The Haunting of Willow House

by Anthony M. Strong

  He pushed the old tins back in place – he might need this hiding place again – and swung the cabinet doors shut, then turned away.

  From somewhere up above he thought he heard a footstep, then the sound of a door closing. Sarah maybe?

  He would have to be careful. He didn’t want her to catch him with the bottle. She would throw a fit.

  Just like Jennifer.

  His wife always abhorred his habit of drinking when he wrote. Sarah was very much like her mother, and he saw more of Jennifer in her every day.

  A pang of regret tugged at his heart. If only he had gone with her that day. Things would have been different. They might have left a few minutes earlier, or a few minutes later. He might have taken the keys and driven. One small change was all it would have taken to avoid the accident. Jennifer might still be here.

  Now he needed that drink more than ever.

  The irony was not lost on Andrew. Jennifer had hated his drinking, and now he drank to ease the pain of her demise. Somewhere up above, she was surely frowning upon him, shaking her head. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t around to stop him.

  Only Sarah.

  As long as he avoided her, made sure she didn’t see him retreating back to the study, he would be in the clear. More to the point, he could finally slip a much-needed double down his throat.

  He was at the stairs now. They rose above him, a rickety affair cobbled together with coarse wood and lacking even a railing. If it were not for the fact that they hugged the wall, he wasn’t sure the stairs would even stay upright. He wondered how old they were. The farmhouse itself was well over two hundred years, and the steps looked like they might be original. He made a mental note to replace them at some point or at least shore them up so that they didn’t give way.

  Up ahead he could see the bright patch of yellow light from the hallway, the glow spilling down through the open door onto the first few treads.

  He shivered.

  The cellar was very cold all of a sudden, as if an arctic wind had invaded the space. He quickened his pace, climbing the last few stairs and reaching the top, grateful to reach the door.

  He stepped forward.

  At that exact moment two things happened in unison.

  The door moved, slowly at first but picking up steam, and slammed with a loud thump. At the same time there was a swift pop followed by the tinkle of glass, and the cellar light went out.

  Andrew, startled and blind, recoiled.

  Too late he realized his mistake.

  His heel teetered on the edge of the step, and he felt himself tipping backwards. He fought to regain his center of gravity, reached out for a handhold. As his foot slipped off the step, he twisted, turning in an effort to stave off the inevitable. But there was nothing he could do, and soon he was airborne.

  Not for long.

  He hit the next step, half on his side. A jolt of pain shot up his arm. His breath burst out in one almighty whoosh. And then he was tumbling toward the hard packed earthen floor below. The vodka bottle, which had somehow remained wedged between his chest and arm, jarred lose and bounced into the darkness. A second later it exploded somewhere far below.

  Andrew clawed at the rough stairs, hoping to gain some purchase, but it was hopeless. His own momentum carried him down, each twist bringing a new stab of pain, until there were no more steps left.

  He hit the ground hard, his head whipping back and smacking against the floor.

  And then there was nothing.

  Chapter 74

  Sarah paced back and forth, a tight knot of fear twisting in her stomach. For a while she had banged on the door, but it was no use. Every few minutes she made another futile attempt to escape, tugging at the handle until she was sure it would come away in her hands.

  She went to the window and looked out over the pitched roof, wondering if she could crawl out and climb down somehow. She soon realized the risk involved with that course of action. Even if she could navigate the sloped roof without tumbling off, there was still the matter of a two floor sheer drop, over twenty feet, to reach the ground. She could not remember if there was a drainpipe nearby, but even if there was, it might not hold her weight.

  Her eyes found the darkened shapes of the barns. Somewhere inside one of them was Jake. She wondered what he was doing. If she opened a window, she could call out, attract his attention. He could come up and open the door from the outside, or alert her father of the situation. However, somewhere deep inside, she had a feeling her brother would be no help, and although she could not explain it, a part of her was frightened of him.

  If she were going to do anything, now would be the time. She watched the barn door open. Jake’s small frame appeared. He was walking at a slower pace now, struggling with something that he held with both hands. His lumbering steps looked awkward. She leaned close to the glass, her breath causing a fog of condensation. She wiped it away and peered down, trying to see what he was holding.

  As he drew closer, she got a clear view, and the knot of fear turning into a writhing ball of terror.

  A gas can.

  Jake was carrying an old metal gasoline container, the type used to fill tractors and mowers. Judging by the way he shambled forward, almost stumbling under the weight, it was full.

  Her mind raced. What was he doing? Why was he dragging the gas can back to the house? There was only one reason she could think of. She stepped away from the window, a rising surge of panic overwhelming her. When she reached the bedroom door, she starting pounding on it with a renewed sense of urgency, tugging with all her might. She screamed at the top of her lungs, aware that with each passing second Jake drew closer to the house with his deadly cargo. She stepped back, went to the window. There was no choice. The only way out, the only route to safety, was over the roof.

  She released the latch, pulled up on the bottom pane.

  The window didn’t move. Like the door, it was stuck in place.

  She howled in frustration, moved to the other window, pried at the frame, but that would not budge either.

  And then she saw the chair, a pile of dirty clothing stacked upon it like some laundry tower of Babel.

  If the windows would not open, she would try a more direct approach.

  She tossed the clothes aside, sweeping them onto the floor. She picked up the chair, struggling under the weight, and heaved it against the windowpane with all the strength she could muster.

  It bounced off, useless.

  She tried again.

  The window shuddered but didn’t break.

  Terrified, she let the chair slip from her grasp and sank to the floor, sobs wracking her body. There would be no escape. That much was clear. She was powerless to stop Jake. All she could do was wait.

  Chapter 75

  It didn’t take Becca long to weave her way through Boston. Traffic was light, thanks in part to the late hour. She kept below the speed limit despite the nagging fear that gnawed at her, but still she made good time.

  After leaving the city behind, she snapped on her full beams and pushed the car a little faster. A few times she caught sight of deer grazing by the side of the road, their eyes glinting in the glare of the headlights. As she flew by, they turned and bolted back into the woods.

  By the time she saw the turnoff for Willow Farm, her anxiety had reached a crescendo. She eased up on the gas ready to make the turn up the dirt trail leading to the house.

  And then she was slamming on her brakes.

  The car came to a juddering halt half into the turn.

  In front of her, blocking the driveway was a squat, dark shape with two glowering red eyes.

  At first she couldn’t tell what it was.

  She leaned forward, peering though the windshield. Then it dawned on her.

  A car.

  Another vehicle was sitting there, unmoving. The red glow was not a pair of eyes, but taillights. And now she could see the twin beams of headlamps piercing the darkness ahead of the motionless car.
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br />   Her mind raced.

  There was not enough room to squeeze past the car, and it wasn’t going anywhere. So that left one option.

  She pulled over to the side of the road, parked up on a narrow strip of grass, and got out.

  A new fear gripped her as she approached the stricken vehicle. The situation felt very wrong. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know why the car was sitting motionless in the darkness. She prayed that Sarah was not inside. Her mind flew back to the priest’s story about the last family to own the house.

  She reached the driveway, rounded the car, coming up along the driver's side.

  To her left the dead oak tree rose out of the night, even more sinister than she remembered, branches straining outward, contorted and misshapen. She shuddered and ignored the tree, focusing on the car.

  She leaned in toward the driver’s door, peering through the window.

  She gasped.

  There was someone inside. She couldn’t see much in the darkened interior, but there was a shape slumped over the wheel.

  She reached down, tugged at the door handle.

  The shape was still. Unmoving.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounded small. “Are you okay?”

  There was no response.

  She took a deep breath and leaned inside the car, took the prone form by the shoulders and heaved it from the wheel.

  It was Father Bertram. A trickle of blood had crusted on his forehead. He must have slammed forward when the car came to a halt.

  She put her hand to his chest, was relieved to find that he was still breathing.

  And then she noticed the windshield.

  It was caved in, a ragged hole in the middle where something had pierced it - a tree limb.

  He must have been turning onto the trail when a branch fell off the oak tree and struck the car. No wonder he hadn’t answered his phone.

  She took a step backwards, shocked. Surely this was no accident.

  What were the odds of a limb falling at the exact moment the priest was passing beneath? It wasn’t very likely.

  Martha Ward.

  For some reason the witch didn’t want the priest to reach the house.

  That thought terrified Becca. It meant that something was happening, something awful, just like all those years ago.

  She glanced back at her car.

  Could she move the priest’s vehicle to the side of the road, give herself enough room to pass by? It seemed unlikely. She would have to move Father Bertram from the driver's seat and then hope that the car started. Also, there was the matter of a heavy tree limb pinning the car down. It was hopeless. There was only one way she was going to reach the house, and there was no time to waste.

  She checked the priest one more time, did her best to make him as comfortable as possible, and then she turned and began the long walk up the trail.

  Chapter 76

  Andrew awoke to a wall of pain.

  He groaned and reached up, touching his head, which felt like it had lost an argument with a sledgehammer. When his fingers found the lump on his crown, he winced.

  The room was pitch black.

  He fought to remember the moments before the fall. He was at the top of the stairs, stepping toward the hallway, and then the door was swinging closed in his face. After that, there were a few seconds of gut-wrenching terror as he struggled to stay on his feet. The next thing he knew he was hitting the ground, crashing into the metal shelving at the bottom of the stairs, feeling it start to topple.

  The cellar light bulb had gone out too, right about the time the door slammed. He had heard the pop when it blew.

  That was why he couldn’t see anything now.

  Andrew sat up, his head throbbing at the sudden movement. He would have given anything for an aspirin. Did he have a concussion?

  It was hard to tell in the darkness.

  Once he got out of the cellar he would check himself for damage, take a couple of pain killers, and make sure he wasn’t seeing double. He extended an arm until his hand came in contact with the granite wall that formed the foundation of the house. Somewhere off to his right were the stairs. He was sure he could find them, even in the darkness.

  He leaned on the wall and pushed upward, struggling to regain his feet.

  Searing agony exploded in his ankle.

  He let out a cry and leaned against the wall, his foot in the air. This was not good. He must have twisted it when he fell.

  Or worse, it could even be broken.

  That was not a pleasant thought. It would be almost impossible to mount the stairs with a broken ankle.

  Regardless, he had to get out of the cellar.

  Andrew took a deep breath, pushed off again, favoring the damaged ankle this time.

  Standing on one foot, he let the other touch the floor, shifting his weight, testing it. No sooner had he done so than the pain flared up again.

  He stifled a yelp, waited for the throbbing pain to recede to a manageable level, and then took a step forward, using the wall as a brace. He limped along, trying not to use his damaged ankle more than necessary, until his foot found the bottom step.

  Relief washed over him. He was closer to escaping.

  But now there was a new problem.

  He would have to put more weight on the ankle in order to climb the stairs. Even so, he had no choice but to continue.

  He put his foot on the first tread. Just as before the ankle buckled under him, sending white-hot pain up his leg.

  He waited for the pain to ebb away and then tried again, keeping as much weight as possible off his foot this time, and it was better.

  Except that when he tried to climb to the second step, his shin banged into something large, blocking the stairway. He cursed and leaned forward, hands grasping in the dark for whatever was in his way.

  It was the shelving he had crashed into when he fell. It must have toppled across the steps.

  Andrew fumbled around, feeling for a way past, but there was none. He took hold of it, pulled. The shelf inched forward, but then stopped.

  He tried again, balancing on his good foot, but the shelf would not move. It was stuck, and there was no way he was going to be able to climb over it with his injured ankle.

  Worse, he could feel a sticky wetness on the treads. At least one of the paint cans stored on the shelving had burst open when it fell, which meant the stairs were also slippery.

  He wasn’t going anywhere.

  Andrew slumped down onto the bottom step.

  If only the light was still on, if the bulb hadn’t blown, he might stand a chance of getting out, but the cellar was a void of empty blackness. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes, trying to come up with a plan, anything that would help him escape.

  And then he heard it.

  A cackle.

  His breath quickened. His head snapped up, his eyes flying open. Was someone in the cellar with him?

  He remembered the day Sarah had run, scared, from the cellar, claiming that something was down here. At the time he’d dismissed it as nothing more that a teenage girl’s overactive imagination. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  The laugh came again, closer now.

  There was no doubt now. He was not alone in the cellar. A tight wad of fear balled in his throat. He struggled to pull a breath in. His eyes darted around, looking for the origin of the sound, but all he saw was inky darkness.

  “Who’s there?” he called out, hoping it would be Jake or Sarah fooling around, knowing deep down that it was not.

  The only response was a light shuffling sound, off to his left.

  Andrew recoiled.

  The air was frigid now. Goosebumps covered his skin.

  The shuffling came again, closer this time. He shuddered, expecting something to come at him out of the blackness at any moment. He drew in a sharp breath, tried to control the surging panic. All he wanted to do was jump up and flee, get as far away from whatever was in the cellar as possible. Except that he was blind.
He would never manage to climb over the fallen rack and spilled paint cans, especially with the damaged ankle. That only left one place to go, and he had no desire to retreat further into the cellar. At least he had the illusion of a way out if he stayed where he was.

  The shuffling was so close now that the hairs on his arms stood up.

  He held his breath, afraid that even the slightest noise might attract the attention of whatever was out there in the blackness.

  And then something grazed his cheek, and Andrew started to scream.

  Chapter 77

  Jake entered the kitchen, letting the door slam behind him. There was no need for stealth now. In a few minutes everything would be different.

  From beyond the hallway he heard muffled cries. Jake paused. It was his father, trapped in the cellar. Mom had said she would take care of everything, and she did. His dad would only have to wait a few minutes more, and then, when everything was done, when Jake had completed his task, his father would thank him, because they would all be together once more.

  Jake felt a rush of anticipation.

  Soon he would see Mom, and she would hold him, and kiss him, wrap her arms around him in a big hug like she used to.

  But first there was the small matter of the gas can. It was heavy, the sloshing liquid making it hard to handle. He set it down on the floor and twisted the cap. It protested at first, but then moved, rust flakes falling away as he unscrewed it.

  A waft of fumes escaped through the spout. He wrinkled his nose against the strong gasoline smell, and heaved the can again, tilting it forward until the liquid inside spurted out.

  Then he started forward, letting the gasoline splash up the sides of cabinets and over the floor until the can was empty.