The Haunted

by Danielle Vega

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you know anything about this house?”

  “No,” she said. “Why? What’s the deal?”

  “A little girl was murdered here about three years ago.” For a second it looked like he might say something else. But then he shrugged with one shoulder, seeming to decide against it.

  Hendricks bit the inside of her cheek, working to keep her face impassive. “That’s fucked up.”

  But it struck her harder than she thought it would. Little girl. She pictured Brady, all safe and snuggly in his crib upstairs. No wonder this house felt wrong.

  The boy removed his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “The guy who did it is dead now. So there’s that.”

  “That doesn’t make it okay,” Hendricks said.

  “No, it doesn’t.” The boy said this like it was a fact, with no apology in his voice. It made Hendricks uncomfortable for reasons she couldn’t name.

  Complicated, she thought. She shivered.

  “Yeah. Well, see you around, I guess.” Hendricks started to turn, then hesitated, eyes resting on the boy’s shadowy face.

  She tilted her head. “Got a name?”

  “Don’t bother. If you plan on hanging with Portia and that crowd, you’ll just have to forget it again.”

  He tucked his half-finished cigarette behind one ear and disappeared through a gap in the fence before Hendricks had a chance to respond.

  * * *

  • • •

  Hendricks heard Brady crying as soon as she got back inside, and mentally pinched herself. She must’ve had the monitor’s volume turned down.

  He’d been sound asleep the last time she’d checked on him. But how long ago was that? An hour? More?

  How much did she suck?

  “I’m coming, Bear.” She pushed the plastic away from the stairs and hurried past the drywall-dusted brick and exposed beams. Brady’s sobs had the raw sound they got when he’d been crying for a while already.

  When Hendricks reached his nursery she saw that he was standing up in his crib, his chubby face bright red and tear-stained. His creepy talking baby doll was jabbering away on the windowsill.

  “A . . . B . . . C . . . D . . . will you sing with me?” The doll had an unnaturally deep voice that grated like rocks on sandpaper.

  “Sorry, Bear,” Hendricks muttered. She made her way across the room to turn the doll off. The voice petered out gradually, becoming high-pitched and strained before dying away. The sound always reminded Hendricks of someone being strangled.

  “Ha-ha,” Brady said, sticking out his arms for her.

  Ha-ha was Brady’s name for Hendricks. In this case it was also a sentence, which, roughly translated, meant “Hendricks, take me out of baby prison and play with me.”

  Hendricks shook her head, sadly. “No, Baby Bear, no Ha-ha. You need to go back to sleep.”

  Brady pointed at the floor. Hendricks followed his stubby finger and saw a ratty, hand-knit blanket at the foot of his crib. Their mother had made it, and Brady couldn’t sleep without it.

  Hendricks plucked the blanket off the floor. “Now lie down,” she said. Brady plopped to his bottom and curled onto his side. He reached a chubby hand through the slats in his crib. She let him take the blanket. “And close your eyes.”

  He hugged the blanket to his chest and clenched his eyes shut tight.

  “Big faker,” Hendricks said, standing.

  She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Goose bumps covered her skin. It was freezing in here. She squinted around Brady’s room. Her eyes landed on the open window behind the world’s creepiest baby doll, propped against the wall. Gillian must’ve forgotten to latch it.

  She pushed the window closed, snapping the latch shut with a click. Much better. From the sound of the wind outside, it was going to storm tonight.

  “Go to sleep now, Baby Bear,” Hendricks said, stepping back into the hallway and gently closing the door behind her.

  She headed to her room to watch TV on her laptop. She must’ve dozed off after a while, because the next thing she knew she was blinking into her pillow, her body heavy and tired.

  She couldn’t say what had roused her, but when she rolled onto her side she saw that her cell phone was lit up. Groggily, she picked it up and stared at the screen. A text from her mother:

  We’re on the train! Be back in an hour. XO.

  The timestamp read 11:12.

  11:12? Hendricks frowned. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d fallen asleep before midnight. It must’ve been the beer; it had left her feeling groggy. She’d mostly stayed away from parties over the last two months.

  She kicked her legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching. She needed a glass of water, and she should probably double-check the kitchen to make sure all the beer cans had been properly disposed of. She padded out of her room and into the hall, rubbing her eyes. She blinked. And then froze.

  Brady’s door was open, and his baby doll was lying on the floor in the middle of his room.

  “Sing with me,” the doll crooned in its gravelly voice. “A . . . B . . . C . . . D . . .”

  CHAPTER

  5

  About seven months ago, after a late-night study session at Starbucks, Hendricks had found a single white peony inside her mom’s old Jeep. It had been propped on the dashboard just behind the steering wheel, its petals all glowy in the moonlight. Grayson was always buying her peonies. She’d texted her friends Fallon and Kimiko on the drive home, and they’d both been in awe.

  How sweet! Fallon had written back, and Kimiko had sent six heart-eyed smiley-face emojis.

  It was sweet, Hendricks had told herself. But she’d felt something dark gathering at the edges of her mind, and it wasn’t until she was home that she could pinpoint exactly what was bothering her.

  Grayson didn’t have a key to her car. And the car had still been locked when she’d gotten there.

  So how had he gotten inside?

  Now, Hendricks’s skin crawled, and a bad taste trailed down the back of her throat. The taste was like pennies, or blood. She brought her fingers to her neck, swallowing hard.

  “It fell,” she said out loud. The certainty in her own voice made her feel a little better. Of course it fell. Not even Grayson would drive four hours to move a doll around.

  She scooped the doll off the floor and turned it off, her movements jerky. She was about to put the toy back in his room but then, thinking better of it, she opened the door to the hall closet and stowed the doll in there instead. She hurried back to her bedroom, completely forgetting about her glass of water.

  But she didn’t sleep. She stared up at the ceiling, her heart racing. Shadows danced across the bedroom walls, casting shapes that shifted on the surfaces surrounding her.

  It’s just moonlight and clouds, Hendricks told herself. But she had the disturbing thought that there was something else there, something that skittered back into the darkness a moment before she turned to look. Her breath grew very still.

  And now she could hear the wooden walls groaning around her. Wind pressing into the windowpanes, making the glass creak.

  Old-house sounds.

  But it didn’t sound like normal house sounds. It sounded deeper, sounded ragged.

  Like someone breathing.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next morning, Hendricks hovered outside the Drearford High front doors like a phantom. She felt gauzy and immaterial, as though the bitter January wind might blow her away.

  A teacher Hendricks only vaguely recognized walked past. “Good morning, Hendricks!” she chirped, pushing through the front doors.

  Hendricks started, and it took her a beat too long to say “Morning” back. It was surreal. She’d been a student at her old school for almost three years and mo
st of the teachers there still called her Henrietta.

  Must be the small-town vibe, she thought, heading inside.

  It wasn’t just the teacher. Half the kids in the hall looked up as she made her way toward her homeroom. They jerked their chins at her, their hands lifting in a wave.

  “Hey, Hendricks.”

  “Morning, Hendricks!”

  “See you in class.”

  Everyone knew who she was. It felt like standing under a spotlight.

  Oh God. Had they been talking about her?

  Hendricks felt a wave of heat sweep over her cheeks.

  “Hey, girl.” Portia suddenly appeared, an arm snaking around Hendricks’s elbow. She had a tray of iced coffees balanced in her other hand. “Come sit with us. I picked up Dead Guy on my way in.”

  “Dead Guy?”

  “It’s what we have instead of a Starbucks. The local coffee shop is called Dead Guy Joe.” Portia made a face. “So gross, right? They should seriously make the owner change it. Anyway, at least they have cold brew. I didn’t know what you drink, so I loaded yours with sugar and milk.”

  Thoughtful. Hendricks smiled. “Good guess.” She slid the coffee out of the tray, grateful. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Portia’s eyes flicked over Hendricks’s outfit, taking in her ratty sneakers and oversized fisherman’s sweater, courtesy of her favorite thrift store back in Philly. Portia’s eyebrow gave a subtle twitch. “By the way, I’m absolutely loving this whole ‘I don’t care that I look homeless’ vibe you’ve got going on. Very street-style chic.”

  Hendricks honestly didn’t know whether she was meant to take this as a compliment or an insult.

  Portia wore a pair of dark wash jeans and a formfitting sweater. The silver polka dots on her sweater perfectly matched her heeled silver booties. She looked like she had an entire wardrobe department helping her get dressed in the morning.

  Before Hendricks could formulate a response, Portia was maneuvering her through the cafeteria to the table in the back corner where Raven and Connor were already sitting.

  “Refreshments,” Portia announced, plopping the remaining coffees in the middle of the table. “And look who I found wandering the halls, frightened and alone.”

  It took Hendricks a second to realize she meant her. “Oh,” she sputtered. “Hi!” Followed by an awkward wave that she immediately regretted.

  Raven mumbled something that didn’t sound like words, managing to lift her head only long enough to grab a coffee. Connor flashed a wide grin.

  “Hey,” he said. “Good party last night.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” said Hendricks. She started to pull out a chair, but Portia slid into it first, pushing Hendricks aside with a hip bump.

  Hendricks frowned and tried to catch her eye. Portia was picking a piece of lint off her sweater and seemed not to notice.

  Okay. Hendricks slid into the empty seat beside Connor instead. That was weird.

  Raven blinked, slowly, as she aimed the coffee straw at her mouth. “Mmm. Better.”

  “Raven’s a zombie in the morning,” Portia explained.

  “Need brains,” Raven murmured. Her eyelids lowered as she slurped coffee. “I mean caffeine.”

  “Connor’s the morning person among us,” Portia said. “Don’t you get up at, like, six for crew?”

  “Five,” Connor corrected, leaning back and stretching his arms behind his head. The gesture pulled Hendricks’s eyes to his biceps, where they remained until Portia cleared her throat.

  “Crew,” Hendricks repeated, cheeks flaring. “That’s, like, boats and stuff, right?”

  “Boats and stuff.” The skin at the corners of Connor’s eyes crinkled when he laughed. “You guys don’t do crew back in Philly?”

  “Nah, we’re more into hockey.”

  Connor was nodding. “Right, you’ve got the Flyers down there. I have a buddy who’s into them.”

  Hendricks didn’t follow any sports, but she nodded like this was something they had in common, silently praying he didn’t ask her any follow-up questions.

  Connor slid his elbows onto the table, leaning toward her. “You know, I’ve wanted to see the inside of your house since I was a little kid.”

  Hendricks felt her posture stiffen. “Because of the murder?”

  The skin between Connor’s eyebrows creased, and a look of horror crossed his face. “That little girl? No, that’s seriously morbid.” After a beat, his grin returned. “It’s just, my older brothers and I built this tree house out in Ridgefield woods when we were kids. It’s about a mile away, maybe? Anyway, you can see directly into the upstairs bedroom of Steele House from that tree house, and I used to stare at it when I was real little, thinking someday I might buy that house and, like, live there.” Connor shrugged and looked down at his hands. “But you got there first.”

  He said it like he was saying “Good for you,” not like he was jealous. Hendricks found herself returning his smile.

  She used to be good at flirting. She hadn’t had a lot of practice in the last few years, but she could feel it coming back to her, like a language she’d forgotten she could speak. “Let me get this straight. You can see into my house from some tree a mile away?”

  She’d injected just the right amount of teasing into her words, and Connor’s smile froze.

  “Oh. Shit. Yeah, but, like, I’d never go there now. Damn.” He sat up, brushing the hair from his forehead with a flick of his hand. “You might want to get some curtains, though. I didn’t even think of that.”

  “Yeah, heavy ones.” Hendricks felt her nose start to wrinkle and immediately heard Grayson’s voice in her head: I didn’t realize you were so forward. A wave of shame rolled through her, and she shrugged.

  Connor, nodding, didn’t seem to notice her sudden discomfort.

  “Um, and maybe an alarm system,” she continued, which wasn’t a bad idea, actually.

  “And maybe a sign that says, ‘I know you’re looking into my room, creeper,’” Connor added.

  “Or, ‘I know you’re looking into my room, Connor.’”

  Connor raised his hands, all innocence. “I told you I wouldn’t go up there anymore!”

  Hendricks laughed, softly, trying to push Grayson’s voice out of her head. He wasn’t her boyfriend anymore, she reminded herself. She didn’t have to care about what he thought.

  Connor glanced over his shoulder then, at the sound of voices rising up on the other side of the cafeteria. When he looked back at her, his expression had changed. His mouth was drawn into a tight line, and a crease had formed between his brows. He looked nervous.

  Hendricks felt her muscles knot.

  “So.” Connor wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. “It might be too early for this.”

  Hendricks frowned. Please don’t, she thought.

  Out loud, she said, “Um, too early for what?”

  “I’d like to ask you out on a date tomorrow night.”

  Her skin felt suddenly hot. She pictured the inside of a toaster, how the filaments would glow red as it began to heat up. She imagined her cheeks looked like that.

  “You’d like to ask me on a date for tomorrow night?” she asked. “Or tomorrow night, you’d like to ask me out on a date?”

  “Which one are you more likely to say yes to?” Connor asked, wary.

  Hendricks didn’t answer right away. Grayson’s voice drifted through her head again: I dare you to go to a movie with me Friday night, and with it came the same confusing rush of emotions that always accompanied memories of those early days in their relationship.

  Shame. Disgust.

  And, worst of all, sadness. Despite everything, she actually missed that Grayson, the one he’d been in the beginning, before everything went so badly wrong.

  How messed up was that?

&
nbsp; “I . . . I don’t know,” she said after a moment. “Can I think about it?”

  Connor smiled and said, “Of course.” He didn’t sound offended at all. He picked up the abandoned straw wrapper from her coffee and twisted it around his finger. “Take all the time you need.”

  How’s forever? Hendricks thought. Does that work for you?

  From the corner of her eye, she caught Portia aiming an extremely jagged eyebrow in her direction.

  Told you so, the eyebrow said.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Brady smushed a chubby hand into the pile of food on his high chair tray, somehow managing to wedge a single pea between his fingers. Laughing, he launched it at Hendricks.

  Thwack. Right in her hair.

  “Ha-ha!” he said, lifting his hands.

  This time, the word translated to “Food is boring. Time to play!”

  “No, not until you finish your dinner,” Hendricks’s dad said, fixing Brady’s bib. Hendricks didn’t know why he bothered. Brady’s T-shirt, face, and hair were already covered in mushed-up potatoes and peas. Ironically, the bib was the only part of his outfit that was still sort of clean.

  “Yeah, you’re supposed to eat the peas, Bear,” Hendricks said, finger combing her hair until a fat little pea plopped onto her plate. “See?” she said to her parents. “This is why you should just feed him with a spoon.”

  “It helps with his fine motor development if he does it himself,” her mother said, distracted. She was staring into the kitchen, her head tilted. “Are we sure about the subway tile, Frank?”

  “I thought you said it was classic,” Hendricks’s dad said.

  “Now I’m thinking it’s a little boring.” She gestured with her fork. “What about something with a little color?”

  “We have another four bedrooms and two bathrooms to get to, Diane. I think we’re going to have to live with it.” Turning to Hendricks, he added, “So. How’s the first week of school going?”