The Haunting of Willow House Page 8

  Once she was outside, Sarah regretted being mad at her father. It wasn’t his fault. She would not have believed the story if it had come from her younger brother, so why would she ever think anyone would believe her? And now, in the warm afternoon sunlight, it seemed silly to think that there was something in the basement. Even so, a glimmer of doubt lingered. She could still remember the dragging, shuffling sounds. The shifting air upon her cheek. The slightly rotten, sickly smell that reminded her of death, although she didn’t know why.

  She hurried away from the house, following the track that led to the road. She had no idea where she was going, but she didn’t want to be in that house, not at that moment.

  For the first time she took stock of the landscape.

  There were fields on both sides, overgrown and unkempt. Beyond that she could see the woods, the tops of the trees visible above the wild grass. At one point she spied another house, the slate roof and double chimneys clearly visible, but it looked a long way off, much too far to reach on foot. Up ahead, further along the trail at the entrance to the property, was the gnarly old tree with clutching, misshapen limbs.

  There was something else too.

  A shiny blue Mustang turning into the driveway, heading toward the house and kicking up dust as it went.

  She came to a halt, watching the vehicle approach.

  The car drew closer, but with the sun glinting off the windshield she could not see anyone inside.

  Until it came to a stop a few feet away and the driver's side door opened.

  A lanky boy climbed out.

  “Tyler.” She recognized her ex-boyfriend despite the baseball cap shielding his eyes and the black rimmed Oakley’s pressed against his face. “What are you doing here?”

  “I ran into Becca the other day.”

  “So?” The sunglasses didn’t suit him. They made him look a bit like an enormous two-legged insect.

  “She got me thinking about you.”

  “She gave you my new address too, I suppose.” Becca hadn’t mentioned that little detail on the phone the previous evening.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Tyler said. “I pried it out of her. I had to practically get down on my hands and knees and beg.”

  “I would have liked to see that.” Sarah felt her mood lighten a little. She tried not to grin.

  “You look nice,” Tyler said. “Your hair is longer. It suits you.”

  “Please don’t—“

  “I’ve missed you, Sarah.” He rounded the door and walked toward her, taking his sunglasses off at the same time.

  When she saw his dusty blue eyes, the way his eyelids drooped slightly at the corners, she forgot what had happened, and for an instant, wondered why they had ever broken up.

  Except that she could never truly forget, because it was ingrained in her mind. An indelible stamp seared upon her memory.

  He hadn’t been the one.

  Even though he could see her suffering, even though he knew she had stolen the bottle of prescription sleeping pills, he hadn’t been the one.

  When she sat in that bathroom cubicle, swallowing those small white capsules, choking them down, she wanted him to save her. Even in that wretched state of mind Sarah still hoped to be saved, because she didn’t truly want to die. What she wanted, what she needed, was for the pain to go away. And it had, if only for a while.

  But then she was in the hospital. The doctors said she almost died, that they feared she might not wake up. But she knew something they did not.

  She had died.

  She remembered the cold place, the dark void of nothingness. She also remembered the fear. Even now it stayed with her like a constant companion, lingering.

  And then there were the more mundane matters.

  She had felt like crap, both physically and mentally. It grew worse when she realized the terrible anguish she had caused her father and Jake. But when she saw Tyler, when he came to visit, all she could think was that he should have been the one to find her. He should have saved her. But he hadn’t.

  It was all his fault.

  All the misery and depression she’d felt since they put her mother’s oblong box in the cold, hard ground was because of him.

  Even though deep down she knew that it wasn’t.

  He was a scapegoat, someone to bear the brunt of her pain, because she was so angry that her mother had tried to drive back from Maine on that icy winter evening. Had steered into a tree and died, leaving her behind. He was her sacrificial lamb. He didn’t stand a chance.

  But seeing him again after so many months, she wasn’t so sure. They said absence made the heart grow fonder, but what it really did was dull the knife. She no longer wished to punish him. It didn’t seem worth the effort.

  She wanted to say that she was sorry. She wanted to let him know that her anger had receded, if only a little. Instead, all she could muster was, “You have a new car.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Mustang.”

  “Oh, yeah. My dad knew a guy at his work who was selling it cheap.”

  “Looks nice. Fast.”

  “Thanks. It’s a pretty sweet ride.” He shuffled his feet. The air hung like an invisible barrier between them. After a while, he spoke again. “Maybe this was a mistake. I can leave if you want.”

  “No.” She felt her heart quicken. She didn’t want that. “Why don’t we go for a walk instead.”

  “Really?” He sounded surprised, but soon changed tack. “I mean, sure.”

  “Good.” She reached out and took his hand in hers. It was a small gesture, something she had done hundreds of times, but now it seemed like cresting a mountain and looking down the other side. It was a breakthrough.

  Tyler stiffened, as if he expected her to realize her mistake and pull away, but then he relaxed. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Boston.” This was a joke, but not entirely. There was a car sitting there, and the city was less than an hour away. But it would do no good. Her father would find her missing and cause a huge fuss. Maybe even call the cops.

  She realized Tyler was looking at her, unsure how to answer. She helped him out. “Why don’t I show you around?”

  They set off toward the side of the house, crossing the back yard in the direction of the trees. There was a trail that Sarah could see from her bedroom window, and it seemed like a good place to go. It was private, secluded. Best of all, there was no way Jake would be there. He wouldn’t step foot in the woods again after the rabbit incident.

  “There hasn’t been anyone else.” Tyler waited until they were far from the house before speaking again.

  “Huh?” It was cooler under the canopy of branches. The trail was narrow. She wondered where it went.

  “I haven’t dated anyone else. You know, since you…” His voice trailed off.

  “Oh.” She knew what the rest of that sentence should have been. Since you dumped me for no good reason and broke my heart. She felt a pang of regret. “It’s okay if you did. I understand.”

  “I know.” Tyler’s arm brushed against hers. “But I haven’t. Not one single date.”

  “Me either.”

  “I felt so bad after…”

  “You don’t need to explain.” Sarah let go of his hand. She slipped an arm around his waist. It felt like old times. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I suppose.” He lapsed into silence.

  They continued down the path, ducking under low branches and climbing over a fallen tree trunk, its inside rotted out and hollow. After a while, they came to a stream. They found stepping stones and hopped from one to the other, reaching the other side without so much as a splash of water.

  The trail meandered deeper into the forest.

  “How far does your land go?” Tyler asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sarah replied. “I think there’s about five acres.”

  “Big.” He pulled a branch back to allow her to pass.

  “I think my dad wanted to make sure I co
uldn’t cause any trouble. This is my private prison.”

  “He’s only doing what he thinks is right,” Tyler said. “He was so worried when you—”

  “I know.” She cut him off, perhaps a little too sharply. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.”

  They kept walking. The trail widened until it opened into a small clearing surrounded by tall pines. Dragonflies darted in the air, weaving arcs around each other in a complex dance. Crickets chirped. High above, in the branches, Goldfinches and Orioles sang.

  But it was the patch of ground in the center of the clearing that caught Sarah’s eye.

  “That looks like a headstone,” said Tyler.

  The grave marker was oblong, about three feet tall, and covered in moss. It leaned to the right, a weaving crack running from the apex almost to the ground.

  “Out here?” Sarah walked closer to get a better look.

  “What else could it be?”

  “There’s writing on it.” Sarah crouched down, tracing the letters with her finger. “The words are hard to make out.”

  “It’s a name,” Tyler said. “Martha Ward.”

  “There’s a date too,” Sarah said. “1693.”

  “That’s really old.”

  “Almost as old as the house.” Sarah glanced back toward the farm. “I wonder if she lived there?”

  “Probably. It’s the closest house. They often buried people near their homes in those days.” Tyler stood and brushed dirt off his jeans.

  “Look at you. Mr. History.” Sarah laughed.

  “Stop it.”

  “This place gives me the creeps.” Sarah glanced around.

  “Are you kidding? You own a graveyard. That’s awesome.”

  “I would hardly call one measly headstone a graveyard,” Sarah said.

  “It’s still cool to have a girlfriend who owns a grave.” He shot her a look. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that we were…”

  “I know.” She looked up into his eyes. Something stirred inside, a long dormant emotion. “I’m not sure what we are right now. I’ve made a mess of things.”

  “Nothing that can’t be fixed, if you want to.”

  “I think I’d like that.” She took his hands in hers. “It’s going to take some time though. I’m not the same person I was before.”

  “I understand.” A shadow fell across his face. “I can wait.”

  But she didn’t want him to wait, not right then. What she wanted was to feel something, anything. She pulled him close, felt his body pressed against hers, and then she kissed him.

  Afterward, he held her in his arms, one hand stroking the back of her head. Neither one spoke. The crickets chirped. The birds sang. And for the first time since she woke up in the hospital, she didn’t hate herself.

  Chapter 19

  Sarah watched the Mustang drive away and turn onto the main road. For a moment the sun caught the metallic blue paint; it glinted with a sparkling brilliance, and then the car was lost amid the trees.

  She lingered, listening to the engine recede until it was nothing more than a distant rumble carried on the breeze, which soon faded to nothing.

  For a while, when Tyler was holding her, she had felt better than she had in a very long time, but now that he was gone the old familiar loneliness returned.

  She looked back toward the farmhouse.

  It stood stoic amid the lush green landscape, the windows cold black squares that wouldn’t allow the sun’s rays within.

  She shuddered, despite the warm summer air. The house didn’t like her. She sensed it. Then there was that tree, the twisted oak at the edge of the property, where the trail met the road. It gave her goose bumps every time they drove past it, which was stupid. It was a piece of dead wood, nothing more.

  A sudden urge overtook her. She set off, following the path of Tyler’s car.

  The tree was worse up close.

  The branches reminded her of weaving serpents. They reached out in all directions from a trunk that was split apart, a deep V shaped chunk missing. The oak looked ancient, and even though the wood was weathered and bare, the limbs devoid of leaves, she sensed that there was still a flicker of life somewhere deep inside of it.

  The tree was not ready to concede.

  She sensed something else too.

  It was a part of this place. Not merely a casual bystander, the result of a lucky acorn landing in the right spot. The oak was one with the house. They were inextricably linked. Yin and yang. Two sides of the same coin. Both were withered, dead things. Yet each was alive and drew energy from the other.

  Sarah was pondering this strange intuition, wondering how she had arrived at such a thing, when there was a beat of wings overhead.

  She looked skyward.

  A single black crow settled on the branch above her head. It studied her with eyes of coal, wings half outstretched.

  She backed up a pace or two, alarmed.

  The bird let out a single caw, its gaze never straying.

  Sarah tensed.

  The crow flexed and shuffled its feet and gave a second melancholy cry. Its round, dull eyes bored into her, unwavering in focus.

  She fought the urge to turn and run. It was a bird, nothing more. A harmless, stupid bird. Why did it fill her with such dread? She stood her ground, meeting its gaze despite the inexplicable revulsion the animal stirred within her.

  And then, without warning, the crow took to the air with a heavy flapping.

  It swooped low, almost clipping the top of her head.

  Sarah let out a panicked shriek and ducked. She raised her hands up, expecting to feel the bird’s claws snag her hair.

  But they didn’t.

  When she looked again, the crow was high above. It circled, cawing, and then flew toward the house, passing over the roof in the direction of the woods beyond.

  Sarah stood a while, her eyes raised to the empty patch of sky where the crow had disappeared. She didn’t notice the dirty black clouds that had drifted in, blanketing the heavens and blocking out the sun. She didn’t even notice the way the wind had picked up, whipping through the weed choked fields and tugging at the leaves on the trees.

  It was only when the first drops of rain fell to earth, bloated and heavy, that she was jolted from her stupor and made a dash for the house.

  Chapter 20

  The rain played a drumbeat on the roof like anxious, tapping fingers, and Willow Farm was about to get its second visitor of the day.

  It had been an hour since Sarah made her mad run for the house. Andrew was in the kitchen when she entered. The dining room door framed her bedraggled body. He opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. She cast him a sullen glare, hair matted against her shoulders, sodden clothes tight and sticking. Her eyes dared him to say something, anything, and make things worse. When he wouldn’t, she turned and stomped off toward her attic lair.

  The storm had settled in for the day.

  Andrew continued his work, applying a fresh coat of paint to the kitchen walls. Soon the dull dirty cream color would be gone, replaced by a more civilized soft Gray. He should be writing, he knew, but it was easier to deceive himself that this must be done – right now. It made the slacking easier. It gave him permission. It also kept the kids well away, neither wanting to get caught up in such a mundane endeavor.

  And then came the chirpy ding-dong of the doorbell.

  He deposited the paint roller into the tray and passed through the dining room to the front door.

  The man standing on the other side wore a black fedora and matching shirt. A white collar circled his neck. His face, carved by decades into a haphazard roadmap of crisscrossing lines, framed a pair of pastel blue eyes that shone under the hat’s drenched rim despite the ravages of the years.

  Andrew stared at him in surprise.

  “Am I calling at a bad time?” the man asked, his voice full and thick despite his age. “I was passing by on the way back to town and thought I would stop and introduce mys
elf. My name is Father Michael Bertram. I’m the parish priest at Our Lady of Sorrows.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Father.”

  “Yes indeed. May I come in for a moment?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The rain. May I come in?”

  “Of course. Where are my manners?” Andrew stepped aside.

  “Why, thank you. Typical New England weather, one minute it’s dry, the next—”

  “So what can I do for you, Father?”

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing. Like I said, purely a social call.” Bertram scooped his hat from his head and held it across his chest. Water dripped to the floor and pooled. “You’re that author fellow, are you not? Andrew Whelan.”

  “I am.”

  “I’ve read a couple of your books. Most entertaining, if a little grim.”

  “Are you wanting an autograph?” Andrew asked. “I can sign a book if you have one.”

  “No. Goodness me.” Bertram smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “I’m not here to collect a souvenir.”

  “Then, if you don’t mind my asking, why are you here?” Andrew was not particularly religious. “Looking to expand your flock perhaps?”

  “Mercy, no. Nothing like that, I assure you.” He looked toward the stairs, his eyes rising to the second floor. Looking back. “How are you settling in, Mr. Whelan?”

  “Well enough,” Andrew replied.

  “I see.” Father Bertram scratched his chin. “It must be hard, moving in to a house that has been vacant for so long. There must be a million things to fix. I can’t imagine.”

  “It has its moments.” Andrew wondered what the priest wanted.

  “Ah, yes. I’m sure it does. I hope the old place has been treating you well, not causing you too much distress.”

  “No.” Andrew sensed that the priest was digging at something. His mind wandered to the night before, the strange incident with the TV. “We’re settling in fine, thank you.”

  “Now that warms my heart to hear. Truly it does.” He took a deep breath, let it out slow and long. “I knew the previous occupants of this house. Nice family. Such a shame what happened.”

  “I don’t follow,” Andrew said. “The house has been empty for years. You said so yourself.”