Ghost in the Pages

by Angela M Hudson

  The phone rang then, startling her as it made her digital watch ring too. She ran down the stairs and into the room full of boxes where she’d left her phone while snooping, swiping her thumb across the screen quickly to answer. “Hello?”

  “Miss Beaumont,” said the deep voice on the other end, which she recognized as the caretaker: Mad Harvey. She tried to use his voice to get a better sense of who he was, but it gave nothing away. He sounded like a school principal. Old, or maybe just older than her.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you signed the papers yet?”

  Blunt. To the point. She could see why Di said he had to grow on you. “Yes. They're ready and waiting.”

  “I won’t be finished at work until after ten—”

  “I’ll be awake then.”

  “Oh,” he said, pausing as though he hadn't anticipated that answer and now had to reconfigure his entire next sentence. “Well . . .”

  “You can come by whenever you like. I’ll leave the porch light on if I’m still up.”

  “Right. Uh . . . okay, I-I’ll be by later then,” he said, and hung up.

  “Chatty fellow, aren’t ya?” Ali laughed, looking down at the phone. He was quite a character.

  Something caught her eye then from inside the box where her phone had been sitting, the top half ripped away or perhaps chewed by mice. She reached in and tried to pull out the scratched metal case, but it was too heavy and the leather handle threatened to rip. But she was determined to take a look, knowing by the words “Corona” and “Zephyr” what it was inside that case. She just hoped it was in good enough condition to use.

  After a bit of digging and shifting, Ali managed to lift the brown case out and, with her heart in her throat, lifted the latches and then the lid, squealing when she saw the typewriter was in almost perfect condition. Only the letter E was missing, but after looking in between the other keys, she found it and managed to stick it back on without a hitch. Ali had always wanted a typewriter and she could have cried for how excited she was to find this. The only trouble now was working out how to use it, and worrying if Mrs. Denver would mind.

  Assuming it would be okay, and happy to wear the wrath if it wasn't, Ali took the old Corona Portable upstairs and set it on her desk, heading back down—after a bit of research on her laptop on how to use the thing—to find a new ribbon and some paper in the box.

  It was well after ten when Ali finally came up from the thrill of writing on a typewriter, and she was fifty pages into her new story when she noticed that Mad Harvey still hadn't dropped by. According to the laws of propriety, if he wanted those papers now, he would just have to see her in the morning. She didn't really want a suspected murderer in the house this late at night anyway, no matter how curious she was about him.

  She closed the case over the typewriter and turned out the porch light downstairs, heading upstairs again to the bathroom. Her fingers were so stiff she could barely get the ancient faucet to turn, and as she stood back in nothing but a towel, waiting for the hot water to climb the pipes from the basement, her toes joined the ice party and brought her knees and shoulders with them.

  “Come on,” she said to the shower, pressing her fingertips into the stream. As the cold water shocked her, not any closer to heating up, a faint memory of something Di said made her groan—something about starting up the system in the basement. She grabbed her phone and dialed Di’s number, but hung up when she realized how late it was.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, Ali sorted through the papers until she found the handwritten instructions labeled Water Heater: take the door under the stairs to the basement and open the metal panel on the water heater. Light with a match.

  Easy enough, Ali thought, heading to the foyer. It was a little warmer downstairs with the embers of the parlor fire still burning out, and though Ali was cold enough to agree with the voice in her head when it told her to just get her PJs on and go to bed without showering, she’d now spent so long fussing with this water heater that she was determined to beat it and enjoy a hot shower tonight if it was the last thing she did.

  The wooden door to the basement was set into the stairs, like Harry Potter’s room, almost hidden and hard to see. Ali gave the handle a good twist and a tug, stumbling back with the momentum when she found it unexpectedly locked. As one does in these situations, she tried the handle again, giving it a few more twists before finally deciding it was, without a doubt, locked.

  What now? she thought. Di had given her only three keys: one for the front door, which also unlocked the back door; one for the attic; one for the mailbox. No basement key.

  Ali was just about to peek outside and see if Di’s lights were on when she remembered something about a turtle. A key turtle. But she couldn't remember what Di had said other than that it was out front and held keys.

  Shivering and making “shhh” noises through her teeth to fight the cold, Ali turned on the porch light again, hoping Mad Harvey didn't take that as a sign to drop by, and poked her head out to look for the turtle.

  It was there in the garden just by the steps—small and green and looking right at her. Since it was the only turtle among a family of gnomes, it had to be the key holder Di told her about, and since it was only a few steps away, Ali braved the risk of being seen outside in a towel and stepped out to grab it.

  The turtle was light and hollow, but there was no door or slot where a key could be placed—or at least not that Ali could see. Just as all hope left her heart and all sensation started to leave her heels, she found a small metal shape sticking out of the turtle’s butt, thrilled to see it was an old and very large iron key. Probably just the sort of thing to unlock a basement.

  “Yes!” Ali jumped on the spot, refastening her towel as it slipped down. Taking the stairs quickly, so far unseen and with her dignity still intact, she grabbed the handle and gave a shove, but the door didn’t open. Laughing, thinking this was some cosmic joke, she jiggled the handle again but, sure enough, it was locked too.

  “No. Oh no!” She covered her mouth, backing in to the shadows so no one would see her there under the porch light in nothing but a towel. “Shit.”

  Her mind ravaged its own basement for help, deciding that the back door was her only hope. Or maybe an open window. There was no way she was running to Di’s house in a towel so late at night, and since she didn't have her phone, she couldn't even call Mad Harvey and ask for a spare key. Then again, it was Di that had the keys right now, since she had shown her through.

  Ali tiptoed down the porch stairs, sticking close to the overgrown garden for cover, planning out what she’d do if the back door was locked too. It was a reasonably long walk around to the back of the house—even longer with frozen feet—and by the time she climbed the back steps her toes were so cold the floorboards felt like broken glass under them.

  A little ray of light filled her up though when she saw the old wire screen door ajar, but as she ran in to push it open onto the mud room, her nose hit it like a steel panel and she shrieked, stumbling away with her hand to her face. “Damn it!”

  That was it, she realized, there was no helping it. She would have to crawl over to Di’s house with her tail between her legs, in a towel, freezing and probably bruised from the assault.

  Barely able to see, her nose stinging her eyes to blindness, Ali couldn't make sense of the dark path in front of her until she reached the thin beam of light extending out past the front porch, and even then, the thick gardens and the low arm of the giant tree made shapes ahead of her that looked oddly like a man.

  Just as she reached the porch and started for the steps, a bulky figure shifted into her pathway and its large cold hands caught her arms. She screamed, reeling back and tripping over a bush, almost ending up on the ground.

  “Whoa, watch it,” said a deep, rather vexed voice, grabbing her arm before she hit the deck.

  Ali looked up at his shadowed head, heart in her throat. “Me watch it?! You’re the one wandering around on
my property in the dark!”

  “Your property,” he countered. “Darlin’, it ain’t your property until I pick up the papers I came for.”

  Mad Harvey! she realized, snatching her arm back and trying to get a better look at his face.

  “And what the hell are you doing running around out here dressed like that?” he snapped, voice high with insult. “There are small children living on this street.”

  “If you must know”—she propped her hands on her hips— “I locked myself out trying to find the damn basement key because the caretaker didn't care to give the new tenant one!”

  “So this is my fault?” he said with a derisive laugh. “Who would've guessed some flighty little out-of-towner would be the type to lay blame on others for her own idiocy?”

  “Idiocy! I’m not the first person to lock herself out of her house. I hardly classify that as idiocy.”

  The bulky man said nothing, just groaned and turned on his heel. “What did you need in the basement?”

  “The water heater.”

  He stopped for a moment to glance back at her, and as the porch light caught his face, showing it for the first time, they both snarled out a breathy “You!”

  “I thought I was rid of you after the first night!” Mad Harvey grunted, storming toward the house.

  “And now I can see that there isn’t a problem with this small town’s hospitality. It just so happens that first person I encountered is a complete and total ass.”

  “I take that as a compliment.” Mad Harvey reached up to the top of the doorframe and picked up a key, unlocking the door and shoving it open for Ali. “There. Consider this my first and last act of hospitality.”

  “I’d say thank you,” she said, stepping inside, “but I don't see why I should thank you for doing your job.”

  “My job,” he said firmly, leaning in to her in a rather threatening way, “is not to run around after idiot tenants. I take care of this house as a favor to Mrs. Denver and nothing more. Not a favor to you or to the housing committee of this street, so if you need something, Miss Beaumont, don’t hesitate to ask someone else!”

  Ali huffed loudly as she slammed the door. “Jerk.”

  “Idiot,” he called back.

  She ripped the door open again, almost tearing it off its hinges. “What about the water heater?”

  “The basement key’s in the kitchenette—where it has been for the last fifteen years.”

  “Well what if I can’t get the heater working?”

  “Google the serial number!”

  “Argh!” Ali growled as she slammed the door again, making the whole house rattle.

  ***

  Ali sat in the kitchen at the typewriter all morning, unable to continue the story she’d started last night, going in an entirely different direction instead. It was his fault. Mr. Harvey had gotten under her skin. She hadn't planned to meet the creepy murderer next door, but she had expected that, if she did, he would most certainly be a weasel of a man, probably too short and fat or too tall and too thin. She hadn't expected remarkably kind hazel eyes and the sort of manly squareness to his face that reminded her of Thor. There was no denying Mr. Harvey was nice looking, no denying that the words “Mr. Harvey” on their own conjured up a definitely older and grumpier vision of a man, and there was no denying that everything about his personality made everything about his good looks null and void. And yet he was under her skin, she could admit that. Not in the kind of way that left her wanting him, not by a long shot, but in the kind of way that saw him creep into the words on her page in the love interest she was working on. After years at this profession, she knew not to fight it, not to snap herself back and keep steering Mr. Right toward a man more resembling Grant. For some reason, her Mr. Right in the story wanted to be Creepy Jerk from next door, and as the writer of the story she just had to bend to the whim of her muse. Hence, her story had gone in a different direction.

  On the bright side, she decided any interaction with that jerk would certainly give her plenty of useful material to work with. Maybe this novel wouldn’t end as a love story. Maybe her protagonist would fall in love with this innocent, misunderstood guy and end up being murdered by him, end up a ghost, and that would be how she got her ghost story. Sad ending, yeah, but no one ever really talks about happy endings. Maybe she was on to something.

  After a few hours in the bliss of the writing fire—following her muse down “Mad Harvey Road”—Ali’s hands clammed up and the tip of her middle finger felt bruised. She flexed them and sat back in her chair, looking out the window to the colorful trees on the other side of the thin stream. A number of people had walked up the trail to the forest all morning with dogs or jogging partners, but it seemed that mid-morning was a quieter time ’round here, and perhaps a better time for her to take a stroll with her muse.

  “Grab your coat, Muse,” she said to the empty room. “We’re going to find some inspiration for this next scene.”

  Outside, the day greeted her with a golden smile. Everything here seemed brighter and more colorful than it did back home, and just being outside gave Ali a feeling of joy, like sitting in the warm glow of birthday candles as everyone sings. She tied the belt of her red coat tighter and hugged herself as she started toward the little wooden footbridge.

  At the Harvey place, Ali could hear the deep base of a rock song bleating out from the garage. The steel door facing the stream had been left slightly lifted, and Ali’s nose turned up as the strong smell of turpentine wafted out on the otherwise muddy autumn breeze. She wondered if Mad Harvey was in there right now cleaning the utensils in his torture kit.

  When she reached the stream, Ali dared to take a glance back at the supposedly haunted house, disappointed to see nothing but an ordinary home with no ghosts in the windows. She looked away quickly, though, in case the man himself was watching her. It gave her a creepy feeling up her spine and fueled her quick steps until she was up the hill and out of sight, buried twenty steps deep in fall foliage.

  The trees in the forest stood close together, parading a kaleidoscope of color, while the beige gravel path that had been cut between them formed a swerving incline for people to follow. One could get lost in this forest with ease, Ali thought, and made a mental note to turn back if she reached any forks in the path. It was wide enough for two cars to fit down but the only tracks she noticed were joggers and dog paws. It obviously wasn’t often that a vehicle came up, or down, here, which meant getting lost could result in many days remaining lost, unless a jogger happened by. She was still a little concerned about bears, but was pretty certain they were hibernating at this time of year, so unless she stepped on one, she should be safe walking out here. Unless, of course, the murderer next door had seen her come up here alone and decided to follow.

  Just to be sure, she left the path and ducked behind a tree, watching the road for a moment. There was no one about. She couldn't hear any voices or dogs barking. Nothing at all except the occasional whisper of a breeze and the distant rushing of a faster stream.

  Out here, feeling slightly stupid for hiding behind a tree, she took a moment to truly appreciate the freedom of total isolation. It wasn’t often she ever got away from other people, or the busyness of a noisy city, and it was almost never that she managed to escape her own circling thoughts. Her head always seemed to be switched on and up, like a radio tuned in to an auctioneer. But there, in the forest, it all just stopped.

  She walked blissfully along the leafy carpet for a while, following the hum of the stream, thinking about nothing other than how cool the water might be up ahead and what shapes the leaves on the ground were. Finding the odd wing-shaped one here and there, she stopped to pick it up, studied it carefully, and dropped it back into place as if she’d never disturbed it.

  After a while, and with a clearer head, she headed back the way she came—without first reaching the lake she’d been aiming for—and found the beige path again that led toward the trail exit. A good walk and s
o much time to think left Ali now feeling deeply sorry for the assumptions and accusations she’d made about Mr. Harvey without knowing anything for certain. So sorry she wanted to apologize, even though he would never know what had gone through her head.

  He might not be a murderer, or he might be, but neither mattered because it was a well-known fact to her now that he was a total and utter arrogant jerk. A jerk, apparently, that could paint.

  Stopping on the footbridge near home, the trickling waters slowly rising beneath her, she stared across at the now fully open garage door. The colorful canvases on easels all around the large space gave the perfect explanation for the smell of turps and simultaneously made her feel worse for assuming it was murder-tool polish. It was this guilt, perhaps, that inspired Ali to find out more about this man. Jerk or not.

  She strolled over cautiously toward the garage and looked around for Mr. Harvey. No sign. The radio was playing and the paint on his hillside depiction of the trees looked wet, so she figured he’d ducked inside for a moment. The man had talent, and her thoughts went back to the rocking chair she’d seen on his porch the day Grant drove her here, promptly sparking a reminder that “keeping a good house” or even having the talent to capture the emotions in a fall hillside did not a good man make.