Ghost House

by Alexandra Adornetto

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere,” I said decisively. “And you can’t make me.”

  “I respectfully disagree,” Gran replied. “I’ll drag you to the airport by the ear if I have to.”

  “That’s child abuse.”

  “I prefer to call it tough love.” She turned away and began stacking the dishes. “We’re leaving tomorrow at 6:00 a.m. sharp.” My eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling.

  “As in twelve hours from now?”

  “That’s right. The tickets have already been booked.”

  “So you made arrangements without asking us first? Why did you even pretend we had a choice?” Gran acted as if I hadn’t spoken.

  “You should probably go pack,” she said. “You’ll need warm clothes, coats, mittens, gumboots, that sort of thing.”

  My closet consisted primarily of T-shirts and flip-flops. I didn’t know what the hell a gumboot was supposed to be, and I was too darn mad to ask. The screen door slammed behind me as I stormed out onto the porch. It was a clear, still day, the dazzling California sun too bright to look at without shading your eyes. I leaned against the trunk of the gnarly old tree that had our tire swing secured by ropes in the uppermost branches and traced my fingers over the initials carved there. Mom and I had done that to commemorate my first day of school. I didn’t want to picture her face, because I knew grief would hit me like a tidal wave. At the same time, I didn’t want to forget what she looked like. I was scared that over time I would forget the little details, like the touch of her hands or the way she used to smell.

  * * *

  “Chloe.” A whisper rushed out of nowhere, calling my name as if across a vast distance. My head whipped desperately around as the old swing began to rock back and forth. I knew that voice. It belonged to my mother. I shivered as a gust of wind tossed the leaves at my feet in a frenzied dance. Could she really be here? Was she trying to make contact? Or was the grief slowly making me insane? Maybe I didn’t mind being insane, if it meant I got to see her one last time.

  “Chloe?” I spun around to find only my dad standing behind me, his brow furrowed in concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” I let out a long breath. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry about before,” he began. “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to get rid of you.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “I’m just not sure I can deal with everything right now… .”

  “You’re not the only one,” I muttered, casting a glance at the swing still creaking in the wind.

  “It was Gran’s idea,” he went on. “And, well, you know what she’s like. But I can’t stand to have you and Rory mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad,” I told him. “I’m just… I don’t know what I am. And Rory will be fine. He always is.”

  “I haven’t told him your grandmother doesn’t believe in the internet,” Dad said.

  “Yeah, I’d save that little bombshell for after he’s on the plane.”

  We managed to share a laugh, and in those brief minutes it felt like I had my father back. The conversation was cut short by my cell phone buzzing in my pocket. It was Sam and Natalie, checking up on me.

  “I better let my friends know.” I sighed. “They’re going to freak out.”

  Dad nodded and went inside to give me some privacy.

  “You’re going where?” Sam’s voice on the other line was shrill and demanding. I could just picture her wearing the puppy-dog pout she always wore when she wasn’t happy about something. It was a face her dad had trouble resisting. Recently it had scored her both a new car and a pair of Louboutin shoes.

  “No, not New Hampshire,” I repeated for the second time. “Hampshire, England. My gran lives there, remember?” I was sure I’d mentioned this to them plenty of times before now, but information that wasn’t gossip tended to pass right through them like water through a sieve.

  “That’s such bullshit,” Nat chimed into our three-way conversation. “Why would you agree to that?”

  “I didn’t exactly agree.”

  “Wait,” Sam cried. “Does that mean you’ll be away for your birthday?”

  “I guess so,” I replied. Not that my upcoming eighteenth birthday meant much to me now.

  I wasn’t sure how the conversation had turned into me consoling them. Sometimes I had to wonder how they’d come to be my closest friends. I guessed it was because we’d known each other since the third grade, when all our moms were in the PTA. Sam has asked me if I’d ever kissed a boy. I’d told her boys had cooties, and we’d bonded from that moment on. We didn’t have much in common anymore, but history kept us together. At least they knew me inside out and could sense my mood without me having to say a word. I appreciated the tacit agreement not to talk about my mom. I wasn’t sure how I was meant to behave now that I was motherless, and pretending things were normal bought me some time.

  “You guys won’t even be around for my birthday,” I continued. “Aren’t you going to New York for winter break?”

  “Yeah, and you were supposed to come with us,” Sam replied. “Fifth Avenue shopping and lunch at the Plaza. What’s in Hampshire except maybe some trees?”

  They really weren’t offering much reassurance. A simple You’ll be fine, Chloe. Just try to relax would have sufficed. But it was typical of my friends to make a big deal out of everything. I was almost glad to be leaving the country. I couldn’t face weeks of idle chitchat about the latest celebrity gossip or whether pencil skirts were in or out.

  * * *

  Gran allocated Rory and me one duffel bag each and told us to set our alarm clocks for the early-morning flight. I packed in record time, not caring what I threw in. After all, it wasn’t like I cared what people in Hampshire were going to think of me.

  Rory gave Darcy the longest hug, burying his face in the dog’s neck until we had to pry them apart. Then he sulked all the way to LAX. Because we were running late, there wasn’t time for protracted goodbyes. Leaving was a blur. One minute we were rushing to check in and the next we were boarding the plane. Dad looked a little teary as he waved us off from the security checkpoint. I hoped Gran was right about him needing alone time.

  Heathrow was much smaller than I remembered. In fact, the whole country seemed pocket-size. To our surprise, it turned out Gran had a driver. A bearded man called Harry in a corduroy cap picked us up from the airport. The drive to the village of Wistings, where Grange Hall was located, was about two hours out of London by car. Sadly, Harry turned out to be the chatty type. Because we were American, he seemed to feel the need to act as tour guide, offering a running commentary on everything from the breed of cows grazing in the fields to various significant historic sites. Rory plugged himself into his iPad, so that left just me to keep up polite conversation.

  “Does all of England look like this?” I asked after a while. The green rolling hills surrounding me couldn’t have been more of a contrast to the dusty California desert we’d left behind.

  “Hampshire is considered to be one of the most attractive counties to live in,” Gran answered proudly. A road sign announced we were entering the village of Wistings.

  “Is that an actual house?” I nudged Rory so he could catch a glimpse of a towering, ivy-clad edifice that looked like it belonged in a Disney animation.

  “That’s Linton House. It belongs to the Ashton-Croft family. They have twin boys heading to Oxford next year. I should have them over for tea so I can introduce you.” She turned to me with a meaningful smile. That was just the sort of thing my grandmother would say, regardless of timing. She’d always been socially ambitious.

  Wistings itself was quaint and tiny with houses that looked barely big enough to accommodate doll-size people. The streets were cobbled and winding. There was one bluestone church with a spire, and the main street was
only a short string of shops—a post office, a pharmacy called Boots and then just a bunch of antiques stores.

  I wasn’t concentrating, so I almost missed Grange Hall when we arrived. A pair of tall, remote iron gates swung open, and Gran’s old Mercedes turned onto a sweeping gravel drive. The grandeur of the house took me by surprise.

  “Holy crap!” I exclaimed, incurring a glacial look from Gran. I guessed profanity wasn’t cool in this part of the world. But Harry had the good grace to stare straight ahead and not react.

  “Welcome to Grange Hall,” he announced rather formally.

  “Wait, this is Grange Hall?”

  “I told you it had changed.” Gran beamed, and Harry couldn’t suppress a grin when he saw my slack jaw through the rearview mirror. “Rather impressive, wouldn’t you say, young lady? This place used to be little more than a ruin.”

  But whatever it had been in the past, the house was a far cry from a ruin now. If you could even call it a house. Its proportions were far too epic for that description. Grange Hall was a perfectly preserved example of Georgian architecture painstakingly restored to its original grandeur. Even though I might be there under duress, it was hard not to be impressed by its imposing facade. Lush lawns flowed around it like a green cape, melting into the woods on either side of the property. I vaguely remembered my pop once telling me it had belonged to an aristocratic family who was forced to sell it when they fell upon hard times. I concluded that meant it had been passed down to indulged kids who squandered their inheritance and then had to find real jobs.

  We stepped out of the car, and Harry disappeared with our bags. The silence was overwhelming after the blasting horns and wailing sirens of the city I called home.

  “It looks so empty. Where are the guests?” I asked Gran.

  “It’s off-season,” she explained. I looked down to see my hands already mottled from cold. I pulled my flimsy jacket tighter and glanced up at steely skies threatening rain. The air was different here; it had a biting sting. Goodbye, mild California. I was clearly going to need warmer clothes.

  In her home environment, my grandmother seemed different, more relaxed. The regal air that had made her a fish out of water in Los Angeles just seemed to work here.

  “How about some tea before the grand tour?” she asked.

  “Sounds good,” I answered.

  “I’m starving!” Rory blurted. He was still plugged into his iPad, but whatever game he was playing couldn’t compete with the offer of food. Even if the food was English.

  “Harry, would you please organize it?”

  At the mention of his name, Harry promptly appeared out of nowhere, seeming to transform from driver to butler.

  “Right away, Ms. Kennedy,” he said, adding a short bow. I smothered a smile behind my hand.

  A few minutes later we were escorted into a cozy parlor with a fire burning in the grate. Gran’s old sheepdog must have been hard of hearing, because he was sleeping soundly by the hearth and barely stirred upon our arrival. Harry wheeled in a tiered trolley replete with warm scones and homemade jam, sticky buns as well as fresh berries and cream. There were also little triangular sandwiches with ham and cheese, cucumber or curried egg. Something told me being vegan just wasn’t going to work out here. Not if I wanted to survive. As I nibbled on a cucumber sandwich and drank steaming tea out of a dainty china cup, I couldn’t help but think that the whole place had the sleepy stillness of a bygone era. There were even classical statues dotting the garden. Some might have described it as tranquil, but I called it boring. No wonder so many great writers had come out of this country. What else was there to do when you were holed up inside all day?

  I stared at a majestic white oak in the front garden. Its knotted base extended like a massive prehistoric foot. There was something about the tree, something eerie, as if the color around it had faded and I was looking at a black-and-white photograph.

  “There’s a lake just past the woods,” Grandma Fee was saying. “And we have a few horses in a stable out back.”

  But I wasn’t paying attention. Why couldn’t I tear my eyes away from this ancient tree? Then, suddenly, I caught a flash of something that made me drop my fork with a clatter. For a split second I saw a thick noose hanging from the branches of the tree. From it swung the body of a heavyset man. I could see his swollen lips and his bulging eyes staring right at me. His feet, encased in heavy boots, were still twitching.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I let out a bloodcurdling scream and jumped to my feet, sending my chair crashing into a potted palm. Through the French doors, I saw Harry almost trip over his own feet. My own heart was thumping so violently I thought it was about to be dislodged and jump out of my chest. Only Gran managed to remain calm and observe me with her collected gray stare.

  “Whatever is the matter, Chloe?” I looked back at the tree, but there was nothing there now but branches swaying gently in the wind.

  “There was a bug,” I said weakly. Everyone looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, and I felt my cheeks redden. Rory shook his head.

  “Do you always have to be such a girl?” he complained. For the first time, I was grateful for his total lack of awareness.

  I was so unsettled by the vision that Grandma Fee’s tour of the house was a complete blur. The skin on the back of my neck was still crawling. Sure, I’d seen ghosts before, but never in their actual state of death. I couldn’t get the man’s blue lips and froglike eyes out of my mind. He’d been wearing a black frock coat and stiff collar, as if he were a gentleman, maybe even master of the house. Did that mean he’d once lived at Grange Hall? What had happened for him to meet such a grisly end? If I’d come all this way hoping to escape my apparitions, I was definitely not off to a great start. So much for rest and relaxation… .

  I followed Grandma Fee as she whisked us from one elegant room to the next. The most impressive was the ballroom on the ground floor overlooking the rolling front lawns.

  “I wish Mom could have seen this.” As Rory’s reference to our mother slipped out, he froze.

  “Me, too,” Gran said and then just kept going methodically, her heels clicking on the marble floor.

  “Does anyone ever use this room?” I asked, looking up at the soaring ceiling with its elaborate plasterwork.

  “Not often,” Grandma Fee replied. “Although Bearwood Academy is hosting its Winter Ball here in a few weeks.”

  “Spiffing!” I said. “Shall we telephone the Queen or just send her a text?”

  “How amusing. It’s a very elegant affair—you’ll see.”

  “Can I go to the ball?” Rory piped up.

  “It’s just for seniors, dear.” Gran patted his head. “But we’ll let you sneak a peek. I could probably get you an invitation, Chloe, if you’re interested.”

  “Only if Harry will be my date.”

  “There’s no need to take that tone.” I could tell I was testing her patience.

  “Look, Gran,” I said. “I hang out at The Soho House and Château Marmont. So I think I’ll pass on the Hogwarts high-school dance.

  “Ball,” she corrected emphatically.

  “Whatever!”

  I didn’t know why I was being such a brat—maybe the fact that I was cold and miserable and ready to go home after less than an hour had something to do with it. I suspected Gran would try to set me up with a polo-shirt-wearing prep-school boy who rowed in the Regatta and was descended from some lord.

  “Sounds thrilling, but I didn’t come here to make friends.”

  Grandma Fee let it drop, at least for the time being. She showed us the library next. It had a vaulted ceiling and bookcases full of leather-bound tomes. There were deep armchairs and an old writing desk with an antique typewriter plus two archaic-looking computers that probably used dial-up internet. I was already feeling cut
off from the outside world.

  It made me think of Sam and Natalie. I’d promised to text them as soon as I arrived. I whipped out my cell…one weak bar of reception. I waved it around uselessly.

  “Are you serious?” I demanded.

  “Did I mention that reception isn’t great out here?” Gran said.

  “How am I supposed to talk to my friends?”

  “You could try writing to them,” Grandma Fee replied. “Our postal service is very efficient.” I bit my tongue to keep from saying something I shouldn’t.

  We wandered back out into the hall and Rory’s eyes widened as they traveled up the imposing staircase with banisters so polished you could see your reflection in them.

  “What’s upstairs?”

  “The guest suites are on the second floor, and the top floor is where I live. Speaking of guests, I should warn you, you might run into a couple of women from Baton Rouge calling themselves paranormal investigators. They visit once a year. They’re perfectly harmless. Just remember to be civil if they talk to you.”

  “Seriously?” I couldn’t stop the little flutter of excitement that stirred in my chest. What if these women knew something I didn’t? Maybe they could help me understand this “gift” that had plagued me all my life.