Bailey. Bailey. Bailey.
“That would be a no,” said Bodhi.
I did my best to prop myself up in Bodhi’s lap, hoping to convey a sense of confidence with my heightened posture, and announced, “I’ll make you a deal.”
Bodhi hugged me closer. “Bailey, don’t you dare.”
I ignored him. “If we agree to help you, whoever you are, then I want something in return.”
The basement was motionless, as though whatever spirit occupied the space waited for my proposition.
“If we help you,” I began tentatively. “Then you have to promise not to hurt us. No more of this haunted house nonsense. No more bodiless screaming or shattering windows. In fact, I want you to agree to protect us at all costs.”
Bodhi scoffed. “Not likely.”
“If you do that,” I went on. “I promise to do whatever is in my power to help you. That’s it. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
For a long minute, the only sounds in the dank basement were my rushed inhales and exhales and Bodhi’s labored breathing. We waited in the heavy silence. My chin dropped to my chest as the throbbing in my head worsened.
“Quickly, please,” I murmured.
There was a click at the top of the steps. The basement door unlocked. It swung open, and a shaft of sunlight illuminated the dismal stairwell.
11
The Beginning
There was no hospital in Black Bay, Washington. The tiny coastal town was home to several small family-owned businesses, including a walk-in clinic and a pharmacy, but none of them were equipped to treat my amalgamation of injuries. Bodhi drove us into the city, where a leery med student asked probing questions about the nature of my “fall” as he patched me up. Bodhi held my hand throughout the process, watching like a hawk as an orthopedic casted my ankle and provided me with a hard boot to fasten over the top of it so that I could walk without crutches. There was a pained look on Bodhi’s face the entire time, despite the fact that he was not the one who had fallen victim to the whims of our house’s ghost. My memory flashed back. Bodhi’s eyes, black as night, bore into mine right before he shoved me down the basement stairs. It wasn’t him. He had been taken over by whatever presence occupied our current residence, and in that respect, there was nothing to forgive him for. Nevertheless, I had a feeling that his involuntarily act of violence haunted him more than whatever being remained in the house.
The tension intensified when yet another doctor made a visit to our curtained-off corner of the emergency room, especially when he asked Bodhi to give us some privacy. I expected the questions he asked. Did I try to hurt myself? Was Bodhi responsible for any of my injuries, old or new? I stuck to my story. It made sense after all. Bodhi and I flipped houses for a living. We were often right in the thick of construction, renovation, and rebuilding. It was easy to craft an accidental scenario for each of my wounds. A rogue nail ripped the gash in my wrist. I bumped my head backing into an overhanging beam. I’d cut my hand with a carpet knife. That last one was half-true. Whatever I said was better than the truth. If I admitted that the real reason I was so banged up was because our most recent project was frequented by a bloodthirsty ghost, the medics were sure to send me off to the psych ward for an evaluation.
As we drove back to Black Bay, our borrowed pickup truck whizzing across the wet winding roads, Bodhi’s hands clenched and unclenched on the steering wheel. His knuckles turned pink and white. A benign pop song played on the radio, crooning about a one-night stand that would surely morph into true love.
“What did they ask you?” Bodhi said at last.
“What do you think?”
He wrung the steering wheel like a washcloth. “That it was my fault.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Bode.”
I reached across the center console of the car with my uninjured hand, taking care to move slowly to avoid jostling my mildly concussed head, and stroked Bodhi’s arm. He released the wheel, taking my hand in his own and bringing it to his lips.
“Do you think there’s a reason that thing targeted you instead of me?” he asked.
I pondered the question. It was true. Ever since we had moved into the Winchester house—a massive twenty-year-old home located on the outlook of an enormous bluff—I had heard voices that weren’t real, seen humanoid shadows out of the corner of my eye, and watched objects levitate and destroy themselves without rhyme or reason, all while Bodhi remained convinced that the continued destruction was due to my unfortunate habit of sleepwalking.
“Maybe because I was more open to the possibility of it actually existing.” I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the cool glass of the truck’s window. “I think, in the very back of my mind, I knew that I wasn’t hallucinating or going crazy. I feel something in that house, Bodhi.”
“All the more reason to get out.”
I lifted my aching head from the window—the pain relievers were wearing off quickly—and switched off the radio. There was only so much Top 40 a girl could take, especially when recovering from a concussion. “What do you mean?”
Bodhi’s gaze remained fixed on the slick pavement. “We’re not staying.”
“I promised—”
“To help the damn ghost. I heard.”
“We can’t go!”
He looked at me, his lips parted in disbelief. “Are you kidding me, Bailey? That thing tried to kill us. We’re not sticking around to let it. We’re packing up our stuff and getting out of town.”
“And you think that will work?” I asked. “You think that thing’s going to let us load up the truck and head on out?”
The two-lane road curved around a bend, and Bodhi leaned into the turn as he guided the truck at an uneven pace. “I’ve been thinking about that too. It wants you, right? But it also seems like it can’t leave the house. You stay in the car. I’ll get our things. Then we can go to Seattle or Portland or somewhere that is significantly less Stephen King.”
“I think you’re forgetting a couple of things.”
“What?”
I tapped my fingers impatiently on the car door. “First of all, our not-so-friendly neighborhood ghost has the ability to possess you. Or have you forgotten?”
His lips pressed together in a tight line, but he remained silent.
“Secondly, we’ve already dumped a lot of money into the Winchester house,” I went on. “We’ve barely begun renovations. We can’t afford to pick up and leave now. Not unless you plan on us moving back in with my mother. Not that she wouldn’t be happy to have us, so I suppose if you can handle the perennial smell of wet dog then—”
“Fine,” Bodhi said. “I get it. But don’t pretend like those are the only reasons you don’t want to leave. You actually feel something for this ghost thing, don’t you?”
It was my turn to stay quiet. Bodhi’s guess was correct. There was some kind of connection between me and whatever resided in the Winchester house, but I wasn’t going to admit that to him until I knew why.
“That’s what I thought,” he said with an air of finality.
“Look, it needs help,” I insisted. “Maybe hurting me was the only way it could get my attention. It tried other things first, you know.”
“Let’s just take it slow.” Bodhi turned the radio back on, tuning the channel to a classic rock station. “I don’t trust that thing. Neither should you.”
When the trees cleared and the town of Black Bay glittered in its valley beneath the overlooking bluff, it was hard to believe that anything could go so wrong in such a charming place. By then, the sun had risen high in the sky, banishing most of the clouds that loomed in the mornings. August had just arrived, and the residents of Black Bay knew to make the most of the fine weather while they still had the chance. As we drove through the town square, it occurred to me how much had changed in the two months since we had started work on the Winchester house. Then, the locals regarded us with polite curiosity. Now, they waved at the truck as it passed by, fa
miliar and comfortable with the new couple in the Winchester house.
I expected a sense of anxiety to set in as we crossed town and entered the trees again. The road wound back and forth here, snaking its way to the top of the bluff. Bodhi grew more and more agitated the closer we drew to the house, swearing with gusto every time he accidentally dropped a gear. I, on the other hand, felt inappropriately serene. Now that we had acknowledged the presence in the Winchester house, it was time to finally do something about it.
The house itself didn’t present itself as some kind of haunted spectacle. It was as graceful and benevolent as ever, the sun beating down on its chipped blue paint as it rested like a particularly corpulent cat napping amongst the surrounding trees. From the outside, there was no evidence of the house’s extra resident. White curtains floated languidly in the sea breeze that flowed through the open windows of the second story. The widow’s walk was proud and stoic on the roof as though the house itself waited for our return. As Bodhi pulled the truck into the front yard and parked amongst the construction materials we had collected, the door of the house eased open on its own.
Bodhi’s fingers lingered at the keys in the ignition. “Nope. No way.”
I got out of the truck. “It was probably just the wind.”
He had no choice but to follow me as I crossed the yard and stepped into the foyer of the Winchester house. I waited in the hallway by the light switches. Was there a polite way to announce yourself to the ghost that had so recently attempted to kill you?
“Well?” prompted Bodhi. He waited on the doormat. “Anything?”
“So far, so good.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Just come in.”
I yanked Bodhi across the threshold. Instinctively, his hands found my waist. I could see his chest rise and fall with every nervous breath he took. I could smell the lemon-coconut bar soap he used to wash his hair the night before mixed with the faint scent of sweat leftover from our panic that morning. It had been a long time since Bodhi and I stood so close to each other in such an honest way. I realized how bizarre my thought process was. I should have been worried about the ghost in the Winchester house. Instead, my focus wandered south. I shook my head to clear it, but a fresh pang at the base of my skull caused me to flinch.
Bodhi noticed, cradling my face between his palms. “Are you all right? Is it the house?”
“No, no. Just my head.”
“Let’s get you in bed.”
He held me all the way up the stairs, guiding me toward the master bedroom where I had been staying, but when we opened the door, we were reminded that the ghost of the Winchester house had already had its way with this room. The French doors leading out to the balcony had literally been ripped out of place. The bedroom was exposed to the elements, and though the salty air from outside refreshed my warm skin, the dewy bedsheets were in no way fit to comfort me.
“Um, maybe you should stay in my room,” suggested Bodhi.
“That’s fine. Can you grab my computer though?”
He dashed into the master bedroom, seized my laptop and its charger from the bedside table, and dashed out again. I resisted the impulse to laugh as he tucked the laptop under his arm and led me down the hallway.
Bodhi’s room was clean and tidy, untouched by the spirit that had wreaked havoc on other parts of the house. It smelled like him. There was no way to describe it. Every person had a scent, something that was uniquely theirs. Beneath his citrusy soap, Bodhi’s reminded me of freshly cut grass and mint leaves and petrichor. He was of the earth, solid and grounded. Bodhi lowered me onto the full-sized bed, and I sank into the cool bliss of the cotton sheets.
“I’ll make you some tea. Are you hungry?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll bring you something to eat anyway. Just in case.”
“Then what are we going to do?” I asked.
He fluffed the quilt and tucked the corners in beneath me. “You are going to rest,” he said. “And I figured I would start by scrubbing the ominous bloody messages out of the basement floor.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“I thought so too.”
He set my laptop down on the bed. I pulled it toward me to boot it up. “What if that thing is still down in the basement though?”
Bodhi swept his fingers through his dark curls, separating out the ringlets. “She’s been quiet so far. If I have any problems, you’ll be the first to know.”
“She?”
“Just a guess. I brought these in for you as well.”
He set a stack of leather-bound journals on the bed. In the chaos of the morning, I had all but forgotten about them. Now I wondered if the identity of our mysterious presence was hidden somewhere amongst the pages.
Bodhi leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Take it easy. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
My laptop chimed to life as he left. Immediately, I connected to the Internet and clicked through to our website. The familiar layout loaded, displaying a picture of me and Bodhi striking explorer poses atop the roof of the last house we had renovated. My inbox was full of messages from our devoted fans and followers. Some of them were interested in the flipping side of the blog, wondering about our progress on the Winchester house. Most of them, however, idolized mine and Bodhi’s marriage, unable to read between the lines of the inane crap that I wrote. Online life was like that. You wrote what you knew your audience wanted to read. Everything else stayed in your head.
I scrolled down, skimming through my recent blog posts until I reached the dates from two months ago. In early June, we had just arrived in Black Bay, but it wasn’t until we got to know some of the locals that we learned what had happened to its original family.
Bailey and Bodhi: Flipping Out
Good morning, flippers, and what a glorious morning it is! The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and everyone in Black Bay is out sailing, swimming, or basking in the warmth. Today, Bodhi and the crew are tearing up the tile in the kitchen, which means that I’m free to fill you all in on the history of this enormous house. Hopefully, you all remember our new pal Ethan Powell, Black Bay’s all-around handyman. Yesterday, he kindly answered my questions regarding the Winchester family. Be ready, flippers. It’s a bittersweet story.
Let’s recap. As you all know, this house has been vacant for twenty years. It was originally built by Christopher and Elizabeth Winchester, who moved to Black Bay when the town was on the brink of extinction due to a lack of successful businesses. Christopher rebooted the town’s economy. I guess he was some kind of executive bigwig. Anyway, he consolidated what was left of Black Bay’s assets and essentially saved the locals from having to move elsewhere. His wife, Elizabeth, was apparently a gem as well. She started book clubs, hosted charity events, and volunteered at any place that needed help.
The Winchesters had two children, Patrick and Caroline, who were adored by the town. Patrick was the quarterback of the high school football team, having made the varsity team as a freshman. He led the Black Bay Golden Eagles to victory for three out of four years. More on his senior year later. Caroline, who was two years younger than Patrick but only a year behind him in school, was some kind of intellectual prodigy. If you missed the pictures I posted of the books in her room, click here to check them out. This girl was a whole new breed of intelligence. She had plans to take over her father’s business. At fifteen!
Back to Patrick’s senior year. Here’s why he didn’t win the football championship for the high school that last year. He didn’t have the opportunity to do so. Why not, you ask? Buckle up, flippers. This is where the story of the Winchester family gets utterly heartbreaking. On a Friday afternoon, the Winchesters took their sailboat out on the bay for their usual family outing. Miserably, they never made it back. The boat crashed against the rocks, right beneath the bluff where their giant house still sits. No one survived.
It’s no wonder Black Bay so cherished the Winchesters.
It’s no wonder they were apprehensive to see Bodhi and I move in to a house that once belonged to such a highly-regarded family. The locals owe everything to the Winchesters, and in a way, so do we. We’re going to do our best to preserve the underlying feeling of the Winchester house. It’s the least we can do to keep their legacy alive.
Keep your chins up, flippers!
Bailey
I clicked out of the blog post, a lump growing in my throat. This was the story that all of the townspeople knew. The Winchesters had died in a sailing accident. However, the leather bound journals told a different story. I picked the first one up, looking at the inside of the cover. There, a hand with impeccable penmanship had written Caroline Winchester, August 1st - August 31st, 1996.
Caroline’s journals had been left untouched in her bedroom. I’d found the entire collection stowed away in the storage area beneath the seat in the bay window. It had become a habit of mine to skim through them before I went to bed. Caroline’s determination and spunk distracted me from my own troubles, easing me to sleep before I succumbed to the inevitable onslaught of nightmares.
The last journal, the one from August of 1996, held something more than Caroline’s usual diatribes. I flipped to the final entry, reading Caroline’s sentences over and over again with a borderline obsessive fervor:
August 16th, 1996
Well, so much for our weekly boat trip. In an unexpected twist of fate, Mom and Dad grounded us both. Patrick and his dumb football cronies stole the mascot head from Black Bay’s rival school. It might have been funny if he’d managed to pull it off, but the principal caught him. I told him that he should have brought me along. I never would have gotten caught.
Anyway, he deserves to be grounded. I don’t. All I did was point out to Mr. Powell that the sawmill would generate a lot more revenue if he stopped being a prick long enough to take Dad’s management advice. Apparently, my tone was considered “rude.” Give me a break.
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