Haunted

by Amy Cross

  “We have a blow-up air bed,” Brad says suddenly.

  At this, everyone falls silent.

  “Sorry,” he continues, looking a little uncomfortable now, “I was just thinking about...”

  He glances at me.

  “Sorry.”

  “This chicken is wonderful,” Diane says, trying to steer the conversation back to something a little more normal. “How do you manage to keep it so moist? I always worry about salmonella and end up making the meat horribly dry.”

  “I'm not really very experienced in the kitchen yet,” I tell her, “but on Youtube I saw this video with a few tips and -”

  Before I can finish, there's a sudden but very clear and distinct bump from above, as if something fell onto the floor in the main bedroom. I immediately look up, and then when I turn to the others I see that Diane and Tom are exchanging a worried glance.

  “I guess something fell down,” I tell them.

  “Do you hear things like that a lot in this house?” Diane asks.

  “I'm sorry?”

  “No, I'm sorry,” she continues, suddenly seeming pretty embarrassed as she turns her attention back to her food. “It can be difficult, can't it, keeping a house all spick and span? Heaven knows, I find it a daily struggle just to keep our home from descending into absolute chaos, especially since Tom retired. At least when he was doctoring about, I had the place to myself during the days.”

  “I think that's enough,” Tom whispers to her.

  “Of course,” she adds. “I'm sorry.”

  “It was probably a hairbrush,” Brad suggests. “Alex stands them up on their handles, like she's balancing them. I don't know why, it's just a little thing she does.”

  “I'm sure he's right,” I add, even though it's clear that Diane and Tom are suddenly not so comfortable. “I do stand my hairbrushes up like that. I don't know why, really. Just an old habit, I guess.”

  Nobody replies, so I look down and cut off a slice of chicken breast while I wait for one of the others to get the conversation rolling again. I was hoping that by holding this little dinner party, we'd be opening the house up and making the place feel more like our home. Instead, it's clear that both Tom and Diane are tiptoeing around the subject of the house's history. I've noticed several glances exchanged between them, and there have been half a dozen awkward silences.

  “I used to look at the windows,” Tom says finally, “when I came home late from work.”

  I turn to him.

  “It always felt wrong,” he continues, “with this house being so dark and empty. I understood why it was left empty, of course, but it still felt wrong. And then this past week, with you two living here, I can't tell you how much better it felt to see lights on and people moving about in the windows. Honestly, it's all a marked improvement, and I feel it's really lifted the mood of the entire neighborhood.”

  “Well, that's nice to hear,” I reply. “Thank you.”

  “Of course, I was still very surprised when I learned who had moved in. I never -”

  “Perhaps we shouldn't talk about this,” Diane whispers to him.

  “Right,” he adds, “I'm sorry. It's just, Alex... I knew your father and -”

  There's a sudden bump, but this time it's clearly coming from under the table and it doesn't take a genius to work out that Diane just kicked her husband.

  “Right,” he mutters. “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “It's fine,” I tell them, although I can see in the corner of my eye that Brad isn't comfortable with this topic. Still, rather than awkwardly avoiding the subject for the rest of the evening, I figure maybe it's best to tackle it head-on. “To be honest, I did avoid the house for many years. It was only recently that I realized I was in danger of spending my entire life running from what happened. Things got pretty self-destructive for a while, and it was all because of my fears. I always thought I should maybe come and visit, but then we were trying to get our finances together to buy a house and I realized it was silly to be doing all that, when this perfectly-good house was sitting here completely empty. Unsellable, but empty. So here we are.”

  “Here you are,” Tom replies, forcing a smile. “That's so brave.”

  “It's just a house,” I point out, before I can stop myself saying those four hackneyed words again. “I mean... Well, that's all it is. Walls. Floors. A roof. Everything else is what we make of it.”

  “And you don't feel strange being here?” Diane asks.

  “I think it's good to confront the past.”

  “But you could have done that by just visiting,” she continues. “Actually moving here seems like quite a big step.” She eyes me cautiously for a moment. “You didn't have any other reasons for coming back, did you?”

  “We're thinking of starting a family,” Brad tells her, before turning to me. “Isn't that right?”

  “Here?” Diane adds, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

  “It's as good a place as any,” Brad replies.

  “Well, yes, but...” She pauses, and then she turns to me, and then a faint smile crosses her lips. “Oh, well that would be wonderful,” she continues finally, and now her joy seems genuine. “I can't tell you how pleased I'd be, to have little children playing in the neighborhood again. I can't wait.”

  “Sure,” I reply, despite a ripple of fear in my chest. I really don't want to discuss children right now. “I guess you could say that the pieces just fell a certain way and this ended up being the best option. And once we'd made the decision to come here, I felt a lot better. Like I wasn't running from anything anymore. Plus, I wanted to gently test my memory and see if anything else came out. It's been hard, living the past twenty years with a big missing chunk.”

  “Of course,” Diane says. “Not that it's anybody else's business anyway. I just remember that night. I mean, I wasn't there, but I heard the shouting and of course word traveled fast. By morning, we all knew what your father had...”

  She pauses, and now the whole atmosphere feels distinctly frosty. This is exactly what I didn't want to have happen tonight, and as I look down at my food I realize that maybe I've been an idiot. Maybe I should have known that as soon as we started talking about the past, the subject of my father would come up.

  Maybe to the people of Railham, I'll never be anything more than Michael Blaine's daughter.

  “I think,” Brad says finally, “that Alex came back to the house because she wanted to confront her past and prove to others, to everyone, something that she already knew in her heart. Which is that she's not defined by what happened to her when she was a kid, and that she doesn't have to forget or deny any of that in order to move on. It's part of her, but only a small part.” He reaches under the table and holds my hand, and after a moment he moves our hands together onto the table, so they can be seen. “Trust me,” he adds. “There is way more to Alex than what happened to her on August 30th 1997, and I could not be prouder to call her my wife.”

  “That's beautiful,” Diane says after a moment, with a hint of tears in her eyes. “Really beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, glancing at Brad and feeling as if he just rescued me from a sticky situation. “You're right. That is why I came back.”

  I look over at Diane and see that she's watching me as if she studying my every move.

  “I'm sorry,” she says finally, as if she's coming out of a trance. “It's just that for a moment, you looked so much like him.”

  “I made a pie for dessert,” I continue, hoping to get back on track and maybe sound more normal. “I haven't made many pies yet, so I'm afraid it's something of an experiment, but I really hope you'll like it. We thought maybe we could eat out on the back patio. The view of the town is really lovely in the evenings.”

  ***

  A short while later, once Brad has taken the Milfords out to the patio and I've stayed inside to get the pie ready, I can't help but creep upstairs. Heading to the door that leads into the master bedroom, I peer through and immediately feel
a flash of relief as I spot a hairbrush resting on the floor.

  So much for the idea of ghosts.

  Chapter Ten

  Sheriff Michael Blaine

  20 years ago

  “If you can get those to me as fast as possible, that'd be great,” I tell the agent on the other end of the line. “Put a rush on it.”

  As soon as I've set the phone down, I feel a ripple of guilt. After all, I just arranged to get phone and bank records for Maurice and Penelope Garvey, stretching back six months. Deep down, I don't believe for one moment that they have anything to do with their daughter's death, but at the same time my gut is telling me that something isn't right with the pair of them. They were cagey as hell when I went to spoke to them earlier, and while I've never been a fan of amateur psychology, I can't shake the feeling that they were struggling to keep from telling me something.

  Leaning back in my chair, I finally close my eyes, just for a moment. It's late and I'm exhausted, but I can't afford to sleep, not yet. I can rest my eyes, maybe, but -

  “Boss?” Harry says suddenly.

  Turning, I see that he's at the door to my office.

  “We've got a situation on the street out front,” he continues. “I thought you'd be better at dealing with it than me 'cause, well, you're good at talking to people, aren't you?”

  ***

  “Woah, hey! Stop!”

  Waving my arms in the air, I wait for old Mrs. Loach to spot me. Instead, her rusty Cadillac shoots forward and bumps against the sidewalk, almost hitting a fire hydrant before thumping back down and coming straight for me. I step out of the way as she rumbles past, and then she slams her feet on the brakes and brings the car to a halt.

  Sighing, I lean down toward the open window.

  “Mrs. Loach!” I say firmly. “Rosemary! I need you to switch the engine off and give me the keys!”

  “Oh, I'll be out of your way in a second or two,” she replies, and I swear I can smell the gin on her breath already. She's soused, which is pretty standard for her on a weeknight. Or a weekend. Even now, her speech is slurred. “Just give me one moment please, officer.”

  “I'm afraid I -”

  Before I can finish, she sends the car lurching forward. I step back, getting my toes out of the tire's path just in time, and then I hurry after her. Fortunately this isn't a busy street, not this late in the evening, but I still can't let the old dear go driving around when she's wasted. She lives all the way on the other side of town, and there are plenty of things she could hit between here and there. Plenty of people, too.

  Finally, figuring that I need to get the situation under control, I hurry to the passenger side and open the door, climbing in just as she hits the pedal again and the car rushes forward. The open door bumps against a pole, suffering a glancing blow as I swing it shut.

  “Excuse me one moment,” I say, reaching over and switching the engine off, bringing the car to a halt at an angle at the edge of the street. Taking the keys out of the ignition, I slip them into my breast pocket and then lean back, feeling a little out of breath. That was the first time I've ever jumped into a moving car, and it's not exactly an experience I want to repeat in a hurry.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Loach mutters.

  “Yeah,” I reply, “oh dear.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, and frankly I think I shouldn't spend too long in here, otherwise I might get drunk on the fumes coming from her mouth. She's like a gin dragon.

  “Harold Porter's fence,” I say finally.

  “Harold Porter's fence?”

  “Lovely white picket fence on the corner back there.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.”

  “That rings a bell,” she admits.

  I turn to her. “You're trailing part of it.”

  “I am?”

  “You are. You hit it just now, and now four or five meters of the damn thing are hanging from your fender.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Mrs. Loach,” I continue with a sigh, “please don't be offended by this question, but I have to ask. Have you had a drink or two this evening?”

  “I don't remember, dear.”

  “A few gins at one of the bars in town?”

  “Oh. I was at one of the bars, yes. It's my birthday, you see.”

  “Like you need an excuse,” I mutter under my breath. “Anyway, it's not your birthday. Your birthday was months ago.”

  “It was?” She furrows her brow. “How old did I turn? Eighty-three or eighty-four?”

  “Something like that,” I reply, not wanting to tell her that she's actually eighty-five. “The point is, you're way over the limit, so I really can't let you drive home.”

  “Oh, don't worry about that,” she replies with a smile. “I don't live far away. Just give me the keys and I'll be fine.”

  “I'm going to get one of my deputies to drive you home.”

  “I don't want to bother anyone.”

  “You can come and collect your car in the morning. Or the afternoon. Whenever you start to feel better.”

  “I feel perfectly good right now.”

  She reaches over and tries to take the keys from my pocket, but I gently push her aged, arthritic hand away.

  “Oh, let's pack it in with this nonsense,” she continues, even though I can see that she's struggling to focus. She used to be my teacher at kindergarten, and I feel like she's going to snap and start chastising me at any moment. “I've only had a few glasses and I can make it home perfectly well. I've learned to control myself, young man. I'm not like all those other imbeciles who become paralytic after a quick snifter. You can trust me!”

  “No, I really -”

  “Give me my keys, young man!” she snaps, suddenly shifting into a burst of anger. “I won't have this intolerable behavior. You must give me my keys at once!”

  “Mrs. Loach -”

  “They are my keys and I demand that you turn them over!”

  “I could arrest you!” I say firmly.

  “For what?” she shrieks, clearly offended.

  “Do you want a list? How about fence thievery, for starters?”

  She opens her mouth to reply, but I think maybe I've finally gotten through to her. For a moment, she seems a little startled.

  “If I do things by the book,” I continue, “I should take you inside and book you. I could charge you with three or four things right now, Mrs. Loach. Is that what you want? Do you want me to do my job according to the rule-book and charge you with driving under the influence? Not to mention damage to property, plus I'm pretty sure I could make a case stick for resisting arrest.”

  “Why would you be so awful to me?” she asks.

  Sighing, I lean back in the passenger seat for a moment.

  “I'm not going to arrest you,” I tell her. “I am going to keep your keys, and I am going to have someone drive you home, and tomorrow when you come back to me for your keys, I am going to sit you down for a little chat about your drinking habits. Is that understood?”

  “It all seems a little excessive,” she murmurs.

  “Can you even walk right now?”

  “I only had a few gins,” she continues, although her speech is starting to sound increasingly slurred. “I'm not the kind of person who loses her capabilities after just a few gins. I think...”

  Her voice trails off. She pauses for a moment, before closing her eyes and slumping back in her seat, and a few seconds later she starts snoring.

  “Yeah,” I say with another sigh, as I open the passenger door and climb out. “Probably best if you're not in control of a car right now.”

  “Are we booking her?” Harry asks as I wander over to him.

  I shake my head.

  “Don't you think maybe we should this time?” he continues. “I mean, isn't this the third time she's driven drunk this month?”

  “It is,” I reply, “but what good would it do to lock a little old lady in a cell?”

  “It might tea
ch her.”

  “She's eighty-five years old.” Turning, I look back at the car and see that she's still fast asleep. “Life would be a lot tougher if we stuck to the rules, Harry. We have to exercise a little discretion every so often. Go wake her up and drive her home. And don't worry, tomorrow I'll put the fear of God into her, hopefully get her to reconsider her ways.” Patting him on the shoulder, I head inside. “Sometimes we have to use a little common sense in these matters.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Alex Roberts

  Today

  “Of course I know about the Mo Garvey case,” Brad is saying as I carry the pie out through the back door, “I just don't think there's any point in -”

  As soon as he spots me, he stops talking and instead offers a broad grin.

  “Hey!” he continues, setting his glass of wine down and coming over to help me with the plates. “Here comes the best chef in the whole goddamn town!”

  “It's just a pie,” I point out, before leaning closer. “What were you guys just talking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I heard you mention a name.”

  “It's nothing.” He pats me on the shoulder, before turning to the Milfords. “Now listen up, folks! My wife has made a pie, and that's a rare thing, so I want you to really appreciate this pie because it's probably a work of art. It's probably the best damn pie you've ever tasted, and the best damn pie you're ever going to taste. You're most likely about to enter pie heaven, and the experience might affect your enjoyment of all other pies you taste after this night.”

  “You're hyping this up a little,” I whisper, unable to help feeling a little embarrassed.

  “Damn straight!” he continues, as the bemused-looking Milfords come closer. “Ladies and gentlemen, you might not guess this from looking at her, but my wife is the pie queen extraordinaire. And her home-making skills are second-to-none. So step right up and prepare for a feast!”