by Cailyn Lloyd
“We are.” Nate said, defensively. “He got lucky.”
“So, how’s the barn coming?” Lucas said sharply.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a smart guy. Figure it out.”
Ashley picked up the wine bottle and spoke with a conciliatory tone. “More wine?”
“No thanks.” Lucas set his glass down and walked out.
Laura shrugged. “Sorry guys. It’s a bit much some days.”
She turned and followed Lucas.
* * *
Almost a week later, on a quiet Wednesday afternoon, Laura parked herself in a comfy recliner in the Hall. Sunlight streamed through the west windows. Leah was down for a nap, and Ashley was outside tanning. Lucas had gone somewhere—a hardware run or something—and Nate was upstairs doing finishing work. A quiet moment. Her first opportunity to pursue something fun. Dana had returned to her home in Naperville, and Leah occupied much of her free time otherwise.
Laura had an HP Ultrabook perched on her lap, busy googling searches about Lost Arrow, the Kettle Moraine, and the MacKenzies. She was fascinated by the house and the mystery surrounding it. Who built it? When was it built? How long had the MacKenzies owned it, and where did they come from? How had the superstitions about the house started? She was certain the answers to these questions lay somewhere inside a Google search, only it appeared Lost Arrow had no history, none Laura could find anyway.
Lost Arrow was an unincorporated township with a few generic lines in Wikipedia. There was a school page and a paragraph under the Town of Auburn, of which Lost Arrow was a part. They lived in Auburn County, but that search was equally fruitless. There were several business websites but beyond that, nothing of interest. The town had no newspaper, never had one as far as she could tell. There was a church in town that might prove useful in tracking down Lucas’s family if she found nothing else.
She joined Ancestry and started a family tree. She entered the requisite information, the names of their parents and grandparents. According to their website propaganda, the software searched through billions of records for information about your family. These bits then appeared as little green leaves in your tree. It was so clever.
For Laura, this translated into roughly two hundred hints—birth records, census records, personal entries. Many connected with her family through the Tabor Family tree; most of that information she already knew. She received fewer hints for Elizabeth’s family, and none for the MacKenzie lineage. She had only the information she had entered, the names and vitals of Lucas’s parents and grandparents.
As for the house, it had somehow slipped under the paranormal radar, appearing nowhere on the many websites devoted to Wisconsin and Midwest hauntings. Laura felt sure with all the local rumors and stories she would find something.
She remembered the box of albums from the auction and the hair at the nape of her neck prickled. She puzzled over her need to buy it, the odd reaction she experienced, her reluctance to examine it. Even now, the thought of it unnerved her.
No matter.
Laura would look through it regardless, being an advocate of facing fears head-on.
The old wooden crate sat where Dana had put it in a corner of the basement. She grabbed the box and carried it to the next room by the furnace where the light was better and she would be undisturbed.
Laura plopped down onto the cool stone floor, hesitated, then dove into the old photo albums and scrapbooks inside the box. The first album teemed with black and white photos. Stern looking families. Vacations and summer picnics. Children swimming. First communions. Graduations. Family gatherings. On some, the detail had faded from the photos, leaving faceless groups of people staring at the camera. The scrapbooks contained blue ribbons, awards, diplomas, newspaper clippings. None of it seemed relevant.
Laura wondered about these nameless people. The children had grown and had children of their own, perhaps grandchildren. Many of the adults were dead, the rest pushing into old age, the grandparents long gone, just fond memories—time staying the steady course, moving in measured steps like the relentless succession of the planets around the sun. Photo albums invariably had this effect upon Laura, who saw herself in the larger scheme of things; a tiny cog in a vast machine, trapped and helpless, a prisoner of time, carried along a dusty and inexorable path. Someday, she would be nothing but a photo in an album, just a memory.
On it went, albums, photographs, clippings, awards. Sorting through them was tedious. Nevertheless, she carefully checked each book, unsure of what she was looking for. Another scrapbook, then an album, first black and whites of a young woman and her friends, then a husband, then couples which transitioned to Kodachrome, the same people, in their thirties and forties.
After two hours, with twelve books down and three to go, Laura quit. She tossed the loose books into the box and shoved it next to the furnace.
What a waste of time and money. That bewitching moment at the auction? She didn’t know. Indigestion? The onset of menopause—?
At that moment, the room canted sideways and spun—or so it seemed.
She lost her balance and sat down hard, feeling dizzy, nauseous. The sensation sent a deep chill down her spine, awakening the unpleasant memory of a childhood illness—
No!
Laura cut the thought short with a fierce bit of mindfulness and determination. She wasn’t reopening that chapter of her life—
No way! She focused on the present and the task at hand.
The last option was good old-fashioned legwork, checking the local library, and finding a local historian. She decided to run into town. Having started this, she impatiently wanted the answers now.
She grabbed her purse and ran out the door to the patch of grass where Ashley was sunbathing. “Hey. Can you watch Leah for an hour or two while I run to town?”
“Shopping?”
“No. The library.”
“Whoa, girl. Too exciting for me.” Ashley waved without looking up. “See ya!”
Laura hopped into her Honda CR-V and drove to town. She did a quick loop of Lost Arrow but didn’t see a library. A church, the tavern, a vacant hotel, a general store—such was the extent of downtown Lost Arrow.
She parked in front of the White Birch Inn. An odd choice, perhaps, but bartenders often knew their locale better than anyone. Still, this bartender had wished arson upon their house. Maybe not the best source in town. She stepped out of the car and eyed Anson’s General Store across the road.
It was an old-fashioned country store, a two-story wood frame building, white and spotted grey where the paint had peeled. A long wooden staircase ran up the left side. An asphalt drive wrapped around the other side populated with a pair of gas pumps beneath a modern BP canopy. Laura had never been inside, had shopped for everything they needed in Auburn until now. As she walked through the rickety screen door, she noted the old, worn linoleum flooring, the dingy shelves, the dated look of the place. The store was otherwise reasonably clean. She pretended to peruse the snacks but scanned the small store furtively. It was otherwise empty, and the clerk, buried in her iPhone, ignored her.
The woman was obese, wearing a dingy white blouse that strained at every seam. Her dark hair was neat but flecked with dandruff. Finally, Laura grabbed a pack of cashews and placed it on the counter between a clutter of candy and junk food.
The clerk turned. Her eyes widened a bit. “Will that be all, ma’am?” Her voice was pleasant, rather deep and husky with a hint of an accent. Southern Indiana maybe?
“Yes.”
“That’ll be a dollar twenty.”
As the clerk made change, Laura said, “Would you know anyone in town who dabbles in local history?”
“Not really.”
“I’m new in town. My name is Laura Mac—”
“I know who you are.” The woman pushed the change at Laura and turned back to her phone.
What a bitch!
Stunned, Laura grabbed her change and
turned to leave.
The woman sighed and swiveled suddenly. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. Let’s start over.”
Hands up in supplication, she seemed sincere.
“Okay.” Laura extended her hand. “I’m Laura.”
“I’m Carol Anson.” She shook Laura’s hand. “Again, sorry. Rough morning. How can I help you?”
“I was hoping to learn more about this area. History of the town, stuff like that.”
Carol’s gaze strayed to an older woman in a tan windbreaker who had just walked in. “Afternoon, Shirley. Lovely weather we’re having, huh?”
“It is.” The woman joined them at the counter. “Looking for a local historian?”
“I am. That and some information about our house.”
“And which house is that, dear?” Shirley smiled pleasantly.
“The MacKenzie place.”
“Oh.” Again, the sudden distance. Shirley seemed to recoil slightly.
Carol hesitated, then said, “What about Ted Summers?”
“He’s out east, visiting his kids. He won’t be back for a month,” Shirley said. “How about Janice Foster?”
Carol nodded in agreement, jotted down the name and number on a Post-it, and handed it to Laura.
“Sally?”
Carol shook her head ever so slightly.
“You’re right…try Janice Foster. I’m sure she can help.”
“Is there a library in town?”
“Nope. Closed years ago.”
“Okay, thank you.” Laura turned to leave, then stopped. “I’m curious about one thing. Why does everyone seem so…so hostile when our house is mentioned?”
Carol shrugged. “We’re not hostile, Laura. Superstitious maybe. I guess we consider the house unlucky, that’s all.”
“But no one will even talk about it. Why?”
“Why?” Carol seemed surprised. “Haven’t you noticed anything odd about that place?”
“Not really.”
“Really? That house is bug-ass haunted. Everybody knows that.”
Shirley nodded in agreement.
“Seems okay so far. But if it’s supposedly haunted, why can’t I find anything about it online?” Laura felt her stomach tighten with this talk about the house. She hadn’t noticed anything, but these people were very insistent.
“From time to time, people have come looking, but they never find the house, and we’re not about to help them. Things have been quiet around here for a long time. We don’t want anyone stirring anything up.”
Laura raised her eyebrows. “Worried we’ll stir things up?” She then wondered if she should worry about it herself.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe the ghost has moved on.”
Carol frowned. “I don’t think it works like that.”
Laura shrugged, lost for words. She said goodbye and walked to the CR-V, her mood pensive. It was a strange town, their superstitions palpable, which made the lack of information even more frustrating.
What were they afraid of?
Laura was undeterred. She had two names, Janice Foster and Sally—how many Sallies could there be in town? She steered toward home, but passing the church, decided to stop. They might have some relevant records—births, deaths, marriages. It was worth a try.
The church was the last building on the east side of town, set to the left. A large cemetery surrounded by a low picket fence spread away from the right of the church. Tall evergreens stood guard in a row at the rear. It was a pretty church, Laura decided. A small Norman imitation, built with grey limestone that had weathered nicely. Long narrow stained-glass windows were squeezed between thick buttresses which rose to a square bell tower capped by battlements. A wooden sign announced Saint Thomas Episcopal Church, with the times for Matins and Evensong. 1858 A.D. was carved into the cornerstone.
Laura walked through a small picket gate in the stone wall to the vicarage adjoining the church. Not seeing a doorbell, Laura rapped on the dark wooden door with the iron knocker, a fitting medieval touch. She was wondering how to phrase her request when a tall man with dark brown hair and a round jovial face dressed in Levi’s and a T-shirt opened the door. He looked like a college student, not a priest.
“Hi, can I help you?”
“Hi, my name is Laura MacKenzie and I’m new to the area.” He didn’t flinch when she introduced herself. Progress?
“Great, so am I,” he said, smiling. “We have something in common already. I’m Reverend Drew—Kevin Drew. Were you interested in joining the parish?”
“Actually, no,” Laura said. “My husband’s family is from this area. I was hoping to trace his family background and perhaps learn more about the house we’re living in.”
“I don’t think I can help much. As I said, I’m also new to the area.”
“I was interested in looking at your church records.”
“Oh. I’m afraid our records were destroyed in a fire three months ago, everything we had.” He spread his hands and shrugged.
Laura scanned the vicarage, which showed no signs of fire damage nor recent repairs. “Must’ve been a small fire.” It was almost an accusation. She couldn’t help it. She felt thwarted at every turn.
He seemed taken aback by her abrupt tone. “No, you misunderstand. The records were kept in the offices of our sister church in Watertown. The church offices were a total loss. Paper records, microfiche, everything.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just keep running into brick walls on this project.”
He paused reflectively for a moment. “You might try back there,” he said, pointing toward the cemetery. “Most of the stones are in excellent condition.”
Laura looked at the rows of tombstones and felt her stomach twist in a tense knot. “I suppose.”
“Oh, there’s a lot of information there,” he said cheerfully.
“Like what? I don’t understand how that’d help.”
“It’s hit and miss. Search the cemetery for family names you’re familiar with, then try cross-referencing with a genealogy site.”
“I tried Ancestry and came up empty.”
“That’s surprising, but genealogy is often hard work. Keep at it, and don’t dismiss the cemetery too hastily.”
After a few minutes of small talk, Laura said goodbye and left.
She didn’t like cemeteries. Besides, the idea seemed so low-tech. Wandering around a bunch of dead people, looking for what? She stood and looked at the cemetery for several minutes, wondering if he was right. Was there anything useful in there? She took a step toward the gate and felt a queasy knot rise in her gut, felt some impending threat beyond that gate. She stopped and turned. Her unease was stronger than usual. It was foolish, but Laura decided not today.
In the car, Laura tapped in Janice Foster’s number, but the call went to voicemail. She left a brief message, suddenly certain Janice wouldn’t call back.
Eleven
Tom lounged on a non-existent bench in the root cellar. Leaned back and closed his eyes, willing sleep to return.
He slept a lot these days. Interacting with the living world was tiring, one facet of many he didn’t understand about his situation. Existing somewhere outside the plane of the living, his interactions with the world were unpredictable. Most of the time, he was invisible, silent, nothing more than a cool breeze. He now realized he could be seen occasionally and, at those times, he appeared as a ghost to the living. A haunting. He then wondered if only certain people like the blonde woman could see him. He didn’t know. It was so confusing.
As the caretaker, he had been entrusted to look after the place and he decided it was helpful these intruders had undertaken much needed repairs on the house. He could do only so much to maintain the physical structure. Over the years, he had concentrated on protecting the roof.
Still, he saw them as a threat.
One of them had discovered the secret floorboard hatch and brick room hidden beneath and that worried him. Something d
angerous inhabited that space and the brick seemed to moderate its influence. Tom had never seen a visible specter, nor heard any sound from within, but he sensed a presence nonetheless. More alarming, space and time were warped near the room, the ether bent at obtuse angles, descending into the ground like a portal to hell.
Tom felt uneasy anywhere near the room. A feeling that a hand, claws, or talons could reach out and suck his soul into the earth, never to see light again. The idea terrified him—fear evidently the only emotion that remained in this strange place.
With the roof finished, he wanted these people to leave. The house had been quiet for years. Even the kids from town had stopped coming out here, the thick growths of brush and trees the perfect veil, hiding the old place from the world.
Now, something had changed—the balance disturbed—and Tom sensed trouble ahead.
Twelve
Laura stood in the churchyard of St. Thomas.
She stepped through a small unpainted gate into the cemetery proper. It was a grim place, she decided, the old, neglected stones pitched and canted from years of winter frost. The grass had run amok. Tall, densely bifurcated trees hung over the dead, allowing little sunlight through thick and leafy branches. It was silent, without birdsong, without the slightest breeze to rustle leaves or grass. The atmosphere gloomy, the mood somber. It was, after all, a cemetery.
Nevertheless, she felt calm strolling through the rows of tombstones half buried in the unruly grass. An endless parade of the dead, their names carved into slabs of slate, marble, and fieldstone. Monuments planted to immortalize the moldering remains of fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters. Many of them forgotten, unknown to any living soul. Life ended here; death prevailed. A grim rock garden mocking the significance of life and one of the reasons she disliked cemeteries so. Every grave a silent reminder of her mortality, though oddly, she felt only curiosity now.
She found no help here in the stones. Not a single MacKenzie, just a bunch of Smiths and Jones and Browns and Millers. She chided herself for wasting a perfectly good afternoon wandering among the dead. Laura wanted to leave, but an invisible tether drew her in farther, where the grass was longer and branches hung lower.
