“That never happened,” I said, snapping up to look at her. “Why would he say that?”
Sarah’s brow was furrowed, her mouth turned down. She looked on the verge of tears. I had only seen Sarah cry twice in my life - when her and Sammy’s father died, and more recently the night of Sammy’s murder.
“I don’t know why he said it, Corrie.” Sarah crouched before me. “But things aren’t adding up. Do you see that?”
I nodded, and like a song I couldn’t get out of my head, the vision of that night - blood in the water, on my hands, on the rocks - drifted through. A river of memory drowning me.
“Oh God,” I moaned, feeling the familiar pain in my chest like something sharp had lodged there. I wanted to tear open my ribs and wrench it free. “How will I live without him?”
I howled, and Sarah fell back, landing with a thud.
I didn’t care. I moved onto my hands and knees and screamed into the deck, pushed my face down until my nose touched the smooth boards, snot and tears pooling beneath my face. When my throat grew hoarse, I cried, resting my forehead down.
Sarah’s hands found me. She didn’t force me up, just rubbed my back in small circles, whispering over and over, “It’s going to be okay.”
But I knew better.
Sarah
* * *
SARAH RELUCTANTLY LEFT Corrie on the porch. Her sister-in-law had refused to come back in, citing a need for more fresh air, though Sarah had seen her lips growing purple and the goosebumps covering her arms and legs.
The towel in the crawl space had unnerved her, but what did it reveal? It might have been there before Sammy’s death. It belonged at the police station. They could forensically test it for blood, blood spatter, all those little nuanced things criminologists did.
Instead, Sarah fished the towel out and stuffed it into a trash bag before throwing it in the garbage can.
She wandered into the study, empty and cold. Sammy’s stuff lay strewn across the desk. A child-sized Chucky doll stood in one corner, a plastic machete clutched in his chubby baby hand.
Sarah heard the sliding glass doors open and sighed, relieved that Corrie had at least come in from the cold.
A notebook filled with Sammy’s drawings lay open on the desk. He’d been working on a new comic book series featuring a man who peered into a dollhouse and became trapped inside. He was being stalked by a wicked little girl with long blonde hair.
“Creepy,” Sarah muttered, returning the notebook and picking up a plastic bobble-head of Pennywise the Clown from Stephen King’s, It. The clown grinned from the red gash in his white face.
Sammy had loved the darker side of life, but what would become of his lifelong collection of horror? Would Corrie save it for Isis? Sarah imagined Isis arriving at school show-and-tell with a Barbie-sized Freddie Krueger.
“Swamp Man,” Sarah murmured, smiling as she touched a finger to the webbed feet of one of Sammy’s original figures. He had gotten it on their tenth birthday, a gift from Grandma Fiona. Sarah, despite her lack of interest in horror characters, had grown jealous of the gift. She had received an art set, beautiful and useful - but the way Sammy gazed at the figure, how he propped it on his dresser and only touched it gingerly, made the toy seem otherworldly, special.
The sound of a child singing drifted into the room.
Sarah paused, listening.
Isis was staying with Amy.
Sarah stepped from the study, gazing down the dark hallway that led to the front of the house.
“One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a funeral…”
She followed the voice, pausing at the great room. The voice sounded like Corrie, and yet…
Sarah took a breath and stepped into the doorway.
Corrie sat on her knees in front of the dollhouse. She held a tiny bureau in her hand and leaned forward, placing it in a room.
“Is there a child in here?” Sarah asked, scanning the room but already knowing the answer to her question.
“What?” Corrie looked up, her expression distant. She stared at Sarah for a moment before her eyes cleared. “What did you say, Sarah?”
Sarah faltered. “I thought I heard singing.”
Corrie shrugged and looked back at the house before climbing to her feet.
“Not from me. Maybe one of Isis’s toys? She has a little green dog that breaks into song at the oddest times. Sammy’s going to take the batteries out one of these days.”
Sarah bit her lip, watching her sister-in-law lumber across the room. Corrie stood in front of the fireplace and gazed into the flames.
“He was going to, you mean?” Sarah said.
Corrie turned back, her expression puzzled.
“Oh yes, of course. Was.”
CHAPTER 11
Then
Corrie
I opened the door and gave Helen a kiss on the cheek.
“Welcome to Kerry Manor,” I said, moving back so she could walk through.
“What do you think, Mom?” Sammy asked, spooking his mom from behind.
She jumped, startled, and I shot Sammy a ‘don’t give your mother a heart attack’ look.
“Sammy, don’t make me paddle your bottom in front of Corrie,” his mother told him through gritted teeth.
He stuck his butt out and grinned. She smacked it before pushing him away.
“I think it’s…” she paused.
I could see her searching for kind words when she wanted to say what a handful of others had said - it’s creepy, spooky, strange.
“I guess it’s perfect for your Halloween party. Beyond that, I don’t think I’d want to spend the night.”
Sammy clutched his heart.
“You wound me, Mother.”
She grinned and touched the embellished molding that surrounded the doorway into the great room.
“My poor little Isis probably gets lost in here.”
“Not yet,” I told her, taking her coat and hanging it on the wrought iron coat tree near the front door.
“Are you kidding me, Mom? This is Disneyland for Isis. She loves it.”
“She loves it, or you love it?”
“Well, you know I love it,” he admitted, grabbing me and twirling me around the room. “The question is, does my bride love it?”
I looked into his laughing brown eyes and nodded.
“I love you,” I told him. “If you love it, I love it.”
“Oh, Corrie,” his mom said. “How did he ever find you?”
Sammy flopped on the couch and propped his legs on a velvet footstool.
“Well, it all started on a sunny afternoon in August,” he began.
I grinned and patted her arm.
“Have a seat. I’ll bring coffee while Sammy regales you with tall tales.”
“Thanks, dear. No sugar, just cream,” she said.
“No sugar?” I asked, surprised. His mother usually added a heaping tablespoon of sugar to her coffee, tea, oatmeal - you name it.
She rested her hands on her voluptuous hips and belly.
“I’m cutting out sugar. At least in my coffee, to start. We’ll see how it goes.” She winked at me.
“House-frau, bring me the canapés as well,” Sammy called, blowing me kisses.
“I don’t even know what canapés are,” I told him. “But I’ll bring you a coffee.”
I selected Sammy’s favorite mug, which depicted a werewolf howling at the moon, and a purple flowery one for Helen. I leaned in and inhaled the coffee before pouring the three of us steaming mugs.
Through the window, I watched the waves lap rhythmically at the shore. A crest of white washing in, massaging the stones, then pushing back out. Frothy white clouds marred the blue sky, and I hoped they would part in the afternoon so we could take Isis to play outside. Methodically I prepared our coffees, pulling cream from the refrigerator and sugar from the cupboard, stirring and setting the silver spoon in the sink.
I arranged the coffees on a tray.
&n
bsp; As I walked from the kitchen, I glanced at the counter and paused. Next to the carton of cream, a small plastic bottle of blue antifreeze sat open, the red cap resting beside it.
“Where’s the sugar?” I asked, scanning the counter.
I distinctly remembered taking it out and scooping sugar into Sammy’s coffee but I hadn’t put it back, had I?
“Need help, babe?” Sammy called from the living room.
I heard him get up, knew he’d walk in any moment.
I dropped the tray of coffees on the floor. The glass shattered, startling me from my momentary reverie. Before Sammy could burst into the kitchen, I grabbed the antifreeze and stuck it under the sink.
Sammy rushed in, jumping back before he stepped in the broken glass and spilled coffee.
“Whoa, what happened?”
Helen followed, her face pinched with worry.
“I stupidly tried to balance them in one hand,” I lied, grabbing rags and dropping to the floor. “I’ve got this.” I shooed them away. “I’ll bring fresh cups in just a minute.”
“No, babe,” Sammy said grabbing the broom. “I don’t want my Gorey cutting her pretty fingers.”
I nodded but didn’t trust myself to look at him.
“And I’ll get the coffee,” Helen added.
“I broke the werewolf mug,” I said miserably, holding up a piece of glass.
“Guess I’ll have to switch to my Zombies in Love mug, then,” he told me.
When I didn’t respond, he leaned close and tilted my face toward his. “Honey, it’s okay. It was just a mug.”
I nodded, fighting tears at the backs of my eyes and glancing toward the cupboard beneath the sink.
I OPENED my eyes and stared into the dark canopy that hung suspended above our four-poster bed. My heart thudded in my chest, and I balled my fists at my sides. My entire body buzzed with adrenaline, as if I had not just woken from a deep sleep, but had been running a sprint.
Sammy snored beside me.
I turned and stared at his profile in the dark.
Whatever had awoken me had not awoken him.
I lay still for another minute. It must have been a dream. I rolled to my side and closed my eyes.
Close by, something thumped against the ground.
My eyes shot open, and I stared in the direction of the sound. It had come from the opposite side of the room. A tall bureau stood there. Next to that, a pile of Sammy’s clothes sat on a large chest.
I stared into the darkness, tracing the outline of familiar shapes, halting at something that didn’t fit. The top of the object was rounded like a head, though it stood only a few feet tall.
I squinted, trying to make sense of it. One of Sammy’s life-sized comic book figures? I hadn’t seen one when I went to bed. In fact, he’d only brought two into the house, and he kept them in the study.
I closed my eyes and blinked them open, expecting the shape to disappear, a late-night trick of the mind - but no, it hovered there at the edge of the chest.
It was watching me.
My stomach clenched at the thought, and I reached a clammy hand beneath the covers until I found Sammy’s arm.
“Sammy,” I whispered, watching the silhouette in the darkness. Had it moved?
“Sammy, wake up!” I said louder.
He mumbled and pulled his arm away.
The silhouette stepped away from the wall. It moved toward a small shaft of moonlight on the wood floor. I saw the feet of the thing, a child’s feet, streaked with black.
“Sammy!” I screamed, sitting up and fumbling for the lamp beside my bed.
He shot up next to me, eyes and hair wild as the light cast away the shadows.
“I’m up, I’m up,” he bellowed, pushing the covers off and stepping from the bed.
I turned, pointing at the child, but no one stood next to the chest. No child or anything resembling one. The wall was empty, the floor bare except for a blanket discarded by Isis.
“What is it, Corrie? Isis? Is Isis awake?” He rubbed his eyes and blinked at me.
I opened my mouth, ready to blurt what I had seen, and then I closed it. The way he looked at me gave me pause, as if I were delicate, unbalanced.
“No, I… I thought I saw a rat running along the floor.”
He frowned, sitting heavily on the bed.
“A rat?”
It was hardly a believable story. I’d never been afraid of rats, and on more than one occasion I’d rescued the little rodents from our cats.
“Yes. I’m sorry, Sammy. I was half asleep, and it spooked me.”
Sammy yawned and lay back on his pillow, reaching a hand to rub my back.
“It’s okay, babe. Juts go back to sleep. Lucas had an exterminator out here a week before we moved in. There are no rats.”
I nodded.
“Kill the light,” he murmured, closing his eyes.
I reached toward the light switch, watching the empty space where something, someone, had stood moments before. I was irrationally sure when I flicked off the light, the person would reappear - only visible in darkness. I turned the switch and held my breath, but the room remained empty.
As I shuffled back beneath the comforter, I wanted to pretend I had imagined it, but I knew better. A child had been standing in our room.
CHAPTER 12
Now
Sarah
Reluctantly, Sarah walked into Detective Collins’ office. He’d called that morning and asked her to come in. For reasons she didn’t understand, the thought produced a withering sense of dread.
“Do you recognize this person?” he asked when she stopped in front of his desk.
Sarah studied the picture of a young man with striking green eyes and long black hair past his ears. His mouth was set in a grim line.
“No, should I? Did he kill Sammy?” She studied the detective’s face, but he gave nothing away.
“I’m not sure. But I do know he was at your brother’s party and he wasn’t invited.”
“And?” Sarah waited for the detective to elaborate.
“He has a history with Kerry Manor. He’s tried to burn it down twice. Last year he was arrested for vandalizing it during the renovations, and he attacked Dane Lucas, the man who bought the house.”
Sarah’s eyebrows rose and she leaned closer to the picture, trying to draw him out from that night. The problem was that everyone wore costumes. She might have had a half-hour conversation with him and not known it because he was tucked behind a goblin mask.
“Why? What’s his issue with Kerry Manor?”
“He claims it’s haunted,” the detective said, lifting the photo up. “More than haunted, he called it evil the last time he got arrested.”
“What makes him say that?” Sarah asked, chilled by his comment.
“Something that stems from his childhood, according to another detective here. The kid’s name is Will. Six years ago, he witnessed his father murder his mother.”
Sarah grimaced, shaking her head.
“That’s terrible, but…”
“But what does it have to do with the house? Yeah, that’s what I asked. Will says they stumbled on Kerry Manor a week before the murder during a day at the beach. His father went in the house and had a strange experience. Will insists that something evil entered him in the house, and they took it home. Eight days later, his father strangled his mother in the bathtub.”
“And what happened to his father?”
“He killed himself in jail.”
“Good grief,” Sarah murmured. “No wonder the kid’s messed up.”
“The father said the same thing. He insisted when the police arrived that he hadn’t done it. He had no memory of the incident, but an evil little girl had followed him from Kerry Manor. She had killed his wife and was framing him.”
“So mental illness runs in the family?” Sarah asked, but her words sounded hollow. She thought of the gaps in Corrie’s memory.
“It hadn’t, before the murde
r,” Detective Collins continued. “The father’s record was pristine. Not a single incident of domestic violence, not even a drunk driving. But the son fixated on his father’s claims. He’s been trying to destroy Kerry Manor ever since.”
“Where is Will now?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. I have a guest at your brother’s party who saw him. He knew Will from school and recognized him. Will wore a black ninja costume that concealed the lower part of his face. He’s only seventeen and still a minor. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a home, per se. He stays with friends, changes locations pretty regularly.”
“Can’t you find him in school?”
“He took online classes and graduated early. He’s not in school anymore.”
“Why would he kill my brother, though? I mean, Sammy wasn’t the one restoring the house.”
The detective shrugged.
“Why do crazy people do crazy things? We’ll probably never have an answer to that question.”
CORRIE
* * *
I UNLOADED THE DISHES. We had bought this coffee mug in New Orleans when I was pregnant with Isis. It was bright pink and black with a colorful skull grinning out from the bone face. I put it in the cupboard, exhausted, though I’d spent most of the morning in a heap of blankets on my bed.
I was a therapist. I knew the signs of grief, depression, hopelessness. But what did any of those labels matter when you waded through it, the muck as high as your neck, the future only more of the same?
At some point I had to pull it together. I understood that on a theoretical level, but how did people actually do it? I usually counseled them to find a hobby, make friends, go for walks in nature.
I laughed and clutched the edge of the counter. For the first time in my life, I understood why people cut themselves. They sought relief from the despair trapped inside, mistakenly believing they could cut it out.
“Corrie?” I looked up to find Sarah in the kitchen doorway, an envelope in her hand.
“Hi,” I said, and then returned my gaze to the dishes, still troubled each time I looked at Sarah and saw Sammy tucked in her features.
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