The Haunting of Willow House Read online

Whatever had he been thinking? Four months without touching a drop, and then he caved. And why? Because he still could not write. Better to get rolling drunk than face the fact that he might never finish the novel. But there was more to it. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did, Jennifer was always there at the back of his mind. More than anything, the booze made the pain go away, took the edge off. And really, wasn’t that all he wanted, to forget about the accident and his dead wife? To pretend none of it had happened. If he never wrote another word worth reading, he could live with it. Never seeing Jennifer again, now that was a different matter.

  He settled back into the soft cushions, closed his eyes. The pain in his head ebbed, faded to a dull background throb. He knew he should go back upstairs. There was a soft bed waiting for him, and he could get a few hours in before Sarah and Jake woke up, but the couch felt so good. He sighed and stretched out, lifted his legs up and let them hang off the end.

  And then the atmosphere in the room changed.

  At first he was aware of it only as a vague, seeping chill. He pushed deeper into the couch, huddling his arms across his chest. When it got too cold for even that, he opened his eyes and was surprised to see a faint mist in the air each time he exhaled. How cold did it have to get for his breath to cause condensation? He didn’t know, but it shouldn’t be happening in his living room in the middle of summer.

  He swung his legs from the couch, sat up.

  It was practically winter in his living room.

  If he was outside, he would have expected to see snow drifting down.

  A memory stirred. This was not the first time the temperature in this room plummeted. He’d encountered a similar cold spot a few nights before, had chalked it up to the quirks of an old house. He wasn’t sure this could be so easily dismissed.

  It was then that he noticed the glass of juice.

  It looked odd, but how he could not fathom.

  He reached out, touched the glass, and was surprised to find it frigid under his fingers.

  Peering closer, Andrew pushed the glass an inch or two across the table. The liquid didn’t move, even when he picked it up and held it upside down.

  The juice was now a frozen chunk of colored ice.

  He put the glass down, contemplated this for a moment. It was impossible, but there it was, in front of him.

  And then, as he sat there observing the solid glass of juice, something else pushed at the edge of his perception. A feeling that he was not alone. Overwhelming. Terrifying.

  A prickle of fear ran up his spine.

  Andrew glanced around, saw nothing at first. Then his gaze came to rest on the bookshelves lining the back wall and the dark figure that lurked there, hiding in the gloom.

  His heart pounded.

  The figure stood with its back to him, concealed within the shadows. Even so, Andrew could make out the gentle curves that only a woman possessed. At first he hoped it might be Sarah, but he knew it was not.

  He stood up, took a step closer.

  There was something about the figure. He did not know why, but it looked familiar.

  And then he understood.

  “Jennifer.” The word tumbled from his mouth before he even stopped to think.

  The figure remained swathed in shadow.

  “Jennifer, is that you?” He edged closer, knowing it could not be Jennifer. Yet he hoped that it was. She had felt his pain, witnessed his suffering, and had come back to him.

  He was halfway across the room now, his pulse racing.

  The figure moved.

  It turned to face him, stepped from the shadows, and in that instant Andrew knew that whatever he was sharing the room with, it most certainly was not his dead wife.

  The face that stared back at him had been beautiful once, but now it was desiccated, the skin stretched tight over ancient bones. Her lips were pulled back in a vicious snarl, showing rotten brown teeth. But it was the eyes that alarmed Andrew the most. They were not there. Instead, two black, empty sockets glared at him.

  Andrew felt a wave of disgust.

  The uninvited visitor raised a bony arm. Her lips curled back over those hideous, foul teeth.

  He stumbled backwards, a scream forcing its way up. The sofa was right behind him. He crashed back. The force of his fall lifted the couch up on two legs, threatening to tip over before it settled back with a dull thud.

  He struggled to regain his feet, but his legs felt like they were mired in tar, heavy and useless.

  He raised a hand to shield himself from whatever was about to happen next, waited for the inevitable scrape of long, raking fingernails…

  Andrew jolted awake.

  He was still on the couch. The room was empty. He lifted a hand to his forehead, wiped away a bead of sweat. His heart still pounded in his chest.

  He took a couple of deep breaths, letting them out slow and long until the terror subsided.

  It had been a dream.

  He must have fallen asleep on the couch, still half inebriated. He almost laughed out loud, relieved that the dreadful apparition was nothing more than a figment of his fevered imagination.

  And yet it felt so real.

  Her face. Those dead, dark eye sockets. They were burned into his memory. He had the feeling that if he closed his eyes again she would be there, waiting.

  Which meant no more sleep for him, at least not until the dream had faded.

  He leaned forward, scooped up the glass of orange juice. The sugar would keep him alert. Keep the nightmare at bay.

  He lifted the glass.

  Something bobbed up in the liquid, something cold and hard. It bumped against his lips.

  He pulled the glass away and looked down, was surprised to see a lump of frozen juice floating in the drink.

  Andrew stared at the chunk of inexplicably solid juice, his mind straining to make sense of it. Then he stood, went to the kitchen, and emptied the glass into the sink, watching the liquid swirl down the drain until all that was left was the frozen core. This he stuffed down the disposal and ran it until it was all gone.

  Chapter 24

  At two o’clock in the afternoon Sarah lay on her bed, feet propped up on the pillows, her head hanging off the foot of the mattress. She looked up at the ceiling, eyes following a hairline crack in the plaster until it reached the wall above her closet. The ceiling was new, barely two months old, but the house was not. When she showed her father the crack, he said it was nothing to worry about. She wasn’t sure she believed that. It felt like the house was rejecting the renovations. There were times, when the lights were off and everyone was in bed, that the building made unusual creaking sounds. It groaned and complained, almost like it was a living entity. They said houses remembered the people who had lived in them, soaking up emotions, gaining energy from the events that took place there. Good or bad. If that was the case, she was sure some nasty things had taken place in this one. It had that kind of an aura. Not that she believed in stuff like that, but even so, the house had a way of getting under the skin.

  Sarah’s attention strayed from the crack.

  She was bored.

  Restless.

  She got up and went to the window.

  It was pouring outside, the raindrops hitting the roof in a soothing pitter-patter. The downpour hadn’t let up since yesterday afternoon when she had gotten drenched.

  She peered through the water-streaked window.

  The landscape was flat and gray, as if the torrent had washed all the color away. It felt like she was living in a black and white world, an old movie from days gone by.

  It was depressing.

  Sarah turned her back on the window.

  How was she going to occupy herself?

  They still had no Internet. There was some sort of issue with the line, and it would be at least a few more days.

  But the TV worked.

  There must be something worth watching.

  That meant going downstairs, where she might be conscript
ed into painting a wall or unpacking a box. Worst of all, her dad might ask her to go down cellar again, load more laundry in the washing machine. That thought filled her with dread. The memories of the last basement visit still made her squirm inside.

  She shuddered.

  There was no way she was ever stepping foot in the cellar again, even if it meant walking around in dirty clothes for the next year.

  On the other hand, she couldn’t hide out in her bedroom forever, and the house was quiet, still. Maybe her father was writing, something he hadn’t been putting much effort into of late. He thought she didn’t notice, but she did. She also knew why. Sometimes she wondered if he would ever write again.

  Sarah went to the bedroom door, opened it. She padded down the narrow stairs to the second floor. She was passing Jake’s room when she heard a low murmur from beyond his door.

  She froze.

  Jake was talking, the words low and muted.

  Sarah lingered at the door, listening. Who was Jake speaking to? She knew he didn’t have any friends in the area; there hadn’t been time to make any. Besides, the conversation seemed one sided.

  The door was open a crack, but not enough to see in.

  Her curiosity got the better of her.

  She gave it a push. The door swung inward.

  Jake sat cross-legged in the middle of the room, an old rotary dial telephone in front of him. He held the receiver up to his ear. He was so enthralled by the antiquated device that he didn’t even look up when Sarah entered the room.

  He mumbled into the handset, ignorant of the fact that he was no longer alone. There was something about the way he chatted that made her hair stand on end. It was too serious, not the boyish make-believe that a child his age should be engaged in. She got the feeling that he truly believed he was talking to someone.

  “Jake?” She stepped closer.

  He didn’t look up.

  “What are you doing?” The room was cold. More than that, it was freezing.

  “Nothing.” Jake glanced up, pulling the handset from his ear.

  “Who are you talking to?” Sarah was overcome with the urge to turn and run from the room.

  “I can’t tell you.” He shuffled forward, nearer to the cradle.

  “Sure you can,” Sarah said. Her stomach clenched, she forced herself to stay put despite the growing sense that something was wrong.

  “Nu uh.” He shook his head.

  “Why can’t you tell me?”

  “I’m not allowed.” He looked down at the receiver. “It’s a secret.”

  “Why aren’t you allowed?” Sarah’s eyes wandered to the untethered cord and followed it across the floor. It reminded her of a snake, the way it twisted and turned - a wire snake with a plastic plug for a head.

  “You need to go now,” Jake said, his eyes narrow.

  “I do, huh?” She shivered, hugging her arms across her chest for warmth. Why was it so cold in this room? It didn’t make sense. “Is that what your friend on the telephone wants?”

  He nodded. “She wants you to leave.”

  “Why don’t you give me that phone so that she can tell me so herself.”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Who, Jake?” Sarah said. “Who doesn’t want to talk to me?”

  But Jake was done. He lifted the phone back up to his ear. He listened, his eyes never straying from Sarah, and then he murmured a reply, lips pressed close to the handset.

  Sarah strained to hear, to make out what he was saying, but it was no use.

  She thought about snatching the phone from his hand, proving to him, and to herself, that there was no one on the other end. But that would cause a huge ruckus, and it wasn’t worth it. So in the end, she turned and left the room.

  It was warmer in the corridor. Sarah felt the change as soon as she stepped from the room. She turned to look back at Jake, but as she did so the door swung back, slamming shut with enough force that she took an involuntary step backwards. She stood staring at the closed door, her pulse racing. She wondered if there really was someone talking to Jake, someone who didn’t want her around, but then she thought better of the notion. It was coincidence, nothing more, an errant draught blowing through an old house.

  At least, that’s what she told herself. Even so, she could not shake the feeling that something weird had just happened.

  Chapter 25

  By the time darkness descended upon her small corner of New England, Sarah had pushed the incident with Jake to the back of her mind. But it was not entirely forgotten. A lingering sense of strangeness tainted the hours after their brief conversation.

  Her mind kept returning to the way Jake had cradled the handset, talked in hushed tones to an unseen companion on a phone that wouldn’t work even if it were plugged in.

  She hated this house.

  It felt wrong.

  More than anything, she wanted to go back to Boston where life was normal, familiar. After the incident, while standing in the corridor, she entertained the thought of fetching her father, telling him what she had witnessed, venting her fears. But it would do no good. He knew she didn’t want to be here. He was also on guard for any aberrant behavior, thanks in part to the pill incident. One wrong move would send her straight back to the psychiatrist, Doctor Mendelsohn, who would have a theory and a bunch of meds.

  She didn’t need that.

  So she kept quiet, at least to her father.

  But he wasn’t the only person she could talk to.

  Sarah picked up her cell phone, called the only number she ever dialed these days.

  Becca was in high spirits, and their conversation lifted Sarah’s own mood. In less that forty-eight hours, her friend would be at the farm. That thought went a long way to dispelling the feelings of gloom that had wormed their way into Sarah’s subconscious mind. Sometimes all one needed was a dose of normal to gain perspective. It also helped that Becca was the voice of reason. So what if Jake had an imaginary friend? He was probably lonely and bored, just like Sarah. Everything had a rational explanation.

  By the time Sarah hung up, she felt much better, and as the night wore on the uncomfortable feelings dissipated until she wondered what she had ever been concerned about.

  She went to bed tired and looking forward to the days ahead. If she could not go back to Boston, at least a little part of her life in the city could come to her. Nothing was ever as bad as it seemed.

  She fell asleep in minutes, and when she dreamed, it was good for once. Her mother’s accident, the bad times, were banned from her mind, and she slept more soundly than she had for months. Until she awoke, wide-awake, with the feeling that she was not alone.

  Chapter 26

  Sarah’s eyes snapped open.

  Darkness cloaked the room, the only illumination the dim glow from the nightlight on the far wall. Long shadows crept across the bare wood floors, like reaching, bony fingers.

  Her heart was pounding. A thin sheen of sweat clung to her skin. She lay in bed, listening, but the house was calm. The only sound came from the steady tap of rain against the windows, and even that had trailed off to nothing more than a light drizzle. She looked around, unsettled by the sensation that there was someone else in the room with her. Everything was as it should be. Nothing was out of place. So what caused the strange feeling?

  You’re alone, she told herself. It’s just your imagination.

  If only she could believe that.

  She sat up, the covers falling away. The room was full of familiar shapes. The dresser. The nightstand. Her chair tucked into the corner near the window. Except that the chair looked different, as if…

  She let out a whimper.

  There was a shape sitting there.

  A person.

  They didn’t move, but Sarah could make out the head, bent slightly forward, and the hunch of the shoulders. Two legs dangled from the seat. Two beady eyes glinted, watching her.

  She pulled the covers back up, as if the
act would prevent the figure in the chair from seeing her. She wanted to scream, but her throat tightened until nothing but a choked sob came out.

  The figure in the chair moved, lurching forward.

  Sarah found the will to react. She lunged sideways, terrified, and reached for the lamp next to the bed.

  The room filled with soft white light.

  Sarah slumped back, her eyes on the chair, and almost laughed out loud.

  It was a pile of discarded clothes.

  Nothing more than a couple of shirts, her coat, and on the floor, where it had slipped moments before, a pair of black skinny jeans.

  Her heart rate slowed. She was trembling.

  The room was empty. Safe.

  When she turned the lamp off, the intruder, now legless, reappeared, eyes glinting in the glow of the nightlight. Except it wasn’t eyes; it was the metal buttons of her shirt catching the glow of the nightlight.

  What’s wrong with you? Sarah asked under her breath.

  But she knew what was wrong.

  She was on edge.

  There were strange things going on in the house. She could not deny it anymore. Between the frightening incident in the cellar and the events of the first night to Jake’s new found phone friend. And then there was the grave in the woods. What was up with that?

  She slid back down, leaving the light on this time. There was no way she was sleeping in the dark, not tonight. Not after what had just happened.

  She lay there for a while, eyes wide open, mind replaying all the events of the past few days. When it became obvious sleep was not forthcoming, she sat up.

  Frustrated, she pulled on a flannel bathrobe. A glass of milk would help her relax. It was an old trick, something her mother taught her. It was to do with a chemical in the milk. Turkey did the same thing.

  She padded to the door, opened it, and listened for any noise. It didn’t sound like anyone else was awake. She descended the stairs and crept past Jake’s room. Subtle snores filtered through the closed door. Her father’s bedroom was dark, but not his writing room at the top of the stairs. A sliver of faint yellow light showed under the door.