Guy forced extra brightness into his voice. He’d told her a highly sanitised version of his time at Rookward, omitting the visit from the teens, the face in the window, the spider-infested porch, the sleepwalking, and anything else that might give her a reason to worry. “I’ve made great progress. And the damage is really pretty minor for a place that’s been empty for so long. It shouldn’t take much to finish up.”
Heather nudged peas around her plate. “How long?”
“A week, maybe two weeks. I’ll pick up the supplies I need this afternoon and head back there first thing tomorrow.” He’d done some mental calculations during the drive home. He should have just enough money left to afford everything he needed. Some of the rooms might not get painted, but that was less of a concern than repairing the structural damage in the family room and cleaning up the signs of neglect and age.
“You’ll come back every few days, won’t you?”
Guy hesitated. Driving from his home to Rookward took a bit longer than three hours; it wouldn’t be economical to make the trip too often. On the other hand, the shower he’d taken upon arriving home was one of the most magical experiences of his life. He’d never felt so clean, and he was already dreading the coating of grime he developed in the heatless, lightless house. “I’ll play it by ear, okay? I want to stay there at least a couple of days, but no more than a week.”
The peas began another lap around Heather’s plate, prodded along by her fork. “Can you call me this time? I was worried.”
He hated seeing the disappointment in her face. “I know, Mum. I’m sorry. The reception’s awful, and my phone’s battery dies within a day.” He leaned forward. “How about this? I’ll see if I can catch a carrier pigeon and send it to you. Would that help?”
She chuckled and finally stabbed one of the peas. “I like the white ones the best.”
Guy joined her laughter, but his heart ached. He knew he was upsetting her by spending so long away from home, but he’d committed to the project. He’d considered the possibility of leaving Rookward half-repaired, and just accepting the drop in value, even though it would be steep. But he couldn’t, not in good conscience. Another week or two of effort would be worth it.
“Hey, Mum, have you put any thought into where you’d like to move?”
She tilted her head to one side and continued to pick at her meal. “Oh, I don’t know. Wherever you’d like.”
An idea occurred to Guy, and he smiled. “How about somewhere near the ocean? You always liked it when we went there on holiday.”
“Oh, I do!” She perked up. “Remember feeding the seagulls together? And chasing the waves! And buying the silliest hats we could find—”
“I got a giant pink one with Christmas baubles all over it.” He chuckled. “While I’m away this week, I’d like you to picture your dream ocean home. Think about how close to the water you’d like to be, what your neighbours are like, how busy the area is. When I get back we can start looking for houses.”
Heather’s smile let Guy relax. He scooped potato into his mouth and cobbled together a mental list of errands for the afternoon. Buying supplies wouldn’t take long, so he would have at least an hour to spare. He wanted to research the house’s history. If Tiff had exaggerated her story, knowing the truth would put his mind at ease. If she hadn’t… well, he doubted he could feel any more repulsed than he already did.
Guy glanced towards his mother’s computer. It was set up in the living area, near the TV, and she would have a clear view of it from the kitchen. He didn’t want her glimpsing any headlines over his shoulder, especially if she didn’t know the gorier details.
The wall clock said it was just after two in the afternoon. The library would be open for another few hours. He needed to go into town for the supplies anyway, so it would be easy to stop by the library and log in to one of their public computers for a few minutes.
Guy finished his meal as quickly as he could without being rude then offered to help his mother wash up. She waved him off with a blithe, “Don’t you worry about that, dear,” so he kissed her cheek and promised he would be back by dinnertime.
Chapter Seventeen
Guy kept his head down as he entered the library. Virtually everyone had read about Savannah’s accident in the local newspaper and seen pictures of Guy’s face during the court case. Most had either forgotten the incident or were polite enough to ignore him, but the occasional narrow-eyed glare still followed his back whenever he ventured into the shopping plaza. At least they’d stopped throwing eggs at his house and stuffing threatening letters under the door.
The librarian watched Guy as he passed her desk. He didn’t think it was his imagination that her watery blue eyes followed him a few seconds longer than other patrons, but he slipped behind a bookcase and settled in front of one of the computers. The seat hadn’t been empty for long—it was still warm—and the browser opened quickly when Guy clicked on it. He typed Rookward’s address and waited to see what it brought up.
To his surprise, the first result was a ghost hunter’s blog. Guy tried not to scrunch up his face. He’d seen some strange things at Rookward, but nothing that didn’t have a rational explanation. He started scrolling down to look at other links, but morbid curiosity pulled him back up. The page was titled “The Infamous Rookward Murder House—Proof of Ghosts?” Guy grumbled to himself and clicked on it.
Whoever had designed the blog deserved to be committed to a hospital for the aesthetically challenged, Guy decided. The page’s background was black, and the text, set to a tiny font size, was grey. Floating specks of light began to dance across his vision as he tried to make out the words.
The article was well written, though, and Guy rested his chin on his fingers as he scanned the story. Apparently, the site accepted “tips” from people about local haunted locations, researched them, and then published the stories. Guy didn’t know if the site owner was given to embellishment, but the account matched Tiff’s story pretty closely. A family of five, murdered in their home by a demented stalker, then played with like human dolls for four days before police investigated. Amy’s time of death was listed as 12:15 p.m., and Guy felt a twinge of unease as he remembered the clock in the guest room. That’s got to be a coincidence, surely? Or maybe someone tampered with the clock as a joke?
Guy kept scrolling. According to the author, few people had visited the house—it was too difficult to reach for many casual haunting enthusiasts—but one person claimed to have heard slamming doors and refused to enter the building. At the base of the article was the promised proof of ghosts: a photo of Rookward, taken during the eighties according to its timestamp. The picture captured the house’s front. The familiar vines crawled over the building’s lowest third but didn’t reach as high as they did in the present. A light glowed in one of the upstairs windows and silhouetted a tall, thin figure pressed against the glass.
The blog’s author had helpfully zoomed in on the figure, blowing it up into a pixelated mess. It seemed to be a woman with long hair. Her hands were raised, splayed fingers pressed against the glass, and her head was tilted to the side as she watched the photographer.
Frowning, Guy slumped back in his chair. The image was unsettling, but he knew better than to think it proved anything. It could have been easily spoofed if the photographer’s friend broke into the building, carried a candle up to the second floor, and posed for the picture.
That doesn’t make sense, the cautious part of his mind whispered. How did they get inside? The doors were both barred. Do you really expect them to climb through the broken window, over the exposed glass fragments?
“Yes,” Guy grumbled. One of his friends in high school had been a keen photographer. He’d gone to some crazy lengths to get the perfect picture, including lying in puddles and clinging to unstable tree branches twenty feet off the ground. Guy could easily imagine him scrambling over glass shards if it meant capturing a breathtaking photo.
And there was no denying
the picture in the blog was impactful. Guy moved the cursor up to the button that would take him back to the search results, but he didn’t click it. The woman in the window was little more than a black smudge, but Guy couldn’t look away. He hunted in the pixels for any hint of an expression. Was she angry at the intrusion? Would her mouth be open in a scream?
“Sorry, can I renew this?”
Guy’s breath froze in his throat at the sound of the familiar voice. He rose out of his chair, his heart knocking against his ribs and sweat dewing over his palms.
Savannah stood at the library’s desk, her long fingers clasped ahead of herself as she waited for the librarian to process her book. She wore one of her favourite dresses, a sea-blue affair with a simple brown belt. It contrasted with her hair and showed off the graceful curves of her shoulders and neck. She’d worn it on one of their early dates, and Guy’s fingers burned as he remembered brushing them over the dress’s neckline.
She hadn’t seen him yet. There was still time to slip out of the library without her knowing he was there. But Guy’s feet refused to move. A baby carrier rested beside Savannah. Lavender lace hid the contents, but Guy felt that if he could only take a step forward, he would be able to see—
“Thank you.” Savannah took her book back and reached for the carrier.
Panic flooded Guy, and he moved backwards in a frantic effort to hide behind the shelf. He hit the chair. It tumbled over, clattering against the desk and then the floor loudly enough to draw attention. Suddenly, it felt as if the whole world’s eyes were on him: the librarian, the woman browsing for books, the man reading in a seat by the windows. And Savannah.
She was gorgeous, with soft skin, large doe-like eyes, and sweet lips that fell apart in surprise. Colour bled out of her cheeks. Those long graceful fingers clasped together tightly enough to turn the knuckles white.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out as a stutter. Guy raised both hands, palm out, and hunched his shoulders. He wished he could slink behind the computer desk, where no one could see him. “I was leaving. Sorry.”
His legs felt like lead as they carried him past her, towards the door. Savannah moved half a step closer to the carrier. He didn’t dare try to glimpse inside as he passed it, but kept his head down. The silence was agonizing, but the rushing in Guy’s ears was so loud that he doubted he would have heard her even if she’d tried to speak.
He picked up speed as he passed through the library’s doors, moving faster and faster until he was sprinting for his pickup truck. He threw himself into the driver’s seat, smacked the button to lock the doors, then slammed his fist into the dashboard. The anger had come out of nowhere, scorching through him like an inferno. He thrashed about, kicking, punching, and screaming, feeling as though he were being torn apart and was unable to stop it. The fury spent itself in seconds, and regret poured into the hole it left. He collapsed into an exhausted heap over the steering wheel.
Why did I have to go to the library today? Tears stung his cheeks. Inhaling was painful, and he clenched his shaking fists until the nails bit into the palms. Why did she have to see me? Why didn’t I hide when I heard her voice?
The final question was easy to answer: because he still loved her.
Guy rested his head back against the seat and focussed on drawing air through his nose. From the little he knew about Thomas’s stalker, Amy had been a sick individual. But in a strange way, Guy could empathise with her need to be close to the person she loved. He would be willing to sacrifice almost anything if it meant another chance with Savannah.
Guy fished the key out of his pocket with unsteady fingers and fit it into the car’s ignition. He knew he was too shaken to be safe on the road, but all he wanted was to get out of town as soon as he could. Even returning to Rookward’s melancholic halls would be preferable to bumping into Savannah again.
Soon, he promised himself. Get home to Mum first, pick up the rest of your supplies from the next town over tomorrow, then go back to Rookward. The sooner you finish there, the sooner we can move somewhere far, far away.
* * *
The car’s tyres dug through the long weeds that swamped the clearing. As he stared up at the house, Guy was struck again by how lonely Rookward appeared.
The myriad of black windows watched him from between the vines as he circled the house. The grime left over them looked like cataracts, blinding them, but somehow, they seemed no less perceptive. Guy parked his pickup truck in the same space as the day before, with its rear facing the kitchen door. As he got out, he noticed the vines were already starting to creep over the doorframe.
“Persistent blighters,” he muttered. He’d only been gone for a day; he hadn’t expected them to grow so much in that short amount of time.
He hadn’t brought a padlock the last time, so he hadn’t been able to bolt the door before leaving, but it stuck in its frame as though reluctant to let him back inside. He had to slam his shoulder into it to get it to swing open.
The shadowed kitchen was exactly how he’d left it. The knife still balanced on the edge of the chopping board. Cups and plates clustered at the base of the sink, and the ring of red lipstick almost appeared to glisten in the light, as though it had been planted freshly that morning.
I need to clear this room out. He shrugged out of his jacket and moved into the dining room. It’s got too much personality.
Low crackles floated through the rooms. Guy frowned and tilted his head. His first thought was that the baby monitor had come back to life, but that was impossible—he’d thrown it out.
He followed the sound into the foyer then to the guest room. The radio beside the clock on the mantel was stuck on static. Guy pressed its button to silence it as uneasiness spread prickles over his arms. I could have sworn it was off when I left.
Sunlight pulled his attention towards the window. The woods, tangled and so old they looked weary, filled the view. He was struck by the feeling someone was there, watching him.
The teens didn’t come back, did they? Maybe they wanted to see the house in the daylight. Well, it wouldn’t bother me, as long as they don’t break anything…
Guy blew a breath out. He wished he could feel the energy and enthusiasm he’d possessed on the first day at Rookward. The project had been full of possibilities then—the house had been full of secrets and surprises—but all he had left was deep, settled resignation.
Windows first. The weather report had predicted a storm late in the following day, and Guy didn’t need the headache of additional water damage.
The afternoon passed slowly. Guy had brought a printed copy of a guide to installing windows, and he took his time fastening the fresh panes of glass into their frames. Tempered glass was expensive; the last thing he needed was to drop and break it before it was even installed.
First, he fixed the library’s window, where the teens had broken in. He’d fastened a tarp over the opening before leaving, and it had thankfully kept the space clean while he was away.
The shelves only had a small cluster of volumes on them, and the effect was depressing. Guy couldn’t stop thinking about it as he worked. The family obviously hadn’t been poor to afford the house and its furnishings. Maybe they weren’t big readers. Or more likely, they hadn’t stayed long enough to fully stock it.
Rookward was sparsely decorated for a home of five. There were very few humanising, distinct features except for the pictures in the stairwell and the sewing machine upstairs.
Maybe they’d only been here for a month or two before Amy found them. Or maybe she’d been stalking them for a while, and they moved out here to hide from her. That would explain the remoteness.
Guy stepped back from the installed window. It looked almost comical—clean, clear glass set into a worn-down frame and age-stained wall. Still, it was a good job. He flipped a cloth over his shoulder and grinned.
The family room wasn’t anywhere near as easy. The frame had swollen from the water and wouldn’t even fit the glass. As
he sanded the wood down to fit the new glass panel, he was hyper-aware of the bloodstained couch behind him. He knew it would be better to cut it up and throw it out the window, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. Not yet.
While he was fitting the glass into the frame, the slow, drawn-out groan of a closing door made him flinch. He stared at the ceiling, daring the door to move again, but it stayed silent.
Guy thought of the photo in the blog: the woman pressed against the window, fingers splayed, face unreadable. He suppressed a shudder.
I’ll be glad when I’m done with this house. He turned back to the window as a stress headache began to build behind his eyes. It plays with my mind. I’m looking forward to the day that I never have to think about it again.
Chapter Eighteen
Tickles of foreboding crept across the back of Thomas’s neck. He used a gloved hand to brush them away. He’d felt them so often over the last six weeks that they were becoming a nearly subconscious sensation.
Of course she’s here. She’s always here.
He kept his focus on the garden he was working in. There was no point in searching the forest; he never saw her. She was as good as a phantom in that regard.
A sound like breaking porcelain came from the house. Thomas dropped a handful of dug-up carrots into his bucket and searched the windows.
Louise no longer watched him from the kitchen, and the prickling unease intensified. That was one of the myriad of rules they’d established since the night Thomas had heard Amy in his children’s room: doors had to stay locked at all times, and no one went outside without someone watching.
She probably went to check on Georgie.
Thomas pulled off his gloves and threw them into the bucket. The air was cool as day settled into evening, but already, sweat had built over his back. He hunted for signs of motion in any of the windows. A curtain shifted in Becca’s bedroom. Two birds launched off the roof, spiralling towards the forest in a blur of wings and shrieks.
The Haunting of Rookward House Page 10
