The Haunting of Willow House

by Anthony M. Strong

  Chapter 38

  “You really thought I was dead?” Becca sat perched on the edge of the bed. “Hung in a tree?”

  “I swear.” Sarah was still shaken up by the ordeal. Even though Becca was here, and clearly very much alive, Sarah couldn’t stop replaying the moment she saw the corpse in the tree over and over in her mind. Even now it made her feel numb. “I’m not making this up.”

  “No one is saying that you are,” Becca replied.

  “Except for my father.”

  “He’s worried about you.”

  “He thinks I’m crazy.” Sarah swallowed hard, leaned back on the bed. “He hasn’t treated me the same since I took the pills.”

  “Do you blame him?”

  “No, not really.” This was the truth. It didn’t make her feel any better though. “I know I let everyone down.”

  “You didn’t.” Becca put a hand on Sarah’s arm. “Trust me.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “So what was it like?” Becca asked, steering the conversation back to the night’s events.

  “What?”

  “The body in the tree.”

  “I don’t want to think about it.” Sarah wished her friend would let it go. She felt bad enough already, and a little confused. How was it possible that she had thought Becca’s bed was empty? Why had she thought Becca was outside? Worst of all, who or what was she following on the driveway?

  “Do you think it was the witch?” Becca’s eyes were wild. “Maybe she put a spell on you.”

  “There’s no such thing as a witch. Martha Ward was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. She was a victim of mass hysteria.”

  “And now she’s in your back yard,” Becca replied. “And haunting your house.”

  “Stop that,” Sarah said, ignoring the tingle of fear that pushed up her spine.

  “What do you think she wants?” Becca said.

  “How should I know? To drive me insane, if tonight is anything to go by.”

  “We should ask her.” Becca was already off the bed.

  “No.” Sarah knew what Becca was going to suggest. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Why not?” Becca plucked the Ouija board from off the dresser and brought it back to the bed. “You want answers, don’t you?”

  “Not like that.”

  “Well, there’s no other way.” Becca went back to the dresser, then turned to look at Sarah, a confused expression on her face. “Did you move the pointer?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, it’s not here.” Becca hunted around, checking the floor and the bed. “Where could it be?”

  “It can’t be too hard to find.” Sarah scooted off the bed and joined Becca in her hunt.

  “Really? Well, where is it then?” Becca was on her hands and knees, peering under the bed.

  “Forget it. We’ll look tomorrow. I’m tired.”

  “Don’t you want to find out why Martha is still here?”

  “I’m not sure that she is,” Sarah said. “Honestly, it’s possible I am going mad. I know what I saw. You were hanging in a tree. You were dead, a noose around your neck. But here you are, so it must have been a hallucination. Or maybe I was sleepwalking.”

  “You think you dreamed it?”

  “I don’t know.” Sarah flopped back down on the bed. She felt drained, weary. “But if you really want to find out more about Martha, and the history of this house, I think I know someone who can help.”

  “Who?” Becca sat on the inflatable bed. “Tell me.”

  “There was a priest who came around a few days ago to see my dad. I overheard them.” Sarah wrapped the blanket around herself in an attempt to get warm. “He was talking about a family that used to live here.”

  “Wow. Do you know which church he came from?”

  “No. But I remember his name. Father Bertram. It shouldn’t be too hard to find him.”

  “Hang on.” Becca was already tapping on her phone. She looked up, a look of satisfaction on her face. “Got it. He’s the parish priest at Our Lady of Sorrows.”

  “That was fast.”

  “We should go and see him tomorrow.” Becca slipped the phone back in her purse. “What do you say?”

  “Tomorrow. Assuming I’m not grounded for what happened tonight.” Sarah yawned. She reached out, clicked off the lamp. The room was swathed in darkness, the only illumination coming from the nightlight plugged in under the window. “In the meantime, I’m going to get some sleep. I’m exhausted.”

  Chapter 39

  Our Lady of Sorrows stood in a neighborhood of large Victorians, surrounded by neat manicured lawns and delicately trimmed hedgerows. The building itself was simple, built of stone, with a small bell tower at one end and at the other, a white cross on the roof’s apex. An arched walkway led from the side of the church and followed the perimeter of the property to create a half enclosed courtyard in which was erected a statue of the Virgin Mary, her arms held open. Stone benches arranged at intervals along the path offered views of the blooming flowers that filled a host of flowerbeds scattered throughout the grounds.

  Becca circled the block twice before finding a parking space on the road near the front of the church, and backing in with an ease that contradicted the newness of the driver's license in her wallet.

  The car had hardly come to stop before Sarah jumped out and hurried toward the church’s main doors. Becca locked the car and scurried behind, catching up with Sarah as she reached the main doors.

  It was cold inside the church, despite the glorious day outside. Slants of sunlight cut through intricate stained glass windows, casting colorful splashes of light upon the tiled floor between the benches. Stone columns rose on each side of the nave, blossoming into intricate twisting sculptures at the point where they met the vaulted ceiling. The air smelled of incense and age, the atmosphere thick and heavy.

  Sarah made her way up the center aisle to the crossing, where a pair of transepts, one on each side of the building, separated the rest of the church from the chancel. She stopped short of the altar and stood looking up at the crucifix suspended on the back wall. A sculpture of Christ, hands and feet pierced with nails, painted blood seeping from the wounds, hung from the cross in lifelike detail. His head bowed and ringed with thorns, the sculpture looked like it was peering at them from pain drenched eyes.

  “That’s a bit too real.” Becca said, her gaze drawn upward to the crucified Jesus.

  Sarah didn’t respond.

  “Are you okay?” Becca cast a worried glance in her friend’s direction.

  “The last time I was in a church we were burying my mom.” Sarah spoke the words in a hushed voice. “I remember sitting in the front row, looking up at the cross on the wall, focusing on the figure there, because I couldn’t bear to look at the casket.”

  “That was a hard day for everyone.” Becca put an arm around Sarah, gave her a light hug. “I was so worried about you. I still am.”

  “All I could think was how unfair it all was. That if there really were a god he would never have let a thing like that happen. He would have saved her. Wouldn’t he?”

  “I don’t know,” Becca admitted. She fell silent for a beat, and then spoke again. “Look, if this is too much right now, if you’re overwhelmed, we can leave and come back another day.”

  “No. This is important. We’ll find Father Bertram and see what he knows.” Sarah pulled her eyes from the crucifix. She turned back toward the aisle. “I want to know what went on in my house.”

  “It doesn’t look like he’s around,” Becca said. “Shouldn’t he be here if the church is unlocked?”

  “I have no idea.” Sarah shrugged. “Don’t they always leave churches open?”

  “Beats me.” Becca made her way back down the aisle toward the doors. “We should have called ahead, made sure he was actually at home.”

  “Maybe,” Sarah agreed. “I assumed he would be here.”

  Sh
e followed Becca toward the back of the church, unsure what to do next. She had almost reached the doors when a deep voice echoed down the aisle.

  “Can I help you?”

  The girls turned, surprised by the sound.

  Father Bertram stood on the altar steps. He was dressed in black, his shirt open at the top, white collar missing.

  He clearly wasn’t expecting visitors.

  The aging priest descended the steps and met them in the aisle. “If you’re looking for the Irish dancing lessons, that’s in the church hall around the corner and across the parking lot. But you’re a wee bit early, I‘m afraid. It doesn’t start for another hour.”

  “We're not here for that.” Becca stepped forward. “We’ve come to ask you some questions.”

  “Have you now?”

  “About Willow Farm.”

  “I see.” The priest narrowed his eyes. “And why would you be interested in that old place?”

  “Because I live there.” Sarah spoke up. “You came to see my father a couple of days ago.”

  “I did. It’s true.” Father Bertram nodded in agreement. He sighed, a cloud passing over his face. “But I’m not sure I should be discussing things of that nature with girls such as yourselves.”

  “We’re big girls. We can handle it,” Becca said, a scowl on her face.

  “Please?” Sarah intervened before Becca could say anything else. “It would mean a lot to us.”

  “Does your father know you‘re here?” the priest asked.

  “Of course,” Sarah felt bad for lying to a priest, but it was the only way. “He thought it would be a good idea to know the history of our new house, get to know it better.”

  “Did he now?” The priest didn’t look convinced, but even so, he motioned for the girls to take a seat on one of the benches. He settled on the bench in front and turned to them. “You didn’t hear any of this from me, understand?”

  “Yes.” Sarah nodded her agreement. “Of course.”

  “Very well,” Father Bertram said. But still, he hesitated.

  “Why did you go to Willow Farm?” Becca chimed in. “What did you tell Sarah’s dad?”

  “I came to see your father because I thought he should know the things that happened in his house, why it was empty so long.”

  “And?”

  “I arrived at this church many years ago. It was the mid-eighties, and I didn’t know a soul. Of course, that changed pretty quick, what with the congregation eager to acquaint themselves with the new priest, but one family in particular opened their arms, and their house, to me.”

  “The people who lived at Willow House,” Sarah said.

  “Exactly, the Stevenson family. They purchased the house at about the same time I came to town, and they seemed happy there, at least at first. Then one day Mr. Stevenson, Andy, came to me for advice. It was a few weeks before Thanksgiving. He said he’d been seeing things late at night, hearing noises. He claimed that his wife had seen stuff too, that she refused to go into the cellar, and sometimes slept with the lights on.

  “He asked me to do a blessing, and of course I obliged. After that, he said the house quieted down, that everything was calm. And then one cold winter’s day, he loaded his wife and the kids into the family car, and pointed it straight toward the oak tree at the entrance to the property.”

  “That’s horrible.” Sarah looked on with wide eyes. “Were they-“

  “Killed?” Bertram wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, even though it was chilly in the church. “I’m afraid so. The girl hung on for a little while, hovering at the threshold of death, but soon she was gone too. It was a dreadful affair, and there was no logical reason why it happened. Except…” He trailed off, a distant look in his eyes.

  “What, Father?” Becca leaned forward. “There’s more, isn’t there.”

  “I’m afraid so. The police ruled it an accident, and even though they could find no evidence for it, decided that the car must have suffered a malfunction, that Andy lost control and hit the tree before he could do anything to stop it.”

  “But you don’t think that’s what happened?” Becca said.

  “No.” The priest swallowed, moistened his lips. “Andy said some troubling things the day he sought my help. He spoke of hearing voices in the walls, of seeing a figure lurking late at night, skulking in the darkness, even though all the family members were accounted for. He had formed the impression that the nocturnal visitor was a female, said she came to him when everyone else was sleeping, whispered to him, told him to do things, horrible things.”

  “You think she told him to drive into that tree?”

  “I think Andy wasn’t in his right mind when he got behind the wheel that night. As for the cause of his mental state, I really don’t know,” the priest said. “When I went up to the house to give the blessing, I thought he was exaggerating his experiences, much to my eternal shame. It was later, after the accident, that I found out I wasn’t the first priest to have dealings with that house. It had a history already, and not a good one.”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear this,” Sarah said, feeling a little nauseous.

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Bertram said.

  “I really don’t want to hear it, but I think I need to hear it.” Sarah looked to Becca for support, feeling better when her friend put a hand out, touched her shoulder. “Please, go on.”

  “Very well.” The priest drew in a long, measured breath and then started again. “Back in the late fifties, the parish priest was a man named Christopher Halloran. He was beloved by all accounts, a soft spoken Irishman with a heart of gold. One night, with the snow coming down in a frenzy, and the ground frozen hard, he got it into his head to drive up to Willow Farm, right there and then. He told his housekeeper that he had a bad feeling something was very wrong up at the farm. She tried to dissuade him, pleaded with him not to go out on such a night, that it wasn’t safe to be on the road, but he was adamant. That was the last time anyone saw him. At least, still alive.”

  “What happened to him?” Becca was engrossed.

  “That’s where things get weird. When he didn’t return by morning, the housekeeper put a call in to the sheriff, reported the priest missing. They drove up to the farm, found his Plymouth parked out front, and everything quiet as could be. At first they thought he must have decided to stay over rather than risk the drive back in a blizzard, but then, on the ground at the side of the house, they came upon his broken body, frozen hard as an icicle.

  “The glass and shattered window frame strewn about gave them a fair clue as to his cause of death, but not how it had come to pass. They assumed, naturally, that the Walker family, the owners of Willow Farm back then, would be able to enlighten them. Sadly they were a little late on that score.”

  “Why?” Sarah felt butterflies writhing in her stomach. She dreaded what she was about to hear, but knew she must know the rest of the story.

  “When the sheriff went to the front door, he found it unlocked, slightly ajar. But still he went inside, searched the house. It wasn’t until he went upstairs that he discovered the family, at least two of the three. Thomas, the Walker’s ten-year-old son, was tied to his bed. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice to say he was no longer alive. Mrs. Walker was in her room, lying on her bed. She too was dead. She had poisoned herself.

  “Mr. Walker was found in the cow barn, his head caved in. He’d been dead for at least three days, much longer than the others. The assumption was that Mrs. Walker had killed her husband, then tied young Thomas to the bed and tortured him for days, until Father Halloran paid them a visit. That appears to have been the tipping point. She killed Father Halloran, swiftly followed by Thomas, and then joined them by downing the poison. There was a note on her nightstand, the only clue to her motive, in which she wrote that the house had made her do it.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick.” Sarah leaned over, cupped her head in her hands. “I’m living in a murder
house.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything,” Father Bertram said, a concerned look on his face. “You have to understand, all of this happened a very long time ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell my father about the Walker family when you had the chance?” Sarah looked up at the priest.

  “I wanted to. That’s the reason I went there. But when I saw the amount of pain already in his eyes, I couldn’t do it.”

  “And yet you were okay with telling me.”

  “You wanted to know the truth.” Bertram clasped his hands together. “And I wanted you to know, so that you can make sure your family stays safe.”

  “Are you saying they won’t?”

  “No.” The priest narrowed his eyes. “I’m not saying anything of the sort, but I am saying that Willow Farm has seen a lot of grief, and I would rather it not see anymore.”

  Chapter 40

  Andrew was sitting in the den at his computer when the email came through. He reached down, clicked his mouse and opened it.

  The message was from his realtor in Boston.

  There was an offer on the house.

  He read the message once, and then he read it again, a strange feeling overcoming him. He sat for a while, contemplating the news. Things seemed real now. Up until this point there was the possibility they could go back. The brownstone was a safety net. Now there was nothing.

  It felt strange, knowing he would never see the Boston house again. He and Jennifer had spent many happy days there. Jake was a baby when they bought it, and he thought of it like a member of the family. In some ways selling it felt like a betrayal, even though he knew that Jennifer would have wanted them to start afresh.

  But times changed, and Jennifer was gone. Keeping the old place would be more sentiment than practicality.

  That didn’t make him feel any better, and for a while he wondered if they were doing the right thing. But then he remembered Sarah and the suicide attempt. Boston was too raw for her, and he worried about Jake too.