by Skylar Finn
Jesse climbed into the truck and studied the folder: should he wait to meet Emily at the coffee shop, or scan the contents briefly now and look at it more in depth once he got there? Curiosity got the better of him, and he opened the folder and flipped through the pages.
It was the most recent draft of the will: the last one, Jesse assumed, before the night Matilda disappeared. There was no mention of Cynthia anywhere in its pages.
A black Town Car with dark tinted windows pulled into the narrow alley behind the law office. The car loomed large in the rearview mirror of Jesse’s truck. Jesse, immersed in the will, took no notice of it.
Jesse found the page which dictated the house would be left to Emily. Beneath this was an additional line, and Jesse squinted as he read: if, in the event, my closest living family does not wish to claim the property or cannot be found, I hereby designate an alternate inheritor of the property. Jesse flipped the page and stared at it in shock.
The car pulled up behind Jesse’s truck, boxing him in. The driver got out, swinging a crowbar in one hand and pulling on a thick black ski mask.
Jesse looked up with a frightened yell as the driver’s side door of the truck flew open. He barely had time to react as he was yanked from the truck and thrown to the ground. He threw his arms over his face as the crowbar whistled through the air, striking his skull and knocking him out cold.
A second masked figure emerged from the car and helped the first drag Jesse down the alley. They threw him into the waiting back seat of the Town Car. One slammed the door and got back into the car while the other climbed behind the wheel of Jesse’s truck.
They glided silently out of the alley, one after the other, and disappeared up the street.
Stranded in the middle of a dark neighborhood on a dead-end road, Emily had never felt more helpless. She reached for her phone to try calling Jesse again. Her pocket was empty.
“No!” Emily ran back around the trailer and peered at the ground below the window. Either it had fallen outside while she wiggled through the window, or it had fallen out in the bedroom while she was still inside. Either way, it was dark and getting darker, and nearly impossible to see. The window was high enough above her head from the outside of the trailer that getting back into it seemed like an impossibility without a ladder, and Emily was sure Theresa took the key to the front door with her. She ran to the front to check. The key was gone.
Faced with the prospect of wasting endless minutes searching for a phone she might never find, Emily remembered how short of a drive it had been from the town to Cynthia’s trailer. She ran up the narrow dirt street to where it intersected with the main road and headed down the hill towards the light of town. Had Jesse gotten her message? Was he on his way here? Or had his phone died? Was he in town looking for her, frantic? She kept going until she reached her destination.
Emily finally opened the door to the coffee shop, the bright light and warmth washing over her like a benediction. Her lungs burned from running even a short distance at this altitude. She huffed and puffed her way to the counter before slumping over it, barely able to get out words. The barista looked at her with alarm.
“Have you seen—a man—with a beard, and—he would have been wearing—a bright yellow shirt, and a— green jacket,” Emily wheezed.
The barista filled a cup with water and set it on the counter in front of Emily. She quickly chugged the water.
“No, I haven’t seen anyone who looks like that,” said the barista. “Are you okay?”
Emily nodded and threw the cup in the trash. Jesse hadn’t been here yet. He already had the will when he called, so he wasn’t at Watkins’s office. Had he gotten her message and gone straight to Cynthia’s? What if Theresa or whoever locked her in Cynthia’s trailer was there waiting for him? If he got there and she wasn’t there, would he look for her at home?
Emily decided that her best bet, with no way of reaching Jesse or knowing where he was, would be to walk up the hill toward home. She could use the landline to try Jesse again until he answered. It was less than ideal, but she had no better solution. It was certainly preferable to returning to Cynthia’s trailer and running into lunatic Theresa trying to lock her up again.
In her first stroke of luck all evening, a bus pulled up outside just as she passed the stop. Emily fished two crumpled ones out of her coat pocket and boarded the bus. She was still dizzy from running to town, and the light on board felt too bright.
The bus let her off at the corner only a brief walk from the house. Emily was relieved to see lights on in the window and the truck parked out front. Jesse was home. His phone had died, probably as soon as he left the law office. Everything would be okay.
Emily opened the front door and leaned over as Widget ran up to her, wagging her little tail excitedly and barking. “Hey, girl, where’s Jesse? Where’s he at, huh?” Widget turned and dashed out of the room, still barking.
“Jesse?” she called. There was no answer.
Frowning, Emily went through the foyer and into the living room, where Widget incessantly barked. As Emily crossed the doorway, she looked up in horror at the words written on the wall.
Someone had taken a leaf out of Darla and Roger’s book, and covered the living room wall in dripping, blood-red letters. Emily thought randomly of the hours Jesse spent repainting the wall, and the memory was like a knife to her heart.
GIVE UP THE HOUSE
OR YOU’LL NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN
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The Haunting of Meade Mansion Book 3
1
Cynthia Harkness gazed out the window as the blizzard raged outside. It was perfect timing. She’d been waiting for this opportunity for months, and at last—it was here. She could finally put an end to this charade. She could finally cease pretending to be a wise and loving caregiver, happily employed by a philanthropic savior. Cynthia didn’t see Matilda Meade as a savior any more than Cynthia viewed herself as an earnest caregiver. She considered Matilda an aging dunce, but a dunce very much in possession of the thing Cynthia wanted most in the world: this house.
Cynthia placed a sandwich on the table for the children to share. The youngest two were a brother and sister named Bobby and Tricia, and the oldest was a girl named Andrea. It was difficult to conceal her anticipation at never having to cook or clean for them again. It wasn’t that they were particularly annoying or bratty; if anything, they reminded Cynthia of her own childhood—destitute and helpless. In a way, this was even worse than if she’d had to put up with terrible children. It also served to affirm her determination to carry out the plan. She’d never go back to that existence again.
The power went out. The kitchen was plummeted into darkness. Matilda uttered a startled “oh!” as the youngest children screamed. Andrea murmured words of comfort and consolation in an attempt to soothe them. In the darkness, Cynthia smiled.
It was time.
“There’s nothing to worry about, it’s just an outage,” said Matilda reassuringly.
That’s what you think, Cynthia thought with a private surge of glee.
The children, who struck Cynthia
as high-strung on the best of occasions, were reacting poorly to the sudden absence of light. Tricia started crying. Cynthia thought of how relieved she’d be never to hear that sound again.
“Cynthia, take this flashlight,” said Matilda.
Cynthia felt a surge of annoyance at the way the old woman bossed her around. It pained her to play the hunched servant, bending at Matilda’s beck and call. She bore it by reminding herself she was only biding her time. Now she thought, the time has come.
“I’ll go to the fuse box and see if I can get it back on or if it went out with the storm. If it’s the storm, I’ll have to get the backup generator. Take the children upstairs to the attic.”
Take the children upstairs to the attic, Cynthia inwardly mocked Matilda’s bossy, take-charge tone to herself. The only thing that woman was fit to run were her stockings. Aloud, she said only, “Come on, everyone. We’ll just go upstairs and wait for the storm to pass. It will be over before you know it.”
Cynthia turned the flashlight on. She took Bobby’s hand and led him along, looking pointedly over her shoulder at Andrea. Andrea took Tricia’s hand, mirroring Cynthia, and meekly followed as Cynthia went upstairs. Cynthia didn’t have to say a word to control Andrea. It was as if she could sense Cynthia’s will and immediately did her bidding, no questions asked. Perhaps the girl sensed what the consequences would be if she ever defied Cynthia.
As they marched upstairs in an orderly line, she almost felt a little sorry for them. The words sitting ducks came to mind.
Once they were upstairs, Cynthia firmly closed the attic door. Andrea sat on the rug in the middle of the room. Bobby and Tricia huddled together on the toy chest. Tricia asked when the storm would be over.
“It’s hard to say, dear,” said Cynthia. “But it’s almost morning now, and when the sun comes up, the snow will melt and the power will come back on. In the meantime, we’re all here together. Everything will be fine.”
She told them it would be fine, but she didn’t mean it. It wouldn’t be, of course. Things, in Cynthia’s experience, rarely ever were. She didn’t see why their childhood should be any different from hers.
No sooner had she uttered these false words than a scream downstairs, followed by a crash, alerted Cynthia that the plan was fully underway.
“What happened?” Bobby cried.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Cynthia. “Maybe Matilda fell. I’ll go check on her.”
She instructed Andrea to keep an eye on the younger children. Cynthia found that one of the few things that made her situation tolerable was passing her more strenuous responsibilities to Andrea. The girl was ridiculously eager to please and practically worshiped Cynthia. If she told Andrea to jump out the window, she probably would have done it. Cynthia considered this briefly before dismissing the notion. Better that she wouldn’t be the one to end up with blood on her hands.
Cynthia locked the attic door behind her so they couldn’t escape. She stood on the landing of the attic stairs, looking down into the darkness below. She could hear the faint sounds of a scuffle coming from the first floor. She shined the flashlight on the stairs and headed for the kitchen.
The sight that met her eyes couldn’t have pleased her more. Her sister, Theresa, stood over Matilda, who was tied up in a kitchen chair with a piece of duct tape over her mouth. Matilda’s eyes widened when she saw Cynthia. She made a sound as if to warn her.
Cynthia glanced casually over at Theresa, then went to the sink and filled a glass of water from the tap. Matilda’s expression shifted from fearful concern to confusion.
“I see you’ve met my sister,” Cynthia said conversationally, as if the three of them were out to lunch. “Turns out, tonight I have someone to assist me. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Matilda regarded her with horror. Cynthia let the flashlight play over her face, enjoying her expression of betrayal, shock, and terror. Cynthia had imagined this moment many times over the last few months: every time Matilda ordered her to do the dishes or the laundry or prepare the meals or asked her, “What are the children doing, Cynthia?” She thought about it while she bit back her acid replies—I don’t know, Matilda. Why don’t you go check?—and dutifully shuffled around, performing her tasks as ordered (or delegating them to Andrea). She’d been waiting a long time for this.
“I assume you’ve realized that we’re not here tonight to make your life easier, as would normally be the case,” said Cynthia. “I’m afraid we’re here to make it much, much harder. But don’t worry, the house will be well taken care of.” She glanced up at the ceiling in the direction of the attic. “I can’t say the same of its current occupants, but don’t worry: you’ll all be together.”
Silent tears slipped down Matilda’s cheeks, and Cynthia could practically read the older woman’s mind: how could I not have seen—but the children—what will she do? She knew Matilda well at this point. Well enough to predict her every thought and move.
“Can we get this over with?” Theresa demanded. “I’m missing all my shows.”
Matilda tried to yell but could only emit a series of muffled grunts. She tried to loosen her bindings, but Theresa had made them too tight. At least she was good for something.
Cynthia watched Matilda’s struggle. A slow smile spread across her face.
“Don’t worry, Matilda,” she said. “I promise, this won’t hurt a bit.”
2
Emily stared at the writing on the wall with a mounting sense of horror. The words were painted with bright red dripping paint. It looked like blood on the wall.
GIVE UP THE HOUSE
OR YOU’LL NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN
Jesse was gone. And unless Emily relinquished the house, she might never see him again. But how was she supposed to give an entire house away? And who was she supposed to give it to?
These were the thoughts swirling through Emily’s brain when her phone rang. Across the screen was the name Jesse. Relief flooded her being and she answered the phone.
“Jess?” she said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m afraid Jesse can’t come to the phone right now,” said a cold female voice. “He’s feeling a little…indisposed.”
“Who is this?” Emily felt a chill wash over her that had nothing to do with the cold. The voice sounded like pure evil. Was it Theresa? Had she been the one to lock Emily in Cynthia’s trailer, keeping her from meeting Jesse, so she could kidnap him? Even as she thought this, Emily had a deeper sense that she’d been terribly wrong about one important thing, and the truth was on the other end of the line.
“Oh, you don’t know?” the voice asked mockingly. “You’ve been so eager to find me all this time, haven’t you? I would think you’d have been expecting this call, Emily.”
“Cynthia?” said Emily slowly. “Cynthia Harkness?”
“Who else?” Cynthia sounded exasperated. “You know, anybody else would have put this together ages ago, Emily. Four people dead in a house and only one gets out? The math would suggest the responsible party was the only one who got away.”
“I thought you needed help,” said Emily. Even as she said the words, she felt a rising shame at her own naïveté: how could she believe this woman had ever needed her help? She’d been playing her all along.
“Oh, but I do!” Cynthia sounded almost pleasant. “I need your help with one very major thing: I need that house of yours. I need you to sign over the deed, and then disappear.” Cynthia paused. “Not literally, of course. If I were just going to kill you both, there’d be little incentive for you to do what I want. And if you don’t do what I want, Jesse dies. If you do, I’ll let the two of you go. How does that sound?”
“How do I know you won’t just kill us as soon as I give you the deed?” asked Emily.
“That’s an excellent question!” Cynthia sounded downright jovial. Emily thought, this person is completely insane.
“I’m glad you’re finally thinking logically,” continued Cynthia. “How about this: You give
me the deed, and I’ll give you Jesse and a reasonable payoff to keep your mouths shut. That way, you’ll be accessories after the fact. And we all know what happens to accessories to a crime. So, if you get any funny ideas about going to the cops, you’ll go to jail. And speaking of the cops,” said Cynthia as her voice changed from borderline pleasant to downright menacing. “If you call them regarding anything I just said, you will never see Jesse again. Understood?”
“I understand,” said Emily. What else could she say? “How am I supposed to get the deed and change it?”
“I suggest you pay a visit to our little friend J.R. Watkins,” said Cynthia. “I think you’ll find him surprisingly…cooperative.” Cynthia laughed. It was an unpleasant sound, like the aural equivalent of milk gone sour. “Once you have—and believe me, I’ll know when you have—I’ll contact you with further instructions. Any other questions?”
“I want to talk to Jesse,” said Emily. “I need to hear his voice. I need to know that he’s okay.”
“Jesse is currently unconscious and can’t come to the phone,” said Cynthia. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to take my word for it.” She disconnected the call.
Emily stared at her phone, paralyzed with speechless horror. How could she have been so wrong? How could she get Jesse back? What if it was already too late?
She immediately dialed Watkins’s office.
“Watkins, Simms, and Taft,” said the voice of J.R. Watkins’s receptionist, Bryce Stevens. “How may I direct your call?”
Emily struggled to harness her emotions. She had to conceal the fact that anything was wrong. “Um, could I speak to Mr. Watkins, please?”
“Mr. Watkins is currently out of the office,” said Bryce pleasantly. How could anyone sound normal when Jesse’s life was at risk? Emily felt like the world was ending. “May I take a message?”
