The Haunting of Abram Mansion

by Alexandria Clarke

  Another nod. Another ripple of fear across my entire body.

  “You can also tell how far away the storm is by the amount of seconds between the lightning strike and the next boom of thunder.” Little by little, I shifted my head toward the board games, hoping not to scare her. “For every five seconds you count, the storm is one mile away. Do you want to try together?”

  The small figure nodded again. My heartbeat quickened as her image began to solidify. I could see her pink polka-dotted scarf now, just as Sammy had described, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see more. A flash of lightning illuminated the hallway above us.

  “One Mississippi,” I whispered. “Two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi, six Mississippi—”

  The thunder rang out, and the figure cowered against the board games.

  “It’s all right,” I assured her. “That was six seconds, so that means the storm is over a mile away. It was a lot closer when you first turned on the lights. Now it’s getting farther away, which probably means it’s going to be over in another hour or so.”

  The figure took a step toward me. I stumbled backward. My arm ran into something sharp behind me—an ice pick sticking off of a shelf. The point of it pricked the back side of my arm, drawing blood. Alyssa’s figure backed away.

  “It’s okay,” I said hurriedly. “I’m scared too. You’re not alone.”

  I clapped my free hand to the back of my arm to stem the blood. Another shelf rattled of its own accord. An old first aid kit fell off of it and sprang open to reveal clean rolls of gauze and antibiotic cream. The figure pointed toward it.

  “Thanks, but I think that stuff’s kind of old by now,” I said. “We have some newer things upstairs. Are you okay? Do you think you can turn the lights off? If you want, you can keep the one in your room on. It won’t bother me.”

  The figure tilted her head to the side as if considering it. I was still too scared to look right at Alyssa, terrified by what I might see. After a moment, the lights in the basement flickered.

  “There we go!” Ben’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Hey, Peyton! The lights stopped acting insane!”

  Alyssa had left the basement light on for me, but as soon as she’d heard Ben’s voice, she’d disappeared. Clutching my arm, I closed the fuse box and headed upstairs.

  “What happened to you?” Ben asked when he saw the blood dribbling from my sleeve. He’d finished making the pasta and set the table for two.

  “It’s a mess down there,” I said, rinsing the puncture wound at the kitchen sink. “I ran into an old ice pick.”

  “Ooh, is your tetanus updated?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, thanks for going down there.” He spooned sauce one-handed over two bowls of pasta and nodded at the seat next to his. “I made enough for two. Want some?”

  “Sure.”

  Before joining Ben, I pressed a paper towel against the cut and glanced through the window into the courtyard. As promised, Alyssa had cut all the lights except for the ones Ben and I had turned on ourselves. However, one light in the east wing—in her bedroom—remained lit.

  Ben woke up early and worked in his office for most of the next morning. When I stopped to listen outside his door, I could hear the steady, slow plink of his one-handed keyboard work. Happy he was getting back to his normal self, I almost walked off to get ready for my day. I had the usual planned: breakfast at the Black Cat Café, a walk around town, maybe some photography practice, and picking up Sammy from school. Then Ben’s phone rang.

  “Hey, boss,” he said, picking the call up immediately. “I’m almost done with the material you asked for—yeah, we’re back on track. Why?”

  There was a pause as his boss replied. When Ben spoke again, there was a hard edge to his tone.

  “I told you,” he said. “We were out of town for marriage counseling. It was a week’s retreat. I thought you were okay with it—what do you mean you didn’t approve it? We had an understanding—no, but—I think we can still make this work.”

  My shoulders tensed. I could see where this was going.

  “You hired someone else?” Ben said. “Why the hell would you do that? I’m getting the work done! No, you stop shouting, jackass!”

  I jumped as Ben’s cell phone hit the opposite side of the office door and clattered to the floor. I went inside to find Ben with his forehead in his hands, his wheelchair about four feet from his desk as if he’d pushed himself away from his laptop in frustration. He glanced up at me when I came in.

  “How much of that did you hear?”

  “All of it.”

  “Can you hand me my phone?”

  I picked it up from the floor and turned it over. The screen was cracked from top to bottom. “I don’t think you’ll be making any calls on this for a while.”

  Ben groaned. “Can I borrow yours?” When I handed it to him, he dialed a number from memory and put the phone up to his ear. “Hey, Jim? Yeah, it’s Ben Fletcher. Listen, I’m sorry to do this to you on such short notice, but I’m going to have to suspend construction. No, it’s not your fault. My job didn’t work out, and I’m not going to be able to pay you guys until I find a new one. Thanks, man. You have a good day too.”

  Ben hung up, handed my phone back, and returned his head to his hands. I rubbed his shoulders.

  “You’ll find another job,” I said.

  “Not like that one,” he replied. “And I haven’t talked to my other contacts in two months. I don’t have any leads.”

  “Can they really just fire you like that?” I asked him. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “We had an agreement,” Ben said, rubbing stress and sleep from his eyes. “An agreement that I breached when I didn’t turn any work in for a solid week. God, I’m such an idiot. I should have just told him about my injury.”

  I pursed my lip, holding in the I told you so that kept threatening to fall out of my mouth. Saying it wouldn’t be productive, and it definitely wouldn’t help to keep the peace between me and Ben.

  “Why don’t you come into town with me?” I said. “You don’t have to supervise Jim today, nor do you have to work. It’s not good for you to be cooped up in the house all the time. We can have breakfast at the Black Cat. Bring your laptop. You can work on reaching out to your contacts. You’re a good guy, Ben, and a hard worker. Someone will hire you.”

  “I only have one hand,” he reminded me. “Who’s going to hire a technical writer who can only work at half speed?”

  “Someone with enough grace to understand what you’ve been through.” I wheeled him out of the office and into his bedroom, then pulled open his dresser. “Get dressed. We’re going.”

  We parked the SUV right outside the Black Cat, which meant all eyes were on us through the windows of the café as I unloaded Ben’s wheelchair from the trunk and helped him transfer to it from the passenger seat of the car. As soon as Ben took control of it himself and we went inside, everyone turned back around to mind their own business. Mason—the flamboyant owner of Black Cat—beamed at us as we approached the counter, his handlebar mustache bristling.

  “The Fletchers, together again!” he said. “I’m so glad to see you out and about, Ben. I hope you’re taking good care of yourself.”

  “Doing my best,” Ben replied in a gruff tone. “What have you got for a guy who just lost his job?”

  “Bourbon,” Mason answered. To my surprise, he didn’t latch on to Ben’s job loss and ask more about it. “It warms the body and the mind. I’ll pour a shot of my best batch into your coffee. Sound good?”

  “Your best batch?” Ben said. “You make your own bourbon?”

  “I sure do, and I reserve it for my best customers.” Mason turned red and lowered his voice. “Just don’t tell the government. It’s my own private stash. Unmonitored. I don’t sell it. I just share it, but it’s technically illegal.”

  “Your secret’s safe with us,” I assured Mason.

  �
�And I love strong coffee,” Ben added with a wink.

  Mason blushed as he rang up Ben’s “regular” coffee and my usual breakfast order. “Oh, Mr. Fletcher, I’m married, you flirt! Anything else I can get for you?”

  “Biggest stack of pancakes you have on the menu,” said Ben.

  “Coming up, handsome.”

  I wheeled Ben to the end of the counter to pick up our coffees. Ben took one sip of his and let out a relieved sigh. “There’s Della,” I said. “Let’s go sit with her.”

  He put on the brakes. “I’m not sure I can take the town gossip.”

  “She’s not like that,” I told him, forcing the handbrake up and wheeling him over to Della’s table. “Besides, we have breakfast every day. She’s expecting me.”

  Ben pasted a smile on his face, one that Della matched when she saw us. She got up from the booth to give Ben a gentle hug. At her small height, she hardly had to stoop to reach him.

  “Benjamin!” she said. “It’s great to see you. You look much better than the last time I saw you, I have to say.”

  “Thanks, I’m feeling better too,” Ben said. The bruises on his face were not as dark as they had been a few days ago, though they were taking on the unattractive yellow tinge of healing. “Do you mind if we join you?”

  “Not at all!”

  I slid into the booth across from Della while Ben parked his wheelchair at the end of the table. Within minutes, Mason served us our hot, steaming breakfasts, and we dug in.

  “What brings you into town, Ben?” Della asked as she cut her sausages into perfectly-proportioned bite-sized pieces. “I usually have to rely on this one for company.” She jokingly nudged me under the table.

  “It just so happens I have a lot more free time on my hands as of this morning,” Ben said. “I lost my job.”

  “Oh, that’s awful!”

  “It’s a challenge,” I said, stepping in when I saw Ben’s sullen expression. “But we’ll get through it. Ben has some good connections.”

  “You know,” Della mused. “Basil’s always wanted to write a book on independent hydroponic horticulture. He says he has all the information but none of the skill to write it down. If you like, I can ask him if he’d be interested in hiring you to do it for him.”

  “That’s okay,” Ben replied hastily. “Horticulture isn't really my thing. I usually work on tech manuals and stuff like that.”

  “Yeah, but you could adapt,” I encouraged him. “A local job might be a good change of pace, and I’m sure Basil would be willing to work with your injury.”

  “He absolutely would,” Della assured us. “Basil’s a bit spacey himself, so you’d probably have to keep him on track, but the two of you would make a good team!”

  Ben shot me a look that Della wasn’t supposed to see. He didn’t want to do this. His interest in hydroponic greenhouses was pretty low. I kicked his leg under the table, gently, and gave him a subtle nod. No matter how badly he didn’t want to work with Basil, it was an opportunity he couldn’t look over.

  “Just consider it,” Della said, sensing the disagreement between us. “I’ll mention it to Basil, and if you’re interested, give him a call. Sound good?”

  “Sounds great,” said Ben.

  Della didn’t stick around for long. She finished her breakfast and bid us goodbye, saying she had a local photography job that needed attention. Knowing Della and her keen sense of perception, she could tell Ben wasn’t in the mood for casual chit chat. He worked on his laptop for a few hours, typing emails out as fast as he could with one hand. Every so often, he would let out a deep sigh. When Mason heard him do it, he brought Ben another loaded coffee. Ben drank it too fast, turned bright red, and closed his laptop.

  “I just had a thought,” he said. “You’re not supposed to mix painkillers with alcohol, are you?”

  I immediately began collecting my things. “Let’s get you home.”

  After getting Ben into bed and making him drink a liter of water to rehydrate, I Googled his medications to make sure he wasn’t in immediate danger. Thankfully, he hadn’t had enough bourbon to do much damage, so I left him to catch up on his sleep and returned to town. Since I was short on time, I drove the SUV to Sammy’s elementary school and joined the line of minivans in the pickup loop. The process was similar to that of picking someone up at the airport. If you saw your kid waiting for you, you had permission to pull over at the curb. If not, you had to keep moving. At the end of the loop, you had to make a U-turn and repeat the whole circle again until your kid showed up.

  I drove around the loop at least five times, coming in close contact with the bumpers of other mothers. On my next go around, there were significantly less cars to contend with and most of the kids had already been picked up. The buses were gone too. I checked my watch. The last bell of the day had rung thirty minutes ago. Sammy should be waiting for me. I parked near the front office and went inside. The secretary, bless her heart, had replaced her pin with one that plainly said Say no to drugs! in big capital letters.

  “Hi, I’m Peyton Fletcher,” I told her. “I’m supposed to be picking up Sammy Baker today, but I haven’t spotted him yet. Did he get held up in class or something?”

  The secretary checked a list of names on the clipboard in front of her. “Sammy Baker… Nope! His mom picked him up today. She was one of the first ones in the loop this afternoon.”

  “Theo was here?”

  “So says my paperwork.”

  Back in the car, I checked my phone. It was on silent. Ben must have accidentally switched the Do Not Disturb function on when he’d borrowed it that morning. I had a text message from Theo that read, Got out of work early, so don’t worry about picking up Sammy. Come over when you can?

  Relieved, I buckled my seatbelt and drove to Theo’s. I stopped at the bakery on the floor below to pick up coffee and pastries then headed upstairs. Sammy answered the door.

  “Hi, Peyton,” he said, unusually subdued. “Wanna come in?”

  Theo fiddled with the coffee maker in the kitchen. Her shoulders were drawn up to her ears. She put the glass pot in place then pushed the start button. The coffee maker groaned and sputtered.

  “Damn it!” Theo said, kicking the counter.

  “Whoa,” I said as Sammy raced off to the other room. “Go easy on it. Looks like an off-brand. How long have you had that thing anyway?”

  “All I wanted was a cup of coffee—”

  “Lucky for you, I stopped downstairs.” I set the fresh coffees on her counter along with the pastries. “Got a cinnamon roll for you too. It’s your favorite, right? You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Theo planted her hands on the counter. She didn’t touch the coffee or the cinnamon roll. Something was off. When I brought goodies, she was usually the first one to drain her cup.

  “I don’t need or want your charity, Peyton,” she said. “I know we’re good friends, and I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but it’s not right.”

  “Theo, it was three dollars and seventy-five cents,” I replied, confused as to where this was coming from. “If you want to reimburse me, more power to you.”

  “I’m not talking about the coffee.”

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  She went to her coat hanging by the door and fished around in the front pocket for a regular envelope that had been folded in half. She tossed it onto the counter. “This.”

  I drew two hundred dollars from the envelope. “Whoa! Where did this come from?”

  “Don’t play dumb,” she said. “I know you left it for me to find.”

  “Theo, I swear I didn’t,” I said, putting the money away. “I don’t have this kind of cash lying around, and Ben just lost his job.”

  Theo’s brow furrowed. “It wasn’t you.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then who—?”

  “Someone who cares about you?” I suggested.

  “No.” She shook the envelope as if trying to get a st
ray cat off her front lawn. “Money doesn’t land in your lap like this. It always comes with a price. Trust me.”

  14

  “Why would I take a job about horticulture?”

  Ben ambled around the kitchen, making coffee with one hand. His wheelchair waited at the top of the steps. It was his first attempt at navigating without it, something I’d made him promise not to do unless I was present. He was doing well so far, but I could tell it how much effort he was putting into his coffee-making. He walked with one shoulder higher than the other to keep one of his injured ribs from bothering him, and he took a deep breath between every four words, as if he’d just come inside after running a marathon. Still, I was happy to see him on his feet.

  “Think of the benefits,” I told him, getting the coffee filters off the high shelf in the pantry so he wouldn’t have to. “It’s local, so you don’t have to go too far—”

  “I didn’t have to go anywhere with my other jobs,” Ben countered. “Working remotely, I could stay in bed.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s the best thing for you right now,” I said. “You need to be moving around. It will quicken your healing process. Besides, the Gordons have been so helpful to us in the last two months.”

  “Maybe Della has.” He filled the coffee pot with water then hit the top of the faucet with his cast to turn the water off. “But I haven’t seen Basil around. What does that guy do anyway?”

  “I think he’s a bit of a hermit,” I admitted. “According to Della, he stays home to work most days. Kind of like you, if you think about it.”

  “Are you comparing me to the town’s hippie grandpa?”

  “No,” I answered. “Because there’s nothing hippie about you. I can’t remember the last time you pulled out a bong.”

  “Basil has a bong?”

  I rolled my eyes as Ben struggled to fit the coffee pot into the proper slot. When he finally got it in, he slumped against the counter and wiped his brow. I tossed four pieces of bread into the toaster and tore open a package of bacon. For once, I’d decided to forego my usual breakfast at the Black Cat to spend time with Ben. Without Jim and his crew hammering away, the house was strangely quiet. It closed in on me, pressing against my ears like a fluffy pillow. If I listened closely enough, I heard the ever-present whispers that traveled through the walls. Sometimes, I tried to figure out what they were saying, but glimpses of the one-sided conversations fed my nightmares.