The Haunting of Rookward House

by Coates, Darcy

  Birds chattered in the trees above his head. Guy ran a hand through his hair then returned to the white paper in Tiff’s pocket. He had to ease it out with excruciating care, but even then, he managed to pulp one corner of it. The shape turned out to be a letter folded in thirds, with a second sheet of paper tucked inside. Guy shuffled away from the body and carefully unfolded the first page.

  Tiff had written on it with a purple pen. The ink had bled in parts, but Guy could still make out the message. The lump in his throat tightened as he read.

  Hey Guy,

  I’ll leave this note under your door so I don’t wake you up again. I’ve had to sneak out, otherwise my parents wouldn’t let me come here. I found some stuff about the house’s history and thought you’d be interested. Blake doesn’t like talking about these things, and my friends think I’m weird when I bring it up, but you seem cool. Maybe we could meet up some day and have coffee if you want to chat about it or whatever? Text me.

  Following that was a number. Guy frowned at the message. It was a lot of work for a teenager to sneak out of her house after midnight and battle a storm just to get a note to him. Then he noticed the way she’d signed her name—a tiny heart replaced the dot above the i.

  Did she like me? He tried to think back to the first night Tiff had visited. He didn’t remember picking up on any signals. On the other hand, Blake had glowered at him with more venom than Guy thought he deserved.

  Guy wished he could feel flattered, but instead, he just felt sick. It was his fault Tiff was dead. Not directly, maybe—but if he’d never come to Rookward…

  If I’d never come to Rookward, a lot of things would be different. Guy scratched his fingers through his hair then shivered. First Savannah, now Tiff. Am I cursed to hurt the people who care about me?

  His mouth tasted unpleasantly tacky. He remembered he’d left the pot of water on the stove. He didn’t want to abandon Tiff, but he could very easily burn up his supplies and shelter if he left it. He refolded the wet note around the second sheet of paper and lurched to his feet.

  Guy gave the tree an experimental push. It was massive, and he couldn’t see any way to get it off Tiff. The idea of letting birds come down to peck at her was sickening, so Guy took off his jacket and draped it over her legs. It was poor protection but the best he could manage.

  The dusty, dim inside of Rookward squeezed Guy as he re-entered the building. He kept his eyes roving across the space and his awareness on high as he moved through the kitchen.

  No bubbling sounds came from the dining room, and when he entered, he knew why. The pot had boiled dry, and the metal was starting to turn red. Scowling, he switched off the portable heater and left the pot on it to cool.

  That’s the last of the clean water gone, then. But at least it rained last night. Guy slumped against the dining room wall. He unfolded the wet note and laid it on the table to dry. The second sheet was made of thicker printer paper. Guy flattened it out.

  It was a photocopy of a newspaper article. Four smiling faces looked out of a large photograph heading the article. Thomas, his wife, and his two eldest children posed for the picture. The title read “House of Horrors.”

  Guy scanned the article. It covered the finding of the Caudwell family after their deaths. It lined up with what both Tiff and the website had recounted: the police had found Amy with the corpses at 12:15 on a Wednesday. There was evidence that the bodies had been dressed in different outfits and moved around the house, as though Amy had been playing with human-sized dolls. One of the later paragraphs caught Guy’s attention.

  It is believed that the killer, Amy Westmeyer, was the daughter of the senior partner at the bank Caudwell worked at, Westmeyer & Rogers. A source at the bank claims that Amy visited the establishment frequently and often spent time speaking with Caudwell. The police investigation is ongoing.

  Guy rubbed at the back of his neck as he laid the second sheet of paper out to dry beside the first. So my dreams really were accurate. Were they emotional imprints? I guess if I can believe in ghosts, I can believe in those, too.

  He bent closer to the photocopy. The family was all familiar, but one party caught him by surprise. The mother was plump and had sandy hair, the way he’d seen her in his dreams. He pushed away from the wall and moved into the hallway. He kept his ears open for the dragging footsteps as he cautiously climbed the lowest part of the stairs to reach the photographs of the family gathered on the couch. In this version, the mother was tall and had dark hair. A small smile curled her lips, accentuating her high cheekbones and shadowed eyes.

  “No way. She didn’t…” Guy ran his fingertip over the rest of the group. None of them smiled. Their eyes didn’t quite meet the camera, and their bodies seemed oddly slack. Guy turned the frame over and pulled out its back. A second photograph was hidden behind the first.

  He’d found the original photo. The image showed the family in exactly the same position on the living room couch, but they were alert and smiling. The sandy-haired woman sat close to Thomas’s side and held his hand. The girl had kicked one foot up, obviously more interested in her boots than in the picture being taken. They seemed happy.

  Guy glanced between the two photos. He remembered the candid pictures of Thomas in Amy’s attic hideout. She must have had a Polaroid camera or something similar. She didn’t like having Louise in the pictures, so she re-shot them after the massacre, with herself as Thomas’s wife.

  The pictures didn’t feel clean. Guy dropped them and rubbed his hands on his pants. A slow, groaning noise came from beyond the upstairs landing as one of the doors shifted open. Guy swallowed and backed down the stairs.

  My car won’t work. I can’t find Tiff’s keys, and I have no idea where else I should search for them. That means it’s time to start walking. This place is going to kill me if I don’t get out—and soon.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Guy changed into dry, warm clothes from the supplies in the dining room then dug through the crates until he found a cloth bag, which he shovelled full of tinned food. He could wait until he was away from the building before eating. He also undid the plastic he’d fastened around his bandaged leg and managed to ease a boot over the red-tinted bandages. Finally, he took one of the empty water jugs and carried it outside to fill from the reservoir he’d created in the back of the pickup truck.

  He tried his hardest not to look towards Tiff’s car or the tree blocking her body from sight. Instead, he focussed on his own vehicle. As he’d hoped, the tarp was nearly full with water. He scooped handfuls of the liquid into his parched mouth and drank as much as his stomach could handle. Then Guy dunked his plastic jug into the pool and half-filled it. It was a fine line between weighing himself down and bringing enough to guard against the possibility of becoming lost.

  I’ve got food and water and enough clothes to keep me warm. Guy rotated his foot. It ached but not like it had the day before. There’s nothing else I need to bring, is there?

  He tilted his head towards the sky. Most of the morning had already been lost. Not wanting to delay any longer, he hitched the bag onto his shoulders and stepped towards the driveway.

  As he neared the forest, the birdsongs and scraping sounds of branches shifting together enveloped him. He stepped past the line that marked the original clearing’s edge and let the tension ease out of his shoulders and neck. He was away from Rookward, and that was all he cared about at that moment.

  The path was easier to see than he’d expected. The weeds and shrubs were still flattened where his pickup and Tiff’s sedan had crawled over them. He set up a brisk pace, attention fixed on the ground ahead of him as he followed the tyre tracks.

  Soon he was warm enough to take off his jacket. Perspiration trickled down his neck, so he drank more of the water to lighten his load. The trip to the main road should only take two or three hours. Then, if I’m lucky, I’ll be picked up by a passing car. I could be back at home before night.

  The tyre tracks began to
fade. Guy frowned in the muted light as he tried to follow them, but the patches of flattened weeds were appearing less and less close together. Soon he couldn’t see them at all.

  This can’t be right. Guy turned back to the way he’d come, but he could no longer see the path between the trees. Panic tightened his chest. The ground was too uneven, and the gaps between the trees were too narrow to drive a car through. How did this happen? I was following the tracks—I didn’t let them out of my sight.

  He took a deep breath. The scent of moist, loamy earth filled his nose. The bird chatter was a cacophony. It took several minutes to calm his heart and slow his mind.

  I’m going to be fine. Even if I’ve lost the path, I’ll just need to keep walking in the same direction. Eventually, I’ll reach the road. I just have to move in a straight line.

  The low branches and crawling vines were disorienting, and the sun was too close to overhead for him to orient himself, but he pointed his feet in the direction he believed would run parallel to the driveway and kept moving forward.

  The ground grew increasingly uneven. Guy’s pace slowed to a crawl. His foot was aching, and he regretted not spending the extra minute at Rookward to pack painkillers.

  It can’t be far now. Time seemed distorted. He couldn’t tell how long he’d been walking—hours, possibly. He was panting and stumbling but didn’t want to stop for a rest until he’d reached the main road. Guy used his arms to carry part of his weight on the branches as he progressed through the woods. The plants had grown stiflingly tight. Almost every step involved climbing over fallen, moss-coated logs, sliding down inclines, or clambering over vines.

  Guy tried to silence the anxious what-ifs running through his mind, but every time he thought he’d squashed them, they resurfaced. What if I’m going in the wrong direction? What if I can’t find the road? He tried to remember what he’d read about survival situations. They said not to move around too much, that the chances of being found were better if you just camped where you were. Except in his case, no one was searching for him… and wouldn’t be for at least another five days.

  I should have brought more water. His throat was dry, but he didn’t want to drink any more until the thirst became more pressing. Tiny insects fallen from leaves and vines crept across his skin, but he didn’t have the energy to brush them off.

  Between the swaths of muted browns and greens, he caught sight of a grey shape. The stress in his chest loosened, and he quickened his pace.

  A stone fence cut through the trees. Guy recognised the lichen-clogged stones; it was the same fence he’d torn the gates out of. He got close enough to press a hand to the cool stones then peered down its length. He couldn’t see the opening in either direction. I must have been farther from the path than I thought.

  He backed up. The fence was only slightly higher than his head, and plants clustered close to its edge. He chose a young, twisting oak that seemed promising and pulled himself onto the lowest branch. His ankle burned when he put his weight on it, but he kept moving upwards until he was high enough to drag himself onto the top of the wall. He paused there for a moment, breathing deeply, then looked over the opposite side.

  The view wasn’t encouraging: there was no sign of the road, only more woods exactly like the forest he’d already passed through. He carefully raised himself to standing. The aged stones were crumbling and unsteady under his feet, but he stood as tall as he could. No road or path was visible in either direction.

  That’s all right. The lane has bends in it; it’s not surprising that it doesn’t run against Rookward’s wall the entire way. I can’t be far from it.

  He tossed the bag over then crouched and lowered his legs over the side of the fence. Even dipping himself as low as he could, there was no avoiding a drop. The impact jarred him and set his foot burning again. He rolled onto his back and scrunched his face until the pain subsided, then he snagged his bag and hopped to his feet again.

  He considered following the fence in hopes of finding the gate, but he didn’t know which direction he needed to go or how long it would take. If he chose the wrong path, it could strand him in the forest until after nightfall. He didn’t think the lane could be far away, though. He faced straight ahead and pressed into the forest.

  The ground tended downhill, which Guy was grateful for. He kept his attention roving over the terrain as he moved, alternately watching his step and hunting for gaps in the trees. He let his mind fall quiet and simply focussed on the movement of his legs and the dragging of his lungs. He’d lost track of time when exhaustion finally brought him to a halt. He blinked at his surroundings.

  The sun was no longer high in the sky. The beams that managed to fight through the canopy were slanted at a steep angle. Guy shuffled to a cool, mossy trunk that had fallen in his path, and exhaled as he sat on it. His sore legs relaxed. Guy checked the injured ankle; blood seeped through the bandages but not enough to be a serious problem. It ached like hell, though.

  I’ve been walking for hours. I can’t have missed the road, could I? He twisted to search behind himself, but the view was nearly identical to the one ahead.

  His throat burned almost as badly as his eyes. He opened the bag and drank the last of the water he’d brought. His appetite had vanished, but he made himself eat a tin of cold soup. He’d left early enough to assume he would find civilisation before night and hadn’t packed any kind of bedding material or any way to light a fire.

  Animals moved through the bush around him. They sounded large. More than once, he imagined hearing dragging footsteps, but when he looked in their direction, there was nothing but vegetation.

  What the hell went wrong? Guy dropped the empty soup tin then held his head in his hands. Do I turn back and try to find the wall again? Or keep walking and hope I find a residence? Tiff lives… lived… around this area. There’s got to be other houses, as well.

  He rubbed at his aching eyes then tucked the soup tin and plastic jug back into his bag. They were empty, but he already had enough guilt on his conscience without adding litterer to the list. His legs were like lead, but he made them stand and hitched the bag over his shoulder.

  Someone sighed behind him. Guy twisted but couldn’t see anything. His mouth tightened in disgust. Just keep walking. That’s all you can do. You’ll find someone eventually.

  He continued to follow the slope down. His body wanted to take the hike slowly, but the sun was growing ever lower, and Guy’s urgency increased in tandem with the beams’ slant. Daylight began to turn into twilight, and the visibility reduced. Without contrast, the forest blended into one tone, and Guy kept stumbling over rocks and potholes.

  Then he heard water. It started as a faint murmur, but as he quickened his pace, he made out distinct sloshing, bubbling noises. He broke through the trees and found himself on a riverbank.

  The water was at least twenty feet wide and moving quickly. Even in the last moments of daylight, Guy could see the miniature rapids and eddies. He bent over with his hands braced on his knees, physically and emotionally exhausted, his stomach in knots.

  That’s it, then. I definitely missed the road. How far into the wilderness am I now? Which is the stupider choice—continuing on in blind hope or turning back and enduring the freezing night?

  A light blinked on across the river. Guy’s heart lurched, and he took an unsteady step forward. Trees and darkness obscured the glow, but it had to be man-made. A camp? A house? Either way, it means people.

  “Hello!” Guy bellowed the word, but the forest muffled it just as thoroughly as it absorbed the dying light. He stopped at the edge of the river. The water moved quickly; he didn’t like to think of the odds he would be facing if he tried to ford it. But not far away, a tree had fallen over the stream. It was old and decayed, and the trunk was breaking apart, but Guy thought it would still carry his weight. He went to it and struggled through the wild tangle of dried roots to clamber onto the trunk.

  The tree groaned under his weight and
bowed closer to the water. Guy took a series of quick, deep breaths then began crawling across it on his hands and knees. The moss was slimy under his fingers, and insects crawled out of the holes he punctured. Guy grimaced against the sensation and focussed on the golden light flickering between the trees.

  Wood creaked then fractured. The tree dipped farther into the river, and Guy felt the cold water snatch at his leg. He threw himself forward, scrabbling up the trunk, then toppled off it as the force of the river began to drag it down.

  Guy landed on the riverbank. He blinked up at the canopy then exhaled a thin cheer. He wanted nothing more than to lie there and rest, but the light was too close to ignore. He forced aching muscles to pull him to his feet. The fallen tree had broken in half and become jammed in the riverbed, with water rushing over the centre where his weight had cracked it.

  He adjusted the bag around his shoulders and fixed his eyes on the light again. Night had stolen away even the disorienting twilight. He had to use his hands to feel the path forward. Guy kept his focus on the light, even when trees blotted it out from sight and anxiety squeezed his heart. It was like a lighthouse guiding a battered, leaking ship home.

  Then the woods thinned, and Guy broke through into a clearing. The light was coming from a window. The two-story house stood in the middle of a clearing that hadn’t been mown in a long time. As Guy shuffled towards it, he recognised the house’s silhouette. The peak of its roof, its vine-strangled walls, and the glint of moonlight off the tall windows were all familiar…

  Guy came to a halt, his stomach dropping and his mind numb. He was back at Rookward.