“Indeed it has. You are correct about that.” Bertram nodded. “Time has certainly flown by. I don’t know where it goes.”
“You mentioned the previous occupants?”
“Oh, yes. The Stevensons were parishioners. Good people. I got to know them quite well. Spent many an evening at their dining room table breaking bread, so to speak. Goodness. I haven’t been back here since…” The priest trailed off, turned toward the dining room.
“Father Bertram?” Andrew reached out, touched the priest’s arm.
“Forgive me.” He pulled his gaze away, looked toward Andrew. “I’m an old man. Sometimes my mind draws me back to better days.”
“What happened to them, Father?” Andrew’s interest was piqued. “Did they move away?”
“Heavens, no. I wish that were the case.”
“Then what?” Andrew was not sure he wanted to hear the answer. A sudden dread had overtaken him, a premonition. The house had kept them for itself.
“They died, Mr. Whelan,” Bertram said, his voice flat and even. “They all died.”
“Oh.” Andrew felt vaguely uncomfortable.
“Yes indeed. It was a tragic accident. Their car had a run in with the old oak down by the road. Slammed into it head on, almost like Mr. Stevenson did so on purpose. Goodness knows how fast they were going, or why. They weren’t even wearing seatbelts. Poor Melissa – she was the daughter – got thrown clear through the windshield. She lingered for three days. Never regained consciousness. Well, how could she with injuries like that? I gave her the last rites myself.”
“That’s dreadful.” An image of Jennifer wormed into his head. Her car was sliding on the ice slicked road, a final scream caught upon her lips as the front of the vehicle buckled against a tree. He pushed the uninvited thought away, focused on the priest.
“After that, the house came into possession of Mr. Stevenson’s brother, Eric. He had no interest, was content to let it sit empty all those years. He hated the house, wouldn’t set a foot inside. It was like he blamed it for his brother’s untimely death.” Bertram sighed. “It was only after his own passing that the farm was put up for sale.”
“And here we are,” Andrew said.
“Here we are, indeed.”
“It must be a hard thing for you to come back here, relive something like that,” Andrew replied.
“It is, of course.” Bertram nodded. “But the good Lord gives us challenges so that we may overcome them.”
“Well—”
“Are you truly not a man of faith?” The priest fixed Andrew with those cold blue eyes.
“Not so much, Father.” Andrew shrugged off a pang of guilt, a remnant of his upbringing. “You could say, I’m on the fence.”
“Well now, that’s better than nothing. If you ever fall off, let’s hope it’s in our direction.” Bertram laughed, but somehow it came out mirthless, hollow.
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all one can ask.”
“I guess so,” Andrew said. He nodded toward the kitchen. “Can I get you something, a mug of coffee perhaps?”
“No, thank you. I can’t stay. Lots to do I’m afraid.” The priest took a step toward the door.
“I understand,” Andrew said, thankful that the strange old priest wasn’t going to outstay his welcome. “Please, feel free to drop by any time.”
“That’s mighty kind of you.” Father Bertram said. He deposited the fedora upon his head and pulled his coat collar around his neck. Before he ventured out into the rain he turned back, his face dark and troubled. “Will you do me a favor, Mr. Whelan?”
“If I can.”
“Be careful with the house.” He met Andrew’s gaze. “Be very careful.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Places like this, old places, they hold onto things. They take a little bit of each person who lives in them, and they keep it, they feed on it.”
“Are you trying to say that-”
“I’m giving you some friendly advice, nothing more.” He tipped his hat. “My door is always open if you need to talk. I pray that you don’t, Mr. Whelan. I surely do.”
And with that the old priest turned away. He hunched down against the rain, holding the brim of the hat, and hurried toward the waiting car.
Andrew watched him climb in before closing the door.
When he turned toward the hallway, he sensed a presence. He raised his eyes to see Sarah leaning on the second floor railing. He wondered how long she had been there, watching, listening.
“Well, that was odd.” He kept his tone light. Heaven knew, he didn’t need her any weirder than she already was. “What do you think?”
Sarah stayed mute.
“You want to come down and give me a hand painting the kitchen?” He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t bite.”
For a while he thought she might actually agree, but then she turned and disappeared in the direction of her room, leaving Andrew alone in the hallway.
Chapter 21
Jake was asleep when the phone rang.
At first he didn’t wake up. He was in the VW Bug, riding up to Maine. Everything was great. The sun was high in the sky, and his mother was alive. She laughed and talked and sang along with the radio, just like she always did.
This was the way things should be.
And then there was the noise. A shrill ringing that seemed to push back against the illusion. It came from the radio, it came from the engine. It even seemed to come from the road itself.
Jake put his hands over his ears to block out the sound, scrunching up his face, but it was no good. And then, even though his palms were pressed to the sides of his head, his mother spoke. She took her eyes from the road, fixed her gaze upon him, and she spoke to him.
He heard three little three words. No, not so much heard them as discovered them inside his head. Her mouth moved, but the words didn’t arrive via his ears, but rather filled his mind.
It’s me, Jake.
He didn’t know what she meant. Of course it was her. Who else would it be? He could see her sitting there next to him in the car.
And still she was looking at him. She wasn’t paying any attention to the road or the way the car drifted closer and closer to the verge. She didn’t care that the steering wheel was slowly turning of its own volition.
She didn’t even look back when the car mounted the grass, wheels kicking up chunks of dirt and sod. Not even when the front impacted a tree so hard that Jake felt himself being lifted from the seat and careening toward the windshield…
Jake opened his eyes, a terrified scream dying on his lips. His mother’s words echoed, as if they had followed him out of the dream.
It’s me Jake.
He lay there, the phrase rolling around in his head, still not sure what it meant. If it meant anything at all.
He sat up.
The bedroom was dark. The clock in the shape of a cartoon bear, a Christmas gift from a few years ago, announced that it was after midnight.
The house was quiet.
Except for the old rotary dial phone.
It was on the floor in the corner of the room where he had abandoned and forgotten it a few days before.
Now it was ringing.
It was disconnected, unplugged.
But even so, it was ringing.
Jake rubbed his eyes and swung his legs off the bed.
He took one step, then another, approaching the telephone as if it were some sort of cornered animal.
Still it rang.
If it kept this up, the whole house would be awake.
Jake knelt on the floor and reached out. He knew he should be afraid, but he was not. The phone was his friend. He sensed that.
But only if he answered.
Jake dragged the unit across the floorboards until it nestled between his legs, then lifted the receiver.
The shrill ring was cut short.
Silence returned to the room.
“Hello?�
�
The same old familiar interference popped and whistled against his ear. Like before, in the living room.
“Who’s there?” Jake tried again. The phone had rung. There must be a person on the other end, even if it wasn’t actually connected to a wall socket.
Swirling static spewed from the handset.
Jake peered at the receiver, disappointed.
His mother’s words popped into his head again.
It’s me, Jake.
Something connected inside his head. He almost dropped the receiver, the revelation was so sudden. He knew who was on the other end of the phone. He knew why it was so hard to hear them. Phone calls from beyond the grave were not meant to be easy. Talking with the dead was a tricky business, even with the help of a magic telephone.
“Mom?” He said, his voice rising at the end of the word. It repeated, a beat out of synch, in the earpiece. His voice sounded thin and reedy relayed through the small, aging speaker.
The static buzzed and hissed.
And then a voice came through.
It whispered in his ear.
Jake listened.
Chapter 22
Nothing.
Four miserable hours sitting in front of the computer screen, and nothing.
Zip.
Zilch.
Not that Andrew hadn’t tried. There had been words a plenty, but not a single one was worth the time it took to tap the keys. Delete was Andrew Whelan’s best friend these days. That was why he’d spent the afternoon doing other things, avoiding the inevitable confrontation with his laptop. He’d painted the kitchen, telling himself it must be right away. He’d fixed a sticking door handle. He’d even entertained the kooky priest and listened to his stories about the previous inhabitants of Willow House.
And now he was sitting in the semi-darkness, his writing room lit only by an antique brass desk lamp and the glow of his screen, with midnight fast approaching.
There would be no good words today, he knew that much. Andrew was no fool. He was deluding himself. But better that than think about his agent in New York fuming and waiting for the manuscript that should have been delivered months ago. The only reason Andrew still had a publisher was out of deference to his situation. Take all the time you need, they said. Work through the grief. We understand. Except that such sentiments only went so far. Soon things would turn from poor guy to see ya, wouldn’t want to be ya. People would only give so much rope. In the end, they let you hang yourself from it.
He leaned back in the chair, rubbed his tired eyes. Glanced toward the window, the night black and stormy beyond the glass. As it always did on evenings like this, his thoughts turned to Jennifer. The bad ones, he had come to call them. Those long hours when the loneliness overwhelmed him and he wondered how he could go on without her. If it weren't for the kids…
Best not to think about that.
Some ideas were toxic. They festered at the back of your mind, growing, becoming real. Demanding attention. They could overpower that rational voice in your head, pervert it to their own will.
Andrew stood and paced, fighting back the surge of grief that came, unbidden, at such moments. His mind went back to that day, the one when everything changed forever.
It was late afternoon, around four. He was working on the manuscript, typing away in the third floor den. The sound of the city was a distant soundtrack drifting from the street below.
The phone rang.
He didn’t recognize the number.
He answered anyway.
And his world crumbled.
Andrew blinked back a tear, wiped it away. The memories of that day were always painful. People said it would get better with time, but that was a lie. It didn’t get any better, you learned to live with it. The grief was a constant companion, a shadowy figure waiting in the wings, ready to make an entrance at any moment.
An image pushed its way into his head.
Jennifer lying on the cold steel mortuary table, the white cloth pulled back from her face so that he could identify her.
She looked so small. Broken.
By the time the funeral rolled around she would appear as if she were sleeping, but not yet. Now her face still bore the purple and yellow bruises sustained in the crash, a gift from the steering wheel when her head slammed forward.
So much for the airbag.
There was a gash on her left cheek, the skin curled back from a black ragged slit. Her hair was limp, all the volume gone.
Andrew closed his eyes, opened them again.
He took the memory, pushed it back. Forced his mind to other things. Happier things.
Jennifer and him with the kids at the zoo.
The time they went to Old Orchard Beach, taking the coast road through small Maine towns with postcard views.
Their wedding night.
These things helped, but not enough. They were never enough.
“Shit.” He spoke the word aloud. It hung in the air, an affront to the otherwise peaceful house.
Why did you have to leave?
It was not the first time he’d asked that question. A silent plea to a woman who could never answer. If there were an afterlife, the phone lines were down.
I can’t do this alone.
Andrew went back to the desk, sat down.
The computer mocked him, the cursor blinking on the white, empty page. He slammed the lid down.
Saw the vodka bottle behind it.
The same one he’d poured away a few nights ago. He knew this because it was the only bottle in the house. His emergency stash. He should have disposed of it in Boston, but instead it had found its way into the writing room boxes. And now it was back again. Even stranger, it was full.
But not quite.
There was a small amount gone from the top.
He knew where that missing liquor was too.
It filled a shot glass next to the bottle.
Where had that come from? He knew he hadn’t brought it from the Boston house. Too much temptation. Right now his shot glasses were on a shelf in a thrift store an hour’s drive away. He’d taken them there in person, given them to the bored and surly worker at the donation drop.
So why was this one here, tempting him?
It didn’t make sense.
He picked up the glass, peered at it.
One swig. That was all it would take. Who cared where the damned glass came from, or how it had gotten filled all on its own? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, his father would have said. Not that the old man knew anything worth a damn. Spent his whole life spouting clichéd metaphors and anecdotes while his career tanked and his wife cheated with the high school football coach. The old man died lonely and depressed.
Like father, like son.
Andrew would have chuckled, except that he wasn’t in any mood for mirth.
Screw it.
He touched the glass to his lips, felt the alcohol slosh forward. The fumes tickled his nostrils.
His stomach tightened, anticipating a visit from an old friend.
A quick flick of the wrist; that was all it would take to make the pain go away, at least for an hour or two.
It wouldn’t be one flick though.
It never was. Not when the bad times came a-calling.
Andrew didn’t care.
He tipped the glass, let the liquid fall into his mouth. And then he poured himself another.
Chapter 23
Andrew awoke slumped in his chair.
At first he wasn’t sure of his surroundings, only that this was not the bedroom, and then the memories rushed back to fill in the blanks. At least up until about the sixth shot.
He rubbed his eyes.
His eyelids felt sticky and heavy. His head felt worse.
He leaned forward, resting for a moment while a wave of nausea passed. His stomach let out an angry gurgle. Something nasty, slimy and acidic rose in his throat and for a split second he thought he would actually vomit. He swallowed, forcing the
vodka laced gunk back down.
His father’s voice echoed in his head, offering more of the same useless advice.
Better out than in.
Shut up, he thought. The last thing he needed was advice from beyond the grave. Especially from a man who couldn’t have cared less about Andrew in the twenty years they shared the same planet. Only it wasn’t his father talking, he knew. It was merely his own subconscious making trouble.
Still, the sentiment carried some merit.
He stumbled to his feet and went to the bathroom, pulling the door closed – the kids did not need to see him in this sorry state – and leaned over the sink.
Except that now the contents of his stomach seemed content to stay right where they were.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror, was shocked to see angry red rims around his bloodshot eyes, the puffy sacs underneath. His skin looked pallid. It sagged, like someone had taken dough and sculpted his features from it.
He looked dreadful.
He turned on the tap, cupped the running water in his hands, and splashed his face. It helped. But what he really wanted was something to drink. He was dehydrated. His mouth furry and dry, lips parched. When he swallowed, it felt like shards of glass lined his throat.
There was orange juice in the refrigerator.
The sugar would help clear his head, give him some much needed energy. Plus, he might get rid of the sour taste that lingered on his tongue.
He made his way back to the corridor, turned and descended the stairs.
Weak light filtered through the front door pane. It was early, still in that predawn moment before the sun crested the horizon.
Good.
Plenty of time to recover before anyone else awoke.
He walked to the kitchen, suppressing a yawn. The effort sent a jolt of pain through his tender head. He grimaced, rubbed his forehead, kneading his temples until the tension eased.
In the kitchen, he poured a large glass of juice and took a grateful sip before walking to the living room. He flopped down on the couch, placed the drink on the coffee table.
The Haunting of Willow House Page 9
