by Cailyn Lloyd
“Oh, a bunch of stuff. Hardware runs…parts, tools, bits. Fishing gear, bait…”
It wasn’t a lie necessarily, but not the truth either. Laura decided to let it go—for now.
Laura raised her eyebrows. “Any other trips to Milwaukee?”
Lucas shook his head.
“So when is this other guy going to look at the book?”
“Not sure. Sounded like he planned to email him some of it.”
“Well, I want to know what it says too.” Laura pointed a finger. “And no more secrets, okay?”
“Yes, boss lady.” Lucas bowed slightly.
With the room mostly complete, Lucas took off for the afternoon. The weather had turned stormy, a steady rain falling, pushed by gusty winds in waves against the windows. Leah started rubbing her eyes, so Laura laid her down and spent the afternoon laying out a lamp she had started in Illinois—almost a hundred pieces of glass that needed to be wrapped in copper foil prior to soldering.
* * *
Later, after Leah was in bed for the night, she worked on the lamp for a few hours before retiring to the Hall, Kindle in hand.
The room was dark. Everyone had gone to bed. She couldn’t remember anyone saying goodnight, not even Lucas. Oh well. She read for a few minutes, but the book failed to captivate her attention. Time for bed. Laura turned the lights off and walked to the kitchen for a sip of soda before heading upstairs.
Outside, the storm had broken. A cold gibbous moon shone through gaps in the clouds, illuminating the kitchen alternately light and dark like a ghostly neon sign. Laura opened the refrigerator and reached in.
There was faint footfall in the basement at the foot of the stairs.
Her hand froze on the Pepsi bottle, her stomach churning and fluttering with fear, breath held in tight, as if she were suddenly cast into stone.
Another muffled footstep—someone in the basement, in her work area. Had they come in the back door? They were lackadaisical about locking the doors at night. Probably wasn’t the best policy.
Laura was torn by anxiety. She wanted to run upstairs to Lucas where she would be safe, but morbid curiosity pulled her toward the stairs, to look, to see who—or what—was there. If she ran upstairs, she might never know. She tried to manage her fear.
An owl hooted somewhere nearby.
There was another soft step. Laura eased her hand from the bottle and took hesitant steps toward the door, willing absolute silence to her movements. She stopped and slid her hand into the partially open dishwasher, finding what she wanted almost immediately; the solid wooden handle of a big knife. Thus armed, she crept to the stairs and listened.
Another footfall. And something else, a faint but persistent hum somewhere in the house.
She flipped the light on, knife ready. “Who’s down there?”
Silence.
Then a muted step, and another, measured—ignoring her.
Feeling committed—emboldened—she stepped slowly down the stairs.
A little louder, she said, “Hey!”
No breath sounds, nothing. Just that odd humming noise. The furnace?
A faint shuffle of leather on stone.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs and turned—her heart now threatening to leap from her chest—the door to the back hall closed softly. She hesitated, stuck somewhere between fight and flight, then inched to the door with silent steps. The furnace sound grew louder as she approached.
Placing her fingers on the handle, Laura eased the door open, praying the hinges wouldn’t squeak.
At first, the passage was dark—too dark to see. The moon then peered through a break in the clouds, bathing the hallway in grey-white light.
Laura drew in a sharp breath with a barely audible gasp.
She caught a glimpse—just a glimpse—of a woman, oblivious to Laura’s gaze. She was short, wearing a gathered blouse and a flowing layered skirt that brushed the stone floor. Long grey hair flowed down her back. Whatever Laura expected, it certainly wasn’t this little old woman disappearing through the far door. The end of the hall fell dark as a cloud covered the moon.
Laura spoke softly. “Who are you?”
Nothing.
The name came to Laura in an unexpected flash—Anna Flecher.
Why did that name sound familiar?
Her anxiety rose again, the knife hand quivering. Be it intuition or frightful imagination, she wondered if it had really been an old woman—or something else. Wondered what she would see if the woman turned, afraid there would be no face. Afraid there would be dead festering wraps of flesh, alive and crawling with maggots, a sight that would drive her crazy. The knife suddenly felt worthless in her hand.
She tried to say, Anna but her mouth was dry. Nothing came out.
The far door closed and the low-pitched hum ceased.
A hand dropped onto her shoulder.
Laura jumped and let out a sharp scream.
Lucas stood there, his eyebrows furrowed. “What are you doing?”
“Jesus, Lucas! You scared the hell out of me!”
“I can see that.” His eyes widened. “What’s with the knife? And who were you talking to?”
“There’s someone in that room.” Laura, still shaking, pointed to the root cellar.
“What?” Suddenly alert. He glanced down the hallway. “Did you see who it was?”
“Not really. It’s an old woman.”
“An old woman?” He regarded Laura curiously. “Well, she’s stuck now.”
Nate came up behind them. “What’s going on?”
“Laura says there’s an old woman in that room.”
“What?”
“Intruder, I guess.”
They walked down the hallway, Lucas leading. He pushed the door open, slapped the light switch, and the LED shop light popped on.
The room was empty.
Other than a pile of bricks and timbers, the shelving and wine rack, and the old painting in the corner, the room was empty. The one small leaded window didn’t open. Lucas shook his head. There was nowhere to hide, no way out of the room.
The woman had vanished.
Laura stood, dumbfounded. A deep shudder rushed down her spine as the profound realization struck her.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she said softly. She put her hand to her chest, feeling a second deep chill pass through her. There was nothing rational about this. Nate and Lucas made a pointless search of the room, then looked to Laura for an answer.
“I suppose you think you saw a ghost,” Lucas said. His tone was keenly skeptical.
“I don’t know, Lucas. I saw what I saw.”
Nate spoke gently. “What’d you see, Laura?”
Laura described the woman, and Nate looked thoughtful. Not skeptical like her husband. Nate looked to the floor, then the hole overhead as if pondering something. Laura followed his gaze to a pile of bricks and timbers on the floor. Why were they there? She looked up and saw the gaping hole leading into the hidden brick room above. She pointed and said, “What about that?”
Lucas looked up, shook his head. “You see anything up there?”
“No.” She didn’t like his tone.
“Did you see her face?” Nate asked.
Laura shook her head. With that, they all shuffled upstairs to their respective rooms.
Laura lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Lucas tossed and turned once and fell asleep.
Just as well.
Her anger smoldered. Lucas had all but accused her of hysteria.
Jerk.
Still, the vision of the old woman was disturbing.
Had she seen a ghost? How did she feel about a ghost in the house? Why was she even asking the question? She had never given the subject much thought. The old woman had seemed neither dangerous nor threatening.
A ghost? Was that possible?
A nameless anxiety in the pit of her stomach said, Yes. Yes, it is.
Laura fell into an uneasy sleep, the vision of the old woman still vivid in her
mind.
Twenty-Four
Laura awoke to the sound of Leah crying. She had been dreaming, standing in the back hall, straining to see the face of the old woman walking from her as a tendril of anxiety twisted in her stomach. Who was she?
ghost
Anna Flecher? Who was Anna Flecher?
ghost
How had she disappeared?
ghost
No! Enough! She rolled out of bed, trying to shake the feeling. Leah was sitting, crying, and held her arms out when Laura walked in. Together, they went down to the kitchen for breakfast. Ashley sat with a cup of coffee, engrossed in her tablet.
“Morning,” she said absently. “See any more ghosts?”
“Not funny. And no.”
“Sorry. I think it’s kinda cool.”
“You would.”
“No, seriously,” Ashley said. “I have a friend in Chicago who lived in an old house for three years. They had a ghost, and they got used to it—gave her a name and everything.”
“Her?”
“Yep, they always saw this woman in a nightgown walking across the hall to the bathroom.”
Laura smirked. “Their ghost used the bathroom?”
“Ha ha.”
“So what’d they call her?”
“Mrs. Moskopf.”
“What?”
“This Mrs. Moskopf lived in the house before them. She died there. They figured it was her.” Ashley grabbed her phone. “I should call Hannah and get them back here—”
“No!”
“We could film for Ghost Adventures.”
“No!” Casually, Laura added, “You’re a flake.”
“I am. Thank you.”
After a hot shower, Laura dressed and dried her hair, pulling it into a ponytail, thinking Ashley might have a point. In the light of day, last night didn’t seem quite so spooky.
Ghosts? She had never thought much about the subject. Wasn’t even sure she believed in them.
The day was bright and still, a perfect fall day which stood in absolute contrast to the dark moonlit hallway last night. Why were these things scarier at night? Why did ghosts only come out after dark?
She didn’t know. She was going to see Dana in a few days; Dana was her sounding board for such things, though she felt certain Dana would think a ghost was cool too.
She grabbed Leah, and they walked down to the basement singing a song.
“The itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the water spout…”
At one o’clock, Ashley announced she was taking a walk and offered to take Leah along in the stroller. Laura spent the afternoon wrapping small pieces of stained-glass with copper foil for her lamp. She needed to focus on something new and loved making stained-glass lamps. After a while, her fingers grew sore. She stopped and surveyed her progress.
Most of the pieces were wrapped. Next, she would arrange them on a Styrofoam form and solder them together into a Tiffany-style lamp. She stood to stretch her legs and eyed the door leading to the back hallway, then walked over, opened it, and peered down the hall.
Bathed by the late afternoon sun, it looked serene. Not ghostly. Not haunted.
She walked down the corridor and opened the first door, the utility room that housed the furnace and hot water heater. The walls had been painted bright white, the floor industrial grey. Boxes, cartons, and crates lined the walls, remnants of their move from Illinois.
Laura closed the door and walked to the last door, the root cellar, where the old woman had disappeared. Pushed the door open slowly, switched the light on, and scanned the room. There was the pile of brick and debris to the right and the painting of the old woman in the corner. She looked closely at the painting of the grey-haired woman. She hadn’t seen the face of the woman last night, but the hair was the same. Could this be her?
Yes. No. Maybe? She didn’t know.
A solitary box sat in the corner next to the picture—the box of scrapbooks from the auction. It wasn’t there last night, and she remembered putting it next to the furnace anyway.
Who had moved it here? Why?
It was a sign, she decided. With no rational reason for believing so, she felt certain she had missed something important in the box. Though questioning her sudden embrace of hunches and superstitions, she carried it next door where the light was better. Laura plopped down and delved into the box, tossing the top twelve albums aside. Quickly scanned the next two and chucked them onto the pile.
The last book lay at the bottom of the box and she had never seen anything like it. The cover was heavy die-cut paperboard with one large word in the center: ALBUM. In each corner were the symbols for hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds. The pasteboard cover was designed to look like leather, frayed at the edges but otherwise in fair condition. Arrayed around the word ALBUM were images that looked like antique playing cards.
It exuded a sinister air and Laura hesitated before touching it. When she did, she felt a brief shock and a moment of dizziness. Saw the hint of an indiscernible image. She didn’t want to pick it up, yet felt compelled to hold it—perhaps feeling the contents would just appear in her mind’s eye?
Ridiculous. She was contemplating supernatural powers she hadn’t believed in a month ago—until the dreams and episodes and subliminal images returned. Saw the old woman in the hallway. The noises, fireplace screen, slamming doors, this strange book.
An inner voice cautioned, walk away, walk away now!
She couldn’t. She wiped the front cover with a rag and opened it.
The inside cover was blank, but an odd image filled the facing page. An angel was blowing a horn above figures of men and women rising from the ground. Beneath the picture was a single word: JUDGEMENT.
The pages, a heavy vellum, were stained and spotted with age. A crumbling slip of paper was pasted on the next page, filled with a faded illegible script. The next seven pages were similar, with two or three small pieces of paper glued to the pages. The handwriting was faded and illegible. While old, it didn’t seem mysterious or scary. It seemed irrelevant.
On the next page, four small snips of newspaper were glued to the page, yellowed and crumbling at the edges. Though readable, they were evidently several hundred years old because the typeface still utilized the long s instead of a small s in many of the words.
On Friday night, around ſeven o’clock, during the ſtorm, a ſtack of chimnies was blown down at the handſome and lofty houſe of Mrs. MacKenzie in King Street, Derlinton, by which the roof on one ſide was entirely beat in and the whole made its way through ſeveral ſtories, whereby two women ſervants were kill’d.
A cold, empty feeling washed over her and she nearly dropped the book. With no rational reason for believing it, Laura was certain this Mrs. MacKenzie belonged somewhere in their family tree and thus, her inclusion here was a sign of some sort.
The other clippings were eerily similar. Some accident, a dismemberment or death; someone named MacKenzie. She turned the page. It was the same as was the next. The locations sounded English.
She flipped forward several pages to find the tone gradually evolved even if the subject hadn’t. On the right was a single undated clipping, one column of newsprint. The paper was so yellow it was nearly brown, the font from a far-gone era. It wasn’t dated.
Melancholy Accident and Death — Mr. Thomas MacKenzie of Attleboro was thrown from his wagon on Tuesday, near his farm, and immediately killed. The accident was occasioned by his horse taking fright and running, whereby Mr. MacKenzie was thrown out and dragged some distance. He was so much disfigured as hardly to be recognized.
Attleboro was in Massachusetts. A pretty little town, she had driven through it once.
Laura turned the page, and a slight shiver passed down her spine. Single articles were pasted on the right and left in the center of the page, both about deaths in Wisconsin in apparent proximity to the house. A piece of the date on one showed the year as 1903:
AUBURN MAN KILLED
Jacob Hellma
n was killed on the George MacKenzie farm when he was overcome by silo gas. Jacob was 24 and leaves behind a grieving widow and child.
What kind of book was this?
Creepy, morbid, ghoulish even, it spanned centuries. A knot of apprehension twisted in her throat. Page after page, the album formed a chronicle of death; a grisly collection of stories seemingly unrelated by any commonality other than surname. Who would assemble such a book? For what purpose? She turned to the next page. There were more clips, more of the same. Laura flipped through the pages, no longer reading the articles, deciding the book was the demented work of someone obsessed with the house, the name MacKenzie, or who knew what. Still, in a perverse way, the book was exactly what she’d been looking for.
Buying the box was no fluke, no coincidence.
Laura felt certain most of these people were ancestors, the people she had been looking for on Ancestry and unable to find. Therein lay an alarming truth. They had all died badly.
Near the end of the book, Laura stopped and peered at an article that filled her with ineffable sadness. The story of Lucas’s father, who had died so young, so tragically—she had never known the exact circumstances until now.
AREA FARMER KILLED
Alan MacKenzie, 32, of Lost Arrow Township, died Friday as result of a mishap at his farm. MacKenzie was killed when his tractor tipped and fell into a previously undetected sinkhole. He leaves a wife and two small children behind. Funeral services are pending.
After a lingering moment of reflection, Laura turned the page. A faded photograph had been taped there: a man was sitting on a farm tractor, raising his cap as if riding a bronco. Beneath it, a clipping:
MYSTERY IN LOST ARROW
Auburn—The county sheriff, acting on a tip from a local resident, has uncovered a mystery at a farmhouse in the township of Lost Arrow. Thomas Wolff, area farmer, has been missing since Friday when his tractor was found deserted near the Alan MacKenzie farm on Firelane Eight. Sheriff Kohler said he is now treating Wolff’s disappearance as a missing person’s case and has organized searches of the surrounding woods and Lost Arrow Lake.
