by Sean Platt
He also spotted some neatly stacked boxes and considered going through them, but figured he was already pressing his luck by being in the girl’s room this long.
He closed the closet door and looked at the phone again. Just one blip nearby. He was all alone.
Where the hell is Hazel?
There had to be a logical explanation. Maybe she was in the adjacent room to the right, waiting to surprise him. That made the most sense. Better than the alternative: that he was hearing ghosts.
Hudson felt a strong pull drawing him back to the bookshelf along the wall beside the door. He crossed the room and ran his fingers along a thin, dark chocolate-colored spine. He pulled it out: a leather-bound journal with the name Savannah Galloway scrawled in paper taped across the cover.
He opened the book, heart pounding and nerves tingling as he saw the dead girl’s writing. It was hard to wrap his mind around the fact that the girl who wrote the words in the book, blue ink still dark on the pages as if the words were written yesterday, had been dead for nearly thirty years.
Hudson felt as though he’d been led into Savanna’s room to find and read the journal, then felt stupid because it was the sort of thing Hazel would claim.
A ghost led me here, Daddy!
Thunder boomed, so loud it sounded like something exploded outside. Startled, Hudson jumped and dropped the book.
The power flickered, twice, before going out and casting the room in darkness. There was a noise, louder and downstairs, then the lights returned.
Hudson ignored his racing heart, bent down, grabbed the book, shoved it into his pants, fled the museum, and returned to his room. He buried the book like treasure beneath his mattress, then went downstairs into the kitchen for something to eat.
Jacquelyn was coming in through the rear kitchen door, her arms loaded with groceries stuffed into canvas bags.
“Well hello, Hudson.”
“Hey, Jacquelyn.” He pointed to her full arms. “Need any help?”
“No, I’ve got it. But it’s almost lunchtime. Are you hungry?”
“Definitely!”
“I’ll make you something and bring it to the media room, okay?”
“Okay, awesome,” he said, nodding. “Thanks.”
Hudson returned to the PS4, but his mind was gone from the game. He kept thinking of the journal, wanting to return to his room and read it immediately.
No, he thought. Wait until tonight.
* * * *
HUDSON
The world could have ended, and Hudson would never have known.
He’d had his nose buried in Savannah’s diary for half an hour, or ten times that. He couldn’t tell if she was fourteen or fifteen at the time of her most tortured entries, but he could definitely tell that the girl had hated her life.
She’d felt imprisoned in the manor. Apparently, Alastair was just as crazy about the bloodline when she was a kid, saying the manor felt “most settled with Savannah inside it.”
He was only comfortable with her leaving for a few hours at a time, and never unescorted by one of the staffers on duty. Oddly, there was no mention of Carter. Maybe the old man hadn’t been as involved in the day-to-day stuff back then.
The will’s conditions were ludicrous enough that Hudson figured the Dawson Family’s ejection from the estate was only a matter of when, not if. Until then he’d enjoy the PS4, and every other luxury he’d never had, and probably wouldn’t see again after leaving its lap in a day or a week or a month, or however long it took for them to screw up and lose it all.
Hudson wasn’t a prisoner. He could go if he wanted. If Hazel wanted to surrender her fortune following his departure, that was on her. The same held true the other way around. He was smart enough to keep what was offered, at least for now. Captives had no choice.
But Savannah was a prisoner, held by the family and kept in the mansion. Her schooling took place in the second-floor library, drawing room, and music studio (where she also had art and dance). Each subject had an instructor. Each came and went precisely as scheduled. Life was an unwavering routine. At one time, she had friends, but as time went on, they stopped coming to the house — either spooked by its reputation or her stories of ghosts.
Entries darkened as Hudson turned pages. They felt heavier as he dropped each atop the last.
At one point, Hudson felt a bit guilty. Not for reading the dead girl’s words, as it seemed that the only reason someone would write a journal was to connect with any soul who might read it long after they were gone. Instead he felt guilty for being interested in her stories about hearing voices at night, and seeing “ghosts” in the halls, even though the stories weren’t all that different from Hazel’s attention-seeking lies.
He wasn’t sure why one set of stories would annoy him while being intrigued by another. It wasn’t like he believed Savannah’s stories any more than Hazel’s — at least at first.
But as he read on, especially when she wrote about the manor’s cellar, doubt crept into the corners of his skepticism.
It all began with something her friend, Madison, said.
The girl, who lived down the road, was the only person left who hadn’t abandoned Savannah. Madison came by once a day at the end of Savannah’s instructions, usually staying for an hour or two, until dinner. Sometimes her father even allowed Madison to stay over for dinner, which was the only time Savannah seemed to enjoy the meal.
One day, Madison suggested that Savannah check out the manor cellar. She said it was rumored to hold secrets. Lots, and the very best kinds. All the stuff Savannah wasn’t supposed to know about. How Madison had heard these rumors, or from where, she didn’t know, but her friend seemed convinced that there was something under the mansion.
At dinner, Savannah told her father what Madison had said. He was very angry. He thanked her for telling the truth, then said that Madison was no longer welcome in Galloway Manor. She was a troublemaker, and, Alastair said, it was the sort of trouble the family couldn’t afford.
I can’t believe Father destroyed the last friendship I had!
Now NOBODY will talk to me.
I’ll die an old lady in this house, I just know it!
The words on the page were smeared, and the paper bumpy, likely from tears as she wrote.
Hudson reached out and ran his fingers over the text, feeling a chill through his entire body.
His lip quivered as he imagined Savannah’s pain, feeling not just like a prisoner in the manor, but an outcast in town.
Why did Father get so mad?
Why did he have to do this to me?
I love Father, but at times like this, I also HATE him.
Hudson felt another chill, and had to look away from the page for a moment, feeling like an intruder staring straight into Savannah’s soul.
The next two weeks’ worth of entries were mostly Savannah debating whether or not to investigate the cellar for herself. Her father had forbade her, though, like many of his rules, had never given her a reason why.
But she was tired of following rules. Especially stupid rules that made no sense!
The cellar was all she thought about, waking, and in sleep. In one dream, her Aunt Scarlett came to her, showing her where to find the medallion that served as a key to the cellar door.
Savannah stole it, then stayed awake until the middle of the night. She snuck down to the cellar, spending a minute per stair until her courage had fattened enough to find the bottom.
She wrapped her hand around the knob as her father yelled from the top of the stairs.
He stomped down, grabbed her roughly by the arm — she wrote that it bruised like an eggplant — and yanked Savannah back upstairs into the biggest trouble of her life.
The entries after that were awful.
Hudson read them four times and cried through three of them. When he finally set the journal down, he felt like he knew her. He hurt like she hurt, he ached as she had, and he felt awful about what her father had done, locking he
r in a room with only bread and water for a week. Alastair had said it was time she could use to ponder the art of respect, for which she clearly had none.
But even in isolation, Savannah was allowed to record her thoughts. It was in these thoughts that Hudson found himself getting to really know her. He liked her on the first page, as she told stories of being cooped inside her forest castle like a fairytale princess. He rooted for her when she found ways to slip untethered around the manor. And he was devastated by what came next.
Alastair had turned into a monster, coming into her room each day, claiming that she hadn’t yet learned her lesson, and worse, that she was possessed. Savannah didn’t specify what kind of possession he meant. Did the old man really believe in demons? Or was this some sort of control thing?
He thought about the will again, and how he and his sister were being controlled even from beyond the grave.
What the hell was this dude’s problem?
Not only had he chased Savannah’s final friend away, but he was also cancelling her time with the teachers who came to instruct her. He claimed that her evil shouldn’t be allowed to spread to others, which was why he was also not allowing any of the staff to deal with her until the malevolence was driven out.
From now on, Savannah’s only contact was with her father. She professed her hate for him on every page that followed. Not that there were many. The journal stopped on her fourth night in isolation, and judging by her words, Savannah was clearly delirious.
He wondered what happened next. Was this when she’d killed herself? While she was locked in isolation?
Hudson had to know more. He felt like there was more to know, but somehow he was missing clues in the text.
He flipped back to the first page. One more read, then sleep. Tomorrow, he’d start looking under every beam and rafter for clues.
He would find out what happened to Savannah.
* * * *
SCOTT
Scott sat in the library outside his home office, which he’d yet to use himself, where the shrink, Sandra Bryant, was now talking to Hazel.
She’d already finished talking to Scott and Hudson, who was sitting beside his father, playing some game on his phone. At least Scott thought he was playing a game. Maybe he was texting Iris.
Scott passed the time eying the impressive floor-to-ceiling shelves, packed with more books than he could read in a lifetime. He wondered how many of the volumes had been read, or if they were for show, to impress visitors into thinking Alastair was an intelligent man. His most skeptical side wondered if the books were fake. I bet if you opened them, they’d be full of blank pages.
Scott wondered what the woman was saying to Hazel. He’d thought to ask Hudson what she’d asked him, but then decided to wait. He wanted to keep his ears open in case Hazel got upset.
It was hard to think of all this shrink business as anything but bullshit.
Her questions to him had seemed probing rather than helpful. She wanted to know shit about him, about his relationship with his wife, how he felt about his parents, and a bunch of bullshit that had nothing to do with their present situation. Maybe the worst part was how she kept saying, “I’m not judging you,” when it sure as hell seemed like she was. Everyone judged everyone, didn’t they? It was human nature, so was she somehow above it? No, of course not. So that made her a liar.
There was also the weirdness of how she was almost like a different person when she got him alone. When they were all together, she’d been pleasant, practically saccharine-sweet to Hudson and Hazel, and even joking with Scott. But the moment she took him into the office for a one-on-one, her mask came off. She was cold, overly professional, and reminded him of his third grade teacher who seemed to have it out for him and him alone.
He wondered if her change in tone was part of the process, a way to unsettle her patients into opening up. If so, it seemed like shitty bedside manner.
He didn’t object to therapy in general, for other people, but it wasn’t for him. Holly said that therapy was some of the best money she’d ever spent — not that it meant dick in the end. She still lost her mind and left them, or, if she didn’t leave, got herself into some trouble which ended with her possibly dying.
Scott had gone to a shrink. Once. Because Holly said it would mean the world to her if he was at least willing to give it a try. He did, knowing he’d hate it, but ended up loathing it less than expected. Scott didn’t like it, or think it would do him any good, but was pleasantly surprised to find it somewhat amusing. He laughed when relating the encounter to Holly. She punched him on the shoulder and said he was missing the point. He said the same about her.
A psychiatrist wasn’t supposed to offer debate or discussion. Their job was to treat their patients with medication, or guide them to treat their own symptoms. Neither required blather. If the shrink was talking more than the patient, then the shrink was the patient.
Holly argued. “That’s not fair. Their job is to help you. How can they help if they don’t talk?”
“By listening. By saying what’s necessary and not a grunt more. I bet most shrinks are talking out of their ass because they feel powerless. Their patients come in messed up, and it’s their job to fix them. They’re paid a lot, but it isn’t easy. So, BAM: Prescription. Now what? Talk and talk and talk — shrinkie-dinks make themselves feel better to justify their value. I think a good psychiatrist should say, ‘Where would you like to start?’ then shut the hell up.”
Holly had laughed (while shaking her head), but now his words were back and biting. Sandra Bryant was exactly that sort of shrink. She said little, and nothing of herself. Scott had said even less. He answered Sandra with long and painful pauses while waiting for her to fill the aching space with another.
Scott longed for Sandra to start talking about herself, but she wouldn’t. He hoped for signposts that might show him what to say next so he wouldn’t feel like he was drowning, but didn’t find a single one.
He squirmed, melting beneath the heat of her stare. Sandra seemed satisfied when the questions ended, as if she’d mined plenty from Scott’s scant answers and ample silence.
He stared at the door of the office wondering if the shrink was giving Hazel the same sort of long silences and judgmental stares. He could practically feel his daughter squirming in her seat, and wanted to go in and wrap his arms around her, protect his daughter from the woman’s interrogation.
She’s here to help, and she can’t do that if I scare her away.
He wasn’t sure if Sandra could help his family, but he had to at least give it a try.
Hudson broke the silence. “Hey, Dad, do you know anything about the girl who died here? The one Hazel said she saw?”
Scott shifted in his seat. “No, and I don’t want to.”
“I want to ask Carter about the girl. I’m sure he’ll know.”
“Don’t.” Scott was firm. “It’s not polite.”
“Why not? That guy loves talking about this stuff, or any stuff. You can see it in his eyes whenever he starts going on about nothing. I’d be doing him a favor.”
“No, you wouldn’t be. The girl came up once, and I saw the look on his face. He was sad, Hudson. Devastated.” Scott paused, then added, “I’m just saying you might not want to ask him anything, unless, of course, you’re cool with upsetting an old man.”
The doors opened before Hudson managed a word. Sandra and Hazel emerged together, both smiling at Scott.
Sandra said, “Mr. Dawson, can we talk?”
“Of course.” He turned to Hudson, winked as he stood, then walked toward Sandra, ruffling Hazel’s hair on his way back to the shrink’s temporary office.
Sandra closed the door as Scott reclaimed his earlier seat. “Okay, doc, so what did I do to screw up my kids?” he asked with an attempt at a laugh.
“This isn’t about you,” Sandra said, still icy. “Hazel thinks you’re doing a terrific job. You and Hudson on the other hand, definitely have some things to wo
rk out, which I can definitely help you with.” She smiled, and her demeanor seemed to thaw. “But at the moment, I’m mostly worried about Hazel’s insistence at seeing her mother.”
“Well, clearly that’s something we want to keep an eye on, but I’m guessing that this is a normal response to everything she’s been through. Maybe it’s exacerbated a bit by us losing our house and coming here. But now that we have some stability, maybe she’ll stop with all this.”
“Is that what you think, Mr. Dawson, or what you hope?”
“A bit of both?”
“You’re right, this is a big move, and she has been through a lot. Maybe this is a phase that’ll go away on its own, but my professional opinion is that she needs help immediately. The sooner we help her, the sooner the healing can begin.”
“You mean therapy?”
“Yes, absolutely. I’d also suggest an anti-anxiety medication. And maybe something to help her sleep through the night.”
“I don’t know. I think this all sounds like a bit too much.”
“There’s nothing wrong with medicating your child, if they need it, and I believe that Hazel does. Resistance to things without reason is never healthy, Mr. Dawson. It’s okay to have your objections, but you should understand your own opposition. Giving her the medicine she needs to improve is in no way reflective of a failing on your part. Nor is it a ‘bad thing.’ It’s simply what’s needed to help Hazel successfully navigate her present difficulty.”
“I don’t know.”
“Here, I wrote something on the back for you to look into,” Sandra said, handing Scott her card. It had the name of what he assumed was a drug scrawled on the back: Diaxipram 5mg. Beneath the drug name and dosage was a web address.
“You can read about the medication on that site. There are minimal side effects with this particular medicine. Do your research and ask your pharmacist questions, but I believe it’s the best course for Hazel’s age and condition. This isn’t a big deal, Mr. Dawson, unless left untreated. Then it could be … catastrophic. I don’t want to see that happen to Hazel.”
