“But you don’t understand—”
“I do,” he insisted. “You have other interests, and I’m no longer one of them.” He busied himself with his work things, packing his laptop into a padded backpack. “I want you to do everything you want to do. Hopefully, moving to Falconwood will be like a dry run for you. You’ll see what it’s like to live in a place where you don’t know anyone.”
“That doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
I expected the five-hour drive to Falconwood to be some of the worst time I’d ever spent with Ben—we had so much to say to each other and no audacity to say it—but Ben was in a good mood. As our hometown vanished in the rearview mirror and we merged onto the long lines of the interstate, he casually chatted about his new job and the stray cat he’d befriended that lived behind his favorite sports pub. By the time we made our first pit stop, he still hadn’t run out of conversation topics. Evidently, Watson the cat was a fat orange tabby who liked leftover cheese curds more than they liked him. Go figure.
As the hours wore on, we played the license plate game and a few rounds of I Spy before running out of things to spy because everything on the way to Falconwood looked exactly the same. An upward slope framed the road, at the top of which sat a line of naked, snow-covered trees. They looked down at us from their pedestal like the gods and goddesses of nature. Should any car dare to stray from the road, the trees were there to stop them.
“Hills like white elephants,” Ben said when I casually asked if he thought trees were sentient. “That’s what it reminds me of.”
“What?”
“It’s a short story by Hemingway,” he replied, his eyes never leaving the road. “It’s about an American guy and a foreign girl at a train station. The girl is pregnant, but the guy doesn’t want her to have the baby. She says the hills look like white elephants. It’s a metaphor.”
“So the trees are white elephants?”
“No. They’re every picture you ever took of me.”
We fell silent after that, and it wasn’t until I spotted the first green road sign with Falconwood printed on it that I spoke up again.
“Thirty miles,” I said. “Almost there.”
According to the map on Ben’s phone, we have to drive through the little downtown area of Falconwood to reach Abram Mansion, which is located on the outskirts of town. As we exited at the proper ramp, the road tipped downward, putting us at the top of a shallow valley. Falconwood was nestled in the trough below. Craftily built so as to not disrupt nature’s flow, the town was only visible if you looked at the spaces between the trees. As we drove closer, the twinkle of Christmas lights beckoned us toward the center of town, though the holiday season had ended at least a week ago.
“Wow,” Ben said, gazing through the windshield as the town opened up in front of us. “This place is beautiful.”
Like everywhere else, Falconwood had received a powdery layer of snow the night before. At home, it had already melted into gray slush, muddying the roads and making everything dreary and wet. Here, the snow retained its purity. The roads and sidewalks were cleared, but the drifts along the curbs went untouched, almost as if the locals purposely avoided them to ensure the dreamlike winter wonderland.
It was early afternoon, and Falconwood was popping with action. Post-Christmas sales lured deal-hungry mothers from their warm dens to buy discounted kitchen appliances for themselves and power tools to give to their husbands next year. The windows of the shops were outlined in frost and hand-painted with enticing messages like “Free hot chocolate with the purchase of any pastry!” and “Half-off Christmas decorations!” Children raced to and fro, shedding hats and mittens as they huffed hot breath across any glass surface they could find to draw faces in the condensation. Most of them were unsupervised. In a town as small as this one, where crime probably peaked at two percent, most parents were comfortable with letting their little ones go wherever their whimsical hearts desired.
In the center of the square, the town had erected a temporary ice skating rink. As we passed through the traffic circle around it, children and adults alike laced up rented skates and tiptoed onto the ice. Too soon, we passed the unimpeded joy of the skaters and crossed through the residential side of town. The neighborhood was just as picturesque as the rest of the town. The houses were quaint, snow-covered cottages, some still displaying Christmas trees or menorahs in the front windows. All of Falconwood was reluctant to let the holiday season go. As the houses thinned out, the trees thickened, and a hush fell over the car. We drove for a few miles longer, but there was no sign of civilization.
“Did we pass it?” I asked Ben, tapping his phone to check the map.
“Nope,” he said. “It’s up here.”
He turned off the main road and onto an unpaved, one-way road that hadn’t been cleared of snow. Thankfully, the all-terrain tires on our SUV were up to the job as Ben carefully navigated through the thick forest. At some points, the road disappeared amongst the surrounding natural elements, and Ben’s phone lost our location. Thankfully, Ben’s sense of direction kept us on the right track, and we trundled through the low branches into a huge clearing. I craned my neck for my first look at the house.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The Abram Mansion held none of the charm one expected out of its label, though it did deliver on size. It was enormous, branching off in different directions. From the front, I couldn’t tell exactly how big it was since the bare gray branches of the trees and the low-floating clouds of fog obscured most of the mansion’s construction. I could see, however, that the roof had caved in on the far left portion of the house due to forty years of snow and no maintenance. One of the chimneys was toppled over too. The entire mansion was made of white stones. Long ago, it might have shone brightly against its wintry gray backdrop, but the color had since faded, and the house sunk into the forested mountainside like it had given up on existing.
Ben parked in the circular driveway. A dilapidated double-sided staircase led up to the front door, the mansion itself elevated above ground level. Crumbling pillars held up a balcony on the second floor and a massive terrace attached to the right side of the house. Beneath the terrace was a room made of all glass windows, many of which had succumbed to the test of time. The garden inside had been taken over by invasive vines that roped their way up the columns and around the rest of the house. The mansion’s many windows were boarded up or broken, the yard was thick with dead weeds, and every stone in the driveway was cracked. Everywhere I looked, the house was in a ridiculous state of ruin.
“It’s big,” Ben said once we stepped out of the car.
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” I asked him. “Ben, we can’t live here! This place is a total disaster area. Do you see that roof? One wrong step, and the whole thing comes down on us.”
Ben tested the first step of the once-extravagant staircase. When it held, he started up to the house. “That’s only one portion of the house. Places like these were built in segments. We can section the dangerous parts off and stay in one of the safe ones.”
“If there are any safe ones.”
“There’s a reason it’s still standing,” Ben said as he reached the top of the steps and tipped his head back to take in the height of the mansion. “Craftsmanship back then was an art. They built things to last. I’m sure most of this place is fine.”
As soon as I planted my boot, the stone beneath it cracked in two. I hopped off it and tripped up to the next step. “Not likely.”
“Should we check inside?”
I frowned at the grand entrance. “I guess we have to.”
The old key was cast out of iron, and when Ben slid it into the rusted lock, it grated horribly. The door popped open before Ben actually turned the key, welcoming us into the darkened foyer.
“We should probably get that fixed,” Ben said.
“You think?”
With most of the w
indows boarded up, the entryway was shrouded in shadow. One timid beam of pale sunlight worked its way through to illuminate a single strip of dusty carpet. Ben flicked the nearest light switch, but none of the bronze sconces flickered on.
“No electricity?” I said. “We’re going to freeze.”
Ben turned on his phone light and shined it around the room. The entryway had a magnificently high ceiling, hand-painted with a variety of family crests. A mezzanine with a double staircase that mirrored the one outside looked over the massive hall. Beneath the open second floor was a seating area with high windows that presumably looked out into the courtyard. The furniture that hadn’t yet been looted was covered with dusty white sheets, but for the most part, the interior was bare. Something crunched under my foot, and I looked down to find a few pieces of pink confetti littered across the floor.
“Looks like they were party people,” Ben said as he walked over to the enormous hearth at the head of the entryway. He yanked the boards from the mouth of the fireplace and peered up the chimney. “This looks okay. We could light a fire tonight.”
“Be careful,” I warned him.
But Ben thumped his head on the brickwork as he withdrew, and something skittered inside the chimney. Ben backed away slowly, rubbing his new bruise.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t see anything.”
A bat swooped out of the chimney and flew right between us, its wings brushing my face. I let out a yell, and the creature flinched in midair. With a spasmodic flutter, it found the open space beyond the front doors and lifted itself up and away from the house as my heartbeat settled back into its natural rhythm.
Ben started laughing. “You have ash on your face.”
I swiped furiously at my cheek with the sleeve of my sweater. “Shut up. You would’ve screamed too if it attacked your face.”
“It didn’t attack you,” Ben said, still chuckling. “It was probably scared. We shooed it out of its home.”
“Good,” I said. “He’s being evicted. Is there anything else up there? Raccoons or possums who’ve decided to find a warm, cozy spot for the winter?”
Ben picked up one of the iron pokers near the hearth and rattled it around the bottom of the fireplace, but no other creatures decided to take their leave.
“It’s not the last we’ll see of the critters,” Ben said. “The house is practically a part of the forest now. I bet there are a quite a few animals in here. Definitely rats.”
The thought of tiny rodent feet crawling across my face while I’m sleeping made me shudder. “Okay, that’s it. There’s no way I’m staying here.”
Ben followed as I stomped out of the mansion, down the steps, and back to the car. I got into the driver’s seat and rolled down the window.
“Give me the keys.”
He handed them through the window. “Where are you going to go?”
“We are going to go find a nice bed and breakfast in the center of town,” I said, starting the car and turning up the heat to warm my hands. “Get in. I’m not leaving you here.”
I drove back to the center of town and parked near the first coffee shop I happened to see. It was a red brick corner building with a sign that read “Black Cat Café.” Ben offered me his hand. If it were out of romance, I wouldn’t have taken it, but the sidewalks were slick with ice, so I intertwined my fingers with his.
The coffee shop greeted us with a warm gust of heat. I stamped the snow off my boots on the rubber mat by the door before joining the line to the counter. As Ben peered up at the menu, I couldn’t help but notice that every person in the coffee shop had turned to look at us.
“Uh, Ben?” I muttered, stretching up on my tippy toes to reach his ear. “Why is everyone staring at us?”
Oblivious as ever, Ben replied, “Are they?”
When we reached the counter, a teenage girl wearing a white apron with the minimalist outline of a cat on the front wrote the last person’s order on a paper cup and asked, “Welcome to Black Cat Café. What can I get started for you?”
“One cappuccino,” Ben ordered, digging into his pockets for spare bills. “And a regular black coffee. Right, Peyton?”
The teenager looked up from the register. “Whoa. Out-of-towners.”
Ben offered her the money, but she was so enraptured by our presence that she didn’t take it. “I take it you don’t get a lot of visitors through Falconwood.”
“Never,” the girl replied. “What are you doing here?”
“This town sure is friendly,” I muttered.
The teenager finally took our payment and tossed it into the cash register. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude. You took me by surprise. I’m Hayden. And you are?”
Every patron in the coffee shop leaned in to listen to our reply.
“I’m Ben, and this is my wife, Peyton.” He wasn’t technically wrong, but it bothered me to let all these people think we weren’t on the brink of a divorce. “We own the Abram Mansion a few miles away.”
Maybe it was my imagination, but I could have sworn a mutter passed through the café in response to Ben’s words. Hayden definitely wore a look of surprise.
“The Abram Mansion?” she said. “That place has been empty for years.”
“We’re moving in,” Ben announced with a warm smile as Hayden gave him the receipt. “Hope to see you around, Hayden. My wife loves coffee, so we’ll be in here a lot.”
I mustered a smile, but it didn’t have the same effect as Ben’s. Hayden lifted her eyebrows at me.
“Your coffee will be out in a minute,” she said.
Every table was occupied by a Falconwood local. Shopping bags cluttered the floor, making it difficult to navigate through the cramped café. Ben and I waited by the counter where the orders came out for pick-up. Each time I made eye contact with someone, they quickly looked away.
“This place is weird,” I whispered.
“Can you relax?” Ben said. “You heard Hayden. They’re not used to visitors. We do the exact same thing at home whenever someone new drops in. Small towns are all the same. Any news is big news.”
“I don’t want to stay here.”
A father passing with his two children looked Ben up and down. Ben smiled and waved at the kids with his hand underneath his chin. The youngest child laughed and waved back in the same manner. The dad’s expression thawed, and he grinned at Ben.
“You do remember what David said, right?” Ben said. “We have to live here, in the house, for six months. Legally.”
“So we change our address to 101 Creepy Mansion Lane,” I replied. “Then we find a nice house in the neighborhood down there to rent instead.”
“That might work,” Ben said. “But David said they’d send one of your grandfather’s lawyers to check up on us from time to time.”
“What? When did he say that?”
“He called me yesterday.”
“And you didn’t bother to tell me?”
“I didn’t think it was that important.” Ben collected our order from the baristas who dropped it off at the pick-up counter and scanned the crowded room. “No room in here. Want to sit outside?”
“It’s freezing outside.”
“They have warmers,” Ben pointed out. “And the snow is so nice.”
“I’m cold already.”
Someone tapped on my shoulder. I turned to see an older woman wearing a hand-knitted sweater with a pattern of snowflakes across the front that reminded me of Ben’s trademark winter wear. At first glance, the woman looked to be in her fifties. Her hands were muscled, and her legs appeared thick and strong beneath her snow pants. The lines around her eyes, however, gave away the amount of years she’s actually been on this earth. If I had to guess, she was close to seventy.
“Hello,” she said brightly, shaking my hand, then Ben’s. “I’m Della Gordon. Would you like to sit down with me and my husband? We wrangled the best booth in the house, but it’s far t
oo big for just the two of us.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I said. “We’ll find somewhere else. We don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“Nonsense!”
Della linked her arm through mine and pulled me along, leaving Ben no choice but to follow behind us. Della led us to a booth at the front of the café, right by the frost-covered window. From here, you could watch the ice-skaters glide around the temporary rink. A man nursed a steaming beverage in the booth already. Like Della, it was hard to tell exactly how old he was because he had aged so incredibly well.
“This is my husband, Basil,” Della said.
“Oh, good. You convinced them.” Basil grinned up at us. “I saw you two come in and knew you would be hard-pressed to find seats. Why don’t you join us?”
“Thanks,” Ben said as he slid into the empty side of the booth. “We appreciate it. We’ve been driving all day.”
“I couldn’t help but overhear you at the counter,” Della said, sitting next to her husband. “Did you say you own the Abram Mansion now?”
Ben patted the empty seat beside his, a subtle gesture to get me to sit down. I almost excused myself. If all small towns were the same, then so were the locals. Everyone wanted to know your private business just so they had something to talk about to their friends later. But since we were going to be in Falconwood for half a year, I sucked it up and took my place beside Ben.
“We inherited it,” I told Della and Basil. “We thought we’d stay in Falconwood for a little while, but it looks like that house is in no shape for anyone to live in.”
Basil stirred a bit of raw sugar into his coffee then offered the container to me. “I can imagine. That place has been empty for a while now, hasn’t it? I thought it had been abandoned.”
Basil too wore a hand-knit sweater, though his was decorated with Christmas trees instead of snowflakes. Their outfits complemented each other in a way that spoke to their solidarity as a couple. Despite their introductions, neither one of them wore a wedding ring.
“Are you still going to stay?” Della asked.
The Haunting of Abram Mansion Page 3
