Red Heather

by Aly Noble

  Taking the carrier to the kitchen, I put it down on the floor and made a trip back out to the truck to get the gate for the kitchen doorway and his food and litter supplies. I set it all up and opened the carrier door to let him out—he remained inside for a while at first, just settling into the knowledge that this place was foreign and the carrier was familiar, and he could begin exploring whenever he pleased. I scratched his head affectionately and stepped over the gate to head back outside.

  As I ambled down the porch steps, I glanced back at the house, feeling the gentle late summer breeze stir the air around me. As unnerving as it was intriguing, the longer I stared at Red Heather House, the more it felt like it might start staring back. Trusting that it wouldn’t, I looked away and proceeded back down the front porch steps to help unload.

  By three in the afternoon, the truck was empty and Simmons went on his merry way after making sure everything I couldn’t move alone was where I wanted it. I didn’t have much, but I had enough. And, as it turned out, “enough” had taken up a lot of space in that truck—that trailer had looked a lot bigger before my life was crammed into it.

  However, the collection of my life’s accumulated possessions now looked disturbingly meager inside this spacious new house. Just room to grow, I thought decidedly as I looked toward some boxes I’d stacked near the stairs. Nothing wrong with that.

  Chapter 2

  The following morning began with a burnt cup of coffee and the forming ritual of wondering (again) why I was such a reckless soul.

  My parents were both conservative—planners and advocates of the “worst case scenario” way of thinking. My brother was the standard “I’m so proud of you” son—straight to college from high school, then from college to grad school, then from grad school to law school. How he still had the energy to live after all that, I had no idea. He’d done so much more than I had by the time I hit eighteen. While my mother reassured me that I was in no way compared to him and his successes, I knew better. The comparisons may not have started then, but I was confident that all changed after I’d continued dying my hair every color I could get my hands on and dropped out of college just to re-enroll for an art degree.

  My dark beverage reflected my withering glance back at me.

  It was so quiet. If I closed my eyes, my head would fill the silence with the familiar white noise of the city, all car horns bounding off the metallic lengths of skyscrapers. When my eyes were open though, the sounds died away, the illusion shattered by the rustic look of my new living space. There were no skyscrapers here for miles. I’d moved out here because of that—plus the far more affordable rent—and yet it was the most alarming thing about this place.

  I’d gone out for a pizza the night before and had eaten in-house just to avoid the silence hanging on Red Heather like invisible Spanish moss. However, I’d also left early with half of the pie because it was like the people in there could smell the city on me. Or, at the very least, they were sure they hadn’t seen me before.

  Upon remembering the pizza and considering my lack of groceries, I went to the fridge and pulled out the box, dropping it lightly on the counter. I slapped a cold slice onto a plate and popped it into the microwave, checking my bank balance on my phone as I waited for it to warm up. The number that greeted me was something I would’ve wished instead for my college GPA.

  A groan issued from deep in my chest. I was pulling rent from savings. Expenses from savings. At least until I got the next installment of the series I’d been illustrating in the mail.

  “Well, you’re the one who decided to freelance,” I could hear my mom passive-aggressively pointing out in the back of my mind, and I wondered if I could charge her rent for apparently taking up residence there these days.

  After feeding Ed, I occupied myself with pulling apart and emptying seven or eight boxes until a break sounded like a smart idea. A few mews from the kitchen seconded that thought, and I felt my mouth pull up in a smirk despite my irritation with the furry beast the night before. I’d taken the gate down after dinner to let Ed explore and had regretted it soon after shimmying into my half-made bed hours after. Despite multiple verbal attempts through my closed door to get him to cut it out, Ed had meandered around upstairs and scratched at whatever he pleased all night, little skritching noises coming from the hall and the other rooms on the second floor. I’d eventually fallen asleep and, despite being more or less a zombie because of it this morning, I couldn’t blame him for having a rough first night. A new place would make him behave strangely, I imagined. He hadn’t done things like this before, but maybe the long drive had stirred him up.

  As if sensing my unspoken almost-forgiveness, Ed mewed and began winding around my ankles as I tried to dodge him for the fridge. “Ed, you are being less than helpful,” I grunted as I lurched over him, opening the door. He chirped a little and gave my leg a head-butt in response. I felt my heart melt. “You’re still my favorite potato. No worries.” Seeming pleased enough with this reply, Ed rerouted toward the back door to look outside.

  Looking in the fridge made me realize once again that I was limited to the half-filled water bottle I’d had in the car with me yesterday for beverage selection, which inspired me to locate a grocery store later that day. I took out the bottle and had a sip as I made my way back to the living room to pick up where I’d left off.

  I’d sat down and set the bottle on the floor before I reached back for my boxcutter only to touch flat, unoccupied cardboard.

  After feeling around a bit, I turned around and looked at the box—the surface was bare, but I distinctly remembered setting the boxcutter there before getting up to go to the kitchen. I stood up and felt my empty pockets to confirm that I hadn’t mindlessly stuck it in my jeans or something. “Well, what the hell?” I murmured under my breath, backing up to glance around at the floor, walking around the box to see if I’d knocked it off.

  Maybe I dropped it in the hall, I thought as I stepped out of the living room, only to find the front door standing wide open. My gut immediately clenched and, when my first thought probably should’ve been of an intruder, it was of whether or not the cat had gotten out. “Ed?” I called toward the kitchen.

  After Ed’s furry head peeked around the doorway, I exhaled the breath I’d been holding and turned back around to look outside. I had always griped at people in horror films whenever they walked outside to investigate a noise or, say, a mysteriously open door. Therefore, I was kind of put off to realize that my first instinct was to do just that.

  I spent a solid thirty seconds or so warring with myself over whether or not I should peek outside and that boiled down to my standing in front of an open door like a damn fool. Finally, I decided that, since it was broad daylight, chances were that the door had just blown open. Still though, I considered how often those same doomed film heroines said the same thing. Just as I stepped out onto the porch, a loud thud boomed against the wood. My first instinct was to jump back with a muffled shriek.

  When I looked over and saw a heavy Sunday paper, my instinct was to feel like an idiot.

  “Sorry, ma’am!” the paperboy making his morning route called as he biked back down the driveway.

  “No worries,” I breathed shakily, my entire body stiff now from shock and too much adrenaline. Not to mention embarrassment. I picked up the hefty paper by its plastic wrapping and went back inside. I still had no idea why the door had been standing open, but opted to blame the wind. Even so, I found myself throwing a cautious glance around the living room as I reentered. Until I unpacked my cutlery, my “I know where the knives are” home invasion hack wasn’t an option unless I hurled the whole box and quality biceps weren’t really my area.

  Why am I even getting a paper? I found myself wondering as I tore off the plastic wrap. Maybe Trevor signed me up for one to help me get to know the area? It sounded like something he’d do, so it didn’t eat at me for too long. Besides, I was curious about what kind of news such a small town could have.
As I sat down at my dinner table to do a bit of reading, that initial question was answered—I discovered that Grendling’s paper seemed to be a combination of nearby Traverse City’s newspaper and a smaller paper devoted solely to Grendling, titled the Willow.

  I figured most of the Traverse City paper would be ads, so I set it aside for the moment to favor the smaller paper, hoping to get a better idea of the town I’d just joined.

  The first thing I noticed about the Willow was poor formatting.

  The second thing I noticed was the picture of my house on the front page.

  “Red Heather House Occupied, Will History Repeat?” it said above the photo. The article was written by someone named Estelle Montecarlo. “That has to be a fake name,” I muttered as I skimmed over to the beginning of the article:

  “A new resident arrived yesterday to the estate locally known as Red Heather House. This will be the first new resident of Grendling’s own “most haunted” location in just over two years.

  Due to the house’s history of evacuating residents, 1 Red Heather Road has remained untouched over the past decade until, every so often, a new renter takes a chance on the property. Odd circumstances seem repetitious on the property, but it is unclear whether this is due to the residents or to something “other” about the home. From claims of ghost sightings to alien encounters, the one persistent truth seems to be that there’s something more than meets the eye to one of our town’s most historic residences.

  Trevor Bryant, the property’s latest agent, was approached about the sale but refused to comment. We have yet to make contact with the newest property holder, but hope to by next issue.”

  “Amateur at best,” I griped, but the implications in the article shook me. Either this Estelle Montecarlo woman was awful with words or I had been duped.

  Probably both.

  I flipped through the pages to the back, finding the publishing house’s contact information there and taking out my cell. A few moments later, I’d gotten their answering machine and opted to hang up rather than leave a voicemail.

  I reread the last line of the article. “We have yet to make contact with the latest property holder, but hope to by next issue.”

  Sooner than you think, lady.

  • • •

  Trevor, I got a hold of immediately. He met me at a coffeeshop in town, holding his briefcase against his chest throughout our meeting. I half-expected him to bolt when I tossed the paper on the table between us.

  Trevor leaned forward to peer at the paper, frowning at the headline and the shot of the house. “Look, Miri, I—“

  “Ms. James will do.”

  He gave me a look that was almost disappointed. “So there are rumors around the old place, but at the root of it all, it’s a great house. Who cares what the locals say about it?”

  “Has weird shit happened in that house?” I demanded bluntly. The waitress stopped by then with cappuccinos and frowned slightly at me, I assumed, for my language. I frowned back at her before looking at Trevor, who had immediately paled a bit at my question. It encouraged me to push harder. “You lied to me. I asked you if something happened in that house and, clearly, something did.”

  “People always get scared off by property rumors. For no reason, honestly,” he said after blowing out a breath.

  “What have the owners said about these rumors? If you can give me their contact information, I’d like to talk to them about… What?”

  Trevor had smoothed his hands down his face while I was talking. “I don’t have contact information to give you.”

  I bristled. “And what does that mean? I have a right to talk to them, you know.”

  “Miri, they’re dead.”

  That stopped me in my tracks. “Excuse—“

  “They’ve been dead for a few years now. The house is mine.”

  “Was it your parents’ house?” I wondered, still a little taken aback.

  “No,” Trevor mumbled after sipping his coffee. “I had worked with the old owners—the Prices—for a short time on selling the property and it just never happened. Then they died and, instead of passing it along to children—of which, they had none—they’d, uh, changed their will at some point to transfer full ownership to me.” He grimaced and then hurried to fill in, “I didn’t understand why until I realized just how much no one wanted to buy it.”

  Something didn’t add up, but I supposed it was just an odd circumstance. I’d never heard of such a thing. “So, you’re renting it out instead?”

  He nodded. “It’d been easier to get renters to sign on it based on past results, so I gave that a shot.”

  “And I signed on it.” I sighed. Another nod from Mr. Hollywood. “Why don’t you live in it?”

  “I already have a house, paid in full and renovated how I like,” he replied. “Besides, renting out a property I got for free sounded like a great business move, at least at the time. Now I just feel saddled with it.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me the house was technically yours?”

  “Personal interest makes people wary. Acting as an impartial party—which I was for a while—was the way to go.”

  “Oh, is that all?” I remarked darkly, thinking what he was doing was shitty and dishonest on doing business’s most basic level. When he didn’t have anything to say in response, I asked, “They didn’t die in the house, did they?”

  “No. It happened out in Arizona. They had a vacation home there that they wanted to be their permanent residence.”

  I pursed my lips. “Has anyone died in the house?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, meaning ‘no’.” He took another sip of coffee. “I did some extensive research on that place.”

  “Is there a list of former residents online?”

  He seemed confused as to why I was asking. “Probably. If anything, I have records I can email you. Can’t see what it would hurt as long as you don’t start badgering them.”

  “Scout’s honor,” I murmured, looking back down at the paper. “Why is the news here so tabloidy?”

  “What else is there to talk about in a town this small?”

  “I’ve been to smaller. This hardly qualifies as a village.”

  Trevor shrugged. “Not much happens here. It’s safe to say a city girl like you will get bored here fast.”

  “I could use less city, actually,” I admitted. “Besides, it’s not like we’re too far from civilization.”

  Something in my tone must’ve been off because he paused. “Something happen?”

  The moment the topic changed was the same moment I realized what had been bothering me earlier about the waitress aside from her attitude—Chanel perfume. She was wearing a lot of it.

  “I’m the one asking the questions,” I countered without missing a beat.

  He smirked in spite of himself. “Yes, you are. I was just curious.”

  “Well, ‘just curious’ won’t cut it.”

  “Must’ve been bad.”

  “If it was enough to make me relocate to an environment completely opposite the one I was used to, then yeah. That’s a sound conjecture.”

  He chuckled nervously. “I’ll take that.” Glancing at his watch, he startled a little at the time. “I’ve got another meeting to get to. Did you have any other questions before we separate?”

  “No, we’re good here. For now.”

  He was already out the door by the time the last question I had occurred to me. I texted it to him as I finished my cappuccino, listening to the low murmur of the diner around me. I read it over before pressing “Send” and set my cell down on the table to wait. A moment later, it vibrated with an answer. I turned the phone over and read the official end to our conversation.

  “One more. How did they die?”

  “Murder-suicide.”

  Chapter 3

  After the harrowing discussion of my new house with its realtor and apparently owner as well, I’d finished the day with an overdue trip to the grocery store to stock m
y fridge and further purge my savings account. Overall, the store had a good selection, but the cashier I ended up with looked at me like she expected me to spawn a baby Satan right there on her register.

  I think it was my hair.

  That had been the close of yesterday. Today, some heads were going to roll.

  The clock read ten by the time I’d showered, thrown together an omelet, and washed it down with two cups of coffee. As I swallowed another quick gulp of glorified bean water, I looked down at Ed with the most disapproval I could reasonably muster. For still doing his nervous scratching routine around the hall while I was trying to sleep, he looked pretty innocent now. “Hope you feel better for it,” I murmured before slamming the rest of my coffee and picking up my bag.

  It wasn’t a long drive to Willow Press, the local paper’s center of operations—my phone’s GPS led me to the innocuous building that looked like it may have been a renovated warehouse. I managed to pass it twice before spotting it across a small parking lot in time to turn.

  I stared up at the aging brick walls after cutting the engine. Had I not been gearing myself up to be as pissed off as I was yesterday, I may have appreciated its antique charm that was dangerously close to just plain rundown. Just take a deep breath, I coached myself mentally as I slung my purse over my arm, yesterday’s paper poking out of it. Out, too, I added after realizing I was holding it.

  The heavy old door even made a nice old-door kind of shuck when I turned the knob and pushed, the frosted glass bearing the word “Willow” in large letters. The door opened into a hallway, off of which branched a set of glass doors that looked to be unoccupied office space—a stretch of concrete floor and white walls with sprouts of exposed wire spiking up from both—and a set of stairs at the end of the hall with a bathroom tucked away near its base. I walked to and took the stairs, which wrapped around to another set of glass doors that looked like they’d seen more life.