Nightingale House

by Steve Frech

With one last speck of consciousness, I swipe my foot across the point where the shovel made contact. My foot wipes away the dirt, and through the hot stinging tears, and dimming vision, I see them—bones, small and spindly. Some have been shattered by the shovel’s blade, but others are unmistakable. They’re small fingers.

  Blinding light flies up from the hole.

  Again, I’m released.

  I fall back against the floorboards, coughing and wheezing. A new rumble builds around me, shaking the shelves, floorboards, and walls.

  He’s still there, standing next to the hole.

  The light continues to erupt from below me, filling the basement. It expands. Blinding. Pure. The figure of Thomas Carrington becomes a silhouette against it. The roar builds to a point that it threatens to tear the house apart.

  An apex is reached. The silhouette of Thomas Carrington blasts apart, scattering like sand in a tornado.

  I have to shield my eyes from the intense glare.

  The roar stops.

  I open my eyes.

  Points of shimmering light drift through the air like ashes and stars.

  There, standing before me, is Katherine. She is staring at the ground, her hair covering her face. Her head slowly tilts up and she looks at me with a quizzical expression. For a second, we stare at one another.

  A form materializes next to her.

  Nicole.

  She’s just as perfect as I remember her.

  She looks at me, then at Katherine.

  Nicole holds out her hand. Katherine carefully takes it. Nicole gives me that smile I’ve missed every second of every minute of every day since I lost her.

  She looks back to Katherine, and something passes between them. They turn and begin to walk into the darkness, together.

  I’m choking back sobs. I have so many things I want to tell her but I can’t speak.

  She glances over her shoulder. Her lips don’t move, but I hear her voice in my head.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I whisper.

  With that, Nicole and Katherine disappear into the darkness, together.

  The points of light fade and the darkness lifts.

  I’m alone in the basement.

  No sound. No unseen presence.

  Just me.

  I hear Caitlyn’s weak voice call out from somewhere upstairs. “Dad?”

  I scramble out of the hole and race up the stairs. I run through the kitchen and living room, and bound up the stairs, continually calling out Caitlyn’s name. I throw open the door to her room.

  “Caitlyn?!”

  There’s a sound from the closet. I open the door with such force that one of the hinges almost gives way.

  She’s balled up on the floor, still wearing her nightgown, eyes blinking as though she just woke up. I scoop her up and clutch her to my chest, not caring that I’m covered in dirt and sweat. She holds fast to my neck. Her skin is ice-cold. I carry her over to the bed and lay her down. I gently rest her head on the pillow, and pull the covers up to her chin.

  “I had a bad dream,” she mutters.

  I rest my face next to hers, stroke her cheek, and whisper, “It’s okay now, pumpkin. It’s okay … It was just a dream.”

  31

  Sheriff Watts chews the tip of his pen as he stares at the transcript of our interview. I sit in the chair on the other side of the table and wait. He’s about to speak, but instead, he gets a pained expression, and uses the pen to scratch his head. He studies my words as though they might magically arrange themselves in some other order that makes sense.

  “I … I just want to get this straight.”

  “Of course.”

  “You said you were …” He consults his notes, again. “You found these remains because you were installing a hot tub … in your basement?”

  “Yep.”

  “Mr. Price, I’m no expert, but when it comes to hot tubs, most people put them outside.”

  “I guess I’m no expert, either.”

  No, it’s not my best lie, but whatever.

  Once things settled down and I knew Caitlyn was okay, I called the police and they took possession of the remains. They asked me how I knew that the bones were there. I told them I was putting in a hot tub. I’m sure they knew it was a lie but I don’t care. I could tell them what really happened, and the hot tub story would still make more sense.

  Sheriff Watts shakes his head. “Well, the remains have been there a long time, and even the person who put them there ain’t around anymore, either. There’s not a whole lot we can do.”

  “Okay.”

  He waits for a response I’m not going to give.

  “Look, Mr. Price, we could open up a formal investigation, but I don’t think it will do any good. Even if we could identify the remains, which I doubt, there’s no reason to make this public. All it would do is pull resources from my office and state officials for a crime that can’t be solved. I think it’s best if you let us take possession of the remains, catalogue them, and we can forget all about this.”

  “Nope.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That doesn’t work for me.”

  Sheriff Watts rubs his eyes. “Mr. Price, I understand what a shock this must have been for you and your daughter—”

  “No, you really can’t.”

  “—but I assure you, that if you go to the press, your house will become a tourist attraction.”

  “And, like you said, it would be a hassle for you.”

  “Well …”

  “I won’t tell the press on one condition.”

  “You have a condition?”

  “Yep,” I say, sitting forward in my chair. “You release the remains to me so that I can give them a proper burial.”

  He gives me a hard stare. “Why? Do you know who this is?”

  “How could I?”

  “Then why would you—?”

  “What do you care?” I’ve been calm up until that point, but I’m tired and want this to be over. It was over the moment I had Caitlyn back but this has to happen—for Caitlyn and myself. Sheriff Watts will have to deal with it. “If you allow me to give the remains a proper burial, I promise that no one will hear of it.”

  Sheriff Watts considers it.

  “No one’s gonna know?” he asks.

  “Do whatever tests you want, take dental records, whatever, and then let me bury the remains. No one is going to come looking for this girl.”

  He peers at me. “How do you know it’s a girl?”

  I’m so tired and fed up that I lash out. “Because she told me. Does that work for you?”

  His expression goes from baffled to insulted. He throws up his hands. “Fine! Fine, fine, fine. Just do me a favor, Mr. Price,” he says, and stands up. “Next time, hire a professional to install your damn hot tub.”

  *

  A week later, I’m looking at myself in the mirror next to the front door, adjusting my black suit and tie.

  “You ready, pumpkin?” I call.

  “Coming!” Caitlyn replies, and descends the stairs, wearing the black dress with the white trim she wore at Nicole’s funeral. She insisted on wearing it.

  We haven’t talked much about what happened the night she disappeared. All I asked was why she came back from Mildred’s. She replied that Katherine told her what was happening. That was the extent of our conversation.

  “Don’t forget your coat,” I say, as she lands at the bottom of the steps.

  “Dad, I was gonna get it.”

  As she goes to the closet, I look around.

  This is a different house now.

  A weight has been lifted. The presence is gone. Honestly, I’m not sure how to feel. I’m happy that whatever you want to call what was lurking in the house is gone, but also, for the first time since the accident, I know Nicole is also truly gone. I no longer feel her in the other room, just out of sight. She took Katherine across, which is one more thing I’ll love her for, but now,
there’s only a scar that will never heal. She’s gone, and even though Caitlyn and I live within the walls of the Nightingale House, it feels empty, like we’re the ghosts, and the house wants to move on.

  I’m snapped out of my thoughts by Caitlyn approaching, wrestling with her coat. The coat is winning. I help her get her arms through the sleeves.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Ready.”

  *

  Elysian Fields Cemetery is a ten-minute drive to the outskirts of Kingsbrook. It sits on a hill, overlooking the town. The vast rows of gravestones have dates that range back to the 1700s and the landscape is dotted with sugar maples.

  Caitlyn holds my hand as we walk through the granite and marble stones to the plot I’ve purchased in a corner of the field. The cold autumn air scrapes at our cheeks and makes our eyes water. Caitlyn doesn’t complain.

  There are no priests, ministers, or rabbis— only a small coffin containing the remains of what Caitlyn and I know to be Katherine Carrington, and a gravestone that’s blank. There are two employees of the graveyard present, who don’t seem to care about the circumstances. They’ve probably seen stranger. Having already dug the grave, they are sitting under a sugar maple thirty yards away, smoking cigarettes. I nod to them. They nod back.

  Caitlyn and I stand before the grave. I lean down to her. “Is there anything you want to say?”

  She thinks about it and steps over to the casket.

  “I’m really sorry about what happened to you, but I’m glad I got to meet you. I’m glad you got to meet my mom. If you see her again, tell her I said ‘Hi’ and I love her.”

  She looks at me for approval, and I nod. Caitlyn returns to my side and takes my hand.

  I motion to the workers. They put out their cigarettes and rise to join us.

  They take the small casket off the pedestal, and slowly lower it into the grave. Once it reaches the bottom, I step over to the mound of earth. I take a handful, hold it over the open space, and let it fall from my hand. Caitlyn follows suit. Once completed, we step back.

  The workers take over from there. They pick up their shovels and begin to fill the grave. Caitlyn and I watch, our hands still locked together. We don’t move for the half hour it takes the workers to complete their task.

  When it’s over, the workers know their part, and quietly slip away. Caitlyn and I wait for a few more minutes, completely alone, staring at the blank headstone.

  “Goodbye, Katherine,” Caitlyn says.

  A small breeze blows through the rows of headstones and sends dry, brittle leaves cartwheeling across the newly turned earth. Once the silence returns, I gently squeeze her shoulder.

  “Ready to go?”

  “Yeah.”

  In unison, we turn and begin walking away in silence.

  Caitlyn finally speaks as we approach the gate leading to the parking lot. “Dad?”

  “Yeah, pumpkin?”

  “Can we move?”

  32

  “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go. Finish your waffles. The school bus is going to be here any minute.”

  My little pep talk has no effect. Caitlyn stares at the television and absent-mindedly keeps chewing.

  “Pumpkin?”

  Still no response.

  I pick up the remote and turn off the television, which finally gets her attention.

  “Chop chop!” I say, clapping my hands.

  “I’m ready,” she says with that sigh that every parent knows and loves.

  “Got your math homework?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Go get your book bag,” I say, pouring myself a cup of coffee.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I have some coffee?”

  “What? No, you can’t have coffee.”

  “Trisha Carpenter’s mom lets her drink coffee.”

  “Trisha Carpenter?”

  She nods.

  “Yeah. Well, it kind of shows. No coffee.”

  “You never let me do anything.” She pouts, but doesn’t really mean it. She hops off the chair.

  “Yes, I’m a horrible monster for not— Hey! Young lady, where are your shoes?”

  “They’re up in my room.” She shrugs.

  “You are killing me this morning, sweetheart. You’re absolutely killing me. Book bag. Shoes. Come on. Let’s go!”

  She rolls her eyes, grabs her bookbag, and dramatically stomps up the stairs.

  I need to get her on that bus because I need to get to my writing. The novel is chugging along. It’s late, to be sure, but it’s shaping up to be that rare sequel that’s better than the original. I’ve been working on it every day in the ‘writing room’ of our new three-bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood in the beautiful seaside town of Avalon in California, between Monterey and San Francisco. After everything that happened, we needed a change—a big one. The drive across the country with Caitlyn was an incredible adventure, and the perfect way to start a new chapter together. We marveled at the changing landscapes, tried to find the most interesting places to eat, played “I Spy”, and listened to old radio programs. We’d stop at any roadside attraction that sparked our interest. My favorite was the Ice Caves in Wyoming. Caitlyn’s was, of course, a famous candy store in Illinois, where we enjoyed milkshakes and stocked up on enough chocolate, licorice, and saltwater taffy to last us the rest of the trip and then some. After a week on the road, we were both sad to see it end, but I told her how big California is, and promised her a drive along the coast next summer. She immediately began counting the days. We finally reached Avalon and began our new lives.

  We’ve been here for almost six months. The memories of the Nightingale House will always be with us, but they’re fading, being overtaken by new memories and experiences. Caitlyn and I still don’t talk about it that much. I don’t think we ever will. There are some things we’ve held on to and other things we’ve left behind.

  We both love it here. Caitlyn helped me pick out the house. It’s smaller, but still charming. In other words, exactly what we were looking for. The town is great. Caitlyn loves her school. She’s making friends, like the caffeine-riddled Trisha Carpenter, and Caitlyn’s lying has stopped. Our lives are moving on.

  I open the front door, step out onto the porch, and glance down the street.

  Damnit.

  “Caitlyn! The bus is almost here!”

  “Coming, coming, coming!”

  She descends the stairs, shoes on, backpack slung over her shoulder, and hanging from her neck is the medallion with the last line of the poem; The Secrets That I Keep. She wanted to hold on to it. I felt like it was kind of fitting. I had a small hole drilled in the top and put it on a delicate silver chain. She wears it every day, just like how I wear Nicole’s ring.

  I step back inside and meet her at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Okay,” I say, straightening her clothes. “Have a great day at school. Pay attention. And remember that I love you very much, Caitlyn Nicole Price.”

  I kiss her on the cheek.

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  She kisses me on the cheek.

  Then, she completes the second part of our morning ritual by turning to the small table, just inside the front door. There’s a framed picture of Nicole. Caitlyn kisses the tips of her fingers and touches the photo.

  “Bye, Mom.”

  She then looks at the framed black-and-white photo of a young girl, sitting next to it.

  “Bye, Katherine.”

  With that, Caitlyn runs out the door as the bus pulls up to the end of the driveway. The doors hiss open. Caitlyn turns and gives me a quick wave. I send one back. She climbs in and I see her silhouette move down the bus and find a seat. The engine rumbles and the bus drives away.

  I watch until it’s a small speck in the distance.

  I go back inside, close the door, and look at the photos on the table.

  Caitlyn knows that they’re gone. We both do. Even though we don�
�t talk about it that much, we’re both grateful for what they did for us. I kiss my own fingers and touch Nicole’s photo. Then I do the same for Katherine.

  I head to the kitchen, grab my cup of coffee, and go to the Writing Room, which is a little glass-enclosed porch that offers a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean.

  The notebook is open on the desk, ready to go.

  I look out at the shimmering expanse of water under the blue sky.

  I pick up the pen and begin writing.

  It’s a perfect day.

  If Nightingale House had you tearing through the pages, don’t miss Steve Frech’s Dark Hollows. In sleepy Vermont, Jacob’s past is coming back to haunt him … Available now!

  Click here if you’re in the US

  Click here if you’re in the UK

  Acknowledgments

  As a kid, I was obsessed with ghosts. I devoured stories about ‘The Brown Lady of Raynham Hall’, ‘No.50 Berkeley Square’, ‘The Tulip Staircase’, ‘The Winchester House’, ‘The Bell Witch’, etc. My favorite ride? The Haunted Mansion in Disney World, of course. So, I’ve always wanted to write a haunted house story, but I had a lot of help.

  Thank you, Abigail Fenton over at Harper Collins/HQ for your guidance and patience on getting Nightingale House out into the world. There’s no one I trust more with these stories.

  Thank you, Sandy Comstock. I wanted to make Daniel’s grief a form of haunting, because I feel that’s what grief is, and you helped me put Nicole in the Nightingale House.

  Thank you, Deborah Griffieth for Rebecca’s voice. I can’t imagine what this book would be like without your contributions.

  And finally, thank you, Stephanie Frech, for reading me all those ghost stories when we were kids.

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  Keep reading for an excerpt from Dark Hollows …

  I’m standing in the basement of a run-down, abandoned warehouse, staring at the padlock on a heavy steel door. The walls are coated in grime and there is the sound of dripping water from somewhere in the darkness.