Chapter Twelve
It was early afternoon when the truck from McLean Drilling appeared, slowly ambling down the driveway. Ron and Jake were working in front of the garage, and Ron stopped to slip off his gloves as the vehicle parked and a tall, thin man emerged.
Younger than I expected, Ron thought. “You must be Stewart,” he said, extending his hand.
“That’s me,” the man replied, shaking. “Got a note from Gary that you wanted to see me.”
“Gary? Was that his name?” Ron replied. “If he told me his name, I forgot. He kept calling himself the grim reaper.”
“Yeah, that’s Gary,” Stewart said, returning to his truck to retrieve some gear.
“He said we’d have to extend the well,” Ron replied, following him.
“Well, before we get to any of that, let me make a few assessments of my own,” Stewart said, hauling his gear to the well. “Give me a half hour, would you? I’ll know more then.”
“Sure,” Ron answered. “We’re just working on the exterior. Let me know if you need anything.”
Stewart began to drop a line down the well, similar to what he’d seen the grim reaper do days earlier. He left the man to his work, returning to Jake.
“That the driller?” Jake asked, as he finished a cut on a fresh piece of trim.
“Yup. He wants to figure things out on his own.”
“Maybe it won’t be as bad as the other guy thought.”
“I’m hoping. Maybe it’ll be worse.”
“I’m half full, you’re half empty.”
“Like always.”
They continued their work, stripping and replacing trim on the side of the house. The late autumn sun provided some warmth, but each day seemed to be cooler than the last, and unlike the previous days of labor, Ron found himself keeping his jacket on.
He had almost forgotten about the driller when the tall man appeared next to him, paperwork in hand. “So, I’ve looked it over,” he said.
Ron removed safety goggles from his head and placed them onto the table saw. “What do you think?”
“Gary was right, it’s low-flow. Not enough to live on, for sure.”
“Great. What do you suggest? Extend it?”
“We could try that. By the way, do you know this is the second well?”
“Second?”
“There’s another on your property, according to the records.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Well, somewhere around here there’s a well we started for you, and stopped at a hundred and ten feet. It’s capped off. Then this well,” he pointed to the metal tube protruding from the ground behind him, “we did that one too. Four hundred and thirty feet.”
“Why would there be two?”
“Hard to say. Before my time. Lots of rock on this hill; it’s not easy.”
“Yeah, that’s what the grim reaper said.”
“Well, he was right about that. This is a notoriously hard area to work.”
“What do you think about deepening it?”
He walked to it. “We could give it a shot. Another house a half mile down the road has pretty good flow at six hundred feet, so maybe we go another two hundred and see if things improve. We could also look into the other well, see if it’s at all viable, figure out why they stopped when they did.”
“What’s that gonna cost me?”
The man grimaced and turned away. “Don’t like to give verbals. There’s a lot that goes into making a clean estimate.” He stared down at the well.
“How about something ballpark, so I know what I’m in for?”
“Well, to start, the drilling itself is forty dollars a foot, but don’t settle on that. There’s extra charges for bringing in the rig, and your road is gonna be a real challenge. There’s a charge to reopen the well, and to perfect the drill, and…” He stopped, looking up. “I can see the blood draining from your face. See, this is why I like to do a proper paper estimate.”
Ron had quickly done the math and knew the eight thousand for the drilling alone was going to take a huge chunk out of their move-in funds. With all the other fees, it’ll probably top ten thousand. Fuck. “Well, I would appreciate the written estimate when you can complete it,” he managed to say, “so I can do some evaluating.”
“Sure,” Stewart answered.
“Gary mentioned something about no guarantees.”
“That’s true,” Steward replied, stowing his gear. “Two hundred feet is a target. If we hit a good flow sooner than that, well, great. If we have to go deeper, we go deeper. Might go eight hundred feet and still be dry. That’s rare, mind you, but the contract will spell out that we get paid no matter how it ends up.”
“Great business model,” Ron muttered, and noticed that Stewart stiffened. “No offense. I get that you put in the work, regardless.”
“That’s the sum of it.”
“How soon do you think this can happen?”
“At least six weeks out,” Stewart said, getting into his truck. “I’ll take a look at the calendar and send along some potential dates when I email you the estimate. It’ll take a day or two to work it all up.”
“Alright.”
The truck started up and backed out, turning to head down the small road. Ron returned to Jake.
“Is it bad?” Jake asked.
“Kinda what I expected. I drop ten thousand, they may or may not hit water.”
“Christ. Nature of the business, I suppose.”
Ron nodded.
“Hell, if I knew how to do it, I’d do it for you for half that.”
“You’re doing enough already,” Ron replied, reaching for his goggles and starting up the table saw.
- - -
It was while they were finishing up the afternoon’s work that Ron felt the object in his shirt pocket move. He had forgotten he’d placed it there, but when he noticed the sensation of something crawling next to his skin, he thought a bug had managed its way under his jacket and shirt. Shaking with the willies, he pulled off his gloves and reached under his collar, finding nothing. While his hand was over his chest, he felt it move again inside the pocket, shifting a little against the back of his hand.
He reached for it and pulled it out. The object he found inside the dresser was still there, inanimate, looking like a tiny craft project gone awry. He waited for it to move again, but nothing happened, and the longer he stood there, staring at it, the more he felt stupid. Jake was around the other side of the house, but would return to the workbench at any moment to use a saw. He slipped it back into his pocket, put his gloves on, and resumed work.
It was as Jake was saying goodbye for the evening that he felt it move again; a wiggle, as though the tiny hairs or threads he’d seen around its edge had come to life and it was looking for a way out of his pocket. He placed his hand over his jacket to keep it still just as Jake turned to walk to his truck, grateful that his friend hadn’t noticed the gesture.
Jake called out the window of his truck, saying not to worry, he’d be back early in the morning, bringing breakfast with him.
Dusk was beginning to settle in as Ron walked inside the house, crossing the threshold and feeling the object jump again. He quickly shed his jacket and pulled the pocket open, waiting to see it move.
It sat still.
Of course it’s still, he thought. It’s an inanimate object.
He reached inside and pulled it out, turning a little so light from the entry would illuminate its face. Then he flipped it over.
The small smear of whitish color that he originally thought similar to a cameo had changed. Instead of being centered, surrounded by black, it had swirled out and become iridescent, looking like pearl.
Huh, he thought. Maybe it reacted to my body heat, like a mood ring.
As he was about to slip it back into his pocket, he thought he saw the swirls inside the black surface shift and twist, and it stopped him. He walked into the kitchen where the light was brighter and looked more carefully
at its underside, waiting to see if he was mistaken, or if it might move again. He felt a tickle against his fingertips, coming from the other side of the object. Instinct made him drop it; the sensation was too much like the feeling of insect legs. It fell to the granite counter and bounced, coming to a stop on the edge of the sink.
Get a grip on yourself! he thought, feeling stupid. It’s not alive. That was some kind of phantom sensation. Be a fucking grown up and…
As he watched, one of the hairs extended from its side and pressed down onto the granite, causing it to rise slightly. Liquid began to ooze out, black with streaks of pearly white, slowly seeping across the countertop.
It was alive! he thought. I killed it when I dropped it!
He moved closer to the small object, watching as the thin streak of liquid continued to extend from the raised edge. One inch, then two, then three…more body fluid than he thought it could contain. It came to a stop after a couple more inches, and the trail of liquid began to pool until it had formed a circle about the size of a quarter.
Ron blinked, and in that split second, the object disappeared from the side of the sink, reappearing where the pool had formed. All of the liquid had gone; Ron presumed it had all been sucked back up into it.
“What the fuck?” he muttered, taking a step back.
He wasn’t sure how long he spent looking at the counter watching it, waiting for it to do something else. He began to feel that time was getting away from him; all of the other weird occurrences in the house notwithstanding, this tiny object seemed to make him a little confused about whether a minute had passed, or an hour. When he broke free from what had begun to feel like a trance, he felt his muscles ache, as though he’d been holding a position for far too long.
I need to sit down, he thought, deciding to leave the object on the counter. He stopped to grab a beer from the fridge on his way to the living room, where he popped it open and fell into a recliner, taking a long swig, enjoying its coolness.
Should I show that thing to Jake? he wondered.
No. He’s already freaked out as it is. It’ll just make things worse.
Ron thought about the figure they’d seen in the bedroom upstairs. There was no question that it had been frightening. He couldn’t blame Jake for the reaction. Not the devil, though, he thought. There’s no such thing.
He closed his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t fall asleep, just wanting to make everything disappear for a few moments while he relaxed. His grip over time seemed to return, and soon he felt the long list of to-do tasks poking at his brain, making him feel guilty for resting. He forced himself out of the chair, carrying his beer back into the kitchen.
The object was still there, but it had moved. It was another foot from the edge of the sink.
Fuck, he thought. What am I going to do with this thing? Put it back in the dresser?
He reached for it, picked it up, and began walking to the bedroom, turning on lights as he went. When he approached the dresser, he felt the object react, shifting a little in his palm. The sensation of insect legs returned, and for a moment he wanted to drop it – but he held tight, keeping his fingers wrapped securely around it, intent upon replacing it in the drawer.
He reached for the tip of the screw that acted as a pull, but when he touched it, he felt a sharp pain from his other hand, as though it had bit him. He stopped and open his fist. The object was gone. Dozens of tiny red dots, arranged in a circle, appeared in his palm, as though he’d been pricked by a round pincushion. He turned his hand over, wondering if it might have crawled out of his grip, then he checked the floor below him to see if it had fallen.
Looking at his palm again, the dots were fading; a few seconds more and they were gone.
Where the fuck did it go? he wondered.
He opened the drawer and searched inside. Nothing. He opened all the other drawers of the dresser, reaching in to feel every corner; it wasn’t there.
Scouring the floor around the dresser and coming up empty, he pulled it from the wall, searching behind it. It wasn’t there, either.
Some sliver of his mind briefly entertained the idea that it had somehow slipped inside him. The balance of rational mass in his brain overrode the idea immediately. He looked at his palm again. There were no marks of any kind. His hand looked as it always had; a little banged up from the work they’d been performing on the house, but other than that, completely normal.
Where’s that beer? he wondered, remembering he’d left it on the counter by the sink. Returning to the kitchen, he reminded himself of how absurd this whole episode was, how his lack of sleep and the stress of the new house – the problems with the well, the septic, the interruptions at night – all of it was to blame for losing the strange object. His mind wasn’t working at a hundred percent. He must have misplaced it and not even realized it.
Not by a long shot, he thought, retrieving the beer and returning to the recliner. I’m fried. I’m seeing things. What is it they say about spots in front of your eyes? I’m seeing dots in my hand. I’m imagining that a button I found in a dresser has little legs. The damn thing probably fell down the sink and is sitting in the drain trap right now, surrounded by water, and I dreamt the whole goddamn thing while I was resting my eyes in this chair.
He didn’t believe most of the story he was telling himself, but it did give him a moment’s peace, just long enough to let the alcohol from the beer dull his senses a little and allow him to drift off. Exhaustion won out over the guilt from the task list, and he felt himself falling asleep, grateful for the opportunity to stop thinking and just zone off into oblivion.
Chapter Thirteen
Thump!
It was 3:37, and he was in bed. He remembered dragging himself out of the recliner at some point and making his way upstairs, stripping off clothes, and falling asleep the moment his face hit the pillow.
Now, his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the sudden noise had been.
A series of pops reached his ears. They were coming from downstairs.
Feeling exhausted, he threw off the covers and donned his robe. Passing the windows, he glanced down into the yard. While the grassy area was empty, he thought he saw two shiny eyes, low to the ground at the edge of the bramble, reflecting the light of the moon. As he moved, they retreated, pulling back to hide under the cover.
A raccoon, he thought.
Once clothed, he walked downstairs, searching for the source of the sounds. The lights came on, and the living room was illuminated, looking still and quiet. The kitchen was the same, as was the dining room and the hallways.
He walked to the front door, but stopped as something odd caught his eye. He lowered himself to look at a power outlet near the ground. The white vinyl of the outlet plate was smeared with black, a singe that looked like residue from a spark or short. He ran his finger through it; the black film easily wiped away, darkening his skin. He wondered if it had always been there and he was just noticing it for the first time, or if it was the source of the sound he heard.
To answer his question, another loud pop came from behind him. He turned and saw another outlet, similarly coated. He could smell the bitter electric odor the spark had produced.
Returning to the living room, he searched for outlets hidden from view behind couches and chairs. He found more singe marks. Panic began to rise in his chest, as he wondered if some type of surge was hitting the house, frying the wiring. Intending to shut down the circuit breakers, he walked to the garage, but accidentally set off the home alarm when he opened the door. He ran back through the house to the front door, where the keypad was located, and entered the code to silence the alarm.
I’m gonna get a call, he thought, and if I don’t answer, the alarm company will send the police. And my damn phone is upstairs, set to vibrate.
He ran up the flight of stairs, reaching his bedside just as the screen on his phone lit up. Disconnecting the phone from its recharger cable, he carried it as he spoke to the agen
t on the other end, providing his pass phrase and telling them it was a false alarm. By the time he ended the call, he was back at the garage door, and worked his way through piles of boxes until he found the panel. He threw the master switch, and the light in the garage went out.
Activating the flashlight on his phone, he made his way back through the garage and into the house, looking for more outlets that had been damaged.
He couldn’t find any.
Returning to the living room, he pulled the couch away from the wall and examined the outlet he’d seen earlier. Whereas its lower half had been covered in a black film when he first inspected it, it now looked fine; clean and white, no discoloration.
He pushed the couch back into position and walked to the hallway, to the outlet where he first noticed the singe.
It, too, looked fine.
Raising his finger, he held it under the light of the phone. There, on the tip, was the black smudge he’d wiped from the outlet’s plate just moments before.
Standing in his robe in the middle of the dark house, anxiety pumping through his system, he felt confused and angry. It was the middle of the night. He was exhausted. He’d just shut off all the power to the house, fearing some kind of electrical problem, or fire.
He didn’t know how to respond, what to do next. He felt himself begin to lose it.
He sat on the second step of stairs and clicked off his phone, set it beside him, then lowered his head into his hands. He wasn’t a crier, but his exhausted body wanted to scream out in frustration, to heave a huge sob and just give in to the nightmare that had become his life since he entered the house weeks ago.
Things were supposed to be improving, but nothing was getting better. He was working hard to keep going in the right direction, but it wasn’t paying off. The initial gut punches of the septic system and the well seemed ages ago, but they were still there, mostly unresolved. The pile of exterior work still to accomplish, the roof, the heater – none of it seemed on the right track. On top of it all, there was the weirdness: the ghosts – or whatever they were – in the yard, the noises at night, the bizarre things in Terrell’s room. It was all combining to wipe him out, to keep him exhausted and unable to focus.
The Coldwater Haunting Page 14
