THE
HAUNTING OF
WILLOW HOUSE
By
ANTHONY M. STRONG
West Street Publishing
THE HAUNTING OF WILLOW HOUSE
Published by West Street Publishing
www.WestStreetPublishing.com
www.AnthonyMStrong.com
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to events or places, or real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Anthony M. Strong
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Epilogue
For Tiki
The best writing companion I could ever have found.
You kept me company and asked for nothing but a back scratch in return.
The space under my desk is a little emptier now you are gone.
Miss you always.
They say that shadows of deceased ghosts
Do haunt the houses and the graves about,
Of such whose life's lamp went untimely out,
Delighting still in their forsaken hosts.
Joshua Sylvester
Poet
Prologue
December 1958
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
This single thought lingered in Father Christopher Halloran’s mind as he steered his cherry red 1952 Plymouth along the narrow country road a few miles west of Salem, Massachusetts.
The priest hunched forward, his hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles drained of blood. He loathed driving after sunset, and more so when the weather was inclement. Any other time, a storm such as this would have tempered his desire to venture out, but not so on this occasion. The nagging feeling that things were not right had bothered him for days, and finally, unable to dispel the quiet doubt, he resigned himself to this journey.
Grimacing, he stared into the snow-laden darkness beyond the windshield, his eyes searching for the gnarled oak that stood at the edge of the trail leading to Willow Farm.
For a moment, he wondered if he might have gone too far and missed the landmark entirely. But then, as he was about to turn around, he saw it loom out of the night like a wraith, limbs twisted and bent upon themselves. The oak was a grim sight, devoid of life since the summer of forty-eight when a mighty bolt of lightning had cleaved the tree almost in two.
He threw the steering wheel hard to the right and touched the brakes, feeling the back of the car slip on the icy road. It threatened to careen into the tree, but then he wrestled the heavy vehicle under control again, and was soon heading up the narrow dirt trail toward a faint glimmer of lights beyond the fallow fields.
By the time he pulled up in front of the farmhouse, he was cold and tired, but at least his trip had not been in vain. Frank Walker’s white Oldsmobile, the same one he drove to Mass every Sunday morning, stood like a silent sentinel near the old barn. The glow from within the farmhouse, once a barely perceptible flicker, spilled onto the driveway through half parted curtains.
Father Halloran opened his door and climbed from the driver’s seat, gasping at the sudden cold that drilled into his bones. He hitched his coat collar up against the wind, blinking away snowflakes that drifted under his glasses and into his eyes, and slammed the car door.
For a while, he stood still, staring up at the old house. He trudged toward the front entrance, gripped the brass knocker and knocked three times. He listened to the dull thud of his knocks reverberate through the hallway beyond and waited.
At first he saw no sign of life within the dwelling, but then he heard a grinding rasp as the latch drew back.
The door creaked open.
The woman who stood inside seemed surprised.
“Father Halloran, what brings you all the way up here?” Her accent carried the hard edge of a born and bred Boston New Englander.
“Well now, Mrs. Walker, I was just passing by and thought I would stop in and say hello.” Halloran’s own Irish accent, unchanged by his years across the Atlantic, stood in stark contrast.
“Really?” Mrs. Walker glanced past the priest toward the Plymouth, which was already catching a gentle cover of snow despite the fading warmth from the engine. “You thought you’d drive up here in a blizzard on a whim?”
“Well, yes. The Lord requires that I tend my flock regardless of circumstance.” Father Halloran smiled, his eyes straying beyond the doorway into the house. “How is Mr. Walker?”
“Bullheaded, as ever.”
“I see.” Halloran paused, weighing his words. “I didn’t notice him at Mass last week.”
“He’s had a sniffle. Waking at the crack of dawn every day, tending to the farm in weather such as this, it takes a toll.” She shifted her stance. “It’s nothing to worry about. He’ll be fit as a fiddle in a day or two, you mark my words.”
“That’s good to hear.” Halloran nodded. “I am well aware of the ills of foul weather. May I step inside for a moment, Mrs. Walker?”
“What?”
“May I come in?” Halloran rubbed his hands together. “I won’t keep you, I promise, but it will be much better to talk in the warm.”
“Of course. Where are my manners, keeping a man such as yourself outside on a night like this?” Mrs. Walker asked, but even so, she did not
move to allow him passage until the priest took a step forward.
“That’s better.” Halloran brushed the melting snow from his coat and pushed the door closed. That done, he spoke again. “I have to tell you, Mrs. Walker, I am a little concerned.”
“Really? Why is that?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Like I said, your husband, Frank, was not at Mass on Sunday, and neither was young Thomas. You came alone.”
“Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you be concerned with him?”
“Your son is one of my best altar boys, Mrs. Walker. He was absent on Sunday, along with your husband, and he missed practice today. May I inquire, is he sick also?”
“It’s that time of year,” Mrs. Walker said. She wiped her hands on her apron. “There’s always something going around.”
“Indeed there is,” Halloran agreed. “Have you called the doctor out?”
“The doctor? Now why would I do that?” Mrs. Walker took a step backward, toward the stairs. “I haven’t lived on this earth for forty-six years not to know how to deal with a common cold. Besides, he’s almost back to himself. By tomorrow he’ll be tearing around the house getting into all sorts of trouble.”
“Now that’s good to hear. I am sure he will.” Father Halloran nodded. “May I see him then?”
“Now?”
“Why, yes. I’m sure he would appreciate a visit, given that he’s been cooped up for so long. Just a few words, that’s all.”
“He’s sleeping. Poor thing was tired out.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” Halloran said. “And Frank?”
“He’s down at the cow barn, checking on the livestock. The joys of the farm.”
“A dedicated man if ever there was one.” Halloran glanced around the hallway, his eyes settling on the coat rack and the row of winter garments hanging there. “I can wait for him, if you don’t mind.”
“He just left. He’ll probably be a while. You should get back to town before the blizzard really kicks in.”
“I see.” Halloran rubbed his chin. “You are probably right.”
“You wouldn’t want to get stuck up here, now, would you?”
“No indeed. I would not.” Father Halloran retreated toward the door.
From somewhere above there was a thud.
Halloran paused, his eyes drifting upward.
“That would be Thomas.” Mrs. Walker turned her head toward the stairs, then back to the priest. “You see, I told you he was fine.”
“And wide-awake apparently,” Halloran said. “Maybe I will go up and say hello after all.”
“No.” Mrs. Walker scuttled backward, positioning herself between the priest and the stairs. “I’m not sure that is a good idea. He needs to rest.”
“Of course. You know best, I’m sure.” Halloran cast a glance past the woman. “Will I see him on Sunday?”
“If he is back to himself, I’m sure you will.”
“Good.” Halloran turned back toward the door.
Thud!
The sound was louder this time. It echoed in the hallway.
Halloran spun on his heel and fixed the farmer’s wife with a questioning stare. “Are you absolutely sure Thomas is alright?”
“Of course, what sort of a question is that?” There was an edge to her voice, a slight tremble. “Everything is just dandy.”
Thud.
Halloran’s gaze shot upward. “I think I should go up and see him.”
“I can’t allow that.” Mrs. Walker positioned herself at the foot of the stairs.
“It’s not a request, Mrs. Walker.” Halloran advanced toward the farmer’s wife and, taking her firmly by the shoulders, moved her aside and mounted the stairs.
It was dark on the second floor. A subtle musty scent hung in the air, pushing at the priest’s nose.
Halloran paused to allow his eyes to adjust and then picked his way along the landing toward the furthest door, under which a thin sliver of pale light was visible.
This was the boy’s room.
Mrs. Walker was following behind, stair treads creaking with each footfall.
She appeared on the landing, her eyes wild.
“Father Halloran, I implore you, let things be.”
“I’ll just poke my head in and say hello to the boy.” Halloran took the doorknob and turned it, his heart quickening as he pushed inward.
Thomas Walker lay on the bed, shirtless. Deep welts crisscrossed his torso, angry and red. His usually combed hair was disheveled and wild. His arms and legs were outstretched to the four corners of the mattress.
For a moment Halloran could see no reason for this unusual repose, but then he noticed the cords wound around the boys wrists and ankles.
The boy lifted his head, arching upward to see who had entered the room, and as he did so, the headboard pulled forward away from the wall. Unable to maintain the pose, he fell back, the headboard slamming into the wall with a resounding thud.
“Sweet Jesus.” The priest muttered the words under his breath, barely able to comprehend what he was seeing.
“Father Halloran?” Thomas’s voice was reedy, hoarse. “Don’t let her hurt me again.”
“I won’t, son.” The priest wondered when the boy had last taken a drink. He thought about fetching him some water, but there were more urgent things to attend to. He moved toward the foot of the bed, intent upon untying the knots that kept Thomas restrained, but then he felt a presence to his rear.
He turned, a cold dread enveloping him.
“I asked you not to come up here.” Mrs. Walker filled the doorway. “I didn’t want you to see Thomas like this.”
“Like what, Mrs. Walker?” The priest fought to keep his voice calm and steady. “Lashed to his bed terrified? Beaten?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me. What possible reason could there be for this insanity?” Halloran asked.
“The devil.” The farmer’s wife said the words as if that were all the explanation the situation warranted.
“I’m sorry?” Halloran shook his head. “The devil, you say?”
“It’s inside of him, living with him. Lucifer has claimed his soul. My Thomas is possessed.”
“Mrs. Walker, that is preposterous.” Father Halloran backed up until his legs hit the bed. “Why would you think something like that?”
“I was told as much.”
“Who told you?” The priest glanced toward Thomas. “The boy himself?”
“No. Not the boy.”
“Then who?” Halloran pressed. “Did Frank put you up to this?”
“No.”
“Then I confess, I am at a loss.” Halloran took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, feeling warm despite the chill in the air. “Who could have told you such things?”
“The voice in the walls. It speaks to me,” Mrs. Walker replied. “It talks at night, when everyone else is sleeping.”
“Mrs. Walker, you are not making a lick of sense,” the priest said. “What does Frank have to say about all of this?”
“He didn’t believe me.” Mrs. Walker ran her tongue across her lips. “He said I’m tired, that I’m hearing things.”
“Well, thank goodness for that. The voice of reason.” Halloran motioned toward the bed. “Now, why don’t we release the boy and wait for Frank to get back from the barn, and then we can have a chat about this, just the three of us.”
“Frank isn’t coming back from the barn.”
“And why is that?” Halloran asked the question even though he feared the answer, and because Mrs. Walker carried something in her hand that he had failed to notice previously, a heavy wrought iron poker.
“Frank didn’t think we should help Thomas. He wanted to take him away. But the voice in the walls knew what to do.”
“Did it indeed?” Halloran stepped away from the bed, sensing a change of atmosphere in the room. He moved toward the door, praying that the farmer’s w
ife would step aside. He could come back later with the sheriff. “In that case, I think I’ll be off if it’s all the same with you. I’ve taken up too much of your time already, and the weather is growing worse.”
“You’re just like Frank.” Mrs. Walker shook her head. “I’m so sorry. May God forgive me, but I need to protect my boy.” And with that she shot forward, the poker leading the way.
Halloran stumbled backwards, desperate to escape the charging woman. He bumped into the far wall, his back against the window. And even though there was nowhere else to go, he kept on anyway, because if he didn’t, the sharp end of the poker would find him.
The window held firm for a few seconds, enough time for Halloran to realize what was going to happen, and then gave way with a sharp pop.
As the priest tumbled backwards through the opening and fell toward the unforgiving frozen ground below, he saw Mrs. Walker watching from the shattered window, a cruel smile upon her face.
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Chapter 1
Present Day
There was a steady drizzle the day that Andrew Whelan and his family made the journey from Boston to the dilapidated farmhouse nestled on a swath of land between the Massachusetts towns of Danvers and Salem. Jake was ten years old, and had, so far, been about as good as any boy his age can be when riding in the back of a car. Sarah, now almost three-quarters through her teen years, sat up front with her father. It was better that way. There was less chance of an altercation, which meant there was less chance that Andrew would have to pull over to the side of the road and give them the kind of tongue lashing their mother used to handle.
They left the city and drove north through Saugus, and then Lynn Woods, before cutting across south of I-95 in the direction of Peabody. For a long while they rode in silence, each consumed by their own thoughts, until Sarah spoke up.
The Haunting of Willow House Page 1
