Rosie's house, 863, came into view ahead, but Sadie didn't notice it till August had pulled into the driveway. Even then, as she clambered out of the Honda, her attentions had been focused on the house next door. 862 South Street.
She was a yard's length away from the two-story house she'd spent her teenaged years in. The place had changed since then, of course; the new owners, whoever they were, hadn't been fond of her grandmother's small garden near the front patio and had subsequently mulched it over. The large oak beneath whose shade she'd read many books in her day had been trimmed way back, and the driveway had recently been repaved. She stared up at it a long while, her mind retreating from recent events to the small comforts of yesteryear.
August had already approached the door to Rosie's, and she'd opened it before he could ring the bell. “C'mon, Sadie!” he shouted.
She startled to life and turned away from her grandparents' house. No, it isn't your grandparents' house anymore,she reminded herself with a little frown. Marching up Rosie's lawn, she joined August on the porch and was invited enthusiastically inside.
“Come on in, make yourselves at home,” said Rosie, looking the two of them over. She'd evidently picked up on their filthiness, but was too focused on being the accommodating hostess to much remark on it. “Any trouble on Beacon Hill?”
There was plenty of trouble, Sadie thought to say, though she didn't feel at all like revisiting it yet again and offered instead a lukewarm smile. “It's been awhile since I've been back here,” she said. “It's kind of strange, returning to the old neighborhood after all this time. Seeing our old house next door...”
Rosie eased the door shut behind them and nodded. “Yes, that old house of yours returned to market just recently; a young couple moved in a week or two ago. Second owners to move in since your grandparents passed.” She led them through the living room and into the kitchen. “What can I get you to drink? Oh, and I'll order some pizza, too. What would you two like?”
Though she appreciated the hospitality—and had been running on empty for awhile now—Sadie hadn't exactly dropped by to have a pizza party. She sank into one of the kitchen chairs and brushed the hair from her face. “So, these friends of Ophelia's... are they free today?”
“Yes,” said Rosie. “I actually texted them, told them it was about Ophelia. They don't live far from here and will be by shortly.”
When they'd availed themselves of some water, the pair took turns cleaning up in the bathroom, reconvening just in time to watch Rosie answer her door and admit a pair of sulky teens. Joey, a stick-thin kid wearing a ball cap and varsity jacket strode into the living room and appraised Sadie and August with a furrowed brow. Leslie, bespectacled with dirty blonde hair, made pleasant talk with Rosie till she spotted the older pair seated at the kitchen table.
It was Rosie who broke the ice, ushering the teens into the kitchen. “This is Sadie and August, they're friends of mine.” She put on a tight smile and welcomed the new visitors to raid the fridge for drinks. “Anyway,” she continued, leaning against the counter with arms crossed, “I was hoping that we could all talk about what happened that night—the night you two and Ophelia went by the old haunt on Beacon Hill. You see, Ophelia has gone missing. She disappeared last night.”
Joey took off his cap and set it on the table. The mid-length black hair beneath was stick-straight. “She disappeared?” He panned across the room at the others with wide eyes. “How?”
Here, Sadie interjected. “We don't know how. And we don't know where she went, either. Based on what little we know of her recent behavior, we kind of suspected it had something to do with her visit to the place on Beacon Hill. August and I were just there.” She donned her pearly librarian's smile and looked to the teens in turn. “Why did you guys decide to visit the house at all?”
Leslie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The jeans she wore had small holes along the right thigh, and she spent more time in picking at them than she did in answering. “It was my idea, kind of.”
“You and Ophelia both had talked about it,” Joey added.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“We just thought it might be fun,” continued Joey. “My older brother told me stories about the house when I was younger and I'd always thought about visiting myself. We were bored that night and got to talking about it.” He shrugged. “I didn't mean for Ophelia to get that scared, though.”
Leslie rolled her eyes before anyone else could get a word in edgewise. “I dunno about that. You were doing your best to freak us out before we even set foot in there. You kept telling us stories about Mother Maggot—and Ophelia really took them to heart.”
August leaned forward. “What's this, now?” He chanced a quick pull from his water bottle. “Who's Mother Maggot?”
Leslie turned to Joey expectantly, chin propped on her palm.
“Well, there are stories,” began Joey, hesitantly. His eyes studied the checkerboard print of the tablecloth as he went on. “My brother told me stories about her—about this ghost who lives in the house. They call her Mother Maggot.” He didn't seem to want to go on and, withering beneath the stares of his listeners, threw his hands up. “They were just stories, OK? Like, I don't know where they came from. My brother probably just fed them to me so that I'd have nightmares. I didn't know they'd scare her that badly—that they would lead to this.”
Leslie slapped Joey's upper arm. “If you'd just kept your mouth shut, maybe things would have gone differently.” She turned to Sadie. “The stories spooked me, too, but not nearly as bad as they did Ophelia. We got lost in the house, and separated, but the first—and pretty much only thing—she said when we all got out of there was that she'd seen Mother Maggot. Like, she was convinced. And she looked so scared when she said it that I almost believed her.”
Sadie peered across the table at August pensively. “What kinds of stories were they? Can you give us more details? Tell me more about this Mother Maggot character. I've lived around here for quite awhile but I don't think I've ever heard those stories.”
“Neither have I,” chimed in Rosie. “Even when we were kids, people used to say that house was haunted. They'd talk about weird noises or things moving in the windows, but most people knew better than to go near it.”
Joey stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Uh, well, the way I heard it, there used to be a woman who lived there a long, long time ago. She had a bunch of kids, but supposedly she abused them—did terrible stuff. Somewhere along the line, I guess one of them got tired of the abuse. It's said she was murdered by one of them, and by the time someone found her body in the house...” He swallowed hard. “They call her Mother Maggot cuz by the time they found her in there the flies had gotten to her body and she was, you know... full of 'em.”
Where usually a gruesome tale of that kind would elicit a frown and a roll of the eyes in her, the description of this dead woman—this Mother Maggot—sent a chill racing down Sadie's spine for its unexpected familiarity. She cleared her throat and tried sitting up in her chair, palms against the tablecloth. “And Ophelia claims she saw this thing—she claimed to have seen Mother Maggot?”
Leslie nodded, glancing at Joey as if for support. “That's what she said,” replied the girl. “We all split up in the house. It was an accident—Joey tripped and we lost our light.” Her cheeks flushed. “We thought we heard something—someone walking—and we all ran off in different directions. Joey and I made it out first, but after we'd met up outside, we couldn't find Ophelia. We started walking around the outside of the house, waiting for her to come out, but instead we heard her screaming.
“We both followed the sound of her voice and found she'd made it to this little room with a window in it. We helped her out through it, but she was beside herself, just crying and screaming. I thought she'd gotten hurt at first, but... all she said was that she'd seen something in the house—that she'd seen Mother Maggot. We hurried back to the car but on the way back here Ophelia didn't want to ta
lk much. She'd barely calmed down by the time we arrived, and when I sent her texts later that night and into the next day, she didn't respond. It wasn't like her.”
Joey piped up. “I thought she wasn't replying because she was angry at me—at both of us—for running out of the house and leaving her there.” He rubbed the back of his neck shamefacedly. “And I know that wasn't cool. But I think she really believed the stories—and that she'd seen Mother Maggot inside the house.”
Throughout this interrogation, August had taken out his phone and begun tapping out notes. He looked up from the screen. “So, you three thought it would be fun to visit the old house and see if ol' Mother Maggot was home—and, according to Ophelia, she was, eh? That about the length of it?” He peered back down at his phone. “Where did these stories come from? I've lived hereabouts my whole life and this is the first I've heard of such a thing.”
Unsettled, Sadie let her thoughts simmer for a time. The description of Mother Maggot dovetailed surprisingly well with what she'd seen on Beacon Hill. The spirit of a cruel woman—murdered and unable to move on—insistent on spreading misery even from beyond the grave; if ghosts could be said to exist at all, then this was precisely the kind of drama they were made of. Though, while this talk had proven illuminating, there was only so much they could hope to glean by discussing urban myths with a pair of teenagers. “Just out of curiosity,” she said, “when was the last time you two spoke to Ophelia?”
The teens considered this for a moment. “I haven't spoken to her since we dropped her off at home that night,” replied Leslie. “She didn't respond to my texts. And when she got put in the hospital, well, they didn't let her have a phone, so...” She turned sheepishly to Rosie, offering a weak smile. “Maybe I should have come to visit her.”
“I haven't talked to her since that night either,” added Joey.
Having extracted all the useful information they could hope for from the teenagers, Sadie and August stood up. “I don't know if these stories will help us find Ophelia,” began Sadie, “or if they'll get us any closer to explaining what she saw in that house, but we'll do some digging and get back to you. August and I both have to work tomorrow, but we'll be in touch.”
Rosie followed them to the door, leaving her daughter's friends behind in the kitchen. “So, what now? Provided the police don't make any headway, then...?” She'd done a great job holding herself together during their visit, but now that Sadie and August were departing, her strength looked set to leave alongside them. “Do you think there's anything to those stories?” she asked, holding the door open for the two of them.
August let Sadie answer that one, stepping outside with a wave. “There might be,” she confided, “but we'll need more time. Let us know if there are any developments in the search; we'll let you know what we find.” They shared a hug and then Sadie marched out to the driveway where the engine was already running.
Rosie stood in the doorway and watched them till they vanished around the gentle bend of South Street.
Once again, as during their arrival, Sadie found herself disarmed by the sight of her old home sitting just next door. Though she climbed in and buckled up, it was all she could do not to stall—not to walk over to the old house and take a look around. Only when it had faded out of view completely did Sadie let it go with a sigh.
“So, that was something,” said August, letting his arm dangle from the window. “What do you think of all this Mother Maggot talk?”
“I think,” she replied after a beat, “there might be something to it.”
“Yeah?” He arched a brow. “How so?”
From somewhere outside, the voices of children playing and laughing reached her ears. The high-pitched laughter awakened a memory in her, bumped the crust from a wound that hadn't fully healed yet; that of the devilish laughter she'd heard ringing through the darkness. “I saw something in the house and the description was...” She wrung out her seatbelt. “It may not be just a myth.”
At a red light, August looked himself over in the rearview. “OK, so this might be a lead. It may be an old, hokey story, but you never know what grains of truth you'll pick up if you take a closer look. We'll research it.”
“How?” asked Sadie, chortling. “You got a book on Montpelier ghost stories?”
He slapped the wheel and wagged a dismissive finger at her. “Are we not librarians? Research is what we do, Sadie! We'll get to the bottom of it. Tomorrow, when things are slow at work, we'll do some digging. We've got access to the local history section, a digital catalog of old newspapers, and plenty of connections throughout the library system. If Mother Maggot exists, she'll turn up.” At a red light, he eased down on the brake and stifled a yawn. “But, first things first, we need to eat. I'm thinkin' something quick. McDonald's? KFC? What're you in the mood for?”
She picked a knot of spider's silk—a souvenir from Beacon Hill—from her sleeve and flung it out her open window. “A shower.”
16
The light was smalling by the time she returned home. August let her out at the usual spot with the promise to pick her up in the morning for work, where they'd spend their free time doing research into the house on Beacon Hill and its resident terror. She thanked him for his time, his effort, and then started slowly into her building. No sooner had she begun shuffling up to her unit did the silence and solitude leave her unnerved, though.
From adjacent apartments there trickled muffled sounds of life; chattering televisions, hushed phone conversations, the whoosh of a dishwasher. Despite being surrounded by other tenanted apartments however, Sadie still felt cut-off, isolated, as she moved to unlock the door to her own. She stepped inside, shuffling out of her shoes at once and putting on the lights. It'd been quite the day, a most stressful one, but even though she was home now, free to do what she wished with the remainder of her evening, she couldn't find it in her to relax.
Rather, standing awkwardly in the living room, she felt as though she'd brought the day's work with her. The things she'd seen and heard were like bags she couldn't unpack and their continued presence proved a constant reminder of a trip she only wanted to forget. Sadie dropped her keys on the counter, plugged her phone in to charge and wandered down the hall to her room. When she'd secured a change of clothes—her favorite cotton pajamas—she dropped them on the edge of the bathroom sink and waited for the shower to heat up.
All told, she spent twenty minutes in the hot spray; only then did she feel confident that she'd washed off every last speck of the filthy old house. But in that twenty minutes, between the rounds of shampoo, the scrubbing and rinsing, she found there were things she'd brought with her from Beacon Hill—fancies, fears—that her loofah couldn't reach, and her mind went to work on them.
Now and then, while standing under the water, she wondered what she might see if she peered around the edge of the dark blue shower curtain. It was madness, of course—each time the thought occurred to her, she tried chasing it off with a laugh. And each time, too, the laugh would fade and she'd hesitate to take that hypothetical look beyond the curtain, lest she find someone standing just outside its damp folds. When the shower was done—when her skin was pruning up and she couldn't afford to stand in it any longer—it took no little courage for her to peel back the curtain and step out onto the mat.
Upon doing so she met only the wall of steam that'd accrued. Sadie toweled off quickly and threw on her pajamas. The face in the mirror was rough. Her eyes were holding onto dark circles for her recent, miserable sleep and her skin looked a bit dry. She dabbed on some moisturizer and stepped out into the hall, the tendrils of white steam rolling out beside her, but that was as far as she went. The sole of her foot had no sooner met the carpet than her leg seized up and a dread fear trotted down her freshly-washed spine.
The air in the hall was wrong; that is, it felt recently disturbed, and by someone other than herself. Her eyes jumped up and down the length of the short corridor, from the door of her bedroom to the edge of
the living room, and they brought up nothing out of place. Even so, the feeling that someone had crept past the bathroom door in the instant before she'd opened it remained.
Hers was a very small place. There was a closet in the hallway, cluttered with odds and ends. Both the kitchen and living room were cramped, could be canvassed in their entirety with a single glance. The bathroom was empty; she knew because she still had one foot in it, and as for the bedroom, it was so sparsely adorned—featuring only bed, dresser and densely-packed closet—that it afforded no shelter for a prospective prowler.
Still, the mind knows when the eyes are being lied to, and Sadie walked a few circuits around the entire unit before she was finally convinced of her solitude—and even then, only tenuously. She took her place in the papasan chair and, phone in hand, scrolled through a metric ton of spam emails, keeping one eye always on the rest of the room. She considered digging into one of her many books, but before she'd even reached for the nearest one she knew she lacked the attention to become fully absorbed and abandoned the idea. Instead, she returned to her phone, pulling up a search engine. Her time would be better spent confronting the the subject that was really on her mind.
With shaky thumbs, she tapped “Mother Maggot” into the search bar and hit ENTER.
Ten minutes of scrolling, of parsing bug-infested image results that made her dinner trek back up her throat, she realized she wasn't going to get anywhere and tried a number of other terms. “Beacon Hill”, “Montpelier Haunted House”, “Montpelier Urban Legends” and other searches filled out the next hour and pummeled her tired mind with unrelated results. Blink by blink, she lost her grasp on wakefulness and the text on the screen grew fuzzy. No matter how she wiped at her eyes there was no getting around the fact that the long day had finally caught up with her. Her scrolling became listless until, finally, she began nodding off in her chair. The phone slipped out of her grasp and she curled up in the large, circular cushion, ready to drift off.
The Haunting of Beacon Hill Page 13
