by Carey Corp
“That old chick with the black wig and the low necklines?” Willow asked.
Her mom nodded and stuck out her chest, making Willow giggle as she slipped into the foyer. “You’ve made some progress in here.” The dust cloths had been removed from the entry table and parlor furniture. The cherry wood floors gleamed, and the bright scent of lemon filled the air.
“Only one problem,” Mom huffed, pointing up.
Willow tilted her head back and stared at the centerpiece of the two-story foyer, a massive chandelier dripping crystals and cobwebs.
“Can’t find a tall enough ladder,” her mom grumbled.
“I don’t know, I kinda like it.” She met her mom’s dark-chocolate eyes, the exact shade of her own. “Could go a long way for the Elvira image.”
“I want to keep it for Halloween!” A four-foot ball of energy in the form of her little brother sped past, his bony elbow knocking the backpack off her shoulder.
“Hey!” Willow called to the boy who’d sped around the corner. “How was school?”
Rainn poked his head out and threw a sock at her head. “Good!”
Willow flicked the tiny stink bomb from her shoulder. For such a little kid, his feet sure packed a punch. Rainn’s satisfied snigger echoed back to her as he disappeared into the house.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Her mom walked to the entry table and returned with a wooden picture frame. “I found this while cleaning out Ashton’s old closet.”
Willow gaped at the intricate pencil drawing of the tree house at the back of the Keller property. She and Ashton had spent so many hours there in the summer months, their parents had jokingly referred to it as their vacation home. It brought back happy, uncomplicated memories of before—before her best friend went to jail for manslaughter.
She took the picture and opened her mouth to make a witty remark about the property value skyrocketing after the scandal, but only managed to mumble, “Thanks.”
Her mom bent to pick up the discarded sock. “I’m working at the soup kitchen tonight. Want to come?”
“Not tonight.” Willow hefted her bag back onto her shoulder.
“What happened? Something’s bothering you.”
“I’m fine.” Unwilling to admit she’d lost another job, she turned and began climbing the wide wooden staircase. “Tons of homework—trig, lit, chemistry . . .”
“No one told you to take all those honors classes!” her mom called after her.
If Mom had her way, Willow would stay home and attend Annherst next year. With no traditional grading system and classes like Experimental Body Art and Media Conspiracy Theory, the liberal arts college attracted freethinking societal anarchists from all over the country. And while the school infused the town with an eclectic mix of people and produced an inordinate number of famous musicians and actors, it didn’t offer undergraduate degrees in biochemistry.
Willow opened the first door at the top of the stairs and inhaled a cloud of dust and powdery Shalimar. A sneeze rocked her chest, and she slumped against the mahogany wood frame, pushing her glasses up on her nose. This had been Kristen’s room . . .
Ashton turns, shoots Willow a wink, and sets the baby-blue glass bottle on the vanity table. She reaches out and adjusts it to the proper angle, even as butterflies war in her stomach. “What if she gets it in her eyes?”
With a drawn-out sigh, he says, “Why would she spray perfume in her eyes? Besides, it’s only vinegar. The perfect complement to my sister’s sweet personality.”
The click of high heels echoes in the hall, and he grabs her arm, tugging her deeper into the room.
“We have to go!” she hisses.
“No time.” He ducks and slides under the dust ruffle of the bed, and she scrambles after him just as the door opens.
Lying flat on her stomach, she watches Kristen apply fresh lipstick, run a brush through her long blonde hair, and lean into the mirror. “Flawless,” she says to her own reflection before reaching for the blue bottle.
Three squirts, and a screech rents the air.
Willow jerks and shrinks farther under the bed, but Ashton’s face is right there. Flashing a broad crescent of straight, white teeth, he squeezes her hand, and something like an inflating balloon fills her chest.
“Ugh.” Willow’s ribcage expanded as if her fingers were still entwined with his. She took several slow breaths and blew the dark veil of bangs out of her eyes. By sheer force of personality, Ashton had imprinted on this house—and on her.
She forced her feet to move. In theory, her own massive bedroom should make her ecstatic with joy. But in her heart, she wished her mom hadn’t accepted the caretaker job. Willow preferred their cozy two-bedroom cottage to this abomination of hardwood, stained glass, and endless memories.
But even if she could convince her mom, it was too late to go back. A couple of newlyweds had rented their old house and turned it into a tattoo parlor/holistic healing center—as if Gilt Hollow needed another one.
Willow flopped down on the king-sized bed and tucked a pillow under her head. Most of her homework wasn’t due until the end of the week. She could afford to close her eyes for a moment . . . A chill of awareness tiptoed up her spine, like when a teacher caught you texting in class. She twisted around, ready to yell at Rainn for sneaking up on her. But there was no one else in the room.
Willow couldn’t sleep.
There’s no such thing as ghosts, said the scientific part of her brain. But the little girl, the one who’d listened to all of Ashton’s spooky stories, the one who used to have nightmares about the ghoul who lived in the attic, shivered under the covers. Ashton had sworn for years that he’d seen things in this house. Lights flickering. Chairs rocking in empty rooms. Doors swinging open by themselves. And as she lay straining to hear every sound, a part of her believed him.
She rolled onto her side and clutched a pillow to her stomach. The harsh digital display seemed to throw the time in her face—3:04 a.m. Propping up on an elbow, she spied the drawing of the tree house leaning against her lamp. In the moonlight, she could just make out the shape of the tiny dwelling that she and Ashton had helped her dad build the summer before he passed away. They’d scouted for weeks for the perfect spot. When they’d found the sprawling oak on the back of the Keller property, her dad went to Mr. Keller for permission, hoping he’d join them in the project. When he’d granted them the land but declined to help, her dad had made a big deal about Ashton being the architect.
Willow flopped onto her back. The dark paneled walls and twelve-foot ceilings loomed, stretching and contracting in the shadows as if they had a life of their own. She should go downstairs and make some warm milk or peppermint tea, but the thought of walking through the spook factory of a house in the dead of night kept her glued to her mattress.
A low groan sounded from somewhere close, followed by a clacking like metal against wood. A shiver skittered across Willow’s shoulders, and she tugged the comforter up to her chin.
Ugh! She needed to relax. The noises were just the house settling.
Working to calm her thoughts, she pulled a long breath in through her nose and blew it out through her mouth. Her eyes drifted shut and she pictured a white-sand beach, turquoise water, the gentle rush and ebb of the tide, the warm sun on her skin . . .
Bam!
Willow sat straight up and held still, waiting for the sound to come again. Had it been a door slamming or something heavy crashing to the floor? Visions of Rainn falling out of Ashton’s old four-poster had her springing out of bed. Without turning on a light, she ran around the corner and down the hall, the slap of her bare feet the only sounds. She rushed into Rainn’s room and found her brother sleeping peacefully, his stuffed ninja turtle clutched to his chest.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she tiptoed to her mother’s room and heard her snores before she even reached the door. So what had made that loud slamming noise?
She wrapped an arm around her waist as she crept back in
to the hall and toward an arched picture window. There were hundreds—maybe thousands—of trees on the five-acre property. The noise could’ve been one of them falling against the house.
When she reached the window that faced the overgrown back garden, a cloud obscured the moon, turning the yard into a tangle of dark shapes and twisted silhouettes. Leaning close to the glass, she didn’t see any broken limbs or branches close enough to scrape against the siding. She recalled the sound and realized it had seemed to come from below her on the first floor.
And then something moved.
She jumped back from the window, her heart pounding into her ears. The quick, furtive movement had been a living being. Something large. Gathering her courage, she stepped closer to the glass. It was probably a deer. She’d seen plenty of them leaping through the woods between their old cottage and the Keller property.
Capturing her nightshirt sleeve in her fingers, she wiped a circle of dust from the window pane and peered into the yard. Directly below, a circular stone walkway bisected the unkempt lawn overrun by tangles of weeds and wildflowers. Beyond, the trees stood sentinel in a thick line, their leaves rustling in the wind.
Willow scanned the edge of the woods, skimming broad trunks and sweeping pines. Her eyes darted back to a group of narrow birch trees. The gloom between their silver trunks moved, and she pressed her nose to the cool glass. Had it been a trick of the light? Or . . .
Then the clouds shifted and revealed a figure. A midnight shade between ghostly white trees—tall and solid, its features in shadow—it turned and disappeared into the forest.
Willow stumbled back. Had he seen her watching? Her pulse ratcheted into overdrive. Had that person tried to break into the house?
She ran. Not caring if she woke her family, she ran down the creaky staircase and through the drafty, cobweb-infested hallway, flipping on every light switch she came to. When the first floor blazed like daytime, she ensured all the doors were locked. But there were too many windows to check. Should she wake her mom? Call the police?
And tell them what? She heard a noise and thought she saw a shadow in the yard? The cops would laugh all the way back to the precinct, joking about the girl who lived in the haunted house of her ex–best friend, the murderer.
Willow stood in the middle of the kitchen shaking, the room spinning around her. Maybe she was losing it. Her chest tightened as the panic attack tried to steal her breath. Not again! Determination pushing back her fear, she poured a glass of milk and gulped down her anxiety with the cold, soothing liquid.
Her equilibrium restored, she wandered from room to room, switching off all the lights, and then climbed the stairs. After checking on her mom and brother once more, she went back to Kristen’s room—her room—and locked the door.
