“I found these two books in the trash one day, discarded by my mother. I saved them and kept them hidden from her. She would have been furious if she’d ever discovered them, but I had great hiding places.”
They sat for a moment, each drinking in the story, wondering what it all meant.
“So…” Ron started, unsure what to ask next. “Did your father bring this mobile home in, after the house burned down?”
“He did. He had the foresight to move us over here, on the far side of the mountain. One of the lots we rented out was open, so this is where we landed.”
“Oh,” Ron replied. “I just assumed your house had been here. Where we are now.”
“No,” she said. “Our house burned to the ground in the exact spot where your house now stands.”
Ron swallowed hard. “My property?”
“My mother sold it off after my father was arrested. We were living over here, and she didn’t want to own that land anymore. I think, to her, after she finished her period of grieving, her philosophy was to move on from everything – from my father’s war with the Coldwaters, from the death of my brother, all of it. She wanted a fresh start, not looking back. Her goal, she said to me, was to try and arrange things so that the rest of us – those of us who had survived – could be happy. So, she sold it off.”
“Huh,” Ron replied, feeling numb. For a moment he wondered why a mother would want to lose the land that connected her, in some way, to her lost child. If I ever lost Robbie, he thought, I’d try to hold onto everything about him that still existed. I wouldn’t want to lose anything that reminded me of him. That, apparently, was not the attitude of Mrs. Hughes’ mother.
He decided to change the subject slightly. “And then my house got built?”
“Not quite yet,” Mrs. Hughes replied. “Another house was built before yours, just after the land was sold. It burned, too, about fifteen years ago. They said it was an electrical problem.”
“Wow,” Jake said. “What a coincidence.”
“Did anyone die in that fire?” Ron asked.
“An old man,” she replied. “The couple that owned the place, she moved her father into the house when he became too elderly to live on his own. They had gone into town on an errand; when they returned, the house was completely engulfed with her father still inside. He hadn’t been able to escape.”
“Fuck,” Jake muttered.
Ron was beginning to feel nauseous. It had always seemed odd to him that a twelve-year-old house had so many problems; each of those problems now magnified when combined with the fact that he was living at the site of two horrible deaths. He remembered what Tom had mentioned, about an old woman dying in the house, along with her husband, but wondered if it was just something Tom invented, part of their effort to get him to leave. Mrs. Hughes’ version of events felt real and substantial, something he could trust. It rumbled around in his stomach like a sour ball of dread, making him feel sick. “What can I do?” he said quietly, under his breath. “The place I’m living in…it’s cursed in some way, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Hughes replied. “Maybe. I can’t say. When my father was really going at it with the Coldwaters, lots of things happened, back and forth. Were they responsible for the fire? He certainly thought so.”
“And this thing with Candace,” Ron said, “these things she left in your yard…in my yard…the things your grandmother found? What the fuck are they?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I have a theory,” Mrs. Hughes offered.
“What?” Ron asked weakly, his body feeling exhausted, but his mind still intrigued, wanting more.
“Like I said,” she replied, “they’ve sunk into me before, too.” She raised her hand again, showing them her palm. “They like palms, but one entered me here once, on my arm. I think they reproduce out there in the forest, because every now and again I find another one. They go into you, and for a while, you see weird things. The effect fades after a while. But they’re very real, and their effect is real.”
“Like mushrooms,” Ron offered.
“Kind of like that. I have no idea what happened to Candace, and as far as my father goes, I don’t know if he ever found out anything about her, either. My personal theory, however, is that she was forced into something by her parents, some kind of horrible role that she didn’t want to take, and when my grandmother saw her that night, naked in the yard, I believe she was…”
She paused.
“Yes?” Ron asked, hoping she would finish.
“Well, I know this sounds a little odd, but I think these things came from her. I think she was planting them, spreading them over the mountain. I don’t know if the intent was evil, caused by what was happening to her, but their effect certainly doesn’t seem evil to me – they simply allow you to experience weird things, things that seem hidden to most people. I’ve done it a half dozen times, and it’s never resulted in anything bad happening to me. Did you feel anything bad?”
“No,” Ron said. “It was kind of like being high.”
“See,” she continued, “I don’t think they’re evil, not like the other things. I think they might have been some kind of antidote, something Candace was spreading to counter the terrible things that were happening to her, perhaps something she could use to ultimately save herself from whatever her parents had inflicted upon her. And I think they reproduce and grow on their own, out there in the forest.”
“Like she was some kind of Johnny Appleseed?” Jake offered.
“Like that,” Mrs. Hughes replied, “hoping that someday what she was planting might be useful, to herself or to people who came after. I don’t think the poor girl had many options, and she took the only ones she could.”
They sat for a moment. Ron’s thoughts were anything but calm; he was bombarded by ideas and speculation and intrigue, taken aback by the history of the mountain he used to think would be a quiet refuge from the city. Alternately confused and anxious, he looked up at Mrs. Hughes. “What do I do? I can’t move. I can’t sell it. There’s no water, the well doesn’t produce enough. No one could get a bank loan to buy it from me. I’m stuck.”
She slid the book across the table until it rested in front of him. “The Coldwater mansion still stands,” she said. “It’s about two miles from you, south, toward the back of the mountain. I’ve looked through this book a thousand times, but very little of it makes any sense to me. The pictures sometimes do, but the writing seems to be a different language. I’ve never had it examined by anyone to find out what kind of language, but maybe you can. There’s a chance that whatever the Coldwaters did to Candace is explained in there. Maybe not. It’s a place to start, at least.”
Ron touched the book, running his fingers over the worn leather cover. It was dark and spotted, and looked as though it had been stained by spilled liquid. He picked it up and opened it, catching brief glimpses of illustrations and text as the pages flicked by.
“As for your well,” she said, “how deep is it?”
“There are two wells,” Ron replied. “One is just over a hundred, the other goes down four hundred.”
“That first well was ours. A hundred feet worked just fine in those days. However, that land is so screwed up with the curse or whatever the Coldwaters might have done to it in their war with my father, the next house, the one with the elderly man, probably had to extend it to find water. You, my friend, might have to go even deeper. Maybe six, seven hundred feet. That’s your solution to selling the place and moving somewhere with a lot less history.”
“It’s gonna cost a lot of money,” Ron replied.
“Well, you could always stay and learn to live with it,” she replied. “I’ve lived with the hauntings of this mountain all my life, and you could do worse, unless boring is what you’re after.” She rose from the table, a signal that the conversation was drawing to a close. “I’d have your wiring checked by a professional, though.”
“Thanks,” Ron said. “I appreciate
that.”
- - -
It was already getting dark as they made their way over the small road from one side of the mountain to the other. As he executed turns, Ron noticed the way the tires made contact with the earth, feeling an irrational, oddly deeper connection than before. He remembered when he first located the house – how impossible it had been to find using GPS – and how he felt an immediate attraction to it, and to the surroundings. How he had lobbied Elenore for it, how everything about it, including all the potential problems, seemed right and correct and the smart thing to do.
Now, taking the turns on dirt roads that interlaced between Mrs. Hughes’ current residence and her former home, he felt even more connected to the ground below him, despite it seeming more sinister. Knowledge of the past was anchoring him to the mountain, not frightening him away. It was roping him in – making him feel linked to its history.
I am part of it, he thought. I own that property. I am now as much a part of the story Mrs. Hughes told as she is.
The sensation of having become so suddenly surrounded by such a complex past, hidden but yet potent, felt like having jumped into the deep end of an enormous pool and finding himself still under water, waiting to rise to the surface for air.
Somewhere on this mountain is the Coldwater mansion, he thought, sitting there, with all its disturbing past. It was becoming, in his mind, a front; the headquarters for the opposing side, the home base of the enemy. And where he was headed – his home – was the other HQ of the war, the focal point of his side, the Hughes side. He was slipping into a role, and he felt as though it should bother him, that he should be resisting.
He wasn’t.
In some ways, it seemed to make sense. He’d spent the last few weeks battling something; now he knew what, and accepting the answer seemed like the smart thing to do. If that meant becoming a player in the drama, then he was cast. It was done.
“She’s right, it’s like some kind of weird language,” Jake said from the passenger seat, where he was flipping through the book Mrs. Hughes had lent them. “I’d try typing one of these words into Google and see what language it is, but I go from one bar to no bars every ten seconds.”
“Signal will be better at the house.”
“The pictures are interesting, though.” He closed the book. “You think she was telling the truth about all this?”
“I have no reason to doubt her.”
“Maybe she wants you to leave the mountain too, just like the ghosts in your house.”
“So, she made up this elaborate story?” Ron asked. “Seems like there might be easier ways to do it.”
“I think you’re right; she’s telling the truth. And if she is, man, you need to give this some serious thought. Do you really want to bring Elenore – or, for god’s sake, Robbie – into that house? Knowing what happened there?”
Ron knew before meeting with Mrs. Hughes, his answer would have been a quick “of course!” and he would justify away all the odd concerns as mere coincidence, confirmation bias, faulty logic, or outright superstition. Now, he wasn’t so sure. A five-year-old boy died, he thought. Robbie isn’t much older. How do I feel about asking my son to live over the ashes of a child who was burned alive?
“I don’t know, Jake. I’m still processing through everything she said.”
“You could always burn it down for the insurance money. Third time’s the charm.”
Ron found himself considering the idea, and it surprised him. “How would you do that and not get caught?”
“There are ways.”
“I guess I’d have to calculate if what I’d get back from the insurance is better than just paying the price to deepen the well and selling.”
“You’d be saddling someone else with cursed land. At least if you burn it, you’re sparing some other family what you’ve gone through.”
“Until they decide to build.”
“Yeah. No plan’s perfect.”
“Forget it, burning the place down is ridiculous. I’d be risking fraud. Arson investigators would figure it out.”
“Maybe. If you were smart, you wouldn’t be the first person to get away with it.”
“Seriously, what smart adjustor is going to look at a house that’s burned down three times and not think, ‘what are the odds’?”
“Just throwing it out there.”
“Last resort, amigo,” Ron replied, pulling into the long driveway that led to the house. “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”
“Burning down a haunted house always works in the movies. Like Poltergeist.”
“You’re wrong,” Ron said, pulling up to the house. “In Poltergeist, the house doesn’t burn; it collapses on itself, like it’s folding up.”
“Oh, that’s right, I forgot. It kind of blips out at the end, disappears into oblivion or some other dimension or something.” Jake got out of the car and stood for a moment, looking at the facade in the waning light. “Too bad we don’t have a black hole handy.”
“You heading back to the motel?”
“Yup,” Jake replied, walking to his truck. “It looked to me like they had plenty of empty rooms there. Sure you don’t want to join me? It’d be a lot safer than sleeping in that thing.” He nodded toward the house.
“No. Now that I know a little bit more about what’s going on, I’m actually intrigued to see what it might throw at me.”
“Are all the smoke detectors working? It looked to me like you opened up a few of them.”
“They’re all hard-wired, but the backup batteries were chirping in most of them, so I pulled them out. I’ve got a package of nine volts; I’ll replace them all before I go to bed.”
“I’d put a ladder up on that upstairs porch off the bedroom,” Jake said. “Gotta have an exit route if a fire breaks out. You might get cut off from the stairs.”
“Not a bad idea. I’ve got a rope I can stash, just in case.”
“Alright,” Jake replied, starting up his truck. “See you in the morning. Keep an eye out for a naked girl walking through your yard.” He offered a smirk.
Ron nodded in reply and Jake took off, disappearing quickly down the drive. Turning back to the house, Ron took a second to look at it once more, observing it for the first time with the newfound information in mind.
I can’t lie, he thought. I still really like this place, even with all I know about it now.
“Alright,” he said to himself as he walked to the front door. “Let’s see what you have in store for me tonight.”
Chapter Nineteen
After he ate a microwaved plate of food, Ron browsed on his phone, sitting in a padded chair in the living room. Occasionally he’d hear a sound coming from another room in the house, and he’d look up. Lights from the room reflected off the glass of the windows, making them appear like mirrors.
More sounds drifted down from upstairs as he tried to read from his phone; a thump and a scuttling of feet, sounding as though it came from the room where he’d met Ezra. His inclination was to get up and investigate. This time, however, he remained where he was, ignoring the sounds. I’ll walk all the way up there, he thought, and it’ll be nothing. The damn ghosts would keep me running all over the house if I let them.
He brought up Google Maps on his phone and scanned the little roads that networked over the mountain. Turning on satellite, he tried to make out houses, hoping to see if any of them looked big enough to be the Coldwater mansion. Several times he found himself nodding off.
He was awoken by the sound of his phone hitting the floor. He bent over to retrieve it, noticing the time: 8:30.
Wow, I’m old, he thought. Sleepy at 8:30. He knew there was something he intended to do, and was trying to remember what it was.
Oh, yes…the book.
He got up and searched, checking the kitchen counters and the table by the door. The book was gone.
Then he remembered: Jake. He had taken it. It was still in his hands when he got into the
truck.
He dialed his friend, but Jake didn’t answer, and it went to voice mail. He typed a text message: Do you have the book? I can’t find it.
He watched his phone for a reply. After a couple of minutes, dots appeared, and a minute later: Yes. I have it.
I called you, but you didn’t pick up, he replied.
I’m sending pictures. I was right in the middle of sending one when you called, couldn’t figure out how to do both. Sorry.
Dick picks? :) Ron typed.
No, pictures of the book.
To who?
To Terrell.
Ron found himself fully awake now. I’m going to call again, pick up this time damn it.
He dialed. It rang several times. Just as he was beginning to think his friend would let it go to voice mail again, Jake answered. “What?”
“Terrell? Why?”
“Well, I told you I was going to check with him.”
“And?”
“He didn’t have anything new, but I told him everything we learned today. And about the book. He asked me to send him some samples of it, so I did.”
Ron waited. “That’s it?”
“Well, he called back an hour later and asked if I’d send him a picture of every page. The Wi-Fi here at the motel is great, so I said, sure.”
“Every page? Why?”
“I didn’t ask, but I think he thinks he can translate it. Or, his mentor guy can translate it.”
“Oh. Really? Can he?”
“Didn’t say he could, but I’m not sending him all these pictures for nothing! He knows I’m expecting some kind of reply. He said he needed all of the pages to have a go at it. I figured, why not? If he can tell us what it says, that’s good, right?”
“If he’s accurate and not just making shit up.”
“Unlikely.”
“I thought he couldn’t have anything to do with what’s happening here. He said he was forbidden to get involved.”
The Coldwater Haunting Page 22
