by Amy Cross
Not at the moment, anyway.
Fourteen
Seventy-one years ago
It's another beautiful July day, and Father works from dawn 'til dusk. Mostly he chops firewood, but he also checks traps in the forest and repairs a hole in the barn door. It's not that I'm checking up on him; I simply spot him from time to time when I glance out the kitchen window, and I see him going about his business in the distance.
He's happy.
I'm happy.
I can't help but smile.
For my part, I have a great deal to learn. Mother always ran the house reasonably well, even if she cut corners from time to time, so I have to get up to speed before Father notices any differences. I want him to see that he can rely on me. I've already spent the morning reorganizing the kitchen and giving it a good clean, including the spots that Mother evidently missed. Working hard and fast, I got that job done by midday and now I've moved on to the rest of the house, going from room to room and fixing everything methodically. Truth be told, I've fallen into something of a daze, working almost like a machine, and by the time I'm done upstairs I find that it's almost four in the afternoon, which means I must start preparing dinner.
This all feels so right, as if it's what I'm meant to be doing.
The one strange thing is that every so often, I find little patches of water, as if something has dripped onto the floor. There appear to be no holes in the roof, and I'm certainly not spilling, and in some cases the water even appears in spots that I know I've already cleaned today. On one occasion, I even see water smeared against the wall in the hallway, as if someone wet brushed against the wood, but such a thing is quite impossible.
I even start to feel as if -
But no, I'm just letting my thoughts run on. Father is in the garden and I'm quite alone in the house.
As I head along the landing, I stop and look at the words 'Annie's room' carved into one of the door-frames. That awful night, when Mother pushed Father to such great anger, feels as if it took place a hundred lifetimes ago. Smiling, I run a fingertip against the deep grooves that Father cut into the wood, tracing each of the letters one by one until I've completed both words, and I whisper them out loud.
“Annie's room.”
The irony, of course, is that now Mother has left us, there's really no need to have this little notice anymore, but I feel it should remain. Not as a warning, not any longer; more as a reminder, and a statement of great pride.
Heading downstairs, I glance out the kitchen window and smile once again as I see Father carrying a heavy load of wood to the barn. He puts too much weight on his shoulders, of course, but then again I suppose he knows what he's doing. He's a strong, capable man who has been working hard on this land since he was just a child, and I wouldn't dare interfere and tell him how things should be run. The house is my domain, now that I've taken it over from Mother, and I must focus on the tasks that fall to me. I can be quite happy like this.
No, I can be more than happy.
I can live my whole life in this daze of usefulness.
I belong here. Mother never understood, of course. She ascribed base, lowly motives to my actions, and she allowed her foul mind to imagine all sorts of perversions and disgusting acts. It's typical that she thought like that, but at least she's gone now.
This is a pure and happy house.
Chaste and calm.
Later that night, after dinner has been eaten and tidied away, Father goes and sits in his armchair, and I take him his usual glass of whiskey. In the old days, when Mother was around, these moments were often the most tense, since he would often be brooding and thinking of Mother's many mistakes. No longer. He seems more relaxed, albeit a little pensive, and for a short while I'm not really sure what I should do. Finally, aware that all my tasks are done for the day, and feeling aches and pains in my joints, I make my way over to the chair and settle on the floor. I lean toward Father and set my face against the side of his trousers, the way I would in the old days, and I look up at his face as it's caught by the hearth's flickering light.
He glances down at me briefly, before turning and looking back at the fire.
Something is definitely on his mind.
No matter. I shall simply wait here, happily, until he decides that it's time to retire for the night. I have been useful to him today and made him proud, and that's really at my first proper attempt. I cannot imagine how much better I will be at housekeeping once I've had more practice, but I know one thing for certain:
We're much better off without Mother, and my room is now Father's room too.
Still, as I sit here, I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched. I turn and look across the dark room, with only the light from a single candle flickering in the corner. There's no-one in the doorway, but I feel as if perhaps there was someone there just a moment ago, just before I looked. I tell myself that I'm being foolish, but just as I'm about to turn back to Father I realize I can see more splashes of water on the floor, right in the doorway, glistening in the candlelight. I hold my breath for a moment, trying to work out what could possibly be happening, but I figure I should just keep my concerns to myself and deal with the problem without disturbing Father.
A moment later I hear the back door bumping shut in the breeze. Somehow, I must have left it open.
Fifteen
Today
“What the hell were you thinking?” Dad hisses as he and Mom hurry upstairs. “Why would you say something like that in front of Scott?”
“I didn't know he was standing right behind me,” she replies, clearly keeping her voice down so Scott won't hear them from downstairs. “Come on, I'd never start talking about that sort of thing when he's around!”
“It's bad enough -”
Dad stops suddenly, and a moment later he appears in my doorway and grabs the handle. “Hey,” he says with a fake smile, “I'm just going to close this for a moment, okay?”
“Why?” I ask.
“Just for a moment,” he replies, pulling the door shut. A moment later, I hear him and Mom going into the bedroom next door, and I hear another door shutting. They're blatantly arguing, but although I can still hear their muffled voices, I can't quite make out what they're saying. Reaching over, I loosen the latch on the window and then slide the panel up, and since their bedroom window is open now, I can hear them again.
“He's an impressionable boy,” Dad is saying, his voice filled with frustration. “Annie's not much better, they're both still kids and if you keep on like this you're going to give them ideas!”
“Scott said he saw -”
“Scott's just copying you!”
“No he's not, Annie saw something too!”
“Oh, Annie?” he replies, sounding distinctly unimpressed. “You mean our daughter, who's spent the past few days sitting in bed with plenty of time to let her imagination run rampant?”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
She sighs. “I want to look into the history of the house some more, I want to find out if anything bad ever happened here. You said the place was empty when we bought it, maybe there's a reason for that?”
“You're being irrational.”
“We all saw that woman!” she continues. “I saw her, Scott saw her, Annie saw her!”
“Well I sure as hell didn't see her!”
“There's something going on here,” she tells him. “It seems to be centered around the basement and the kitchen. It's not just the woman we saw, either. There have been other things.”
“Oh, really?” he replies, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Go on then, tell me these other things.” I can just imagine him right now, folding his arms across his chest in that I'm-smarter-than-you way of his.
“Sometimes I feel like there's someone in the kitchen with me,” she continues. “I turn around and I don't see anyone, but it's almost like someone's watching me while I'm in there, someone who hates me. I know that sounds crazy, but once or twice over the past week the
re's been this really palpable sense of pure anger and disgust, and it seems to be directed right at me! Plus, sometimes when that happens, I find patches of water on the floor. I know that sounds insane, but it's really happening!”
“So now the ghost is targeting you? Seriously?”
“I didn't say that.”
“More or less,” he replies. “What about the basement? What do you think you saw down there?”
“I told you, the reflection of the -”
“Anything else?”
“I don't -”
“I'm not going to let you ruin this for us,” he hisses. “Jesus Christ, we moved out here because you wanted to bring the kids up in a rural location. I was perfectly happy in New York, but you insisted on coming out here, and now apparently the place isn't good enough because there's some kind of ghost haunting the kitchen and the basement? Are you seriously pulling this on me? Are you so completely irrational that you can't see how crazy this is?”
“I'm not trying to -”
“Let's go take a look,” he adds. “Come on, we'll go to the basement and see if there's anything down there.”
“You're the one who keeps it locked all the time!”
“Well now I'm unlocking it!”
I hear the sound of a scuffle.
“Hey!” Mum hisses.
“You're coming with me!” Dad replies, and a moment later there's a faint bump. I hear footsteps out on the landing, almost as if Dad's forcing Mom to the stairs, and then I hear them heading down to the hallway. There's no way Dad would ever get violent, but he sure as hell doesn't sound like himself right now, and a moment later I hear a bump in the room below, as if the door to the basement was just pulled open. Dad's obviously taking Mom down there, but I hate the idea that he's acting like such an ass.
Instinctively, I try to get up, having momentarily forgotten that I'm stuck here thanks to my stupid legs. Letting out a gasp of frustration, I sit back and try to work out what I can do, and then I spot Mom's phone still sitting on the bedside table. I quickly bring up Dad's number and wait for a connection, while running through what I'm going to say to him.
“Hang on,” he spits as soon as he answers, clearly in the middle of arguing with Mom. “What's going on? Who -”
“It's me,” I tell him. “Dad, what are you doing? I heard your argument just now, you don't know what you're talking about!”
“Annie -”
“You have to listen to Mom!” I continue. “You might not believe her, but you have to listen to her! She's not crazy!”
“Don't butt in on things you don't understand,” he replies, his clipped tones sounding colder than usual. “When we're done down here, I'll bring you something to eat and -”
“I don't care about that! I want you to listen to Mom!”
“And I want you to mind your own business!”
“Dad -”
“You don't get to call me and lecture me like this,” he snaps, interrupting me. “Do you hear me? You don't know anything, Annie! You're just a child!”
“I know something's going on in this house!”
“You don't even know what this house looks like outside of your room,” he replies dismissively. “You only know what you hear from up there and what people tell you, so don't act like you've got some great perspective. Now if you don't mind, I'm talking to your mother about something and when I want to hear your opinion, I'll come up to your little room and ask for it!”
“Hey,” I reply, “you don't -”
Before I can get another word out, I realize he's cut the call. I immediately try to ring back, only to get put straight through to voice-mail, which I guess means he's turned the phone off. Filled with frustration, I toss Mom's phone aside and look down at the floor, toward the spot that I think is above the kitchen.
“You're being an ass!” I shout, loud enough that he should be able to hear me even down in the basement. “What the hell's wrong with you? Mom, tell him to go to hell!”
“Dad's different,” Scott says suddenly.
Turning, I see that he's standing in the doorway. I freeze, seeing that all the hints of fear from the past few days have now blossomed across his face.
“What do you mean?” I ask, sitting up but wincing a little as I feel a sharp pain in my legs.
“He's angry all the time,” he continues, taking a step into the room. “He was sitting in the kitchen earlier and Mom was making dinner, and Dad was talking to himself.”
“I...” Pausing, I realize that no matter how absurd that idea sounds, Scott seems completely genuine. “Talking to himself how, exactly?”
“Really quietly,” he replies, stopping at the end of my bed. “Like, mumbling under his breath.” He has that expression I remember from when we were both younger, the expression he always wore after a nightmare had made him soil the bed, as if true fear has gripped his soul. “I was watching him. I couldn't hear more than a whisper, but his lips were definitely moving. He kept looking over at the back door, too, like he expected to see someone there.”
“Dad doesn't talk to himself,” I point out. “Only crazy people talk to themselves.”
“Does that mean Dad's crazy?” he asks, with tears in his eyes.
“It means -”
Before I can reply, I hear a creaking sound nearby and I turn just in time to see my bedroom door swinging shut, slamming into the frame so hard that the wood shudders.
“Who did that?” I ask, scooching myself back in the bed. “Scott, open the door and see who's out there!”
He shakes his head.
“Scott, do it! Hurry!”
He hesitates, before stepping toward the door. I can tell he's scared, but to his credit he turns the handle and pushes the door open, before leaning out to look along the landing.
“Who's there?” I ask.
He pauses, before turning back to me. “No-one,” he says quietly, his voice trembling.
“It must have been -” I stop for a moment, realizing I can hear Dad still haranguing Mom down in the basement. “Is the window open by the top of the stairs?” I ask, hoping that maybe a gust of wind was responsible.
Scott shakes his head.
“Okay,” I continue, patting the side of the bed, “come sit with me.”
“Annie -”
“Just come sit,” I tell him, and this time he hurries over. It's been a long time since I treated my little brother as anything other than a pre-pubescent annoyance, but I quickly put an arm around his shoulder and feel that he's trembling. “It's going to be okay,” I continue, watching the half-open door with a hint of fear in my chest. “Mom and Dad are just arguing, people argue all the time.”
“Mom and Dad didn't argue like this in the old house,” he points out.
“Moving's stressful.”
“Dad didn't talk to himself in the old house, either.”
“No, but -” I pause as I realize there seems to be someone on the landing. I can't see them, or hear them, but as I stare at the door I feel overwhelmed for a moment by the sense that someone's just out of sight, listening to us. “Don't worry about Dad,” I continue, forcing myself to look down at Scott as Mom and Dad continue to argue in the basement. “He'll calm down soon, and if he doesn't, Mom'll put him in his place. She won't let him act like an ass for -”
Suddenly the door slams shut again, more violently than before, and this time it clicks and stays shut.
“Who did that?” Scott asks, turning to me.
“No-one,” I reply, “it's just...” Pausing, I realize that both times the door slammed shut, one of us had just said something bad about Dad. Still, that's probably a coincidence. There's no more shouting from downstairs, so I reach out and give Scott a hug. “They've stopped arguing. That's good. Mom probably...” I take a deep breath, watching the door, wondering whether I should test my theory. “Mom...” I take another deep breath. This is crazy, but... “Mom probably just pointed out to him that he was being an idiot.” I wait, still watching
the door, waiting for something to happen. If my theory's right, then saying something bad about Dad should trigger something else. “I mean, he is being an idiot,” I continue, trying not to let the fear into my voice. “Dad's... Dad's just a big old -”
Suddenly the door swings open, but this time Dad steps through, having apparently hurried up the stairs.
“Why are you being like this?” I ask.
“Come on, Scott,” he says firmly, “you need to come down and eat your dinner.”
Scott turns to me, and I can see he doesn't want to go alone. Still, it's not like I can hop down off the bed and follow.
“Why don't you all eat up here with me?” I ask, turning to Dad. “Get Mom to come up too.”
“Your mother's taking a time-out,” he replies.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“It means she's thinking about things.”
“Why?” I wait for him to explain, but he reaches across the bed and grabs Scott's arm. “Dad, what the hell are you on about? Since when does Mom have to take a time-out for anything? She's not a child!”
“She'll come back up when she's had time to consider her ways,” he replies, trying to pull Scott off the bed.
“Come back up? What -” I pause for a moment, feeling a slowly creeping sense of shock. “Is she still in the basement?”
“Just for now.”
“Why's she in the basement?” I ask. “Dad, why is Mom down there?”
“She needs some time alone to think,” he replies, still trying to pull Scott off the bed. “She's acting very irrationally and I think it'd be good for her to calm down and focus on getting her head straight. I'll let her back up in an hour or two.”
“Let her back up?” I watch as Scott finally climbs off the bed and allows Dad to lead him toward the door. “Did you lock Mom in the basement?” I ask, unable to believe what I'm hearing. “Dad, are you -”
“She needed it!” he shouts, turning to me with anger in his eyes. “You heard her! She was out of control!”
