The Haunting of Willow House

by Anthony M. Strong

  No, this was the way it must be.

  In a few weeks the house would belong to someone else, and that would be the end of the matter. In the meantime he decided to put the issue out of his mind. There were better things to worry about anyway, like the book. If he didn’t finish that, it wouldn’t matter where they lived; they would be broke.

  He closed the email and switched to the manuscript. The bare, white page glared out at him from the screen.

  He started to type.

  Chapter 41

  “Well, that was depressing,” Becca said as they strolled back toward the car. “Do you believe any of it?”

  “What’s not to believe?” Sarah was glum. She felt numb. No wonder there was such an oppressive atmosphere in the house. “I live in the house of death.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” Becca chided. “We don’t even know if half of what the priest said actually happened. Most of it sounds like hearsay to me.”

  “Except that he knew the last family who lived there. That isn’t hearsay.”

  “So what?” Becca asked. “It was a long time ago. Forget about it.”

  “How can I?” Sarah felt like crying. “I’m stuck in that place. You saw what happened with the Ouija board. You saw the grave.”

  “I know.” Becca sighed. “I just think you need to relax. If the ghost really is there, it might feed off negative energy.”

  “I suppose.” Sarah wasn’t convinced. “Do we have to go home yet? I don’t think I can stand seeing that house right now.”

  “We could get ice cream,” Becca said. “I know an awesome stand where the Creemee’s are wicked big.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on. You said you wanted to stay out.”

  “I know,” Sarah said as they reached the car. “I’m not in the mood for ice cream. Something else.”

  “The movies.” Becca opened the car door and climbed in, then waited for Sarah before continuing. “We haven’t been to the movies in ages.”

  “Fine.” Sarah really wasn’t in the mood to watch a film either, but it would kill a few hours, and she wouldn’t have to talk.

  “The movies it is then.” Becca turned the key in the ignition. The engine sprang to life. “Here we go.”

  Chapter 42

  Andrew was still in the den when Sarah and Becca returned from town. After several hours of writing, he didn’t feel he’d achieved a damn thing. There were words on the page for sure, but they weren’t good, and he knew it. In fact, they were more than that. They stank.

  He selected the three new pages, six hundred dreadful words. His finger hovered over the delete key.

  What the hell, he thought. It isn’t like anyone would publish this drivel. He stabbed his finger down. The words disappeared.

  So much for that.

  He stood up, stretched.

  It was already getting dark, the sun dropping low over the trees and turning everything a magnificent shade of gold.

  From the window, high on the second floor, he watched their car pull up the dirt track and park near the ramshackle barn. A few seconds later there was a thud as the girls came through the front door, then the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

  He stayed at the window even as the footsteps moved down the hall and faded. By now his daughter and her friend would be in the attic room above. He wondered if he should go up there, but decided against it.

  The phone rang, the sound harsh and loud in the broken silence. He started, his heart quickening before he realized what it was.

  He looked down, saw the name on the caller ID – Harvey Nolan. It was his agent.

  For a moment, he considered letting it go to voicemail. His eyes flicked to the bottle of vodka sitting to the left of the laptop. Next to it, a gift from the celestial bartender, a full shot glass. He considered slamming the shot, letting good old Harvey wait. He could talk to him when he was ready. The problem was, he would never be ready. He’d let it go to voicemail three times in the past two weeks. Each message sounded a little more irritated. This time Harvey might actually explode.

  With a groan, Andrew picked up the phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Andrew. My man. Glad that you answered. Sorry to call you so late.” Harvey’s nasal New York accent did him no favors. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Nope.” Andrew wondered if he could end the call, claim the line dropped, decided against it.

  “Good to hear,” Harvey said. “How have you been?”

  “Surviving.” Andrew stole a look at the shot glass. “You?”

  “I’d be better if my favorite author did me the service of returning my calls.”

  “Favorite author. What a bunch of bull. You hate me and you know it.” Andrew was in no mood for false platitudes.

  “I only hate you because you make my life a living hell,” Harvey said. “I quite liked you when we were making money together.”

  “The book. I know.” Like there was anything else Harvey would be calling about. “I’m going to need a bit more time.”

  “Time is the one thing we don’t have, Andrew, my boy.” There was a hard edge to Harvey’s voice. “The publisher wants their pound of flesh.”

  “I hear you. But they can’t have what I haven’t written.” Andrew went to the desk, sat down.

  “Then write,” Harvey said. “I don’t care if it’s the worst thing you’ve ever produced. At this point, it can be a steaming pile of horse manure for all I care, but I need something to give to them. Anything.”

  “A few more weeks.”

  “That’s what you said a month ago, and the month before that.” Harvey cleared his throat. “It’s been almost a year, Andrew.”

  “I know that.” Like he needed reminding.

  “Let me be honest with you,” Harvey said. “The publisher is threatening to pull if we don’t come up with a manuscript soon. They took a big risk with this three book deal, and they want to make their money back.”

  “They already have, ten times over.” The first two books had been bestsellers, far outstripping expectations. “And they can’t have the advance money back because I’m living on it.”

  “Whoa, don’t jump the gun there, my boy. No one is asking for any money back,” Harvey said. “But think of this. If you get dropped, it will be impossible to sell your next book, assuming you actually bother to write one. No other publisher will want to know. You will be damaged goods. New York might be big, but it ain’t that big.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” Andrew asked, defeated.

  “Come down here. There’s a convention at the Midtown Hilton. Show up, sign a few books, and smile for the fans. You know, play nice. Afterward, we’ll go to dinner with the powers that be, let them see that you are still with the program, reassure them.”

  “I can’t,” Andrew said. “There’s too much to do here.”

  “You can’t, or you won’t?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Hell yes, it matters,” Harvey said, his voice raising a notch. “Can I be frank with you?”

  “Can I stop you?”

  “Not so much.” Harvey paused. When he spoke again, his voice carried an air of gravitas. “It’s been a year, Andrew, a whole year. We were all very sorry to hear about Jennifer, truly we were. But this can’t go on. The publisher has gone above and beyond, allowed you the time to grieve. We both have. But here’s the thing. When it comes down to it, they don’t really give a rat’s ass about your situation.”

  “Well, that’s—“

  “It’s the truth. I know you don’t want to hear it, but at the end of the day, they are a business selling a product. They gave you some leeway because they believe in you, but that only goes so far. They want their book.”

  “Alright. You’ve made your point.”

  “Then you’ll fly down here?”

  “I never said that.” Andrew drummed his fingers on the desk. The vodka was looking better and better with each pa
ssing moment. “Give me two more weeks, three tops. I’ll work all night if I have too.”

  “No dice,” Harvey said. “If I go back to them with another delay, it might be the last. You’re not the only one with something to lose, you know.”

  “Oh, right. I get it. Your ten percent.”

  “You are a cynical man, Andrew.”

  “I’m a realist.”

  “You know what? Screw it. Who cares? You want to get drunk every night, that’s up to you.” Harvey’s voice trembled. “But you have a chance to rescue your career here. I’m throwing you a lifeline, but if you’re too stupid to grab hold…”

  “Okay, I’m sorry.” Andrew was alarmed at the outburst. It was unlike Harvey. “Listen, I can’t knock the book out in a week, but I can come to New York. When do you want me there?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Jesus, Harvey. Talk about short notice.”

  “If you’d been writing the book, like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have to ask. This was the only way I could convince the publishers not to cut their losses right now. You should be thanking me.”

  “How am I going to get a flight? I don’t even have Internet yet.”

  “I’d suggest you use the browser on your phone,” Harvey said. “You have data, right?”

  “Why do I even need to be there? You’re the one who's supposed to handle this stuff.”

  “Yeah, right. That only works if you hold up your end of the deal. I’m your agent, not your mother. Book a ticket, pay whatever you have to, and we’ll expense it. I’ll deduct it from your next royalty check.”

  “It’s not the money.”

  “Then quit complaining and get down here. If this goes well, it will buy you enough time to finish the book.”

  “Fine. I’ll make the reservation and email it over to you.”

  “Good man. You’re making the right decision.” Andrew could hear the relief in Harvey’s voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow, earlier the better.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Oh, and Andrew?”

  “What?”

  “Make sure to book a coach ticket. No premium upgrades, not if you want me to expense it. You hear?”

  “Sure,” Andrew said. “Coach it is.”

  “Fabulous.” Harvey sounded relieved. “Until the morrow.”

  “Yeah. Tomorrow.” Andrew pulled the phone away from his ear, hit the button to end the call, and placed it on the desk.

  He sat there for a long while, staring at the empty laptop screen. The last thing he wanted to do was leave the house, leave Sarah and Jake, and fly to New York. But he didn’t have a choice. Harvey had made that crystal clear. It was either New York or end up broke. Another burned out author left by the wayside.

  Damn.

  But at least he had the vodka, the magic elixir that got rid of his troubles, for a while at least. That counted for something. He leaned over, took the shot glass, raised it, and downed the contents in one. He placed the glass back on the desk, sat back, and waited for the celestial bartender to do his job.

  Chapter 43

  Sarah was quiet for much of the journey back to Willow Farm. She sat in the passenger seat, huddled down, staring out of the window even though it was already dark. Try as she might, she could not get the priest's words out of her head, and the closer they got to home, the more morose she became.

  When they arrived at the house, Sarah went straight upstairs. Becca followed.

  “You want to talk about it?” Becca asked as they entered the attic bedroom.

  “Not really.” Sarah flopped onto the bed, buried her head in the pillows.

  “Okay. I’m here if you want to talk.” Becca moved a pile of clothes from the chair near the window, sat down.

  “I can’t believe all that stuff happened here, in this house. Our house.” Sarah’s vice was muffled through the pillows. She turned over, looked a Becca. “How can I go on living here?”

  “I don’t think you have much choice.” Becca shrugged. “Unless you want to tell your dad what you found out today, see if he’ll move back to Boston.”

  “He won’t,” Sarah said. “I know it.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know one thing. We’d have to admit we lied about where we went today, tell him we went to see the priest. Besides, it would be a waste of time. My dad wouldn’t listen anyway. He’d just think I was causing trouble, trying to get him to move back to the city.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but this isn’t about that. This house, the farm, there’s something very wrong. I felt it the day I was trapped in the cellar, and the night I heard footsteps in my room. We both saw it at the grave in the woods. This place has a bad energy.”

  “So what do we do about it?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it right now,” Sarah said, her eyes glistening wet in the dim light from the lamp on the nightstand. She rolled over, slipped under the covers, pulled them almost all the way up over her head. “I’m tired. I’m going to get an early night.”

  “Like that?” Becca asked. “You’re not even undressed.”

  “I can’t be bothered.” Sarah’s voice sounded a million miles away. “I’ll put my nightgown on in a while.”

  “An early night does sound good.” Becca glanced at her watch. It was almost ten. “Mind if I take the shower first?”

  “Knock yourself out.” Sarah waved a hand above the covers. “But leave the light on when you go downstairs. I don’t want to be in the dark.”

  “Sure.” Becca scooped up her nightgown and walked to the door. From behind her, on the bed, she heard a gentle snore. Sarah was already asleep.

  Chapter 44

  Becca descended the stairs and padded along the corridor to the bathroom. The wood floor was cold on her bare feet, and she soon wished she’d slipped her sandals back on.

  A thin sliver of pale yellow light eked out from under the door opposite the bathroom. This was Andrew’s writing room. She hadn’t been inside, but he seemed to spend most of his time in there. She wondered what he did, since Sarah said he wasn’t writing anymore.

  The bathroom was even colder than the corridor. She closed the door, turned on the heater, and then reached in past the shower curtain. She got the shower going and waited for the water to heat up before undressing.

  When she stepped into the tub under the jet of piping hot water, a shiver of satisfaction raced through her. She pulled the plastic curtain closed to stop any stray wetness escaping onto the floor and stood there, letting the steamy spray cascade down her body. It felt so good that she didn’t want to move. She dipped her head into the water, her scalp tingling as the droplets massaged it, and squirted a handful of shampoo into her hand before applying it to her hair. She was about to rinse when the light flickered and went out.

  Becca let out a startled whimper.

  The blackness was absolute. She couldn’t even see her own hands. If she was back home in Boston the darkness would be diluted by the street lamps outside, but here the small bathroom window did nothing to help her situation.

  A knot of fear twisted inside of her when she remembered Sara’s story about the basement. Was this nothing more than a blown bulb, or was it something worse?

  Whichever it might be, Becca didn’t want to be here anymore. But first she must rinse her hair. The shampoo was already running down her forehead. But she had no desire to do that in the inky blackness. If she could get to the door, open it, there would be enough light to sooth her panicked nerves while she finished up.

  She extended a shaking hand, fumbled around until she found the edge of the shower curtain, and pulled it wide enough to pass through.

  The tub was high, an old claw foot that was charming enough to have escaped replacement over the years. Now it presented a hazard as she attempted to step out. On the first try her toe contacted the rim, causing her to curse in pain. She reached down, rubbed her aching digit, her hair falling over
her shoulders as she did so, wet and cold. She was about to make a second attempt when the light snapped back on.

  Becca squinted and shielded her eyes from the sudden flare. For a few moments everything was dazzling and white, but then the bathroom swam back into view.

  She shook with relief.

  It wasn’t some vengeful spirit setting a trap for her in the darkness, just bad wiring.

  The shampoo was dripping from her hair and onto her arms. She could feel it creeping down her forehead, threatening her eyes. She pulled the shower curtain across once more, then stepped back under the water and started to rinse, massaging her scalp, washing away the day’s grime.

  She closed her eyes, letting the shower douse her face, relishing the warmth that spread through her body.

  And then she heard it, a light shuffle.

  Becca froze, her breath catching in her throat.

  She opened her eyes, wiped the water away.

  “Is someone there?”

  She received no answer, just the sound of the shower drumming on the metal floor of the tub, and the steady thrum of the small, outmatched heater set high upon the wall.

  She listened.

  Whatever had caused the sound was gone now. The bathroom was still and quiet. She wondered if it was Andrew leaving his den or Jake needing to use the bathroom, finding it occupied already.

  But then there was the short blackout.

  It seemed like too much of a coincidence that both things would happen at the same time.

  Becca stood there, frozen with indecision. She wanted to hop from the shower, run back to the safety of the attic bedroom, but at the same time, she feared what waited for her on the other side of the shower curtain.

  As if to answer, the shuffling repeated.

  It was louder than before, and closer. Becca gave a quick intake of breath, her eyes wide.

  It came again, like feet dragging across the floor. This wasn’t Sarah, or anyone else in the house. This was something different. And it was right there, on the other side of the curtain.