by Greg Chapman
Amy glanced downward, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Mom…”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to. I understand. But if you won’t tell me, will you at least tell Dr. Ruskin?”
Fear settled in Amy’s eyes once more. She released her mother’s hand. “You called Dr. Ruskin?”
Alice raised her hands to placate her. “I’m sorry; I didn’t know what else to do. Dr. Ruskin said she can come here if you want.”
Amy gasped. “A house call?”
Alice put a hand to Amy’s cheek. “It’s okay. I can cancel.”
“No, don’t. I’ll see her.”
“Are you sure?”
Alice saw her daughter’s gaze wander to the phone on the kitchen counter. The girl’s eyebrows furrowed in determination.
“I’m very sure.” Amy retrieved her damaged phone and walked out onto the porch.
“Amy?” Alice followed her, astounded by the sight of her striding into the backyard, phone in hand.
The girl tossed the phone on the ground and bent to pick up a large rock.
“What are you doing?”
Amy flashed her mother a smile. “Something I should have done a long time ago.” She brought the rock down hard. The cracked screen shattered into fragments of plastic and steel.
Alice was left speechless by her daughter’s ferocity, and for an instant she was terrified of what had been on the phone to make her daughter act in such a way all over again.
~
Amy smiled at Dr. Ruskin, and for the first time in her life she had a real reason to be happy; she’d let go of her fears.
“Your mother says you were distressed, that you locked yourself in your room, and just now, smashed your phone? Do you want to tell me what that was about?”
Amy folded her hands in her lap. “Someone was harassing me online, and I just decided to get rid of the problem, that’s all.”
Dr. Ruskin’s eyes narrowed. “You smashed your phone with a rock, Amy.”
“Yeah.”
Dr. Ruskin moved from the chair and sat next to Amy on the bed. “You say someone was harassing you? What happened, exactly?”
Images of herself hanging from a chandelier in the Kemper House stabbed her psyche. She blocked it out with a smile. “It was just a disagreement, is all,” Amy said. “A difference of opinion.”
“It must have been quite a disagreement if it made you smash your phone to pieces.”
Amy chose her words carefully. “I guess… I guess I finally realised that I had to get rid of the phone.”
“Well, that is a big step for you, I’ll admit, but it’s even bigger step to destroy your phone with a rock. Are you sure you’re telling me the whole truth?”
The bedroom suddenly felt smaller. Amy forced another smile. “Look, I’m glad Mom asked you to come over, but I’m fine really. Like you said, I needed to get back into reality.”
Dr. Ruskin’s gaze softened. “You know I’m here to help you. You seem… different, and I’m just trying to understand why.”
Amy pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m happy.”
“I’m sorry, but I think you smashed your phone because you’re scared.”
The girl swallowed and looked out her window, wanting to escape. Dr. Ruskin was too smart. “I’m scared that you’re trying to make me feel sad.”
The counsellor’s eyes widened. “No, Amy…”
“Well, that’s how it feels.”
Dr. Ruskin stood and smoothed down her dress. “Okay Amy, okay,” she said. “I’m sorry. When you’re ready, I’ll be happy to hear what you have to say.”
Amy smiled at her. “I don’t have anything else to say. Thanks for coming Dr. Ruskin.”
~
Alice saw the forlorn expression on Dr. Ruskin’s face and felt a pang of sorrow in her heart. The counsellor looked ten years older when she stepped out of Amy’s room.
“Did she tell you why she smashed her phone?”
Dr. Ruskin shook her head. “I’m very concerned. This change in behaviour is sudden. She’s covering something up.”
Alice bit her lip. “Oh, God…”
The counsellor touched Alice’s hand. “Let’s not panic. Let’s just see what happens. You’re going to have to monitor her very closely. Right now, she’s being defensive, putting up a shield against whatever she read or saw. Sadly, I don’t think those shields will hold for very long.”
“That god damn phone!”
“Mrs. Cowley, I know how you feel about her having that phone, but as I explained, taking it away would have only isolated her more. Our regimen of monitoring was working; Amy was in control.”
“Then how did this happen?”
“It wasn’t her fault. Unfortunately, social media is the perfect platform for trouble makers. Have you been monitoring her online usage?”
“Not judiciously. I can’t watch her all the time. She only has so much data on that phone and it’s timed. I just don’t understand what would make her want to destroy it. She didn’t do that last time.”
“No, instead she did something much worse. Perhaps she really has readjusted; perhaps she really wanted to get rid of it.”
Alice ran a hand through her hair. The weight of her anxiety was leaving her breathless. “What if you’re wrong and someone is out to get her?”
“Well, they can’t hurt her online, and the phone is gone. But if anything changes—if she has another anxiety attack—you contact me straight away.”
Chapter Ten
It wasn’t until Ben walked through the doors of The Gazette that he realised how much he missed the “buzz” of the newsroom. It was mid-afternoon, so everyone, reporters, sub-editors, and layout artists were frantically putting the next day’s edition to bed; so frantically in fact, that hardly any of them gave their star reporter a second glance.
He felt envious of the reporters chained to their desks, their fingers gliding across the keys. They were probably chasing up leads on the murder house, hopefully only the smaller pieces of the puzzle. He’d have to make sure Jacob was keeping him as the lead. He scanned the bull-pit for his editor and found no sign of him. Phones were ringing hot, with a flurry of conversations swirling about the room, all to the soundtrack of the police scanner which sat on a high shelf in the centre of the chaos. How Ben hated and loved that machine.
A hand on his shoulder startled him, and he turned to see Kyle Velechi, The Gazette’s sports reporter grinning at him like a Cheshire cat on speed. Ben liked Kyle well enough, but sometimes the guy forgot he was meant to only report on the football jock-heads, not act like them.
“Hey Benji, good to see you man,” Kyle said. “I thought you were on vacation, though?”
“Yeah, yeah I am, but with that murder house right across the street, I couldn’t resist.”
“Yeah, that shit is crazy.” He slapped Ben on the shoulder. “Still, awesome story man, awesome.”
“Yeah, thanks Kyle, look, Jacob called me in. Have you seen him?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s talking to some guy in the boardroom. I don’t know who he is, but he looks like he’s on some hard core drugs or something.”
Ben was already walking away. “Thanks.” He strode down the hall, waved hello to the photographers editing their images, and almost broke into a jog to get to the boardroom. The Gazette had refurbished the executive meeting room the previous year, replacing the walls with glass to visually extend the editorial space. At least, that was the shit the publisher spun to the staff. Ben knew it had more to do with keeping an eye on everyone. At that moment he was grateful for the sneak peek the walls provided him of his potential new source.
The man who’d contacted Jacob about Ben’s story looked close to fifty, frail, blanched and unshaven. He was in the midst of a very animated conversation. He wasn’t particularly aggressive, more erratic. The look on Jacob’s face was one of someone who wished he could be somewhere else, so when he saw Ben staring through the glass, he was quick to
cut short his guest’s speech, and meet his reporter at the door.
“Sorry I’m late,” Ben said.
“Thank Christ you’re here,” Jacob whispered. “This guy’s going on about some crazy shit.” He ushered Ben into the room before he could reply. The dishevelled man stood and stared. “This is Ben Traynor, our senior reporter, and he’s eager to meet you. Ben, this is Mitchell Cross.”
Ben offered his hand. “Hi, Mr. Cross. Thanks for coming in.”
Cross didn’t accept Ben’s handshake; he was too busy wringing his hands together. “You’re the guy who wrote the front page story about the house?”
“That’s right,” Ben said, frowning. “You told Jacob that you knew something?” The way Cross slowly nodded made Ben wonder if the man’s mental faculties were entirely stable.
“I’ll leave you two to talk things over,” Jacob interrupted before leaving the room without another word.
Ben took a seat at the opposite side of the table, wanting to put as much space between them as possible if things turned hostile. When Cross saw Ben sit, he did the same, but kept on wringing his hands.
“So, what can you tell me about the Willow Street house? Did you know the man who was murdered?”
Cross bit at the fingernail of his index finger, and going by the blood on his fingertips, he indulged in the habit often. Finally, he spoke. “It’s not the man; it’s the house… or it could be the man.”
“I’m sorry, but you’re not making much sense.”
“The house killed the man—that’s what matters,” Cross was sweating profusely.
“Did you want a glass of water?”
Cross tapped the table with his bloody finger. “I had a house just like it; the same house.”
Ben leaned in. “You used to live in the house?”
“Yes!” He scratched at his brow. “No. No I lived in the same house. On… on another street.”
Ben was ready to walk away from this maddening conversation. News stories had the tendency to attract all sorts of conspiracy theorists and unstable minds. Mitchell Cross was looking more and more like one of them with every word he said.
“Mr. Cross, I’m sorry, but I just don’t have time to—”
Cross slammed his fist on the table. The reverberation attracted the attention of all the staff on the other side of the glass walls. Ben’s instincts told him to run. “You need to listen to me. That… that house… the Kemper House… is everywhere. It destroyed me… my Cindy and my Nathan. It… devoured them!”
“But you said you never lived in that house—”
“It’s one of many! So, so many!” Tears streamed down Cross’ gaunt cheeks. “My house was just one that… he built. They’re all the same.” Ben stood, and a fresh wave of panic struck the other man’s features. “Wait. Listen, please!” His spittle landed on the boardroom table. “1982. You look it up. Cindy and Nathan Cross. 1982!”
Ben put his hands out in front of him, partly to calm the man down, but mostly in case he had to defend himself. “Okay, Mr. Cross, I think you need to go now, or I’ll have to ask Jacob to call security.”
Frustration turned Cross’ face into a grimace, the veins in his neck bulging. He got to his feet and pointed a trembling finger at Ben. “You need to look into that house… at who built it. Then you’ll know why that man died… or didn’t! The house has a dark soul! You have to keep an eye on it!”
The man’s words were nothing more than babble. “You can rest assured, the authorities are watching that house and trying to find the man’s killer. I have a vested interest in this case because I live right across the road.”
Cross’ face blanched as if he was going to be sick. “You… you live near the house?”
“Like I said, right across the road.”
Cross wrung his hands and started to walk around the table. “Then you’re in its sights. You have to get away from it. Everyone on the street has to.”
Ben backed up as Cross moved around the table bumping the swivel chairs as he went. “Keep your distance.” He looked out to the newsroom. Everyone was watching the spectacle. He saw Jacob screaming down the phone.
“That house … all it wants is blood!” Cross pulled at the sleeves of his tattered coat. “It’s his vessel. His temple! It took my family!”
The doors opened and two security guards made a bee-line for him. When Cross saw them he shrieked like someone about to be murdered. “No! No, you must listen to me! It will kill you! Kemper will kill you!”
The guards grabbed Cross’ flailing arms. He kicked over chairs and writhed like a snake.
Ben backed away until he hit the wall. Two police officers burst through the door and came to the guards’ aid.
All four men brought Cross’ face down onto the table. Bloody drool oozed from his lips as he locked his eyes on Ben.
“It will devour you!”
~
Despite the insanity in the boardroom, Mitchell Cross’s mania had planted a seed in Ben’s brain, one that demanded he find some sense in the man’s words. After the police had taken Cross into their custody, Jacob wanted his star reporter to go home, but Ben couldn’t resist the temptation to look into the death of the man’s family. He may have appeared mentally ill, but there was no doubting his fear of the Kemper House.
Ben filled a cup of coffee and sat at his desk to scan The Gazette’s online archives. He ignored everyone, even though they wanted details of his ordeal in the boardroom. Eventually, all the other reporters, even Jacob, went home, leaving only the sub-editors who were simply too busy to engage him in conversation.
He opened The Gazette’s internal archive page, began a new search for Mitchell Cross, and the year 1982. The screen filled with more than two dozen entries. He read the first headline and almost choked on his coffee.
MOTHER KILLS SON, INJURES HUSBAND, TRIES TO BURN DOWN HOUSE
Dec 6, 1982 By staff reporters
A 38-YEAR-old woman is on life support after allegedly slaying her eight-year-old son and attempting to murder her forty-year-old husband in West Plains’ northern suburbs.
Police and emergency services personnel were called to the address on Mayne Avenue at approximately 11pm on Monday Night, after neighbours reported hearing screams and seeing flames coming from a window in the centuries-old two-storey dwelling…
Ben continued to read. The second article named Mitchell Cross as the lone survivor and his wife Cindy as the suspected murderer. Cindy died in the hospital less than twelve hours after the incident, from self-inflicted injuries. Police investigators were conducting bed-side interviews with Mitchell, who was suffering from shock. Ben couldn’t believe what he was reading. He scanned copies of the hard copy editions of the newspaper for that month, and swore when he caught the front-page of the December 7, 1982 tabloid. The photograph was almost identical to the one he’d taken two days ago of the house across the road from his own. The grainy night shot showed the silhouette of the Cross house, overwhelmed by a cloud of amber flame and grey smoke. The red and blue lights of the emergency vehicles paled in comparison.
Hungry for more, Ben flicked to the December 8 newspaper, which featured a portrait of the Cross family, standing outside their new home. The house on Mayne Avenue was a carbon copy of the Kemper House, right down to the dark wood exterior and needle-like spire. Ben shivered. This was more than mere coincidence, and Ben started to feel that he would have to speak to Mitchell Cross again—and soon.
He pondered the man’s bizarre words about the Kemper House; that it had a dark soul that devoured whomever lived within its walls. It seemed preposterous. Ben didn’t believe in haunted houses or ghosts, but having two separate tragedies inside two identical houses on the opposite ends of town, albeit decades apart, warranted further investigation. Ben realised he needed to go to the police with this information, but not until he was entirely certain.
He checked his watch. It was closing in on 11 p.m., but he still needed more time. He began a new search
, this time in the real estate section of the archive. He searched for any reference to Mayne Avenue, West Plains. Numerous pages appeared, so he narrowed his search by typing in “The Kemper House.”
The house had been listed for sale three times, in 1975, 1976 and 1981. The digital scans of the newspaper clippings were identical in description and photograph with the real estate agencies, claiming the “historically-elegant gothic style property was perfect for a family or newlywed couple.” Obviously, the 1981 listing was when the Cross family purchased the home, and was troubling, given that tragedy would befall them one year later.
Ben opened a new window in the news archive and searched for “Mayne Avenue, 1975.” The result was a copy of the real estate listing. Crossing his fingers, Ben repeated the search for 1976, and his heart began to race when he read the resulting headline:
COUPLE SUES REAL ESTATE OVER SUPPOSED ‘HAUNTED HOUSE’
He clicked the link and was taken to a story about Henry and Annabelle Morton, who had taken legal action against McCarthy Property Holdings P/L for failing to properly disclose the house’s history.
A second story, six months later, reported that a judge threw out the case and labelled the Morton’s claims of paranormal occurrences were without merit. The Morton couple were quoted in the story saying the house had been vacant for more than sixty years before they purchased it in 1976. When Ben rechecked the real estate archive, he read that the house hadn’t been purchased or put on the market since the Cross tragedy. Ben made a note that he would have to speak to Henry and Annabelle Morton as well.
His mind buzzing with questions, Ben forced himself to close the screens and shut down his PC. When he stood to leave, a voice behind him left him reeling.
“Are you still here, Traynor?”
“Jesus,” Ben said, startled. It took him a few moments to recognise Barry Pearson, one of the senior sub-editors.
