The Box in The Cuts: A Supernatural Mystery

by Debra Castaneda

  “What are you doing here so late?” he asks. He eyes us suspiciously. Not that I blame him. After Monica Goodman was found dead at school, no one hangs out on campus after the last bell rings, not if they can help it.

  I clear my throat. “We were at her house on the west side,” I lie, pointing at Madison, “and we were just cutting through. A friend is picking us up out front.”

  “Have you ladies been hanging out in The Cuts? Because I'd sure hate to hear that considering everything that goes on there.”

  I shake my head. “No sir!” I even manage to sound offended at the suggestion. “We're seniors.” As if that explains everything.

  “Glad to hear it,” he says. “I'll walk you to your ride. Make sure you get there safely.”

  We have no choice but to follow him. Destiny is wobbly on her feet so Chloe and I each take an elbow and help her along. Madison is too busy trying to make sure the empty cans and bottles in her backpack don't clink and give us away. At least Alfie hasn’t let us down. He’s sitting in his old BMW. Chloe slides into the front next to him. He gives her his best Alfie smile. I give the officer a wave of thanks and he walks away.

  Destiny settles in next to me in the backseat. She stares out the window, still pale.

  As we pass by the Wirth Mansion, I can't help but notice that she grips the back of the seat so hard her knuckles are white. Then she closes her eyes, lips moving.

  Chapter 24

  It's eight thirty on Saturday morning and Alfie is not answering his texts. I should never have bothered inviting him to go with me to talk with Monica and Emily's parents. There is no point in waiting around. Alfie never gets up before noon on weekends.

  I'm not looking forward to going by myself. I have no experience with "death knocks." And I'm still not sure how I'm going to explain showing up asking the questions I have in mind.

  Before I leave, I check in with Destiny. No more sparking, but she’s still upset and confused. At least for now, she’s not telling her mother or sister. “They’ll just say I’m hysterical and imagined it,” she says before she hangs up.

  My dad drives me to pick up my car at school where I’d left it the day before. He’s not exactly happy when I tell him it’s because I’d had a few drinks, but he doesn’t make a big deal about it either. “I’d rather you not get behind the wheel and kill yourself,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. I hop out of his truck and drive off in my little red Mazda

  The Goodman's house is in a neighborhood called Old Hillside. Ten blocks of little cottages on big wooded lots. When I pull up, a middle-aged woman with fluffy blonde hair is out front, sweeping the sidewalk.

  I sit in my car, watching her, a fluttery feeling in my stomach. She might call me names. Start crying. Order me to leave. Threaten to call the principal. There is no avoiding her now because she's peering into the car.

  “Mrs. Goodman?” I say, getting out. “I'm from the school paper. Can I talk with you?” And then I wait, holding my breath.

  She nods. “Of course. My neighbor showed me the wonderful story you did on my daughter. Such beautiful pictures. I wish it were a regular newspaper though. Not just on the internet.” Mrs. Goodman opens the gate and motions for me to follow her.

  I'm not sure if I've walked into a fairy tale or a nightmare.

  A long stone path leads to a small house, painted white with blue trim, dwarfed by a towering redwood tree. The lawn is covered with ornamental statues. I spot a Santa Claus, a shiny black rabbit, a dragon and lots of gnomes.

  The house is stuffed with furniture and there are bird houses everywhere in eye popping colors.

  “Amazing,” I manage to say. “Do you make those bird houses yourself?”

  “Every single one,” she says proudly. She sits on a lumpy couch and pats the cushion next to her. “It started as a hobby, but now I sell them to people all over the world on my own website.”

  She continues talking. And talking. Mrs. Goodman does not behave like a woman whose daughter was found burned to death in a school bathroom. She might be on something. Medicated.

  “Are you here about the call from the coroner's office?” she asks abruptly.

  I shake my head. “No. They called you?”

  “They did. I should have told them in the first place, but I guess I just forgot,” she says, playing with the rings on her hand.

  “Told them what, Mrs. Goodman?”

  “That she was on painkillers!” she says impatiently. “They did some tests and they came back positive for oxycodone. They wanted to know more about that, naturally. She was hooked on the stuff. She went to rehab and everything. And it was all my fault. I should never have left my meds out.” Then she begins wringing her hands.

  “Are you saying Monica took your meds?”

  Mrs. Goodman turns to stare at me. “That’s exactly what happened. I was in a car accident, hurt my back. Monica sprained her ankle at a soccer game. The doctor didn’t want to give her anything special for the pain, so she helped herself to my pills. I'd stopped taking them and didn't even notice. Later, I found out she called my doctor's office, pretending to be me, and got the prescription renewed.”

  “She went to rehab?”

  “Yes, the counselor at the school said her teachers noticed a change in her behavior and the next thing I knew she was being evaluated and then off she went into one of those residential programs. She wasn't there for long. Said she was cured after two weeks. I didn't have the heart to make her stay.”

  When I ask Mrs. Goodman about the fire in the backyard, she begins blinking rapidly. “Oh, I wasn't home at the time,” she says vaguely. Then she stands up and thanks me for my visit. The conversation is over. It's been a waste of time. I learned Mrs. Goodman makes bird houses and that Monica had a problem with oxy.

  I'm picking my way back along the stone path when I notice a girl sitting on a tree swing.

  “Freaky, isn't she?” she asks.

  There is no polite answer to this. The most I can manage is a weak smile. “Are you Monica's sister?”

  She nods. “Yeah. I'm the dead girl's sister. Go me!” She pumps her fist into the air.

  “I'm sure it's not easy,” I say. Her hair is darker than Monica's, nearly brown. But she has the same strong features, the high forehead and wide mouth. “I'm Samantha Reyes, by the way.”

  “I know who you are. I'm Danielle. I heard what you were talking about. The window was open. She doesn't know by the way.”

  Great. Another confusing conversation. “Doesn't know what?” I ask, sinking onto the grass at her feet.

  “About Monica. About what was going on before she died.”

  I rub the back of my neck. My experience at the Goodman's is playing out like a scene from Alice in Wonderland, with everyone talking in riddles. “What was going on? Do you want to tell me?”

  She gives a little push on the swing and studies me, thinking it over. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “I work on the school paper. I guess I'm just trying to figure out what's going on like everyone else.”

  Danielle blinks, then tears flood her eyes and run down her cheeks, but she makes no move to wipe them away. I'm not expecting this sudden burst of emotion, so it takes a few seconds before I jump up and pat her on the back. “It's okay,” I say, feeling helpless.

  She gives a violent shake of her head and wipes her face with the back of her sleeve. “No. It’s not okay. It wasn't the drugs that were making Monica act like that. She was just taking them to make it stop.”

  Another riddle. “Make what stop?”

  “Everything!” Danielle wails. “The whispers. The sparks. Monica was scaring me, talking to herself, shouting at nothing.”

  At the mention of sparks, my heart nearly stops. My thoughts jump to Destiny, throwing off sparks as she stood in a puddle of water at school. There had to be a connection.

  I get Danielle to join me on the grass. I take her hand. Her story comes out in a jumble, bits and pieces, o
ut of order. But she's relieved to be telling someone, anyone. It started with Monica feeling as if an invisible presence were following her around. And then the whispers began.

  At first, Monica thought there was something wrong with her hearing. Or that she was going crazy. She was afraid to tell their mother because, just maybe, she was going to end up a schizophrenic like their uncle and they didn’t think their mom could handle it. And then, one day, when the two sisters were at home alone, Monica had run out of the house screaming.

  Danielle had run after her, terrified. She’d seen for herself what happened next. Monica had doubled over near a lamp post and grabbed it for support. When her hand touched the pole, sparks had flown in all directions. That wasn't the only time it happened. Monica started “sparking” when she touched anything metal. Once it happened while Monica was just sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into space, her hands over her ears to muffle the whispers.

  “Did you tell anyone?” I finally ask.

  Danielle shakes her head. “No! Because then she died. And who would believe me anyway?”

  “I heard about the gazebo fire. One of the firemen who came that night told me. He's a friend of my dad's. He said you saw a lady in your backyard the night of the fire. Is that true?”

  “She was there,” Danielle says. She shudders and squeezes my hand. “I'm not lying. It was like she was floating, not walking. It was dark, so it was hard to see, but that's what it looked like to me. I can't really explain it. Then the fire started. I called 9-1-1 and when I looked again, outside, she was gone, so I don't know. You believe me, don't you?”

  “I do,” I say, feeling the hair lift at the back of my neck. “I believe you.” I just have no idea what it all means. But it’s twice now that someone has mentioned feeling a presence. Monica. And Chloe. The girl who died. And the girl who saw her dead.

  Chapter 25

  There is no escaping the Wirth Mansion. The back of it looms into view as I drive up to Emily Miller's house. Alfie's ancient BMW is parked out front. I look in and there he is, sleeping, his hands folded across his chest. I knock on the window and he jumps.

  “He lives,” I say as he climbs out.

  He winces at the bright fall sun. “Barely.”

  “I'm not even going to ask you what you did last night.”

  He shrugs. “I wouldn't tell you anyway.”

  My eyes narrow as I study him. “You weren't with Chloe, were you?”

  Another shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. Ask her. See what she says.” He’s wearing jeans and a white hoodie.

  “No thank you,” I say, grabbing his arm and spinning him around so we're facing the Miller's house. “I am not getting dragged into your bullshit again.”

  Most of the houses are freshly painted, except for Emily's which is a dingy white with faded black trim, a For Sale sign in the yard and a blue tarp slung over the roof.

  “What happened at what’s-her-name's? Did you go?” Alfie asks, knocking his hip into mine.

  “Monica. Monica Goodman. And yes, I went. Alone, thanks to you. I'll tell you later.”

  We're halfway up the front path when a large dark shape rises up on the top step, blocking the front door. Alfie freezes. It's an enormous dog, maybe the biggest I've ever seen. Like half Great Dane, half wolf. It's watching us but doesn't bark or growl. Then again, it doesn't look happy to see us either.

  "Do you have any treats?" I ask Alfie.

  “Like a small child?” he replies, standing behind me. Alfie is not a dog person. He's not a cat person either. He goes to his car. When he returns, he hands me a beef stick.

  I peel off the wrapper. The dog is looking interested now. It pads over, sniffs, then holds up a giant paw. I'm not sure what that means, so I break the stick in two pieces and place them on the ground. The dog cocks its head and studies me.

  The front door opens. A tall man appears behind the screen door. “Tell her to take it,” he says. “Otherwise she'll sit there all day staring at it.”

  “Take it,” I say.

  The dog eats the bits of meat, daintily for such a big dog.

  “You two look a little young to be looking at the house,” the man says, looking us up and down. He's wearing a dark blue uniform, the kind the electricians wear at my dad's business.

  Alfie is standing next to me now. We exchange glances, confused. “We're from the school paper,” I explain.

  The man leans against the doorway. He's tall and skinny with a mustache so bushy it covers his top lip. “Oh. The realtor lady called and said some couple was headed over, but it's been a while now. I'm guessing they changed their minds. Once people find out what happened, they just sort of disappear.”

  Good point. Who'd want to buy a house where someone died a gruesome, mysterious death?

  “Come on in and tell me what you want,” he says, stepping aside.

  The floorboards creak beneath our feet as we enter. It's probably one of the oldest houses in Hillside, which date back to the 1860s. This I know because Madison loves talking about that stuff. Most of the older places in Hillside have been knocked down or remodeled, but not this one. The furniture looks like it should be hauled to the dump and the walls are bare, with scuff marks.

  Mr. Miller holds the door open for the dog, but it ignores him and flops down on the front porch with a loud sigh.

  “That's Gretel. She won't come inside anymore,” says Mr. Miller. “She sleeps out there now. What can I do for you?”

  Alfie nudges me. We hadn't talked about what we'd say, so he's leaving it to me.

  “Can we talk to you about Emily?” I ask.

  Before he can answer, his cell phone rings. He glances down and says, “I've got to take this,” and then he points in the general direction of a hallway. “You can look at her room if you want,” he adds gruffly, then disappears into the kitchen.

  We find Emily's room at the end of the hall. It has brown carpet and beige walls covered with posters. The twin bed is covered with a comforter in the colors of the rainbow. There is an old desk and a purple bean bag chair.

  “Kind of depressing,” Alfie whispers.

  “Yeah.” It looks like Emily did her best to cheer the place up, but the space is hopelessly drab.

  Compared to this, my bedroom is like a resort. Somewhere, there is the bathroom where Emily died, but I can’t bring myself to see it. And I can't think of a single reason how that would be helpful. Next to the dresser, a couple feet from the floor, I spot a scorched electrical outlet on the wall, surrounded by black burn marks. Made by Emily’s curling iron, just like firefighter Mike Carter said. Alfie’s eyes widen as I explain.

  Mr. Miller reappears, keys in his hand. “I gotta go, emergency at a job site. What did you say you wanted?” But it's clear he's just being polite and that he's in a hurry to leave. It's no time to ask the man questions, so we follow him out, stepping over Gretel.

  When he's driven off, we're standing by our cars, defeated. I'm telling Alfie about what I learned from Monica's sister when an ancient Mercedes pulls up next door and an old man gets out. He stops and stares at us. “You friends of that poor girl who died?” he calls.

  Alfie doesn't hesitate. “Yes, sir. We knew her.” Which is a lie, but when has that stopped him?

  “She was a little off, your friend,” the man says. He's stooped and his skin is like thin, crinkled paper. But his blue eyes are clear and sharp.

  “How do you mean off?” I ask.

  “My wife says she had schizophrenia and she ought to know. She's a nurse. Still works full time, even though I keep telling her to retire.”

  At this, my pulse quickens. “What made your wife think that?”

  The man opens the trunk of his car, then stops and looks expectantly at Alfie. Alfie takes the hint and begins unloading grocery bags. “My wife's seen some cases come and go at the hospital. She knows the signs.”

  He opens the front door and leads us into the house. The kitchen is bright and cheerful, nothing out of pla
ce.

  The old man introduces himself as John Williams. He continues, leaning against a counter. “We'd seen her running out of the house a couple times, right over there, into the front yard. The dad's hardly ever home he works so much, so he wasn't there when it happened. My wife went over to check on her. Said Emily told her she was hearing voices and had some crazy ideas.”

  “Crazy ideas?” Alfie says first.

  “That's right. Emily wanted to know if my wife ever heard anything about their house being haunted, that sort of thing. Told my wife she thought a ghost was following her around, maybe trying to tell her something.” I think back to Monica, how she’d felt an invisible presence, too.

  “And is it? Haunted, I mean?” I ask. Alfie's head whips around in surprise.

  Mr. Williams laughs. “Dan next door inherited the place from his aunt. I knew the lady and she never said a word about ghosts in the house, and she would have, believe me, because she was always going on about the Wirth Mansion being haunted. Like I said, Emily was having some mental problems, so that explains just about everything.”

  “Except how she died,” Alfie says. “What do you think happened to her?”

  Mr. Williams suddenly looks uneasy. “I have no idea,” he finally says. “That's what the police are for, isn't it? Personally, I think the girl must have killed herself.”

  Alfie raises a single eyebrow. “By setting herself on fire?”

  “It's a crazy world we live in,” Mr. Williams says, escorting us to the door.

  Once again, we find ourselves at our cars, talking things over. We decide I need to talk to Gabe. Ask if he can find out if Nicole had been hearing voices or seen a strange woman. Since Dan Miller had to rush off, we hadn't been able to ask him about the woman, but at least we know Emily heard voices too.

  We have no idea what to make of her believing a ghost was trying to talk to her. The idea of a ghost seems ridiculous, impossible.

  The enormous peaked roof of the Wirth Mansion rises above the trees. “So what do you think?” I ask Alfie, pointing over his shoulder. “You think that place is haunted?”