Ghosts, Ghouls, and Haunted Houses

by Carrie King

  As Wylie took the turnoff she would give him directions, like she always had in the past. Then it was because it kept them closer together today it was out of necessity, just like this trip. Before, he'd always teased her about that; his little navigator, he used to call her. That was not what he called her now, that was for sure. He didn't call her any cutesy nicknames anymore. He rarely even spoke her name and never seemed to look her in the eye.

  "Turn left on Meadows Lane.”

  There was no answer, but he turned the big car onto the narrow road. Another mile passed and then another. All the time she sat on tenterhooks wondering what she could say, what she could do to make things right.

  “Take a right on the gravel driveway coming up, and we'll be there."

  The car turned and the gravel rumbled beneath them as the wheels span for a moment. Just like their marriage they struggled for stability, only the wheels gripped and they were moving again. If only her sins were so easily swept aside like the gravel thrown out from beneath the wheels.

  It was a longer drive down that gravel driveway than she had imagined, probably close to a kilometer. Just for a moment she felt a touch of nerves. They would be so isolated, what if they didn’t get on? Then the house came into view, and what a view they were presented with!

  The manor house stood in the center of a small field of knee-high seagrass. It was blowing in the breeze like ocean waves and was surrounded by massive pines twisted by the very same ocean winds. A shiver went through her as she knew they would batter the shoreline during the dreary winter months.

  The old stone structure stood two levels high, topped by an attic with dormer windows that overlooked the firth in the distance. From the front door of the manor house to the cliff side, the meadow spanned perhaps seventy-five meters, no more.

  As they drove up toward the entrance, Tiffany noted the weathered stones, browned with age, no longer white like they must've been a couple of centuries ago. The attic windows still had that wrinkly looking glass common to eighteenth-century structures, but the windows at the front of the manor looked modern— clear and smooth.

  Beside her, Wylie offered a grunt of surprise as he pulled to a stop.

  "It's lovely, isn't it?" she said, trying to sound cheerful. "And we have it all to ourselves!"

  "Lucky me," he muttered, abruptly reaching for his door and climbing out of the car.

  Tiffany's spirits sank. He hadn't yet decided what he was going to do about the affair. She knew it. The fact that he hadn't left her and hadn't filed for divorce—at least not yet— gave her hope. Maybe the revelation was still too raw for him to decide just yet. Maybe he was hanging on by a thread, just like she was. But every day that he stayed brought her hope. She had been surprised he had agreed to this getaway, a chance of reconciliation. Maybe he really did want to make things work between them.

  She strove for patience and climbed from the car as well, shutting the door softly behind her. Wylie tugged their two small duffel bags from the boot. Together and yet miles apart they walked toward the front door as she read from the instructions the owner had sent.

  "In the dirt by the stoop, you'll find a rock. But it isn't really a rock. It's a hiding place for the key …"

  Tiffany glanced down to the right of the doorway and found the rock right next to the stone stoop. Only upon careful examination did she notice the fine line that separated the top and bottom half of the apparent stone. She lifted it, balanced its light weight in her hand, and smiled at Wylie as he held their bags his face set and grim.

  Ignoring the slice of pain that look sent through her chest, she twisted the top half of the rock and it separated into two pieces. The key was inside.

  Tiffany ignored him, slid the key into the lock, and gently pushed open the door, ready to do her part to save her marriage. But the moment she stepped inside she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. The air inside seemed heavy and stuffy and her head began to ache. That stuffiness had nothing to do with the cleanliness of the place. No dust coated any of the immediate pieces of furniture.

  It wasn’t from the place being shut up too long either, as one of the windows on the far side of the room was cracked open slightly to let in fresh air. She had no idea where that sense of heaviness and dread originated, so she brushed it off and turned to Wylie with a hopeful smile.

  "Isn't this wonderful?"

  The smirk that crossed his lips almost crushed her spirits.

  Chapter 36

  Tiffany knew that Wylie didn't really want to be here. She could tell by the bored look on his face as he glanced around. He took in the sitting room and sighed. There was a small sofa in front of an old-fashioned fireplace. Behind the sofa were French doors that led out into the garden. It was beautiful, peaceful but she knew he didn’t see that.

  Wylie sighed dramatically.

  There was no television, no radio, and no phone. Neither of them had brought a computer, there were no distractions. It was what she had wanted and yet now she wasn't sure how she felt about that either.

  Without saying anything, he moved off to explore the house. She wandered into the front room and sat down on the sofa, or the divan, or whatever it was called back in the day this wonderful place was built.

  All the furniture was old and ornate and yet there was a darkness about the place that oppressed her. Large windows let in plenty of light but still it felt dismal. Deep inside she knew this had to be just her sense of loss and yet it unnerved her. Maybe she should have gone with Wylie to investigate but she just didn’t have the energy.

  Instead she looked around. The room, likely called the parlor in the old days, was decorated in Victorian style, heavy with the wood furniture and floral fabrics. It felt a bit overpowering. She leaned back against the overstuffed cushions, wondering if she had just made yet another mistake bringing Wylie here for the weekend. Well, if nothing else, the neighbors wouldn't hear them shouting at one another.

  Still, she held out hope. Perhaps they could move closer together?

  A distinctive creak distracted her. It came and went so quickly that she almost thought she had imagined it. She looked up toward the ceiling, thinking that Wylie had made the sound walking upstairs, but then she realized the sound had come from down here. Actually, it sounded like it had originated from this very room. She shrugged it off. It was just the old house settling.

  Pulling her mind back to the conundrum with Wylie. At times she contemplated a future without him, it scared her to death. She’d gone from her parents’ home to university, where she'd had a roommate. She'd met Wylie there and, much against her parents’ wishes, had moved in with him to his small flat just off campus weeks later.

  Once they graduated, he had purchased a slightly larger flat just outside of downtown London. Other than the few days that she had stayed there alone after he had discovered the affair, Tiffany had never spent a day alone in her life.

  She liked to think she was strong enough to deal with it, but it sent a cold shiver down her spine and her stomach dropped at just the thought.

  A shadow flitted across her peripheral vision and she turned toward it, but it was gone. Blinking, she rubbed her eyes. Between the headache she'd felt the moment she walked inside and now the shadow, she feared she would soon succumb to a migraine. Of all the worst times … she opened her purse and dug into it for her prescription, glad that she had decided to bring the bottle along.

  She popped open the lid and shook out one of the oblong white pills. Palming it, she closed the prescription bottle, tossed it back into her purse, and stood, heading out of the parlor to look for the kitchen.

  It really was a lovely home. Opposite the sitting parlor was a larger room, much like the parlor but not quite as crowded. In the past, this room might've been adequate for soirées or whatever they did back then for socializing.

  Tiffany walked down the hallway, the floorboards creaking under her tennis shoes. Wood paneling lined the walls and gave the place an almost reg
al feel. There was another small room to the left. She paused at the doorway and peered inside. It was a study or library, the walls covered with crammed bookcases. Were they real or just props? She would have to explore that later. On the far side of the room stood a massive mahogany desk with a stodgy looking old chair behind it. Multipaned windows followed directly behind that, looking out onto the property which in turn overlooked the cliff and the ocean beyond. It was a magnificent view and yet looking at it caused her head to stab with pain. Maybe it was the light from the endless sky?

  Just before she reached the end of the hallway, she came across two doors, one opening into a dining room on the right. It was a beautiful room with plum colored walls and a highly polished table surrounded by regency chairs. The woodwork was all old antique and she thought yew.

  To the other as the kitchen. While the kitchen had certainly been renovated, it still looked antique, at least based on modern standards.

  An old brick fireplace and hearth took up the entire far wall. Another wall held a refrigerator that looked as if it came right from the 1950s, though it still hummed softly. Tiffany was delighted to find that the old porcelain sink was equipped with an old-fashioned water pump. Did it work? She walked toward it, gave the handle a couple of creaking pumps, and smiled when water gushed out of the cast-iron faucet. The range cooker was massive and impressive and the floor was tiled in antique red quarry tiles. All in all it looked just like she imagined it could have looked years ago.

  She turned toward the door. "Wylie, come look!"

  She wanted to show him the sink but heard no sounds in the house. Oh, well, maybe later. She opened an overhead cabinet to find it fully stocked with dishware—plates, saucers, bowls, and a myriad assortment of glasses. She retrieved a glass and turned to the sink again, pumping the handle and filling the glass.

  She eyed the glass of water warily, wondering if the water was drinkable. It looked clean. Cautiously, she took a sip. It didn't taste funny at all, so she popped the migraine pill into her mouth and followed it with half a glass of water, then she placed the glass on the wood countertop and turned around.

  All the lower cabinet doors stood half open. Tiffany blinked as her heart slammed against her chest. She hadn't noticed that when she walked in. Taking a breath she aimed to calm her racing pulse. Maybe, she'd been captivated by the brick fireplace and the water pump.

  Stepping across the floor, she quietly closed the cabinets and then turned her attention to the refrigerator. As she had requested, it was stocked with enough groceries and supplies to last them the weekend. Eyeing the contents, she decided that she would make a nice lamb stew for supper.

  She turned around to leave the kitchen and continue exploring the house, then froze with a sharp intake of breath. Once more her heart slammed against her chest.

  The cabinet doors were open again.

  What the hell?

  She frowned and closed the cabinet doors again, more firmly this time. She knew that old houses like this were often warped and floors sometimes sloped, but still...

  Well, she wasn't going to let some crooked or creaking floors ruin the weekend any more than it already was. She had to focus on mending her relationship, and that's exactly what she was going to do, except for the fact that her migraine seemed to be growing worse by the second. Just as she left the kitchen and turned down the hallway, Tiffany gasped and reached for her head. It felt like it was going to explode. She nearly doubled over, grasping her stomach, trying to quell a rising surge of nausea.

  No! No, she would not get a migraine. She would not!

  Chapter 37

  In spite of her determination not to be felled by a migraine, Tiffany had been forced to lie down for an hour or so after their arrival. She had even taken a second migraine tablet. While the pain had dulled slightly, she still felt a bit fuzzy around the edges.

  After a short nap, during which Wylie apparently had finished exploring the house and then ventured outside, she had risen and fixed a simple supper for both of them. No lamb stew tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Instead, she made them each a turkey sandwich and warmed up some canned soup.

  They ate in the dining room in companionable silence, or at least what she liked to think of as companionable. It was not like the old days when they would share details about their day, offering commiseration or support, but at least he was sitting at the table with her. He didn't complain about the food; he didn't bring up Jack; and so, as far as Tiffany was concerned, their meal was companionable.

  Still, being around Wylie made her feel sad. Sad that she had brought this down on herself, betraying her husband. She wanted to talk about it and didn't at the same time. Yet she knew that she should. That's why she'd wanted to come up here to get it all out into the open, so that maybe then they could heal.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  This evening, they were both tired from the drive. They had risen early for the nearly day-long drive up here and the awkwardness in the car, had been exhausting.

  "Would you like more?" she asked politely. Like she was on a date with him for the first time. It was all so awkward.

  "No, I had enough." He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. "Have you explored the house yet?"

  She gingerly shook her head. "Maybe tomorrow, after a good night's rest."

  "You should. It's quite interesting."

  With that, he rose, picked up his dishes, and took them into the kitchen. She heard the clink of porcelain as he lowered them into the sink. She followed several moments later and found him staring at the cabinets. The doors were open again. She frowned.

  "They keep opening. I don't know why. The latches seem adequate."

  He said nothing, but moved to close them before he left the kitchen. She heard his footsteps disappearing down the hall and then the steady clump as he took the stairs to the second floor.

  She quickly washed up the dishes and placed them upside down on a towel on the counter to air dry. After wiping her hands on a second towel, she folded it and placed it on the counter, then turned to leave the kitchen, wondering if they would share a bed tonight. It wasn't like the manor house only had one bedroom.

  They hadn’t shared a bed since Wylie had learned of the affair nearly six weeks ago. He'd been sleeping on the sofa in the living room, leaving her alone in the bedroom.

  With a heavy sigh she slowly took the stairs, her hand drifting gently over the heavy and highly glossed banister. It was worn smooth from generations of use. The stairs creaked slightly under her weight. As she reached the landing, she saw the light from the bedroom at the top of the stairs on the right. Heart thudding nervously, she stepped toward it and paused in the doorway. Wylie sat on the bed, forearms resting on his knees, hands dangling loosely.

  "Wylie?" She cringed at the sound of soft desperation in her voice.

  He didn't look at her, didn't move except to shake his head.

  Blinking back tears, she backed away from the doorway and stepped to the room across the hall. Flipping on the light, she saw her overnight bag on the bed.

  She entered the room and sat down with a sigh. "Why did I even bother?"

  Blinking back tears, not only of regret and guilt, but to some extent, resentment that Wylie refused to even talk about the issues that led to the affair in the first place, she unzipped her overnight bag and pulled out an oversized T-shirt.

  In a state of numbness she got undressed, slipped into the T-shirt, and left her room, looking for the loo. She found it at the end of the hallway. Every room upstairs shared a loo, which under normal circumstances and full occupancy might have been an issue, but with just her and Wylie here, it was like home.

  Tiffany took care of her needs and brushed her teeth, then returned to her room, feet padding softly down the hallway. She glanced at Wylie's door, it was now closed firmly against her. Another surge of annoyance triggered a frown, but she was startled from her ruminations by the sound of a dull thud in the wall of the hallway to her right, just befo
re she got to her room.

  She paused and listened, even going so far as to press her ear against the wall. She hoped there were no mice in the walls, but she didn't hear any rustling sounds. Then again, in a place as old as this, there might be dozens of mice in the walls, and God knew what else.

  In a matter of minutes, she'd climbed into bed, arranged her covers the way she liked them, pumped her pillows, and then reached toward the bedside table to turn out the small bedside lamp. The room was wreathed in darkness, she lay staring up at the ceiling, wanting to cry, to shout, and to beg for forgiveness, all at the same time.

  Her eyelids grew heavy and she finally ventured into that half-awake state. What if he never forgave her?

  She felt movement at the base of her bed, weight shifting its base and slightly tugging at her covers. She opened her eyes and looked down near her feet, but couldn't see a shape in the inky blackness. Her heart skipped a beat and she smiled. "Wylie?"

  No answer. Okay, maybe he didn't want to talk, but just his presence was comforting. The bed creaked again and she shifted her legs to give him more room—until she felt the sudden heaviness in the air, coupled with a chill that started in her foot and worked its way up her right leg. Disconcerted, she shifted her legs, thinking she had just found a cold spot on the sheets. Brushing her leg upward, her foot swept the base of the bed.

  Nothing was there.

  Not Wylie, anyway. With her heart hammering against her chest, she sat up. "Wylie, are you in here?" She groped the air but found nothing. Except … except it seemed that the air was colder down by the base of her bed.

  She didn't know what to think of that. In a matter of seconds, the entire room felt as cold as a refrigerator. Frowning, she threw the covers back and climbed out of bed, quickly stepping toward her door. She opened it and peeked outside into the hallway. Wylie's door was open, a soft glow of light emerging from inside.