“Terrell, I’m really pressed for time here,” Ron said. “I’ve got all this work to get done on the house before my wife and child move in, and this thing with the ghosts, it’s all…”
Terrell cut him off. “I can almost guarantee he’s not going to tell me anymore about it until you show up. He was quite emphatic about it.”
There was a long pause. Ron could feel Jake and Mrs. Hughes’ eyes upon him, waiting for a decision.
He turned to Jake. “How long to get up there?”
“Three, four hours?” Jake replied.
“What do you think?”
“I think, if this guy knows something that could help, why not? Go up now, see him tonight or tomorrow, be back by tomorrow night at the latest.”
Ron turned back to the phone. “Alright, Terrell. We’re on our way. Can he meet us tonight, after we get there? Say, 8 or 9?”
“I’ll check. Call me when you get into town. If not tonight, first thing in the morning. And with Abe, that could be 5 or 6 AM, if you want. Though, personally, I’d like to sleep in. I was up all night with it. I’m exhausted.”
“Sleep now,” Ron replied. “We’re on our way, and we’ll call you when we get there.”
Jake hung up.
“Sorry about that,” Ron said to Mrs. Hughes. “I came over to see if you could give me directions to the Coldwater mansion. I tried looking for it online last night, but couldn’t find anything.”
“I will, on one condition,” she replied, looking at him with all seriousness. “After you finish with this gentleman in Port Angeles, I want to know what happens. I’ve lived with the stories of this mountain my entire life; some of them had conclusions, but there are so many dead ends that have just hung there with no answers. I’ve learned to live with them, but, this one – the Coldwater thing – it’s the granddaddy of them all, and if there’s something new about it, I want to know. Promise me.”
Ron raised his hand as though he was swearing on a bible. “I promise I’ll share everything I find out,” he replied, hoping that whatever Abe might have to tell him, it didn’t come on a condition of secrecy.
“Alright,” she said, rising from the table and searching for a pad and pen. “I’m going to jot down these instructions while I tell you, because it’s complicated. The place has become a little cut off over the years.” She returned to the table and sat, uncapping the pen. “Let’s see, originally you’d get there off Red Curve Road, but the problem is, that road was blocked off years ago, and I think you have to take Crestridge now, and turn onto a little dirt path that isn’t marked. It’ll be after the sign for eggs at the McKinston farm, but before the split tree that’s just before the power lines. You know the place?”
Ron shook his head, already confused. “I have no idea.”
“Don’t worry, I’m writing it down,” she continued, jotting furiously while she spoke, even squiggling a tiny map. “The dirt road will connect back up with Offerson Road, which is where you were headed if you could have stayed on Red Curve Road. Offerson is blocked too, after about a mile, so you have to take another dirt road, it’s called Yate’s Court, and that’s because the end of it is the driveway to Greg Yate’s place. You go about fifty feet down Yate’s Court and there’ll be a small road to the left, it looks like an old logging road. Might be overgrown. Anyway, you take that, because if you miss the turn you’ll wind up in Yate’s yard and will have to make a turn around. Greg won’t mind, but if he’s not home and it’s just Janet, she’ll let the dogs loose, and they love to jump at cars and scratch your paint.”
“Fuck,” Jake muttered.
“Go down that old logging road until it ends, and you’ll be at Barlow Road. That’s the road Offerson used to connect to, but doesn’t anymore. It’s wider, but it’ll be overgrown probably too, since it’s been cut off at both ends for years now. Go left, and a hundred yards down you’ll come to the house. Can’t miss it.” She slid the paper to him.
“Christ,” Ron replied, looking at the tiny map she’d drawn. “I’ll need a search party for when I get lost.”
“Quite easy to do, get lost,” she said. “Happens to people all the time up here, thinking they can use their phones to get around. None of the GPS directions are right. Hell, even the printed maps I’ve seen are wrong, they never kept up with the road closures. That,” she said, pointing to the paper, “will work. Trust me. You going to go up there?”
“Maybe,” Ron said. “After Port Angeles.”
“When was the last time you saw the place?” Jake asked. “Can you tell us anything about what we should expect?”
“Well, it’s been vacant for a long time,” Mrs. Hughes replied. “I haven’t seen it since way before Offerson got blocked, at least ten years ago. Don’t want to be like my father; he was obsessed with it, and that didn’t end well, as I told you. So, I try to put most of it behind me and not dwell on the past. The last time I saw the house itself, it looked run down. That happens to an abandoned house, as I expect you know, Ron. A house has to be cared for, just like a horse, or a farm, or things go bad. No one would buy the Coldwater place after the murders, even though they tried to sell it. Eventually they gave up and since then, it just sits, slowly rotting. I think a niece of Mr. Coldwater owns the property now, but no one I know has ever heard from her, or seen her; don’t have any idea where she lives, could be Timbuktu for all I know. I remember hearing from Jane Patterson – she lives over that way – that they were worried about vandals, so years ago a huge chain link fence was put up, all around the house. Probably all overgrown with blackberries now. I’d take a trimmer with you, but don’t take anything that’ll make noise. Maybe a machete. Yeah, take a machete, to hack your way through.”
“And wire cutters?” Jake offered. “For the chain link fence?”
“Yeah,” she replied. “Good idea.”
“Any chance we’d be seen?” Ron asked. “People on this mountain like to call the sheriff on trespassers.”
“You’re referring to the Sables,” she answered. “Yes, they’re on their phone to the cops all day long. They’re over by your place, but they’re far from this route I’m giving you. Where you’ll need to be careful is at the Yates place. If you can get past that driveway without her alerting her dogs, I doubt anyone will have any idea you’re there. Now, as for getting into the house itself, provided you can make it through the bramble and past the fence…you’ll have to play that by ear. There were several entrances to the mansion, as I recall; I would expect they’d all be locked up, but you’ll have to look for a weakness.” She paused.
“What?” Ron asked.
“Well, then there’s the other little creepy things about the mansion. You’ll see, soon enough.”
“Some advance warning would be nice,” Jake said.
“Well, little things. Some of them might just be stories about the place, made up, or exaggerated. I’d hate to mislead you.”
“Mislead us!” Jake said. “I’d like to know what we’ll be walking into!”
“Well, there’s the windows,” she replied. “Do you remember when I was reading from my grandmother’s diary? That part about how her friend, Amy, went outside and saw the window panes slowly turning black, as the fog moved through the house?”
“Yes,” Jake answered.
“They say they’re still black, and they can’t be cleaned. When they tried to sell the house, one of the problems was that, after they scrubbed all the windows, they’d turn black again. They brought in maids almost every day, but it didn’t matter how many times they wiped them, the black always returned, blocking out the light.”
“Whoa,” Jake said, leaning back in his chair. “That is creepy.”
“According to a person I know who was friends with a realtor that worked on the sale, strange things happened to people who toured the place, when it was on the market. The longer they were in the house, the more anxious they would become, and if they spent too long, sometimes they’d turn frantic, wanting t
o leave. Of course, I thought immediately of Mrs. Coldwater, ranting and raving through the halls. Anyway, one woman who looked at the place hanged herself in her own home the next day. Used a necktie that belonged to her husband. A couple of people reported changes in their hair after they’d been there; hair falling out, turning white, that kind of thing. Just when it seemed as if a potential buyer was warming up to the place, a terrible stink would develop, like rotten meat, or eggs, and it would drive people from room to room in an attempt to escape it. All the realtors were afraid to touch the windows because of the blackening problem, so no air got in to flush it out. It didn’t take long for any would-be buyer to lose interest. Naturally they wanted to keep all these things quiet, worried about ruining the chances for selling it, but one of the realtors was pretty gossipy, which is how we learned all these things. Didn’t matter anyway, it was never going to sell. No one in their right mind would want to live there, especially with all that, and especially the sightings of…her.”
“Mrs. Coldwater?” Ron asked.
“Over the years there were reports of her ghost running from room to room, in different places, all over the mansion,” Mrs. Hughes continued. “One realtor who stayed to close it up after an open house said she was chased out of the building by the ghost of a woman. It followed her through the halls, its arms outstretched, like it was trying to grab her. She said it was screaming loud, nonsensical things. Poor woman was terrified. She quit the next day, never went back. The idea of her still there, her ghost moving through the halls like that, well…it’s a terrifying image that’s kept me up many nights.”
She stopped, looking up at them. “Still want to go?”
Chapter Twenty
Ron looked down the street, then in the side mirror of Jake’s truck, checking for Terrell. They were parked at the address the kid gave them, but he was late.
“Maybe we should just go in and see this Abe ourselves,” Ron said. “That’s who I’m here to see anyway, not Terrell.”
“Why not?” Jake replied. “I hate it when people are late.”
They left the truck and walked to an arching arbor, densely covered in green. Ron tried the large, wrought iron handle on the door, but it wouldn’t move.
Jake pointed to an intercom buried under leaves. “Probably have to get buzzed in.”
“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “Terrell did say he was paranoid.” He pushed the small black button on the intercom and waited.
“Yes?” came a tinny voice through the speaker, padded by the soft sounds of classical music playing in the background.
“Abe? This is Ron. Terrell said you wanted to speak to me directly.”
“Ron? I don’t know any Ron. Where is Terrell?”
“He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago, I think he’s late.”
“Come back when you have Terrell.” The speaker clicked off, abruptly ending the music.
“Welcome to Port Angeles, too,” Jake said.
Ron looked up and down the street; there was no sign of Terrell. “I guess we wait.”
As they walked back to the truck, Jake’s phone rang. “Terrell?” he said, answering it. “We’re here, in front of Abe’s. You’re late.”
Ron waited while his friend finished the call. The sky was dark and the temperature a little chilly; although he’d thrown a few clothes into an overnight bag, he neglected to bring a coat, and was regretting it.
Jake slipped his phone into his pocket. “He got hung up with one of his tours, something about a group that wouldn’t move on. He’s on his way now. Said it’d be five minutes.”
“Well, three hours up here, what’s another five minutes,” Ron replied, getting into the truck. “I shoulda brought a jacket. It’s getting cold.”
“I didn’t bring one, either,” Jake replied, starting up the truck and cranking the heater.
Exactly five minutes later they saw Terrell approaching on a bike. He stopped and leaned it against the arbor, waving for them to get out of the truck and join him. By the time they reached him, he already had the gate open.
“Sorry about that,” Terrell replied. “They just wouldn’t leave. I finally had to kind of shoo them out, which I hate to do, ’cause I want them to buy souvenirs, but I don’t think they were going to buy any anyway.”
They walked through a heavily overgrown garden, bending a little to get under several drooping trees. “We tried to get in ourselves,” Jake said, “but Abe wouldn’t let us.”
“I could have told you he wouldn’t,” Terrell replied. “He made me stand out there for hours before he let me in the first time.” When they reached the front door to the house, Terrell stopped and reached down to a metal bucket, from which he removed two long necklaces. He handed one to each of them. “Here, put these on.”
Ron took the necklace; it was made of dried cloves, strung together with twine. “Garlic?” he asked, holding it up.
“What, over our heads?” Jake asked.
“Yeah, put it around your neck,” Terrell answered.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Ron said. “What are we, vampires?”
Terrell sighed. “He won’t let you in if you’re not wearing it.” Terrell reached into the bucket and removed another, slipping it over his head. “I have to wear one, too. He’s made me wear it every time I’ve come here. I’m not sure why. I told you he’s paranoid; I think he’s got a thing for vampires in particular.”
“Ridiculous,” Ron muttered, donning the crunchy necklace. The cloves looked long dried, but still smelled a little.
Terrell opened the door and led them inside.
The place was cluttered, but in an organized sort of way. Stacks of papers and books were everywhere, neatly arranged, as though their owner knew exactly where each of them were but simply ran out of proper storage. Terrell led them through a rabbit trail until they reached a small room that held enough chairs for them to sit. In one of the chairs was an old, short man.
“Abe?” Terrell said. “This is Ron. And Jake.”
Abe peered at them over his glasses. “Why two?”
“It’s my house that’s haunted,” Ron said. “Jake has been helping me.”
“Whose book is it?” Abe asked.
“Well, neither of ours, really,” Ron answered. “It was loaned to us. It was Jake who sent Terrell the pictures.”
“Did you bring it?” Abe asked. “The book?” He looked anxious, and Ron could swear the old man appeared to be drooling a little.
“Yes,” Jake replied, digging it out of his backpack and handing it to Abe.
Abe looked delighted, but didn’t reach for it. “I wonder if you might bring it with you,” he said, rising from his chair and leading Jake into the next room.
Jake followed him, and Ron and Terrell were right behind.
Abe led him to a table that was piled high with books and papers. Tucked into the middle was a small chest the size of a miniature steamer trunk. Abe lifted the lid; it was lined with a yellow pin-striped paper, faded in spots. “Place it inside, if you would.”
Jake set the book into the chest, and Abe closed the lid.
“Can’t be too careful,” Abe replied. “There’s plenty of trouble that would like to ride in here on the soles of shoes, so I have to be vigilant.” While he spoke, he extracted a pair of gloves from under a stack of paper, causing the stack to wobble. Ron was about to step up and brace the tall piles of papers, but Abe slipped on the gloves and rebalanced it before anything slid off. He stretched his fingers within the gloves, spreading them in demonstration to the others, as if he was a magician about to perform a trick.
“Silk,” Terrell whispered to Ron, behind him.
Abe opened the chest and carefully removed the book, holding it as though it might explode if he jostled it. “Let’s go back to the drawing room; it’s more comfortable in there.” As he walked, he held it out in front of him, carefully taking each step until he was seated in his chair.
“Terrell, the bookstand, please,”
Abe said, motioning with his hand to a piece of furniture across the room.
Terrell grabbed a wooden box and wheeled it across the floor until it was in front of Abe, its one angled side positioned right in front of him.
Abe placed the book carefully on the stand, letting it slide down to a small wooden lip. He gently lifted the cover as though he was examining a rare artifact. “Tell me again where you got this.”
“I thought Terrell already explained all that,” Ron said.
“I’d like to hear a first-hand account,” Abe replied, not taking his eyes from the pages he was turning.
Ron recounted a little about what had happened at his home, and more about their meeting with Mrs. Hughes. Abe asked a few questions as he progressed, until finally he’d related most of the tale.
“The picture comes together,” Abe muttered, still browsing pages. “Or substantial parts of it, at least.”
“Terrell said you wanted to speak to me directly,” Ron replied. “Can you tell me what’s in that book that’s so important?”
Abe stopped looking at it and raised his gaze to Ron. “What is it you want, exactly?” he asked, ignoring Ron’s question.
“What I want?” Ron repeated, a little surprised.
“Clarity, please,” Abe replied insistently.
“I want my house to be free of whatever is making it impossible to live there.”
“Why?” Abe asked. “You’ve got a wonderful example playing out right in front of you, and you want it to end?”
“I don’t consider it wonderful.”
“But I do. This is very dark, using methods most people would never employ. I’d love to study it more, if it wasn’t so virulent to those of us with the gift. It’s a shame.”
Ron wasn’t sure if the old man was for real or not. “I just want my house. Look, it was a long drive up here. If you have something that can help, I’d appreciate it. Otherwise, I have a ton of work to do.”
“We both have work to do,” Abe replied. “It’s not like I’m in the habit of sublimating my normal routines for a random skeptic off the street. If I’m right, what you’re dealing with is extraordinary. Not one hundred percent unique, but rare nonetheless. Extremes rarely employed have been employed here! Quite special. You need to appreciate that.”
The Coldwater Haunting Page 24