He padded back through the house, cutting across the dining room, to the kitchen.
The back door was closed tight.
Whatever he had heard, it wasn’t anyone coming in.
And then his eyes drifted upward to the bolt.
It was drawn back.
A prickling sensation crept up his spine.
Andrew edged forward gripping the bat so tightly he could feel the grain of the wood under his palm.
He reached the midway point of the kitchen.
At that moment the fridge whirred to life.
He almost dropped the bat before regaining his composure.
Now he noticed other sounds.
The faucet dripped a rhythmic drumbeat into the porcelain sink. He would need to replace the washer or buy a new tap altogether.
A moth flew into the window above the counter, trying in vain to figure out the unseen barrier that stopped it entering the room. Each time it hit the glass panes there was another muffled thunk.
It was amazing how loud a silent house could be.
He felt his heart thumping against his rib cage.
The back door loomed large. He reached out, gripped the knob, and twisted. The door swung wide with a drawn out groan.
Andrew peered out into the night. A gentle breeze blew past him. Leaves rustled and crickets chirped.
From somewhere far away a lone owl hooted, the sound melancholy and haunting. He spotted a couple of fireflies dancing through the darkness. The swing set rocked back and forth in the wind, the rusty chain letting out a high-pitched squeak with each lazy pass.
But apart from that, he was alone.
The back yard was empty.
Andrew closed the door and reached up, drawing the bolt across. Maybe he had left it unlocked earlier. Whatever else he heard must be the building settling. This was an old house, and he wasn’t accustomed to its moans and groans yet. He leaned against the door, letting the adrenalin ebb away.
After a while, when his heartbeat had returned to normal and he’d convinced himself that nothing was amiss, Andrew stepped away from the door, leaning the bat against the wall. He went to the sink and poured himself a glass of water, drinking it down in one gulp. He rinsed the glass and turned to put it on the counter.
A face leered at him through the window in the back door. Dark, piercing eyes stared at him, a gaping mouth stretched into a wide, black grin. The face was just inches from the very door he’d been leaning against moments before.
He let out a cry and staggered backwards.
The glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the hard flagstone floor.
When he looked up again, the face was gone. Now all he saw were swirls of old dirt and the tangled silk of an abandoned spider’s web in one corner. He was still studying the empty window when a voice rang out behind him.
“What are you doing?“
Andrew turned to find his son silhouetted in the doorway. “You should be in bed.”
“I heard a noise,” Jake said. “It woke me up.”
“Sorry about that, son.” He could feel his heart thumping still. “Nothing to worry about. I dropped a glass, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Jake looked down at the floor. “I’m thirsty. Can I have some milk?”
“Sure,” Andrew said, “and then it’s right back to bed, okay?”
“Alright.” Jake nodded.
Andrew took a fresh glass out of the cabinet and went to the fridge. He filled the glass halfway and handed it to his son.
He watched Jake tip the glass, gulping down the milk, but then his eyes wandered back to the window. Had he really seen a face there, or was it just his mind playing tricks? Regardless, the only thing there now was grime and cobwebs.
Chapter 15
Sarah awoke from a deep and dreamless sleep.
She opened her eyes.
Sunlight brightened the room.
It felt late.
She rolled over and looked at her clock.
10AM.
She groaned. How had she slept so long? She must have been more tired than she realized. Her eyes flicked toward the nightlight. It was still working. No one had snuck in last night to play tricks. The rabbit incident had put an end to Jake’s pranks, at least for now. She decided to go easy on him for the next few days.
Slipping out from under the covers, she pulled on her jeans, found a clean shirt, and then went downstairs, following the smell of bacon that led to the kitchen.
Her father was at the stove, a spatula in hand.
Jake was at the dining room table.
Neither looked up when she entered the room.
She went to the fridge and found a carton of juice and poured a glass. After a while, she said, “I spoke to Becca last night.”
“Huh?” Her father sounded distant, lost in his own head.
“I said, I talked to Becca last night, on the phone.”
She narrowed his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Sorry.” Andrew seemed to shake off the funk. “I didn’t sleep well. You were saying?”
“Becca?”
“Right. How is she?”
“Good. She wants to come up and visit, stay for a few days.” Sarah didn’t know if Becca visiting was a good idea, but it might get her father off her back. He thought she was too withdrawn, and he had spoken to her about it several times since the pill incident. He’d even taken her to see a shrink, not that it did much good. “What do you think?”
“Once we get the house in order.”
“Thursday.”
“Sarah—”
“I know. It’s too soon. I can tell her to wait if you like.”
“No, she should come; it will be good for you.” He cracked eggs into a frying pan. “There is a condition though.”
“What?”
“I want some help around here the next few days.”
“That’s it?”
“Think you can handle it?”
“Sure.” She watched her father set up three plates, sliding scrambled eggs and four rashers of bacon onto each. She took one and settled at the kitchen table. “Like what?”
“For a start, you can do the laundry. There’s a hamper full already.”
“Do we even have a washing machine?” Sarah hadn’t seen one. In their old house there was a laundry room off the kitchen, but not here.
“We sure do.” Andrew poured a mug of coffee and joined her at the table. “It’s in the cellar.”
“The cellar.” Sarah repeated the words with a shudder. Her grandparents' home in Maine had a dark, creepy basement. She had ventured down there twice, and that was enough. “You want me to go into the cellar?”
“It’s the only way to get to the washing machine.”
“I’ll do it,” Jake piped up, a grin on his face.
“I don’t think so, sport. You still have to put your toys away.” Andrew turned to Sarah. “If you want Becca here, that’s the deal.”
“Fine.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “If I must.”
“That’s the spirit,” Andrew said. “The laundry basket is in the bathroom.”
Chapter 16
Sarah lingered in the hallway, cradling the basket of laundry in her arms.
Ahead of her, the cellar door yawned wide. Wooden stairs dropped away into shadow, with only a vague hint of what lay beyond the visible. She spied a set of old shelves at the foot of the stairs, loaded with paint cans and a couple of moldy boxes. Further in, she saw the worn out frame of a bicycle, one wheel missing. A fuse box was attached to the wall, thick wires snaking upward into the rafters. On the far side stood an old hutch with peeling paint.
The cellar did not look inviting.
She stood a moment, wondering whether she really wanted to bother. But what choice did she have? She needed clean clothes, and besides, it was the only way her dad would allow Becca to visit.
Here goes nothing, she thought, testing the top stair with her foot before trusting it with her full we
ight.
The staircase groaned but held firm.
She moved on to the next step, then the next, peering over the top to gauge her descent.
At the bottom she stopped and looked around.
The cellar occupied the same footprint as the house above, with a compacted dirt floor, rough stone walls, and a cylindrical oil tank resting on a concrete pad. The tank was painted a dull black and had thick pipes sticking up toward the floorboards above. This was part of the heating system. They would need it come winter when the temperatures would plummet well below freezing.
The ceiling was low, with long trailing cobwebs slung between hefty rafters. The single light bulb affixed between two joists pushed back the darkness but could not reach the furthest corners. The lone window, a long narrow pane near the top of the far wall, at ground level, was so caked in grime it allowed barely any natural light to penetrate.
The washer and dryer stood at the other end of the room in an alcove flanked on both sides by brick walls.
Sarah groaned.
Why hadn’t they put the laundry area closer to the stairs? She had no wish to cross the length of the basement. Who knew how many fat spiders were lurking above her head or what might scurry away into the shadows? Not to mention that the air was so cold it raised goose bumps on her arms.
She toyed with the idea of turning back, admitting that she was scared, but then she would be teased in relentless fashion, and that would be too much.
Instead, she forced herself forward, keeping her head low to avoid the worst of the cobwebs. Even so, a long strand trailed across her face, and she almost dropped the basket in a frantic attempt to clear away the sticky gossamer silk. She brushed at her shoulders, worried that she might have dislodged the eight-legged occupant of the web. When she didn’t find anything, her heart rate slowed a little.
At the laundry area she dropped the clothes hamper on the floor. Lifting the washing machine lid she stuffed the contents of the basket inside.
There was a shelf above the washer, made of wood and supported by two rusting brackets. Upon this sat a bright new box of detergent, no doubt placed there by her father. She took it down and added a scoop to the machine, then closed the lid. She set the machine and waited for the water to start up before turning back to the hamper.
From the direction of the stairs came the squeal of worn hinges followed by a reverberating thud.
The cellar door had blown closed.
She was alone and cut off from the rest of the house.
A shudder raced up her spine.
She turned back toward the stairs. The light bulb flickered once, twice, then went out. The cellar was plunged in darkness.
The swirling blackness was broken only by a dim rectangle of light that entered through the filthy window. It was not bright enough to see by.
Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. She fought a rush of panic.
From somewhere far off in the darkness, she heard a faint sound. Was someone in the cellar with her?
“Jake?” she called. “Dammit. Cut it out.”
It was just like her crappy brother to do something like this. She imagined him sneaking to the cellar, reaching in, flicking off the light, and then slamming the door. He was probably standing in the hallway, laughing his ass off right about now.
Except that the door had swung shut before the light was extinguished.
A stab of terror clutched at Sarah’s heart.
“Jake?” She was trembling now. “Dad?”
Her voice bounced off the cellar walls.
“Help me.” The words sounded thin, hollow. There was no way her father or brother would hear her cries unless they were in the hallway. “Anyone?”
But nobody came to her aid.
She was on her own. Unable to see or be heard, she felt like a soul adrift in an endless ocean of nothingness. Like after the overdose, before she woke up.
That thought brought her to the brink of tears. She fought back a sob.
Something moved in the darkness.
The sob died in Sarah’s throat. She held her breath, listening, waiting.
There it was again, a shuffling sound, like feet dragging across the bare earth.
The washer clanked and clunked at her back.
Sarah’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her eyes darted around, despite the fact that she was pretty much blinded.
The sound came again, closer now.
A light breeze touched her face. It carried a lingering odor that reminded her of bad breath.
It was almost like someone, or something, was standing right there, inches away. Unmoving.
The air was freezing cold. Her skin prickled. She let out a whimper.
The wind came again, caressing her cheek. Rotten. Putrescent.
That was all it took. She ran, her hands flailing out in front, feeling around in the darkness for the staircase.
Where was it?
Oh god, where was the damn staircase?
And then the washer made one last clunk and stopped. The sudden silence was worse than anything. She came to a halt and stood there, her labored breathing much too loud.
Something scratched along the floor. Like nails on a chalkboard, only worse.
Sarah found the will to move again. She stumbled forward, eyes straining in the blackness. And then her foot smashed up against something hard.
Jolting pain shot up her leg. She let out a yelp and put her hand out to steady herself. Her palm came to rest on a rough handrail.
The stairs. She cried with relief.
Up ahead there was a thin crack of light.
The cellar door.
Sarah put a foot on the first step, ignoring the creak of protest. She moved to the next step, then the next, keeping one hand tight on the railing.
The climb seemed endless. She expected to feel icy fingers at any moment, to smell that fetid breath over her shoulder. She quickened her pace, reaching out for the light switch as she neared the top, wanting nothing more than to bathe the cellar in merciful light.
She flicked it up. Nothing happened.
She jiggled the switch, up and down, but still it didn’t work.
“Damn.” The word came out more like a desperate moan than a curse. “Why won’t this work?”
And then she felt the air stir.
Someone was sneaking up behind her, she was sure.
Sarah gave up on the light switch and turned her attention to the door. She fumbled to find the handle, panic turning to relief when her hand closed over it. She turned the knob.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, throwing her weight against the stuck door.
And then, just when she was sure the thing in the darkness was going to reach her, the door flew open, and Sarah fell forward into bright, wonderful daylight.
Chapter 17
Andrew toggled the switch to the on position. The basement filled with light. He turned to Sarah. “See, all working.”
“Well, it wasn’t.” Sarah peered past him, a scowl on her face. “I’m not making it up.”
“I never said you were.” Andrew could hear the washer running the spin cycle. He suspected he would have to transfer the clothes to the dryer. Sarah didn’t look like she wanted to venture down into the basement again any time soon. “It’s an old house, with old wiring. Maybe there was a short circuit somewhere.”
“That’s your explanation?” Sarah asked. “Wiring?”
“What else could it be?”
“I don’t know.” Sarah stood with her arms folded across her chest.
“I’ll have the electrician come back out and give the wiring a second look. Maybe he missed something.” Andrew turned the light off and closed the door.
“The washer turned off too.”
“Probably just between wash cycles.”
“No. That wasn’t it,” Sarah protested. “There was someone down there with me.”
“That’s impossible.” Andrew remembered the nig
ht before, the fleeting impression of a face at the window. But that was just his mind playing tricks, wasn’t it? “Besides, I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
“I don’t.” Sarah’s voice rose in pitch. “Who said it was a ghost?”
“There wasn’t anyone down there with you. Jake was in the living room, and I was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher.”
“I know what I felt,” Sarah said. “It wasn’t wiring, and it wasn’t the washer changing cycles.”
“Sarah, what do you want me to do?” Andrew struggled to hold back his frustration. “The basement is empty. There’s nothing down there that can harm you.”
“You could take me seriously for a start.”
“I’m trying, but you don’t make it easy.”
“Forget about it.” Sarah turned and stomped down the hallway toward the front door, slamming it behind her.
Andrew watched her leave with a deepening sense of loss. Her therapist in Boston said it would take some time, but her mental wounds would heal. It wasn’t happening fast enough. He was getting tired of waiting. Instead of coming out of herself, Sarah was more withdrawn than ever. He worried that something would happen, a repeat of the incident at school. He’d already lost his wife; if he lost Sarah it would be too much to bear.
“Daddy?” Jake, who had stood silent throughout the exchange, looked up at his father.
“Yes, son?” Andrew struggled to keep the weariness from his voice.
“Should we take Sarah into town for ice cream? She looks sad.”
Andrew laughed, despite himself. “I don’t think Mint Choc Chip will fix this one, son.”
“It makes me feel better.” Jake looked up, his eyes wide.
“I know it does,” Andrew replied. He wished the solution were as simple as a few scoops.
“Can we get ice cream anyway?”
“Maybe later,” Andrew said, his eyes returning to the front door, hoping that Sarah would come back. “But only if you’re good.”
Chapter 18
The Haunting of Willow House Page 7
