by Jill Cooper
The front doors are made up of two solid black doors. On either side of them are boarded up windows, and there’s spray paint graffiti on both. Clearly, we’re not the only ones who visited this place late at night.
“Why so much interest in Amber Chetwood?”
“Pretty sure that’s obvious.” I point to my face. “How exactly are you planning to get us in?”
“I have my ways.”
Ryan leads the way, and we make it up to the front steps. “Careful, these stepping stones are busted.” He takes my hand, and we round the side of the front entrance toward the rear of the estate. There’s what looks like an old carport and beside it, a door. Faded blue paint is chipped, and there’s a brass knocker in the center that looks like a lion.
I raise my eyebrows as Ryan grips the doorknob and thrusts his shoulder against the door with a grunt. “It’s just stuck with age. No one keeps this place maintained.”
“I noticed.”
Ryan grunts and gives another hard shove and a turn of the doorknob. The door loosens enough to open, and I gasp with surprise. It squeaks as Ryan pushes it open further. “And here I give you, the Chetwoods—for better or worse.” He turns on his flashlight, and we venture in.
I’m hit with the musty smell of the place first, and I turn my flashlight onto the popcorn ceilings and the dusty panel walls. We’re in a back hall of some sort. Going straight leads to a room, but Ryan leads me the other way. We walk past a Quaker style fireplace. I’m surprised to see there’s still furniture covered by sheets.
As if the owners might one day be home again.
We round the corner into the living room. The tile was once white and brown, but now it’s covered in dust and grime. The room has a large arched ceiling with a hanging chandelier and a grand staircase leading up to the second floor.
Two large bay windows are located by the front door, and the one on the far wall has a window seat. Thunder rumbles outside, and lightning illuminates the living room, casting shadows of branches against the wall. For a split second, I see an open drawer in the chest beneath the window seat.
I glance at Ryan, and he wears an expression of apprehension. Opening the drawer, I find an old dusty key. “I wonder what this opens.”
Ryan raises his eyebrows as he joins me at my side. “Only one way to find out.” He glances at the stairwell.
“Is it safe?”
“Safe as it gets. We have our trusty flashlights. And if you’re looking for answers on Amber, her room’s up there. Not down here.”
My heart patters quickly. “Have you seen it? Do you know what it’s like?”
“Every kid under the age of eighteen has seen it. This place is legend. I just thought I should be the one to show it to you.”
“It’s spooky.”
“I was going for romantic, but if you want to lean on me…”
I snort and give him a quick and playful elbow jab to the side. “I’ll go upstairs with you, but no funny business.”
“Fair enough.”
We walk up the stairs, and I trail only a step behind. “What about you? Why are you here in this house?” Even if it felt like more of a tomb.
“Other than you?” Ryan tosses me a glance with a smirk. “My family…My dad was in love with Amber. For a while, there was an infamous love triangle between him, Amber, and Jackson. Though that’s not how my dad talks about it.”
“How does he talk about it?”
We step onto the second-floor landing, and Ryan takes my hands. He rubs his thumb along my skin. “Like he was robbed and Jackson stole her. My dad’s a prideful man, what can I say? He loved Amber and treated her well. I think he wishes Amber chose him.”
An interesting story and my mind spins with everything this could imply. Could Jackson have killed Amber because she changed her mind on who she really wanted? Or had Ryan’s dad become enraged with jealousy and done the act himself?
“I guess we might never know,” I say. “This house…it makes me sad. There’s something mournful about the place.”
“Maybe it’s because you know what happened to the girl who lived here.”
I shrug. “Maybe. You said her room is up here?”
“I’ll show you.” Ryan kisses my hand and leads me down the hall. The rose-colored carpets are discolored by the decade’s worth of dust. Corners are torn up like they’ve been chewed by mice or other animals, and something smells foul, like decomposing vegetables sitting out too long in the trash.
I turn my flashlight onto the wooden door Ryan stops in front of. Out of everything in the home, this wood looks the most vibrant, like no time has passed. I reach for the doorknob, and downstairs, something falls. A quiver races through me, and I toss my head toward the stairs.
“Probably just a cat or something,” Ryan says. “I’ll go check it out. Make sure no ghouls are coming out of the woodwork to get us.”
Exasperated, I sigh. “Ryan—”
“I’m just teasing, Jess. I’m sure it’s fine, but I will go check it out. Come down in ten minutes, or I’m going to come back up after you.” Ryan turns his flashlight toward the stairs but changes his mind. He turns his face and kisses the corner of my lip.
I’m too afraid of where we are to enjoy the moment too long except for the smell of his aftershave.
I twist the doorknob and push the door open. The delicate fragrance of honeysuckle flowers hits me as hard as a gust of wind. Stepping through, I aim my flashlight at the four-post canopy bed and a dingy white comforter covered in pink embroidered flowers. There’s a brown end table against the wall and a poster of NSYNC, an ancient band from the early 2000s.
The short wall has a balcony with a set of French glass doors that give a view of the forest bordering the estate. It’s not much in the way of comfort. Instead of sunshine and roses, there’s nothing but the curtain of night. Branches tick against the glass plane, and the door bangs with every small gust of wind.
I take a deep breath and walk toward the dresser against the wall. There’s a wooden chest, and a stuffed teddy bear in a pink tutu, but even his eyes seem sad. Once, this place had been vibrant. It had been full of life. And now all of its hope had been replaced by broken dreams.
Plus, a lot of dirt.
I feel for Amber and all she had lost, but I also feel for her family.
I open the top dresser drawer and find a series of newspaper clippings from the Bay Harbor Gazette. Curious, I pull them out. There’s no date but the paper looks aged and brown around the edges. I read them in disbelief. “CHETWOOD SCANDAL. KIDNAPPED BABY. WHAT HAPPENED TO THE REAL AMBER CHETWOOD?”
The real Amber Chetwood?
I gasp and step back, gazing up at the painted portrait of Amber. She’s in a pink dress and seated in a high back chair. Her hands are folded, and she wears a dainty smile on her face. There’s a big pink bow holding her hair back—nothing a sixteen-year-old teen would pick for themselves.
Around her neck, she wears a golden locket with a diamond in the center. I touch my own necklace. They’re not so different. We’re so much alike—from our faces to our noses and even our smiles—we could be the same person. What secrets does she hold about me? Was I meant to come here and help her?
I need to learn more about her. I need to know what her life was like before homecoming. It’s not just a desire. I need it. Like I need air to breathe.
“What are you trying to tell me?” I whisper. To be honest, I’m not sure it’s even true. I don’t know if she’s really trying to tell me something, but I feel like she is. I reach out and touch the painting.
A moment later, thunder bursts outside. The lightning illuminates the shadow of a woman standing in the corner. Her wet, soggy hair is hanging in front of her face. I stare with wide eyes as my flashlight begins to flicker. I give it a shake. “Not now. Not now,” I whisper through gritted teeth.
Then she’s gone.
The glass on the French door rattles. The dark shadow reappears and moves toward me. I
shriek and cover my head as the doors fly open, and the painting falls off the wall and crashes to the dresser. It topples over to the floor. A pained groan seems to emit from it. It’s all I can take. Fear rattles me on the inside. I run for the exit, but it slams shut.
I bang my hand on the door and throw a glance over my shoulder. The shadow is back, and it’s coming closer. I’m screwed.
“Jess!” Ryan screams from somewhere in the house.
“I’m here!” I grab the handle and twist, but the door won’t open. “Help, Ryan!” My voice is high pitched, and I’m too terrified to move as I hear growling coming from the corner in the room.
Using a sheer force of will, I turn myself around. The French doors are shut again, and my flashlight turns back on. In a panic, I shine it in all the corners, hoping I imagined whatever it was that terrified me.
There’s nothing.
I blow out a sigh of relief and figure I just panicked.
As I turn my light onto the painting, I notice something off about the wall where the painting had hung. I rush over to the wall and run my hand down the wallpaper. There’s a slit. I reach inside and find a tiny hole hidden in the wall. My fingers stretch and grab an envelope. Pulling it out of the wall, I see a thin, sealed manila envelope. It’s not addressed or very thick. What could it be? Who would’ve hidden it here?
Amber. There were no other options.
“Jess!” Ryan knocks against the door. “I think it’s locked on your side.”
I fold the envelope and hide it in my purse beside the rusted key I found. It’s no small feat. I should tell Ryan, but I’m not sure I can bring myself to trust him that much—yet. I rush to the door and unlock it. “Ryan!”
With a big sigh, he hugs me. “Thank God, you’re all right. When I heard that scream… What happened?”
“Oh.” I shrug it off. “Lightning, a door slam, something fell. When I couldn’t get the door opened, I freaked. I hope you won’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” He touches my chin delicately, and I can feel my cheeks flushing with heat.
“And everything downstairs?”
“Same. A large serving plate hanging above the fireplace in the kitchen fell. A shadow in the dining room nearly scared me to death, though.”
A shadow? I resist the fear I can feel creeping up on me. “How about we get out of here before something bad does happen?” I grab his hand, and we rush down the stairs.
“Something’s got you spooked,” Ryan says as we rush through the living room and back down the hallway toward where we snuck inside. It’s time to make a hasty exit. But before I get the chance to open the side exit, Ryan places his hand on the door.
I spin to face him. “What’s that about?”
“I promised myself—I promised that before we left here, I’d get you to kiss me.”
We’re nose to nose, and I can’t resist how he flirts or how handsome he is. I close my eyes as our lips meet, and his arms tighten around my waist. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, Jess,” he whispers.
I bite my lip as a hissing noise escapes the fireplace behind him. He grips my waist, and I hold onto his shoulder as darkness spreads out from the fireplace. Hair grows and floats toward us as the form of a woman pulls herself together and jumps at us.
We both scream. I yank the door open, and we both run out, neither of us bothering to shut the door again. “Come on!” I grab Ryan’s hand, and we run down the crumbling road toward the waiting car at the bottom.
My footing slips and I fall down onto my butt and slide down through the mud. Ryan chases after me. “Jess!”
“I’m okay.” I dust my butt off. I might be embarrassed, but I’m all right.
“Did you…see?” Ryan points at me and then back up to the house.
“I did.” I swallow hard. “And it’s not the first time. I keep seeing…her.”
Ryan scowls and takes several steps down, further away from the house. “You think…?”
“Just what you’re thinking, but I don’t know why she keeps appearing. I mean, until a few days ago I didn’t believe in ghosts at all. But she’s made a real believer out of me.”
“What do you think she wants?”
I shake my head. We’re almost to the car, and I’m filled with a sense of relief we’ll be out of here soon. “Justice? Her voice heard? I really don’t know. Whenever I see her…I run away.”
“I definitely can’t blame you there. I wonder… I mean, what do you think would happen if you didn’t run away?”
I swallow hard and feel frozen with dread. “Other than I might lose my soul or be devoured by the living dead?”
Ryan shrugs. “Yeah, other than that.”
I don’t know. And I’m terrified to find out.
Chapter Ten: Amber 2003
Talk about your rags to riches story.
Except mine is more in reverse.
What happened at the Sinclair dinner party travels through Bay Harbor like wildfire. At school, everyone stares at me as I walk by. Carolyn keeps her distance from me—the only friend I have is Jenny. Jackson won’t look at me or return my calls. Martin is the one who continues to leave messages on my phone. He follows me around campus. I worry about what he might do.
If I tell the headmaster that Martin raped me, I know he won’t believe me because my own parents don’t.
Just two days ago, I stood in my living room in a vomit stained black dress. I sobbed while my parents berated me. “The shame you bring to this family! Jackson is a good boy from a good family. You were set to have everything. How could you—?”
“Martin raped me!” I lash out with my words, my tone cutting through the atmosphere in the room. Why are they attacking me? Parents are supposed to be on your side. The look in Mother’s eyes is pure anger and shame. I embarrassed her, and when you’re a Chetwood, that’s unforgivable.
Unforgivable.
Father snorts and turns his head. His hands in his pocket, he heads over to the mahogany bar to pour himself another whiskey. What’s one more? He’s always drinking, as much as I loathe to admit it. Neither of my parents are perfect, but they were mine, and I thought they were always on my side.
“You know how to get what you want, Amber. Always have,” Father says with a sad drawl to his voice. “You played with fire. Two boys. And Martin let you have it. To go around throwing rape as an accusation when it’s unfounded—”
My eyes widen with disbelief. “It’s not unfounded! It’s true! Mother,” I plead with her to believe me, but she turns her gaze aside. She fiddles with the medallion she wears around her neck. I realize it’s futile to argue with her. With anyone. My parents have both made up their minds about me, and it’s heartbreaking.
So heartbreaking.
We hadn’t discussed it since, and things go back to normalcy in the house except the chimes I hear when I’m alone are louder. I can’t ignore their call, and I spend more time looking for them if only out of boredom. They make me travel in circles, and when I enter the atrium that overlooks the back gardens, I hear a whisper. A giggle.
It drives me from the room. Something about it terrifies me.
Things are so much different at school. My uniform is pressed, and my appearance is immaculate, but as I walk through the hall, students stare. A boy lifts up my skirt, and I bat him away. Another makes kissing noises at me.
I want nothing more than to fade away. Angry. Sad. I want people to ask me for my side before they make assumptions.
My heart is in freefall when I arrive at my locker only to see the words Whore and Slut spray-painted across it. I sob and cover my mouth, feeling a hand come to my shoulder. I hope at first that it’ll be Jackson, but it’s Jenny. Still, it’s good to see a friendly face.
“Jenny,” my voice cracks and my lip trembles. I don’t know how to deal with what is happening.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’ll blow over. You just have to keep your head down.”
“
Do you believe me? About Martin?”
Her eyes never waver. “If you say that’s the way it happened, I believe you. I know you wouldn’t lie.”
I’m so thankful for her. So thankful. If I have one person that believes in me, it proves there can be more. The bell rings, and we start our walk down the hall. As we round toward the staircase, Mr. Davis waits for me. He motions with his finger, and I fear what it is he wants to say to me more than any other talk I’ve feared since the Sinclair dinner party. It’s like being dragged in front of an execution squad.
I follow him to his office, and there’s no offer for scones or tea like there usually is. He sits me down in a chair beside his fireplace, and he takes up a seat in front of me. He folds his hands, sighs with discomfort, and rolls his shoulders back. I wait for him to say something and cross my legs, appearing like a lady with dignity.
“There’s been a lot of…talk…these last few days about you, Ms. Chetwood. How you govern yourself. There are disruptions in the hall of our institution, boys in a tizzy over you, and the things you’re willing to do.”
Every word out of his mouth is offensive. “I’m not willing to do those things. Martin has warped the truth. I didn’t have sex with Martin of my own free will. He forced me.”
“He forced you?” Mr. Davis raises his eyebrows. I think he looks concerned, and I feel a bit of hope.
“Yes, sir. He locked the car. Said I had asked for it and took what he wanted from me. I couldn’t get away.” My fingernails dig into my thigh as my mind takes me back to that scary night.
“Did you ask him to stop?”
“Several times.”
“And when you went home, did you tell your parents? A friend? Did you file a police report?”
“No,” I admit with a shaky breath. “I was afraid no one would believe me.”
