The Summoning: A gripping psychological thriller (Secrets of Redemption Book 4)

by Michele PW (Pariza Wacek)

  “Hey.” Lou poked her head out of the front door. “You two coming? I want the official tour!”

  “Yeah, we’re coming,” Claire yelled. She gave me another small smile. “I’ll be fine,” she said under her breath as she started up the driveway. I trailed after her.

  “It’s like going back in time,” Claire said, stepping through the front door and surveying the stiff, formal love seat and small end tables covered with dollies and bric-a-brac. She eyed me. “This can’t be your furniture. Did Helen just leave it?”

  “She did. And yes, it’s mine now.”

  “Wow.” Claire gazed around the room again. “Are you going to keep it all?”

  “Not sure yet,” I said. “Before we get the tour underway, just know it really needs a good cleaning. You’ve seen Helen, so you know she wasn’t in any shape to keep up with this house. You’ve been warned.”

  “In other words,” Lou said. “The house isn’t ready for its Good Housekeeping photo shoot yet.”

  “Yeah, I would say not.”

  I led them through the house. “Some of this stuff may be worth a fortune,” Lou said, peering into the upstairs office. “I think that desk may be an antique.”

  I made a mental note to find an expert to come to the house and examine everything.

  “What about this one?” Claire asked. She was moving slowly, almost hypnotically, toward the L-shaped bedroom.

  “Oh, be careful of that room,” I said, echoing Helen’s words.

  Lou made a face at me. “‘Careful’ of a room? Is something broken in it?”

  Claire didn’t seem to hear me. She seemed entranced as she approached the door.

  “No, nothing like that,” I said, unable to tear my eyes away from Claire. Something about the way she was acting was bothering me. It didn’t feel right. “That’s where Helen’s mother died.”

  Lou’s eyes widened. “In there?” She pushed past me and nudged past Claire, who was very slowly stretching her arm out, as if to touch the door.

  “Wait a sec,” I said, feeling more and more uneasy as Lou threw open the door. I didn’t really understand where the feeling was coming from. After all, I had poked my head into it the first time I was at the house, and everything was fine.

  Or had I? Now that I thought about it, it seemed the door was slightly ajar, and Helen had brushed past it, giving me time for no more than a quick glance from the safety of the hallway.

  Lou stepped inside as Claire slowly followed. “So, this is where it all happened,” Lou breathed.

  I moved closer. Lou was standing with her hands on her hips in the center of the room, looking around. Claire was facing the closet, a strange, dreamy expression on her face.

  There was a twin bed pushed in the corner, with a nightstand next to it and a dresser next to that. Across from the bed, in the little alcove that made the room L-shaped, was a small writing desk and chair.

  “Look at this furniture,” Lou said, coughing and waving a hand over her face. “It has to be a hundred years old.”

  “Probably been a hundred years since anyone has been in this room, too,” I said, noting the thick layer of dust on every surface.

  “No kidding,” Lou said, coughing some more and wiping her hands against her jeans.

  ‘This is where it happened,” Claire spoke suddenly. She stretched her arm out, pointing to the closet.

  “What happened?” Lou asked.

  “Where it all started to go so very wrong,” Claire said.

  Lou looked confused. “Are you okay?”

  Claire didn’t answer, just kept pointing at the closet. The feeling of foreboding was getting stronger and stronger, pressing on my chest and stomach, nearly suffocating me.

  “What’s in the closet, Claire?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. A part of me hoped she didn’t hear me, that she wouldn’t answer. I didn’t really want to know what was in the closet. Not really. What I wanted was to pull Lou and Claire out of that room, slam the door shut, and never open it again.

  “Death,” she answered.

  Lou’s eyes widened. “What? Claire, what is going on with you? Are you okay?”

  I fought the urge to run out. Actually, in that moment, I wanted to run out of the house, jump in my car, and drive straight back to New York to tell Annabelle she was right and I was wrong; I never should have left in the first place.

  Instead, I found myself turning toward the closet. It looked like a regular, normal closet. The door was closed, but that of course made sense.

  Lou was still talking. “It’s probably a mouse or a squirrel that died in there. You’re probably going to find a lot of dead things when you start digging into all these rooms. I mean, look at this. All these dead insects everywhere. Blech.”

  I put my hand out and touched the door. It was cool and dry. Actually, it was quite cool. Almost cold. Was that how the other rooms felt?

  “What is it?” Lou asked. “Do you feel something?”

  “It’s nothing. It’s just ... it’s kind of cold.”

  Lou glanced around the room. “Maybe there’s a draft somewhere. This room has been closed up for years. It makes sense to not be the same temperature as the rest of the house.”

  Maybe. What Lou said seemed reasonable.

  Still.

  I grasped the knob and pulled. I half-expected to hear something—a creak or a groan—or for the door to stick, so I wouldn’t be able to open it. Instead, it slid open quietly and effortlessly.

  It was empty.

  Lou put her hand on her chest and let out a deep breath. “Claire, you really had me going,” she said, lightly punching her shoulder. “I really thought there was going to be something in there.”

  “So did I,” I said, searching the closet. It was surprisingly clean. The floor didn’t look nearly as dusty as the rest of the room, nor did I see any signs of dead insects.

  Claire shook herself. “What? What happened? Why did you hit me?” She blinked her eyes and looked around the room. “Where are we?”

  “Like you don’t know,” Lou said. “You don’t have to keep up the pretense. You got both of us pretty good.”

  Claire scrubbed at her face with her hands. “I don’t understand.” Her skin was pale, and her eyes were glassy. A streak of grey dust stretched across her chin.

  Lou rolled her eyes and starting rummaging around the room. “Nice try, Claire.”

  Claire seemed so bewildered. Was it possible she was faking? “We’re in one of the bedrooms,” I said. “This is the room Helen’s mom killed herself in.”

  Claire gasped, her eyes as round as coins. “This is the room?”

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear Charlie tell you that already,” Lou said.

  “I ... didn’t,” Claire said, gazing around the room. “So, did Martha kill Nellie in here, too? Or just herself?”

  “What did Helen tell you?” Lou asked.

  I shook my head. “She didn’t. How did Martha do it?”

  “Do what? Kill herself or kill Nellie?” Lou asked.

  “Both, I guess.”

  “She stabbed Nellie,” Claire answered. “Then she hung herself.”

  “Really.” I looked around the room as well. “I wonder how she hung herself.”

  Lou circled around the room and faced the closet. “Well, there is a hook up there.” She pointed to a black, ornate, wrought iron metal hook just over her head. “Maybe that’s what she used.”

  Claire and I both came closer to get a second look. “Who puts a hook like that in a closet?” Claire asked.

  “There’s another one on the other side,” Lou said. “Same place.”

  “Maybe it was for long dresses, or capes or something,” I said.

  “It’s long enough to hang a few items, if it was used for clothes,” Lou offered.<
br />
  “Well, that’s true. But …” Claire looked around again. “This wouldn’t be Martha’s room, would it? Wouldn’t she have been in the master?”

  “It could have been an overflow closet,” Lou said. “Who knows? Maybe it wasn’t for clothes at all … but for hanging something else.”

  Something cold brushed my bare arm and I shivered. Maybe there was a draft in here after all. “Let’s get out of here. Finish the tour.”

  Claire looked relieved. “Yes, great idea.”

  “Yes, let’s keep looking. We haven’t seen any ghosts yet,” Lou said. She looked a little disappointed as she searched the room one last time.

  I waited for both of them to leave before shutting the door behind us. In my head, I could still hear Helen’s voice.

  Be careful with that room.

  Chapter 20

  “You have no idea what you’ve done. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

  The Holly Hobby girl sat on the front steps, her head in her hands. While she was still dressed the same, her clothes looked dingier … almost dusty, as if they had aged overnight. “You have no idea what you’ve done,” she said again. “You should have left when you had the chance.”

  Everything is happening that is supposed to happen.

  The black cat sat a little off to the side, swishing its tail.

  Her head snapped up. “No. I don’t believe that. I could have stopped it. We could have stopped it. If you had helped me, maybe we could have made a difference. But you’re never on my side. This is your fault.”

  The cat swished its tail. You honestly think we have the power to stop this? You know there are things set in motion we can’t control.

  “We could have tried.”

  Let’s play your game. Let’s say we did convince Charlie to leave. What do you think would have happened?

  “We would have prevented a horrible tragedy,” the Holly Hobby girl wailed. “Good would have prevailed.”

  That’s where you’re wrong. All you would have created is the illusion that good prevailed. Which is much, much worse. Evil still would have festered beneath, unnoticed, unchecked, until too late.

  “You’re wrong,” the girl sniffed. “I don’t believe you.”

  The tail swished. Believe what you wish. Deep down, you know the truth.

  “But it is all good,” I interrupted. Both the cat and the girl slowly turned toward me. “Alan is dead. I don’t have to worry about him coming here anymore. There are no more problems.”

  The girl groaned. “Your problems are just beginning.” Her hair was a nest of tangled knots and her face was as grey and ragged as her dress.

  A jolt of pain cut through my scar, and I winced, pressing my hand against it. “You’re wrong,” I said. “He’s dead.”

  The cat fixed its jade-green eyes on mine. She’s right, it directed at me.

  Another bolt of pain. “What, you’re saying he’s not dead?”

  The sun disappeared behind the clouds. From the distance, there was a clap of thunder.

  The cat gazed up at the sky. A storm is coming. Beware.

  “What does that even mean?” I asked, exasperated.

  “You really don’t want to know,” the girl said, her voice hollow and thin as the rest of her. She was even grayer than she was minutes before, as if she were turning into dust and ash right in front of me.

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

  The cat stood up and stretched before sauntering away.

  It’s coming. Beware.

  I opened my eyes. The room was pitch black. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  I rubbed my eyes, trying to figure out where I was. Everything in the room was unfamiliar, from the dark bulky shadows along the wall to the curtains blowing in the cool breeze.

  Then I remembered. I was in the master bedroom in Helen’s house—well, my house.

  A gust of wind whipped the curtains all over the place, bringing with it the smell of rain. An actual storm must be coming. That was why I had dreamed of a storm.

  Nothing more sinister than that.

  I slid out of bed, goosebumps prickling my skin.

  Shivering in my thin tee shirt and panties, I hurried across the bedroom floor to shut the two windows. Realizing I had left my robe in New York, I made a mental note to buy another one. For a moment, I considered keeping the windows open … to let the rain-soaked air cleanse all the musty old energy out of every nook and cranny.

  But, no. There was beautiful woodwork in this house. The hardwood floors were spectacular. I didn’t want to ruin them.

  I had spent the past three days in a massive cleaning frenzy of vacuuming, dusting, mopping, and scrubbing. Everything in the house was either cleaned, tossed, or boxed up for the attic. Eventually, I would move things to the basement, but I was uncomfortable piling boxes on a dirt floor. Little by little, the house was starting to feel like home.

  My home.

  With the windows closed, I gazed outside to gage how close the storm was, but it was too dark. The sky was an inky black.

  Folding my arms across my chest from the cold, I dug a sweatshirt out, then darted across the floor and out the door to close the rest of the windows in the house. In retrospect, I realized I should probably rethink leaving windows open at night.

  The house was still and quiet, as if it were ... content, now that someone was living there who could take proper care of it. A silly notion, of course.

  Almost as silly as a town deciding who lived there or not.

  I was letting all of Redemption’s old wives’ tales get the better of me.

  Padding down the steps, I heard the noise—a combination of a loud crack and bang.

  It sounded like it came from outside.

  I hurried down the steps and into the kitchen, wondering if the wind knocked something over.

  The wind was gusting through the kitchen, and the smell of rain was even stronger. I ran to the window, peering out to try and see what had happened. Had something fallen?

  Of course, it was still so dark that it was difficult to see anything. The plants in the overgrown garden were blowing every which way, and the trees were shaking and shuddering. I was about to shut the window, deciding I would have to wait until morning, when I glimpsed a shape by one of the bushes. A thin, tall shape, standing there.

  It’s just a tree, I told myself. Or another plant. It’s nothing.

  Yet I couldn’t tear my eyes from it.

  Another gust of wind blew through, whirling through the leaves and branches, tossing them every which way.

  Except the long, thin shadow didn’t move.

  At all.

  I gasped, then covered my mouth with my hand. Was it a person out there, watching me?

  Your problems are just beginning.

  No, it couldn’t be Alan. Alan was dead, and even if he wasn’t, how could he possibly know I lived here? In this house?

  Something slammed against the window. I screamed and jumped back. Black fur pressed against the screen.

  Midnight.

  “Oh my God, you scared me half to death,” I yelled to the cat. My heart was racing, and I rubbed my chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  The cat let out a loud meow and pawed at the screen.

  “I guess you want to come in,” I said.

  Midnight meowed in agreement.

  I took a step toward the back door, but then I reconsidered.

  What if Alan was out there, just waiting for me to do something like open the door?

  I glanced at the cat, who was staring at me, his dark-green eyes just visible in the dark. Then he opened his mouth in a huge yawn, displaying an impressive array of sharp teeth. He clicked his mouth shut and gave me a look, almost as if to say, “Would I really be just sitting h
ere if there was a stranger in the yard?”

  Midnight hadn’t shown up when my friends were here. Of course, that might not mean anything.

  I went back to the window and peered out one last time. I couldn’t see anything but the wind blowing the bushes and plants every which way.

  Did I imagine it? Had there been anything there at all?

  Midnight meowed impatiently, and I decided to let him in. It was either that or listen to him meow at me the rest of the night.

  I headed to the back door and peered out, trying to see anything other than darkness. Nothing stood out, except for the furry black ball that leaped onto the stoop.

  I unlocked the door and opened it a crack. Midnight pushed his way in and sauntered toward the kitchen. I shut the door and locked it.

  The cat let out a tiny meow as he disappeared around the corner, as if to say, “See? Nothing to be afraid of. It’s just little old me.”

  I followed the cat into the kitchen. He was sitting on the floor in front of the cabinet where I kept his food. His tail swished.

  A storm is coming. Beware.

  Startled, I took a step back. For a moment, I thought I was back in my dream, the cat echoing the words in my head. But, of course, that was nonsense.

  Midnight watched me closely, his jade-green eyes unblinking.

  It’s coming. Beware.

  I closed my eyes and gave myself a shake. This is silly, I told myself. There is no one outside, and cats can’t talk. Clearly, the stress of everything that had happened … from the accident to Alan’s death to buying a house in a brand-new city a thousand miles away from home … was taking its toll.

  I just needed to give myself some time to heal.

  Midnight meowed. I opened my eyes and saw that he was impatiently pawing his dish. I picked it up and poked around for a can opener. I heard the faint rumble of thunder, even further away than it was before. I glanced at the window, still open, and saw the wind had died down quite a bit.

  At least for today, it seemed there would be no storm.

  I couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.

  Chapter 21

  “Wanna meet up for a drink after work?” Claire asked, wiping the counter down as I dumped the grounds from the coffee machine.