The Haunting of Hillwood Farm

by Kathryn Knight

  Instead of reaching into her bag, she lunged for the chair, yanking the back of it toward her. She clenched one shaking hand into a fist, wrapped the other hand around it, and positioned it between her ribcage and navel. Bracing her balled hands on the back of the chair, she thrust her upper body forward, driving her fist into her abdomen, over and over.

  It wasn’t working. She should have called an ambulance first. Now it was too late. Her vision turned cloudy, a rustle filled her ears. She was going to die.

  She rammed her chest downward again with as much force as she could summon. The tomato flew out, along with a whoosh of air. Her body quaked as she sucked in oxygen, still bent over the chair. It’s out. I did it.

  Tears rolled down her face as she sank to the floor. She clutched the side rails of the chair and hung her head, sobbing quietly. Why was this happening to her? How could she make it stop?

  It occurred to her that thing might still be here, watching her, gloating. Rage began to build, edging out fear. This ghost wasn’t just trying to scare her. It was trying to kill her. This was war.

  Sniffing back the last of the tears, she pulled herself up. If this spirit wanted to make her angry, it was working. She scanned the room as she wiped her eyes. Nothing that didn’t belong, at least not that she could see. With cautious steps, she made her way back into the kitchen and filled a glass of water.

  In some ways, the ghost had the upper hand. But it had limitations. It wasn’t a physical being; it could only manage small manipulations in this world. Otherwise, it probably would have smothered her while she slept already. She shuddered, and the water sloshed as she sipped.

  Every other ghost she’d encountered was lingering in between worlds in order to settle affairs from its life before. Why was this one here? And was Henry failing to move on because he needed to protect his family from a spirit with evil intentions?

  A sharp ache throbbed between her temples, and she sighed. This wasn’t going to stop until she figured out what was going on at Hillwood, and what needed to be done to put these spirits to rest. She would go over there tomorrow; she’d just sit out on the porch if she was in the way. But she needed to spend time there. Maybe there was some history on the farm that she could read.

  What she needed now was sleep, which sounded absurd, considering the circumstances. But what else could she do? There was no running from this haunting—it had followed her here, it could follow her elsewhere. She wondered briefly if the ghost would eventually just leave her alone if she stayed away from Hillwood altogether. Frowning, she shook her head. She wasn’t going to just abandon Alice. Or Luke. The thought of not seeing him again made a new ache open up in her chest.

  She’d been given a gift—or a curse, depending on how you viewed it—and she was going to be the best candidate to solve this mystery. The haunting hadn’t started with her, and she had no reason to think it would end if she extricated herself, even if the spirits stopped bothering her personally.

  No hostile ghost was going to dictate her life. Setting down the water, she pulled out plastic wrap to cover the salad. Her appetite was gone, and the choking incident was too fresh. She wasn’t going to soak in the tub tonight, either. Just brushing her teeth seemed like it would take all the energy she had.

  She had to hope that this last burst of activity had drained the ghost’s energy for the time being, too. From now on, she’d just have to be extra careful. And maybe she could take comfort in Henry’s presence. He was trying to help them, she was sure of it. He just wasn’t as strong as the other spirit. Not yet, anyway.

  All was quiet as she got ready for bed. Too quiet. She flipped on the television, turning the volume down low. She was going to camp out on the couch again, she’d decided. For some reason, it felt safer, even if it probably didn’t matter one bit where she slept. But it was near the front door, in the event she needed to run outside. She had her keys, her phone, and a flashlight on a small bench pushed up within arm’s reach from the cushions. There was nothing more she could do tonight.

  Settling her head on the pillow, she pulled up the blanket, aimed the remote at the TV, and searched for something pleasant that might lull her off to sleep.

  Chapter 10

  He awoke from a dream about Callie, restless and hot. And aroused. Blood pulsed in his groin, and he sat up in bed with a groan. This was not good. He barely knew her. How had he gone from suspecting her of being a scam artist to having intense sex dreams about her in the span of two days? It was ridiculous.

  And dangerous. He was not looking to get involved with anyone, after everything that had happened in his last relationship. That nightmare still made his stomach clench when he thought about it. Dragging a hand through his hair, he reached for the water bottle beside his bed.

  He’d met Blair Adams at a bar, when he’d been out with Ryan one night last fall. It wasn’t usually his way to pick up a girl at a bar and bring her home, but she’d been pretty and willing. More than willing, really—she’d invited herself over, leaving no doubt as to what she was looking for from him. And it hadn’t been a one-night-stand; they’d enjoyed each other enough to start dating. She was fun, outgoing, and free-spirited. But she was also deeply disturbed, he discovered later.

  There was a side of her that was needy and paranoid. Wildly jealous. She would go through his things, look at his phone, and follow him to construction sites, convinced he was cheating. He wasn’t cheating, but he was growing tired of her accusations. Attempts to spend time apart were met with hysteria. When he broke up with her, she refused to accept it. She showed up at his house in the middle of the night. She stalked him at work. She even spun a false story about her mother dying to gain his sympathy; he found out later her mother was alive and well, living in Florida. In fact, he’d spoken to Blair’s mother as he unraveled the lies, and she had warned him of her daughter’s emotional troubles. Apparently, Blair had been in and out of hospitals as a teen.

  He shook his head at the memory, gulping more water. He’d finally threatened to file a restraining order before she’d given up. What a fiasco.

  So, no one could blame him for being gun-shy. His last relationship had been a chaotic roller coaster with an exhausting break-up that stretched through most of the month of February. And then his Pop had died just a few weeks later, sending his own family into a tailspin. He hadn’t had time to think about dating, even if he’d been interested.

  Then Callie had shown up, and suddenly he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Clearly, his subconscious has some lustful ideas about her. But he didn’t know her, not really. She claimed to be a psychic, for God’s sake. After everything he’d been through, there was no way he was going to get involved with a woman convinced she talked to ghosts.

  Taking her to bed doesn’t necessarily require a relationship, a selfish inner voice pointed out in an echo of Ryan’s comment from the other night. He shut it down with a disgusted sigh. First of all, there was no indication she wanted to jump into bed with him. Secondly, something told him he couldn’t have sex with Callie and not form an emotional bond. Hell, he already seemed to be forming one. He’d had fun with her today. His heart had seized when her horse had reared. And now he was sitting up in bed in the middle of the night, thinking about her. Or rather, trying not to think about her.

  Throwing off the covers, he made his way through the familiar darkness to the hallway. He flicked on the bathroom lights and froze.

  Every drawer in the sink vanity had been pulled out; all four cabinet doors beneath stood open.

  He blinked, dragging a hand over his eyes. But it didn’t help—the bathroom was still in a strange state of disarray. What the hell?

  Leaning against the doorway, he tried to make sense of it. He was certain none of the drawers and doors had been left open when he’d finished in the bathroom before heading to bed. Definitely not all of them. He was the only one who used this bathroom—the master bedroom that had been added over the garage had its own bath. His Gram us
ed that. Even if she had needed something in this bathroom, there was no way she would have rummaged through the drawers and left every single one open. Gram was neat and orderly.

  Unless…maybe she’d been sleepwalking?

  He frowned, entering the room and staring at the open drawers. Nothing had been tossed about inside. So strange. Pressing his lips together, he closed everything quietly, then rested his palms on the cool counter of the vanity. He bent his head, blew out a breath.

  The conversation he’d had with Gram and Callie in the kitchen, before the trail ride, drifted through his mind. The conviction in their voices had told him they absolutely believed there were spirits lurking around the farm. Callie’s eyes had glittered with real fear when she’d described her ordeal at her apartment. He no longer believed Gram was imagining that things had been moved because she missed Pop so much. Wishful thinking of some sort; an attempt to maintain a connection with her beloved husband. And he didn’t think Callie was simply looking to exploit Alice anymore.

  But could he bring himself to believe in ghosts? Was this an attempt by Pop, or the other supposed phantom, to convince him they existed?

  Gram sleepwalking made more sense.

  He finished in the bathroom, glancing back to make sure everything was still as he’d left it before he shut off the light. A single thought kept niggling at him, demanding attention.

  He’d never known Gram to sleepwalk. Not only had he never witnessed it in all the years he’d spent nights at Hillwood; she’d never once mentioned it was something she did. Nor had anyone in the family ever referenced it.

  Well, there was a first time for everything. Hell, maybe he’d just taken his initial foray into sleepwalking and done it himself, earlier in the night. As disturbing as that idea was, he preferred it to the ghost theory.

  He crushed his head into the pillow and grimaced as he twisted beneath the sheets. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed sleep to come and take him. A heavy, dreamless slumber, the kind that didn’t allow for unconscious excursions throughout the house or steamy thoughts of Callie.

  Chapter 11

  She’d made it through the night. Again. But her eyes felt gritty, her head foggy.

  She didn’t believe for one moment the cruel spirit seemingly intent on hurting her had decided to just leave her alone. More likely, it had expended all its energy and needed to recharge. Or, Henry’s ghost was challenging it, thwarting some of its violent actions. Maybe both. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks to Henry, just in case, as she cracked eggs into a bowl.

  Once she’d cooked her breakfast and sat down to eat, she chewed each bite cautiously, her phone on the table, 9-1 punched into the keypad. “What a way to live,” she said to the empty apartment when she’d finished with no supernatural interruptions. With a sigh, she took her dishes to the sink, cleaning up in the kitchen before jumping in the shower.

  An hour later, she pulled out of the parking lot of her complex, her car packed with everything she could think of that she might need for the day: purse, laptop, the Dragonfly Kingdom books, a few snacks, and a thermos of coffee. She was hoping to avoid her apartment for the longest stretch of time possible before she had to return tonight.

  As she waited at the light to turn onto Route 28, she dug out her phone and pressed Alice’s number. Voicemail picked up, and Callie couldn’t help smiling at Alice’s tentative instructions to leave a message at the beep. She asked if she could come over later to spend time at the house, then ended the call.

  A light rain misted the windshield as she arrived at the assisted living facility where her father had lived for the last four years. The memory care center had its own private entrance, with security measures to keep residents suffering from dementia from wandering off unaccompanied. Callie pulled into a parking space and hurried to the entrance, her shoulders hunched, the Dragonfly books clutched to her chest to keep them dry.

  Once she was in the building, she trudged the familiar path to her father’s room, which was a “companion suite”—one small common area, one bathroom, and two small bedrooms with separate entrances along the hallway. She wished he had a private room, but it was the best she could do, given the astronomical costs of this type of care. All the proceeds from the sale of their old house had gone into an account to help pay the bills; the money was dwindling quicker than Callie had expected.

  Callie’s mom, Joy, had helped her set everything up, when it became clear she wasn’t going to win her battle with cancer. When Thomas was first diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, at the age of 57, they did everything they could to attempt to slow the symptoms and keep him at home. But by the time Callie was in college, Thomas was becoming a danger to himself, wandering away from home and getting lost, turning appliances on and forgetting about them, even threatening Andrew with a knife when he failed to recognize Callie’s boyfriend of five years. Both Callie and Joy knew it was time to explore a safer environment for him, as heartbreaking as it was. Then, with Joy’s own bleak prognosis looming, the situation became urgent.

  “Good morning, Thomas,” Callie said brightly as she stood in the doorway to the tiny private area of his bedroom. She’d learned using his name was a better way to greet him, as opposed to calling him ‘Dad’. Less confusion. Less distress.

  He was propped up in bed, staring at the television. Blinking, he turned his head toward her, his wrinkled brow furrowing deeper. His expression remained clouded as she entered the room, but then his eyes widened a bit, the watery green flickering with a hint of recognition. “Joy?”

  He thought she was her mother. It happened often, and it was fine. Much better than not being recognized as anyone.

  “Hi,” she responded softly as she entered, neither agreeing or disagreeing with his uncertain identification. “Is it okay if I turn this off?” She tipped her chin toward the TV. “I thought we could read together.” Approaching the bed, she held up the first volume of the book series they’d so painstakingly put together all those years ago. The paper was worn and dog-eared, the once-vibrant hues of the illustrations faded with age.

  Thomas cocked his head, a thoughtful look on his face as he examined the dark-haired fairy princess riding a colorful dragonfly on the book’s cover. Eventually he nodded, his mouth quivering slightly, and he settled his clasped hands on his chest.

  She aimed the remote at the TV, and the daytime talk show disappeared from the screen. Her throat tightened with emotion as she pulled a chair next to the bed, and she swallowed hard to clear it. Bringing her head close to his, she began reading the words she knew by heart.

  She’d hoped to take her father for a walk around the gardens if the sky cleared up, but he’d fallen asleep as she read. Taking his hand in hers, she’d leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a quick rest. A return call from Alice had jarred her awake over an hour later, but the ringtone hadn’t disturbed Thomas’s slumber. The disease took its toll on the body as well as the mind.

  So she’d kissed his papery cheek goodbye and left the room, stopping in the lobby to use the bathroom and listen to Alice’s message. Callie was welcome at Hillwood anytime, Alice insisted in her voicemail.

  She’d stopped for a late lunch at a popular café, making sure to sit in clear view of other customers and employees, in case the ghost decided to pull any tricks. When she’d finished, she drove to the farm, rolling her neck and shoulders at every stoplight to try to work the kinks out. A series of cracking sounds accompanied every move, and she winced. After two nights on the couch, a nap in a chair, and a trail ride culminating in nearly being thrown from a horse, what she needed was a massage. Shaking her head, she huffed out something between a sigh and a chuckle. How about a spa week at an exclusive five-star resort while she was at it? Both things were in about similar reach, financially.

  Now, she was sitting on the porch of Hillwood, admiring the uninterrupted expanse of open fields and the still, sunlit water of the lake. This morning’s misty rain had swept farthe
r inland, dragging the humidity with it. A crisp breeze carried the briny scent of the ocean with it as it stirred her hair. Pulling it into her lungs, she closed her eyes and allowed herself a moment to savor it. It would be beach weather soon. Here’s hoping I live long enough to see it.

  When she opened her eyes, her gaze fell back on the papers stacked on her lap. Alice had dug through Henry’s desk and pulled out a few folders filled with documents on Hillwood Farm. The rest of the stack waited on a table beside her chair, along with a glass of lemonade that tasted a lot like fresh-squeezed.

  Footsteps thudded up onto the side porch from over near the garage, and she was amazed at the warm familiarity the sound invoked. Luke. She allowed a goofy grin to play across her lips for the brief moment before he appeared around the corner. She couldn’t control the butterflies, though. They danced through her belly with giddy abandon. Oh, Lord. She was in trouble.

  He stopped short when he saw her. “Oh, hey. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I asked Alice if I could come over and look at old files. I thought it might help.”

  Nodding, he raised his hand to rub the back of his neck, revealing dried streaks of something white along the inside of his arm. Splotches of whatever it was dotted the lower half of his faded navy T-shirt, which had “Turner Construction” emblazoned across the chest and frayed edges where the sleeves had been cut off.

  She was staring, she realized. And he was staring back, as if waiting for her to elaborate. She lifted the papers on her lap to illustrate her project. “It’s paperwork on the farm. I thought it might be helpful, like maybe I might find some kind of clue.” Now she was repeating herself. And, she sounded like Nancy Drew. But she couldn’t seem to stop. “I’m quickly realizing it’s a road to nowhere, though. Even if I find a record of someone connected to Hillwood who died in a significant way, why would that person’s ghost have hung around all this time, only to make trouble now? It makes no sense. Unless maybe your grandfather’s ghost has stirred something up.”