by Skylar Finn
“Well, you definitely have a lot of new material to work with,” said Jesse dryly. “If you’re considering going in that direction.”
“Oh, I am,” said Emily. “I’d be a fool not to. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.” She checked her tote bag for her stainless steel water bottle. Since they moved to Colorado, she never left the house without water. “Worst-case scenario, I can always look up the house,” said Emily. “I figure it’s been here for a long time. Maybe learning about it will give us an indication of why everyone’s so desperate to get their hands on it.”
“While you’re doing that, I’m going to the automotive store to get a new distributor cap,” said Jesse. He looked at the snow with dismay. “Looks like we’re walking.”
The ground was still covered in snow, but the sun shone so brightly overhead it seemed as though it would melt in a matter of hours. In spite of the cold, Emily found the walk pleasant and scenic. Seeing the steep hills dotted with snow-covered houses was like looking at a postcard while simultaneously being inside of it.
Emily cut down a side street on her way to the library so she wouldn’t have to contend with the mob of Christmas shoppers on Pearl Street. She passed two dispensaries, a shop selling alpaca fur jackets, and a store that sold only kites. A glass front building on the corner caught her eye. Stenciled on the glass door were the words Watkins, Taft, and Simms.
Emily paused outside the door. J.R. Watkins was Matilda’s lawyer, the one who originally called to tell her she’d inherited the house. Could he tell her anything about Matilda?
Deciding there was no harm if he couldn’t, she opened the door and stepped into a small, navy-carpeted reception area populated with antique wooden benches and oil paintings of ships tossed on stormy seas. Fake ferns littered the reception area.
The receptionist sat at the desk, filing his nails. He was smartly dressed in a sweater vest and tie, with a ruler-straight side part in his pale blond hair. The plaque on his desk read Bryce Stevens. He regarded Emily—bundled in her parka, knit hat, and snow boots—as if he thought she might be homeless and took a wrong turn on her way to the shelter.
Emily blushed and cleared her throat. “Um, is J.R. Watkins available?”
“Do you have an appointment?” Bryce asked curiously.
“Well, no. He was my aunt’s lawyer, Matilda Meade? I just moved into her house and I had a question about the will. I can make an appointment and come back if that would be better.”
Bryce, whose eyes had widened at the name ‘Matilda Meade,’ waved a dismissive hand in her direction. “No, no, I’ll check and ask if he can see you. I know for a fact he doesn’t have any appointments until eleven, so I don’t see why he wouldn’t be able to spare a few minutes.” He picked up the phone, hit a couple of buttons, and murmured something into the receiver that Emily couldn’t hear. When he hung up, he smiled broadly. “Just take a seat, he’ll be with you in five minutes.”
Emily settled uncomfortably on a hard, wooden bench. She had the unsettling feeling that someone was watching her and looked up to find Bryce gazing at her avidly with bright, keen eyes.
“The décor in this place is absolutely terrible,” he said conversationally. “I’ve been trying to get Jonathan to change it, but he simply refuses.” Emily wondered who Jonathan was. Did he mean Watkins?
“He thinks these tacky sailboat paintings and old pieces of wood are the height of chic,” continued Bryce. He clearly had strong opinions about the waiting room. “He inherited it from some swarthy old sea captain grandfather and will not get rid of it.” He set his nail file carefully at the edge of the desk and asked delicately, without looking up, “So, what do you think of the house?”
Emily had no doubt in her mind that Bryce had heard all about the house and had his own opinions about what happened there. She had no inclination whatsoever to satisfy his morbid curiosity.
“It seems like a nice place so far,” she said politely, lying through her teeth. “My husband is fixing it up, doing a few repairs so we can maybe sell it further down the line, unless we decide to stay here for a while.”
Bryce gave her a look that indicated he knew she wasn’t telling the truth. “Well, I don’t know if you realize this,” he said in a mock casual tone, “but everyone assumes that your aunt is behind what happened up there, the night everyone disappeared? You know, just in case people are rude to you. I thought you should know why. Everyone in town assumes she had something to do with the disappearance of those kids and that’s why she disappeared herself.” He reached up and ran a hand over his immaculate side part before continuing. “Of course, I would never judge anyone based on what someone else did. I just want you to know that if you hear talk, don’t even pay any mind. It’s just a lot of gossip, I’m sure.”
He smiled pleasantly enough at her, but Emily’s larger impression was that Bryce very much believed Matilda was responsible and that Emily would be a fool to believe otherwise. Emily was both taken aback and hurt on Matilda’s behalf. She had no doubt in her mind that Bryce was one of the people gossiping about Matilda.
“How kind of you,” she said frostily. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
They were both in position like players in a tense one-act, staring at each other with fake smiles fixed in place, when a door at the back of the room opened.
A stern and imposing man in a three-piece suit emerged and glared at Bryce. “Bryce? What are we discussing out here?” Emily recognized his eloquent voice from the phone from when J.R. Watkins called her in Florida to inform her she had inherited Matilda’s house.
Bryce gave a casual little shrug. “Oh, nothing, Jonathan. Matilda’s niece is right here, whenever you’re ready.”
“I can see that, Bryce,” said Watkins. His demeanor, when he turned to Emily, was considerably warmer. “Ms. Meade? If you’d like to come back now, I have a few minutes before my first appointment.”
Emily passed Bryce’s desk and tried to ignore the sensation that he was staring at the back of her head as she walked by. She went through a heavy mahogany door into the office of J.R. Watkins, who closed it firmly behind her.
“Have a seat,” he said, indicating a black leather chair across from his massive old antique desk.
“Thank you,” said Emily. “I appreciate your taking the time to see me.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” said Watkins, regarding her seriously. “Your aunt was a decent and honest woman who cared about this community. The least I can do is answer any questions you might have. You do, I assume, have questions?”
“Well, yes,” said Emily. “I was just wondering, did Matilda mention anything to you about the house, or anything strange? I mean, did she seem nervous or apprehensive about something, like maybe she was afraid?”
“You’re wondering if your aunt knew that something bad was about to happen to her?” Watkins swiveled his chair back and forth, as if the gesture helped him to ruminate on the subject. “I would, too. But to be honest with you, aside from her financial difficulties, she seemed unconcerned that anything might happen to her.”
“She was having financial difficulties?”
“Matilda, as you might know, inherited the house from her grandmother upon her passing,” said Watkins. “As far as I know, she had no formal education and held no career. She held a variety of jobs, from nanny to daycare aide, but what she really wanted was to create a space for children with nowhere to go. Initially, she took in foster children. Eventually, she took out a loan and applied for the appropriate licenses through the state so that she could make things official, and she created a home for wayward children. Her goal was to place children with loving and supportive families who were willing to adopt them.”
“Who would want to hurt somebody who does something that selfless?”
Watkins shrugged, looking troubled. “It’s difficult to say. It seems that only a maniac would do such a thing. I think a lot of people want to believe Matilda did it simply becaus
e they can’t wrap their heads around the notion that someone hurt not only innocent children, but also a human being who was purely kind. They certainly don’t want to believe such a person has gone uncaught and unpunished, still living among them. I think it’s just easier for them that way.”
“Your receptionist said people in town might feel hostile towards me because of Matilda. He said that everyone in town is convinced Matilda did it.”
Watkins snorted. “Bryce does love a good horror story. But really, you’d have to talk to the police to be certain of what they found.” Emily thought of Sheriff Oglethorpe and inwardly shuddered.
“Could I see a copy of my aunt’s will?” Emily asked.
He looked concerned. “I sent it to you by courier shortly after we spoke on the phone. Did you not receive it?”
“We left Florida in kind of a hurry,” admitted Emily. “I think we may have just missed it.”
“It’s not a problem. I can have another sent to you.”
“Thank you,” Emily said. “And thank you again for your time.”
“Of course.” Watkins stood and extended his hand. “Any friend of Matilda’s is a friend of mine.”
Emily left the law office, Bryce’s eyes boring holes in the back of her head the whole way. Outside, she inhaled the cold, thin air while she gathered her thoughts.
Matilda had money problems, just like Emily. That didn’t make her a murderer. The only reason anyone in the town thought otherwise was to reassure themselves no killer remained in their midst. Whatever happened, Matilda hadn’t seen it coming. Emily didn’t know if that made it better or worse.
She set off walking. Footsteps and jingling tags indicated someone was walking their dog behind her, up the steep hill that led to the library. Within minutes, she was out of breath. Would she ever adjust to the altitude?
As she leaned over to catch her breath, she heard the footsteps pause. Turning, she was startled to see a dark coat whip around a tall hedge next to the sidewalk and vanish from view, leaving the sidewalk behind her empty.
She was being followed.
15
Emily considered resuming her walk to the library as if everything was normal. She was only a short distance away from her destination and it was broad daylight. Just what did whoever was following her plan to do? Emily suspected that it wasn’t so much about following her as it was about keeping tabs on her and finding out what she was up to.
Emily went a few more steps before becoming overwhelmed with frustration. She was getting tired of being chased, attacked, and harassed. Just once, she wanted to confront whoever was after her.
She jumped off the sidewalk and ran around the hedge. A woman in a long black overcoat screamed as Emily rushed her.
It was Darla Chinn, one of the property managers at Three Star Properties. She and her partner, Roger Oglethorpe, were after Emily and Jesse to sell them the house, thereby saving Darla and Roger a large pile of money on the property’s actual worth. The fact that Roger was the sheriff’s brother did little to ease Emily’s suspicions.
“Can I help you?” Emily demanded.
Darla fixed her hair and adjusted her coat, her silver bracelets jangling. “You’ve got quite a set of lungs on you. You certainly gave me a scare.”
“Were you following me?” said Emily. She was not about to let her off the hook that easily.
“Yes, I was,” said Darla frankly.
Emily was taken aback. She’d expected her to make an excuse of some kind.
“I saw you at the bottom of the hill and rushed after you, but you were walking so quickly, and I was too winded to call your name. It occurred to me when you turned around I might not be the person you most wanted to see, judging by the fact that you’ve been avoiding my calls.”
Emily was disarmed by her candor. She figured this was a common tactic of Darla’s. She also felt defensive, like Darla was implying that Emily was the rude one for ignoring her calls rather than Darla being rude for spying on her from the shrubbery.
“We had a break-in,” Emily said shortly. “I’ve had some other things on my mind.”
“Oh, no!” Darla gasped. Rather theatrically, Emily thought. “Is everyone okay?”
“We’re fine.”
Darla shook her head. “If I told Roger once, I’ve told him a thousand times: that property is cursed. I feel as though your aunt did you a disservice, leaving you stuck with that spook house.”
Emily was startled. Spook house? How much did Darla know?
“Run-down and attracts trouble like no place I’ve ever seen,” the property manager continued, and Emily realized it had just been a figure of speech. “Roger believes a house is just a house and that buildings are merely a system of joists and support beams covered in plaster, but I don’t agree. I think a house has a soul. And that house?” Darla lowered her voice, as if the house could somehow hear them. “That house has an extremely dark soul.”
Emily felt a chill skate up her spine. Either Darla had studied at Juilliard or she really believed what she was telling Emily. Emily found it difficult not to believe her, riddled with agendas as she was.
“What do you mean?” Emily’s instincts told her to extricate herself from the situation and beat a hasty retreat, but her curiosity got the better of her. This was the first time since she moved into Matilda’s that anyone had addressed how weird the house was. Jesse acknowledged it, just barely, but he hated to address it in any great detail.
“Exactly that. Structures are like people: they have personalities. Some take on the ones of those who inhabit them. If enough dark things happen in one place, that place becomes a dark place.” In spite of herself, Emily shivered, and not because of the weather. “Obviously, it would benefit me if you and your husband were to sell to us,” Darla added, almost as an afterthought.
Of course it would, Emily thought.
“But to be honest with you, I’d never rent out that property again,” Darla continued. “I’d raze it to the ground and start from scratch.”
“Okay, well,” said Emily. “I’ll certainly keep that in mind.”
“Please do,” said Darla. “Call me when you’re ready to talk.” She turned and clicked up the street, her high black heels sinking in the thin layer of snow lingering on the sidewalk.
Emily shook her head. What kind of reverse psychology mind trip was that? She should have never given Darla the time of day.
Emily strongly suspected that Darla and her partner—maybe in conjunction with the sheriff, maybe of their own accord—were doing everything in their power to get her and Jesse out of the house. The Three Star representatives knew that if Emily and Jesse felt desperate enough, they would sell cheap and fast just to get out of the situation. To what lengths would Darla and Roger go to ensure that happened? Rocks through their window, painted with threats? And if they’d done something that desperate and illegal, had they also broken into the house? If so, was it just to scare them?
Or had their intentions been more sinister?
It was Emily’s first time in the library, and she was instantly reassured by the presence of innumerable books. Emily became a novelist her second year of grad school after publishing a short story collection she wrote for one of her workshops. The book was met with modest success, and it was then that Emily knew she could make a living from her writing.
It was unsurprising, then, that Emily felt the most at home when she was among a large collection of books. In spite of her reservations about Aunt Matilda’s place (Emily found she was still unable to think of it as her own), she had been delighted when she and Jesse found the small library located on the first floor. While Emily wanted to find out all she could about the house, she also wanted to get away from it to make another attempt at starting her next novel—this time, ideally, without any ghostly intervention.
As far as public libraries went, this one was pretty spectacular. A massive skylight flooded the first floor with light, and a sweeping staircase spiraled up
to the second floor. Beneath the staircase, a fountain burbled pleasantly. Nestled among the long rows of shelves was the occasional solitary chair, facing a massive window that comprised the far wall.
Emily picked the most remote chair she could find, as far as possible from other people. She sat down and looked out the window. The window looked out over trees and a path leading to a footbridge over the creek. It was beautiful and scenic and should have been everything she needed to find inspiration, but it wasn’t.
Emily sighed and closed her laptop. She was afraid this would happen. She thought the change of scenery might be enough to jolt her out of her usual slump, but her inability to start a single sentence, let alone an entire novel, seemed to follow her wherever she went.
She reached into her bag. Emily had accessed the catalog online the night before and already had the call numbers she needed to look up the house. Entering the reference section, she selected several tall and heavy tomes detailing the town’s history.
It didn’t take long to find the passage she hoped she would. In a section dealing specifically with historical homes of the area, Emily found a reprint of an extremely old, sepia-tinged photo. Emily recognized the house immediately. The photograph was dated 1927, but the house looked exactly the same.
Hunched over the book, Emily eagerly read the accompanying paragraph.
The Meade residence was constructed in 1923 by Hershel Meade, a local entrepreneur-turned-bootlegger throughout the Prohibition era. Meade began as a grocer, selling food and beverages from the successful market he owned several blocks from where the Meade home was later constructed. He and his wife, Delphine, lived in an apartment over the shop. When Prohibition outlawed the couple’s most popular item, a home brew perfected in their bathtub, they decided to continue selling it illegally.
They were so successful in the endeavor that Meade had a mansion on the hill built, where they’d have space to continue their successful moonshine trade. While Hershel and Delphine resided there, the house was rumored to have a fully operational speakeasy in the basement, accessible only by a secret password. The couple continued their sale of illegal whiskey until the end of Prohibition. The house sat empty after the death of Hershel, when Delphine moved to a nearby retirement home. Eventually, the property was passed down to a relative and remains a private residence to this day.
