“No problem,” Ron replied. “We walk from here.”
They got out, and while Jake inspected the paint on the side of his truck, Ron opened the backpack they brought, double-checking its contents: a large pair of shrub shears with sixteen inch blades, a set of wire cutters, a rubber-handled machete they picked up earlier that morning at a hardware store in McLean, two flashlights, and a hand-held strobe that worked on batteries. He closed it up; the blades of the shears, too long to fit completely in the pack, poked out the top.
He slung it over his shoulder and joined Jake, who was running his fingers over a faint line on the driver’s side door.
“See, no damage,” Ron said. “They’re sharp and do a number on skin, but they’re too soft to damage paint.”
“This mark wasn’t here before,” Jake worried, pointing at the indistinct line.
Ron licked a finger and rubbed it against the mark; it faded and disappeared. “And it’s not there now. Just a smudge.”
“Humpf,” Jake snorted. He licked a finger too, and rubbed at the line just to confirm; it came off after a moment. “Fine.”
They walked to the right of the gate, where a fallen top board made it easy to scale the wooden fence. Jake went over first; Ron handed him the backpack, then followed. Beyond, the grass was three feet high, as high as the species could grow before turning to seed. The road past the gate was overgrown with weeds that filled in all available space, almost making it disappear.
Ahead, the Coldwater mansion rested in the morning sun, hulking against a green forest backdrop. Nonnative deciduous trees, planted in front of the house at intervals, had all died. At one point in time they might have shaded the house, but now their grey, leafless arms reached up, branching in all directions like withered hands, obscuring little. The front facade was dramatic, with a large two-story window above the front double doors.
They walked toward the house, stepping carefully through the tall grass. “Are those windows black?” Jake asked. “I can’t really tell with the sun at this angle.”
“Hard to say,” Ron replied. “Have to get closer.”
A chain link fence had been erected ten feet in front of the house. Green ivy and more blackberries had taken over large sections of it, causing it to lean in a couple of places, giving the impression the plants wanted to tear it down. As they approached the fence, Ron saw that it ran to the left and curved; there were more buildings in that direction, all behind the protection of the chain link. Mrs. Hughes hadn’t mentioned them, but seeing their shape in the distance, he guessed there might be a garage, or a shed.
“Got those wire cutters?” Jake asked.
Ron sat the backpack on the ground, and his friend opened it to retrieve the tool. It didn’t take him long to make two dozen snips into the section of fence in front of them, and Jake pulled it back so Ron could pass under. Once Ron was through, Jake pushed the fence forward, and Ron grabbed it from the inside, lifting to return the favor.
They turned to look at the facade once again. “Does it seem like it suddenly got a lot bigger?” Jake asked. “Like, from outside the fence, to here?”
“Yeah,” Ron agreed. He took a few more steps and found himself in the shade of the structure, making it much easier to examine.
“Definitely black,” Jake said, joining him. “The windows.”
A six pane window, right of the main doors and straight ahead of where they were standing, looked completely dark. Ron walked up to it, pushing through a dead shrub until he was able to reach out and touch the glass. He ran his fingers down it, then examined them. Although they came back with a film of dirt, it didn’t account for how dark the windows appeared to be. “It’s like they were painted from the inside,” he said, showing Jake his fingers.
A thump made him jump, and he turned to look back at the window, as though he might be able to see through the dark panes and determine what caused the noise. “Did you hear that?”
“I did,” Jake replied. “Came from inside.”
“Well,” Ron said, stepping back from the windows, “whoever is in there, they know we’re here.”
“If it’s a who,” Jake replied.
Ron walked to the steps of the front porch and approached the doors. He grabbed the large wrought iron handle, pressed down on the latch, and pulled on the door. When it didn’t open, he grabbed harder and began to tug back and forth, making the double doors shake inside their frames, but failing to budge.
“You didn’t really expect that to open, did you?” Jake asked.
“No, just seemed stupid not to give it a shot. Can you imagine walking all around this thing looking for a way in when we might have just waltzed in the front door?”
Another thump came from inside; this one sounded as though it was just on the other side of the door.
“Hello?” Ron called out. “Is anyone home?”
The doors suddenly began to shake, in imitation of the tugging Ron had just performed. They jostled back and forth, increasing in intensity until they were moving with even more force than he’d used on them, rumbling and vibrating as though they might come apart.
Both Ron and Jake stepped back on the porch, putting space between themselves and the doors, unsure if they might suddenly blow open.
“Fuck!” Jake exclaimed. “What the fuck did you do?”
“You saw what I did.”
“Did it cause that?”
The doors continued to shake, as though something angry was on the other side, tugging on the handle, moments from breaking them down.
Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.
“Hello?” Ron said again, stepping forward to approach the door.
“Don’t call to it!” Jake said, pulling him back.
Ron shrugged off his friend. “Hey, you, inside! Open up! We’re coming in!”
“Don’t tell it what we’re going to do!” Jake implored, cringing.
Ron turned to his friend. “I think it already knows.”
“Don’t antagonize it, then. Don’t get it all worked up!”
“It?” Ron asked. “What is it, Jake?”
“Whatever is shaking those goddamn doors!”
While the shaking doors seemed to have spooked Jake, they invigorated Ron. “I have no intention of letting this thing kowtow me, or scare me, or whatever its tactics are. Shaking the door like that, just after I did? It’s an intimidation tactic. Get your game face on, buddy!”
Ron walked up to the front door, stopping an inch from the wood. “You hear me in there? I’m coming in!” He turned and walked across the porch and down the steps, then turned to look at Jake. “You coming?”
Jake pinched his eyes closed for a moment, as though he was trying to decide if he really wanted to go through with it. Finally they popped open, and Ron watched as he gave him a smile. “Against my better judgment.”
“God, you’ve been whining all morning. Last night you couldn’t wait to get started.”
“Don’t get all worked up, I’m coming.”
Ron headed for the west end of the house, Jake following. He tried to look in windows as he went; they were all blackened over, concealing whatever was inside. Although the house had been painted white years ago, only flecks remained, peeled up from the greyish wood like tiny feathers. The facade was flat and long, interrupted by low shrubs that were dried and dead, while others were still green, surviving off rain.
At the corner, Ron turned and found that along this edge, the bramble had made its way to the siding. Using the machete, he hacked at the thorned branches that were attempting to climb the structure. There were fewer windows on this side, and most of them were on the second floor. Soon a door appeared, and Steven reached for the handle. It was locked.
“We could kick it in,” Jake said.
“I was thinking we’d give them all a try, first. See if one opens. If that doesn’t work, maybe a window.”
“Just considering options,” Jake replied, still following behind.
&
nbsp; At the back of the house, the wings and courtyard came into view; two long structures extended from the front section of the mansion with a garden area nestled between the wings. A large stone fountain was in the center of the garden, now completely overgrown.
“Christ, she was right, this place is huge,” Jake said. “What are we talking, twenty thousand square feet? Thirty?”
“At least,” Ron replied, heading for a door at the end of the west wing. He reached for the handle and turned the knob; it was locked solid. Glass in the upper half of the door was opaque, black like all the others, blocking any view inside. He turned and walked toward the garden square, eyeing exterior walls of the west wing that lined the courtyard, looking for a way in. Another potential entrance appeared half way down the wing; it was two double glass doors, the panes of which were coated on the inside with the black film. The handle to the doors was smeared with a dark substance, and Ron reached out to try it, but stopped himself when his fingers were inches from the goo. “Maybe not,” he said, trying to determine what the substance was before he touched it.
“I’ll try,” Jake offered, grabbing the handle and giving it a twist. It, too, was locked. He pulled his hand away and sniffed at it. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t smell, thank god.”
“This might be a good option for breaking in,” Ron said, “if we can’t find something easier. Just smash one of these panes of glass, reach in, and open the door from the inside.”
“Should work,” Jake agreed, wiping his hand on his jeans. “Nice and simple.”
They continued around the house, scanning each section of exterior wall, looking for doors. There were many more; two in the center, and two more along the east wing. All were secure.
They rounded the back corner of the east wing, finally able to see some of the other structures on the property. A long, single story building sat in the distance, as well as two smaller buildings next to it. Between the buildings and where they were standing was a sea of bramble four feet high, making the structures seem inaccessible.
“I’m guessing that’s a barn,” Jake observed.
“Mrs. Hughes said something about horses,” Ron replied, turning to hack his way through the blackberries that had grown against the east side of the house.
Another door appeared in the middle of this section, and Ron stopped to try it. The handle had received a good amount of direct sunlight and was very hot; he had to grab and twist quickly, then let go and try again. It, too, was locked.
They worked their way around the rest of the east side, winding up at the front once again. Ron was sweating from his work with the machete, and stopped for a moment to rest.
“Well, I say those glass doors,” Jake offered. “The first ones we saw. Easiest way in. There was that door on the upper balcony in the back, but I don’t feel like scaling the side of the house, do you?”
“I do not,” Ron replied, wiping his brow. “The glass doors it is.”
They walked around the house again, the process much easier with the path already cut. On the inside of the west wing they located the double glass doors and stood in front of them for a moment, considering the best approach.
“What do you think is behind all that black coating?” Jake asked, looking at the panes that comprised the doors.
“Well, if you believe Mrs. Hughes’ grandmother,” Ron replied, walking up to the door and using the handle of the machete to smash one of the panes, “it’s a physical manifestation of a curse. Or did she call it an infection? I forget. Something like that.” He used the tip of the machete to poke at the remaining shards of glass, taking note that the black coating on the back of the pane seemed to have disappeared, as though air from the outside had blown it away. The film on the inside of the unbroken surrounding panes, however, was still there.
When he finished, they both stared at the opening for a moment, neither one moving.
“You gonna reach in?” Jake asked.
“One of us will have to,” Ron replied. He stooped to peer through the broken pane; the sunlight was too bright, making it impossible to see anything inside. He removed a flashlight from the backpack and pointed it through the hole, moving closer to it, trying to determine what was beyond. After unsuccessfully pointing it at various angles, he said, “Fuck it,” and slipped his left hand inside, reaching to the right, where he assumed the lock would be.
His fingers landed on flat wood, and he moved them a little, searching. The longer he held his hand through the hole, the more he sensed something was there, on the other side, watching. With his fingertips he felt for metal shaped like a handle, probing for a smooth, cold texture, but the hair on the back of his hand was on high alert. It was such a vulnerable part of the body, with its veins and thin, tight skin. Its hairs were primed, ready to detect any faint wind or disturbance of air that might signal the approach of someone…ready to pull his hand out if he had to, if anything came close to touching him.
His fingertips hit something large, and he wrapped them around it, knowing he’d found the handle. He felt for the end, hoping it would be a simple lock he could turn to release the door. The raised ridge of cold metal told him he was on the right track; he pinched his thumb and finger together to grasp the ridge, making the top of his hand rise up a little, exposing its skin and hair and veins to whatever was standing on the other side, waiting, watching.
Does it understand what I’m doing? he thought. It must. I told it I was coming in.
He turned the ridge at the same time he felt something brush the back of his hand; it was something organic, but hard; he didn’t know why, but cartilage came to mind. The lock snapped into a new position, and he pulled his hand out of the hole as quickly as he could.
“Careful,” Jake said. “You cut yourself.”
Ron looked at the back of his hand. The small red streaks running across his knuckles and tendons looked like tiny ridges, and felt very cold.
“That’s not my blood,” he replied. “Something touched me.”
Jake bent to look through the hole. “You gotta be shitting me. You cut yourself on the glass.”
“No,” Ron said, rubbing at the marks until they came off, showing his friend. “Not my blood. It felt hard, but alive.”
“Aww, fuck!” Jake replied, turning away. “Maybe this is a bad fucking idea, Ron. Are you sure?”
Ron reached for the door handle and twisted. This time it spun in his hand, and he pushed…the door opened and he let go, allowing it to swing inside until it stopped, hitting the wall.
For a moment, Ron thought he heard a whoosh of air, as though the mansion had been starved for oxygen and was taking a huge breath. Realizing he felt no motion, no rush of air around him, he wondered if his brain, heightened into a state of anxiety, was embellishing things, creating a sense of drama where none really existed. It’s just an empty old house, he thought. It doesn’t breathe.
But something touched me. The house may not be alive, but something inside definitely is.
Light spilled in from the outside, and he stepped up to the doorway, looking inside, wondering if the person – or thing – that touched him was close by. Dark carpet covered the floor, and dust swirled through the air. An unpleasant odor blew out, like stale cloth, sheets that had sat unused for too long. There was a wall ahead, and Ron lifted the flashlight; a square outline darkened the wallpaper, framing the spot where a picture had once hung. Two screws emerged in the center, each secured with a heavy sink.
No one was there.
Ron stepped in.
“Stinks,” Jake observed, following closely behind.
The hallway they were in led to the left and the right; left appeared to continue to the end of the wing, while he assumed right would lead deeper into the house. Ron turned right and walked, using his flashlight to scan the walls; most artwork had been removed, but some furniture still remained; a set of columns that had once held planters, a small loveseat placed under an exterior window. The glass above it was dark and
black, fighting to block the sunlight outside.
The hallway soon opened into a larger room. Recessions in the carpet showed where the legs of heavier furniture had once been placed. An intricate pattern of wallpaper still clung to the walls, seams beginning to show in some spots. Ron wondered exactly how long the house had been vacant.
Moving into the next area, they came upon a short tiled hallway with open doors; inside each was a small room with a closet and no furniture. A bathroom was next, followed by another large, open area with carpeting. There was a large stain near the center of the room.
“Wonder what caused that?” Jake said, his flashlight pointing at the stain. His voice sounded muffled, suppressed; Ron assumed it was due to the carpeting.
He turned his flashlight up to the ceiling. No markings appeared on the smooth paint, nothing that would indicate a drip. “Not water damage,” he mumbled back, his words sounding as if he’d spoken them into a pillow.
Jake moved around the room, examining the walls with his flashlight. “Abe suggested we get in and out, fast,” he said. “This place is so big, we need to pick up the pace.”
Ron walked on. “And there’s still a second floor to check out.”
After encountering more hallways and rooms, they reached the front section of the house. A door on a double hinge led to the kitchen, where white tiled counters rimmed every wall. Above each counter were cabinets with glass doors, but the glass had been shattered, leaving only jagged edges imbedded in the frames.
“Look,” Ron said. “They were all smashed.”
“Vandals?”
“No glass on the floor, though,” Jake replied. “It was cleaned up.”
Along one side of the kitchen Ron found a door, the one they had tried while circling the west side of the house. A large piece of plywood had been nailed over it, secured by several two-by-fours. Ron examined the boards; thick screws held them to the molding.
“I don’t think we’d have made it through there,” Jake said, looking over his shoulder, “even if we had tried to kick it in.”
“Probably not.”
The Coldwater Haunting Page 28
