by Lisa Unger
“She ran off with her much older boyfriend, right?” asked Claire. Her voice had a defensive edge to it.
She stopped sweeping to wipe a sheen of sweat from her brow; when she lifted her arm, her shirt popped up to reveal her midriff, her pretty navel. Claire didn’t even notice at first how they all stared at her. Over the school year, there had been some dramatic changes—makeup, breasts, hips that swayed. She wore her wild red hair longer. Even the tiny bit of acne on her chin couldn’t dim her outrageous sexiness. It was distracting.
“What?” she said when they said nothing, just watched her gape jawed.
“Her sister doesn’t think she ran away,” said Mason. “She said there was a man she met on the internet. She . . . did things for him.”
“What kind of things?” Matthew wanted to know.
Mason’s smile was tight, uncertain, nervous, and embarrassed all at once. “Bad things.”
“My mom said she fell in with the wrong crowd,” said Claire. “That she had an older boyfriend with a car. And she took off. That she’d be sorry soon enough and come home.”
“She stabbed someone, right?” said Ian, interest piqued, a rumor he’d heard coming back to him. “They sent her away, to a hospital for a while.”
“I never heard that,” said Claire.
“I did,” said Matthew. He seemed angry to Ian. But sometimes Matthew was just angry when Mason was around. There was something weird between them.
“Have you heard of the Dark Man?” asked Mason, moving closer to them.
“Like the supervillain,” said Matthew. He tied off the garbage bag they’d filled with junk. Ian felt dirty, like he needed to wash his hands. The condoms grossed him out. There were three. He didn’t like that people were having sex and smoking in the fort. Then he imagined himself having sex with Claire in the fort, making himself blush for even thinking about it. He’d never even kissed a girl.
“No, that’s Darkman,” said Mason. “This is different.”
“So who’s the Dark Man, then?” asked Ian. He’d heard about the Dark Man before, but he ignored stuff like that. It was stupid.
“You do things for him,” said Mason. “And he gives you something you want.”
The sun dipped behind the clouds, and a coolness leaked into the air. Storms had been threatening all day.
“The Dark Man? That’s an urban legend, an internet hoax,” said Claire. “Don’t be stupid.”
“You do what he wants,” Mason asserted, jutting out his chin a little. “And he rewards you. There’s a mansion deep in the woods. You go there and it has everything—a pool, a hot tub, any food you want to eat, your own room, big television, every video game system.”
“Are you high?” asked Matthew. He glanced uncertainly between Claire and Ian.
There was a nasty bite to his tone, so Ian could tell Matthew was a little scared. Matthew had no end of stories about Merle House, and things he had supposedly seen there, noises he’d heard, cold spots. Ian, on the many occasions he’d slept over, had never seen anything at the old place but dusty old antiques and once a mouse under one of the grandfather clocks. Back then, he didn’t believe in things he couldn’t see. He lived in a ticky-tacky suburban house; his dad owned a construction company, and his mom was the receptionist/bookkeeper/administrator there. Ian had been their midlife surprise; his much older brother and sister were off at college and working in publishing in the city, respectively. Not that he wasn’t loved, just that his parents were busy, had moved on from the whole parenting thing. His life was very suburban and predictable, solid.
“That’s kid stuff,” said Ian. “There’s no Dark Man, no mansion in the woods.”
“How do you know?” asked Mason.
“Everybody knows that,” said Ian. Claire and Matthew nodded.
“You’re wrong,” said Mason. This was the other annoying thing about Mason. Sometimes he got mad. Sometimes he cried. He’d get a little red; his bottom lip would start to roll up into the line of his top lip. Man, when he did that, Ian really wanted to smack him—even though Ian still cried sometimes when his mom and dad fought, or he had to bring home a bad report card, or accidentally made a goal for the other team.
“I can prove you’re wrong.” Mason puffed his chest out, almost comically.
“How?” challenged Matthew.
“I’ve seen him. I’ve seen the house.”
“Bull. Shit,” said Matthew.
They were all staring at Mason now, moving closer. This was scary, yeah. But it was also, suddenly, super interesting. There were rumors about a place out in the woods, some kind of abandoned structure, like an old school or hospital or something. But Ian hadn’t believed that either.
“I can show you.”
“I’m going home,” said Claire. Of the three of them, she was the bravest, the boldest—but she was also the smartest. She put down the broom and picked up her backpack. She’d been jumpy since the whole hide-and-seek thing yesterday. She’d really freaked out when she’d gotten stuck in the basement.
“Yeah, okay,” said Matthew. “Show us.”
It was a dare. Mason issued a weird little smile, turned to start walking, and motioned for them to follow. Claire and Ian hung back, looking at each other. Matthew and Mason had already disappeared through the trees. Ian shrugged. Finally Claire did too.
It was just a game, after all. Mason was messing with them. There was no Dark Man, no mansion deep in the woods where all your desires were satisfied. Of course there wasn’t.
5.
Jewel slammed her door as hard as she could, but the house was so old and solid that it just absorbed the sound. She leaned against it, vibrating—the girl in the woods, her father’s insistence that she was dreaming, that weirdo Avery March. God. She hated this place and everyone. She sank to the floor, put her head to her knees, and wept.
A soft knock at the door. “Jewel, honey, let’s talk.” Her mom.
“Mom, I just want to be alone.”
She waited. Would she try to push inside?
“Okay,” she said. “Just—come and see me when you’re ready to talk.”
“Okay.”
She blew out a breath, looked around the dim room.
She tried to make the room hers—her old bedding, pictures of her Florida friends stuck to the frame around the vanity mirror, the closet filled with her clothes that looked silly and out of place in this northern town. Crop tops and sundresses were not a thing here—it was way too cold. But the room with its ornate drapery, the towering armoire and heavy dresser, the dim pink-shaded lamps—it was just so old-fashioned, like something out of a museum. Everything in her room at home had been white and low profile, modern. Energetically opposite everything in Hurl House.
Her phone pinged. Eldon.
Are you okay? Where did you go?
She was happy for the distraction.
Something weird happened, she typed.
Really? Tell me.
You’ll think I’m crazy.
Nah.
On the game Red World, Eldon’s avatar was super buff, with giant biceps and washboard abs, covered in tattoos. He wore a tiny black-leather vest and distressed jeans, with giant boots. Jewel had been gaming long enough to know that this probably meant he was some skinny twelve-year-old kid in a basement somewhere, gaming all day and living on Red Bull and Kit Kat bars.
Jewel took pride in the fact that her avatar, StarGirl333, was not so far from reality. Tall and skinny, big boobs. Maybe StarGirl was slightly bustier. Her hair in the game was bright pink, worn in braids. No tattoos. Outfitted in a simple, very short, low-cut black dress with thigh boots. StarGirl was more aggressive, more wily, dressed sluttier than Jewel did. She dressed the way Jewel would dress if she didn’t have parents. Her thighs, in the game, were awesome.
She gave Eldon the broad strokes, how she’d heard a noise, went to go find her parents outside, followed a strange girl out to the cemetery, the man, the fog. How she’d passed out—m
aybe. How she used to have night terrors, strange dreams when she was a kid. And how this was kind of like that, but not. Because she hadn’t been sleeping. Jewel left out the stuff about the Realtor’s sister, because that was searchable. She’d be easy to find with the mention of Merle House, the missing girl. Just the last name would lead him to her father’s big scandal.
She used a couple of bubbles to tell the story. When she was done, she watched the dots pulse.
When was the last time you ate?
The question gave her pause. That was an adult question, not one a kid would ask. It reminded her that she knew nothing about Eldon. And while this was appealing, it was also dangerous. She knew better. This was like Internet Predator 101. If her mom knew she was texting someone she’d met on Red World, her mom would freak. Still, Jewel answered him.
Maybe too long ago, she admitted.
Food had tasted like ash since she’d moved to Merle House. Absolutely nothing here was nearly as good as it was at home. The pizza was like cardboard, the Chinese food was just goop, the burgers were gristly and gray. Mom wasn’t cooking as much because she was working like a maniac on the house day and night. Jewel was mainly eating tuna and Ritz crackers. When was the last time she ate? Her dad had made blueberry pancakes that morning, but she’d just picked at them. She’d had a Snickers for lunch.
Do you really think you saw someone out there?
It was all kind of vague now, like a dream. Like the dreams she’d had when she was younger that caused her to sleepwalk—those had been epic in scope, populated by monsters and angels, unicorns, other children, fairies. They had been incredibly vivid while she was in them, but as soon as she’d woken, they were gone—stardust in the wind. She had never been able to remember a single coherent thing, just stray wild images and feelings. Nothing she saw in her waking life ever compared to that dreamscape her child’s mind had created.
She’d had to see a doctor around then, because of the night terrors—which were obviously way more frightening for her parents than they were for her. And the doctor had taught her how to be present in her dreams, how to control them some, and how to encourage herself to wake.
Try to pinch yourself in your dream. If you can’t feel it, you know it’s not real, he’d told her. Or, he suggested, ask her dream self, Is this real? Am I awake? Your dream self will tell you the truth.
It hadn’t made much sense at first, but it had worked. She hadn’t remembered much even about the dreams that she had learned to control, but slowly they’d gone away.
What happened in the graveyard was kind of like those dreams she used to have, which she hadn’t had in a really long time. But it was different somehow too.
Idk, she wrote finally. It seemed real at the time.
Maybe we can find out.
How? she asked.
The dots pulsed a second, and then a link came through. She clicked on it. It was a virtual Ouija board.
You’re kidding, she wrote.
LOL
Funny.
No, really. Let’s try it.
The site that came up was all black, with the image of the board in its center. There were some ads at the bottom for the pair of jeans she had been looking at online earlier.
Type in your question, the screen beckoned. Then rest your mouse or finger gently on the pointer to find your answer.
She laughed. Stupid. The web was basically just a garbage heap. But there was also a note of unease, the tug of curiosity.
Yeah, okay, she typed. What the hell?
What are you going to ask?
She thought about it, her fingers hovering. Then she started typing.
Is the ghost of Amelia March living at Merle House?
6.
Ian might have been offended that Josh had dozed off while he was talking—if he hadn’t fallen asleep as well. They’d moved from the kitchen to the living room, and at some point, while recounting his time at Merle House, Ian had just passed out on the ridiculously soft couch. He dreamed about Claire; she was running down a lane lined with trees, and he was chasing her.
Shit, he thought as he jerked awake.
It was just after two thirty. Everyone knew that 3:00 a.m. was the witching hour, the liminal space between late night and the approach of morning. This was when things happened. Liz believed it was because so many people were deeply asleep at that time, that all that dream energy opened a kind of doorway in the universe.
Ian roused himself from the couch. Josh was sound asleep in the Eames chair by the fireplace, snoring softly, glasses askew.
Ian couldn’t blame the kid for failing at literally the only thing Ian needed him for; he’d practically bored poor Josh to sleep, droning on about his bizarre childhood memory. How far had he even gotten?
Ian left Josh sleeping and went to walk the house, stopping in the foyer. He pulled a fresh stick of white sage, Liz’s old abalone shell, and a pack of matches from his backpack, which he’d left by the door. Standing in the double-height space, he lit the smudge stick.
Smudging was a Native American ritual for cleansing, blessing, and repelling evil influences. Liz’s family had descended from the Seminoles in Florida, and she had been careful to get her sage bundles from indigenous people in New Mexico. The sage was only harvested at a certain time of year, according to Liz, and if it wasn’t done right, harvested by the right person, bundled and blessed appropriately, then it was just new age garbage at best, appropriation at worst. Not all the rituals Liz had employed spoke to him, but the sage had a special power—it smelled of calm, of cleanliness.
He let the match light the leaves, and the smudge stick started to smolder. He blew on it to get the embers going but avoided a full flame, and the curling smoke started to fill the air. He used the shell to catch the ashes as he walked from room to room. He used Liz’s favorite mantra:
“This house belongs to Astrid and Chaz,” he said, keeping his voice soft but firm. “Their light and love energy fills the space and invites all negativity to return to the universe, where it will be welcomed with love and nonjudging.”
He repeated it softly over and over.
According to Liz, sometimes all that trapped or lost entities wanted was to be told they could go home, like a runaway who’d done shameful things but found the courage to call her mom, asking for forgiveness.
Liz, his beautiful wife, had been a true believer. It had radiated off her in waves; you could see it in her stunning smile, the kindness of her eyes, the strength of her embrace, the careful way she had listened to her clients and to their houses. She had been a bright light in this world, a person who had answered her calling. When she had passed, she’d been at peace, ready to go home.
His heart broke every day, remembering the special glow of who she was. He wished he were more like her.
This house belongs to Astrid and Chaz . . .
In the basement, there was nothing, just the hum of the air-conditioning. What he would have told Josh if they hadn’t both dozed off was that the image Astrid captured looked familiar to Ian. No, not looked. Not visually, because it was just a long amorphous shadow. It felt familiar.
The hallways, the nursery, the spare bedroom.
Their light and love energy fills the space . . .
The place felt clean. Maybe Astrid or Chaz had doctored the footage—it wouldn’t be the first time someone had done that, looking for attention, or trying to run a scam, or auditioning for one of those ghost hunter shows. They were the type, Instagram influencers, new age wannabes, living their whole lives online for the show of it, for the “likes” and “follows.”
The kitchen.
. . . and invites all negativity to return to the universe, where it will be welcomed with love and nonjudging.
The master bedroom.
In the morning, he’d tell them that the house was clean. He’d go through all the motions for the video cameras; when he was done with the sage, he’d move on to the gong and the singing bowl. In each
room, he’d leave a little talisman from the collection he had in his bag—a crystal, a piece of driftwood, a little bell. Each item blessed by Rachel, their shaman friend, to banish dark energy.
It should be good enough. Like exorcisms, mostly, it was just about believing the demon had been expelled. People didn’t even realize how much power they truly had—over themselves, their minds, their lives, their versions of reality.
“But you saw him. You know him.”
Liz lounged on the plush mattress in the master bedroom. She had propped herself up on the pile of pillows and was wearing her favorite pair of pink silk pajamas. She was a vision, flushed skin, cascading dark hair.
“You’ve been looking for him all this time. Now you’ve found him.”
“No,” said Ian with a shake of his head. “It was just a shadow. Probably they doctored it, right? Remember that couple in Seattle?”
“You don’t believe that.”
He suddenly felt the weight of his life, of fatigue pressing down on him. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
“Come lie down.”
Ian put the sage and the shell down on the fireplace hearth.
He moved into her delicious warmth and let himself be enveloped by her love. His wife was the most expansive, luscious human being he had ever known. Making love to her, being held by her, just being near her was to be infused with her radiant spirit. He could conjure her, as if she were still with him, as if her energy still dwelled in the cells of his body.
“God, I miss you,” he whispered into the silk of her hair.
“I’m right here.”
But then she was gone. The softness in his arms was just the plush pillows made from New Zealand lamb’s wool (according to Astrid).
