The Coldwater Haunting

by Michael Richan

  Elenore was to his right, still standing next to the car.

  “I like it,” he said. He turned to her; she was staring at her phone. “You should at least look at it.”

  “It’s too…quiet,” she replied, glancing up briefly, then back to the phone.

  “That’s what I like about it.”

  “And that road.”

  “I like that too. People won’t want to come down it. No traffic.”

  “Will it even be passable in the winter?”

  “They get very little snow here. And we have a four wheel drive.”

  “What’s with the paint? It’s all patchy.”

  Ron joined her and looked up at the structure. What he saw was a grand facade, a home that someone had designed to look interesting, not flat and boxy like their home in Portland. It was only after looking harder that he saw what she was talking about, a slight variation – almost like a gradient – in the paint along one section of the front. “Paint is easy; we just give it a fresh coat. Look in the windows, at least. We drove all the way out here, you might as well see it.”

  She walked tentatively to a double set of windows between the front door and the garage and looked inside. He joined her. Ron calculated it to be the room on the other side of the staircase. Through an exit in the back, he could see the cabinets of the kitchen he observed earlier.

  “A dining room?” he guessed.

  “Maybe.”

  “Look through these windows on the porch,” he suggested. “There’s an amazing staircase.”

  She followed him and pressed her hands against the panes. “Huh,” she said.

  “Makes me want to see inside. We could give Susan a call.”

  “I don’t know, Ron. This is farther out than I wanted.”

  “We can at least look at it. I like it enough to want to see the interior. I get a good vibe. A really good vibe.”

  “I do not.”

  “Want to see it? Or get a good vibe?”

  “Neither,” she sighed. “But if you really want to come back with Susan on Wednesday, that’s fine.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Not yet.”

  He stepped back from the porch, trying to take in the large facade once again. “I do. I think it’s great. Ticks a lot of my boxes.”

  “Well, we’ll have to agree to disagree,” she replied, returning to the car.

  “Looking inside might change your mind.”

  “Maybe.”

  Ron took out his phone to snap pictures, circling the house in reverse. He heard the car door close as Elenore sealed herself inside.

  He took his time walking back around the property. At first he found himself wanting to delay his return to the car to spite her, to emphasize how serious he was about the house in the face of her lack of enthusiasm. As he took photos and looked in every window, he found his attraction to the building increasing, and he forgot about Elenore completely, losing track of time. He felt himself developing a connection to the house, just like he experienced when he bought their home in Portland years ago. It was the thing that every financial advisor advised against and every realtor fostered – making a purchase based on emotion.

  As he rounded the final corner, he saw Elenore in the front seat of the car, waiting. She didn’t look happy. He snapped a few more pictures of the front of the house, then joined her.

  “What was the point of that?” she asked, frustration in her voice.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes!”

  “I wanted to get a few more photos.”

  “From every possible fucking angle? What are you doing to do, build a 3D model?”

  “I was just checking things out. Looking into each window, trying to get an idea of the layout.”

  “Which we’ll see when we come back with Susan.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s 2:30,” she said. “I have work I need to do.”

  “I thought you had the day off.”

  “No, there are a few things I have to finish up tonight. I didn’t think this was going to take all day.”

  “Alright,” he replied. “We’ll head back.”

  He started the car, and they returned down the tiny dirt road, the trees and blackberries so dense it almost felt like passing through a tunnel.

  Chapter Two

  His arm slid under the cold sheet, expecting to land on her soft flesh. Instead it stretched out unimpeded. Elenore?

  He sat up, at first thinking something was wrong. She wasn’t there.

  His head felt fuzzy and he raised his hands to it, rubbing against the skin of his face. Of course she’s not here, you idiot, he thought. Just like last night, and the night before. She won’t be here for weeks still. He turned to his nightstand; the clock read 3:07.

  Lie back down. It’s the middle of the night. Don’t think about anything, you’ll just keep yourself up. Shut down and sleep.

  His head hit the pillow. He was about to close his eyes, but a new feeling of unease washed over him, leaving a residue of panic, a sense that he must do something to defend himself.

  He turned his head to the right. Large windows near the bed, not yet covered by blinds or drapes – blinds were number one hundred and twenty-three on the to-do list – offered a view to the east. From the master bedroom on the second floor he could see stars out the window, the tops of the trees that surrounded the property, and, if he raised himself from his prone position, through a small notch in those trees, a view of the lights of McLean in the distance. Immediately outside the window was an uncovered deck, still in need of a power wash. A crack in the outer pane of the double-pane windows interrupted and altered the view; item number one hundred and seventy, he thought, feeling that the consideration of tasks, normally counterproductive to sleep, might now be a good idea, a way to distract him from the anxiousness itching over his body.

  He looked out the window, waiting. It was still and dark, but he kept watching, refusing to close his eyes. Something’s outside. There’s something – or someone – out there. It wasn’t because of what he’d seen or heard, or thought he heard – it was merely an impression that wouldn’t shake.

  He waited for something to appear, to make its presence known. The longer he waited, the more afraid he became, sure he would see a shift in the shadows and his fear would be confirmed. As the minutes ticked by, he convinced himself he was being stupid. Nothing appeared. Only the dark outline of the side of the house was there, the starry sky, and slightly shifting trees in the distance.

  He closed his eyes, trying to force himself back to sleep. Turning over in bed, he situated himself in a cold spot and breathed slowly, wanting to calm down and find a way back to slumber.

  Thump.

  He sat up. It sounded as though someone directly above him had dropped something on the floor. He looked up, unsure what he might see; the pale, textured ceiling was silent above him, offering no clue. What’s up there? he wondered. The attic? Is someone in the attic? Maybe an animal?

  Tap.

  Scccccratch.

  The sound came from his right. He slowly turned his head to face the window once again, terrified, expecting to see someone outside, staring in.

  Nothing was there.

  He kept watching the window like before, waiting, aware that his eyes wanted to blink, but holding them open to let in as much light as possible, not wanting to miss any telltale sign.

  I heard that, he thought. I didn’t imagine it. Something scratched the window.

  Then it came again, confirming itself. The first tap drew his attention to the top pane of the window, where the tip of a finger was touching the glass. It produced a long scratching sound as its nail ran along the outside.

  It quickly retracted and was gone.

  An electric bolt of terror raced down his spine. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, and wondered if it might fail him, if he might have a heart attack right there in bed and be found
dead in the morning. He was alone in the dark house, miles from town, isolated…

  Not alone any more. Someone’s out there. I can’t see them, but they just let me know they’re there. Outside my window.

  It can’t be, it’s the second story, there’s no way up to it…

  What do I do?

  He thought about calling the cops. In Portland, when his alarm system had errantly gone off, the police arrived within minutes. Here, out in the sticks, he guessed it would take them at least fifteen or twenty minutes to navigate through the woods.

  That’s plenty of time for someone to break in, he thought. Plenty of time to do god knows what.

  Now he imagined people finding him the next morning, not dead in bed from a heart attack, but spread all over the room, blood everywhere, cut into pieces by a madman. His rational mind told him to get a grip, but the horror of it, the idea that whatever was outside could result in such an ending, kept his hair standing on end.

  As he’d explained to friends that he and Elenore were moving to the country, some of them had joked about needing a gun, and he joked back about getting one.

  Now he wished it wasn’t just a joke; he wished he’d stopped in McLean and bought one.

  Too late now, he thought. They’re outside.

  He stared out the window, feeling adrenaline surge through his body. His phone was on the nightstand; it would only take a moment to dial 911 and test the local authorities.

  And tell them what? he wondered, looking at an empty porch on the second level, knowing it would have been hard – maybe impossible – for anyone to climb up. The moonlight allowed him to quickly confirm that no one – or thing – was on the porch right now; it was small and still empty of furniture; he could see practically every square inch of it from the window. Nothing was there.

  What is the explanation for what I saw, what I heard? Was it an animal? It was high on the window, maybe a bird?

  It didn’t look like a bird, it looked like a finger…

  He placed his feet on the floor and stood up. He normally slept naked, and with the house being so remote, he hadn’t worried much about modesty when he prepared for bed or rose in the morning. Now, with the window four feet in front of him, he felt exposed and vulnerable.

  The new position gave him a different angle of the small porch. Still, nothing had changed; it was empty.

  Unless it’s under the window, he thought, and stepped forward, looking down.

  He felt cold resonating from the glass as he approached. Within seconds it was obvious that nothing was under the window, either. He glanced to the left, to check under another window, and at the double glass doors that led from the bedroom out onto the balcony.

  Nothing. Completely empty. The adrenaline was still flowing, but he knew he had to regain some calm if he was ever going to get back to sleep.

  Tap!

  He stepped back, any calm that he’d achieved suddenly gone. It was the same sound, the same tap he’d heard before.

  Now standing, facing the window, he saw the disembodied fingertip appear more distinctly; the white skin of its first knuckle clear and vivid in the moonlight, striking the glass and remaining there, the tip pressing against the pane, flattening a little.

  It tilted up slightly so that its dark-edged fingernail pressed more firmly against the glass, then slid downward, producing an eerie, teeth-grating squeal. As it finished the screech, it retracted and disappeared.

  “Fuck!” he shouted, the expletive exploding from his body as though he’d popped, stabbed by something sharp. Stepping back, he felt the cold metal of the bedframe at the rear of his calves. Impossible! There’s no way! No one’s there!

  He stared out into the darkness, waiting for more to appear; a body, a face. Something. Anything that would explain the eerie finger.

  Nothing appeared. The porch sat quiet, empty.

  He felt like a statue. He didn’t want to look away and miss seeing who or what was outside. Yet, inside him, every iota of survival DNA was demanding action, insisting that he run and hide.

  It’ll tap again, he thought. Just wait.

  All of his senses were on high alert; he felt like he suddenly had super-hearing, able to pick out the smallest sound, and his eyes, even though he’d just woke up, were clear and open wide, taking in everything, vision sharpened by fear.

  Just like the deer in the yard, he thought, seeing the black eyes of the creature in his mind as it stood frozen, monitoring for threats. I’m like the deer.

  Tap!

  The finger appeared again. This time he approached the glass, wanting to see it close up.

  Sccccratch. It slid downward. He knew it would disappear, just like before.

  Fuck it! he thought, suddenly opting for action. He grabbed his robe and tossed it over his shoulders, pulling it closed and tying it as he walked to the glass doors. He unlocked them and pulled them open, now seeing the two bedroom windows from the outside. Cold rushed in, hitting his bare legs and feet. He stepped onto the planks of the porch, turning quickly to catch what might be lurking on the roof above, expecting something to be there, readying his body for the shock of an attack.

  Nothing. There was no sign of anyone or anything.

  He glanced down at the porch, checking for footprints, but could see none.

  A breeze blew, rustling the trees around the house. He turned, looking out into the back yard, momentarily expecting to see someone running away. The yard was empty and silent.

  He stepped forward, reminding himself that the railing around the deck had been identified by the house inspector as defective. He stopped a foot from it, trying to see to the left around the corner of the house. Moonlight didn’t reach that area, and it was too dark to make out anything.

  Well fuck it, I’m up now, he thought, and decided to check out everything. He turned on all the lights as he went downstairs, where he searched for a flashlight. As he flipped on switches, he noticed that floodlights on the south and west sides of the house came on, brightly illuminating those parts of the yard. “Ah ha!” he said aloud to no one; “I was wondering what those switches did!” After checking each of the rooms and double checking the locks on every window and door, he went outside with the flashlight and pointed it in all directions, concentrating on the north and east sides, where, without the aid of floodlights, things were much darker.

  There was nothing. No deer, no possum scampering into the blackberries, no signs of disembodied fingers or body parts or persons of any kind. Nothing at all but the trees and the bramble.

  The breeze returned, and he shivered in the cold. I didn’t imagine it. I heard it, I saw it.

  He thought again about calling the cops, but decided not to. What would I tell them? I saw a finger? Not a person, but just a finger? They’d label me a crackpot and be slow to come out sometime when I really need them.

  He walked back inside, turned off the lights, and carried the flashlight to the master bedroom, where he ditched the robe and tried to go back to sleep, despite the nagging fear that the tap and scratch at the window would return. He opted to leave the bed stand light on, and he stared up at the ceiling, wondering about the noise he’d heard overhead, the thump that had preceded it all.

  Chapter Three

  “Sure, buddy,” Jake said. “You’ve probably screwed the place up already. I’ll come unfuck it.”

  Ron immediately felt relief. Jake didn’t exactly live close by, but he was graced with handyman skills and didn’t keep an aggressive work schedule. And with Robbie and Elenore still weeks away from joining him, he could use another human around. Jake would be able to give advice on how to deal with some of the issues he was running into with the house.

  And maybe help tamp down my paranoia, he thought. “You’re sure Freedom won’t mind?”

  Jake’s voice lowered to a whisper. “I think she’d prefer it.” He coughed, and raised his voice to a louder volume. “What’s that? You’re gonna need tools, too? How big a job?”


  “She can hear you, right?”

  “That might take a while, a couple of weeks maybe. It’ll cost you more if I have to get a motel, you got a room I can use?”

  “Why do you make up shit? She’ll hate me even more when she finds out.”

  “OK, I’ll have to arrange things, but yeah, I can be there tomorrow. OK…see you then.” The line went dead.

  Ron slipped his phone into his pocket. Over the course of his long friendship with the man, Jake had dated several women. Ron liked most of them, and tried to get along with all of them, but it didn’t take long for each to eventually dislike him. At first he thought it was something he was doing, alienating them in some way. A couple of relationships back, Elenore pointed out that the reason the women disliked him was because of how Jake treated them, not him, and ever since she shared that observation, he paid more attention to how his friend behaved. Elenore was right: Jake lied a lot for some reason, and his girlfriends initially blamed the lying on Jake’s friends, thinking if they could isolate him from them, he’d straighten up. Eventually they realized it wasn’t his friends that were the problem but Jake himself, and they left him. Freedom was Jake’s fifth live-in partner since he’d known him, and she was mid-way through the Jake discovery cycle; in a couple more years, she’d reach the end of her patience and, just like the others, leave Jake for greener, more honest pastures.

  Although this was Jake’s Achilles heel, in all other matters he was a pretty stand-up guy. He had always been quick to help when asked, and was reliable when it came to being a decent godfather for Robbie. He was someone Ron enjoyed being around; a fairly reliable friend and a good drinking buddy. After trying unsuccessfully to exorcise Jake’s one flaw out of him, Ron decided long ago he would just have to accept it and move on.

  Thinking of Elenore and knowing the problems they were going through, Ron knew he had no standing to pass judgment – not that he ever did. He and Elenore had been together much longer than any of Jake’s relationships, but that didn’t mean he was some kind of expert. Ron knew there were large cracks forming between himself and Elenore, cracks he wasn’t sure how to mend. He had no business criticizing Jake’s relationships.