows everybody and everything.”

Evelyn replied, “Except for the whereabouts of Bella Day, and who killed Zoey Pinkerton, Peter Calhoon, Alannah Gimmerson, Winslow Darvey, and James Barker.”

The sheriff eyed her for a moment with a small disbelieving smile on his tan face. “You know, those names haven’t been released to the public.”

Evelyn felt her heart skip a beat. “I researched disappearances online and compared them to the decay on the bone. It made the most logical sense those were the victims.” It was only a partial lie.

Yates looked at Terrence. “Your wife is a private investigator and forensics analyst? Anything else you want to tell me about her?”

“She sees dead people,” Terrence replied.

Yates studied him for a moment. Then, he chuckled. “You two are something else. Tell me what you want to do on the Day case and I’ll see if I can help you out. For your father’s sake. Speaking of which, have you thought about donating? The department could use your support.”

Evelyn ignored his request. “I want to see the crime scene.”

“There’s not much of one,” Yates replied. “The parents called it in last night after the girl didn’t return home from their neighbors. The neighbors told us that Bella never came over at all.”

“I still want to look around.”

“Be my guest,” He jotted down the address. “Deputy Painter is already over there on his second sweep. Now I have a question for you: why do you think her disappearance is linked to the murders over a decade ago?”

“Something about the timing feels off. I guess you can call it a gut feeling.” Evelyn replied.

“Or you’ve been asking too many questions.”

Evelyn and Terrence exchanged looks.

“Do I need to fill out any paperwork?” Evelyn asked.

“For simplicity’s sake, we’ll say you're an--” Yates made hand quotes, “--unofficial consultant. You get something big, we’ll talk about a contract form.”

Evelyn and Terrence headed to the door.

“Oh,” the sheriff said, stopping them. “We haven’t forgotten about Stephen and Catherine Doyle. We believe they’ve left the state. I’ll contact you if that changes.”

“Thanks, Sheriff,” Terrence said.

Evelyn drove to Berry Street, where little Bella Day went missing. Like most neighborhoods in Adders, the houses were very spread apart. The Day residence and their neighbor’s house were separated by a twisted road flanked by towering trees.

Evelyn slowly drove down the road. The shadows of tall oaks fell over her vehicle. Terrence sat in relative silence, as he had since they left Quenby House. Up ahead, Evelyn saw Deputy Painter. Mid-thirties, wearing a green uniform and black felt hat, Painter had a steel-colored five o’clock shadow and shark eyes. He leaned against his squad car and took a drag from a dwindled cigarette. Evelyn pulled up behind him and exited the car with Terrence.

“Yates call you over?” the deputy asked, giving Terrence a nasty look.

Evelyn nodded. “I’m a P.I. Terrence is my assistant and my husband.”

“Husband?” Painter asked, his Southern twang showing.

Terrence smiled awkwardly. “That surprises you?”

Painter shrugged. “We don’t intermingle as much as you city folk do.”

“No?” Terrence asked, playing the peacemaker.

“Hey, I don’t think it’s a bad thing,” Painter flicked his cigarette. The amber bounced on the road, spilling ash on the concrete. “Different, that’s all.”

“This is where Bella Day went missing, right?” Evelyn asked, feeling it best not to continue this conversation.

“Uh-huh,” Painter replied.

Evelyn glanced at the cigarette butt, wondering if she should mention the fact that it was disrupting the crime scene. She had a feeling that the deputy wouldn’t care either way. “Mind if we looked around?”

“Sure,” Painter replied. “Call me if you find anything. I ain’t had no luck.”

Evelyn and Terrence split up while Painter stuck his hands in his pockets and craned his head up to the sky. Evelyn couldn’t tell if Sheriff Yates was a bad judge of character or if he put Painter here because of his laziness.

Evelyn walked by the ditch that rutted beside the asphalt road. She found dirt, rocks, and Styrofoam cups. There were no tire marks, meaning either the abductor slowed to a stop or he was on foot. Evelyn searched on her side of the tree line. A few yards back from the road was a wire fence staked in the ground and linked together by green metal shafts. She found a tuft of brown and white hair tangled around the wire. By its density, it belonged to an animal. Cow, maybe. Not finding anything on the road side of the fence, Evelyn climbed over. The woods quickly turned into a pasture, spotted with crusty cow patties. She walked out into the field until she could see both the Days’ residence and the neighbor's home. The stretch of woods was only a few hundred feet long. Beyond that, someone would’ve seen the little girl getting into a stranger’s car. The abductor must’ve known this. It was why he took her at this location.

Evelyn returned to the road. The deputy was away from his car. Terrence was waiting for her return. “I found something.”

Evelyn followed him to the far ditch on the opposite side of the road. Painter was crouched down in the rut, examining a sunflower-shaped earring. It was cleaner than the rest of the ground’s surface, which mean it wasn’t there for long. This was where she was taken.

“Good job,” Evelyn told her husband.

Terrence didn’t reply. He was still not happy pursuing this lead.

Evelyn headed to her next stop. The Days’ residence. The parents were visibly and rightfully distraught. The husband wore horn-rimmed glasses and casual wear, and the woman wore a long-sleeved shirt and a skirt.

“We’ve answered all the police’s questions already,” Mr. Day said.

“Has Bella’s attitude changed in the last few weeks?” Evelyn asked.

Mrs. Day replied this time. She patted her red nose with a tissue. “Apart from her allergies, nothing has changed. She followed her weekly schedule like always.”

Evelyn glanced at the calendar. Piano practice Monday, doctor’s appointment Tuesday, choir practice Wednesday, babysitting Thursday, second choir practice Friday, clean-up day Saturday, and church Sunday. Most of the steps were repeated weekly.

Evelyn pressed the Days for more information about their daughter. They said typical parent stuff. “She was an angel.” “Why would someone do this to my baby?” More things that didn’t help the case.

The Days squeezed each other’s hands. The wife looked into her husband’s tired and downtrodden eyes and said, “We worked so hard to give this child a good life, and now that she’s gone…”

“Not gone,” Mr. Day said. “Missing. She can still be found.”

Mrs. Day glanced at Evelyn. “Do you think you can do a better job than the police?”

“I can offer my services, but nothing more than that.”

“Why help Bella?” Mr. Day inquired.

Because there was no disappearance before the bones found in my house were broadcasted on TV. “Because I’d want someone to do the same for my daughter if I had one.” Evelyn gestured to the calendar. “You mind if I take a picture of that list?”

Mr. Day gave his approval. Evelyn snapped a picture. “I’m going to need her tutor’s contact information too.”

Once she got it, Evelyn started with the piano instructor.

With screeching brakes, Evelyn pulled up to the woman’s house and raced out her car. The first forty-eight hours of any missing persons case were crucial. Evelyn had no time to waste.

The instructor's house had tall glass window frames and, if seen from the sky, was in the shape of a golf club. Approaching the front door, Evelyn could hear the piano playing. It was a familiar tune, but Evelyn couldn’t put her finger on it.

“Clair De Lune by Claude Debussy,” Terrence said.

Evelyn punched the doorbell with her finger. Soon after, the music stopped and the door opened. The piano instructor was middle-aged, wearing a long red shirt and black pants. Her hair was gray and tied off in a ponytail. Her face was angular and centered by a sharp nose. She smiled awkwardly at them. Her name was Lola.

Evelyn made the introductions brief and got straight to business. “We’re looking for Bella Day.”

Eyes watering, the instructor let them in. “It’s a horrible thing, isn’t it? Such a talent.”

Terrence and Evelyn walked into the open hall that branched into the living room and dining room. Lola took them to the living room and took a seat on the piano bench. Evelyn and Terrence sat on the couch. Musical decor decorated the walls, whether it was old framed sheets of music, a metal treble clef, or simply artistic black-and-white photos of pianos. Upon the piano bench, dozens of photos of little girls and boys hung.

“You’re doing quite well for yourself,” Terrence said.

Lola wiped a tear. “It’s nothing really, I’m just following in my mother’s footsteps. She taught most of the town’s children too. Piano, that is. If not for Bella’s disappearance, I would’ve been meeting her today. Right now.”

“We’re sorry,” Evelyn said.

“I’m just glad an outsider is taking such an interest.”

“I’m not that far of an outsider. I’m Maxwell Quenby’s daughter and sole inheritor,” Evelyn explained.

Lola’s jaw dropped. Suddenly, her sorrow twisted into disgust. “Oh,” she said.

Terrence leaned forward in his seat and asked, “Is something the matter?”

“No… It’s just… I…” Lola searched for the words. She finally spit out, “My head hurts and I’m not feeling well.”

“Not a fan of Maxwell?” Evelyn asked.

Lola stood up. “I’d like you to leave now.”

Evelyn crinkled her brow. “Tell me what the issue is.”

“Please leave,” Lola said, her face going blood red and her eyes watering. “I will call the cops if you don’t leave.”

Evelyn fished out her business card from her wallet and put it on the table. “Call me if you’re interested in saving Bella Day.”

As soon as Terrence and Evelyn were out the door, it slammed and locked behind them.

“What the hell was that all about?” Terrence asked.

Lola closed the curtains.

Evelyn heard the start of her phone call.

“You would not believe who just showed up at my house… Yes, asking about Bella,” Lola started. Her voice faded as she left the living room.

“I guess her head didn’t hurt after all,” Evelyn said.

Evelyn pulled out the address for the choir practice. It was much closer than the doctor’s office.

The GPS took Evelyn to the Baptist church: a white steeple on a hill with a sign that said “Only Jesus saves.” Nearby, a cross had been set out and painted white, with spray-painted pools of blood where the hands and ankles would be. Evelyn gave the door a knock. An elderly man answered. He was tall with short hair and loose skin. A burgundy birthmark bloomed above his right eye.

“You Thomas?” Evelyn asked.

“I am.”

“I want to talk to you about Bella Day but need your assurance you aren’t going to slam the door in my face.”

“That would be absurd,” Thomas replied.

He welcomed them inside. Parents and children alike chattered at the far end of the church, no doubt getting ready for practice. “The children’s choir will practice tonight. We will feel Bella’s loss but are praying for her swift return.”

He opened the door to a small conference room that consisted of a table, a few chairs, and tapestry that displayed the most renowned bible stories. Thomas poured them all glasses of water from the glass pitcher. Holding three glasses, he gingerly walked to the table and put them on top. “Mary likes music. She likes singing. But I believe her involvement with such activities were more her parents’ executive decision. I know Mary and how much she loves adventure and the outdoors, something that was safe in Adders at a time.”

“Is there anyone you might suspect that would harm Mary?”

Thomas shook his head. “No. There are sinners, yes, but none this great in many years.”

“What happened many years ago?” Evelyn asked, playing ignorant.

“A series of events that I would not like to see repeated.”

“Such as…”

Thomas bounced his eyes between Evelyn and Terrence.

“We need to know,” Terrence said.

“Not to breathe life into any rumors, I’ll tell you the facts. A series of individuals went missing. Whether it was coincidence or something else, I don’t know enough to say, but the discovery of bones in the old Quenby House makes me question a darker reality.”

“I get the feeling people suspected Maxwell Quenby,” Evelyn said.

“I can’t say. To falsely accuse a man is wrong. However, in light of recent evidence, I think it's fair to say he had some involvement, whether voluntary or involuntary.”

“Is there a chance Bella could’ve run away?” Evelyn asked.

“There’s always a chance,” Thomas said. “But that just is not something Bella would do. If anything, home would be the first place she’d run to.”

Thomas studied Evelyn. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

“Would you hate me if I said I’m Maxwell Quenby’s daughter?” Evelyn asked.

“No, but I know some would.”

“Why’s that?”

“Those rumors from all those years ago, a lot them were directed at Maxwell. A lot of people hated him.” Thomas replied.

“How did they know it was him?”

“How could they know he wasn’t, and now the bones in his basement are confirmation.” Thomas checked his watch. “If you’ll excuse me? Practice starts soon.”

In the parking lot, Evelyn asked Terrence if he could get in contact with his friends--the band he agreed to build a guitar for during their first week in Adders.

Terrence shrugged. “They won’t be happy that I never finished their custom guitar.”

“Tell them that your wife has been driving you crazy,” Evelyn replied.

Terrence cracked a small smile.

That’s what I wanted to see.

Evelyn put her hands in her pockets. “I can drop you off at their place and swing around the hospital to talk to Mary’s doctor.”

“I don’t have access to a phone,” Terrence replied. “Mine is still fried.”

Evelyn handed her cell to Terrence. “Use mine to call them, then text with theirs when you’re done.”

After a moment of thought, Terrence agreed. “Alright. You sure you’re okay being on your own?”

Evelyn patted her concealed extendable baton. “I think I can manage.”

Terrence dialed the number. “Hey, it’s me. Sorry I haven’t got back to you… Yeah, my wife has me running around church and piano practice.”

When the call was finished, Evelyn took him to the small ranch home where the band practiced. The members, wearing skinny jeans, cowboy boots, and cowboy hats were sitting on the porch, drinking cheap beer. Terrence said goodbye and got out of the car, his smile returning. Things would be better this way. Spending some time with the guys would calm Terrence down, and Evelyn wouldn’t feel the guilt of her unrelenting stubbornness.

She drove to the hospital, missing the noises of Detroit. In the city, no one would care how her father was or wasn’t. She’d be judged by her merits and work ethic as she climbed the ladder. Not that all small towns were bad, but Evelyn’s experience in Adders hadn’t been pleasant. Now, the best of both worlds would be to live off the land with only her and nature for miles. No people. No BS.

Evelyn walked through the hospital’s mechanical doors and asked to speak briefly with Dr. Waxen. He was in another appointment, so Evelyn took a seat. She waited for a solid hour before Waxen approached her. He was a tall man with hollow cheeks, blue eyes so light they were almost silver, and thin white hair. His smile was small, secretive in a way, and his glasses were circular with a gold rim.

“Mrs. Carr, I expect the blackouts subsided?”

“Yeah.” No thanks to your medication. “I never knew you were a children’s doctor.”

Waxen looked at her. “In Adders, we tend to fill many roles. What’s the nature of your visit?”

“You had an appointment with Bella Day a few days ago. Now that she’s missing…”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality keeps me for disclosing any information about Day.”

“I know,” Evelyn said, slightly peeved. “I’m concerned with her attitude. Was she scared? Nervous?”

“All children are,” the skeletal doctor said coldly. Evelyn wasn’t surprised when the doctor looked like death incarnate.

“More so than usual?” Evelyn clarified.

Waxen studied her for a moment, his hands folded behind his back. “If anything, Bella was in high spirits.”

“Why?”

“Maybe she got a new doll,” Waxen replied.

Evelyn couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or serious.

“Anything else you can tell me?”

Waxen shook his head. “Sorry for wasting your time.”

Evelyn got up to leave.

“Wait,” Waxen said. He walked close to her. So close she could smell his breath that reeked of onions. He whispered. “They say bones were found in the basement of Quenby House.”

“Yeah,” Evelyn replied and glanced over to the desk worker up front. The worker was texting, not remotely aware of what was happening.

Waxen looked at Evelyn with acute facilitation. “They say when you found the bones, you organized them into categories. Heads in one. Femurs in another. I find that curious.”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Evelyn tried to take a step back. Waxen subtly blocked her off.

“Do you know where Bella Day is?” Waxen asked, his intense eyes looking into her with unwanted intimacy. His skinny lips twitched into a grin. “Doctor-patient confidentiality. I won’t tell.”

Evelyn pushed him away. “Get away from me.” She headed for the door, trying to cause as little a scene as possible.

She got into the minivan, feeling her racing heart. With lips slightly parted, she turned back to the hospital, waiting to see if Dr. Waxen would follow. He didn’t. Evelyn drove on, trying to make sense of the interaction and feeling a growing pit of dread in her stomach.

On her way to pick up Terrence, she dialed Bella’s babysitter. “Hi, this is Kimmy.”

“Hey, Kimmy. This is Investigator Evelyn Carr,” Evelyn said, halting at a stop sign. “I want to talk to you about Bella Day.”

“Have you learned anything?” the babysitter asked with concern.

“Not much, frankly. I want to ask you about her. Do you have the time?”

“Umm. I’m heading over to my dad’s office. We could meet there.”

“Okay. Where does he work?”

“Town Hall. He’s the mayor.”

Terrence and the band strummed guitars on the porch steps and didn’t stop when they saw Evelyn pull into the driveway. With Band-Aid-free fingertips, Terrence played on, nearly losing himself in the twangy blues.

Evelyn watched him. An unintentional grin curled on her face as he looked her in the eyes and picked away. When the song came to a close, he strummed one final time and then handed it back to one of the band members, a shaggy-haired man with a hide-colored cowboy hat.

“Ready?” Evelyn asked guiltily.

“Yeah.”

Terrence said goodbye to the boys and got into the driver’s seat of the minivan.

“Did you have fun?” Evelyn asked.

“I did,” Terrence replied. “It made me realize…”

“What?”

“How far we’ve come,” Terrence replied. “I’ve learned some things.”

“What’s that?”

Terrence looked at her intensely. “The last time someone pieced together the slew of missing persons, there was a witch hunt. He said that there was vandalism, death threats, and more.”

“Then we need to find this girl,” Evelyn replied.

“I don’t think you understand,” Terrence explained. “The boys told me that you need to stay out of it.”

“Because of my father?”

Terrence struggled to find the next words. “Because they might suspect you.”

Evelyn scoffed.

Terrence put his hand on her thigh. “I’m serious. When the cops get desperate, who are they going to point at? Us. The curious strangers who happened upon five skeletons in their basement, and who’ve taken an acute interest in a missing girl. Heck, more has happened to us in two and a half weeks than they’ve seen in decades.”

Evelyn played with the possibility. Terrence might be right, but she couldn’t dwell on it now. She needed to meet with Kimmy.

Evelyn and Terrence headed to the downtown area. It was made of historical brick buildings, mom-and-pop shops, a general store, and more trademarks of a Southern town. The town hall was an old colonial building with a tall flight of stairs, four pillars, and a long rectangular frame. Below its peaked roof, a massive clock ticked away the day. A few pedestrians strolled by. One was walking a dog, another pushing a stroller. They stared at Evelyn and Terrence. Somehow the air became much colder.

Evelyn hiked up the steps and entered into the foyer. It was clean and simple, like most interiors in Adders. Old 1920s and 1930s photos were in frameless glass on the walls, showing off the town of Adders after electricity was established. A receptionist, a crone with a heavy frown, flashy beetle broach, and a tucked-in neck scarf glared at Evelyn with judgmental eyes.

“Evelyn?” A voice said behind her.

Evelyn twisted back to Kimmy Timberland, twenty-four, a tall and slender cutie with a purple headband, a rich chocolate ponytail, and dark mascara. She wore a white blouse and lady’s business skirt. “I look more like a lawyer than a babysitter, I know,” Kimmy said. “Babysitting has been a habit since high school, honestly.”

“Was Bella a good kid?” Evelyn asked.

Kimmy smiled shyly. “Yeah. You want to talk in a different room?”

Evelyn and Terrence traded looks and shrugged. Evelyn surrendered her cell phone and baton. They moved into an empty conference room.

“I help fill in as my father’s secretary while the others are away.” Kimmy shut the blinds and turned back to Evelyn with worry. “This Bella thing scares the crap out of me.”

Evelyn went over the basic questions and got the usual results.

Kimmy thought for a long moment, “Bella is typically untrusting of strangers. I took her to a store once and she wouldn’t even look at the cashier.”

“So you think someone close took her?” Evelyn asked.

“You would know better than me,” Kimmy replied. “But if there’s no sign of a struggle, it's the only thing that would make sense. Bella was even untrusting of some of her distant family, too.”

Evelyn thought back to all the people she had talked to today: piano tutor, choir orchestrator, the sheriff, the deputy, Bella’s parents, her doctor, and Kimmy. All of them had different responses to Bella’s vanishing and to Evelyn's family name. They were all old enough to have partaken of the murders starting a decade and half ago. Evelyn needed evidence.

“Evelyn Quenby is your real name, right?” Kimmy asked out of the left field.

“Maiden name, if you can call it that. My father put down a different name on the adoption papers,” Evelyn explained.

“You know, I met your father,” Kimmy said.

Evelyn sat up, giving the girl her complete attention.

“When I was young, he invited my father over to the plantation. What a beautiful house.”

“Tell me about Maxwell.”

“He was intelligent, handsome… sad,” Kimmy explained. “He didn’t talk too much. Just listened and sipped his wine. My father and Maxwell were good friends, but I felt the relationship was one-sided. Maxwell… he was a hard man to read, but always good with kids.”

“Kids and ladies, from what we’ve heard,” Terrence chimed in.

“Those were the rumors,” Kimmy said. “But Maxwell seemed like a one-woman type of guy, and that is why I think he was so lonely.”

“How did he die?” Evelyn asked.

Kimmy opened her mouth to speak when the doorknob jiggled. Kimmy opened it to a man in a business suit. On his rectangular head, his eyes were brown and his mouth was wide with a smile that creased his clear face. “I was looking for you, Kim.”

When he saw Evelyn, the man’s smile faded.

“Dad, this is Evelyn Carr and her husband Terrence,” Kimmy gestured to them.

“Hey,” Terrence replied

“This is my father, Mayor Joshua Timberland.”

Timberland bounced his eyes between Evelyn and Terrence. “The two of you should go.”

“Dad--”

Evelyn stood. “It’s alright. Come on, Terrence.”

Reluctant, Terrence stood.

Timberland stood aside. “I know your game. Stay away from my daughter.”

“I don’t have a game,” Evelyn replied.

“Your father said the same thing. Go.”

Without resistance, Evelyn collected her things and returned to Quenby House. Off Terrence’s pressing look, Evelyn said, “My father had blackmail material, remember? He didn’t make himself many friends.”

“You’d think he’d try to help us if Maxwell burned the blackmail material against him.”

“Not if it was ammo against his enemies, too.”

The giant vine-covered mansion under the moonlight welcomed them. Evelyn and Terrence double-checked the door locks and window bolts,

“Goodnight,” Evelyn whispered down into the lounge before closing the door.

In the master bedroom, Evelyn and Terrence lay in bed. Evelyn closed her eyes and could see the hay field. She felt the edge of a knife on her throat.

CRASH!

Evelyn and Terrence shot up out of bed.

Someone else was in the house.

It wasn’t a phantom.

19

Crawl Space

Evelyn and Terrence followed the noise through the creaking hallway. The old house groaned. They tried the light switch. Click. Nothing. They would be walking through the abyss. Evelyn relied on the ancient oil lamp and matches to guide her through the long halls of Quenby House. They whispered the names of the phantoms. No reply.

Terrence coiled his fingers around a bat. Evelyn kept one hand on her heavy baton and the other hand on an oil lamp. The puny flame cast its orange and yellow glow across the old wallpaper and thin red carpet. A chilling breeze coasted through the house and painted Evelyn with goose bumps. They reached the inner balcony of the foyer. The firelight reflected off the massive multi-tiered chandelier at the center of the domed ceiling.

Standing beneath it were all seven ghosts: Zoey, Barker, Winslow, Andrew, Alannah, Mary, and Peter. They stared at Evelyn.

Evelyn loomed above the railing. “What?”

In unison, the phantoms raised their left hands and pointed to the hall of portraits. Evelyn gulped and hiked down the steps. The phantoms kept pointing. Evelyn pressed her back against the wall by the threshold. She peeked around the corner. At the far end, past the great patriarchs of the Quenby family and one female portrait of the plantation’s founder, the kitchen door was flung open. Evelyn and Terrence walked that way.

They reached the kitchen. The room could fit multiple cooks and had spacious cabinets and multiple walk-in pantries. A wooden island marked the room’s center, where the servants and slaves would prep meals for dozens of esteemed guests. The metal-faced refrigerator upgraded the old icebox and an electric stove stood in the spot where the old gas stove sat. The mansion’s first brick stove remained. Soot blackened its mouth like a child after having ice cream. Like when Terrence and Evelyn moved in, most of the kitchen remained untouched. They investigated cabinets and pantries but had never used them, which was why the open pantry door terrified them.

Terrence stepped ahead of Evelyn. He held the bat at the ready and used the side of his foot to scoot the door open the rest of the way. Empty shelves lined three of the four sides. Dust bunnies gathered on the upper one. A squashed cockroach twitched its last remaining leg at the foot of the doorway. Terrence leaned his head inside of the confined space. He tapped the bat on the floor, tilting his head slightly as he listened for hollowness.

“The wall,” Evelyn pointed at the left wall.

Terrence tapped his bat on the upper tier shelf, middle tier, and then just below the bottom shelf. The wood sounded different there. In his boxers and white t-shirt, Terrence squatted and brushed a hand over the lower portion of the wall. A small section pushed in. With a click, it pushed back out to Terrence an inch. He glanced up at Evelyn and then pulled it open. Evelyn crouched next to him. She outstretched the flickering oil wick, looking into the dusty crawl space: about three and half square feet. Its walls were wooden planks, the same as the secret passage to the hidden study.

“This is right about the time we should call the cops,” Terrence whispered.

Evelyn shook her head. “We can do this.”

Terrence sighed. “I go first.”

“You sure? I thought you’d want to look at my butt.” Evelyn said.

Terrence pondered it. “You had to make this hard, didn’t you?”

Evelyn shrugged.

Grumbling, Terrence climbed in first.

“Your loss.” Evelyn followed behind.

“Don’t remind me,” Terrence replied.

They traveled into the corridor, Terrence at the helm. He held the oil lamp and bat. They walked straight to the back of the house, Evelyn believed. It turned right and reached a fork. Straight ahead, up a ladder, roughly where Evelyn thought the backyard was. Sweat drenched them after a few minutes. Their knees were red and raw. Musty dust hung in the air and launched Evelyn into a sneezing fit. Terrence bumped his head on the ceiling at one point, and he groaned as dirt fell on his bald head like snow.

The idea of turning back tempted Evelyn, but she realized too late that these tunnels weren’t made for turning around. Evelyn wondered why they were created. Her only guess was that they were escape routes in case of a slave revolt. Did my father know about this? Evelyn didn’t know. More time passed and her joints were killing her.

She wondered where it would spit her out.

Finally, the claustrophobic corridor came to an end at a seven-rung ladder. “How deep are we?” Terrence asked. He put the lamp aside and climbed. Meeting little resistance, he pushed open the hatch. The black night and stars carpeted the sky above his head. In a moment, he had exited. Evelyn shoved the retracted baton in the left side of her boy shorts, grabbed the oil lamp, and climbed the ladder.

They stood in a wooded area, far outside the property. In the far distance, Quenby House looked like a little box car.

They looked around the woods, listening to night creatures, owls, and bugs, knowing that the mansion had a million more secrets.

Back in the bedroom, Terrence sat at the corner of the mattress and clicked open the metal box. He pulled out a small stack of fifties. “We can stay at a motel for a few nights, and then we’re out of our savings.”

“No,” Evelyn said. “We need that money in case something happens.”

“Someone knows how to get in and out of the house. I don’t know how I feel staying here.”

Evelyn pinched the bridge of her nose. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly 4 a.m. “We’ll keep the doors locked and barred and hope that our roommates will warn us of any trouble.”

“If you think we can trust them.”

“They need us,” Evelyn replied. “If we fail, they’re stuck here.” Evelyn climbed into bed. “Get some rest. There’s still a lot that needs to get done.”

He glanced around the room for a moment and then scurried up to his pillow and under the covers. Thanks to her sore palms and knees, Evelyn was so beat from going through the tunnel that sleep came swiftly. So did the morning sun.

After getting dressed, Evelyn ventured down to the lounge and found the girl she was looking for: Zoey. The goth sat sideways in the recliner with her legs slung over an armrest and an open book on her lap. Evelyn didn’t recognize the title, but she could tell it contained a plethora of dark poems within.

Evelyn sat down the loveseat nearby. Zoey glanced over to her. Black eyeliner encased her apathetic eyes. She said nothing and went back to reading.

“I spoke to your father,” Evelyn said.

Zoey’s flat expression wavered for a moment and then returned to its normal, callous look.

“He wished that he hadn’t been so overbearing and regrets the way the two of you parted,” Evelyn said.

Zoey closed the book and turned to Evelyn. “You told him I was… like this?”

Evelyn shook her head. “I didn’t want to risk sounding insane.”

“You are a little psychotic,” Zoey said dryly. “Most people would’ve run far away.”

Evelyn cracked a smile. “We tried that once. Mary drove us back here.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Evelyn spoke up. “You know I help a lot of girls like you. Potential runaways, that is.”

“Is that how you see me? Some damaged little girl?” Zoey shot back.

“We’re all damaged,” Evelyn replied. She turned her shoulder to Zoey and pulled down the back of her shirt’s neck. Deep scars engraved her flesh. Once Zoey got a look, Evelyn repositioned herself.

Zoey averted her eyes, pondering.

Evelyn scooted to the end of the seat. “Your father told me Maxwell was your godfather. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Zoey shrugged. “Did it matter? I’m dead. Maxwell is dead.”

“You saw him die?” Evelyn asked.

“I saw him get taken from this house.”

“By whom?” Evelyn asked anxiously.

Zoey shrugged again. “I don’t know. People. It happened pretty fast. The screams were pretty convincing though.”

“You couldn’t follow him?” Evelyn asked.

Zoey shook her head. “There’s only two of us that can do that. Andrew and Mary. The rest are bonded to these halls.”

“What was Maxwell like?” Evelyn asked.

Taking her legs off the armrest, Zoey sat up normally. “Relaxed, around me at least. I would come over, and he’d give me free rein over the house. Unlike my parents, Maxwell didn’t mind listening to my music at full blast and allowed me to stay out late. He was a great listener, too. Me, being a kid at the time, could talk to him for hours and felt like I wasn’t speaking to a brick wall. Unlike my father and mother. At the end of my venting, he’d share some sage advice about letting go or looking past the drama and at your future. I think that’s how he lived. Thinking about tomorrow, but enjoying the fruits of today.”

“Sounds like quite the father figure,” Evelyn replied.

“Yeah, he wasn’t perfect. There were still areas where he’d draw the line. Like how much wine I could have or making sure that I always had money put back into savings. My father didn’t see that. He thought that Max was corrupting me and banned me from coming over here when I was fourteen. Max respected my father’s wishes. He would reach out in other ways though, like buying me a new book or CD on different holidays.” Zoey sighed. “When I saw Max in passing, he looked so lonely. I think he wanted his own family, but despite his fortune, he never found it.”

Evelyn soaked in the large lounge and antique furniture. “I think sometimes about what my life would’ve been like if I was raised here. I know you didn’t love your parents, Zoey, but be grateful you had them. Everything I have, I’ve had to earn myself. Every skill, I had to teach myself. It wasn’t until I met Terrence that I realized I didn’t need to shoulder the weight alone. But I’m sure he can attest that there are days where I certainly don’t act like that.”

Zoey pondered that.

“Let me ask you something,” Evelyn said.

Zoey gave Evelyn her full attention.

“Is there a chance my father is still alive?”

Zoey thought about it for a moment. “I guess.”

“Is there a chance he’s behind these murders?”

“Never,” Zoey replied swiftly and with fire. “Not Max.”

“Then who?” Evelyn asked.

“Someone who hates him so much they used the basement as a body dump.”

“Barker!” Evelyn called out.

“Hmm?” the old man appeared, pipe in mouth, sweater vest on his person. “What is it?”

“Now you answer my call,” Evelyn said in disbelief.

“Sometimes we hear you, sometimes we don’t,” Barker said. “We have lives outside of talking to you, you know.”

Evelyn gave him a look.

“Okay, maybe you can’t channel us because you’re not open to it. I don’t know. Do I look like a clairvoyant? I taught Humanities, for Pete’s sake.”

Evelyn crossed her legs. “You’ve been here the longest. Did you see who carried in the bodies?”

“Good question,” Barker replied. “The answer is no.”

“Why not?”

“He’d look blurry. Out of focus.”

“Was he a phantom?” Evelyn asked with concern.

“Heavens no! That would be ridiculous. I could see everyone else here fine, but not him. The others have the same issue. My theory is that we can’t see who killed us.”

“That’s a stupid rule,” Evelyn said.

The phantoms nodded in agreement.

“Welcome to the supernatural,” Barker said. “Some things just don’t make sense. When I tried to look at the killer, I found myself spitting blood everywhere. It wasn’t an experience I wanted to repeat.”

Evelyn stood up. “Was Maxwell home during the times the killer dumped the bodies?”

The phantoms exchanged glances. “Never on those nights, but the killer always came in through the tunnel in the shed, and when the killer was away, Maxwell was in complete focus.”

Evelyn throw up her arms. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

Barker pulled the pipe from his mouth. “We never expected you’d blame your own father. That’s just sick.”

Evelyn opened her mouth and then closed it before she said things she would regret.

“So you're telling me my father might be alive and there’s a good chance he’s not the killer the town thinks he is?”

Zoey and Barker replied in unison. “Yes.”

Evelyn cursed. Loudly. “Where did he go?”

“We have no idea.”

Evelyn waited around until the other phantoms arrived. They had the same response.

Alannah said, “I’m sorry, darling. I wish you the best of luck in finding him.”

Evelyn rushed upstairs. Does my father know who the killer is? Evelyn wondered. She got Terrence out of bed. “There are some people I need to talk to. You tagging along?”

Terrence bounced his eyes around the master bedroom and its dusty furnishings. “If you think I’m staying in this house alone, you got another thing coming.”

They drove out of Adders and into the nearest town that was larger and had a proper hospital. Evelyn and Terrence marched through the mechanical doors and requested to speak with Dr. Gregory.

“I like this guy,” Terrence said as they waited. “He was very nice to pay for my stay.”

“He seemed to have a friendship with Maxwell at some point, and maybe our best shot at locating him.”

“What about Bella?” Terrence asked.

“I’m not giving up on her but until we can get a lead, there’s not much to do. I don’t want to be sitting around either.”

Wearing a white doctor’s coat, Dr. Gregory, in his fifties, waltzed to them. With every step, his silver-streaked brown hair seemed to bounce. His piercing brown eyes were full of concern. “Evelyn. Mr. Carr. What seems to be the issue? Is it your health?”

Evelyn looked around the semi-packed waiting room and the strangers staring at them. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

“Certainly,” Gregory replied. He led them back to a small office with a patient bed, countertop, and stool. He gestured for them to sit. Evelyn claimed the stool. Terrence took the bed.

With his arms crossed, the handsome doctor waited anxiously for a response.

“It has to do with Maxwell. I think he may be alive,” Evelyn said.

Gregory’s eyes widened. “You’ve been keeping your ear to the ground.”

“You knew?” Terrence exclaimed.

“I wouldn’t go that far, but a body was never found,” Gregory said.

Evelyn fumed. “Am I the only one who’s out of the loop?”

“I’m a man of certainties, Evelyn,” Gregory explained, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t go spouting off gossip, nor do I pay mind to rumors. But, if you come to the conclusion that he may be alive, then I cannot deny it because I am uncertain myself. Forgive me for not being more forthcoming with the two of you.”

Terrence flashed a smile. “Apology accepted. Tell us what you know about Max, Doc.”

Gregory glanced back to the door, making sure it was closed. “Those last few months, Max was very nervous, and with good reason. Most of the townspeople blamed him for the disappearances of all those people, especially Mary Sullivan. However, with the police on his side, the people felt betrayed. They threatened Max, vandalized his property, and wouldn’t serve him at any store. One night, he vanished, but all of his belongings remained. Some say he ran away to kill himself, others say he was murdered by a vengeful parent. The theory that has resurfaced of late is that he went into hiding. Until now.”

Terrence and Evelyn traded worried glances.

Gregory continued. “The bones found in his basement convinced people that he was the killer. That little girl going missing a day and a half ago confirmed his existence.”

Evelyn ran her hand through her hair. “Is that why the townspeople won’t talk to me? They think my father is a killer?”

Gregory took a breath and nodded. “Petty, I know.”

“How about you?” Terrence asked. “Do think that Max killed those people?”

“You tell me,” Gregory replied.

Evelyn studied him for a moment. “You can’t deny the facts.”

“They are pretty damning,” Gregory said, lost in thought. After a few seconds, he returned his attention to them. “If you need anything, here’s my contact information. I have to return to my patients.”

“Thanks,” Terrence replied. Evelyn accepted the card with his address and phone number on it.

With pursed lips, Gregory smiled. “Stay safe. I would rather not see you on my operating table.”

The doctor hurried out of the room and onward to his next patient.

“What now?” Terrence asked. “There’s still no proof he took that girl.”

“I know,” Evelyn replied. “Let’s head back home.”

As Terrence drove, Evelyn watched the cattle pastures and old farms blur by. The AC jostled her blonde hair. She wanted to ask her father so many things. If you’re alive, why haven’t you reached out? Why leave me the house in your will? Why did you put me up for adoption? Who is my mother? She pulled out the small ledger and looked at the dates that coincided with all the abductions, even Mary Sullivan’s. Why did you have this? Were you chasing the killer or were you working with him? Did you bring me back here to find you or keep far away? Evelyn needed to find him, now more than ever.

She dialed Sheriff Yates and put it on speaker.

“This is the Adders sheriff’s department, Sunshine speaking. How might I assist you?” the pretty receptionist replied.

“It’s Evelyn Carr. I need to talk to Yates.”

Sunshine patched her in.

“Hello? Yates speaking,” the sheriff answered.

“Any update on the Day case?”

“Nada. We’ve organized a few search parties though. Hopefully that will bring some results,” Yates said. “It’s really starting to smell like a body.”

“Well, that’s horrible,” Terrence mumbled.

“Why say that?” Evelyn replied.

“No ransom. All next of kin have alibis. These are the signs of a tragic ending, or no ending at all, if you catch my drift.”

“Do you think Maxwell Quenby is behind it?” Evelyn asked.

Yates spit coffee. “What gave you that idea?”

“People seem to think he’s back.”

“Be praying he isn’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“The locals know that the Quenby House has all sorts of secrets. If they believe Maxwell has returned, I don’t have the manpower to stop them from searching your land, whether you give them permission or not.”

“If that happens, Sheriff, I expect I can count on you, whether you’re ready or not,” Evelyn said curtly.

“Yeah.”

Their conversation ended soon after.

Terrence shook his head. “This is unbelievable. What’s the chance that some attack will happen?”

Evelyn smirked. “We should’ve never buried those shotguns.”

“We wrapped them up,” Terrence replied. “It’s not too late to get them out.”

Back at the plantation, they grabbed shovels from the shed and hiked beyond the cotton field and past the hay. They found the rock that they placed over the burial and started digging. Three feet down, they found the two shotguns swaddled in an old rug. Evelyn unwrapped it while Terrence went to dig up the ammo box.

She felt the weight of the weapon in her palms. The gun was a decade or more old and not the most trustworthy of firearms. It beat having no weapon though. After getting the guns and ammo, they returned inside and opened up gun cleaning tutorials on the Internet. Keeping the news playing, they periodically glanced up to see if there was any more information on Bella Day.

Nothing.

They looked up from the dining room table, noticing Mary Sullivan standing in the doorframe.

“You need to stop them,” Mary said. Her eyes were wide and dry, her voice small and emotionless.

“The police are looking for Catherine and Stephen Doyle,” Evelyn told the girl.

“They won’t find them,” Mary replied. “You need to find them.”

The girl turned around to exit. Evelyn got up and followed. Mary was gone.

“We have a full plate,” Terrence said.

“It seems to only get fuller.”

After they finished cleaning the shotguns, they went outside and fired a few rounds. The weapons worked. For now. They stashed them under the bed, still wondering where the two rounds they fired went after they sleepwalked with the armaments so long ago.

They spent the rest of the afternoon looking up information on Maxwell and Bella. After recalling the conversation with Bella’s parents and double-checking the abduction site, they realized it was time to rethink their strategy. They returned to the lounge and found Alannah relaxing in the loveseat, Winslow watering his flowers, and Andrew standing off the corner, observing them with black holes in his white cotton mask.

Alannah smiled wickedly at Terrence’s arrival. “You’re looking handsome.”

“Uh, thank you,” Terrence replied, trying to take his eyes off the woman’s slashed throat and failing.

Evelyn approached Andrew. “What can you tell me about your brother and sister?”

Andrew said nothing.

Evelyn asked again and got the same reply: an empty glare.

Terrence asked Alannah if she remembered seeing the killer drop off any bodies or lurking about. Alannah thought on it. “I saw nothing at all. The last time I tried to look, it felt like a cold blade was opening my neck again.”

The clock ticked on. It was nearing the forty-eight-hour mark since Bella Day vanished. Evelyn double-checked the bone pit beneath the house. Empty. She tried out the servant cabins outside of the house. No Bella. The killer may not have dumped the body on her property, or Bella Day might still be alive.

That night, they made sure the kitchen pantry was especially sealed off. Putting a chair under the master bedroom doorknob, Evelyn and Terrence were ready to go to sleep.

That night, they heard another noise in the house.

“Someone’s here,” Evelyn whispered. Terrence pulled the bedside lamp switch. Mary stood at the foot of the bed. Her head was slightly tilted, her blonde hair flowing down the side of her freckled face and her eyes seemingly lifeless. “Downstairs,” she said.

Evelyn swiveled out of bed and slid on the jeans that were scrunched on the floor. Terrence put on his shorts and socks while Evelyn grabbed the shotguns. She checked the chamber. Fully loaded. Terrence accepted the weapon with hesitation. As quiet as they could, they removed the chair from under the doorknob and ventured into the hall. Every step they took seemed to groan too loud. Mary watched them leave.

Evelyn reached the foyer, keeping the gun up but her finger off the trigger. They turned on the light, brightening the massive foyer. Terrence went down one of the curving steps and Evelyn went down the other. They reconvened at the center, watching each other’s backs. They headed down the hall of portraits and unlocked the kitchen. They flipped on the light. All of the doors and cabinets were closed, but lying on the kitchen island was a folded note.

While Terrence scanned the room, Evelyn picked up the letter in one hand and opened it.

It read: “I want to meet with you -- M,” and listed a set of coordinates.

Evelyn re-read the note, and then re-read it a third time. She put it down so Terrence could study it.

“Could it be…” Terrence’s voice trailed off.

“Yes,” Evelyn replied, her heart racing. For the first time in her life, her father had reached out to her personally.

“It doesn’t say when,” Terrence pointed out.

“Tomorrow, I suspect. I’m not risking it tonight,” Evelyn said.

“Should we risk it at all?” Terrence asked. “There’s still a chance that your father killed all those people.”

“When did you become cynical?” Evelyn asked with a raised brow.

“I’m not, but… we should call the police, nonetheless.” Terrence suggested.

“So they can arrest my father for murders he didn’t commit?” Evelyn shook her head.

“Will you bet your life on that?” Terrence asked.

Evelyn glanced at his shotgun and then his eyes. “We won’t need to.”

Terrence paced. “I don’t know, Evelyn. I don’t know if I can pull the trigger if push comes to shove.”

“You can,” Evelyn replied, though she doubted herself as well. She put the gun on the island and pressed close to Terrence. “We will if we need to.”

After propping the gun against the nearest counter, Terrence wrapped his strong arms around Evelyn, pulling her close. Evelyn reciprocated. She rested her cheek on his shoulder.

“You owe me big time,” Terrence said. “For this and many things.”

“Keeping tabs?” Evelyn asked.

“Something like that,” Terence replied.

Evelyn kissed him and then pulled away. They searched the room for another hidden entrance. It seemed that the note was delivered a different way.

The rest of the night, Evelyn tossed and turned, barely able to keep her eyes closed. Her heart beat in a combination of fear and anticipation. She didn’t know if she should be weeping for joy or utterly terrified. Looking out the window at the pregnant moon, Evelyn knew she’d find out soon.

Tomorrow, Evelyn would meet her father.

20

Encounter

Evelyn studied the glowing computer screen and map it showed. The coordinates listed in the note pointed to a wooded area a few miles outside her property. No roads stretched that far out. She would have to walk.

At daybreak, Terrence drove to town on a water run. Evelyn stayed in Quenby House, admiring its size and Antebellum-era interior design straight out of a civil war movie. She opened up the master bedroom closet. It smelled of mothballs and had multiple racks of blazers and men’s sports coats dangling on twisted wire hooks. With her palm, she brushed them aside, momentarily distracted by the idea of Terrence dressed in one of these. They might fit him well, however, none boasted the tiny instruments that decorated ninety percent of his shirts and socks. At the bottom of the closet floor, Evelyn found the backpacks. They were nearly twenty years old but sturdy. Evelyn grabbed it by the straps and lifted one up. It had multiple pockets on both the inside and outside, a waterproof exterior, and was surprisingly heavy. By the expert construction and suturing, she knew she wouldn’t find this at Walmart. Father must’ve been a hiker. Being a city girl most of her life, Evelyn would enjoy exploring nature with her family. She struck down the thought, reminding herself that her father was a stranger and possibly a killer.

By the time Terrence returned, Evelyn had set the dining room table with loaded shotguns and travel packs. She put her blonde hair into a ponytail with a few loose strands tumbling down the side of her face. She wore jeans, a belt with her extendable baton clipped to the right hip, and a short-sleeved olive green V-neck.

As he walked into the dining room, Terrence paused to stare at her and then bounced his eyes to the weapons. “It’s not our typical breakfast platter.”

“It is a little abnormal,” Evelyn pointed out.

“We can still call the police,” Terrence not-so-subtly reminded her of his stance on the issue.

Evelyn felt resistance in her gut. It was a common side effect of her bull-headedness. She couldn’t fault her husband for thinking rationally. Calling in backup would be safer, and probably smarter, but if her father saw them coming, he might slip into the woods and out of Evelyn’s life again. Whether or not they shared a family bonding moment, Maxwell could be the key to sending home the phantoms and freeing Evelyn from her burden.

“We do this alone,” Evelyn declared.

Terrence put the twenty-four-count water pack on the table. “I thought you might say that.”

Without much else to say, they prepared for their deadly venture. They packed light and put the minivan’s first-aid kit in Terrence’s backpack. Evelyn strapped one of the shotguns on her shoulder and hung it in an upright position, with the barrel pointed to the blue sky. She grimaced under the weapon’s weight. It would be a long walk.

They started out the back door, not wasting a moment to turn back to the vine-covered mansion. Brushing past the mossy stone furnishings, they followed the dirt path by the six slave cabins. The single-room buildings had wooden walls, dirt floors, and flat roofs. Through the musty windows, decaying and collapsed feather beds could be seen. Soon, the path branched out into the hay and cotton field, the latter being tainted by a black scorch mark at its white and weedy hair. Terrence shuddered when he glanced at it. Hooked-nose Stephen Doyle and his siblings murdered Mary in that very spot, and it seemed the blackened earth would never be the same.

They ignored the cotton field and went around the cut hay. Yellow bales spotted the smooth terrain. Beyond it, the trail pattered into nothingness and disappeared into the trail line. The instant Evelyn and Terrence stepped into the woods, society, safety, and the clear path vanished, leaving behind the sounds of odd birds and insects in search of something dead to consume. The terrain seemed to roll and dip. Evelyn’s only guidance was the map book with a red line toward the coordinates.

The land here had no owner. Evelyn and Terrence kept an eye out for anyone or anything. Explaining why she had weapons but no hunting permit was something Evelyn needed to avoid. Every forty-five minutes, they drank water and sat on rocks or felled trees in order to readjust their weapon’s weight and get the kinks out of their shoulders. Terrence would yawn a few times or squeeze a half-drunken bottle of water on his well-structured face, and then they would set out again.

The woods seemed alive. Ferns and other greenery spotted the dirt while trees of different shapes and leaves bent out in all directions. Every few moments, Evelyn forced herself to looked up from the ground and out at her surroundings. Behind any tree or boulder could be a predator, whether beastly or human.

Only getting turned around once, Evelyn neared the destination as the afternoon sun breached the canopy. Loose strands of hair were sweat-glued on her pale cheeks. Her clothes were stained, and though she was physically exhausted, her mind stayed alert and her hands prepared to equip the gun at a moment’s notice.

In the distance and amidst the trees, a rusty tin roof jutted out of tall shrubbery. Tall briars concealed the dark wood walls of the lopsided home. The age of the building and the reason for its strange locale left Evelyn wondering. By its outwardly appearance, the structure had to be someone's home because it was far too big to be a cabin. What few window panes remained suffered elemental damage that left spider web cracks across their faces. Evelyn guessed it contained a bedroom, living room, kitchen, and closet. Restroom facilities were in the nearby outhouse with a moon cut on the door’s face.

“Do you think Maxwell’s been living here all this time?” Terrence whispered as they huddled behind a tree.

No light shone from the house. Evelyn would be shocked if the building had access to electricity. “The place looks dead.”

She unslung her shotgun.

“Shouldn’t we wait to do that?” Terrence asked. “I don’t want him getting the wrong impression.”

“And I don’t want to be defenseless if someone starts shooting.”

After a moment of hesitation, Terrence unslung his shotgun.

Staying hunched, they moved from tree to tree, getting closer to the house with every movement. Evelyn’s blue eyes scanned the decrepit house’s windows, keeping an eye out for any protruding gun barrels. Though no threat was present, Evelyn’s heart raced. Her sweaty palms clenched the heavy weapon tighter, imprinting her hands with the pattern of the forestock and grip. If push came to shove, Evelyn hoped these weapons would fire. Being at least over a decade old, she couldn’t know their reliability, even after they had test fired the weapons several times.

With no more cover, Evelyn and Terrence stepped out into the “yard.” Shin-high grass brushed against their pant legs. They reached the front door. Evelyn pressed up beside it and peered in through the cracked window. Dust swirled in the living room. There were a few wooden chairs, but no couch or any sort of entertainment setup. Evelyn leaned back and knocked on the door.

Nothing. She peered back into the window.

“Maybe he wants us to wait for him?” Terrence theorized.

Evelyn chewed her lip nervously. He should be waiting for us. “Try the door.”

Terrence twisted the knob. He glanced at Evelyn and shook his head.

A crow cawed at the clear Georgia sky. More unseen crows answered its cry. Leaves rattled and branches swayed in the breeze. Apart from the sounds of nature, the place was unnervingly quiet.

Evelyn mustered her courage and gave the door another knock. “Max? Maxwell Quenby?”

It somehow felt wrong to talk in her normal voice, almost like it was too loud for such a harrowing place.

“I don’t like this,” Terrence said, his eyes widening and his fingers further coiling around the gun.

“Let’s check around back,” Evelyn suggested.

Silent, Terrence followed her around the corner of the building. They turned sideways to slide between two far-reaching thorn bushes. Through the window, the basic kitchen could be seen. It had a few cupboards, counters, a water bucket for a sink, and a small table. They made it around back to the kitchen door. In the back yard--which wasn’t so much a yard as it was a sprawl of green weeds and tall grass--a stone well rose out of the earth. It had a wooden A-framed roof and lowered bucket. Evelyn took a detour from the house to check it out. The inside was a circular black abyss. She pulled at the retrieval rope and watched the wooden bucket climb into her sight. A dead and bloated rat bobbed at the surface of the murky black water.

“No one could survive like this,” Terrence said with a sickened expression.

Evelyn let the bucket splash back into the deep but nearly diminished well.

They returned to the building and tried the back door. Locked as well. Evelyn slung her weapon back over her shoulder and pulled out her lock-picking tools.

“Evelyn, should we--”

“Yes,” Evelyn replied as she listened for that sweet clicking sound. After a few moments, she heard it and the house was open to her. Re-equipping her gun, Evelyn stepped into the kitchen. The clacking noise from her foot on the wood floor bounced off the wall. Terrence followed her inside.

“Maxwell?” Evelyn called out to the old house.

There was no sign of a refrigerator or any sort of cold storage. She briefly opened the cupboards, finding dead insects either on their backs or swaddled in spider webs. The dining area was similar in its emptiness. Evelyn moved into the living room. The three wooden chairs at the center seemed to have been pulled from the dining room table. Two of the chairs sat side by side. The third faced the corner. Evelyn noticed the lack of dust on the two chairs and dirt caked on their legs. Someone brought these outside, and not too long ago from the looks of it.

There wasn’t a hallway to the bedroom, only a closed door branching off from the living room. Evelyn gestured for Terrence to keep his gun ready while she pushed the door open. A rusted spring bed frame supported a skinned mattress. The stained yellow sheeting that once sutured it was nailed above the window to make some sort of makeshift curtain. Containing a little bit of dirty spring water, crinkled plastic bottles and mason jars rested on the dresser’s top nearby a stack of mystery novels with bent bindings. The ajar top dresser drawer revealed a matchbox, pocket knife, and compass. A portable hot plate with charred meat melted to its surface sat at the base of the dresser.

“Someone’s been living here,” Evelyn stated.

They turned to the closet.

Evelyn kept her gun aimed while Terrence took the initiative. He pulled open the door, revealing the deceptively large windowless room. Two ruffled sleeping bags with the head opening at the opposite ends were laid out on the floor. Next to it was a bloodstained shirt.

Terrence turned back to Evelyn with a worried expression.

Evelyn felt her mouth dry out. “We need to leave.”

Terrence gave her a look full of concern and fear. “What?”

“Maxwell didn’t write that letter.”

“Then who did?”

Evelyn rushed into the living room and grabbed the front door knob when she saw the figure outside the window. The man with a featureless white cotton mask and a raised pistol. She dropped to her belly. Terrence mimicked her. Evelyn’s heart pounded. Did he see me?

Terrence army-crawled to her. “That’s Stephen Doyle. What is he doing here?”

Rolling on her back, Evelyn aimed the shotgun at the front door. The weapon trembled in her hands. Her vision bounced between the entrance and the windows. She waited. Come on. Come on. Come on. Her heart twisted. A bead of sweat snaked down the bridge of her nose.

Terrence tapped her shoulder and pointed to the dining room. He was right. They needed to get out of here. Not taking her eyes off the entrance, Evelyn returned to her hands and knees and scurried as quickly and quietly to the dining room as she could. As she rounded the corner, the front door knob jiggled. By the time they were halfway past the table, the front door opened with a loud creak.

A boot stepped inside. Terrence and Evelyn pressed themselves up against the nearest wall, trusting their hearing to locate the masked gunman. Slowly, he stepped into the room, leaving the door open behind him. Terrence, being closest to the living room, straightened his back against the wall and positioned the gun to point upward at the door. Perspiration dotted his dark skin and upper lip. His finger slid on the trigger.

Evelyn slowly began scooting away. Somehow, even that simple movement made some noise. She froze and listened.

Stephen wasn’t moving.

Was he listening too?

Evelyn didn’t want to wait to find out. She turned her head to the open kitchen. The back door wasn’t far. If she ran…

The gunman’s footsteps neared. Terrence tensed up. In three seconds, Doyle would be around the corner.

They needed to run.

Two seconds.

Dread pitted in Evelyn’s stomach. Two sleeping bags, she remembered. Two enemies.

One second.

Evelyn aimed the gun.

The back door opened.

Evelyn saw the burgundy-stained white mask. The woman wearing it wielded a woodcutter's axe. With a hollow shriek and her weapon raised, Catherine Doyle charged at Evelyn.

Evelyn shut her eyes and held her breath.

The masked woman tore through the kitchen, her little feet pattering on the hardwood, and swung down the glossy edge of her deadly axe.

Evelyn heard it cut the wind.

Unable to wait any longer, Evelyn forced herself to squeeze the trigger.

The gunshot blast rattled the whole house. The weapon’s stock punched Evelyn’s shoulder. The masked woman lurched back, red mist bursting from her flat chest.

“Nooooo!” Stephen yelled and curved the gun around the doorway. Terrified, Terrence pulled his shotgun’s trigger. Jammed.

With no time to think about the person she had just doomed, Evelyn grabbed Terrence and they ran as Stephen blindly fired the pistol at them. Bullets zipped by their heads, only inches away from instant death. Evelyn jumped over Catherine’s twitching body. The woman’s mask had fallen off. She had a hooked nose, lazy eye, and a bruised and pus-filled forehead. A massive red soup puddled on her chest. By the time Terrence jumped over, Catherine Doyle was dead.

Evelyn ran for the woods. Her vision tunneled. Adrenaline screamed through her veins. Thorns raked against her arms. She ducked below skinny branches. Keep running, her instincts told her. Keep running and never stop.

Evelyn didn’t know how far she went. There were no familiar landmarks or trails. She slowed down amidst trees and bushes. Her stomach cramped and the weight of the weapon had returned. She couldn’t escape the fact that she had killed the woman.

Guilt-ridden and panting, Evelyn turned back to talk to Terrence. He wasn’t behind her.

“Terrence,” she called out, her voice hoarse from the sprint. “Baby?”

Quiet.

She observed the woods. No sign of him. No sign of any movement.

Holding the gun in one hand, Evelyn used the neck of her shirt to wipe down her soaked and dirty face. She couldn’t remember when she lost track of him. The events replayed in her mind. She grabbed him by the shoulder, let go to hurdle over the dying woman, and ran. Evelyn’s heart skipped a beat. She tried to recall if Doyle had gotten another shot off after she escaped the house, but her own killing made the rest of the world and its noises a blur. There was a chance Terrence never made it out of the house.

Evelyn looked to the blue sky and forced herself to think about her next move. She cocked her gun, watched the empty shell shoot into the air, and then turned back the way she came. Moving swiftly but with caution, she realized just how far she’d run. Nothing looking familiar, and the more she traveled, the more fears pinged in her head: you’ve already gone past the house, you're going the wrong way, your husband is dead. The world seemed to tilt. Evelyn rested her hand on the rough bark of the tree. Her husband needed her. She couldn’t let this guilt and physical pain crush her. She pressed on.

Her throat became parched. She thought about getting water from her backpack but couldn’t bring herself to stop again. The house still hadn’t appeared in her view. Doubt swarmed inside her. She thought she ran in a straight line, but maybe she didn’t. She picked broken leaves from her hair and felt stinging from the thorns in her forearms. Little spiked seeds dangled off her shirt and jeans. Her ankles seemed to swell in her boots. She hated admitting that Terrence was right. They should’ve called the cops. The Doyles had tricked them into coming out here. They’d probably been hiding here since the house invasion and wanted to lure her out. If Terrence died because of her decision, Evelyn didn’t know if she’d be able to live with herself.

In the distance, she saw the rusted tin roof. Thank God.

She crouched behind a tree and took aim with her shotgun. She could barely make out the back door where Catherine’s lifeless body seeped crimson. Where are you? Evelyn asked Terrence, though he could not hear her.

A twig snapped.

The hairs on the back of Evelyn’s neck stood.

She twisted back in time to see the axe head swinging to her face and pulled the trigger.

The tree bark behind him exploded into wooden shrapnel as the masked axe man staggered to the side. He went in for another swing before Evelyn could cock the shotgun. Momentarily shutting her eyes, she blocked the axe head by holding the shotgun horizontally in both hands. The force of the impact sent a shock up both her arms. For the one second they stood like that, Evelyn looked into the button-sized eye holes on the featureless white mask.

Evelyn put the toe of her boot into the man’s groin. Grunting, he staggered back. As soon as Evelyn cocked the weapon, the axe head hit the side of the barrel, causing the weapon to fly from Evelyn’s grasp.

She reached for her baton. The masked man grabbed her neck and slammed her back into the tree. Her wind left her. She swung the baton down on the side of the man’s head. With a thump, he staggered back. Evelyn went for the shotgun. Stephen took off his mask, revealing his disheveled gray/black hair, hooked nose, small boils, and crazed eyes.

He went back for a swing of the axe when he found himself looking into the barrel of Evelyn’s shotgun. Gnashing his teeth, he took a step back but kept hold of the axe.

“Where’s Terrence?” Evelyn demanded an answer.

Stephen’s face turned blood red. “You murdered my sister, whore.”

“Tell me where my husband is!” Evelyn yelled.

“He’s bleeding out somewhere. From my gunshot,” Stephen bragged.

Evelyn struggled to hold the gun steady. Her eyes watered.

“You going to kill me?” Stephen asked. “Get your fill of justice? It’s not as satisfying as you might think. I learned that when I burned Mary Sullivan alive for what your father had done. None of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t killed my Alannah. People thought I was crazy, but I saw Alannah in that house long before you showed up. I tried to tell you it wasn’t your home. It’s a graveyard for your father’s victims. My sister even had proof on her camera before you deleted it.”

“My father is innocent,” Evelyn said through her teeth. “You killed that little girl for nothing. You lured me out here for nothing.”

Stephen locked bloodshot eyes with her. “You’re wrong. Maxwell is every bit the monster they say he is.”

“Alannah told me otherwise,” Evelyn replied.

The words struck Stephen.

Evelyn raised the weapon. “I’m not going ask again. Where is Terrence?”

Stephen frowned heavily, “He’s bleeding out with every second you waste talking to me. So, go ahead, pull the trigger. You’ve already killed once. It’ll be easier now.”

Evelyn held her finger on the trigger and no matter how hard she wanted to pull it, brokenness in the man’s eyes prevented --

BOOM!

In a blink, most of Stephen’s head was no more. His body spiraled in the air and then flopped on the ground.

Warm tears of blood dripped down Evelyn’s horrified face and into the neck of her shirt. Her trembling hands lowered the shotgun that she hadn’t fired.

Slowly, she turned her head to the man standing beside her.

A bushy gray beard fell down past his skinny frame. Long and wavy soot-colored hair flowed down his bony shoulders. What little could be seen of his face was tired and wrinkled. Deep crow’s feet etched out from dark eyes. With tattered gloves, he held Terrence’s shotgun. A wisp of smoke snaked out of the barrel.

Evelyn opened her mouth to speak, but no words could escape her. The stranger stepped toward her and grabbed her shotgun. Evelyn wanted to resist, but her will was weak. With a weapon in each hand, the old man gave her final, unreadable look and then headed into the woods.

“Dad?” Evelyn finally got the word out.

The stranger paused for a moment. Then he continued on, soon vanishing into the thick foliage.

21

Days Before Death

On her way to her friend Janet's house, cute nine-year-old Bella Ann May biked down the tree-flanked street, blinked, and awoke, facedown, on the floor of the damp concrete basement.

Her head throbbed. Her vision blurred. Around her, the compact basement seemed to swirl. She put her palms against the ice-cold floor and pushed herself up. Her elbows wobbled. Nausea flushed over her.

She managed to plop onto her bottom before forgoing all further movement for now and possibly forever.  She felt a bump on her pink neck. The flesh felt tender and caused her to wince. Did a bee sting her? If she did, she didn’t remember.

“Mommy?” Bella called into the dimly lit room. “Daddy?”

Gray walls seemed to absorb her cry. A moth fluttered around the exposed, glowing light bulb screwed into the ceiling.

With her tiny fingers, she brushed her rich brunette hair away from her pretty hazel eyes. The basement consisted of a dusty metal shelf, a brick-sized air vent high up on the wall, a few plastic buckets containing one oddly shaped sponge used to wash the car, and eight wooden steps leading to an unassuming door.

Bella’s eyes watered. She forced herself to her feet. Her pencil legs felt like jelly. She brushed off her little khaki shorts and midnight blue t-shirt as she stumbled to the door. The steps groaned beneath her. She tried the doorknob.

Locked. Fidgeting nervously, she gave the scary basement another glance before yelling for her parents.

No reply.

She hammered both fists on the door. “Let me out!” She screamed until her voice cracked and her bottoms of her hands were purple. Turning back to the basement, Bella sank down to the top step and pulled her knees close. She wiped tears from her angular face and sniffled. Fear, confusion, and anxiety swirled inside her.

Where were her parents? Why would they do this? Bella didn’t remember doing anything bad. That wasn’t completely true. She did steal chocolate from her mother's secret stash and faked a bellyache to get out of chores, but was that deserving of such a harsh punishment? Unless it wasn’t her parents… Bella shuddered. It couldn’t be her teachers. School was out for the summer, and her friends would never do something this cruel. Bella’s head hurt thinking about it. Her crying worsened. The worst part about crying was how she looked doing it. Everyone said that she had such a cute face, but when she wept, her nose turned red and her cheeks looked puffy. It only made things worse. Maybe whoever took her made a mistake, and they’ll come back to get her soon.

Minutes, hours, in the basement, time met nothing.

Bella had run out of tears ages ago, and she was antsy waiting for help. She screamed until she couldn’t talk. She beat the door until her hands were numb. She asked countless questions but found no answers. One thing was certain. She was alone in this basement, and no one was coming to save her.

When her body mellowed out, Bella got up and paced about the room. She looked up at the shelf and at the small vent nearby. She knew she couldn’t fit, but had nothing to do but try. She grabbed the shelf and tried to move it below the vent. It didn’t budge. Moping, she started to climb. The metal rattled under her shaking. She got to the top and reached for the ventilation grate. It was too far. She reached farther.

Snap.

The top metal shelf broke beneath her weight and her back hit the floor. She gasped and rolled to her side. Whimpering, she curled up into a ball. Even after the pain faded, Bella didn’t move. She watched the tiny cockroach scuttle up a wall. She remembered the sweet song her mom used to sing her but couldn’t remember the words. She hummed it instead, feeling the emptiness of the room bearing down on her.

She closed her eyes, clenching her rumbling stomach, and dreamed about horses. They were big, beautiful, majestic animals trapped behind a white fence. Bella dreamed she broke them out and was running free with them, through the rolling green pastures and by the red brick school. Above, fat clouds surfed on blue skies. Mommy and Daddy and all her other friends were there, welcoming her and her animal companions with open arms.

“Hey.” A muffled voice woke Bella from her slumber.

Bella quickly got up from the concrete floor, feeling a crick in her neck. She brushed her long hair from her face and listened.

“Are you awake?” the muffled voice asked.

Bella blinked away the sleep and charged up the stairs. She grabbed hold of the doorknob. It didn’t twist.

“Help me! I’m trapped!” she said in her tiny voice.

The man on the other side of the door replied. “I know.”

“Then get me out!” Bella begged. “Please. I’m sorry I stole Mommy’s chocolate. I’m sorry I pretended to be sick--”

“Bella,” the muffled voice said calmly.

Bella sniffled. “I don’t want to die, Mister.”

“You’re not,” the man said. “Not today at least.”

“Are you trapped too?” Bella asked innocently.

The man chuckled kindly. “No, Bella.”

“Then why can’t you help me?” the little girl asked.

“Because,” the man said as if that was an explanation.

“I don’t understand,” Bella moaned.

The man sighed. “I’ve hurt a lot of people. I don’t rightly know why I do sometimes. I’ve liked it since I was younger than you. Maybe it’s an ego thing, or genetics. I don’t know.”

“You don’t need to hurt me. I can be your friend,” Bella replied, confident that would work. “Friends make everything better.”

“I wish that were true,” the man said. “I’m old, Bella, and I have this… emptiness inside of me. If I don’t fill it, then I lose my mind and make stupid decisions.”

“I can help you,” Bella said.

“You are,” the man replied sincerely. “See, the thing about this emptiness is that I don’t know the best way to sate it. I’ve opened a beautiful woman’s throat. I made an old man drink poison. I took off a young athlete’s throwing hand. None of that did it.”

Wide-eyed and heart racing, Bella took a step back from the door.

“Every great killer has their method.” The man continued. “Some use knives, others guns, some cannibalism. Even after all these years, I haven’t found mine. That’s why I brought you here.”

The steps creaked beneath Bella’s feet as she distanced herself from the door. The man behind it didn’t seem to care. “I’m going to starve you, Bella. When you’re near death, I’ll come back and look into your gorgeous brown eyes, watch the light flicker out, and see if that does the trick.”

“Please,” Bella begged. “I don’t want…”

“I’ll see you soon,” the man said and walked away from the locked door.

Trembling, nine-year-old Bella Day clenched her cramping stomach and listened to its gargled rumble.

22

Crimson Tears

48 hours later…

Birds screamed and scattered at the thunderous boom of the twelve-gauge shotgun.

Their black wings fluttered desperately across the indigo sky.

Like raindrops, warm blood slithered past wide blue eyes, down pale cheeks, and leaked into the neck of a short-sleeve olive green V-neck. Blood-covered, blonde and slender, Evelyn Carr lowered her shotgun. Her body trembled as she looked down at the nearly headless corpse of Stephen Doyle, the man who had killed a child a decade ago and lured Evelyn into this trap.

Slowly, Evelyn turned her horrified gaze to the stranger nearby. Pale smoke wisped out of his shotgun’s barrel. Dressed in faded camo, the gaunt man had long ashen hair with a lengthy beard to match. Like the scars on Evelyn’s back, deep wrinkles etched the man’s dirty forehead and around his black eyes. He lowered his shotgun, which was actually Evelyn’s husband’s, and approached. Too shocked to resist, she let the man take her weapon. Silent, he turned back to the woods from whence he came. Twigs crunched beneath his boots. Holding the choke of the twelve gauges in each hand, he stepped over a felled tree dressed in green and white fungi.

Evelyn opened her mouth, as if trying to speak for the first time.

“Dad?” she managed to call out

The stranger paused, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the weapons. After a breathless moment, he walked on, soon vanishing into the Georgia wilds.

Evelyn’s knees hit packed dirt and dry leaves. Her thoughts transported her back to the lawyer’s office where she received her estranged father’s will. It was a simple letter, rather cold in nature, and heavily wrinkled. “Ten years,” the lawyer explained. “That’s how long the deceased instructed me to wait before delivering it.”

“In his will, he said that if he was presumed dead. What does that mean?” Evelyn replied.

The lawyer locked his fingers on the desk and leaned in. “Maxwell vanished from his home. All of his possessions were accounted for. However, a body was never recovered.”

The tall oaks began to warp into an amalgamation of brown bark and pointed green leaves. Stephen’s blood crusted on Evelyn’s soft skin. She remembered the man’s words, back when he still had a mouth to speak them. “He’s bleeding out somewhere. From my gunshot.”

Terrence, Evelyn thought. Her husband, her anchor, the man who pulled her from her crunched car years ago, was dying somewhere in these woods.  

She forced herself to blink and shielded her eyes from the warm cadaver. There was another body back at the cabin. This one was Catherine Doyle, Stephen’s sadistic twin sister that had charged Evelyn with a raised axe and forced Evelyn to squeeze the trigger. Though she was painted with Stephen’s blood, it was Catherine's blood that would forever stain Evelyn’s hands.

“Evelyn!” A voice in the woods cried out.

Footsteps neared. “Evelyn! Where are you?”

The person paused.

Evelyn glanced up her husband, expecting to see a fatal wound. Terrence’s dark skin was free of any cut or blood. Sweat dotted his bald head and well-structured face. The top four buttons of his beige button-up were undone, revealing the few small hairs on his upper chest. With bloodshot brown eyes, he bounced his vision between his bloodied wife and the limp body ten feet away.

After his gawking ended, Terrence rushed to Evelyn, dropped to his knees in front of her, and looked her in the eyes. His dark irises seemed to tremble as he studied her. “Oh, God, Evelyn.”

He pulled a crinkled, half-filled water bottle from the back pocket of his khaki cargo shorts, poured some of the crystalline water into the palm of his hand, and washed away the blood from Evelyn’s cheek. The dried crimson thinned out to light red droplets and snaked down the curvature of Evelyn’s jaw. She had a beautiful but intimidating face that became more broken with sorrow the more it was cleaned.

“Where’s your gun?” Terrence asked softly.

“My father took it,” Evelyn mumbled back.

Terrence stopped brushing his thumb across her cheek. “Maxwell was here?”

Evelyn nodded slightly. “He took your shotgun too. Used it on…”

Terrence didn’t need to glance back at the corpse to know it was right behind him. “I tossed my weapon after it jammed, how did he--why did he take it?”

Evelyn turned her eyes away. “Whoever owns the weapons is guilty of these murders.”

It took Terrence a second to realize what she was saying, and then he squeezed her. With trembling arms, Evelyn reciprocated and grabbed fistfuls of the back of his shirt. Minutes ago, she thought Terrence was dead. Now, she didn’t want to let go.

Terrence eased Evelyn off him and helped lift her by the hand. Leaning on one another, they traveled through the woods, leaving the cabin and the bodies of Stephen and Catherine Doyle in their wake.

The hike back to their plantation home took hours. Once, Evelyn saw a few hunters on ATVs. She and Terrence ducked behind a hedge of dirt. Dirty, worm-like roots jutted from its face. Soon, the camo-wearing hunters were far away. Evelyn wondered if they’d heard the shotgun’s boom. It was too late to go back. If law enforcement found the bodies and pinned it on Evelyn, she wouldn’t resist. She was far too tired for that.

The falling sun painted the world scarlet. The clouds above were thin and stretched like pulled cotton across the darkening sky. A sliver of the moon appeared in a rare moment where it shared the sky with the sun. Out of the tree line, stubby, cylindrical, yellow bales of hay could be seen spotting acres of trimmed field. In another field nearby, thorny weeds climbed rows of deep-rooted cotton plants with a massive charred smear at the field’s center. The burnt scar reminded the world of seven-year-old Mary Sullivan’s demise at the wrath-filled hands of Stephen, Catherine, and Andrew Doyle. They hated Evelyn’s father Maxwell because they believed he took the life of sultry Alannah Gimmerson, and many more. Whether the accusation was gospel or fiction, it didn’t stop them from taking Mary’s life, the child who Maxwell treated like a daughter.

Beyond the crops, six decrepit slave cabins--three on either side--flanked a wide dirt road that wound down to the massive seventeen-room, two point five story mansion dressed with green vines and little white flowers. Bordered by trees, exquisite stone statues, and a flower garden decorating the backyard, the Quenby House was the epitome of post-civil war Southern ideas: symmetry, hierarchy, and order. It was a marvelous building built on blackmail, deceit, and bones. Though its exterior showed life and was a mastery of human architecture, the dead walked behind the house’s beautiful jaws. A blessing and a curse, Maxwell had described it in his will. That short, handwritten document was the only communication Evelyn Carr had ever shared with her father. She had nothing from her mother.

Pain and fatigue jabbed at Evelyn’s heel and calf with each step. Sweaty clothes stuck to her flesh like a second layer of unwanted skin. Terrence, usually one with a good laugh, kept quiet apart from his tired panting.

Away from the crops and drab cabins, the couple shambled through the bowling green backyard, past raised gardens spilling over with long grass and multicolored flowers, and by old statues with blotches of green moss on their smooth stone skin. Unlike the mansion’s face, the back lacked colonnades and had a second-story porch a third of the size. Evelyn imagined her greatest ancestor, a gorgeous Scandinavian woman with pale white skin, tall blonde hair wrapped in braids, and a stunning heart-shaped face, looking over her lands in the early 1800s.

Terrence stepped ahead of Evelyn and turned the knob of one of the two double doors. Holding it open with his back, he allowed Evelyn passage into the dark house. It was quiet, apart from their footsteps clacking across the hall’s rickety floor. Past a few sideboard tables decorated with old vases and authentic 19th century oil paintings, they reached another set of double doors that spit them into the massive foyer, stopping just below the two curving stairways that covered the interior balcony above Evelyn’s head. The floor was blanketed with thin red carpet and, beyond the balcony, the foyer opened all the way to the second story. Hanging from the high-domed ceiling was a massive, crystalline multi-tier chandelier that had been updated in the last century to use dimmed, flame-shaped bulbs that gave off the illusion of real fire.

Beneath the chandelier stood two figures. The first was a short little girl in a belted yellow dress. She had blonde locks that tumbled down her shoulders and adorable freckles across the bridge of her button nose and under her dry and lifeless blue eyes.

The tall figure next to her wore a black long-sleeved shirt with matching pants and a featureless white mask that hugged his entire head. Button-sized holes were cut out over his unreadable eyes. Holes the size of peas were cut out on his ears.

They both stared blankly at Evelyn and Terrence.

Deathly silence hung over the Quenby House.

“I thought you’d be gone,” Evelyn said to Mary Sullivan. “Catherine and Stephen are.”

Suddenly, the little girl charged Evelyn. Before she could react, the little girl had her arms wrapped around Evelyn’s torso and the side of her face pressed against Evelyn’s flat stomach. Evelyn held her arms up, unsure how to react. She traded looks with Terrence, whose eyes were wide and his lips parted.

“Thank you,” the little girl said in her tiny voice, tightening her embrace. Hesitant, Evelyn wrapped her arms around Mary Sullivan, feeling the icy-cold body. But somehow, deep within her, something felt warm. Alive.

The man in the featureless white mask, Andrew Doyle, who took his life on the day he helped take Mary’s, watched the scene. Was he touched? Jealous? Amused? His emotions were unreadable.

Mary let go off Evelyn and gave Terrence a hug.

“Strong girl,” he chuckled.

When the sweet moment ended, Mary pulled away and headed for the front door. Trading a look, Evelyn and Terrence followed her. They glanced up at the interior balcony behind them, noticing the five spectators: a sweater vest-wearing old man, a sultry woman in a shapely and glossy green dress, a teenage football player with a handsome face and dimpled chin, a girl with straight black hair to match her black eyeliner and lipstick, and a naked fat man with an oblong head and extreme underbite. All of them suffered from the wound that killed them, but at this moment, Evelyn looked past the gore and into their watering eyes.

Mary pulled open the front door and skipped between the tall colonnades and down the steps before running for the brick road that was flanked by ancient, moss-covered oaks. From the doorframe and with fingers twined together, Evelyn and Terrence watched the girl running to her newfound freedom. She twisted back and smiled widely at the couple before continuing her sprint and eventually dissipating into ash that was taken by the wind long before it hit the ground.

Feeling a burden lifted from the house, Evelyn and Terrence turned back to Andrew Doyle and allowed him room to exit. He turned his head to Evelyn and then to Terrence. Without a word, he twisted around and headed for the back door and scorched cotton field beyond. Though the door slammed behind him, all knew that he was here to stay… possibly for eternity.

On top of the interior balcony, the other phantoms departed throughout the house. The last one to go was the sweater vest-wearing Barker, who gave them a nod before turning back into the hallway. If their true killers were the Doyle twins, they would’ve left with Mary. Evelyn felt pressure growing in her heart, knowing she had more work to do.

But first…

Hot water from the copper showerhead spilled down Evelyn’s face and bare body, splashing softly to the bottom of the old tub. Pink water swirled down the drain as the final bit of hooked-nosed and creepy Stephen Doyle washed from her pale skin. Other mysteries required her attention: finding her father, finding the killer of her five lingering houseguests, and finding Bella Ann Day. Like a thread tacked to a cork board, all three mysteries were linked together. It was merely a matter of finding the true connection, and as a private investigator by trade, Evelyn was confident the rest would fall into place.

Evelyn turned the shower dial and stepped out of the tub. She grabbed a towel off the rack and swaddled herself with it. Putting her palms on the icy marble sink counter, she waited for the fog to clear on the chipped, gold-rimmed mirror. Like golden seaweed, wet hair dangled over her face and clung to her high cheekbones. Wrinkles branched out from her blue eyes. A brush of indigo swooped under her tear ducts. Beneath her still gaze, she saw mask-wearing Catherine Doyle charge at her and felt the shotgun’s recoil punch her shoulder. Evelyn’s fingers squeezed the rim of the sink and then she pulled herself away from the mirror. She may be thirty-three years old, but she felt ancient.

Holding the towel up, she walked out into the bedroom. With the canopied bed, untouched jewelry station, and various antique furnishings, it looked like a screenshot from Gone with the Wind. Still dripping from his bath in a different restroom, Terrence--wearing his boxer briefs--sat at the corner of the tall, king-sized mattress with his face buried in his hands.

Evelyn stood before him and lifted his chin with her finger. She met his downcast face to her own. He looked tired. Beaten down. Just like Evelyn.

She kissed him.

He grabbed her waist.

Leaving the damp towel on the bedroom floor, they let the night slip away.

Arms under her fluffy pillow, Evelyn opened her eyes to her husband. Resting his spine against the bed’s backboard, Terrence studied the open laptop on his covered lap. Sunlight and the chirp of morning birds spilled into the room.

“Hey,” Evelyn said quietly.

“Hey,” Terrence replied in kind. “Sleep well?”

With pursed lips, Evelyn nodded. She didn’t remember dreaming. She didn’t remember falling asleep. Stretching, she forced herself up and rested her back against the backboard. She glanced over at the computer screen. The local news broadcasted an update on nine-year-old Bella Day. The flashing caption read, “Missing for Seventy-Two Hours.”

Evelyn felt the day’s weight crush her like a boulder.

“Remember when our biggest problem was selling violins?” Terrence asked.

“Barely,” Evelyn replied. She pecked Terrence on the temple and swiveled her legs out of bed. Her toes curled on the cold hardwood floor.

With raised brows, Terrence followed her trek to the dresser. The scars painting her bare back were reminders of her car “accident.”

As Evelyn threw on the day’s clothes, Terrence asked, “Where are you going?”

Evelyn slipped on a long-sleeved black t-shirt. She twisted back to her husband. “To cash in a promise.” She held a bobby pin in her teeth and fixed her hair. “You coming?”

Terrence closed the laptop and set it aside. Stretching tall and wide, he got ready for the day.

As they hustled down the curved foyer steps, they heard someone clear their throat. Evelyn and Terrence turned back to the interior balcony. Fifteen-year-old Zoey Pinkerton, the goth girl with black everything but her pasty white face and mortal wound on the back of her head, rested her elbows on the balcony railing. The buttons pinned on her black hoodie boasted mottos from The Green Party.

“I’m going to see your father,” Evelyn answered the girl’s unspoken question.

“Why?” the girl asked with snark.

“He said he’d tell about me about Maxwell when I solved your case,” Evelyn replied.

“You’re doing a really good job,” Zoey replied sarcastically.

“Watch the house while we’re gone,” Evelyn commanded, ignoring the comment.  

Zoey scoffed and turned her chin away from them.

Terrence smiled at her. “I can’t wait to have teenagers.”

Zoey turned around glared at him.

Evelyn and Terrence headed out the front door, locking it behind them.

Their rusty minivan sputtered down the red brick road to Quenby. Fat, moss-covered oaks flanked both sides. Their long branches reached over the road and touched fingers, turning the path into a tunnel. It ended at a horizontal single-line street: Quenby Avenue. Directly opposite off was a small wooded area, but on the side was rolling farmland with the occasional cluster of trees or cattle-watering pond. Pastures and tractors blurred by as Terrence sped into the town of Adders, Georgia.

Like most deeply rooted rural towns, the main street was lined with mom-and-pop shops, home-cooked restaurants, and churches. There was a big farmer’s market stocked with plump black berries, freshly harvested vegetables, eggs, and homemade donuts. A barn-shaped building advertised line-dancing twice a week and live music. A luthier by trade, Terrence would know more about that than Evelyn. String instruments were the heart of bluegrass, country blues, and Southern rock.

Evelyn’s skill set contained tracking, surveillance, and imitation; perks that helped her make a small living as a private investigator in Detroit. Though Adders was quiet and had crisp country air, Evelyn was conflicted on which home she liked better. Detroit was hard living in their small, one-bedroom apartment. Sirens wailed through the night, and the endless climb to earn the month’s rent beat her down like a sledgehammer. Nonetheless, the two and a half weeks Evelyn spent in “quiet” Adders thrust her into more life-threatening situations and exposed her to much more horror than she ever personally saw in the Motor City.

Main Street vanished, and they were back to farmland. Down a winding road, their rusty minivan crunched gravel and sputtered to a stop at the quaint house’s long driveway. A fenced-in pasture enclosed a large area around the sides and back of the property. Within, a handful of horses grazed and galloped playfully.

Wind chimes hung on the house’s front porch. Un-mowed grass carpeted the earth. Small green bugs leapt between weeds. Evelyn and Terrence exited their cruddy minivan. They hiked up two steps and knocked on the door. Under the awning’s shade, they waited for David Pinkerton.

“You’re going to be waiting there for a long time,” a voice with a rich Southern twang yelled out. From the inside of the horse pen, David leaned on the white fence in the same way his daughter had on Quenby House’s interior’s balcony. Standing five-foot-six, David had a shaggy gray goatee, mop of black/gray hair, and drooping blue eyes. Just like their first meeting, he wore a wrinkled shirt, Levis, and mud-caked boots.

“How you doing, Mr. Pinkerton?” Terrence asked politely.

“I’ve had better days,” David replied. “Come to follow in Maxwell’s footsteps? I got a new mare that needs breaking in and will be happy to teach y’all. Won’t be free, of course.”

Evelyn bounced down the steps and approached the fence. The stench of horse dung grew stronger. “I wanted to talk about my father.”

David swatted away a fly. “Yeah, me too. After you find my daughter’s killer. That was the deal, investigator.”

“Maxwell is alive, Mr. Pinkerton,” Evelyn said, avoiding the runaround. “I saw him.” In a flash of memory, she heard the deafening shotgun blast and felt the warm blood spatter.

The old farmer eyed her suspiciously. “He visited you?”

“In a way,” Evelyn replied. “The point is, I need to find him again. You named him Zoey’s godfather. If anyone knows where he’s been hiding, it’s you.”

David tugged at his goatee. “You know our relationship went south after he fueled Zoey’s bad habits. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years. Last time you were here, you asked what I would do if I learned Zoey’s remains were found in Max’s basement. What the hell did that mean?”

“It means I need to find my father to find Zoey’s killer,” Evelyn said sternly.

David stopped resting his arms on the wooden fence and put his hands in his pockets. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he studied the clouds drifting over the blue sky. Evelyn could tell he was trying to keep a lid on his frustration, but couldn’t stop his reddening cheeks and glossy eyes.

Terrence spoke up. “We don’t want to believe Maxwell did this to your daughter, but we need to get to the bottom of this situation.”

“When you first came here,” David said, “you said that you wanted to help the restless find truth. Not for profit, but the closure for those who lost their loved ones. I respect that more than I can express. Hell, I didn’t believe there were people like that anymore. Not since I met Maxwell. A man who took other’s burdens for the simple reason that it was the right thing to do. And now, you say he killed my daughter. Maxwell and I had our differences, but I would never pin something like that on him.”

“Help us then,” Evelyn pleaded. “We find him, we learn the truth about Zoey, his disappearance, and who killed those people all those years ago.”

With glassy eyes and a heavy frown, David Pinkerton studied her for a long while. “I don’t know where to find Max, but I know someone who might.”

Evelyn crinkled her brow, listening intently.

“Your mother.”

23

The Family Name

“Who is she?” Evelyn asked as she did when she was just some ugly kid in an orphanage. Back then, she only got vague replies and pitying smiles.

A stirring of emotions twisted inside Evelyn at David’s words. She was overjoyed to hear about the woman who had brought her into this world but enraged that she had been abandoned. Many nights in her youth, Evelyn had wondered about her mother. Her first thought was that the woman was dead. Perhaps via some horrible accident, fatal disease, or some other tragedy that forced her to surrender Evelyn. A more guilty thought followed, suggesting that Evelyn had killed her during childbirth. On the few rare nights when Evelyn was able to get past those scenarios, her mind went to crueler places. Her mother had surrendered Evelyn because she hated her or the responsibilities of an unwanted child. Evelyn held spite in her heart for that one until she was much older and understood the complexities of the world and humanity. Maybe her mother was living it up in Vegas, or taking care of ten more children and couldn’t mentally or physically handle another. Evelyn could go on theorizing forever. She refocused on David Pinkerton.

“Her maiden name is Lily Copperdoe,” David explained, with grazing horses and blue skies to his back.

At the age of thirty-three, Evelyn finally learned her mother’s name. She felt her chest tighten. She didn’t expect the revelation to hit this hard. Terrence noticed and put his arm around her shoulder.

“Very pretty woman,” David reminisced. “Smart but complicated, much like my daughter.”

“What can you tell me about Lily?” Evelyn asked.

“Gossip and other things you don’t want to hear,” David replied.

“Try me,” Evelyn said.

“She was married when her and Max… you know.”

An adulteress. Wonderful. “Who was the man?”

David shook his head. “Nah uh. I promised Max I wouldn’t talk of her or the situation to anyone.”

“I’m her daughter.” Evelyn wanted to wring the guy’s neck and scream at him.

“And I’m a man of my word,” David replied.

“You’re very frustrating,” Evelyn told him. “Can you tell me where she’s at or is that off limits, too?”

David frowned at her. “I know she’s around. I don’t have an address.”

“Who can help us?” Terrence asked.

“Maxwell,” David replied.

Evelyn shook her head. “How does that work? I need Lily to find Maxwell. Not the other way around.”

“There’s definitely some flawed logic there,” Terrence interjected.  

“I don’t know what to tell you,” David replied, feeling Evelyn’s building frustration. “Lily, for lack of a better word, exiled herself after having… you.”

That was a lovely thought.

David went on. “Lily’s parents are dead now. She had no siblings. The only person that might be in contact with her is Max. That’s why she’s your best lead.”

“She’s not if we can’t find her,” Evelyn thought aloud.

David’s frown sank lower. “If I knew more, I’d tell you.”

“We appreciate everything,” Terrence said sincerely. “We’re going to head back to the house and see if we can’t make heads or tails of this.”

“Call me if you learn anything about my daughter or the man who did her in,” David said. “I’ll give you a shout if I think of anything else about Lily or Max.”

“That’s all we ask,” Terrence said, always the peacemaker.

Too lost in thought, Evelyn left David to his horses without saying another word.

The ride back was somber. For everything Evelyn learned, it still felt as if she was stuck in swamp muck. Someone would have to know where Lily went, but Evelyn was drawing blanks as to who. If she knew Lily’s husband, that could help pinpoint Lily’s location, but the man could be any of the twenty thousand locals that lived in Adders.

Evelyn pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes.  

She felt Terrence’s big hand squeeze her knee. “We’ll find her.”

I wish I shared your confidence. Evelyn propped her head against the glass. On top of all this mom stuff, she was still trying to process last night’s shootout, the phantoms lurking in her halls, and countless other issues she’d faced. “I should’ve gone after him.”

“Your dad?”

Evelyn nodded. “He was right there. I should’ve stood up and just confronted him.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Terrence replied.

Evelyn turned to him.

Terrence kept his eyes on the road. “A man’s head exploded in front of you. If you were able to play twenty questions with your pops after that, I would be seriously worried about your mental health. Personally, I would’ve been screaming and running the moment I saw Maxwell with my gun.”

“I’m glad you don’t think I’m crazy all the time,” Evelyn replied. They drove a little farther up the road. “My father was--is--meticulous in his documentation. Remember the plane tickets to Hawaii and the Quenby’s first slave receipt?”

“What are you getting at?” Terrence asked.

“Maxwell might’ve saved Lily’s address somewhere.”

“It’s worth looking into, but it’s a pretty big property for a little piece of paper.”

The Quenby Plantation consisted of twenty to twenty-five acres with multiple cabins, sheds, cotton storehouses, and other buildings. Obviously, the address would be in the house, but Evelyn didn’t want to box herself in case she didn’t find it in one of the seventeen rooms of the two point five story mansion. Not included among those was the basement and the secret room behind it where Evelyn and Terrence had found the bone pit. For such an uneventful little town, a lot had happened to Evelyn in a few weeks.  

It was late in the morning when they got home. A line of birds lingered on the mansion’s truncated roof. The most curious aspect of the articular design was that the domed ceiling in the foyer was not visible on the exterior. It must’ve jutted out in the attic, behind a wall somewhere.

While Terrence flipped grilled cheese on the stovetop, Evelyn drew a rough sketch of the house and labeled the rooms accordingly. Her doodle was painfully amateur, but readable. Somewhat.

She started in the most obvious place: her father’s secret study. The hall leading outside of the kitchen had windows on one wall and a series of large oil paintings on the other. Apart from the first, which showed the beautiful blonde Scandinavian woman, the other dozen and half portraits displayed the various patriarchs of the Quenby family. There were men with dark hair, dark eyes, some with strong jaws and others with big noses. A few were gaunt and skeletal while others were pudgy and inclined to plumpness.

One in particular had the cotton gin painted behind the subject's head. It was through that clue that Evelyn found the key to unlock her father’s secret study behind the painting itself a while back.

Evelyn stopped before the gaping hole in the middle of the wall and cringed at the estimated repair cost. When Stephen Doyle had invaded the house on the night that changed Evelyn’s life, he took an axe to the portrait and wall before charging through the three-foot-wide wooden corridor to do the same to the door beyond whose lock was broken long before Evelyn showed up. To survive, Evelyn followed Mary’s instructions to dive into the trapdoor beneath the desk. That landed Evelyn and Terrence in a hidden bone pit where she met the other five phantoms.

Evelyn slithered inside of the small, dusty room. There were piles of old books spilling out of a dusty bookcase, a big mahogany desk, an old globe with an orangish tint, a rusty bedframe and lived-in mattress, and dirty plates, cups, and silverware. There were antiques and Antebellum-era toys as well.

Evelyn had searched inside the desk before where she found documents that had survived since the house’s inception in 1827. That was back when Adders was still a trading post. More significantly, Evelyn had discovered the drafts to Maxwell’s will. She had unballed them and put them in a neat stack inside the upper drawer. The top one started with, “To my beloved, in a less cruel world, we could’ve been together. It was never my desire to send you away, but sometimes sacrifices must be made for your safety and for mine. I write to you with my final breath. Come home...”

Evelyn held the paper close to her chest. After a moment, she put it back on top of the stack and sifted through the rest of the old documents. No address for Lily. She searched under the bed, in the slit in the mattress, inside the small drawer in the lamp stand, and in every other nook and cranny in the room. Fruitless, she reminded herself of the palm-sized notebook she had discovered in a hidden compartment within the desk drawer. She flipped through pages of misspelled names, unsure if there were some sort of code or Maxwell was drunk when he wrote them. There was one blank page a third of the way through, but the page following it had a list of dates and locations. Six in all, and each coinciding with one of the victims found in the basement. Even Mary Sullivan, whose remains were ash somewhere on Quenby land. Evelyn didn’t know why her father had this. It would’ve been no surprise that he heard of the murders during his time, but to catalogue them was a little suspicious.

Evelyn ventured upstairs to the main study: a room that was much larger and lined with tall bookshelves, chairs with cracked leather cushions, and a number of wilted flowers that decorated the windowsills and tabletops. She searched that desk too, but found more useless documents. Disappointed in the lack of results, Evelyn returned to the kitchen and ate her grilled cheese, which was cold now. She found Terrence hunched over in the pantry. The wooden slat covering the long crawlspace was open.

“Hey,” Evelyn said.

Terrence pulled his head out of the crawlspace and turned back to her.

“What are you doing?” Evelyn asked.

“I was thinking of a way to seal it up,” Terrence declared. “If Stephen Doyle could sneak in here, who else can?”

Terrence had a good point. The serial killer who dumped the bodies in the basement either dropped them through one of the multiple hidden chutes or carried them through the secret dirt tunnel that connected the shed and the basement.

“Whenever you’re finished, you’re invited to help me look for Lily’s address.”

Terrence cracked a smile. “That sounds like it’s more than a suggestion.”

Evelyn shrugged and continued her search in the master bedroom. She opened up every drawer on the jewelry dresser and, at the sight of their emptiness, ran her hand up her hair. It seemed like her father had nothing of Lily’s, and Evelyn wondered if their relationship was as shallow as a one-night stand. Romantic, Evelyn thought sarcastically.

The grueling search grew tiresome. She followed the upstairs hall to a closed door and opened it. It was a small corridor with a stairway that folded in on itself. The top step entered directly into the attic. As she ascended, the hotter and darker the room became. Grabbing aimlessly, she snatched up the beaded light string and gave it a good tug.

Flickering two or three times, the dim light illuminated the attic. The ceiling was much lower and crooked nails spiked out of the wood. Cardboard boxes had fallen in on themselves and naked, milk-skinned mannequins were standing around. There were at least seven or eight of them, all female.

There were two upright posts connected at the top by a horizontal pole. Women’s dresses from different eras hung on the horizontal pole via metal coat hangers. Old rectangular suitcases from a bygone era sat at the base. Evelyn approached them, curious about any shared connection with her mother. The floor creaked beneath her feet. Dusty marbles hugged the wall, hinting at an uneven surface.

Coat hangers screeched against metal pole as Evelyn slid them over one by one. The dresses they held were marvelously beautiful. From a flowing, golden-yellow empire-waist dress to a tight, dark-violet maxi, each of the twelve dresses boasted a different design and color. A small tag was clipped on the dress’s chest area, labeling each with a different month. September, October, November, etc. Tacked onto the rack itself was a small note that opened like a little folder. In fine cursive, it read “To Lily, a dress for every season.”

Evelyn cracked a small smile. Perhaps Maxwell was a romantic. Then she remembered Stephen’s death and felt sick to her core. Evelyn glanced about the room and rubbed her damp forehead. The attic grew muggier by the minute. She wondered if all the items inside were gifts to her mother.

With her fingers, she popped open the latches of an old travel trunk and found it stuffed full of wrinkled women’s shirts and pants from the seventies. Evelyn closed it and took a step back. She examined more suitcases and luggage bags, finding clothing from all different sizes and eras, the oldest being a flapper dress. These must be from all the Quenby ladies. Most of the articles were expensive and a few were custom-fitted. If this were a Goodwill, Evelyn would be having a field day. Then she remembered the estate and all its contents were hers now. Or were they? Now that Maxwell was proven alive, what did that mean for the inheritance?

Evelyn felt conscientious about disturbing the various items. If Maxwell wanted the estate, why would he leave it to me? Nonetheless, Evelyn put the dresses back and hiked to the back of the attic. The farther she went, the darker and hotter the long room became. The light from the dim bulb struggled to reach this far and caused a long shadow to grow out of Evelyn and the surrounding coat stands.

Evelyn blinked, feeling salty sweat stinging her eye. To clear up her vision, she wiped her eyes with her moist hands. It barely helped. A nearby hat stand wobbled.

Evelyn froze. Her pulse quickened.

“Hello?” she called out.

No response.

A shadow grew under her feet and stretched out beside her own.

Raspy breathing filled her ear. Its rank stench violated Evelyn’s nose.

Dreadfully, Evelyn clenched her fist and turned back.

Only dresses, suitcases, and mannequins.

Beneath the lightbulb, the beaded string swayed.

Evelyn held her breath and scanned her surroundings.

No one.

Cautiously, she turned back around to the far end of the basement.

With cold dead eyes, a naked fat man stared at her. He had a saggy chest, stretch marks, and what stood out more than his misshapen head and horrible underbite was the massive horizontal slash across his belly. Red organs and other disgusting gore slowly leaked out of the open flesh

Evelyn took a step back.

The man breathed heavily. The corner of his upper lip twitched.

Staring down the fat man, Evelyn collected herself.

“Winslow?” Evelyn asked.

The man bared his big teeth into what could barely be considered a smile.

“What are you doing up here?” Evelyn asked. Out of all the phantoms, Evelyn had communicated with him the least of all, but Evelyn remembered what he showed her when she asked to see how the phantoms had died. Winslow, in his 40s though looking much younger, was strung up by his wrists, stripped, and had his belly opened with a knife used to cut cattle meat. Evelyn felt wheezy thinking about it.

Winslow turned around and waddled to the back corner of the room. Evelyn stayed where she was, unable to calm her heart. You’re here to help these people. There’s nothing to be scared of. Evelyn put on a hard face but couldn’t shake her uneasiness.

Winslow returned with a turquoise necklace on a silver chain and presented it in his massive hand.

“For me?” Evelyn asked.

The naked man nodded.

Gingerly, Evelyn accepted the gift.  

Winslow “smiled” again and waddled to another part of the attic.

Evelyn studied the necklace and the three little gems dangling from it, unsure what to make of it. She pocketed it and wondered what other hidden treasures lay within. Evelyn traveled deeper into the attic.

Surrounded by odd and end furnishings, a circular wooden pedestal sat against the far wall. An old leather-bound tome rested at its center. The lamp with a stained-glass shade sat at the pedestal’s base. Cautious, Evelyn approached. With her palm, she brushed away the sheen of dust on the book’s cover. Written in black ink, the title read, “Quenby.”

Evelyn turned the fat book in her hand. A leather strap with a tiny rusty keyhole sealed the book’s pages. Evelyn gave a good pull. That didn’t get her anywhere. She glanced around the pedestal and surrounding floor for a key. Nothing.

“Eve,” Terrence called out as he hiked up the stairs. “Sorry it took me so long. You up here?”

“Yeah,” Evelyn shouted back.

Terrence got to the top of the stairs.

“Hey,” Evelyn said, still studying the book.  “Can you get my lock-picking tools and the house key from the bedroom?”

Terrence opened his mouth to say something. Instead, he slumped his shoulders and obeyed. He returned moments later and gave her the necessary items. Evelyn tried the key. It was just a little too big. She relied her on lock-picking tools instead. After a moment of fiddling with the lock, it gave way. Terrence leaned over Evelyn’s shoulder as she opened the front cover.

That musty, old book smell wafted from the ancient pages. To Evelyn’s surprise, a yellow Post-It note was stuck to the front page. It began with the word “Evelyn.”

Terrence and his wife exchanged looks. They started reading again. “I’m sure you’ve realized that there was no key to this book. In all honesty, I purposely hid it from you.”

“Why would he do that?” Terrence interrupted.

Evelyn shushed him. “Let’s keep reading.”

“If you’re like me, a curious sort, you’ve found a way to access these pages anyway. Thusly, you’ve earned your reward. Since Cecilia, our greatest ancestor, arrived on the shores of America…”

Evelyn turned the sticky note over.

“She made clear documentation of our family's history. As per tradition, the following heads of Quenby were required to add their account as well. Your origin lies within these pages, Evelyn. Kill your ignorance. Read it and see what it means to be a Quenby. In doing so, you’ll see who I am and learn the truth about your mother.”

“Whoa,” Terrence said. “Lucky find.”

Evelyn glanced at the pedestal. “It wasn’t luck. Maxwell wanted me to find this.”

They moved downstairs to read the book more. The pages had a yellow tint and were thin. Prone to tearing. The first page started with Cecilia Hagan and the murder of her family.

Born into a wealthy Norwegian manor during the Napoleonic invasion of 1802, Cecilia spent her early years locked away and eating rationed food as the war had brought a great famine to Norway. With a sickly father and mentally unbalanced mother, Cecilia’s one hope was to marry another noble and share the wealth and food stores. At fourteen, after the war had ended but her family still suffered, she married Erik Eriksen, a handsome but abusive man. One night, before a great family feast, Cecilia went on a horse ride through the meadows beside her manor. However, a snake scared her steed and it bucked her off. Cecilia awoke where she fell during a great storm that night. Lost and cold, she staggered back home and found her mother, father, husband, and his relatives dead at the dinner table, their heads in pools of their own blood.

Poisoned, the investigators believed.

For two years, she lived alone as a widow and the only survivor of her family in those cursed halls until a stranger came to visit. He was a lowly Englishman from a small house that was destroyed during the war. He claimed that he was passing through the area and needed lodging for the night. Pitying him, Cecilia allowed him to stay. While they were together, Cecilia realized how lonely she had been. She could sense the man’s loneliness, too, and in what could only be described as love at first sight, Cecilia consummated their relationship on the night of their first meeting. The man stayed with her, teaching her English and speaking of prospects overseas. Cecilia, tired of living in halls stained with blood, grabbed her money and lover then headed to America. Under the man’s guidance, they bought a large plot of land away from the rest of the world. The man personally oversaw the building of the plantation. His name was Abel Quenby, and Cecilia never met his family.

In her writing, Cecilia described Abel as a quiet and patient man who always seemed to show up at just the right moment. Feeling cursed by her family’s demise, Cecilia didn’t allow them to marry until she was gray and full of years, thus the Quenby name lived on and Hagan died away. Cecilia’s final account read as follows. “With his usual kind smile, Abel brought me a gift to celebrate our two year anniversary. A fine Norwegian wine coated in dust. I remembered its vintage as the same one my family drank during their final feast.”

The next account began with their eldest son Alistair Quenby and his discovery of hidden passages in the walls. “My father built something here,” Alistair described. “Much grander than I could’ve imagined. The purposes of such tunnels, I know not, and when I confronted him about it, he took a switch to me as he did the slaves each morning. I will not confront him again.” Alistair proceeded by listing the locations of such tunnels.

The pantry, all five bedrooms, two of the three bathrooms, the lounge, the billiard room, the study, dining room, living room, the foyer, the art room, and the nursery. In summary, fifteen out of seventeen rooms. The only ones that didn’t have passages was the downstairs bathroom, second extra living room, and the upstairs hallway.

Evelyn lowered the old, leather-bound book. “What the hell?”

“I don’t know if this is the coolest thing we’ve discovered or the most terrifying,” Terrence replied.

 Evelyn glanced around the foyer, and it suddenly seemed much larger and intimidating. On the domed ceiling from which the chandelier hung, painted angels with cracked faces, little smiles, and golden trumpets watched them with lifeless eyes.

“Does it say how to access them?” Terrence asked.

Evelyn skimmed over the following pages, careful not to tear them. “It does not.” She glanced at the book's three-inch girth. “At least not right here.”

“I say we explore,” Terrence suggested. “But first…”

He rushed upstairs and returned a moment later wearing his seventy-dollar white cowboy hat.

Evelyn raised a brow.

“Every great detective has their hat. Besides, if we weren’t having little fun, we’d probably be in a mental hospital.”

Evelyn pondered the statement. He did make a good point.

They started with the master bedroom. They pulled the paintings off the walls and pushed aside the wardrobe. Terrence searched under the bed. Evelyn searched behind the dresser. They brushed their hands over the wall, feeling for hidden switches. Minutes rolled by. Evelyn’s index finger found a depression behind the wallpaper.

“Terrence,” she beckoned him over.

He felt it too. “That could be it.”

Evelyn pursed her lips, wondering if she wanted to tear open the wallpaper on a guess. Terrence poked it, trying to test if it was a clear hole or just a depression in the wood.

Pop. His finger punched through it and his body went tense. Slowly, he turned to Evelyn with a guilty expression. “Oops.”

Evelyn crossed her arms.

Terrence slowly removed his finger from the wallpaper. Evelyn gestured for him to step aside while she peeked in. She saw blankness and sniffed dust. Terrence grabbed a flashlight and shined it within. There was a two or three-foot gap between it and the other wall. The rusty nails within were bent down to keep whoever traveled within from harm.

“How do we get in?” Terrence asked.

Evelyn tried to get a better look at the tight corridor but could not.

“I don’t know,” she admitted and turned back to see the peephole aligned with the canopied bed. Classy, Evelyn thought.

They moved to the bathroom in search of another breach there. No peephole, which was good news. Upon trying to move the mirror, Terrence discovered it was built into the wall. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Two-way mirror,” Evelyn replied.

Terrence shuddered. “Why would he build this stuff? To watch his own family?”

Evelyn perused the old tome as they walked the hall and into the next bedroom. Terrence ran his hand across the wall, feeling for more depressions.

“Listen to this,” Evelyn said, resting the heavy book in her hand. “When I came of age, my father told me that any man can make money, but information is where true power lies. The realization dawned on me as to why he hosted so many gatherings with local and foreign businessmen. To learn of their secrets and trap them with it. That was written by Harvard Quenby, son of Alistair, in 1867.”

“So they were using these before the civil war,” Terrence thought aloud. “I bet it kept them afloat after the Confederacy fell.”

“Precisely.” Evelyn said. “Judging by what is written in the following pages, the Quenbys were advocates of the Southern cause and had ties to many Confederate states.”

Terrence absorbed the information with a serious face. “How did they treat their… you know?”

Taking a breath, Evelyn skimmed through the following pages. “Not well.”

“How bad?”

Evelyn read the description. “Very. After the war ended, they didn’t want to let them go, but the law prevented the Quenbys from keeping them. It says they grabbed guns and lined them out in the field. Told them that if they wanted freedom, they’d have to run for it.”

Averting his eyes, Terrence nodded to himself and went back to his search.

Evelyn closed the book and set it aside before joining her husband in his searching. They found hints of a hollow wall but avoided making another hole in the wallpaper. They tried the guest bathroom. The mirror there was also built into the wall. Despite all those, Evelyn had not discovered a doorway. Perhaps the crawlspace in their kitchen went through the whole house? She made a deal with herself to check out the billiard room before destroying the work Terrence put into securing the crawlspace.

The billiard room didn’t fit with the rest of the house. It was cramped with old arcade cabinets, pachinko machines, and noisy carnival games with lots of lightbulbs. 1980s electronic devices that had been gutted for their parts sat on top of the pool table. Terrence flipped the light switch. A wave of arcade music, distorted electronic buzzing, and flashing lights screamed to life. Overwhelmed by the noise, Terrence toggled the switch again. The mansion fell silent. Evelyn found the old power brick and unplugged the various machines. She nodded at Terrence. He flipped the switch. This time only the lights came on.

Terrence wandered through. “This is some pretty cool stuff, though.”

“I guess,” Evelyn replied.

Terrence rapped his knuckles on one of the dusty arcade cabinets. “We should take one of these back to Detroit with us.”

“If it can fit in the van,” Evelyn replied.

Terrence willfully ignored the comment. “Your dad must either be a collector or had the best childhood any boy could ask for.”

Evelyn was glad they were back to talking about less serious things. Evelyn’s family weren’t saints. When she was an orphan, that didn’t matter to her. But the more she learned, the more the Quenby history became a part of her. As a woman who paved her own way, Evelyn didn’t know what to think about it. Was it her blood that defined her or her actions? She always thought it was the latter, but, thinking back to her life decisions and morally-flexible early adult years, she wondered how much of her choices were influenced by her ancestors’ genetic breadcrumbs

“Come over here,” Terrence said.

Evelyn followed his voice to the back of the room and found him standing before an arcade cabinet. Carved onto its side were the words “to the book reader.”

“You think Maxwell wrote that for you?” Terrence asked.

Evelyn squatted down and brushed her thumb over the words. He had used a knife to carve it. “Help me push it.”

Terrence and Evelyn pressed on one side of the cabinet and pushed. Their faces went red and Terrence’s forehead vein bulged. After a moment, they gave up.

“It must be nailed to the ground or something.” Terrence rubbed his shoulder.

Evelyn crouched in front of the cabinet and found a small knob on its front. She twisted and pulled it. With a click, it opened to the inside of the arcade machine. Behind the jungle of loose wires was a square hole that led into the wall and the dark corridor beyond. On her hands and knees, Evelyn squeezed inside. She found herself inside of the two-and-a-half-foot wide tunnel that was unpainted and filled with countless bent nails on both sides. Broad shouldered, Terrence could barely fit. With a grimace and a determined spirit, he made it into the walls.

Dust particles circled and danced through the air. Like thin white hair, stringy cobwebs stirred in the soft breeze. The corridor went both left and right. “Do you want to split up?” Evelyn asked.

“I don’t think I’m ready to die.”

Sliding sideways, Evelyn navigated the uncomfortable tunnel using the flashlight. She found a little cubby where she could peek into the guest bathroom. There was a double-sided mirror. They traveled the tunnel and reached another two-way mirror in the master bedroom.

“I feel creepy,” Terrence said.

“Me too,” Evelyn admitted.

They heard scurrying behind them. Terrence and Evelyn turned back in time to see the massive rat zigzagging beneath their legs and vanish in the darkness of the tunnel.

Terrence cursed and shuddered. “Yeah, I don’t like this place.”

Like the attic, the hidden corridor seemed to trap heat. As she moved through the upstairs, she felt like she was in a microwave. Terrence wasn’t faring much better. They reached a vertical shaft that descended into the ground floor staircase and climbed to the attic. Evelyn leading, she put her hands on the foot-long rungs and lowered herself into the darkness. She held the flashlight between her teeth. Her shoulders knocked against the shaft’s wall. Halfway down, a rung spun under her foot and she slid to the bottom. The impact sent a burst of pain up her feet and ankles.

“You good?” Terrence asked with concern.

“Uh huh.” Evelyn winced and took the flashlight from her mouth. Her teeth hurt from biting down on it.

Terrence began his careful descent.

Evelyn stepped away from the shaft and flashed light down the corridor.

A shadowy figure watched at the very end.

“Winslow?”

The figure didn’t reply. He seemed to be at the far end of the corridor.

“Zoey? Peter? Barker?” Evelyn called out.

“What is it,” Terrence’s muffled yell came down the shaft.

“I can’t tell,” Evelyn replied, looking at the stationary figure. “Let me back up there,” Evelyn whispered to Terrence.

“I’m stuck,” Terrence replied.

Evelyn watched the figure, seeing if he would step into her light.

He didn’t move.

“Whoever you are, I demand you show yourself!” Evelyn’s shout traveled down the dark tunnel.

The figure said nothing. It stood as still as a statue.

“Terrence,” Evelyn barked.

“I’m trying!”

The figure took a step forward.

Evelyn took one back.

“I’m… almost… up. I’m up,” Terrence yelled down the shaft.

Evelyn took another step back.

The figure took a step forward.

Evelyn lifted her foot to back up again when the figure charged her.

Before Evelyn could twist back to the rungs, the man was standing right in front of her. He wore all black and had on a featureless white mask.

Evelyn cursed aloud. “Andrew. You scared the crap out of me.”

The masked figure looked down at her through the button-sized eyeholes.

“Your family is gone. You need to leave this place,” Evelyn said, much crueler than she had anticipated.

Andrew reached out his gloved hand. Evelyn’s back hit the ladder's bottom rung. The man’s fingers moved toward her cheek. Evelyn swiped at his hand, but it phased through.

“Stop. Now.” Evelyn demanded.

“Hey, what’s happening?” Terrence yelled from above her.

“It’s Andrew, he’s…”

With a slightly cocked head, Andrew kept on reaching until he was an inch from her cheek. Evelyn pulled her head back as far she could, knowing he could grab her and she couldn’t resist.

Evelyn felt her hair stand and the presence of his finger a centimeter from her skin. Without warning, Andrew Doyle was sucked backwards. He reached both hands out to Evelyn as some invisible force pulled him away. He vanished.

Evelyn collected herself as she bounced the flashlight beam through the claustrophobic corridor.

“What the hell was he doing?” Terrence asked.

“I don’t know,” Evelyn replied. She felt a dreadful feeling gathering in her stomach. Andrew Doyle is trapped here forever and he knows that... Evelyn didn’t know why, but that thought sent shivers her spine. She looked up at Terrence. “Come on. Let’s keep exploring.”

“You sure?”

“No, but we’ll do it anyway,” Evelyn replied dryly, and gave Terrence room to climb down.

As they moved through the ground floor, Evelyn found multiple places to spy into the foyer. Two holes were cut in the carpeted curved steps, allowing the peeper to look out at who was coming and going. There were a few more behind certain paintings. Evelyn realized that the compilation of vantage points created a full canvas of the foyer. There were little strings that ran up through little holes drilled into the corridor above. By pulling them, a little bell in the upstairs corridor jingled. Evelyn theorized they were for communication with the people upstairs, possibly to warn them when a guest was coming up. If they were stealing blackmail material from the guest rooms, it made sense that they’d want to have certain safety measures in place.

“Sorry it took me so long,” a voice said.

Evelyn and Terrence directed their attention to Peter Calhoon, seventeen-year-old varsity football player. He was a handsome kid with a dimpled chin, nice smile, and a varsity jacket. Bound for the big leagues, Peter’s father had told Evelyn. That was before his throwing hand was removed with a meat cleaver and he bled out on the spot.

“You startled us, man,” Terrence said.

“I had to make sure Andrew was gone,” Peter admitted. “He hasn’t been the same since Mary left.”

“It’s only been a day,” Evelyn replied.

“Yep. We’re all glad she got out, but it hurts too. I liked that girl. Treated her like a sister.”

“You’ll join her soon,” Evelyn declared. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Thanks. All of us are pretty anxious to go home, wherever that may be.”

Peter seemed like a normal kid if not for the bloody stump at his right wrist. Evelyn remembered seeing his death through a vision he gave her. He was bound to a wooden chair in the middle of a hay field. It only took one brutal swipe at his wrist to kill him. Evelyn still had no clue why the killer used different methods on his victims. Old man Barker was forced to drink chlorine, naked Winslow had his gut cut open, Peter lost his hand, sultry and curvy Alannah’s throat was slit, and goth Zoey was impaled by a spike in the back of her skull.

“Thanks for the assist with Andrew,” Evelyn said.  

“I’ll keep y’all safe.” Peter said. “I got to make sure our MVPs finish the game.”

Peter said his goodbye and vanished down the corridor.

Evelyn and Terrence kept sliding through the tight space until they reached the lounge area. The tunnel moved in a U-shape around the back of the brick fireplace. Terrence discovered a wooden sliding hatch nearby. It opened the back of a bookshelf and offered a view between two books that leaned together like a right triangle. Wearing the jade green dress that accentuated her hourglass figure, Alannah danced alone in the center of the room. Her sultry green eyes were shut, and her lips were plumps and red. Blood seeped from the opening in her throat down into her bosom.

Barker, gray-haired and wearing a sweater vest, took a puff on his pipe. Crimson leaked from his lower lip and down his chin. He wiped it away with the top of his hand.

Alannah opened an eye and looked at him. “Sure you don’t want to join me?”

Barker flashed his wedding ring. “Taken.”

Alannah smiled wickedly. “What happened to till death do us part, darling?”

Barker placed his Sherlock pipe on the corner of his thin lips. “How many years have you been trying that line on me?”

“Too many,” Alannah said and kept dancing.

“You make a good point, though.”

“I know, darling, but you’ll still say no.”

“Aye. I will.” Barker replied. “I got two left feet anyhow.”  

Terrence backed away and found Evelyn glaring at him. “You can’t still be mad that she made me touch her whatever,” he said.

“I might be,” Evelyn said.

Terrence’s shoulders sank.

Evelyn cracked a smile.

“You’re teasing me?” Terrence asked with uncertainty.

“Maybe,” Evelyn replied.

Terrence opened his mouth like he was going to speak but then thought better of it.

Sometimes it was funny watching him squirm.

Evelyn continued around the back of the brick fireplace when she noticed an envelope nailed into the brick. Carefully, she removed the loose nail and opened the envelope. Inside was a small piece of paper.

“You’ve come this far,” the note read. “Go to pages sixty-four and twenty-eight.”

“Come on, let’s find a way out of here,” Evelyn told Terrence. It took them a while, but they found their way back to the billiard room. Evelyn didn’t doubt that there were other exits, but she didn’t have time to look for them now. Evelyn sighed when she got out of the wall. Dust covered her head-to-toe and her clothes were soaked with sweat. Terrence got two glasses of water while Evelyn searched for the appropriate page number.

Following Maxwell’s instructions, she went to page sixty-four. Marian Quenby authored this portion in 1901. “I wanted additions to the basement, so I added them. I wanted to use the chute in the basement’s ceiling for something more than a place for dropping pickpocketed items, so I changed their function. After completing the tunnel, I was able to begin my work. It would be easy to bring the animals inside now and far easier to dispose of them.”

“What was he doing there?” Terrence asked.

Evelyn got a hunch and pulled up the web browsers on her phone. She researched early Adders newspapers and found a photocopy of what she was looking for: an article titled “severed hands and feet found outside of town. Bodies never recovered.”

“You don’t think…” Terrence voice.

“Maybe. I’m more concerned as to why Maxwell wanted us to see this page.”

“The phantoms said Maxwell was innocent.”

“They think he’s innocent,” Evelyn corrected. “They said that they could not look directly at their killer.”

Terrence said soberly. “There’s a lot of death surrounding this house and your family.”

“Tell me about it.” Evelyn massaged her forehead. “We need to find my mother.”

Page twenty-eight mentioned the addition of statues in the backyard. That was where Evelyn and Terrence went next.

The sun was falling. Their search had eaten up most of their day. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked. Side by side, Evelyn and Terrence walked behind Quenby House. There were a number of raised gardens, overflowing with an unhealthy mixture of weeds and flowers. Nearby, different stone benches and statues stood about. Most of the statues were of men with their chins up high, with stone leaves to hide their private parts. There were a few women, too. Between two trees, a stone slab sported both a man and a woman, looking into each other’s stone eyes and grasping each other’s hands. Thin moss spotted their gray skin. Vines snaked up their legs.  The woman’s face had a crack down the middle while the man was short a nose. The whole scene was romantic in a creepy way.

Evelyn opened up the book and kept reading page twenty-eight. “I added The Lovers last,” Jonah Quenby penned. “A visage of my wife that I eternally immortalized in stone. Though she may be gone from this world, I remain, and so will these stones.”

Evelyn glanced around the backyard, trying to figure out what her father wanted her to find. She walked around the statues, studying their rock faces that the years had faded. In the back was a copper plaque that had turned green over the years. “The Lovers,” it read. Evelyn noticed that the screws were loose. She didn’t need to tell Terrence to get the screwdriver. He was already on his way.

He returned and made quick work of removing the plaque. An airtight lockbox sat in the stone indentation. Evelyn popped it open, revealing another note.

“You’ve seen the fruit of our family. Death, lies, and ruin. I aimed to change that. To give you a better life. As you know, fate had different plans. This statue is where I professed my love to your mother. Our relationship was not orthodox, but I vowed to make it work. To start a family and to right the wrongs my ancestors had committed.

“I failed.

“Listed below is your mother’s address. If you wish to know more heartache, visit her. If you want to be done with this mess, be done. Evelyn, you are your own woman. Make your choice and live with the consequences. -- Maxwell.”

24

Tattered Hearts

Terrence stayed home as Evelyn requested.

“See if you can’t learn more about Bella Day and the others,” Evelyn told him as she climbed into the minivan.

“Eve, you don’t need to do this alone,” Terrence reminded her.

“She is my mother. I should be the one to confront her,” Evelyn said with determination.

Terrence held her upper arms softly and gazed into her eyes. The shadow of The Lovers’ statue cast over them. “I don’t want you to shoulder this burden alone. After all we’ve been through, it doesn’t seem right.”

Evelyn studied her husband’s tired and well-structured face. Hints of stubble painted his dark, gaunt cheeks. “The people in this town don’t like me, but they might like you. Reach out to any of your contacts in that band you met and research old newspapers for anything that points to someone other than Maxwell as our killer.”

Lips pursed, Terrence nodded. He gave her a strong hug. “I wish you luck with your mother.”

“Thank you,” Evelyn said quietly. Not accepting Terrence’s support nagged at her, but her mind was set.

“I’ll pick up a new cell phone and text you the number. Make sure we’re on the same page if anything happens,” Terrence declared.

After a moment, Evelyn separated herself from him, took a quick shower to wash the dust off her, and then got dressed in her black double-breasted raincoat, dark jeans, and heelless boots. From the second-story balcony, Terrence waved her goodbye as the rusted minivan putted down the red brick path.

Lily Copperdoe, Evelyn thought with a smirk as the small farm town of Adders vanished behind her. What a name.

It was a grueling and anxious two-hour drive to Montezuma, Georgia. Blooming from a few families in the 1950s, Montezuma had a population of thirteen hundred plus residences. It made Adders look big in comparison. Passing through the historic downtown flanked by interconnected brick buildings and out beyond the town’s borders, Evelyn found the doublewide trailer. The decorated building was tucked in the deep woods, up a winding dirt road running by rushing creek spotted with mossy rocks. Large gardens were planted on either side of the trailer. One garden produced peppers, carrots, cabbage, and other vegetables while the other had mint, oregano, and various leafy herbs. By the way the trees seemed to encircle the trailer, it seemed like this place was built deliberately away from the clutches of society.

Evelyn parked beside the tarp-covered Harley Davison motorcycle. She stepped out, listening to the sounds and cries of unseen birds. Dead bugs swirled in the shallow water of the metal birdbath. From end to end, hand-painted sunflowers decorated the trailer’s front wall. The yellow petals were misshapen and the green stems bent and leaned in different directions. Still, there was something enduring about the artistic imperfections.  

The isolation, the gardens, and artistry told a tale of the owner’s disconnection to the world.

Evelyn knocked on the door, waiting to see if her mother truly lived here or if the ten-year-old address was a bust.

Locks clicked. A loose knob jiggled.

Hands in her coat pockets, Evelyn watched the door open.

The woman who stepped out was short and skinny with a strong posture and faded jean jacket over a tucked-in gray shirt. She had long and wiry gray hair that tumbled down her shoulders and ended at a point on her back. She had a hard leather face with timeless blue eyes amplified by black eyeliner. She looked Evelyn up and down, seeing if her guest had something to prove. After a brief moment, the homeowner’s look changed from an uninvited glare to a respectable acknowledgement of a fellow woman who had also visibly walked a hard life.  

“Are you Lily Copperdoe?” Evelyn asked.

The homeowner squinted at her. “Who are you, girl?”

Evelyn flashed her P.I. license. “Evelyn Carr. I’m looking for Mrs. Copperdoe. Does she live here?”

“What do you want with her?” the woman asked suspiciously.

“That’s a private matter,” Evelyn replied, a little harsher than she had intended.

“In my experience, people with secrets aren’t to be trusted,” The women stated.

Evelyn didn’t know why she hesitated to say, but she did. “I’m her daughter. My maiden name is Quenby.”

The woman’s face went stark white. She tripped over her words and decided not to speak. Without warning, she wrapped toned arms around Evelyn and squeezed her tightly. Evelyn tensed up. She kept her arms off the strange woman. A confusing barrage of fear, anger, and joy hit Evelyn at once.

“I never thought I’d see you come home,” the woman said.

Remembering all the years spent lost and alone, Evelyn pried the stranger from her body.

Shocked by Evelyn’s resistance, the woman took a step back. “I’m Lily. Your...”

“Yeah,” Evelyn replied. “We need to talk. Inside, preferably.”

The tough woman blinked the glossiness from her eyes and recomposed herself. She stepped aside and allowed Evelyn to enter.

The house smelled of wet paint masked by cinnamon and other natural spices. A clear tarp covered the living room floor. An easel stood at the center. Paint of all colors and density splattered the white canvas: it was the beginning of some interpretive piece of art. Not only did artwork hang on the walls, but even the interior of the house was uniquely painted. One wall displayed a massive field of swaying wheat stalks. Another showed an indigo sky speckled with stars and a crescent moon. The third had tall evergreen trees blanketed by rolling vistas in the sunset. All were beautiful, unique, and imperfect. Evelyn found herself gawking. Even the ceiling had been painted with spiraling birds of different breeds and colors.

Flowers and cacti lined the windowsill. Dripping paint cans stained the wooden tabletop. More paint drops hardened on the carpet floor.

Lily leaned in the doorway, with her arms across her chest and a sincere but crooked smile on her tanned face. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Evelyn admitted. Standing in this drab trailer, she felt lost in another world.

“I reckon you won’t ever again,” Lily bragged. “Count yourself lucky. Only a handful has ever seen my work.”

Apart from the disturbing mural Evelyn painted during a blackout, she struggled to draw a stick figure. If this work was truly her mother’s, Evelyn counted herself impressed.

Lily walked inside and closed the door. She headed for the dented refrigerator and pulled out a foggy plastic pitcher. “Tea? It ain’t that sweet stuff, but it’ll stain your teeth all the same. Grew the leaves myself.”

“I’m alright,” Evelyn replied, studying the walls.

“Well, too bad.” The woman filled two cups anyway.

She handed one to Evelyn, who cautiously accepted. Lily gestured to the wall painting of the swaying wheat. “That’s my first. Truth be told, I got my inspiration from Quenby’s hay field. Most of the art came from places I won’t return to but are still worth remembering. I should show you around back. Have you hike the trail I cleared last spring. You’ll like it.”

Evelyn turned to the woman. “We’re suppose to bond now like nothing’s ever happened? You put me up for adoption and provided no means of contacting you. Not even your name.”

A look of conviction flooded over Lily. It only lasted a second, then her normal hard demeanor returned. “You’re naive if you believe the world is black and white, and every decision a mother makes is clear cut.”

“You see yourself as my mother?”

“I got the scars to prove it,” Lily argued.

“You weren’t there,” Evelyn barked, feeling years of pent-up rage boil over. “You never made an effort. You know what that’s like? Feeling unwanted? Neglected for all those years?”

“Don’t be a drama queen,” Lily said. “You’re a stronger woman for it.”

“Stronger?” Evelyn chuckled in frustration. “I didn’t want to be stronger. I wanted a family.”

Lily shut her mouth, averted her eyes, and took a sip of her bitter tea. Evelyn paced a few steps away and faced one of the walls. She closed her eyes and listened to her rage-filled heart. It was not like how she had imagined the overdue family reunion, and she didn’t know why her emotions were all out of whack. Family. That’s why.

“I’m sorry,” Lily struggled to admit. “I know those words don’t mean much from an old woman you just met, but it’s all I have to give you. Unlike your father, I’m not George Vanderbilt.”

“Where is Maxwell?” Evelyn asked, back still turned to the stranger.

“That’s a long story,” Lily said. “One I’ll tell, if you answer my questions.”

With red-rimmed eyes, Evelyn twisted back to the woman. “You had thirty-four years to ask me anything.”

“Thirty-three,” Lily corrected. “Your birthday is not until the fourteenth of next month.”

Evelyn was taken aback by that.

“What? You don’t think I’d remember the day I brought you into this world? You were an ugly, pink screamer.”

Evelyn gnashed her teeth.

“I didn’t want to let you go,” Lily finished.

“But you did,” Evelyn replied.

“I did,” the woman said.

The two women stood in silence. The soft hum of the window air-conditioner echoed through the doublewide trailer.

“Answer one of my questions, I answer one of yours. Deal?” Evelyn reluctantly negotiated.

“Deal,” Lily agreed. “But I’m asking first.”

Evelyn unclenched her fists in her coat pocket and waited for the woman to ask.

Lily sipped her tea. “How did you find me?”

“Out of everything you could’ve asked me, that’s what you want to know?” Evelyn asked with hostility.

“I’m not going to scrutinize your questions. I expect you to show the same restraint.”

Evelyn breathed heavily out of her nose. “Maxwell’s old family journal put me on a scavenger hunt of sorts that ended at a statue in the backyard. It contained a note with your address on it.”

Lily cracked a sad smile. “That’s my Max. Always had a flair for the dramatic. Alright, ask away.”

“Why did you put me up for adoption?” Evelyn asked.

“You’re not going to like that story.” Lily said, “I’ll give you more than you bargained for, starting with young Maxwell Quenby and going into his disappearance. You may want to sit down.”

Evelyn pulled up a wooden chair from the corner of the room and sat down, waiting for the woman to start.

Adders, Georgia

Spring of 1965

Dressed in a short-sleeved blue and white tent dress, six-year-old Lily Copperdoe sat in the azure blue backseat of the classy and black 1960 Lincoln Continental. Through the window, she watched the massive gnarled branches arc overhead. The red brick path rattled their bulky vehicle. She caught an appetizing whiff of her parents’ tinfoil-covered casserole next to her in the backseat.

“How are my lashes?” Alexandra Copperdoe, a scarlet-haired woman in her finest blue dress, asked her suit-wearing, stout, and balding husband, Ralph.

“Beautiful as always, dear,” Ralph replied, keeping a hand on the steering wheel and his olive-green eyes on the road ahead.

Alexandra slapped his arms. “You didn’t even look.”

Ralph turned his head, locked eyes with his self-conscious wife, and forced a smile. “Wow, so beautiful.”

Alexandra scoffed and went back to curling her eyelashes in the side mirror.

“There’s the bastard’s house,” Ralph said as the massive, two point five story mansion came into view. Its walls were white, with small vines sprouting up a few feet around the base of the first-floor colonnades. Bowling green yard and expertly-pruned trees only bolstered the house’s perfect grandiose appearance.

“You best be nice to Mr. Quenby,” Alexandra reminded him sternly. “We’re trying to mend bridges, not burn them, as you do so well.”

Ralph squeezed the steering wheel tighter. “I’ll tuck my tail between legs and cower. What a day to be a man.”

They parked on the brick circle outside the mansion and the dapper-dressed house servant allowed them entry.

Lily looked up at high-domed ceiling and mural of angels. The walls, the stairs, the help, everything in the mansion dwarfed the little girl. She tugged on her father’s slacks. “Why don’t we have a house this big, Father?”

Ralph forced a smile. “Because Mr. Jonathan Quenby is extorting all of Daddy’s money.”

Alexandra elbowed her husband and spoke hastily. “Ralph, build. Don’t destroy.”

Ralph’s false grin faded, but then instantly returned when Jonathan and Alice Quenby waltzed down one of the foyer’s curved stairways. Jonathan wore a tailored suit with a scruffy blazer and Alice wore a flowing red dress. They were both beautiful people but had the same dark circles under their dark eyes

“Jonathan, Alice, you look spectacular,” Alexandra exclaimed.

“You’re so sweet,” Alice Quenby said, taking Alexandra’s hands. “Come, dinner shall be served soon.”

The men shook hands. “You’ve been avoiding me, Ralph.” Jonathan said. “I hope it’s nothing I said.”

“Of course not, John. Been busy.”

“With the new slaughterhouse?” John asked.

“Ah, you know,” Ralph replied dreadfully. “It’s another venture to throw my money at.”

“I can’t wait to hear all about it,” John replied.

“I’m sure you already have,” Ralph grumbled.

Chatting, the adults walked off, leaving Lily alone in the foyer. Dressed in slacks and a sweater vest, a little boy, six years old, with a combed mop of rich dark hair and nearly black irises, entered through the foyer’s back door. He stared intensely at his hands that were loosely closed together.

“Hi,” the little boy said upon noticing Lily.

“Hi,” Lily replied nervously. She was never good at talking to boys her age. To be honest, they scared her.

“Do you want to see something?” the boy asked.

“Um, yes,” Lily replied, remembering what her parents told her about being polite to the Quenbys.

The strange boy slowly opened his hands, revealing two little eyes. Lily’s jaw dropped at the fattest toad she’d ever seen sitting in the boy’s hands.

“I found him in the backyard,” the boy bragged with a grin. “He’s a real fatty--do you want to pet him?”

Lily reached out her little fingers and brushed them across the toad’s slimy and warted back. “Ew, he feels funny.” Lily scrunched her nose and chuckled shyly.

The toad croaked. Lily squealed and jumped back. She felt her heart race. The boy smiled proudly.

“You want to hold him?” he tempted. “Come on. He won’t bite.”

Hesitant, Lily let the boy put the toad in her cupped hands. Her palms got wet and she dropped the toad. “He peed on me!”

“Gross,” the boy laughed.

The toad bounced away.

“I’ll show you the restroom so you can wash your hands,” the boy said.

After dinner, Lily’s father and Mr. Quenby became really good friends and talked about going into business together. The boy, named Maxwell, showed Lily the statues in the backyard and the secret hiding places in the mansion.

“If I had these in my house, my mom would never find me,” Lily explained as they climbed into the billiard room crawlspace. She held on to Maxwell’s shirt as he bravely navigated her through walls and looked into the secret eye holes where she could view his parents’ room.

“Doesn’t it scare you to come back here?” Lily asked him.

“A little,” Maxwell replied. “But that’s why it’s so much fun.”

When it was time to go, Lily didn’t want to leave. There was so much to do at the mansion, and Maxwell was really nice.

As they drove away, Ralph said, “I guess I should start calling him boss now.”

“It could’ve gone a lot worse and you know it,” Alexandra replied.

“He could’ve bankrupted us, sure, but what would the great John Quenby benefit from that? No, he wants us to split our earnings in exchange for keeping the IRS from knowing about our little project. Same blackmail stunt he’s been pulling for years.”

“Are we coming back here again, Father?” Lily asked from the backseat.

Ralph sighed. “I’m afraid so, dear.”

Lily smiled to herself.

For the next couple of years, Lily’s visits to Quenby grew more frequent. Maxwell would always have some new thing to show her, like the creepy cabins in the backyard or the old cotton gin. Lily would “ooh” and “awww” at those things, but as the years went on, her real interest was in Maxwell. At fifteen, he had grown tall and handsome. But, like his parents, circles formed beneath his dark eyes. Lily was glad to call him friend. She had very few guy friends at school and none as close as Maxwell. Even if he was a little odd, like the time when he proudly showed her the dead possum.

“That’s sad,” Lily said when she looked at the dead animal on the forest bed. “How did it die?”

“I don’t know,” Maxwell said with acute fascination. “It looks like someone smashed its head.”

One summer afternoon, while their parents discussed business over a game of pool, Maxwell took Lily’s hand and led her outside. His palms were clammy, and he could barely look her in the eyes.

“Is everything alright, Max?”

“I, um, want you to see something,” Maxwell explained. He stopped in front of The Lovers’ statue.

“I’ve seen this before,” Lily replied, unsure why Maxwell was acting so nervous. He let go of her hand.

“Yes, I know,” Maxwell said. His mouth dried. “Lily, I… we’ve known one another for so long--as friends, and I… well, I was hoping we could--”

“Max!” Alice called from the second-story balcony.

Maxwell’s eyes widened and the blood left his face. He turned to his mother.

“Your friend is here,” Alice Quenby proclaimed.

The back door opened and out walked sixteen-year-old Vincent Gregory. He moved with a sort of swagger and was dressed to match the year’s style. His shoulder-length brown hair was thick and heavy. His jaw was strong. Lily knew immediately that this was the type of boy that could have his pick the girls. He approached Maxwell and gave him a firm hug. “Good to see you, man.”

“You too,” Maxwell said with a downcast face.

He let go of Maxwell and smiled widely at Lily. “I didn’t know you hung out with such pretty girls, Max.”

Lily blushed and introduced herself.

Gregory turned back to Max. “I’m going swimming down at the Hole. Thought I’d give you a ride.”

“We should go,” Lily exclaimed. She playfully pulled at Maxwell’s sleeve. “It’ll be fun.”

Maxwell’s face had gone from pale to green. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Oh,” Lily said with disappointment.

Maxwell noticed. “Go ahead, Lily. Have fun.”

“Really? Are you sure?” Lily asked.

“Yeah--yes. Please. Don’t wait for me.” Max replied with a shaky grin.

Vincent looked at Lily in a way that made her blush. “I’ll show you to my car. It’s a Plymouth.”

Lily tucked her blonde hair behind her ear. “Cool.”

“See you around, Max,” Gregory said.

Maxwell wished them a good day and with sunken shoulders, returned inside.

When Lily started dating Gregory, Maxwell didn’t act the same. Though he never refused to see her, Max was distant. He wouldn’t talk as often or show her anything new. That didn’t stop Lily from talking his ear off though. He sat on the edge of his bed and listened. Unlike Gregory, he didn’t shower Lily with advice. Maxwell waited patiently and asked questions.

“Oh, you are such a good friend, Max,” Lily said, hugging him.

Maxwell smiled sadly.   

A year later, Ralph Copperdoe’s business bombed thanks to Mr. Quenby, and Lily stopped seeing Maxwell. At the age of twenty, Gregory proposed to Lily. He was halfway through college and planning on attending med school after. Lily’s parents forbade her from letting any Quenby at the wedding. Three months later, she learned that Jonathan and Alice Quenby were killed in a fatal car crash during a similar time. The brake lines were nearly cut through and snapped the rest of the way when they were speeding down a back road. The police had no suspects. Maxwell inherited the Quenby estate.

It was a stormy winter night. Adders was too far south to get snow, but that didn’t stop icy slush from smacking the windows and disrupting the roads. Gregory walked inside. His hair was soaked and his nose was red. Lily grabbed a towel and rushed to him. He took it forcefully and dried off his hair.

“You okay, Vincent?” Lily asked with concern.

“I heard you saw Max today,” Gregory said.

“I did,” Lily admitted, taken back by Gregory’s tone. “After what happened with his folks, I didn’t want him to be alone.”

“Ah,” Gregory said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Last week you saw Jackson and now you’re seeing Maxwell. There’s just a lot of men in your life, that’s all.” Gregory said, taking off his tie and avoiding eye contact.

Lily felt a flush of anger rising inside. “First of all, I met with Jackson to discuss seeing my artwork. Secondly, I’m not nagging you about all the girls you talk to.”

“That’s different,” Gregory said, setting his rolled-up tie on the small sideboard Lily’s mother had given them. The house they lived in was much bigger than they needed it to be, thanks to Gregory’s parents, but most of their items were given to them by both their parents.

“Well why are you so mad all of sudden?” Lily asked. “Nothing happened with Max and I. Nothing will ever happen.”

Gregory stomped to her. “That’s not the point. I don’t want you seeing anymore men.”

Lily noticed that his eyes were bloodshot. “Have you been drinking?”

“No, and I’m sick of your backtalk.”

“Sick of my--what are you talking about?”

Gregory grabbed her by the scruff of her shirt. She felt her stomach drop and fear grip her. “I work all day and come home to hear you’ve been out and about with a half-dozen men. I’m really not asking for too much. Just that you’re faithful.”

“You’re hurting me,” Lily said, her fear turning to anger.

“Are you going to obey me?”

“No, Vincent,” Lily defied him. “I’m your wife, not your house slave.”

The next thing Lily knew was that she was on the floor. Her left cheek was on fire and her eyes were watering. Vincent’s hand was still raised from the slap he gave her. In his eyes was a hate she’d only seen hints of before. “You are my wife now. You’re going to be held to a higher standard.”

Saying no more, he marched into the bedroom.

Lily stayed on the floor, rubbing her cheek. He’s a good man, she reminded herself. He’s only stressed out. It’s only one slap.

In the coming months, Lily learned quickly it wasn’t just one slap. She would forget to wash the dishes, Gregory would slap her. She didn’t fold his shirts properly, Gregory would slap her. She talked to someone he didn’t approve of… the list went on.

Gregory’s mood swings occurred constantly. When they were out with friends, he’d shower her with compliments, play footsie with her, and kiss her in a way that made her forget about the strife. The moment he closed the door for the night, the kind smile quickly fell away. He berated her for the condition of the house and complained that she wasn’t working. Every time Gregory hit her, he struck harder. Slaps became punches. Lily felt like a prisoner in her home. When she walked outside, she felt like she was suffocating, knowing what would happen if she left the house without Gregory’s permission.

One night, when they were having dinner at her parents’ house, Lily called aside her father and asked him what he thought of the soon-to-be-doctor Vincent Gregory.

“He’s a keeper, Lily,” Ralph said. “I hurt you and your mother with my business practices, but Gregory is beholden to no man. He will go far in life.”

Lily opened her mouth to tell him about how he called her names and hit her, but found she couldn’t find any words. Perhaps it was out of fear of what Gregory would do when he found out. Or it was because, somehow, deep down, she still loved him.

Lily went home that night holding on to her secret.

As Gregory undressed by the bed, he said. “I like your parents. They’re good company.”

“Thank you,” Lily replied with uncertainty. She couldn’t say when it started, but she had become cautious of every word she said. Not just to Gregory, but to everyone.

“I should thank you,” Gregory said.

Lily got an eyeful of his abs and muscles.

“Why?” Lily asked sheepishly.

“You did everything right tonight,” Gregory said with the smile that used to make her blush. Now, it made her shiver.

He grabbed her hips. “I think we’re finally ready to have children.”

Fear twisted Lily’s heart. “No. I don’t think…”

“It’s a great idea,” Gregory said, completely ignoring her. “You’ll finally have something to occupy your time. After my long classes, I’ll be able to tuck the kid in. It’s the perfect picture.”

“Vincent, please. I can’t.” If I have this kid, then there’s no escape.

Gregory brushed his thumb over her lips. “Of course you can. You’re strong and beautiful. You’ll make a great mother.”

Don’t believe his lies, one voice told Lily, but her heart fluttered when he complimented her for the first time in years.

“I love you,” Vincent said into her ear.  

“I love you, too.” Did she? Lily didn’t know if the response was out of fear or genuine affection.

“You so are perfect now.” Vincent whispered. “We’re going to be happy.” He put his hand on her belly. “This child will be the joy this relationship needs. No more discipline, Lily. You don’t need it anymore.”

Lily could feel her rationalization fall away as her husband’s words felt like life to her soul. Run, you stupid girl! a voice told Lily. She shut it up and made love with her husband while holding on to the smallest ember keeping the relationship alive.

Lily awoke in the dead of night and slowly crept out of bed. She got dressed and bundled up her clothes. Without saying goodbye, she left her house behind and drove to the only safe place she could think of.

Chewing her lip nervously, Lily hammered her fist on the mansion's front door. “Please open up,” She mumbled. Minutes passed. She knocked again. Tears welled in her eyes. She couldn’t stay out here all night. She’d need to get to home.

The door opened. Black hair disheveled and eyes tired, Maxwell stood in the threshold. He was in his pajamas and had a shaggy black beard.

“Can I come in?” Lily asked.

“You’re always welcome here.” Maxwell allowed her to enter.

In the dining room with a single light on, he poured Lily and himself cups of coffee. Though it was not particularly cold inside, Lily’s teeth chattered.

With a look of concern, Maxwell waited for her to speak.

“I feel so lost, Max,” Lily admitted since the first time she’d gotten married. “It’s like I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You’re you,” Maxwell put his hand on her own. Lily quickly pulled it away.

Lily clenched the hand he touched and stood up. “I’m sorry. Coming here was a mistake.”

“Don’t go,” Maxwell said. His eyes looked so tired. “Please.”

She glanced at the clock. It was four a.m. Vincent would be up in two and a half hours. Lily sat back down and took a sip from her steaming mug.

“Lily, what you ever tell me won’t leave these walls, I promise you.”

“It’s Vincent, he…” Tell him, you idiot. No words came. She forced herself to stand and started lifting up her shirt.

Maxwell cast his eyes away. “Lily, I…”

“Look,” Lily’s voice wavered.

“No. This--it’s not right.”

“Max,” Lily pleaded.  

Hesitant, Maxwell cautiously glanced up at Lily. She held her shirt up just below her breasts. Misshapen purple bruises painted her flat belly. Maxwell’s eyes watered and he covered his mouth with his hand.

Lily put back down her shirt. “Do you understand?”

Mouth still covered, he nodded.

“What should I do?” Lily felt her legs go weak. “I can’t keep living like this.”

Maxwell thought for a long moment. Lily thought he would say to call the cops. That would be the most rational thing to do. Instead, Maxwell said, “Stay with me.”

“He’ll be furious,” Lily said fearfully.

“He’ll never know.”

But somehow he did, and two days later his car screeched to a stop in front of the mansion. Face blood red, handsome Vincent Gregory slammed the car door and started his march to the house entrance.

“That’s far enough,” Maxwell said from the second-story balcony. She could hear him from the guest bedroom and walked to the window to get a better look. Seeing Gregory sent chills down her spine. Vacation was over. Time to go home.

Gregory glared up at Maxwell. “Where the hell is my wife?”

The night Lily arrived, Maxwell parked her car behind the cotton store house far away from the mansion.

“She’s not here,” Maxwell said.

“You’re lying, Max. If she wasn’t, you’d welcome me with open arms.”

That was when Maxwell pulled out the shotgun. “Go home, Vincent.”

Gregory clenched both of his fists. “You going to shoot me for the woman that chose me over you? Give me a break, Max. Let me have her.”

Maxwell cocked the shotgun and aimed it at him.

“Get off my property or I will kill you,” Maxwell said with a scarily calm voice.

Gregory shook with rage. He opened his hands and turned back to his car. Without another word, he turned the ignition and screamed down the road.

Maxwell lowered the gun. He watched the red brick to make sure Gregory wasn’t coming back and then returned inside. Lily met him on the interior balcony of the foyer.

He flipped the safety and rested the weapon on his shoulder.

“You didn’t mean that, right?” Lily asked.

“I did,” Maxwell replied. He brushed past her and put away the weapon.

Lily felt anxious over the next couple of days. She watched the red brick road, expecting Gregory to show up and take her back. He didn’t.

A month passed. No sign of him.

Maxwell knocked on her door. She fixed her hair and opened it. Maxwell’s face was stern. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Nervous, Lily followed him down the steps and through the hall of portraits. Did Gregory show up when I wasn’t looking? Did Maxwell kill him? They turned into the kitchen. A tiny vanilla cake with a single lit candle sat on the kitchen island. The cake wasn’t as big or as beautiful as the ones Gregory had bought her, but somehow that made it more appetizing.  

“Tada,” Maxwell said with a little grin.

“I don’t know what to say,” Lily replied.

“Make a wish before wax gets on the icing I spent all morning making.”

I wish I had a different life. Lily blew out the candle.

Maxwell cut her a piece and watched her eat.

“Aren’t you going to have some?” Lily said as she lifted the fork to her lips.

“This is your treat,” Maxwell replied.

“I want to share with you.”

“Alright, but know that I have a voracious appetite. There may not be much left when I’m done,” Maxwell warned.

They traded smiles.

Maxwell served himself.

When they had finished, Maxwell said, “There’s something else.”

He led her out back to the statue of the two lovers. The chiseled man without a nose looked into the eyes of the stone maiden with a cracked face. “Remember this?”

“I do,” Lily replied, reminded of her childhood when she was happy and actually looked forward to waking up in the morning. It seemed so long ago Lily forgot that time even existed. Until now.

“Here,” Maxwell produced a gift box a little bigger than his palm.

“You’re so sweet,” Lily replied. “But you’ve done so much already.”

“Open it,” Maxwell said.

Feeling guilty, Lily pulled the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was a fat toad made of plastic.

“I tried catching a real one,” Maxwell said. “It didn’t work out.”

Lily chuckled. She took out the toad and put it on the stone slab between the lovers’ feet.

Maxwell looked at his toes. “Lily. I brought you here when we were fifteen, remember?”

“Yeah,” It was the day I met Vincent.

“Do you know why?” Maxwell asked.

Lily took his hand and looked him in the eyes. “Because you wanted to kiss me.”

Maxwell seemed shocked at first, and then his expression softened. “May I?”

Lily nodded.

Maxwell leaned in and planted a small kiss on her lips. He pulled away when Lily leaned in for another. Rain fell on them.

“I love you,” Maxwell said, the downpour lapping against his face. “For so long, I’ve wanted to tell you.”

Lily forgot all about her marriage to Gregory and the abuse she endured. All that mattered now was the moment.

Locked at the lips, they rushed inside and up the stairs.

Sheets of rain battered the old mansion.

It wasn’t long before Lily learned she was pregnant.

“We’ll make this work,” Maxwell said to her, his leg slung over the side of the bed. Lying on her side, Lily pulled her pillow close to her, wishing the canopied king-sized bed would just eat her up.

“You don’t get it,” Lily said. “Vincent, he’ll…”

“Let me worry about Vincent,” Maxwell said.

“Do you even want this?” Lily asked, rolling to her side so she could face him. “I mean, we’re both so young.”

Maxwell smiled softly at her. He looked handsome when his hair was ruffled and his beard shaven. “More than anything.”

Lily sat up and tried to rub away her migraine. “Max, I’m married.”

“I know a lawyer. He handled my inheritance. I’m sure he can take care of the necessary arrangements.”

“Vincent won’t want that,” Lily said dreadfully. “Everything is happening too fast. Maybe we can try again. Some other time.”

Maxwell crinkled his brow. “What do you mean?”

Lily gave him a look.

Maxwell’s eyes went wide. He stood up and paced around the room.

“It’s my decision,” Lily said firmly.

Maxwell stared at her like she had blasphemed. “I don’t think that’s fair.”  

Lily glanced at her belly. She was wearing one of Maxwell’s t-shirts that looked like a dress on her.  

“I want this family,” Maxwell stated. For a brief moment, he reminded her of Vincent Gregory.

Lily’s fear bubbled up. Had she fallen into the trap of another horrible man? Would this be her fate?

Maxwell took a deep breath. “For so long, I’ve had this emptiness inside of me.”

“Since your parents died?” Lily asked.

“Way before then,” Maxwell admitted. “Lily, you’re the first and only person to give me peace. I understand that this child, our child, is not something you want--”

“I do want it,” Lily interrupted. “But just not now. It seems like I only moved in yesterday.”

“But we’ve known each other our whole lives. This is the logical progression of our relationship.” Maxwell tried to keep a lid on his frustration, but it was building.

Lily sniffled. “Vincent will find out. He’ll come to the hospital, just you watch.”

Maxwell walked around in front of her and lowered to his knees. He took both her hands in his. “Then let’s have the child here. No one needs to know. We can get an in-home doctor. I have all these antique toys and a dollhouse we can put in the nursery. If people ask, I can say it’s my niece or something.”

“How do you know it’s going to be girl?”

“I don’t , but I want it to be someone like you.”

Lily smiled sadly at him. I’m not as good as you think I am.

“Will you do this with me?” Maxwell asked.

Eyes watering, Lily nodded. “Yes. I will.”

Maxwell pampered her in the months leading up to the birth. Every day, he smiled, sung, sometimes danced with her in the foyer--a skill she never knew he had. Lily tried to share his joy. The morning sickness made it hard. As promised, the doctor showed up every few weeks to check on Lily.

A few weeks before the birth, Lily heard Maxwell talking privately with the doctor in the upstairs hallway. Lily pressed her back against a corner and listened.

“You’re twisting my wrist here, Quenby,” the gaunt doctor said. He was a tall, skeletal man with circular glasses, thin lips, and thinner chestnut hair. “I can’t keep canceling on my patients.”

“You do this, I burn those files--the ones about the mysterious deaths.” Maxwell said. “But if you fail me or her, I’ll destroy you. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” the man said with a twitching lip.  

Maxwell shook his hand. “Be happy I haven’t called the cops already.”

“That wouldn’t be the Quenby way,” the doctor said with an angry grin.

“I suppose not.”

Lily rubbed her belly, thinking about the child and the house it was being brought into. She’d be bound to the same family that bankrupted her parents after one bad sale. Lily felt like something squeezed her heart.

Lily gave birth in one of the guest bedrooms. Her screams echoed through the hall. Maxwell watched with pure horror as Dr. Waxen performed the emergency C-second. Lily remembered the pain and the blood puddling on the bed sheets and dripping on the white hardwood floor. It seemed like the room spun. Lily clenched her eyes tight.

“Women have been doing this since the beginning. You’ll make it,” Maxwell said. His voice seemed faint and far away.

Suddenly, the screaming stopped. There was a soft cry. She opened her eyes and saw the pink child swaddled in a cloth and cradled in her arms. The baby looked so fragile and small, like a small breeze would break her.

“What should we call her?” Maxwell asked.

“Evelyn,” Lily replied, relieved the worst of it was over. “It means life.”

“Evelyn it is,” Maxwell said with a tired smile.

After Lily had recovered and Maxwell burned the doctor’s old case files, they stared at the child sleeping in the nursery’s crib.  

“She looks a lot more like you,” Maxwell said.

“Maxwell,” Lily said seriously. “I think we should put her up for adoption.” Lily cut him off before he could protest. “I’m twenty-two years old. I know I sound like a broken record, but it's just too much.”

With a heavy frown, Maxwell said. “Let me raise her. You can leave and visit if that’s what you want.”

“Vincent will find out, and he’ll hurt you,” Lily said.

“I don’t care,” Maxwell replied.

“He’ll hurt me and her.”

“He won’t,” Maxwell said with determination.

Lily showed him the letter she fetched from the mailbox that morning. “It’s from Vincent. He wants his child back.”

“His child?” Maxwell asked suspiciously. “Lily, what does he mean?”

“It means she’s not safe,” Lily said. “You’re not safe.”

“I can fight back,” Maxwell argued.

“It’s not just Vincent,” Lily replied. “It’s the lies, the blackmail, everything that your family does.”

“And you think I’m like them?” Maxwell said with offense.

“Aren’t you? I saw what you did to that doctor.”

“That was different.”

“It was the deceit and constant threats that got your parents killed. How do I know the same won’t happen to you? Your loneliness kept you safe because you had no weakness. Now, you have me and you have Evelyn. She could be out one day and some vengeful person from your past could take her. Use her against you.”

“I can change,” Maxwell’s said. “It may take time, but I can get rid of my family’s evil, if that’s what you want.”

“Put her up for adoption, Maxwell,” Lily begged. “Not for my sake, but for hers.”

For the first since she had chosen Vincent over him, Maxwell looked sick with grief. “I know she needs to be with good people…”

“That’s not us,” Lily affirmed his words. She felt guilt crushing her.

Without a word, Maxwell left the nursery. Lily looked down at the child and wept. “It’s better this way,” she whispered.

Evelyn gnashed her teeth and looked at her hands. The AC buzzed. The trailer’s painted walls seemed to close in. Evelyn wanted to smash something.

“Maxwell listened to me.” The gray-haired woman refilled her iced tea. “He wasn’t mad, but… broken. I couldn’t live with myself because of it. I couldn’t live with him because of it. So, the night after the adoption, I packed my bags and left him. Left Adders. Never remarried. Never made myself beholden to another man. I became my sole provider.”

Evelyn’s heart raced. She couldn’t bring herself to face the woman.

“Maxwell changed, as he promised he would. It took a few years, but he cleaned up his family name. But it came a little too late. After people started going missing, old and new enemies teamed up to bring him down.”

“What do you mean?” Evelyn asked.

Lily smiled crookedly. “It’s my turn to ask a question, remember?”

Evelyn huffed and gestured for the woman to ask.

“Do you hate me?” Lily asked.

Evelyn thought about it. “No.”

“Why,” Lily scrutinized.

“Because I choose not to,” Evelyn replied sincerely. “Now, tell me what happened to Maxwell, and why there are the bones of five people in my basement.”

25

Party of Five

“Human bones?” Lily asked with a horrified expression.

“You don’t know about them?” Evelyn asked.

“No, I… that can’t be true,” Lily said.

“It is.” Evelyn replied. I talked to the victims. “The killing stopped after Maxwell vanished.”

“It wasn’t just the killings that ceased,” Lily replied. “Maxwell stopped visiting me too.”

Evelyn pinched the bridge of her nose. She glanced up the painted mountain vista on the wall and then at her mother. “Maxwell visited you after your separation?”

Lily set her glass aside and rubbed her eye. “He did. Once a year.”

“Do you remember the dates?” Evelyn asked.

Lily opened a lap stand drawer and withdrew a small notepad. She flipped through pages of notes and doodles. “I like to keep track of things, otherwise I might forget.” After a few moments, Lily found the page and handed the notebook to Evelyn. The visitation days took place between 1998-2002. Wide-eyed, Evelyn scoured her own notes.

“No way,” Evelyn said.

“What is it?” Lily asked.

“The murders all took place during the days he visited you.”

“That means he couldn’t have murdered those people,” Lily thought aloud.

“Maxwell’s innocent,” Evelyn declared. “I can’t believe it.”

The phantoms were right. It was a setup. Someone planted the bodies in the basement. Someone who knew the house and its secret passages. “You said new and old enemies worked together to bring Maxwell down. How did that happen?”

“Rumor says there was a break-in, but you won’t find that in the news. The people who attacked Maxwell acted quickly and efficiently, making sure there was nothing left of him.”

“Who are these men? I need names.”

“I have none to give,” Lily replied. “I’ve been out of Adders for too long to keep track of the movers and shakers. They had enough clout to bury the violent nature of Max’s disappearance, so that says something about the social standing.”

“One of the men who attacked Maxwell could be the real killer. He may have directed the attention onto Maxwell for the perfect getaway. After all, the majority of the town still believe Maxwell killed those people and is attacking again. We need to prove it to them that Maxwell is innocent by finding the real killer.”

“You speak as if Maxwell is still alive,” Lily said.

“That’s because he is.”

Lily’s leathery face turned pale.

“I saw him,” Evelyn admitted. “He stopped the man who was trying to kill me.”

“All these years…” Lily’s voice trailed off. Her eyes glossed over.

Evelyn leaned forward in her seat. “That’s why I came here, Lily. With the hope that you could help me find him, and, in light of this new revelation, save him from the false accusations. Can you help me?”

Lily gingerly approached Evelyn. “I want to. More than anything, but what can I do?”

Evelyn stood up. “I don’t know, but there must be something.”

Lily looked at Evelyn with a sad smile. “You’re tall like him, you know that? You have his gusto, too. Evelyn, you aren’t the woman I imagined you to be.”

Evelyn listened to Lily speak.

“You’re much better than that. Much better than me. I can’t give you anything you don’t already have.”

“Come home with me. We’ll finish this. Together,” Evelyn declared.

Lily looked around the room, the painting on the wall, the spiraling birds painted on the ceiling. “This is my home now. I’m sorry, Evelyn. But I’ll only weigh you down.”

“Mom,” Evelyn’s voice cracked.

Lily wrapped her arms around her daughter. Evelyn returned the embrace. “I said I forgave you. Return with me. I’ll let you meet my husband. I can take you to my crappy apartment in Detroit. For the first time in our lives, we can be a family.”

Lily pulled away from Evelyn. “I broke your father. I won’t break you, too.”

“You think I’m still that fragile infant?” Evelyn chuckled with frustration.

“I’m your mother,” Lily said firmly. “To me, you’ll always be that fragile infant.”

She could see in her mother’s tired blue eyes that her mind was set. Evelyn cracked a smile. “At least I can tell Terrence where I got my stubbornness.”

“That’s his name?” Lily asked.

“It is.”

“Is he a good man?”

Evelyn nodded.

Lily stopped herself from crying too much. She hugged her daughter a final time. Evelyn said her goodbyes and walked out the trailer. Her mother watched her from the doorway with her arms crossed over her jean jacket and her eyes wet with tears. As Evelyn escaped down the dirt and wooden road, she saw her mother close the door to her trailer and Evelyn’s life.

During the drive back, Evelyn listened to the clacking of her tires on the road. She thought about Lily’s story and the timeline. Dr. Gregory, the man that had paid Terrence’s medical expenses, had been kind to Evelyn since their first meeting. Was he really Lily’s husband? She didn’t know what to think of it. Another clue from Lily’s recollection came to mind as well. Dr. Waxen, the gray-haired skeletal practitioner who questioned if Evelyn was the killer. By the way he licked his thin lips, he was hoping she was, and for some other reason than turning her in.

Evelyn shuddered. She focused on the road. It would be another long two-hour ride to Adders.

It was dark as she rumbled down the red brick path to Quenby House. It would be a night of strategizing, she knew. With Lily unable to help her with Maxwell, all of her hopes for finding him were up in the air. Worse, there had been no news of nine-year-old Bella Day. The phantoms were convinced that her vanishing was connected to the killer, but without any more bodies or missing people showing up, Evelyn wasn’t quite sure. Moreover, the killer was patient, only killing once a year and only on the days Maxwell was away. Evelyn might be in this for the long haul. I sure hope not.

Quenby House cast its glow from its rectangular windows and stood as a beacon in the darkness. She guessed that Terrence was nervous when he was alone and left all the lights on. It was kind of a sweet thought.

But that was when Evelyn noticed something was wrong.

Five cars were parked out front of the mansion, forming the edges of the brick circle. Going from left to right, there was a new Lexus the color of champagne, a red sports car, a BMW convertible, and two cruisers owned by the sheriff’s department. Evelyn parked in the center of them and stepped out. A breeze howled in the night. The tall trees beside Quenby swayed. Their branches clawed at the air. An unseen owl screeched. A cloud drifted over the near-full moon.

Five figures stood silhouetted on the second-floor exterior balcony, in the same place where Terrence had waved her goodbye.

“Mrs. Carr!” A familiar voice shouted. “Glad you could join us!”

“Sheriff?” Evelyn called out to the silhouettes. “What are you doing here?”

Another voice said, “We decided to stop on by and enjoy a meal. Welcome you to Adders, officially.”

Evelyn tried to recognize the voice. “Mayor Timberland?”

“Indeed,” the shadowy figure replied. “I know we got off on the wrong foot the last time we spoke. I thought I’d make amends. Ordered y’all the best barbecue Adders has to offer.”

Evelyn locked her car. She felt her skin crawl. “Where’s Terrence?”

“He’s inside,” Timberland said. “Come on in. He’s been waiting for you all night.”

“I appreciate getting invited into my own home,” Evelyn said sarcastically.

“You’re funny and cute!” Deputy Painter shouted. He had the strongest twang out of all the men on the balcony. “Come on in and get yourself something to eat. That BBQ will have you carnivorous.”

Evelyn remembered how the deputy had checked her out at the station and insulted her while she was looking into Bella Day’s disappearance. She wondered what other predators lay in wait for her. “Tell me who else is up there.”

“You’ll see when you get inside.”

Evelyn set her jaw. She felt her pulse quicken as she headed for the front door. It was moments like this that made her wish Maxwell hadn’t taken her weapons.

She stepped into the foyer. The chandelier lights were turned on low, giving the room and its red carpeted floors a dim glow. Oil paintings of Quenby lands hung on the walls. Soft blues music drifted through the house. The acoustics in the place drowned out the singer’s words. With a loud thud, the door shut behind Evelyn. Guest chatter sounded on the walkway overhead. The outside balcony door must’ve been open.

Evelyn followed the music, masking her footsteps in silence. She approached the dining room. Light spilled from the ajar door. Evelyn stretched her arm out and wrapped her fingers around the glass doorknob. Holding her breath, she stepped into the room. A three-arm candlestick stood at the middle of the covered twelve-person table. More flame-shaped lightbulbs illuminated the room from candles lining both walls. Oil paintings of great forests, farmlands, valleys, and rivers hung nearby them.

Back to Evelyn, Terrence slouched forward in a chair. He wore a baby blue button-up spotted with tic-tac sized violins. A blob of light reflected off the back of his shaven head. Lying on the table in front of him were aluminum tubs of steaming BBQ. It didn’t look like Terrence was breathing.

Evelyn loomed over her husband’s back. “Terrence?”

Quickly, he turned back to her. His hazel eyes were bloodshot. He had a new phone in his hand. “Eve.”

Evelyn let herself breathe. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m putting my old contacts into my phone,” he flashed the replacement, a cheap-looking flip phone.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had guests?”

“They just showed up. I don’t know. I was about to--”  

Voices and laughter echoed through the halls. Terrence straightened his posture. He and Evelyn turned back to the door.

“Be careful, darling.” a woman’s voice said.

Evelyn and Terrence glanced at Alannah Gimmerson. The curvaceous woman had blood pouring from her neck into her revealing glossy green dress. Zoey, clad in black, was there along with star player Peter Calhoon, old James Barker, and naked and seething Winslow.

The houseguests neared.

Terrence’s lips parted nervously as he anticipated the meeting of the party of the dead and party of the living. “Go away,” he whispered to the phantoms.

Evelyn directed her attention on Alannah. “What do you mean be careful?”

“Evelyn,” Sheriff Yates stated as he stepped inside the dining room.

Evelyn quickly turned to him.

The sheriff bounced his gaze between them. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Evelyn quickly glanced behind her. The phantoms had vanished.

Deputy Painter, mid-thirties, steel-colored five o’clock shadow, shark eyes, and wearing a green uniform topped by a black felt hat, entered behind him. He stank of cigarettes. He smirked at Evelyn and wouldn’t even look at Terrence.

Mayor Timberland had clear skin, dark brown hair, squinted eyes, and a rectangular head. He wore a three-piece suit with golden, diamond-studded cufflinks that he fiddled with every few minutes. “The last time I came here, Maxwell Quenby tried to blackmail me. Funny how times change.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Evelyn replied. “I never met the man.”

Mr. Calhoon, a middle-aged version of his son with the same dimpled chin, dashing looks, and silky hair, followed the mayor. “I was telling Terrence that I had no clue you were Maxwell’s girl.”

“It didn’t pertain to your son’s case,” Evelyn replied.

By the way Mr. Calhoon’s face suddenly sank, it was obvious he didn’t believe her.

The final guest was Dr. Vincent Gregory. He was a tall man with a handsome face and brown hair striped with white. With a guilty expression, he humbly nodded to Evelyn. “I apology for the spontaneity of this visit, but you’ll be glad we came.”

“I’m famished,” Mayor Timberland said and took a seat near the head of the table.

He gestured for Terrence to sit at the end seat.

“I couldn’t,” Terrence replied.

“As mayor, I say you do as you’re told.”

“In that case.” Smiling, Terrence claimed the end seat. Evelyn sat next him, opposite of Timberland and Sheriff Yates. Dr. Gregory sat down beside Evelyn and, with great disappointment, Deputy Painter sat next to Gregory.

“Let’s eat,” Sheriff Yates said, setting his coffee thermos next to his plate.  

Evelyn and Terrence traded looks and then dug in. The barbecue was tender that it nearly melted in her mouth. Evelyn, of course, didn’t take a bite until the rest of the guests had. Calhoon and Terrence talked football. The sheriff and the deputy talked about the women in their life. Evelyn ate quietly with Gregory, the man that beat her mother.

“Why did you come here?” Evelyn asked him, not doing well to hide her hostility.

Gregory lowered his fork. “It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises,” Evelyn replied.

“Neither do I,” Gregory took a bite.

Evelyn whispered. “I’m going to ask you this, because you’ve been nothing but kind to me since I arrived. Why did you beat Lily Copperdoe?”

Gregory stopped his fork from going into his mouth. He gently put it back on his tray, but Evelyn could see something had scared him. “That’s a ridiculous accusation.”

Evelyn glared at him. “I heard it from Lily’s own mouth. Now answer my question.”

Gregory looked at the sauce-slathered pulled pork on his plate. “I was not a pleasant young man, Evelyn. Not that it’s an excuse, but I had a lot of pent-up stress from college, my parents, and the idea of a lifelong commitment to one woman. I needed to feel in control again. I saw Lily for the woman I wanted to her to be, not the woman she was. It was a…challenging thing to overcome.”

“Hitting women?” Evelyn berated.

Gregory turned to her. His handsome eyes were soft and vulnerable. “That was over thirty years ago. I’m fifty-nine and a lot smarter and a lot less impulsive. Nothing I say will make you believe I sincerely regret what I did to your mother, so I hope that my actions will speak for a penitent heart.”

“How long have you known I was her daughter?” Evelyn asked.

“The moment I heard your last name. Maxwell had only ever been with one woman,” Gregory said. “You turned out beautifully, if I might say. Wherever Maxwell is, I’m sure he would be proud.”

Lily said that Gregory wore two faces. The friendly face while outside and the abuser behind closed doors. Had he earnestly changed or was this the same charm he used to seduce her mother?

“Hey,” Sheriff Yates said with a mouthful. He addressed Terrence and Evelyn. “There was a big breakthrough in the Doyle case.”

Terrence and Evelyn exchanged a look.

Terrence smiled back at the sheriff. “Really? What’s that?”

Yates cleared his throat. He was still in uniform and perhaps still on the clock. “A few hunters--local good ol’ boys--were in that woods, the ones a few miles behind her property, and happened upon a cabin.”

“Oh,” Terrence said, getting sweaty. “Out there?”

Evelyn pursed her lips. Terrence, you’re such a bad liar.

Yates and Painter nodded in unison. “Found a few of the Doyles’ things and what appeared to be skull fragmentation and brain matter. Bloody business.”

Deputy Painter leaned in. “We think someone or something got them.”

Evelyn heart fluttered. “Who?”

Yates stopped mid-chew. After a moment, he said. “Don’t know. The two of you are okay. That’s what matters.”

Something about the way Yates said it made Evelyn suspicious. She could tell Terrence was thinking the same thing.

“Any developments on who killed my son?” Mr. Calhoon asked.

“I’m sorry, no,” Evelyn replied.

“Looking into a serial killer?” Mayor Timberland asked. “That sounds like dangerous work for a private investigator.”

“Someone has to do it,” Evelyn replied. “It’s usually not the first person you guess. My father Maxwell picked up some heat during the preliminary investigation a decade ago, even though the evidence didn’t point at him.”

The air seemed to leave the room.

Mr. Calhoon spoke up. “I think the discovery of bones in his basement makes it pretty clear how involved in the murders he was. With evidence like that, it almost makes me wonder why you’re looking into this case.”

“I want to help people find closure.”

“Oh, so that’s it?” Calhoon asked with sarcasm.

“Hey, chill out,” Terrence told him. “We’re after the same thing you are: the truth. We don’t want misconstrued evidence to fit our idea of the killer. We want a concrete testimony. Something to close this case for good.”

Evelyn patted his knee. Well said.

“You know,” Mayor Timberland said, dipping the tips of his napkin into his water glass and wiping his jowls. “I always loved this house. It’s Adders’ private castle. Seventeen rooms, not counting the attic or basement, the place is a palace. Maybe even the last surviving one in Georgia.”

The change of topic caught them all off guard, it seemed.

Evelyn smiled falsely at the mayor, not forgetting how he kicked her out of the town hall for simply being Maxwell’s daughter. His friendly facade was not fooling anyone. Evelyn glanced around the rest of the table. Yates, Painter, Timberland, Gregory, and Calhoon. Evelyn realized that she trusted none of these men, and even less so when they were together. They were similar ages, but what drew them together? A lifelong friendship, a similar goal, or a common enemy? She glanced at Terrence. Even he was acting odd tonight. Why?

Mayor Timberland pushed his polished plate away. “I suppose it’s time to tell you the nature of our visit, Evelyn.”

The men nodded in agreement. Even Calhoon, though he was still visibly angry.

Evelyn familiarized herself with the door in case anything unexpected happened. Alannah’s words replayed in her mind. Be careful. Be careful. Be careful.

“And what’s that, Mayor?” Evelyn asked as politely as she could, though it still came out scrutinizing.

“The Quenby House has been here back when this town was nothing but a trade post, a creek, and couple of lousy cattle pastures,” Timberland started. “Now your family hung on to this place like a root on a cliff. Never letting go. Scared to. After your father’s passing, the Quenby plantation has been in purgatory, so to say. Speaking on behalf of all of your guests tonight, we would like to change that.”

“What are you suggesting?” Evelyn asked.

“We want to buy the property.”

Evelyn wasn’t expecting that. “Why? It’s not finished.”

Dr. Gregory smiled at her. “That won’t be an issue.”

“I work in the carpentry business,” Mr. Calhoon said. “I have people that can correct the damages for a fraction of what you would be spending.”

Terrence looked at Evelyn. There was excitement in his eyes.

Mr. Calhoon pulled out his checkbook from his suit jacket’s inner pocket. “The others and I have pooled our money together. We can write the check right now, and you’ll have the money in your account by the time you get home. To Detroit, if I’ve heard correctly.”

Evelyn opened her mouth to speak but Terrence cut her off. “How much are you offering?”

“For the house, the land, and everything in between,” Mayor Timberland locked eyes with Evelyn. He bounced a pen on his checkbook. “Two point five million dollars, right here, right now, but you both leave tonight.”

26

The Buyers

Evelyn couldn’t believe it. She stared at the blank check and thought about the posh houses in Birmington, outside of Detroit. The timing to start her family never seemed right. That money, even after the IRS knocked them down a few pegs, would give them more than enough breathing room. The ghosts. The murders. All the BS she’d dealt with since she arrived in Adders would be nothing but a bad memory. Maybe the house and the items within were worth more than the two and a half million dollars combined, but this money was sitting in front of her.

Seated at the head of the table, Terrence covered his mouth. By how his face contorted, he was hiding a huge smile.

Evelyn studied the men around the table. They watched her anxiously.

“Why?” Evelyn asked.

The mayor looked confused.

“Why do you want the house?” Evelyn asked.

Mayor Timberland bounced his eyes between his business partners. “Adders needs to expand. Expansion comes from publicity. Publicity comes from tourism. We’re going to restore Quenby to its former glory and make it into our very own Biltmore. Families, children, foreigners from all over the world will come to our Podunk town to witness the life of an Antebellum-era plantation owner. Workers in the cotton field. Balls in the foyer. Costumes. Gift shops. A wholly unique experience in my backyard. Some might find the whole recreation offensive, but all history is.”

Sheriff Yates set aside his coffee thermos. “Your family name, Evelyn, will be immortalized. Quenby House will be advertised on every billboard in the surrounding hundred miles. How cool is that?”

“Frankly,” Deputy Painter said, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “I think we’re paying you too much for it, but after ten years of sitting on our thumbs, we want to make some profit off this ruin, and we’re willing to pay to do so.”

Evelyn glared at them. “If it's only about the money, then why the hell do you need me and my husband out of here? Tonight?”

Mr. Calhoon spoke up. “Because you’re a problem.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” Calhoon continued. “You’ve stirred up more trouble in this town since you arrived that we haven’t seen since--big surprise--your father was around.”

“I’m doing everything in my power to help you, Mr. Calhoon,” Evelyn objected. “To help your son find rest.”

“My son is dead and gone, thanks to your father,” Calhoon retorted. “The only way you can help Peter is by getting the hell out of Adders and never coming back.”

Evelyn thought of the other phantoms in her house. Their wounds. Their families. Evelyn wasn’t the problem. She was their salvation.

“My father is innocent,” Evelyn said to the men.

“This really isn’t about your father,” Dr. Gregory said calmly.

Evelyn boiled. “It has everything to do with my father, and if any of you think I’ll just take your money and forget about the lives that were lost and broken, you don’t know anything about me.”

Terrence slowly stood up. “Eve, babe, can we discuss this. Privately. Please.”

Evelyn turned to her rational husband and forced herself to calm down. After everything she’d put him though, she needed to hear him out even if she had no intention of listening. Without a word, she followed Terrence out of the room.

He turned back to the men. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. It’s been a rough couple of day, but, um, don’t write us off yet.”

Leaving the door cracked, he stopped in the stubby hallway that connected to the back of the foyer and rubbed both hands up his sweaty bald head. “Evelyn. I love you, but… holy crap. You may have just cost us the biggest payday of our lives.”

“Listen to me, Terrence. The same night my mother confirmed that Maxwell is innocent and was attacked in his home by his enemies is the same night that these five men decide to show up and buy our mansion. Doesn’t that seem a little off to you?”

Terrence nodded a few times. “Yeah. Yes. It does, but--Evelyn, do their motives really matter when it comes to that type of money? This is the moment we’ve been waiting for since we came down here.”

“What about the phantoms? We just condemn them to this mansion until the end of time?”

Terrence grabbed her upper arms gently. “We didn’t do anything to them. Your father didn’t do anything to them. Our hands are clean, Evelyn. Alannah, Zoey, hell, even Bella Day are not our responsibility. They were never our responsibility.”

Evelyn glared at him. “Then who will help them?”

Terrence shrugged. “I don’t know. God? We aren’t the liaison for the dead. We’re two normal, married people who want to start a family. Isn’t that what you want?”

Evelyn cast down her eyes. “I do, Terrence, but…”

“No buts,” Terrence said. “If you really, truly want that, then let’s take the money and run while that’s still an option.”

He brushed his hand down her cheek. “I’ve been your wingman since we came down here. Largely because I know how much learning about your father and helping people means to you. Let me have a chance to take the lead.”

“So we leave?” Evelyn asked rhetorically. “And everything we’ve done down here means nothing?”

Terrence pointed to the cracked open door. “That check is not nothing. That’s the end of all of our problems. Unlike Mary Sullivan and the others who made us sleepwalk, crashed our van, forced you to see how they died, have done nothing to aid our investigation, and overall made our lives a living hell. In the nicest way possible, I say screw ‘em. If they're that desperate to go home, they can find a new champion.”

Evelyn glanced over and saw Alannah, Zoey, Peter, Barker, and Winslow standing in the hall a few feet away.

Terrence’s eyes went wide, and he slowly turned to them. He gulped as they stared at him with lifeless eyes.

Barker puffed on his pipe. Thick blood leaked from his lip like sap. “He’s right.”

“You can’t possibly believe that?” Alannah said with shock. “How else will we get out?”

Barker took another puff. “I don’t know, but it might be time to explore our options elsewhere.”

Peter’s glance bounced between Evelyn and Terrence. “Mary was the strongest out of all of us. She kept the two of you bound to this place. Now that she’s gone, nothing is stopping you from walking away. It’s not something we want, but it’s your lives.”

Winslow muttered something and sniffled.

Evelyn looked to Zoey. The fifteen-year-old goth girl crossed her arms. “I thought you were different. I thought you actually cared. I guess I was wrong. What a stupid girl I am.”

Terrence took a deep breath. For the first time, he didn’t look intimidated by the dead. “Evelyn. We helped who we could. Let’s go home.”

Evelyn stood still. She looked at Zoey and let the cogs in her mind spin.

“An opportunity like this might never come up again,” Terrence replied.

“Terrence,” Evelyn said and looked to her husband with a sad smile. “I can’t just walk away.”

“You can,” Terrence begged.

Evelyn forced herself to say the next few words. “I’m the sole inheritor. It’s my decision.”

Dread sank Terrence’s face. “Evelyn, please don’t do this. I’m asking you as your husband.”

Evelyn took a deep breath. She turned around and entered the dining room. The men stopped their quiet chatter and directed their attention to Evelyn. Terrence lingered in the doorway behind her.

“Well, Mrs. Carr?” Timberland asked and held the pen over the blank check. “Have you come to your senses?”

“At this time, I will not be selling Quenby House,” Evelyn said.

Terrence covered his face with his palm.

Silence lingered in the room. The candlelight on the table flickered. One of the wicks burnt out, leaving behind a tiny wisp of smoke. Mayor Timberland looked disappointed and angry, Mr. Calhoon’s face was red with rage, Deputy Painter shook his head, Sheriff Yates appeared unfazed, and Dr. Gregory, with glassed-over eyes, had a small, disappointed smile on his face.

Mayor Timberland closed his checkbook and put it back into his suit jacket. Chair legs screeching against the floor, he stood up and straightened out his clothes. He locked eyes with Evelyn. “Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Carr. We won’t be seeing each other again.”

He turned to the door and gave Terrence a nod. “Mr. Carr.”

The other men followed the mayor’s lead. Deputy Painter mumbled a few curses under his breath. The rest didn’t say anything. Evelyn followed behind them, watching them back out their vehicles and, one by one, vanish down the red brick road.

Evelyn stood outside and hugged herself, listening to the soft breeze, rustling of leaves, and chirping crickets.  Maybe it was the wrong decision? Maybe she was a mad woman for not accepting? She’d questioned her own sanity from time to time and wouldn’t be surprised if she’d finally lost it completely. It was your estate, your choice. Her internal justifications meant nothing. Evelyn slumped her shoulders and returned inside. She closed and locked the front door behind her. The plastic sealing the nearest window flapped in the wind, reminding her just how vulnerable her house was.

Zoey approached her under the dim chandelier light. It cast its odd multi-tier shadow over the goth in blobs. “You’ve managed to piss off the mayor, sheriff, and your doctor all in the same night. Impressive.”

With apathetic eyes, Evelyn looked at the goth teenager. “You don’t need to remind me.”

Zoey opened her mouth but struggled to say the words. “I know what you did wasn’t easy, but all of us are grateful for it. You really are making a difference.”

“Tell my husband that,” Evelyn replied, heading for the light switch.

“I mean it,” Zoey followed her up the curving stairs. “No one will ever know what you did for us, but I have a feeling that when we pass onto the other side, we’ll remember the sacrifice you made.”

“Goodnight, Zoey.” Evelyn said, effectively ending the conversation. She didn’t want to be reminded of the millions of dollars and the marriage she just flushed down the toilet. Toggling off every light switch she came across, Evelyn eventually made it to the master bedroom. Terrence sat at the edge of the king-sized canopy bed, staring intensely at his open hands. The nearest window was open and allowed the cold wind to flow into the room.

Evelyn closed the door and began to disrobe for her evening shower.

Terrence didn’t bat an eye.

Stopping in the bathroom’s doorway, Evelyn turned to him. She didn’t know what to say. An apology would be disingenuous. A verbal reaffirming would further draw a wedge between them. Asking if he was alright would be futile, seeing that she knew the answer. She felt like she needed to say something.

The breeze gave her goose bumps.

“What can I do to make this up to you?” Evelyn asked him.

Terrence broke his stare but didn’t looked at Evelyn. He spoke softly. “Tomorrow…  I’m going to go through the catalogs we made when we first got here and see if I can’t get a few buyers.”

“What about the case?” Evelyn asked, rubbing her upper arm.

“That’s your baby,” Terrence replied. “I’ll be more useful doing work here. Our month stay is almost over, and if we’re going to start paying for electricity and water here, we’re going to need some money. A lot of it. The antiques are our solution.”

Evelyn bit the inside of her cheek. She breathed in through her nose and didn’t let it out until the bathroom door was closed behind her. She climbed into the bathtub and turned on the showerhead. Jets of hot water punched her skin. She felt the deep grooves in her back, remembering her car “crash.”

It was years ago. She hadn’t been sleeping, or eating for that matter. The case was getting to her. A kidnapping of a fourteen-year-old screw-up. No one cared the girl was gone. No one cared what her piggish abductor was doing to her as he slowly turned her from a lost girl to a streetwalker.

The case wasn’t going anywhere. Worse, the pimp knew that someone was after him. Evelyn went to his hideout: a nine-story tenement built on vices. She curled her white knuckles around her baton’s grip. Her plan was already in motion. The message she sent had been received by the girl, or so said the big-hearted streetwalker that Evelyn had befriended during the investigation. Evelyn just hoped the girl was packed and ready to go the moment the apartment door swung open. There would be no police this time. Not when they were making money off the pimp’s trade. With the balled point of the baton, she knocked on the matte-gray and chipped door. No response.

Evelyn waited, feeling her heart rate quicken. She pulled out her lock-picking tools and started to work on the lock. Within moments, she was inside. The place reeked. Trash and old food littered nearly every surface. Evelyn waded through the ankle-deep garbage. Just the idea that a human being could live here had her queasy. Keeping her baton out and moving quietly, she navigated the apartment. Evelyn approached the bedroom door. She pushed it open and found the girl lying on the bed. Two large, hand-shaped bruises ringed around the fourteen-year-old’s neck. Peeking out of her purple lips was a folded piece of paper about the size of that found in a fortune cookie. Hesitant, Evelyn approached the girl’s cold cadaver. A piece of Evelyn died when she withdrew the paper.

“Hope is on the way,” it read in Evelyn’s handwriting. The word hope was crossed out and replaced with death.

Evelyn balled it up and put it in her pocket. Carefully and without disturbing anything else, she walked out of the apartment, down the emergency flight of stairs, and vomited her lunch on the alleyway’s floor. She wiped her red eyes and hopped into her crappy sedan. When she looked in the rearview mirror, she saw the dead girl. Completely unwanted and wasting away in an apartment full of trash. Evelyn stomped the accelerator and raced down the dark, wet road. As the RPM climbed, the semi-truck's high beams grew brighter. Right as it was about to pass by her, Evelyn made a split-second decision and swerved in front of it.

Metal and bone crunched.

Lights out.

Marinated in twisted metal and her own blood, Evelyn was shocked to see she was alive. Even more shocked, someone had gotten her out of the car and had taken her hand.

“Help is on the way,” the dark-skinned stranger said. “Hold on.”

He kept her awake until the paramedics arrived.

“You should be dead,” they told her.

Evelyn didn’t reply. She knew they were right. The man, Terrence, visited her during the recovery process. He was the only one who did, and Evelyn knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.

Evelyn found herself standing under a cool shower. She must’ve used up all the hot water. She stepped out and dried off with a towel. The mirror was too fogged up to look at her reflection. Perhaps that was a good thing.

She walked into the master bedroom. Terrence was not there. Keeping her towel wrapped around her, she walked through the room and peered into the hallway. The lights were off.

“Terrence?” She stepped out and turned into the closest bedroom. Snoring softly, Terrence slept on a twin bed. Evelyn shut the door and retired, alone, on the master bedroom’s king-sized mattress.

Evelyn watched the sun come up. Its beams grew over her face, causing her to squint.

Bella Day had been missing four days now.

Getting dressed, Evelyn headed down the hallway. She saw Terrence doing what he said he would: reviewing the pictures they had taken of various antiques and comparing them to similar items online. He glanced up at Evelyn.

“I’m heading out,” Evelyn told him.

“Be careful,” Terrence replied.

“Thanks. I love you.”

Evelyn turned to walk away.

“Evelyn,” Terrence called out.

Evelyn twisted back quickly.

“I love you, too,” Terrence replied.

Evelyn climbed into the minivan. She took a deep breath and deliberated which of the men she would follow first. It didn’t seem like a coincidence those specific five men wanted her gone. Were they all part of her father’s disappearance or was it just one of them? Perhaps one of them had ties to the killer? The faster she found that person, the faster the phantoms would go away. As much as she’d like to dedicate her time in searching for her father, there was too much land to cover and not enough hints. Also, since he was innocent, that meant that he didn’t have Bella Day. If there was a priority, it was her safe recovery. A dangerous amount of time had passed since her disappearance. Evelyn would much rather save a living girl than avenge a spirit.

Out of all the men, the easiest man to track would be Mr. Calhoon. Evelyn parked a block from his house. He marched out of the front door and kissed his wife goodbye, but it seemed out of habit than passion. His collared shirt was slightly disheveled and his hair was hastily combed. Evelyn trailed him to the biggest strip mall in Adders.

Evelyn watched from across the street as Calhoon went from store to store collecting money from the managers. He must be the property owner, Evelyn surmised. Judging by Calhoon’s face to face approach at collecting dues, he didn’t mind doing the heavy lifting.

Even checked her clock. Following them one by one would take too long. Evelyn regretted not bringing her tracking equipment back in Detroit. She didn’t expect to work this vacation, and tracking someone was illegal, not that it stopped her before. She had to improvise.

She headed to a local supermarket, picked up a few pre-paid burner phones, magnets, small plastic boxes, and glue. She pulled off to the side of the road, activated the phones with a fake name, turned them on, downloaded the proper location app, and sealed them inside the plastic containers. She then glued magnets to the tops of the containers. She stuck the first one in the wheel well of Calhoon’s Lexus.

She headed to the hospital next and spotted Dr. Gregory’s BMW. She snuck back to the employee lot by crawling under the fence. Black cap and sunglasses on, she sped-walked to his vehicle and stuck the magnetized box containing the phone in the wheel well. Wasting no time and not looking up at the camera, she scurried under the fence and raced back to her minivan.

Knowing there was no way to get one of the makeshift trackers on the sheriff’s and deputy’s squad cars, she headed to the town hall. Wiping sweat from her forehead, Evelyn put her shades back on and scanned the quiet streets of Adders’ tiny Main Street. It was past lunchtime. The streets were relatively devoid of witnesses. She rolled around the back of the town hall building, glancing up at the multiple cameras mounted on arms on the colonial style-brick building’s side. As long as Evelyn didn’t make any mistakes, they’d have no reason to review video footage and look up her dingy minivan's license plate. Evelyn pulled up to the guard post at the employee lot. The elderly guard with droopy ears and a pot belly read a Lionel train magazine. He gave Evelyn a suspicious look as she rolled down her window.

“I took a wrong turn,” Evelyn said with a sweet smile. “You mind if I make a U-turn back here?”

The old guard paused. Without a word, he gestured for Evelyn to go ahead and then went back to reading. Evelyn pulled into the packed employee lot and spotted the red sports car. Evelyn’s breath quickened. She kept a hard face and stopped next to it. She popped her hood.

She walked around the car and looked at the engine and the guard staring back at them both. Evelyn smiled nervously. “Could you give me hand?”

Grumbling, the man put aside his magazine.

While he was standing up and setting the magazine aside, Evelyn unplugged her corroded battery and then pretended to look confused.

The guard approached her. “Heck of a place to break down.”

“Tell me about it,” Evelyn said, rubbing her forehead. “It’s usually my husband who takes care of the car stuff. We’re in a little bit of a rough patch right now.”

The man nodded slowly. He looked over the engine and pointed. “Your battery.”

“Oh, let me tell my husband,” Evelyn reached her hand into her purse and “accidentally” dropped her lipstick as she reached for her phone. It rolled to the red sports car wheel. “God, I’m such a mess. Can you fix it?”

The man nodded. He leaned over the engine and began plugging in the battery. Evelyn knelt beside the sports car. Back to the guard, she pulled the magnetized box out of her purse and slipped it into the wheel well. She snatched up the red lipstick and returned to him.

He eyed her. “You should be okay now.”

“Oh, thank you,” Evelyn said with relief. “You saved my life.”

“I don’t know about that, ma’am. Double check your battery before you head out. If it’s not tightly secure--”

“Thank you,” Evelyn said and climbed into the van. She waved him goodbye and drove away.

Evelyn’s next destination was the mom-and-pop restaurant a block away from the sheriff’s department. She requested a window seat and ordered a cheap dinner. She watched the department and sipped her Diet Coke. Yates wouldn’t be off work for another hour. She pulled out her tablet and reviewed her tracking app. She input phone numbers she had synced up with the phones and was able to see the various men’s cars on the GPS. They were all still at work.

After Evelyn finished her slice of pie, she saw Sheriff Yates pull out of the department. She followed behind his cruiser to a small but well-kept house with a garden gnome out front. After he pulled into the driveway, Evelyn drove on, memorizing his address. She wouldn’t be able to track Deputy Painter today. She had enough on her plate already. Dr. Gregory was the first to go home but also the farthest to drive. Evelyn floored the accelerator and arrived at his two-story brick home with an attached two-car garage. There were four skinny pillars on the front porch. A cobblestone path led to his front porch stairs where a lantern was hanging on a black hook. Using her binoculars, she saw him cooking in the kitchen. It looked like he was in for a quiet night.

Evelyn headed to the mayor’s house. It was a beautiful McMansion with a horse pen.

Evelyn’s phone rang. Terrence.

“Hey,” Evelyn answered softly as she watched Mayor Timberland yell at his twenty-something-year-old daughter in the living room.

“I need you to come home right now.”

“What happened?”

Evelyn raced back to the Quenby House as fast as she could. Between two vine-wrapped colonnades, Terrence stood outside of Quenby House. The window to the left side of the door had plastic sheeting on it. The window on the right was shattered.

“What the hell happened?” Evelyn asked as she stepped out of her van.

Terrence gestured for her to enter.

On the foyer’s red-carpet floor sat a brick amidst the shattered window glass.

“I was upstairs when it happened. I couldn’t see the culprit.”

Evelyn knelt down beside the brick.

“I haven’t touched it. Should we call the cops?” Terrence asked.

“Probably,” Evelyn replied. Putting on a plastic glove, she picked up the brick and flipped it over. There was a note taped to the back.

Terrence leaned in and his eyes widened.

Evelyn read the hastily written note.

“Child Killer.”

27

Barnstormer

Hands on their hips, Officers Davis and Bailey surrounded the brick. With chewing tobacco packed behind his lower lip, Davis, in his 30s, was a short and stout man with a buzz cut and angry mug. He bounced his intense eyes between the brick and the shattered window.

Bailey, a similarly aged granite-faced woman with fiery red hair and Georgia twang, seemed more concerned with Evelyn and Terrence. Even from a few feet away, one could smell the officer’s taco dinner.

“Is there anything you can do?” Terrence asked. He had on white shorts and a teal button-up.

“Y’all said you saw no suspect,” Bailey said suspiciously. “There really ain’t much we can do without a lead.”

The wind flapped the long crimson curtains flanking the inner window. Evelyn warmed her hands on the front pockets of her black double-breasted raincoat. She was still clad in black from her long day of surveillance. “I’m sure you know that my family are not the most well-liked people in this town, but this is unacceptable.”

Davis picked up the note. He mouthed the words as he read it. He glanced up at them. “Maybe you should spend a few days away.” Tobacco muffled his voice. Little black leaves stuck onto and in between his yellow teeth.

“Not gonna happen,” Evelyn said, sick of running. Having turned down over two million dollars to keep the house, she wasn’t going risk having a stranger burn it down while she cowered in a cheap hotel room.

Davis glared at her and put the note into a Ziploc baggie. “Then I suggest you buy a gun.”

Terrence gawked at him. “That’s it? There’s nothing at all you can do for us?”

Davis turned his angry mug toward him. “There’s over twenty thousand people in Adders. We can’t stop everything because some teenager decided to toss a brick at your window, so either get armed or get out. That’s the Adders way.”

“I wish someone told us that when we moved here. Would’ve saved us a lot of trouble,” said Terrence.

“You have any advice?” Evelyn asked Officer Bailey.

“Y’all are in a precarious position: outsiders veiled in mystery and at the heart of the town's most brutal murders. People don’t know what to think of you. It’s no surprise some want you gone. If you stay, listen to Davis. Buy a weapon and stake claim to what belongs to you,” Bailey warned.

Evelyn eyed the woman. “What do you think of us? Are we really that much of a threat?”

Bailey and Davis traded looks. Bailey replied. “You don’t cause trouble, I don’t see a reason why you can’t stay.”

“You’re the first ones to say that to us,” Terrence admitted.

“Davis and I aren’t as traditional as most Adders folk.”

Officer Davis nodded in agreement.

Bailey handed Evelyn her card. “Can’t promise I’ll pick up, but there’s my number.”

Evelyn stuck it in her wallet. The officers left soon after. Evelyn grabbed the broom and dustbin and started cleaning up the glass. Terrence returned with a roll of plastic sheeting they had used when they were painting the walls. He cut out the proper rectangular shape and taped it around the window. When he finished, he looked at the other plastic cover window. “Well, now they match.”

Terrence turned to march up the stairs. Evelyn called out to him.

Hand on the railing and foot on the second step, he turned back.

“If it wasn’t for this ordeal with my father and the murders, I would’ve sold this place in a heartbeat,” Evelyn said.  

“What’s done is done,” Terrence said with a sunken face. “No use dwelling on it.”

“It’s okay to be mad at me,” Evelyn felt like she had to say.

“That’s the thing, Evelyn. I don’t want to be mad at you.” Hand sliding up the smooth rail, Terrence hiked the curved stairs.

Evelyn stood in the massive foyer. She looked at the broken windows, wondering how much damage this old house could take before it fell in. She marched down the hall where she had painted Mary’s mural and entered into the red velvet lounge. Bookshelves, a brick fireplace, and various large portraits lined the walls. Without warning, the blackened wood burst into flame and all the lights flickered on.

“You look dreadful, darling,” Alannah said, lounging on the lover’s seat with one arm stretched above her head.

“I just sold my chance at a family to help you,” Evelyn replied coldly. Apart from Andrew, the five victims occupied various sections and chairs in the room. “The least you can do is tell me who threw the brick.”

Peter Calhoon stepped forward. He wore his number thirteen purple and yellow varsity jacket and rubbed his right wrist, right under the bloody stump. With guilt, he said. “My dad threw it.”

By the looks on the others’ faces, they had seen him too.

Infuriated, Evelyn marched out of the room, grabbed the brick, and fished out her car keys. Slamming the minivan door behind her, she raced to the Calhoon house. He must’ve done it when I was watching one of the others. Evelyn’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. She could feel herself reaching her long overdue breaking point. You could only get shot at, see someone have their head explode, and deal with estranged family for so long before you needed to smash something.

Her brakes screeched to a stop out of the Calhoon residence. Their house was large and modern, probably constructed in the last twenty or thirty years. Upon Evelyn’s first visit here, before Calhoon knew about the bones in her basement, he and Terrence were hitting it off by talking about football. Both Mr. and Mrs. Calhoon were very supportive of Evelyn’s investigation. That had changed.

Though it was 10:38 p.m. and the lights were off apart for the upstairs bedroom TV, Evelyn punched her finger against the doorbell multiple times and then hammered her fist against the door’s face. She could hear Mr. Calhoon swearing as he neared the opposite side of the door.

Hair disheveled and wearing pajamas, Mr. Calhoon yanked open the door. With tired eyes and a pissed-off face, he loomed over Evelyn. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“You left something at my house.” Evelyn presented the brick.

Mr. Calhoon fumed. “Leave, or I swear--”

“So you’re admitting that you vandalized my home?” Evelyn replied with fire in her voice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mr. Calhoon denied. The man was a good liar.

“I’ve done nothing but try to help you,” Evelyn said. “And yet this is how you treat me. Why? Because of my father?”

“The one who killed my son?” Mr. Calhoon asked rhetorically and took an angry step toward Evelyn. She held her ground and looked directly into his eyes.  Her fingernails dug into the brick in her lowered hand.

“Maxwell’s innocent. I have proof,” Evelyn said firmly.

“Liar,” the man barked.

“He was with my mother the days of the murders,” Evelyn explained.

“His lover, you mean? Someone who would lie to protect him. What a testimony!”

“You don’t want to believe me, fine,” Evelyn said. “But stay away from my house.”

“I didn’t throw that brick,” Calhoon seethed.

“That’s not what your son said,” Evelyn replied, her blood pressure rising.

Calhoon grabbed her by the scruff of her coat. “What did you say?”

“Peter. Your son. His apparition saw everything,” Evelyn said.

Mr. Calhoon’s lip quivered. “You’re a psychopath, just like your father.”

With a powerful shove, he pushed Evelyn onto the front lawn. She landed on her bottom and glared at him as he slammed the door. Clenching the brick, she guessed it wouldn’t be hard to break the window from here. What are you doing, Evelyn? an internal voice asked her. She forced herself up, quickly brushed off the dirt, and then returned to her minivan before she did something stupid.

She pulled into a gas station. Under the dim light over the awning, she rested her back against the minivan and pinched the bridge of her nose as the gas pump refilled her car. You need to slow down, she told herself. Eyes closed, she saw Stephen Doyle’s head exploding and felt his warm blood cascading down her face. She had him at gunpoint. Her father, a shell of a man with a beard-covered face, pulled the trigger without hesitation. Was Lily covering for Maxwell this whole time? Was Evelyn trying to prove the innocence of a serial killer?

No, she had to trust her gut.

Currently, her gut told that her Calhoon was going to do something stupid. Evelyn needed to stop that, and the best way to do so would be to get people looking at him. If he knew the police were watching him, he wouldn’t make a move, or, at the very least, he might hesitate.

Evelyn pulled out her phone and dialed Officer Bailey.

“Yeah?” the woman answered sleepily.

“It’s Evelyn. I have an idea who threw that brick.”

“Who’s that?”

“It’s Calhoon. We had a falling out recently. He may try to get back at me.”

“We’ll talk to him tomorrow.”  

Evelyn thanked her and hung up. She pulled up Sheriff Yates’s number. On a number of occasions, he’d claimed to be a friend of the Quenbys, praising their donations to the department. Nonetheless, Evelyn didn’t trust any of the men who had attempted to bribe her out of town.

Pulling the pump out of her vehicle, Evelyn listened to the ringing. She was patched into the sheriff’s office. Sunshine wasn’t working this late. A different receptionist took her call.

“I need to speak to Yates,”

“He’s not in right now.”

“It’s an emergency. Tell him it’s Evelyn Carr.”

With hesitation, the night worker put Evelyn on hold. By the time she was on the road, Sheriff Yates answered. “I usually don’t take calls this late. Consider yourself a lucky lady.”

Evelyn told him about the brick and Calhoon, ending with, “You said people would come after me because of what my father has done. Now, I’m asking for your help.”

“You sure it was Calhoon?”

“I’m positive.” Evelyn would’ve shown him the burner phone’s GPS path, but the evidence would be inadmissible because of its illegal nature.

“Hmm,” Yates said contemplatively. “I have to say, Evelyn. Maybe this is a sign.”

“A what?”

“Maybe instead of going on a witch hunt, you and Terrence, you know, end your vacation early.”  

“You’re saying I should run away?” Evelyn asked. “Why can’t you talk to Calhoon? Tell him you have an eye on him. Scare him a little bit.”

“Yeah, and then someone else who hates you will rise up and take his place. You want my two cents: contact Mayor Timberland. He’ll probably offer you a fourth of the price for the property since you offended him, but take it anyway and skedaddle. There’s nothing here for you.”

“You said you were a friend of my family.”

“I’m a friend of their money,” the sheriff said honestly. “And that well dried up a long time ago.”

“Wow,” Evelyn replied, pulling off to the side of the road. “You’re really something else, Sheriff.”

“Hey now, don’t blame me. I told you our community was a fragile thing, and clearly you don’t fit in the bubble. I would say that it’s only a suggestion that you leave but...”

“So that’s it then? Because of my father’s supposed crimes, I’m the one who suffers.”

“You know it’s more than that. You disturb the peace, and Adders wouldn’t be Adders without its peace and quiet. Now rest up. I imagine you’ve got a lot to pack tomorrow.”

“I’m not leaving until I prove my father’s innocence,” Evelyn stated. “Or until I find Bella Day. Remember her? The nine-year-old we’re looking for. No, I guess she doesn’t matter. It’s only me and the breath in my lungs that disturbs the peace.”

“Have a good night, Evelyn,” the sheriff said coldly and hung up.

Evelyn rested her forehead on the steering wheel. Another burned bridge. After a moment to reflect on the conversation, Evelyn returned to Quenby House. She arrived after midnight and looked up at the mansion under the moon’s glow. Drooping white flowers dangled from the vines that twisted around the mighty colonnades and suffocated the building’s white paint. Letting out an exasperated sigh, she marched up the steps and went inside.

She knocked on Terrence’s bedroom door.

“Come in,” he said.

Evelyn found him seated in bed, resting his back on the backboard and a laptop on his outstretched legs. He wore a white t-shirt and boxers. “You look worried.”

“Really?” Evelyn replied sarcastically. “The sheriff told us to buzz off. He’s not going to help us find the culprit.”

“Yates?” Terrence cursed. “He must’ve been upset we didn’t sell.”

“I’m sorry, Terrence,” Evelyn apologized. “I was selfish and bullheaded. We should’ve taken the money.”

Terrence looked like he was squirming to say something, but didn’t. He asked, “What about the victims? Bella Day? Your father? Why are you having doubt now?”

“I’m chasing ghosts,” Evelyn admitted. “Literally. Figuratively.” Evelyn chuckled at the ridiculousness of the situation. “I’m giving this case my all, and my reward is a bus ticket the hell out of here.”  

Terrence set aside his computer. “The Evelyn I knew never worried about the payout. It’s always been about helping others. Sticking up for the little man.”

“I don’t know, Terrence. I’m tired of all of it. It’s like I’m running, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Terrence gestured for her to come over.

Hesitant and guilt-ridden, she made her way to the side of the bed. Terrence squeezed her hand. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

Evelyn crinkled her brows.

“When those guys showed up last night, they told me about how they wanted to buy the house way before dinner. I was half-tempted to sign off there and then, but I knew your father gave this place to you. Heck, it was the only thing your father ever gave you. When you arrived, I needed to see your reaction to the men’s offer. Your response wasn’t what, um, I had hoped. Still isn’t, but this land, it's yours, Evelyn. And though I don’t agree with your choice, I respect it. Because at the end of the day, we’re going to be the only ones in the world that knew what you did for the people downstairs, not for a reward or fame, but because it's the right thing to do.”

“Thanks.” Evelyn sat down next to him. He scooted over, giving her room to lay down beside him. Evelyn smiled at the situation, knowing that the twin bed was too small for the both of them.

“Yeah, I don’t know how well this sleeping arrangement is going to work,” Terrence said jokingly as he struggled to keep both legs on the bed.

“You could come back to my room.”

“Nervous that Alannah’s going to try to seduce me?”

“Should I be?” Evelyn asked with a small smile.

“She did say she liked my cowboy hat.”

“That’s it. I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

They snuggled on the tiny bed. Evelyn knew one thing: come hell or high water, they’d have each other.

Evelyn woke up hours before sunrise. She untangled herself from her husband and cringed as she stood up from the creaking bed. Seeing that Terrence was still fast asleep, she headed downstairs. With a pensive look, she studied the plastic sheeting on the two front windows. The killer didn’t need to use a secret passageway; he could simply step inside. That was not a jolly thought. She headed to the kitchen and poured a glass of orange juice. By the tightness in her gut, she remembered how little she ate yesterday. That reminded her…

She found her purse and pulled out her tablet. With the light still off, she sat in the study on a cracked leather office chair. Yawning, she loaded up her tracking app. That’s odd, she thought. Calhoon’s vehicle was parked in a field a dozen miles from his house. Evelyn checked the clock. 5:01 a.m. She checked on Mayor Timberland’s car. He was parked in the same field. Quickly, Evelyn cycled to Dr. Gregory. They were all in the same location. Deputy Painter and Sheriff Yates were the only ones she wasn’t sure about, because she never got a chance to put trackers on them.

Unsure how much time she had, Evelyn rushed out of the study, threw on some dark clothes, put her blonde hair into a ponytail, and grabbed her extendable baton. She thought about waking Terrence but didn’t want to wait for the men’s meet to adjourn. Groaning, Evelyn left her husband to his sleep and sped down the road.

Inky blackness shrouded Adders. Outside of her headlight beams, she could barely make out the silhouettes of trees and farmlands. The moon was almost full, and the universe painted the dark sky. Evelyn drove past the mayor’s property. She turned into a dirt road that had a metal guard blocking the path. Evelyn got out of her car. There was a chain, but the gate wasn’t locked. Quietly, Evelyn put her hands on the metal bar and pushed it open. When she had enough for her van to fit through, she climbed back into her vehicle and continued onward.

A thin line of skinny trees flanked either side of the road. Behind them, cattle pastures sprawled into the darkness. Evelyn turned off her headlight and quietly rolled her van forward.

She saw the barn appear as she rounded the road’s bend. It was a big red building with an A-frame tin roof and massive double doors. Rays of light burst from the thin gaps of the tall vertical slats that made up the walls. Metal mesh fence with chipped posts bordered the barn from three sides.

Timberland’s red sports car, Calhoon’s Lexus, Gregory's BMW, and two sheriff cruisers were parked outside. The whole gang. Evelyn reversed her minivan and parked it on the other side of the bend to make sure that if the men walked out of the barn, they wouldn’t immediately spot her vehicle. Under the cover of night, Evelyn scurried over to the barn. She weaved through the parked cars and slowed in front of the structure. Calming herself, she peeked through the gap between the double doors. The light inside reflected on her blue iris.

The interior consisted of two rows of cattle pens, one on the right wall and one on the left. They had closed wooden gates but currently held no livestock. Packed dirt and straw made up the path between them. It led to a small table near the back where the five men sat. Evelyn could hear their voices, but she was too far to decipher the words. A loft formed a U above. The bottom--the widest portion and full of haystacks--hovered over the table. One ladder could access it from the inside.

Evelyn pulled away from the gap and snuck around the side of the barn. There was a chicken coop attached to the side of the building and a stack of pallets nearby. Carefully, Evelyn climbed the pallets, feeling them wobble beneath her feet. When she found her balance, she pulled herself up onto the chicken coop. The tin roof bent in for a moment and then popped back into place. Evelyn froze, waiting to see if any one of the men had heard it. It didn’t seem like it. She’d need to be quieter. Putting the ball of her hands against the roof’s edge, she pulled up, sliding her torso onto the roof’s edge. With slow and controlled steps, she walked the incline to the place where the loft jutted out of the rest of the room. There was a window on the left and right side. Evelyn approached the nearest one. One of the four glass panes had been knocked out. The others remained. Evelyn heard the voices clearer, but not clear enough. She needed to get inside. Using a point of her pocketknife, she loosened another pane. She threw it like a Frisbee into a bush and did the same to the other panels. When she cleared out the glass, she pulled out the window plus-shaped pane divider and crawled inside.

Using hay bales as steps, she walked down to the loft’s floor. She pulled out her cell phone, got on her knees and elbows, and filmed through a crack in the floor.

Deputy Painter leaned back in a rusty metal chair with his boots on the cracked circular table. His felt hat rested beside his feet on the table. He said, “Let me take care of her personally.”

Sheriff Yates, sitting beside him, pushed the deputy’s feet off the table. Painter almost flipped backward. He caught himself and glared at the sheriff.

“There are much cleaner ways of handling things,” Yates told him. “I brought in this meth head the other day. It wouldn’t be hard to plant some of his product in her possession.”

“But that’s only temporary,” Painter argued.

Mayor Timberland sat on the chair opposite of him. “I agree. She is dangerously close to learning the truth and needs to be dealt with permanently.”

“Yeah, and now Maxwell’s killing again,” Painter added. “Maybe with her help.”

Standing away from others, Dr. Gregory shook his head. “Evelyn isn’t the problem. It’s Maxwell. He’s back. We all know it.”

“One girl goes missing and now it’s Maxwell,” Timberland said with doubt.

“I’m a man of certainties, Joshua,” Gregory stated. “Maxwell is our killer. We knew it then and we know it now.”

“Be that as it may, you can’t deny that Evelyn’s a threat,” Timberland said.

Gregory pursed his lips.

Mr. Calhoon, seated at the table, lifted his face from his hands. “I wish we dealt with Max when we had the chance. Put a bullet in his brain.”

“What he knew mattered too much,” Timberland replied.

Deputy Painter scoffed. “It was a lack of commitment that allowed the snake to escape us.”

“We should’ve just burned down the whole plantation,” Mr. Calhoon said. “Toasted him in those passageways he adored so much.”

“I’m glad we didn’t,” Timberland said. “Because all the blackmail he has could still be inside. I don’t care what the bastard said. There’s no way he’d destroy his family’s work.”

Yates sniffed his coffee, seemingly getting rid of all his stress. “Instead of going around in circles for another two hours, we just need to decide what we want to do about Evelyn. Eventually, she’ll figure out what we did to her father. Worse, finds out he’s alive, and then we’re really screwed.”

Painter leaned back, arms behind his head, and looked up at the crack on the floor and directly at Evelyn.

28

The Woods

Evelyn pulled her face away from the crack. Her heart raced. Painter got out of his chair, keeping an eye on the loft above his head. The other men looked at him inquisitively. Evelyn slowly stood. The floor creaked beneath her feet. All of the men turned their eyes to the loft.

“Is there someone up there?” one of them asked the others.

Silent as death, Deputy Painter climbed the ladder. The rungs groaned under every step.

Evelyn’s stomach dropped.

Sticking her phone in her pocket, she dashed for the window.

Painter quickened his pace.

Evelyn slid down the inclined tin roof.

Footsteps stomped through the loft behind her.

When Evelyn reached the end of the roof, she jumped off. The ground came up much quicker than she would’ve liked. It was a twelve-foot drop. She got a few bruises, but nothing felt broken. Evelyn pushed her body off the dewy grass. The sky was turning from black to indigo. Evelyn raced around the front of the barn as Painter peered out of the broken window.

Shouts sounded in the barn.

Evelyn weaved back through the cars. The barn door opened as Evelyn rounded the bend on the dirt path. She unlocked her car with the clicker and clambered inside. She turned the ignition and floored the gas petal. Kicking up dust and pebbles, the minivan skidded down the dirt path and onto the main road.

Evelyn constantly glanced back in the rearview mirror as she got farther and farther away. It didn’t look like she was being followed. Nonetheless, Evelyn couldn’t tell herself to slow down. When the barn was miles behind, Evelyn reached for her cell phone and the incriminating evidence inside.

She felt her coat pockets. It wasn’t there. I thought… she tried her front and back jean pockets. Wallet, but no cell phone. She lifted her bottom a few inches off the chair and felt around beneath her. Nothing. She checked the cubby at her feet. Nope.

Dread flooded over Evelyn. She tried to remember where she could’ve lost it. It had to have been when she was sliding down the roof or when she jumped. I have to go back. Evelyn pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant. She withdrew her tablet from her purse and tracked the men’s cars. They were dispersing. Two were coming her way and one going the other, with no way of knowing about Painter or Yates.

Evelyn turned off her minivan and stayed parked in front of the restaurant as Timberland’s red sports car raced by. Soon after, one of the sheriff’s cruisers zipped down the street. Evelyn watched them vanish. She restarted her van and returned to the main road. Looking both ways, Evelyn went back the way she came down the field-flanked road

Driving the speed limit and trying to appear inconspicuous, Evelyn returned to the dirt road. The sun cast its golden rays. Evelyn parked in front of the gate to the dirt road. The chain locked it to a metal post. Evelyn would have to walk in.

She ducked under the rail and jogged down the dirt path. She was out of breath by the time she arrived at the vacant barn. Pacing across the place where the cars had been parked, she searched the ground for her cell. After a few minutes and no results, she wondered around the side of the barn. It seemed like the most logical conclusion. Evelyn slowly walked back and forth in the grass. No luck. She climbed up to the coop and peeked at the roof. No sign of it. She returned to the loft. Hay bales, loose straw, still no cell phone.

Evelyn ran her hand up her scalp. This is bad. Very bad.

Winded, she arrived back at the minivan empty-handed. She pulled out her tracker app, wondering if she still had her own phone’s data on there. She did. Evelyn followed the blip down the opposite side of the road where she came from. Before she could overlay and see which man’s car it was in, her phone blip disappeared.

“Oh come on!” She tried restarting her tablet and walked around, searching for a signal. She got a bar, but her blip wouldn’t return. The revelation hit her. They broke my SIM card.

Evelyn didn’t know why they broke it, but they wouldn’t have done so unless they knew she was filming. She had assumed that any or all of them now knew she was spying on them. Evelyn chewed on her nail and rushed home.

She didn’t waste time closing her van’s door. She sprinted inside and upstairs to the guest bedroom. She burst through the door. Terrence shot out of bed with an alarmed look on his face.

“Dang, Eve!” Terrence yelled. “You nearly scared me half to death!”

“Terrence, I messed up,” Evelyn said breathlessly. She told him what happened back at the barn.

Terrence covered his mouth and averted his eyes. After a long while, he pulled his hand away from his face. “Yeah, that’s not good. Do we have any idea who took it?”

“It doesn’t matter. They could’ve told the others. We need to assume the worst.”

“Let’s get a hold of Officer Bailey,” Terrence said, trying to think up a game plan. “She can… you can tell her your testimony.”

“I suppose, but I don’t expect her to buy it,” Evelyn replied.

“It’s that or run,” said Terrence, putting on his pants.

“Make the call,” Evelyn pulled out the policewoman’s card.

Upon hearing what they were talking about, Bailey shut them up. “Don’t say any more over the phone. Come to the station. We’ll talk in private.”

Not wasting time on a shower or to change her clothes, Evelyn headed to the police station. Terrence drove, giving Evelyn a little time to recover. It seemed like she hadn’t breathed normally since she left the barn.

The police station was a little bigger than the sheriff’s department, but not by much. It was still a single-story rectangular building, but just had a little more to it. It had a large flagpole outside the front of the building. Two flags flapped in the wind: the American one and the Georgia State flag.

Keeping as calm as they could, Terrence and Evelyn walked side by side through the double doors with the police department’s decal over it. The bullpen was relatively compact, with only a few officers manning desks. There was a receiving desk manned by a male officer with glasses whose frames looked like orange slices. His hair was a malt gray color, and his stern expression made Evelyn miss pretty desk girl Sunshine back at the sheriff’s department.

As Terrence was about to speak to him, Office Bailey approached and gestured for them to follow her. Her frizzy red hair was in a tight bun on the back of her head. Officer Davis hunched over a desk, with his eyes locked on the outdated, box-shaped computer monitor. When he saw them pass, he stopped clicking on the keyboard and followed them into the unused interrogation room.

Bailey told Davis to check the observation room and make sure this meeting wasn’t recorded. None of them said a word until Davis returned. Though there was a table and chairs, no one sat.

“Mr. Calhoon, Mayor Timberland, Dr. Gregory, Sheriff Yates, and Deputy Painter. Those are the men,” Evelyn explained.

“You sure?” Bailey asked.

“I had them on video before the footage was destroyed.” Evelyn gestured to herself. “Look at me. You think I would’ve come out here covered in dirt if I wasn’t serious?”

Davis traded looks with Bailey and then locked eyes with Evelyn. “You saw the Mayor and Sheriff Yates, in the same room, plotting your murder and conversing about how they killed your father?”

“In a sense, sure.” Evelyn crossed her hands over her chest and chewed her thumbnails.

“Ah,” the officers said condescendingly.

“Hey, we wouldn’t lie about this,” Terrence declared.

“It’s just as far as tall tales go, this one takes the cake,” Bailey said.

Her partner seemed to agree. “And your convicting video record was conveniently destroyed so you have no evidence to support these claims.”

Terrence twisted around and rubbed his hands up his bald head.

Evelyn took a breath. “What do we need to do to convince you?”

The duo of officers thought for a moment. Bailey spoke up. “You say your father is alive. Bring him in. Let us hear his testimony, and you may have a case. Otherwise, there’s nothing we can do.”

The drive back to Quenby didn’t inspire confidence. Evelyn propped her head against the window and watched the world blur by.

Terrence put his hand on her thigh. “We’ll find a way.”

Evelyn kept her mouth closed. It felt like some invisible force was pushing down on her, seconds away from crushing her scarred body.

Quenby House came into view. Horrified, Terrence leaned over the steering wheel as the van came to a stop. Evelyn straightened her posture and saw what terrified her husband.

Blood.

Thick and dark red, it splattered on the steps leading to the mansion and splashed across the front door, as if someone had slung gallons of crimson paint on the porch and door. Evelyn quickly exited the car. Terrence followed. With cautious steps, they hiked the steps and avoided the dripping blood. By the looks of it, someone had splashed it here within the hour.

They reached the front door. Painted in the blood and lopsided, the word “LEAVE” looked directly at Terrence and Evelyn. Nearby, a black bird cawed. The breeze ruffled Evelyn’s blonde hair. There must’ve been at least two gallons of blood.

“Is it real?” Terrence asked soberly.

Evelyn outstretched her bony finger and dipped into the letter L. She brought back her red fingertip to her nose and sniffed. She turned to Terrence and nodded.  

Terrence cursed softly and then loudly. He turned back to the red brick path flanked by old oaks and at the single lane road beyond.

Evelyn dialed 9-1-1.

Screaming sirens were followed by two squad cars. The first car hailed from the police department. The other ventured from the sheriff’s office.

Officers Bailey and Davis stepped out of their car while Deputy Painter and Sheriff Yates stepped out of his.

With his eyes, Davis traced the messy trail of blood to the front door. He spat dip spit into a bottle.

Bailey directed her attention on Yates. “What are you doing here, Sheriff?”

Yates took a sip from a fat thermos. By his joyous expression, it seemed like he was drinking the manna from heaven. “I promised the Carrs that I’d look after them if anything happened. A sheriff keeps his promises.”

“That’s fine and dandy, but Davis and I got this covered,” Bailey argued.

With lust, Deputy Painter observed Bailey’s body that looked very blocky in her uniform. “We won’t be long, sweetheart.”

Yates hiked up the steps, careful not to get his polished boots bloody. He looked at the door and took another gulp. “Looks like cow blood.”

“How do you know?” Evelyn replied, keeping her expression hard.

Yates smiled at her. “Just a guess.”

“Probably should’ve sold the house,” Painter added, his left boot slight stepping in the blood. Red partial boot prints followed his trek through the double colonnades and to the front door. Officers Bailey and Davis eyed him suspiciously.

Bailey studied the word “leave” written in blood. “I ain’t ever seen anything like this before.”

Yates nodded. “Bad omen. Mrs. Carr, I know of a few motels you might be interested in staying at for a number of days. I know money is a little tight for you at the moment. So, on behalf of the sheriff’s department, I am offering to cover the expenses.”

“You know,” Evelyn said and wrapped her arm around Terrence’s lower back. “I think my husband and I are fine right here.”

Terrence glared at her. “Evelyn,” he nudged. “They’re offering to cover our expenses. Maybe we should listen to them.”

Bailey read the word again and shook her head. With a pitying look, she said to Evelyn, “I have to agree with Sheriff Yates. I don’t believe this place is safe anymore. Tell us your motel and room number when you make a decision and we’ll provide the necessary protection.”

Painter agreed. “Yep, we’ll make sure you’re taken care of. There are some real creeps out here. You never know who might show up.”

Evelyn cast her eyes down to the cow’s blood, just imagining the figure pouring it from a bucket as he walked backwards up the stairs. She glanced at her watch. It was almost eleven in the morning.

“You want us to drive you over to the motel now?” Yates asked politely. “We can wait here until you pack your things.”

Officer Bailey smiled falsely at the sheriff. “We’ll take her. Y’all got work to do.”

“Every one of you can leave,” Evelyn said. “Terrence and I need to clean this mess up.”

“We need to wait for Forensics to get samples first,” said officer Davis.

“The sheriff is probably right,” Evelyn said. “It’s likely just cow blood. I should clean it before it ruins the hardwood.”

“While we’re waiting, you can pack,” Yates suggested.

“Good idea,” Terrence said, obviously wanting to get away from the blood.

Evelyn nodded at the officers. With Terrence, Evelyn left the officers, deputy, and sheriff behind. Her walk turned into a jog as she rounded the bend of the massive house. Running between the vine-covered left wall and the line of tall trees, she reached the side door to the kitchen and hustled inside. Once Terrence entered, Evelyn closed the door, locked it, and pressed her back against it.

“We need to leave, Terrence,” Evelyn said as directly as she could.

“I think that’s a brilliant idea,” her husband replied, using a rag lying on the stove handle to pat down his sweaty face. “You’re not thinking about going to the motel though, right? I only went along with it to play village idiot. It really sounds like a trap.”

“Probably because it is,” Evelyn paced. “Within six hours of learning of their conspiracy, they’re already making their moves. I underestimated them. Big time.”

“You think they’ll try to kill us?” Terrence asked awkwardly, as if he didn’t believe the words.

“I don’t know, but they’re royally pissed. After Forensics comes and does their thing, we’ll grab anything that can fit into our minivan and get out of town.”

“What about the victims?” Terrence asked. Evelyn could tell he was more concerned with Evelyn than helping the ghosts. “We turned down millions of dollars to help them.”

“I don’t know. Maybe we can come back later,” Evelyn hated saying it. It felt like she was going against everything that defined her by leaving the job unfinished. Nonetheless, she couldn’t deny her fear any longer. These men that tried to kill her father were nearly untouchable, and now they had Evelyn in their crosshairs. They could wait until Bailey and Davis left and put a bullet in Evelyn and Terrence’s heads, hide the bodies, and get rid of the minivan. To the world, it would look like the Carrs had left town. There wouldn’t be any need to warrant an investigation. That was the worst-case scenario, of course, but Evelyn would be an idiot if she didn’t recognize the possibility of such a thing.

“I’m going to call Mayor Timberland,” Terrence said. “See if he’s still willing to buy the place. Is that alright with you?”

Feeling her heart twisting inside, Evelyn gestured for him to proceed. You’re not a bad person, Evelyn told herself. You’re doing what you can to survive. The dead aren’t going anywhere. You can come back when the situation has mellowed out. As much as the internal dialogue gave her some justification for her actions, she knew that the moment she left Adders behind, she would never be able to bring herself to return. Too many bad memories. Too many possibilities for things to go wrong. While she was here, there was a sense of urgency, one that pulled on her like a strong wind. She felt it now, stronger than ever. Hurry up and make the call, Terrence, before I put us any more at risk.

“Timberland speaking,” a voice said on the other end of the phone.

Terrence put the phone on speaker and placed it on the large kitchen island. “Hey, Mayor Timberland. This is Terrence Carr. I was hoping you’d have a moment to talk about the Quenby property.”

“What’s there to talk about?” the man said gruffly. “Your wife turned down the money.”

“Yeah, uh, that’s why I’m calling,” Terrence said with a nervous chuckle. “We’ve had some time to reconsider your proposal and would like to sell the property. Right now, if you wish.”

The line went quiet on Timberland’s end.

“Hello?” Terrence asked. “You still there?”

“Tell your wife that she has made her decision,” Timberland said spitefully. “We don’t want the property anymore.”

Evelyn spoke into the phone. “A million dollars, it’s yours and we leave right now. Forever.”

“No.” The mayor’s voice thundered through the large, empty kitchen. “You made your bed, Mrs. Carr. Lie in it.”

The line went dead.

Evelyn and Terrence stood in silence for a long moment.

Terrence put his phone away. “Well, it’s not exactly how I thought our vacation would turn out.”

The forensics team from the state arrived and took the necessary blood samples and photographs. Evelyn and Terrence watched them leave.

“Last call,” Sheriff Yates said. “I can take you to the best motel in town.”

“Thanks for the offer, Sheriff,” Terrence said, shaking the man’s hand. “We’ll find our own.”

The sheriff smiled at them, though the motive behind it couldn’t be interpreted. Was it spiteful? Disappointed? Happy?

He and Deputy Painter ducked into their squad car and left Quenby. Officers Bailey and Davis followed, but not before saying, “You bring us solid proof, we’ll make the case for you, but we need your father.”

Terrence waved them goodbye. Evelyn didn’t say anything. She stood under the shadow of the mansion, wondering if it was even worth it to clean up the blood. Probably not. She returned inside.

The phantoms waited in the foyer, standing just under the interior balcony.

“We’re going,” Evelyn told them, already thinking about all the sleep she’d get back in her small Detroit flat.

“Without the money?” Barker exclaimed. He wiped away the blood on his lip with the top of his hand.

Evelyn took a deep breath and nodded. “It didn’t work out. Hell, you can have the place if you want it.”  

Zoey scoffed and shook her head. “After all that you’ve done, you’re leaving?”

Evelyn felt her blood pressure rising. “Maybe you haven’t noticed the blood on our door or the brick dashed through our window?”

The victims looked at her with pursed lips and bleeding wounds.

Evelyn continued. “I did everything I could to help you. I risked my life. I turned down the fortune I needed to start a family of my own. I’m sorry, but I can’t offer anything else.”

“But you’re so close, darling,” Alannah said with her normal sultry tone.

“To what?” Evelyn asked. “Solving your murder? Finding the killer? Saving Bella? There’s only one person who might be able to help us, and we have no means of finding him.”

Terrence took a step forward and spoke to the phantoms. “We tried, but it's time to move on.”  

Zoey gnashed her teeth. She fidgeted as Evelyn and Terrence started up the stairs. “Wait!” Zoey called out.

Evelyn let go of the curved stairs handrail and looked at the goth.

“Let’s do what Mary Sullivan did,” Zoey declared.

Everyone in the room gave her their attention.

The fifteen-year-old girl clad in black continued speaking. “She was able to…guide you.”

“Possess us,” Evelyn clarified. “While we slept and while we were awake. How will that help?”

“It will allow us to leave this house. To see the outside world,” said Zoey.

Barker puffed smoke from his pipe. “That’s a possibility. Seven pairs of eyes are better than two.”

“If we even have the strength to do it,” Peter said. The young football player put his one good hand on a nearby vase stand. “Something about Mary made her stronger than us.”

“I don’t believe that to be true,” Alannah said. She glanced at Terrence on the stairs.  “We’ve never realized our full potential because we never had a chance to.”

Evelyn looked at them with doubt. “We’re still marching out into miles of woods. How will you know where to find Maxwell?”

Barker lowered his pipe to his chest. “I know you living folk look different than us. When you’re nearby, we can always sense you.”

Terrence shuddered. “That’s a terrifying revelation.”

“Tell me about it,” Barker replied. “If it works the same out there, we could potentially know if Maxwell or someone else is nearby even if we don’t see them.”

Evelyn contemplated what the phantoms were asking.

Terrence shook his head in disbelief. “Yeah, I’d rather not have anyone possessing me.”

Evelyn locked eyes with Zoey. “How can you guarantee we’ll be free after it’s all said and done?”

“Because we want to get home as much as you do,” Zoey said. “If we can’t find Maxwell, then you and Terrence are free to leave.”

“We were always free to leave,” Terrence replied. “Right?”

Zoey glared at him. “Leave guilt free.”

“Evelyn,” Terrence said. “This is a stupid idea.”

Evelyn walked back through the foyer floor. She glanced up at the angels in the door above, hoping that somewhere, a higher power was looking down on her. “If this fails and we come home tonight to the five men that tried to kill my father, I need you to promise me that you will put a stop to them if necessary.”

“We can certainly try,” Barker said.

Winslow nodded rapidly in agreement.

Terrence walked to his wife and put his hands on her shoulders. “Eve, let’s go upstairs and pack before it's too late.”

Evelyn gave Terrence a soft smile and looked into his tired, handsome dark eyes. “Our life has been a whirlwind since the first day we showed up. This is our chance to finally get some answers. To find my father.”

Terrence glanced up the phantoms standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a line and then back to Evelyn. “I’ll only do this under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“We leave all this risk-taking behind and start a quiet little family.”

“I’d like that.” Evelyn smiled at him. They let go of one another and turned to the five bloodied individuals before them. “How will this work?”

The ghosts approached them. Their movements were in sync with one another. They formed a circle around Evelyn and Terrence directly below the chandelier.

“Hold still,” Zoey said.

Evelyn blinked. She felt the ground moved beneath her feet. Suddenly, she saw double of Zoey and the other ghosts. Their doppelgangers overlapped one another as they walked in a circle. Terrence wobbled in place. He hunched over and dry heaved. Evelyn felt something punch her chest, sucking the breath out of her lungs. She dropped to a kneeling position. Candlelight illuminated the foyer around her. She heard piano music but couldn’t recognize the song.

Men in tops hats and jackets with long coat tails strolled by, with their arms locked with women in long dresses. Their faces were distorted, but they tracked Evelyn as they walked through the party that was now under way. Evelyn smelled cigarette and strong perfume. She blinked and the foyer was empty and dim, just how it was before she spoke to the phantoms. No music. No laughter. No odd smells. No people. Something pulled at her. It was Zoey. The girl clasped Evelyn’s hand in her own and led her out the front door, like how a child pulled at her mother.

Walking through the splattered cow’s blood, Evelyn looked out from behind the towering colonnade in front of her and at the bright sun. Terrence was moving ahead of her, being pulled by Alannah. They bounced down the few porch steps and onto the circular brick landing.

In an instant, blurred-face figures in fancy 19th and 20th-century attire filled the brick road in wonderfully-crafted, horse-drawn buggies. One of the horses passed by Evelyn and breathed her nostrils at her face. Evelyn smelled the wretched odor and stared into the horse’s eyes. They were a spiraling black hole.

Evelyn pulled her gaze away, and the afternoon returned to normal. Her feet took her beside the house. From the first floor to the attic, figures were silhouetted in the windows of Quenby House.

Evelyn shut her eyes and reopened them to the cotton field. Slaves in loose white shirts and brown pants plucked at the thorny crop while turning their distorted faces to Evelyn. There were seven in all, and each at a different distance. Evelyn tried to talk to one of them, but could not. She heard Zoey’s voice in her mind. “Leave them be. They’re nothing but memories of their former lives. Fragments, if that makes more sense, left behind when their living counterpart cast off of this plane. I don’t know if they're good or bad, or why they stayed, but they’re always around.”

“How do you know this?” Evelyn asked.

“I can’t say. I just… do.”

The woods came into view, meaning Evelyn had blacked out for at least six acres’ worth of land. Terrence stayed ahead, Alannah still pulling him by the hand. Peter walked a few feet away, but there seemed to be some white cord connecting him to Terrence’s body. The farther Peter walked away, the farther the cord stretched. It looked like it didn’t have a limit.

A pack of deer darted past. Their beautiful brown and white skin was mutilated by bullets. One had an exposed portion on its ribs. The breeze swayed the flap of skin hanging in front. All the animals had eyes like spiraling black holes that seemed to drain Evelyn’s will the more she looked at them. Tattered-skinned squirrels scurried up trees. Decaying birds took flight across the indigo sky. In one second, the sun was high above. In the next, it was falling away.

Evelyn glanced around the unfamiliar forest as tall trees cast large shadows over the endless underbrush. The usual animal cries and screeches filled the woodlands, but there were other, alien sounds too; things that Evelyn had never heard before. Sounds that she could never hope to imitate. Shadowy quadrupedal beings lumbered just out of view, some of them three times the size of a human being. Somehow, Evelyn knew they were ancient or otherworldly. The only one Evelyn saw had a face like a black vortex, endlessly spinning. Instinct caused Evelyn to turn away her gaze. She saw a few of her hairs fall from her own head and turn gray as they hit the dirt.  

Clouds raced and morphed overhead like in a time lapse video.

Sweat covered Evelyn’s body, but she suffered no fatigue. Though she walked on uneven ground and overfilled trees, she felt like she was floating across a flat plain. Like a speck in the woods, Winslow strolled. Evelyn traced the glowing cord snaking from his chest to the center of her own. A second cord grew out of her in the opposite direction, connecting her to Barker, who was five hundred feet to her right. Zoey continued pulling her along. Up ahead, Alannah did the same for Terrence with Peter tethered to him.

Instantly, it was night.

The woods seemed much more active now. New, terrifying cries and twisted shadows ruled the woodlands. Evelyn could only really see the glowing cords coming out of her and Terrence. Dozens of circular red dots spotted the darkness far up ahead. Zoey turned Evelyn in a different direction. Evelyn swore the teenage whispered the word, “eyes.”

“What is this place?” Evelyn finally mustered the courage to ask.  

“The woods,” the girl in black replied. “You’re seeing it for what it really is.”

Evelyn thought her heart rate would quicken at the statement, but it stayed at the same steady pace it had been since they left the mansion. She blinked again and all the stars were out, more than she’d ever seen before, and the moon was white and full, seemingly quadruple the size of what it should be.

Suddenly, Terrence took off into a sprint. He and Alannah ran out of sight.

“What’s happening?” Evelyn asked.

“They found something,” Zoey replied and started running. Evelyn couldn’t let go of the girl even if she tried. Her feet crushed felled leaves and twigs. She hurdled over a jagged tree stump and ran through a bush, blocking her face with the arm Zoey wasn’t pulling. A dirt path came into view. It appeared to be too wide to be a game trail.

At the end of it was a small cabin. Yellow light bled from its windows. A skinny tower of smoke leaked from its tiny chimney.

Zoey let go of Evelyn’s hand and turned back to her, finally giving Evelyn a view that wasn’t a bloody head wound.

With wide eyes, the teenage said, “That’s Maxwell’s home.”

29

The Free Man

Zoey, Winslow, and Barker vanished. Evelyn collapsed in the middle of the trail. Her muscles ached. Her head screamed in pain. Tears blurred her vision. Up ahead, Terrence wobbled and caught himself on the trunk of a crooked tree. His cheeks were gaunt and his eyes sunken. A gray stripe painted the left side of his small chin beard.

Under a normal-sized moon and black sky, he staggered over to Evelyn and dropped on his knees.

“I am never doing that again,” he said as he helped lift Evelyn up. “You saw those creatures out there, right? Or was that just me?”

Evelyn shook her head. “It wasn’t just you,” she said weakly. Her stomach grumbled. She felt like she had aged twenty years. The moment she stood, she wanted to fall back down again. “Do I look as bad as you?” she asked Terrence.

He brushed aside strands of greasy blonde hair spit-glued to the corner of Evelyn’s mouth. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts,” he teased with a froggy voice.

Leaning on one another, the couple shambled toward the solitary cabin.

Sporting wooden walls and a pointed frame roof, the cabin stood in a small clearing that consisted of a tree stump scarred by an axe head, a tanning rack, a table with fat logs for chairs, a garden surrounded by a crooked wooden fence, and a red water pump with chipped paint. The building didn’t have a porch, and all the windows had wooden blinds preventing anyone from seeing within. The light inside flickered, hinting at an active fireplace and candles. There was a rusty 1950s Ford truck parked nearby. Heaven only knew if it still ran.

“I wonder how far they took us?” Terrence asked as they neared the cabin’s front.

Evelyn struggled. She was too exhausted to speak. Her once-steady heart rate was wonky, slow one moment and then fast the next. All she wanted to do was sleep for a week. “What time is it?”

Wincing, Terrence fished out his cell phone from his jeans’ tight pocket. He held down the power button but it didn’t boot up.

“Dead,” he said hopelessly. “Let’s hope your father doesn’t chase us out of here. Otherwise we’re screwed.”

“Don’t joke like that,” Evelyn said as they stopped at the front door. She took inventory of her wrinkled and sweat-soaked shirt and pulled a twig from her hair. “Hi, Dad, it’s me, Evelyn. Yes, I am doing very well for myself.”

Evelyn knocked on the door.

“You think he’ll like me?” Terrence asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Terrence replied.

“Just being realistic,” Evelyn said plainly. “Try to impress him. I don’t want to walk home.”

Terrence chuckled. “If my parents could see me now. Voluntarily possessed, hallucinating, and about to meet the guy who blew off someone’s head in front of my wife. My pops would probably disown me. My ma would lock me in the church house.”

“I won’t tell them,” Evelyn replied.

It was official. They were both delirious.

Evelyn knocked again.

No response.

“Hello?” Her voice cracked as she called out.

Evelyn tried the knob. Her brows rose.

“Unlocked,” she whispered.

Evelyn pushed the door open and stepped into the one-room cabin. It had a kitchen area, fireplace, homemade table, and a ladder that climbed into a loft without a railing. From the front door, Evelyn saw the corners of a cot up there.

“Maxwell?” she called out, feeling some déjà vu to Stephen Doyle’s trap. Only this time, Evelyn and Terrence had no firearms to defend themselves. If not for the spontaneity of the whole situation, Evelyn would’ve prepared more.

“There’s no place to hide in here,” Terrence said, stretching out his palms in front of the active fireplace. Wood cracked under the small orange flame.

Evelyn glanced around the kitchen. In place of a refrigerator was an old plastic beer cooler. Evelyn opened it, revealing fresh slabs of meat. She closed it and checked the cupboards. Hard0carved mugs and bowls sat within. In one of the drawers, she found rusty knives of all different varieties. Evelyn guessed they had been lost by hunters and found by her father. In another drawer, she found non-fiction history books and survival guides with pages torn out alongside various magazines pertaining to firearms and muscle cars. These, Evelyn assumed, were lost by hunters as well.

“Should we go through all his stuff?” Terrence asked.

Evelyn handed him a knife with black serrated edge and an olive-green handle. “Keep this on you. Just in case.”

Hesitant, he accepted the blade and put it in the back of his jeans. Evelyn did the same.

After, she climbed into the loft. It had a bed made of towels and tattered covers. As she climbed back down, the front door slung open.

A tall man stood in the threshold. He wore faded camouflage pants and a jacket. His black boots had turned the color of wet ash. The toes of the right one peeled back, revealing a black sock with a hole on the big toe. Parted down the middle, thick, ash-colored hair ran down the man’s back and shoulders. A shaggy beard covered seventy percent of his skeletal face and flowed down his chest. Deep wrinkles etched his tan forehead, and out and around his eyes. In his skinny hands, he held a shotgun. The eye of the barrel was aimed directly at Terrence.

Slowly, Terrence put his hands up. “We don’t want any trouble.”

The man walked inside and used his foot to shut the door behind him. His shaggy mustache concealed his mouth, and his dark eyes made it hard to read his emotions.

Making no sudden movements, Evelyn climbed down the ladder and stood next to Terrence. There was an awkward pause. Evelyn felt her throat go dry and her palms become sweaty. Is this man really him? Evelyn didn’t voice her doubts, she just pointed at herself. “It’s me. Evelyn.”

The man said nothing.

His unreadable gaze and the shotgun he held by his skinny hip didn’t make the encounter any easier.

“This is my husband, Terrence.” Evelyn said, struggling to keep a strong demeanor. “Please lower the weapon.”

Without clicking on the safety, the man rested the shotgun against his shoulder, the barrel pointed to the roof.

Able to breathe again, Evelyn took a step toward him, but something about the man’s look gave her pause.

“You are Maxwell, right?” Evelyn asked, unsure what to make of the wild man.

The man opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Terrence gently took Evelyn’s hand. “I don’t think he’s--”

Evelyn cut him off by talking to the stranger. “Max, you saved my life. Don’t you remember? Say something. Please.”

The man spoke with a gravelly tone. “Why did you come here?”

It sounded like it was the first words he’d spoken in a decade.  

“I needed to find you,” Evelyn explained. “We know you are innocent.”

The man walked forward. Evelyn and Terrence took a step back. The man eyed them and put the shotgun on the table.

“You are Maxwell Quenby?” Evelyn asked.

The man locked his dark eyes with her. “Maxwell’s dead.”

Evelyn’s heart sank. Her eyes watered.

Terrence squeezed Evelyn’s hand by his side. “Then who are you?”

“No one,” the man replied. He stood, his back to the table and within arm’s reach of the loaded shotgun. “Maxwell died in that house ten years ago. He’d like to stay dead.”

“We didn’t come all this way to play mind games,” Evelyn said. “We need your help.”

“Then you wasted your time,” the man said.

If Terrence had hair, he’d be pulling it out. “Do you have any idea what we went through to find you? What Evelyn and I had to give up?”

Evelyn stood and planted her feet. “We aren’t taking no for an answer.”

The man set his jaw. “This is about the murders.”

“That’s one facet of it,” Evelyn replied. “We also know the men who tried to kill you.”

“Tried?” The man glared at her. “Did.”

Evelyn felt herself becoming red. “You ran away. There’s a huge difference. Now, I have two officers back in town who are ready and willing to take down your testimony. We can put the men who did this to you behind bars. At least for a few years.”

The man sat against the edge of the table. “That night. When they came into the house. I could’ve run anywhere I wanted.”

“Why didn’t you?” Evelyn asked.

“I wanted to be free,” the man said.

“You could’ve been free anywhere in the world,” Evelyn said, not understanding.

“Free of people,” the man elaborated. “Free of society. Free of my failures. Out here, there’s no Maxwell Quenby. There’s just me. Another beast in nature.”

“Lily said you were dramatic,” Evelyn replied.

The man tensed up at the name.

“I saw her,” Evelyn said, off his expression. “We talked about you, her, and me.”

The man’s eyes glossed over.

“I forgave her,” Evelyn said. “I’m willing to forgive you, but I need you to come home.”

“You don’t really mean that,” the man replied.

Evelyn didn’t know how she pictured this encounter before coming here, but it certainly wasn’t like this. “I thought you’d be more excited. Wasn’t the whole reason you took Mary Sullivan and Zoey Pinkerton under your wing was to have a daughter of your own? I’m far from perfect, Maxwell, but I’m here.”

Maxwell studied his tattered gloves. “I gave up the right to call you daughter.”

“Lily forced your hand. You didn’t have a choice.”

Maxwell glared at her. “There is always a choice.”

“Make one now: come back with me and right your wrongs, or stay here and let us clean up your mess. After all, the men who were after you are now after me.”

Maxwell tensed up. His hand involuntarily landed on the shotgun. His guilt and fear hung in the air like a cloud. “They’re…”

Terrence nodded.

“Evelyn, run away.” Maxwell implored. “Those men will not be trifled with and cannot be stopped.”

Terrence locked his fingers with Evelyn. “Trust me, we’ve been thinking about it.”

“You don’t understand,” Maxwell hissed.

Evelyn let go of Terrence and put her hand in her pockets. “I know what I’m dealing with, and I know the solution to the problem: your testimony.”

“I won’t give it,” Maxwell said defiantly.

“You’re going to cower for another ten years?” Evelyn lashed out.

“No, I won’t give it because I’ll be dead!”

Silence filled the stuffy cabin.

Calming down, Maxwell elaborated, “One of those men who came after me is responsible for the killings. He won’t hesitate to do the same to us, especially if he knows you're going to expose him.”

“Who is it?” Terrence asked anxiously. “Timberland, Yates, Calhoon?”

Maxwell shook his head. “I don’t know. I followed the missing persons’ trail myself. One of the men got wind of it, pinned the murders on me, and used that to rally the rest. I didn’t have any idea who it was until I saw the five of them burst into my private study and pull me out. I was able to slip out of their grasp and escape through the tunnel, but not without taking a hit.”

He unzipped the top of his camouflage jacket and pulled down the neck of his shirt, revealing a deep slash running down his chest. “It cut from there to my belly. Adrenaline kept me going. I was able to clean it out with maggots when I got out into the woods.”

“Oh,” Terrence said, looking queasy.

“Were you aware of the bodies stored in your basement?” Evelyn asked suspiciously.

Maxwell stared at her like he didn’t understand the words she just said.

Evelyn elaborated. “Zoey Pinkerton, Winslow Darvey, James Barker, Peter Calhoon, and Alannah Gimmerson. I found their remains in a secret basement compartment. I know Lily vouched that you were with her during the murders, but how did the bodies go undiscovered, and which of the men would’ve known how to access the body dump?”

Maxwell rubbed his hand over his chapped lips. “To answer your first question, I knew something was amiss. I could smell it. The mix of decay and strong perfume. However, I couldn’t find the source. After all these years, it finally makes sense.”

“You know Quenby House better than anyone, how could you not know?” Evelyn asked.

“The mansion has secrets even I’m only faintly aware of,” Maxwell explained. “You can choose not to believe me, but I’m telling the truth.”

Evelyn studied the rugged man. Was Lily really covering for him? Evelyn didn’t know. He was a hard person to read.

“As for who would’ve known of the passageways, I cannot say,” Maxwell continued. “None of them should’ve had that knowledge.”

Evelyn processed the information for a moment before saying, “The killer’s identity won’t matter as much if we can put all five men behind bars, so let me ask you again, Maxwell: are you coming us?”

“My advice for the two of you is to leave Adders.”

“That’s a no, then?” Evelyn asked, irritated.

“There’s nothing I can do that will change the past. Dead is dead.” He noticed Evelyn’s heavy frown. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“Zoey,” Evelyn called out into the room. “Show yourself.”

Stepping out of the far corner of the room, the goth girl made herself known. She sheepishly hid her hands in her black hoodie’s pocket and averted her eyes from Maxwell. “Hey.”

Face turning pale, Maxwell staggered back, wobbling against the table. He grabbed the shotgun. With shaking hands, he held the weapon at his hip with the barrel pointed at Zoey.

“It won’t do anything,” Zoey replied. She turned the back of her head to him, revealing the red gash.

Maxwell bounced his dark eyes between Evelyn, Terrence, and the specter. He tried to speak.

“I know,” Zoey said. “I didn’t expect to be around this long either.”

Maxwell’s eyes went wet.

“Maxwell,” Evelyn said softly. “This is why it matters that you help. If not for my sake, for theirs.”

Suddenly, the cabin was swarmed with all five of the specters. Maxwell’s spine hit the closed door. The victims made a semicircle in the room. Evelyn and Terrence stayed still and calm, watching Maxwell’s reaction and recalling their own first encounter with the supernatural. Barker puffed his pipe, Alannah put her hands on her shapely hips, Winslow “smiled,” and Peter folded his arms behind his back to hide his stump.

“Don’t be terrified, darling,” Alannah said. “We know you quite well.”

Barker smiled to himself. “Yeah, telling him about all those nights you watched him sleep will really calm him down.”

Peter took a step forward. Maxwell pressed himself closer against the door. “We would’ve revealed ourselves years ago, but we never knew how or when.”

Maxwell gulped and turned to Evelyn. “Why are they…”

“They can’t leave unless their killer is brought to justice,” Evelyn explained. “I didn’t know it for sure, but after Catherine and Stephen Doyle were taken out, Mary Sullivan was able to pass into the next life.”

“Mary was killed at Quenby House?” Maxwell asked.

Zoey smiled sympathetically. “We need your help, Max.”

Maxwell lowered the gun. One step at a time, he walked to Zoey, put the weapon on the table, removed his glove, and reached out to touch her face. Zoey didn’t move. Maxwell’s hand phased through the teenager’s cheek. He quickly pulled back his hands a few inches and tried again, and hovered it on her cheek. “I’ve missed you.”

“Me too,” Zoey replied. Suddenly, she hugged him. Maxwell stepped back at the unexpected weight. He returned the hug, this time not passing through her ethereal body.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

After a moment, Maxwell released her and turned back to Evelyn. “Alright.”

“You’ll come back with us?” Terrence asked.

“Yeah,” Maxwell said, seemingly not believing his own voice, “Let me grab my things.”

Evelyn sighed deeply. “We’ll get you back home and clean you up. Does that truck still run?”

“We’re about to find out,” Maxwell said.

It took a few minutes, but they got the old Ford running. The phantoms may have vanished from their sight, but Evelyn knew they were stored up inside of her and Terrence. Knowing the way back, Maxwell drove. The rusty truck bounced on uneven ground until it reached a dirt road. Terrence held the shotguns in the backseat. He looked out the window at the dark woods and shuddered.

Evelyn kept her eyes ahead. She knew she had million questions for Maxwell, but at the moment, she didn’t know where to start. Though Maxwell was her father, it didn’t feel like it. He still seemed like a bearded stranger. I wonder what he thinks of me? Evelyn didn’t know if she wanted to know the answer.

Apart from the rumble of the engine block, their ride home was quiet and tense. Maxwell scarcely looked at her. Evelyn couldn’t fault him because she did the same. In the inky black sky above, the moon was finally full.

They rolled onto Quenby Avenue and turned onto the brick road, passing by the wooden sign that read “The Path.” Mossy oaks flanked either side of them and reached their branches overhead. It was a sight that Evelyn had grown accustomed to. Parking beside the minivan, Evelyn and Terrence got out and each clenched a shotgun. Maxwell followed behind him. He stopped in front of Quenby House, eyeing it from base to roof. A million stars backed the lightless, vine-dressed mansion.

“I never thought I’d come back here,” he confessed.

Evelyn unlocked the front door. “Welcome home.”

Keeping their weapons aimed, Evelyn and Terrence fanned out through the foyer. Maxwell flipped the light switches, watching the chandelier glow to life. He smirked at the trumpeting angels on the domed ceiling.

He examined the oil paintings on the wall and peeked into the hall of portraits. “What happened in there?”

Still aiming her weapon, Evelyn hiked up the left set of stairs in the foyer. “Long story.”

Evelyn explored the upstairs hall, opening every door she came across, checking bedrooms and bathrooms for any uninvited guests while Terrence surveyed the downstairs. After a few minutes, they reconvened at the balcony.

“It’s all clear,” Terrence said.

Evelyn clicked on the weapon’s safety and peered down at Maxwell, who seemed to be studying the various paintings. “You can use the master bathroom to shower and shave. Terrence needs to charge his phone anyway before we can get ahold of the cops.”

“You aren’t going to get some sleep first?” Maxwell asked.

“No,” Evelyn replied. “This ends tonight. Don’t worry. Terrence and I will keep guard.”

Without a word, he walked up the stairs past them and headed into the master bedroom. Evelyn lowered the gun and rubbed her fingers up her hair.

“What a day,” Terrence said.

“Tell me about it.”

“I don’t think Maxwell’s fully adapted yet,” Terrence said.

“He just saw ghosts. Speaking of which. Zoey, Barker, Winslow. Come out.” Evelyn felt a tightening in her chest.

Terrence must’ve too, because he grimaced and clenched his pecs. The crushing feeling grew stronger and then instantly subsided. Thought they didn’t see the phantoms, they knew they had left them.

Evelyn felt even more exhausted than before. Terrence leaned against the railing. “You sure you don’t want to wait for tomorrow? As soon as Maxwell gives his confession, it’s going to be an all-night affair.”

“I know,” Evelyn grumbled. “But the longer we wait, the higher the possibility that we are attacked. We need to be ready.”

Terrence closed his tired eyes and smiled. “I have to say, it’s been an interesting trip if nothing else. We should write a book about couples’ therapy.”

“We had our rough patches, that’s for sure,” Evelyn admitted. “Especially with you and Alannah.”

“Okay, that’s the last time we bring that up,” Terrence replied jokingly.

Evelyn cracked a smile and joined him by the railing. “I love you, you know that.”

“I know,” Terrence replied and grinned at her. “Go wash up. I’ll keep guard.”

“You sure?” Evelyn asked nervously.

“I got this,” Terrence replied confidently and cocked the shotgun, discharging the already loaded bullet out of the chamber. It shot out over the railing. “Oops.”

“Nice,” Evelyn said sarcastically. “Don’t shoot yourself.”

“No promises.”

Evelyn kissed him on his scruffy cheek, tasting sweaty salt and dirt.

“Ew,” she replied and headed for the guest bedroom.

“Ew? Ew? Come on now, that’s not fair,” Terrence said as Evelyn turned into the room, keeping her shotgun with her and smiling to herself. She turned and closed the bathroom door, knowing that their odd sense of humor was the only thing keeping them sane. Or it was adding to their insanity. Evelyn couldn’t tell. She stripped down and climbed into the bathtub. Standing, the showerhead sputtered down on her and took a few seconds to warm up. She was grateful for that. The cold water woke her up.

Keeping her eyes closed, she let the water wash away all of the small twigs and crunched leaves from her blonde hair. She wanted to stand here forever, but forced herself to turn the dial off. She lifted one foot over the rim of the bathtub before noticing the man staring at her.

He wore all black and had a featureless white mask. Evelyn’s heart skipped a beat. She covered her parts with her hands. “Andrew? What are you doing in here?”

The specter stared at her through his button-sized eye holes. He took a step toward her and then another.

“Back off,” Evelyn growled.

Andrew paused, glared at her, and then vanished.

Evelyn waited for a moment before hastily grabbing a towel and drying off. She still felt like he was watching her. Wearing her towel like a dress, Evelyn cracked open the door and peered into the hallway.

“Terrence, can you get me some clothes?” Evelyn glanced at the interior balcony but saw no sign of her husband. “Terrence?”

She turned her gaze to the open master bedroom at the other end of the hall. The door was ajar and lamp light spilled out of it across the hardwood. Apart from the wind battering the windows, Quenby House was deathly quiet. Leaving behind her clump of dirty clothes, Evelyn exited the guest bedroom.

Silently, she held the shotgun and jogged to the master bedroom. The bathroom door was open and the light was off.

“Maxwell?” she called out.

No reply.

Evelyn felt her skin crawl. Instinct told her to look at the peephole in the wallpaper. Without a sound, she approached it. It was pitch black inside. Breath quickening, she slowly leaned in and pressed her face against the wall. Faintly, she could make out the tight corridor and bent nails within. She swiftly pulled away and turned back, expecting to see someone.

Evelyn was the only one in the room.

Closing the door, she quickly threw on some ashen shorts and a black t-shirt, leaving the wet towel on the white hardwood floor.

Clenching the weapon tightly, Evelyn moved through the hall and onto the interior balcony. The foyer was quiet and empty, the front door was closed, and the plastic sheets on the two adjacent windows were intact. That was a relief. “Terrence? Maxwell?”

Evelyn’s voice seemed to bounce off the high walls. She hiked down the stairs, keeping the stock of the shotgun against her shoulder. She reached the bottom of the stairs and heard some talking, but their voices were muffled. She followed the sound to the dining room. The door was open an inch. Keeping the gun up high, she pushed it open with her foot.

Terrence sat at the right of the head of the table. Maxwell sat at the head. His gray hair was in a ponytail. His face was clean-shaven, revealing his gaunt cheeks and chapped lips. He wore a blue business suit, white button-up, and no tie. Though rugged, he wasn’t a bad-looking man.

Evelyn lowered her gun and glared at Terrence. “What’s going on?”

“I’m heating up some barbecue for Maxwell,” Terrence explained. “It was only gonna take five minutes and then I was going back up there.”

“This is not the time to act stupid,” Evelyn reminded him sternly.

Terrence didn’t reply.

“When was the last time you ate something?” Maxwell asked.

Evelyn didn’t remember. She had felt famished since before she arrived at the cabin. “We shouldn’t waste any more time.”

“Ten minutes,” Maxwell bargained. “I can’t remember when I had something other than squirrel and deer.”

The microwave dinged.

“Well, now you get to eat more meat,” Terrence joked.

Evelyn sighed and sat down. She kept the shotgun propped against the table. “Ten minutes.”

Maxwell nodded in affirmation while Terrence got the leftovers.

Similar to the car ride, silence fell over them.

“How long have you known about Zoey and the others?” Maxwell asked, searching for a conversation.

“There were signs since we moved in, but we didn’t actually see them until a week or two ago.”

“That’s something else,” Maxwell replied. “To have them here this whole time and never notice them. I must’ve been so blind.”

“Maybe they didn’t want to be noticed. It was Mary who reached out to Terrence and me. Through blackouts at first.”

“Mary,” Maxwell said, grieved by just saying the name. “Nice girl. I should’ve sought after you instead of treating her as a daughter, and she might still be alive.”

Evelyn pursed her lips.

Maxwell leaned in, a red rim about his tired eyes. “I apologize for what happened in the woods during our first encounter,” Maxwell said. “When I saw that man and the axe, something came over me. I couldn’t stand by.”

Evelyn remembered Stephen’s head explode with the shotgun blast. It was a memory she did not want to revisit, especially before dinner.

“You must think I’m a madman,” Maxwell said

“I believe we’re all a little crazy,” Evelyn replied.

Maxwell cracked a smile. It was the first time Evelyn had seen it. It was gentle and fatherly, if you could look past the yellow teeth.

Terrence returned with three plates of barbecue, two on one arm and one in his other hand. He served Maxwell, then Evelyn, and then himself. He plopped into his seat and let out a sigh of relief. Without saying a word, they started eating. Awkwardness lingered at first but by the time they cleared their plates, the feeling had lessened. Still, Evelyn didn’t know what to make of the “stranger” in her home. It’s not your home. It’s his, she reminded herself.

Maxwell lowered his fork. “I’m proud of both of you.”

Terrence and Evelyn glanced at each and then him.

“I don’t know anybody who would stick around after all that’s happened and all that you’ve seen.”

“It’s not always been pleasant,” Evelyn replied.

Chewing and staring endlessly, Terrence nodded.

“What’s the plan now? Terrence said you live in Detroit. Do you plan to go back?”

“I don’t know,” Evelyn said honestly. “Wherever I go, it needs to be relaxing.”

Maxwell leaned back in his seat. “As a kid, I used to be so proud of this house and its secret hideaways. Then I learned the truth about my parents. That pride quickly turned to shame. You’ve had a similar experience, no doubt.”

Evelyn opened her mouth to speak.

That’s when the power cut out.

30

Father

One moment, Evelyn could see the dining room, her husband, and her father, and then next it was nothing but blackness. The Quenby House instantly became much more dangerous, ominous and mysterious than it ever had before.

Evelyn waited for her eyes to adjust and reached carefully for her shotgun, making sure to not accidentally pull the trigger. When she got ahold of the firearm, she snuggled it against her shoulder and kept her finger off the trigger.

“Who do you think it is?” Terrence whispered. Evelyn heard him clamber out of his chair.

Maxwell’s chair scooted out.

“Where are you going?” Evelyn asked.

“Have you moved anything around since you got here?” Maxwell replied.

“For the most part, no.”

Evelyn heard his footsteps go to the side of the room. A drawer opened. Suddenly, a match was lit and illuminated Maxwell’s skeletal face and the dark circles under his nearly black eyes. He suddenly froze, and fear caked his hardened expression.

Evelyn turned back, seeing the five phantoms behind her. In the darkness, their leaking blood looked black.

“He’s here,” Barker whispered.

“Who?” Terrence asked, standing behind his chair.

Zoey replied. “Our killer.”

Evelyn tightened her grip around the pump action shotgun. “You’ve got to stop him,” Evelyn told Zoey.

“We can’t,” the goth replied dreadfully. “Every time we look at him, it feels like we’re dying. We can’t even see his face.”

The others nodded in agreement.

Evelyn gnashed her teeth, frustrated with their response. She bounced her eyes to Terrence. “Where’s your phone?”

“Charging in the foyer.”

The match died out. Darkness enveloped the room.

Maxwell struck another match. The match top burst to life. The phantoms had vanished, leaving the three of them alone in the large dining room.

“We get the phone, call the cops, and then get to the van,” Evelyn stated.

“Simple enough,” Maxwell said. “Give me your gun.”

The command sent a chill down Evelyn’s spine. He plans to go after the killer.

“I’ve been hunting for the last decade,” Maxwell explained sternly, his hand still outstretched. “I won’t miss.”

Reluctant, Evelyn handed him the shotgun in exchange for the matchbox. She glanced back at Terrence.

“I got your back,” he said, keeping the gun.

Maxwell stepped ahead of her and opened the door into the stubby hall that linked with the back of the foyer. If not for the phone, Evelyn would’ve suggested they cut through the kitchen and out the back. Nonetheless, their chances of survival would be much better with a cell phone and the police on their side.

Evelyn followed close behind Maxwell while Terrence walked backwards, keeping the shotgun pointed at their rear flank. The walls had oil paintings of Antebellum-era plantations, cotton fields, and mountain vistas.  

Thump.

Evelyn held up her finger and listened. Terrence and Maxwell glanced about the hallway.

Thump.

“It’s coming from the walls,” Evelyn said quietly.

Fire bit her finger. She shook out the flame that ate away the matchstick.

No one moving, they heard creaking within the wall nearby.

With hands trembling, Evelyn struck another match. It didn’t take.

Something clicked nearby.

Evelyn tried the match again.

It lit.

About seven feet away, a three-foot portion of the wall was open like a door. The “door” part was on Evelyn’s side, preventing them from seeing into the corridor.

Evelyn’s heart pumped rapidly. Terrence’s breath quickened.

Gun up and seemingly without fear, Maxwell approached the opening. He slid his back against the opposite wall. In the match light, the sweat on his wrinkled brow reflected in the fire. When he reached the opening in the wall ahead, his finger slid on the trigger.

Evelyn tensed, knowing that if he went into the corridor, he may not come out.

Keeping both hands on the shotgun, Maxwell walked around the “door” and vanished from Evelyn’s sight. With Terrence’s back against her own, she approached the opening. The floorboards groaned beneath her feet, giving her pause. Her throat dried up. The killer probably could see the match light, but any noise she made still caused her to shudder.

Following Maxwell’s trajectory, Evelyn pressed her shoulder against the opposite wall and started around the “door.” Standing away from the opening, Evelyn held the match out, trying to illuminate the corridor. The walls within were unpainted wood with a vertical beam flush against the inner walls. The sharp points of dozens of black nails jutted from the walls, but most had been hammered down to prevent anyone from catching on them. Like white hair, clumps of cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. The corridor branched left and right. Evelyn saw no sign of Maxwell.

Footsteps neared down the right side. Terrence swiftly maneuvered in front of Evelyn and took aim with the shotgun. His finger hovered over the trigger. His body quaked.

The footsteps neared, getting closer and closer and closer.

The hairs on Evelyn’s neck stood.

A figure rounded the corner. Maxwell.

Terrence released his breath and lowered his firearm as Maxwell stepped out of the tight corridor. His suit and soot-colored hair were covered with dust and cobwebs. His line-etched face was drenched with sweat. “There’s no one back there.”

The match burnt out.

Evelyn stuck another one, longing for a flashlight or oil lamp. Anything that wouldn’t die every twelve seconds.

The little dancing flame came to life, illuminating Maxwell’s face and the tall man, clad in black, wearing a featureless white mask, looming behind him.

“What?” Maxwell asked off Evelyn’s and Terrence’s disturbed look.

“Andrew,” Evelyn said shakily.

As Maxwell went to turn back, the phantom swiftly wrapped his arms around Maxwell’s torso and sucked him into the corridor.

“Dad!” Evelyn screamed.

Suddenly, the “door” slammed shut in her face. Her father’s muffled scream raced down the hall at sixty miles per hour, and then Quenby House was silent again.

The match quaked in Evelyn’s hand. After a second of shock, she rushed to the wall and felt it with her free hand. There was no lever, button, or hidden switch. It seemed it only opened from the other side.

“What the hell was that?” Terrence asked soberly. “I thought Andrew was on our side.”

“I don’t know, Terrence,” Evelyn replied quickly. “But we need to get in there.”

“Eve, we stick to the plan.”

Evelyn twisted back to him, seeing the terror on her husband’s face. “Without my father, there is no plan.”

Terrence didn’t deny it. “Then let us at least call the cops first. The killer is still in here, remember?”

Evelyn chewed her lip nervously. She nodded in agreement, silently praying the other phantoms would deal with Andrew Doyle.

With one gun and a few matches, they reached the foyer. The windows gave the room a little more light than the inky black hall, but Evelyn still had to rely on the matches for guidance. There were flashlights upstairs and maybe one in the kitchen, but Evelyn didn’t want to risk the journey. The phone had a weak light anyway.

Keep the gun stock against his shoulder, Terrence stepped out from under the balcony and aimed upward, keeping an eye out for anyone lurking above. He bounced the barrel between the front door, hall of portraits, and the opposite hall with Evelyn’s mural. “Clear,” he whispered.

Evelyn stepped out of the shadows and dashed for the sideboard near the right curving stairway. With Terrence pacing about the foyer, constantly aiming the weapon at the many entrances, Evelyn pulled the flip phone from the charger and held down the power button. Terrence’s smart phone had fried when the Doyles attacked, and his replacement left something to be desired.

The phone company logo flickered and the phone fully booted up. Evelyn dialed 9-1-1 and held the phone close to her ear.

“Evelyn,” a cheery, familiar voice said on the other end of the line.

Terrence glanced back at her. His lips were parted and his eyes were wide. He heard the voice too.

“Deputy Painter and I decided to direct your calls to us personally. What seems to be the emergency?” Sheriff Yates asked. “You aren’t still in town, are you? Don’t answer that. We’re on our way now.”

Evelyn swiftly hung up. She patted down her short pockets in search of her wallet containing Officer Bailey’s personal number. No no no! She locked eyes with Terrence. “It’s in my jeans upstairs.”

“Check the recent calls.”

Evelyn did. “It’s not saved. Terrence, this phone sucks.”

Dread sank Terrence’s face.

Evelyn hated herself for not emptying her pockets before leaving the shower. That meant… “The car keys!” Evelyn exclaimed. She darted up the stairs.

“Evelyn!” Terrence shouted as loud as one could when whispering. He chased after his wife.

Using the railing to guide her, Evelyn reached the top of the interior balcony and headed for the nearest bathroom. Her sprint slowed when she noticed the figure silhouetted in the bedroom doorway. The moonlight leaking into the room behind him glistened on the abnormally long and skinny barreled pistol in his hand. Evelyn dropped prone as the pistol made a pint sound.

“Terrence, stay back!” Evelyn shouted and rolled to the bathroom as the silhouetted figure slid another lengthy, feather-tailed dart into the pistol’s chamber.

Evelyn clambered into the bathroom just as the needle-nose dart punched the bathroom’s door frame.

Terrence pressed his back against the wall near the hallway. “Back off or I will shoot you!” he shouted.

Inside the bathroom, Evelyn got on her knees and tossed aside the day’s shirt still damp with sweat and grabbed her dirty jeans. She shoved her hands into the pockets. Both back pockets were empty. She tried the front ones. She mouthed a curse and felt her chest tighten, like someone was clenching her heart in a vise grip. It’s not here. Why isn’t it here?

“Make the call, Evelyn!” Terrence shouted.

She desperately crawled around the floor, checking under the sink counter and beneath the door.

Boom!

The shotgun’s thunderous boom echoed through the house and deep into Evelyn’s ears.

With shaking hands, she quickly lit a match. Everything in the room was as she had left it, unless… Andrew!

“Why are you doing this?” Evelyn mumbled, her eyes getting wet. “I’ve done nothing but help you.”

Terrence’s shotgun cocked. Evelyn peered out the doorway, no longer seeing the figure silhouetted in the master bedroom. Buckshot peppered the front end of the canopied bed’s mattress.

Terrence carefully stepped into the hall.

He examined the long, feather-tailed dart stuck into the railing and then returned his attention to the master bedroom. He proceeded forward.

“Terrence,” Evelyn called out from the bathroom. “It’s not here. Andrew must’ve…”

“We stop him ourselves,” Terrence said, equally determined and terrified.

He passed by Evelyn, keeping an eye on the various closed doors on either side of the hall. The hardwood groaned beneath his feet. Evelyn stepped out and followed behind him. As they neared the threshold to the bedroom, another scream sounded through the walls.

Evelyn turned to the sealed billiard room door, remembering the passageway through the arcade game cabinet. She had to make a choice. Go after the killer or go after her father. Both options were deadly.

Evelyn grabbed Terrence’s sleeve. He stopped walking but didn’t turn to face her.

“Maxwell,” she whispered into his ear.

Terrence frowned at Evelyn. Evelyn could tell he wanted to try stopping the killer.

Maxwell screamed again.

Terrence’s brave facade weakened. He glanced at the billiard room and then back to the door.

“Whatever we do, we do it together,” Evelyn said.

Locking his jaw, Terrence headed for the billiard room. They closed the door behind them and opened the arcade cabinet. Evelyn went first, pushing aside a tangle of multi-colored wires overhead. She crawled into the uncomfortable wooden floor that brushed her knees. She stood up in the tight passageway, catching the sleeve of her shirt against the point of a small, rusty nail. It tore a small hole when she took a few steps forward into the musty corridor and lit a match. Terrence followed her inside. The shotgun wouldn’t function well in the three-foot-wide tunnel.

“Which way?” Terrence asked.

If they went straight, the corridor would take them to the master bedroom. If they went back, it would take her to the two-way mirror bathroom and to the ladder downstairs.

Evelyn pointed ahead and whispered, “We try the bedroom and then double back.”

Terrence nodded. “You’re in front. You take the gun.”

He slid the weapon barrel under her arm far enough for her to take it. If anything came behind her, they would be screwed. Terrence took the matches and illuminated the path ahead. Surefooted, Evelyn moved through the corridor. She gulped down a mouthful of dust and kept her lips closed to prevent from coughing too loudly. They turned a corner and saw the peephole to the bedroom. Evelyn leaned in and squinted through it. The only light in the room streamed from the full moon outside. There was no sign of the killer. Evelyn continued to the dead end.

Maxwell wasn’t here. He must be downstairs.

Evelyn and Terrence traded the shotgun and matches. There were about twenty or so matchsticks left. It wouldn’t last long. They moved back to the way they came. It seemed to get hotter and dustier the longer they stayed in. After the long hike today, Evelyn felt like she was walking on spikes. The long hours hit Terrence. With slumped shoulders and heavy breathing, he held the shotgun near his waist. His eyelids shut like lazy garage doors. Evelyn punched him. He straightened up, but within moments, he was slumping again.

A match burnt out.

Evelyn lit another. The small glow only gave them roughly four feet of vision before the tunnel seemed to plunge into eternal blackness. They glanced into the small cubby with the double-sided bathroom mirror. Evelyn saw the figure within and grabbed Terrence’s shoulder, signaling for him to stop. The killer wore a black form-fitting turtleneck to match his black pants and black leather gloves. A ski mask concealed his identity. By the looks of him, he was in great shape with a stiff posture. He pulled aside the shower curtain and aimed the long dart pistol inside. He glanced at the mirror.

Evelyn felt her heart skip a beat.

Suddenly, the killer punched the glass, sending a spiderweb crack across the mirror.

Terrence and Evelyn covered their mouths, muting their gasps.  

The man studied the crack with acute fixation.

Perspiration dampened Evelyn’s forehead and trickled down her cheek.

Just when she thought the man was leaving, he turned back to the mirror, made a finger gun with the finger and thumb of his free hand, and pointed at the glass.

He mouthed “pew” and popped the finger gun upward to signify recoil. The mouth of his mask curved upward, hinting at a smile. Without warning, the killer bolted out of the room and then turned to the billiard room.

Evelyn didn’t need to say anything. Terrence was already moving swiftly in the opposite direction.

They navigated the tunnel and found the drop-off to the first floor. It was a tight shaft with a few ladder rungs. Another match seared Evelyn’s fingers. She winced and shook it out. The wood and dust in the corridor made every match a risky endeavor. Old houses like these were prone to fire and if something started in the tunnel, the smoke would suffocate Evelyn and Terrence if the fire didn’t reach them first.

Far behind them, they heard footsteps.

“It’s him,” Terrence whispered dreadfully.

“Get down there.” Evelyn commanded. “Hurry.”

Without time to swap out the gun for the matches, Terrence descended into the dark pit. He held the weapon between his thighs, pointing the barrel up high as his shoulders scraped against the sides of the shaft. Evelyn stared out into the blackness before her, expected to take a dart to the eye. Her pessimistic attitude wasn’t doing her any favors.

Wood snapped behind her, followed by Terrence’s brief shout and then the defining boom of a shotgun.

Evelyn felt the wind break by her head as buckshot blow through the ceiling. She ducked low as wood splinters and dust rained down upon her. The noise ricocheted through the tight corridor and deafened Evelyn to everything but a sharp ringing deep in her ear canal. The lit match fell from her hand and hit the floor, starting a small fire between her feet.

Still trying to process what just happened, Evelyn stomped the fire with her bare foot. She felt the flaming tongues lick her soul, but she suffered through the pain until the small inferno was extinguished. Teary-eyed, she glanced at the corridor ahead of her.

No sign of the killer. No yet. But he was coming, and Evelyn wouldn’t be able to hear his footsteps.

She glanced back down the shaft. “Terrence?” she called out. Her own voice sound like it was covered with a tin can.

Her husband mumbled something back, but Evelyn didn’t understand it. Feeling the walls were pressing in on her, she started down the shaft.

Terrence kept speaking, but it was like listening to someone talking under underwater.

Evelyn’s aching foot found the rung that had snapped away. She extended her leg down farther to the next rung and continued her swift descent. She reached the bottom and bumped into Terrence.

“Evelyn,” he said. “Are...okay?”

Evelyn found the match and struck it, casting a light on Terrence’s horrified expression. He put both his hands on her cheeks and locked her watery eyes with his own.

“Shi… I… Sorry, Eve…”

“Shut up,” Evelyn barked. “We need to keep moving.”

Terrence nodded and picked up his shotgun. He hastily started forward. Evelyn lagged behind. It still felt like she was stepping on fire. The pain worsened. She bounced from one wall to the next, like a pinball machine. An unbent nail scraped against the side of her chin, taking off a bit of her skin.

In the darkness up ahead, Evelyn saw a disembodied, featureless white mask.

“Andr… Doyl..,” Terrence said.

The ringing in Evelyn’s ears grew louder.

Something big flung through the darkness.

Terrence backed up a step, bumping into Evelyn as Maxwell’s limp body crashed down before them. He lay face down, with his arm twisted behind his back and no shotgun to speak of.

Evelyn did not have time to mourn.

Andrew Doyle approached.

Terrence aimed the gun.

“It won’t do anything,” Evelyn told him.

“I kno…” Terrence shouted back, but couldn’t bring himself to lower the gun.

Doom crushed Evelyn’s spirit knowing that the killer would be flanking them within moments. Evelyn pressed close to her husband. The match was dying. She had to choose: the condemned phantom or the killer at the rear.

Andrew’s walk gained momentum. It seemed like his mask was floating, but Evelyn could feel his stomping rattle the floor.

Together, Evelyn and Terrence watched their death sprinting to them. Wake up. Evelyn told herself. It’s all a bad dream. Deep down though, she knew it was very real.

Andrew was only a few yards away. He stretched out both hands. Terrence backed up into Evelyn. She could feel his every rapid breath. He could feel her. They’d be a couple to the end.

In a blink, Peter Calhoon appeared between the Carrs and Andrew.

“I told you…stay away from her!” Peter shouted and charged the masked phantom. They clashed, locking one another in place as the other four phantoms phased through walls and took ahold of Andrew from all directions. He tried to break free but failed. The phantoms pulled at him continuously. Andrew let out the most horrific scream, one that shook Evelyn to the core, as he was torn apart.

Instantly, the corridor was clear and quiet, apart from the dripping crimson smear splattering the floor, walls, and ceiling where the masked phantom once stood.

Terrence turned back to Evelyn, using his hand to wipe red from his face. Despite the blood, Evelyn would’ve kissed him. Nonetheless, the killer at their tail seemed to be the more pressing issue.

“Help me get Maxwell up,” Evelyn told him.

Terrence handed her back the shotgun and lifted her father’s limp body, propping it against his own.

“He’s breathing,” Terrence said with relief.

Evelyn felt her hearing starting to clear up. She gestured for Terrence to move forward while she watched the rear flank. He should be here by now, Evelyn thought as they stepped over the hot blood spattered and moved farther and farther away from the shaft.  

They reached the place where the tunnel branched into the foyer and lounge.  

A door opened.

Terrence took a few steps ahead, allowing Evelyn room into a cubby beneath the left set of curving stairs. Shaking the fire off her match, she peered through the peephole, seeing Deputy Painter and Sheriff Yates enter the house. The two plastic sheet windows bowed in at the will of the heavy wind.

“Evelyn!” Yates yelled out, keeping his pistol clasped in both hands and pointed at the floor. “It’s the sheriff. Come on out!”

Painter tried the light switch. “Must’ve blown a fuse.”

“Keep your theories to yourself,” Yates said. “She’s expecting us.”

“Ohh, I’m real scared,” Painter said sarcastically as he lit up a cigarette. The lighter’s flame reflected in his shark-like eyes.

“It never ends,” Terrence mumbled.

Evelyn followed him around to a better vantage point of the foyer that allowed her to see the curving sets of stairs, balcony, and a little bit of the domed ceiling.

The deputy and sheriff started toward the stairs.

“Hello, boys,” Alannah said from the balcony railing.

Painter and Yates stopped in their tracks and aimed their pistols.

Painter cursed loudly.

Yates raised both brows.

“Her neck!” Painter shouted, jabbing his pistol at her. “Look at her neck!”

“Oh, this?” Alannah said and raised up her chin, giving them a clear view of the slash that yawned with the ounce of blood it pumped down her chest. “It’s really nothing, darling.”

Painter scurried back and fell to his bottom. Cussing up a storm, he scrambled to his feet and ran for the door. Winslow appeared in front of him and “smiled.”

Painter shrieked and dove through the plastic sheeting, vanishing down the road.

Yates didn’t move. He bounced his eyes between Alannah and Winslow. “You, uh, Evelyn’s friends?”

“Much more than that, darling,” Alannah said, going down the stairs with her hips swaying and her fingers walking down the railing.

Winslow nodded many times.

“You might be able to scare my dimwitted partner with your… whatever you call this getup, but I’m the sheriff of this town and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Yates aimed his gun at Alannah. “Right now.”

Alannah clicked her tongue. “Oh, darling. You’re way out of your league.”

Alannah vanished mid step and appeared inches from Sheriff Yates. His face went stark white as Alannah kissed him on the lips.

After his hands phased through her, Yates took a few steps back, twisted around, and bumped into naked Winslow. Yates stumbled. He looked at the two phantoms, blinked a few times, and then ran out of the door without saying another word.

Evelyn smiled at the victory.

Terrence suddenly grabbed her wrist. Evelyn twisted back and saw the silhouetted figure at the end of the corridor. He aimed the dart pistol.

Terrence opened his mouth to say something when the dart pistol made a pint sound and a feather dart punched Terrence’s chest. He gasped and collapsed to the ground, taking Maxwell with him.

Evelyn leveled the shotgun and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flash revealed the man’s ski mask as he dropped a phone. The scattershot blew over his head and punched a hole into a downstairs room. Evelyn readied the pump action when she felt a sharp, stinging sensation in her throat. She glanced down, seeing the long feather dart jutting from her neck. One shot. All I need. Her mind told her finger to pull the trigger, but instead her arms dropped the gun. The corridor grew ever darker as the masked man approached. Evelyn’s shoulder hit the wall beside her and she slid to her bottom. She fought to keep her arms open, but they disobeyed her. Like curtains, her eyelids shut and the world slid into an abyss.

Evelyn didn’t dream.

She awoke, strapped in a chair in a cold, square room devoid of any doors and windows. She recognized the brick walls and candle sconces. Little flames danced on a wick standing in a pond of wet wax. White tears dripped down the candlestick. Evelyn knew the room at once: the killer’s body dump.

She faced two other chairs, forming a triangle around the dip in the floor. With his head slack on his neck, Maxwell sat to her right. To the left was Terrence in a similar state. Like Evelyn, their wrists and ankles were tied to their chair’s arms and legs.

Evelyn heard whistling behind her and metal clanging. She tried to look back but couldn’t extend her neck far enough to see the source. A thick orange cable ran down from the corpse chute in the ceiling and ended somewhere behind. It appeared to be an extension cord.

“I used to do this in the hay field out back,” the familiar voice said, taking a break from his whistling. “I was honestly a little nervous to kill inside Quenby House. A little stupid now that I think about it. Heck, I was already storing the bodies here, why not kill two birds with one stone? Maybe I didn’t want to test fate. Max coming home during the act was a legitimate fear of mine.”

“A little part of me knew it was you,” Evelyn said. “Why not bring your friends along and make this a public lynching?”

The man paused to think about it. “It didn’t work out so well when we tried it on Maxwell. Besides, I wanted spend a little more time with you.”

Evelyn pursed her lips. She tried to pull out of her binds. It was very tight rope, coiled around a half-dozen times.

“This is the part where you beg for your life and the lives of your family,” the man said, still fiddling with something.

“I’m a realist,” Evelyn said. “Groveling is not going to get me anywhere.”

The man chuckled softy. “It might. Everyone at work says I’m a softie.”

“I’d rather not give you the pleasure,” Evelyn said.

Footsteps neared. The man leaned in next to her ear. “You already are.”

He pulled back and walked away. “It took me many years to find my method. I’m still searching in some ways, but chasing you through those tunnels… that felt so right. If you could feel my heart right now, you’d know.”

If it was anything like her own, Evelyn didn’t need to feel it.

Terrence groaned and lifted his head. His groggy eyes met Evelyn, and suddenly a burst of adrenaline snapped him awake. He tried to pull out of his binds. His chair teeter-tottered. The wood moaned but didn’t give. After his burst of strength, he mellowed out. He glanced up at the killer behind him. “Out of all the possibilities, you were the only one I liked.”

Dr. Gregory walked around Evelyn and stopped before Terrence. “You weren’t a bad guy yourself. Now, let’s wake up the father.”

With the back of his hand, Dr. Gregory slapped Maxwell’s face. He didn’t wake. Gregory tried again. This time, Maxwell sat up, grimacing. He took in the situation, and Evelyn saw true fear turn to rage.

“I said that if you ever came back to this house, I’d kill you,” Maxwell said and spit on Gregory’s black boot.

Gregory smiled at him. “That’s what I love about this whole situation. I’ve been killing here, right under your nose.”

“Because I took away Lily?” Maxwell asked.

“Yep,” the doctor replied. “Plus you were an easy target. And the house, good lord, I’ve loved it ever since you showed me the passageways when we were children. I’d sneak in sometimes when you and your parents were asleep and find new nooks and crannies myself. I believe I know it better than you.”

“All those years, you could’ve just killed me,” Maxwell said.

“Sure,” Gregory said. “But this felt better, knowing you’d be the perfect scapegoat. Rallying the others was so easy. I never needed to show them the bodies to convince them. They already hated you.”

“The one you want is me. It’s always been me.” Maxwell said. “Let them go.”

“Come on, man. There has to be some way we can work this out,” Terrence begged.

Gregory gave Evelyn an I-told-you-so smile. Strong jawed and with hazel eyes, he was devilishly handsome with silver stripes in his rich brown hair.

He headed back to whatever he was working on.

“Don’t walk away from me!” Maxwell said through his teeth and leaned forward in his chair.

“Don’t worry, Max. I’m going to kill you first.”

Evelyn looked around, waiting for the phantoms to come and rescue them, but Quenby House was quiet. She knew she was on her own. She needed a plan. Something in this room must be able to help her. Think, Evelyn. Think.

Her thought was interrupted by a metallic scream behind her.

“Oh,” Terrence said, wide eyes on whatever Dr. Gregory held.

Evelyn twisted back to see it but failed.

She heard footsteps and the cord dragging behind her. Gregory stopped in the middle of them and showed off the modified circular saw without a safety guard. Its blade had polished teeth.

“It’s the first time I’ve used one of these.” He walked around Maxwell. “I’m going to open the back of your skull with it.”

Gregory pressed the power tool’s trigger. The blade screamed and blurred as it rotated. “I’m sorry, Evelyn,” Maxwell yelled over the noise. “I failed as a father, but I love you.”

“I love you too, Dad.” Evelyn said, feeling tears trickling down her pale cheeks. She didn’t know if her words were truth, but it felt real at the moment.

Gregory hovered the whirling blade an inch from Maxwell’s skull. His face sank with a frown and he let go of the trigger. The spinning blade died down.

“Thank God,” Terrence mumbled.

Gregory glared at Evelyn. “You know what’s funny? He may not actually be your father. It may be me. I’ll test your DNA after this.”

“You’ll kill me without knowing?” Evelyn taunted. “I thought you were a man of certainties.”  

Gregory glared at her for a moment, as if he was a parent thinking up some punishment for his child. “For that snide comment, I’ll kill Terrence first.”

He turned the blade back on and marched to Terrence’s chair.

“No!” Evelyn shouted. “No!!!”

Terrence pulled back his bald head as far as he could from the spinning blade.

“Zoey! Alannah! Barker!” Evelyn yelled up at the corpse chute. “Do something!”

The blade neared Terrence’s skull. “Evelyn!” he shouted.

Evelyn stood up, chair and all, and dived at Gregory. The spinning blade nicked the side of Terrence’s head as Evelyn took Gregory down.

Gregory rose up with the circular saw, readying to bring it down on Evelyn, when Barker appeared. Standing over his head, the seventy-year-old in a sweater vest vomited blood on Gregory’s face. Eyes closed, Gregory swung the blade through Barker’s legs. The deadly power tool phased through the phantom.

“What are you!?” the doctor screamed desperately, being showered by Barker’s blood.

Evelyn rolled over, breaking the back leg of the chair. She saw Zoey. The goth clenched the back of her head with her face screwed up in pain. She knelt down and untied Evelyn’s hand.

“I can’t--it hurts too bad,” Zoey yelled and vanished. With one hand free, Evelyn loosened her other hand. By the time she got her ankles out, Barker had vanished.

Gregory wiped away the blood and saw Evelyn standing before him. He looked down the barrel of the shotgun. He let go of the tool.  

“Please,” Gregory begged and whimpered. “What’s happening?”

“You’ll confess to everything or they’ll tear you apart.” Evelyn said coldly. Behind her, Winslow, Zoey, Peter, Alannah, and Barker stood, keeping the reins on their pain. Gregory stared at them with pure horror. His lip quivered.

“Y-yes,” Gregory said, tears streaming down his face. “Anything you want.”

The phantoms vanished.

With a hardened expression, Evelyn slammed the shotgun stock into his nose. Unconscious, the doctor toppled over.

Evelyn set the gun aside and rushed to Terrence. She turned his chin up to her face. There was a slash on the side of his head about three inches long and a centimeter deep.  “Terrence.”

Wincing, he looked her in the eyes. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

Evelyn kissed him more passionately than ever before.

After a moment, Maxwell cleared his throat.

Evelyn realized he and Terrence were still bound. Swiftly, she freed the two of them before searching Gregory’s body and retrieving her wallet. She pulled out Officer Bailey’s number. No service.

Evelyn set her jaw. She turned back to the men. “I need to make a call.”

“I was feeling a little stuffy anyway,” Terrence said, looking green.

Maxwell nodded in agreement.

Evelyn pressed the right brick, and a five-foot section of the wall opened into a dirt tunnel, reminiscent of a mine.  

Leaning on one another, Evelyn, Terrence, and Maxwell shambled down the dirt tunnel.

They reached the busted trap door at the other end and ascended into the shed. Outside, the sun rose, casting scarlet rays over dewy fields and the mighty Quenby House. Birds chirped. The morning breeze blew over them.

“Home sweet home,” Maxwell said weakly.

“It’s like we never left,” Evelyn replied.

Evelyn kept the phone call brief, making sure that Bailey sent someone to search Gregory’s home. Good thing, too. The police found nine-year-old Bella Day an hour away from starving to death. The press called her the Adders Trooper, as she had survived five days in Gregory’s basement without food.

Dr. Gregory kept his word, confessing to plotting Maxwell Quenby’s murder and admitting to killing nearly two dozen people. When he wasn’t talking to the police, he was speaking to himself. “I thought I killed you… you did... no… then how am I talking?” Evelyn didn’t know if he was possessed or crazy.

As for the rest of them, Maxwell opened a case against Mayor Timberland and Mr. Calhoon. Calhoon apologized to him privately, but Timberland denied everything. It would be a jury who would decide his fate. Deputy Painter was found across the country, drunk in a dive bar and spouting nonsense about sexy ghosts. Yates returned to the sheriff station and locked himself in the holding cell. When questioned why, his only response was “I’m guilty.”

After a few days of rest and revival (paid for by the hospital staff in apology for Gregory’s actions), Evelyn, Terrence, and Maxwell returned to Quenby House. They paused in the mansion’s shadow, taking in its grandeur before stepping into the foyer.

In a line, naked Winslow, sexy Alannah, athletic Peter, witty Barker, and goth Zoey watched them enter. They stood under the interior balcony and smiled at Evelyn.

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” Evelyn said.

“We were waiting for you,” Zoey replied.

Barker smiled at what he was about to say. “If Peter had both hands, he would’ve baked you a cake.”

“That’s messed up,” Peter replied.

“Too soon?” Barker replied and puffed on his pipe.  

Alannah looked Terrence up and down. “Darling, may I have one kiss before we part ways?”

Terrence looked at Evelyn and then back at the curvaceous woman. “I’m a married man. Sorry.”

Evelyn smiled to herself.

“You’re a tease, that’s what you are,” Alannah replied with her sultry voice.

Winslow revealed the vase of wildflowers he’d been hiding behind his back. He approached and handed it to Evelyn. She accepted. “Thank you.”

Winslow nodded and stepped back with the others.

“I guess this is really goodbye,” Zoey said sadly.

“It’s better this way,” Maxwell replied. “You’ll get to be with your mother.”

Zoey scoffed.

“Give her a chance,” Maxwell said. “A lot can change in ten years.”

Zoey didn’t reply, but everyone knew she’d follow his advice.

Evelyn opened up the front door and stepped aside.

One by one, the phantoms exited. Barker nodded at them. Peter smiled with dimpled cheeks. Alannah blew a kiss. Winslow “smiled,” and Zoey waved them goodbye. Hand in hand, they walked down the red brick path. Once they passed by the second oak tree, they faded into dust that the wind swept away.

The flowers in the vase withered. A sense of peace lingered in the house.

Evelyn blinked away her tears and turned to Maxwell. She pulled out the old, rust-spotted key. “This belongs to you.”

Maxwell didn’t accept it. “You can have it.”

“If you’re giving it out of guilt--”

“No, it’s a present,” Maxwell said with a small smile. “Adders has been dead to me a long time ago.”

Evelyn pocketed the key.

A Harley Davison motorcycle rumbled up the brick road.

It parked, and Lily got off. She wore a jean jacket with a crooked smile on her face. After a brief moment, Maxwell and her rushed to one another and kissed. When it ended, they held each other’s hands and locked eyes. Fluffy clouds surfed over blue skies. Wind ruffled their gray hair.

Lily spoke up, “I wanted to say--”

“There’s no need,” Maxwell replied. “We’re together now. That’s all that matters.”

Standing between the colonnades, Evelyn and Terrence watched the couple and intertwined their fingers.

“That’s sweet,” Terrence said.

Evelyn rested her hand on Terrence’s broad shoulder. “I can get used to sweet.”

“What now?”

“We go home,” Evelyn said.

“Detroit?”

“Maybe, or someplace else, but if I have to spend another second in this plantation, I’m going to need to shoot somebody.”

Terrence chuckled. “Let me get my cowboy hat.”

He kissed Evelyn’s temple and rushed inside.

Evelyn grinned and shook her head.

After they packed up the van, the four of them caravanned away from the vine-covered Quenby House. As the van drove by the real estate sign picketed near the front of the red brick path, a figure watched from the mansion’s upstairs window. Clad in black, he wore a featureless white mask with crude eye holes the size of buttons.  

The End

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