The Haunting of Abram Mansion

by Alexandria Clarke

  “He shot himself instead,” I answered. This was not a lie. It only omitted the portion of the true events that Ben wouldn’t understand. “He turned the gun up and shot himself under the chin.”

  “In front of you?”

  “In front of all of us,” I said. “In front of Sammy.”

  “Oh my God.” Ben crouched over me at an awkward angle to cradle me against his chest. “I’m so sorry, Peyton. I’m so sorry you had to see that. What can I do?”

  “Can I put my feet in your lap?”

  He rolled another office chair across from mine, sat down, and drew my legs into his lap. As he massaged my calves, he scanned me with a worried look. “So when did the police show up?”

  “About two minutes after Dylan shot himself,” I told him wearily. “He still had the gun in his hand. We tried to explain what happened, but Theo was in shock.”

  “What about Sammy?”

  “He seemed fine.”

  Also true. As adults, we always expected children to react with more fear in situations like these. We forgot that a child’s innocence protected them from mature emotions. Sammy didn’t know how to react to watching someone shoot himself. It was Theo who had dissolved into a bag of emotions after Dylan’s death. She was so frozen with fear that I went to Sammy first, pulling him into my arms at the top of the stairs to the mezzanine. In that moment, as Sammy buried his face in mine, I saw the ghostly woman vanish around the corner and into the next hallway.

  “Where are Theo and Sammy now?” Ben asked, pulling my head out of the past few hours and back to the present in the police station.

  “At the clinic,” I said. “The medics wanted to make sure Sammy wasn’t hurt, and Theo wasn’t responding. They wouldn’t let me go with them.”

  Ben’s brow furrowed in frustration. “That’s crap. You’re Theo’s best friend, and you’re practically Sammy’s other mom. Not to mention, you got injured as well. You should be at the clinic too. I swear, when those cops get back, I’m going to give them a piece of my mind—”

  I tickled Ben’s side with my foot. “Don’t worry about it. I told you—the medics checked me out at the house. I think they wanted someone here at the police station to question once they were finished at the house.”

  “So let me get this straight,” Ben said, untying my boots and pulling them off so he could rub my feet. “There’s a dead guy in our house, bleeding all over the floor in the foyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “That flooring is brand new.”

  A laugh barked its way out of my throat. “There’s a dead guy in our house, bleeding all over the foyer, and all you can think of is the new flooring?”

  “What?” Ben said innocently. “It was expensive! Can you imagine what Jim is going to say? He’s going to have to do it all over again.”

  I had a feeling Ben was ramping up the importance of the renovations we’d been doing at the Abram Mansion to get my mind off of Dylan’s suicide. At the very least, it was a solid attempt to cheer me up, and to my surprise, it was actually working.

  “Are you kidding?” I sniffled. “Jim will be thrilled. He gets double the money for the same floor.”

  Ben’s chuckle faded quickly, and he settled into a pensive expression. “Do you think it’s worth it anymore? The renovations?”

  “I’m starting to wonder why we tried to keep up with them in the first place,” I admitted. “According to my grandfather’s will, we only have to live in the mansion for another two months before we can sell it. We’re never going to finish upgrading it by then. We should have stopped after our own living space was finished.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Ben said. “A little paint, and that place isn’t nearly as depressing as it first seemed. Whoever owns it next should turn it into a museum or something. The construction is amazing, just… not for me.”

  “You miss home, don’t you?”

  Before our journey to the Abram Mansion, Ben and I had lived in our high school hometown, where we co-owned a small two-bedroom house. While I needed more, Ben was perfectly content to stay where we had always been. It was why we were on the verge of divorce.

  “I do,” Ben sighed. “I miss normalcy. Falconwood doesn’t feel normal.”

  “Not at all,” I muttered.

  Car engines rumbled in the parking lot and headlights flashed through the window as the police returned to their small office. Within seconds, the police team that had been investigating the scene at the mansion swarmed inside, chatting rowdily about Dylan’s death. When they spotted me and Ben in their chairs, they came down on us with a ton of questions.

  “Where were you at ten-fifteen p.m.?”

  “Did you know of the deceased’s history of mental illness and drug abuse?”

  “Was the child present at the time of the shooting?”

  One cop—a leggy blonde who looked better in the Falconwood P.D. attire than any of her male counterparts—broke through the crowd. Officer Hillary Spaughton was the one and only cop I trusted in Falconwood. “Back it up, everyone,” she said, and though she spoke at a regular volume, everyone heard her and listened. The cops—even the detective—bowed out of her way. Hillary looked paler than usual, but that was probably due to the fact that Dylan had dropped more than the advised dosage of laxatives in her coffee the day before.

  “Let’s go to the office,” she said, beckoning me and Ben to follow her. “We’ll have more privacy there. You don’t mind, Beckworth?”

  Beckworth, Falconwood’s lonesome detective and the only guy in the department with his own private office, shook his head. Hillary patted his shoulder in thanks—she was taller than him—and led us away from the horde. In the relative peace of the office, she sank into Beckworth’s chair with a surprising amount of familiarity.

  “Everyone knows I deserve Beckworth’s job,” she said in reply to my silent question. “But the chief decided to hire an out-of-towner, which was a mistake because I know this place better than the back of my own hand. Anyway, how are you two holding up? Anyone barf yet?”

  “We just want to know what’s going to happen next,” Ben said. “Is Peyton in trouble? Do we need to get a lawyer?”

  “Probably not.” Hillary swigged a blue electrolyte drink from her water bottle and puffed out an exhausted breath. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure Dylan’s death is going to be ruled a suicide. He still had the gun in his hand. No one else’s prints were on it. It’s impossible to read the evidence any other way. What you might consider instead of a lawyer is a therapist.”

  “No,” I said right away. “I don’t want to talk to some stranger about this. I don’t need to.”

  “You say that now,” Hillary replied, “but I can guarantee you’re going to change your mind later. I’ve seen a lot of crap go down in my line of work, and I thought I could handle it all by myself at first. Trust me, it’s better to talk to a professional.”

  “We’ll consider it,” Ben said, placing his hand over mine before I could argue any more. “What happens next?”

  “We had the crime scene team clean up the area already,” Hillary reported. “You can go home as soon as you’re ready to do so.”

  “It’s gone?” I clarified. “The body? The blood?”

  “You can’t even tell something happened there,” she confirmed. “Listen, I know it might be hard to go back there right away, so I called the local inn just in case. They have a room available if you’d like to stay there instead. We’ll cover the cost.”

  “Thanks,” Ben said. “We’ll consider it.”

  “What do you think about all of this?” I asked Hillary. “About Dylan shooting himself?”

  Hillary gazed over the desk at me, folding her fingers together. “I think it was only a matter of time before Dylan ended up the way he did. He was a heavy drug user, and my guess is he was going through withdrawals when he came to find Theo at your house. We pulled his records” —she entered Beckworth’s password on his computer and
got access to his files— “and Dylan’s been in out and out of prison for years. Theft, assault, possession. You name it. I don’t know what the hell Theo was doing with this guy, but she was smart to get Sammy out of that situation. ” She patted her stomach, burped, and took another sip of her drink. “I might be speaking out of turn, but I’m glad he’s gone. Theo doesn’t need a guy like Dylan harassing her, and I sure as hell don’t need some idiot dumping laxatives in my coffee every morning. He was on my shit list as soon as I met him.”

  “Do you know if Theo and Sammy are okay?” I asked her. “I tried calling the clinic, but they wouldn’t tell me anything because I’m not family.”

  “They’re doing better,” Hillary said. “I checked in on them before I went to the mansion. Theo’s no longer in shock, but they’re keeping her overnight just in case. Sammy is… well, he’s Sammy. That kid bounces back from everything.”

  “When can I see them?”

  “They’ll be released tomorrow morning,” she answered. “You can make plans with them then, but don’t push it. They need their rest, and so do you two. Where did we land on the room at the inn?”

  “We’ll pass,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” Ben asked me in an undertone. “I know you don’t always sleep well at the mansion. It wouldn’t be a big deal to share a room at the inn for a couple nights.”

  “We made a promise to my grandfather to stay at the mansion for six months,” I reminded him. “We have to go back at some point. Why put it off?”

  “As long as you’re certain,” Ben said.

  “I’m certain.”

  “That’s that then,” Hillary said, logging out of Beckworth’s computer. She stood up to walk us out. “I’ll keep you updated on the case, but I don’t expect there to be any surprises. Now that Dylan’s out of the picture, the two of you can rest easy.”

  Despite Hillary’s attempt at comfort, there was to be no resting easy at the mansion that night. When Ben and I returned home, the foyer smelled strongly of disinfectant and the laminate wood flooring bore wet streaks from where the cleaners had mopped up Dylan’s blood. The smell carried through the corridors and into my bedroom. It was so prevalent that I asked Dylan if I could stay in his room instead. Not only was his bedroom farther from the foyer and therefore less smelly, but I also didn’t want to sleep alone that night. I didn’t want to be alone at all.

  There were times when Ben was perfect, and I asked myself why we were getting divorced at all. Tonight was one of those nights. He stood in the bathroom while I showered, kept me company in the kitchen as I refilled my water bottle, and even walked me back to the bathroom and kept watch outside the door when I had to pee again. When I couldn’t fall asleep, he held me close. Though his plaster arm extended up at an odd angle over the pillowcase, he didn’t move until I’d drifted off to the sound of his heartbeat. I woke up a few hours later as the sky was just beginning to lighten. Ben was passed out against the pillows, his good arm draped over my body. Carefully, I slid out from beneath his weight and tiptoed into the hallway.

  In the foyer, I walked around the part of the floor where Dylan had died then flopped onto the couch. I gazed up the steps to the mezzanine. Just hours ago, Sammy had stood there with a gun pointed to his head. We could have lost him in a second. What kind of man aimed a gun at a child?

  “The crazy kind,” I muttered to myself.

  The curtains fluttered, and a cold draft wafted across the room. A chill crept across my spine, a sure sign that I wasn’t alone in the foyer.

  “Alyssa?” I whispered. “Is that you?”

  A small child emerged from behind the curtains. She was of the adorable variety, with chubby cheeks, auburn hair, and a pink scarf tied around her neck. She also happened to be dead. A hazy light outlined her figure. Until recently, Alyssa never appeared in my direct line of vision, nor did she often speak to me, but I had a feeling the rules were changing.

  “That was your mother I saw last night, wasn’t it?” I asked her, keeping my voice low. “She was the one who saved Sammy?”

  Alyssa nodded before flitting to the other side of the room like a hummingbird. She hid in the alcove beneath the mezzanine, peering out at me with wide-eyed curiosity.

  “Her friend—Charles—told me what he thought happened to you and your mother.” It seemed so long ago that I had met with Charles Rainer to discuss what he knew about the Abram family. “Your father… did he hurt you?”

  Alyssa nodded again.

  “Is he the reason you’re still here?” It was the easier way to ask what I really wanted to know. Did Percy Abrams kill his wife and daughter before he committed suicide?

  Once more, Alyssa nodded. As soon as she did, a pain ricocheted through my heart as if someone had shot an arrow clean through me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I told her. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that. Your mother didn’t deserve it either. Has she been here all along with you?” Another nod. “I didn’t know. I thought it was just you. I guess it makes sense though.” The more I thought about it, the more obvious it became that Penelope had been in the house all along. She just hadn’t shown herself to me like Alyssa did. “It was your mother who always chased me out, wasn’t it? In the attic and your bedroom? Every time something was thrown at me, I thought it was you, but it was your mom.”

  “She doesn’t like people in her house.”

  As always, when Alyssa did choose to speak to me, it startled me so much that my bones tried to jump out of my skin. Her voice was soft and warbly, like a songbird who was unsure of its tune. I tried to hide my discomfort from the little ghost.

  “I’m trying to help her,” I said.

  “She doesn’t think so,” Alyssa whispered. “She says you bring bad things into the house.”

  “What bad things?”

  “People.”

  “Alyssa, I wouldn’t invite anyone to the mansion if I didn’t think they were good people,” I assured her. “What happened last night with Dylan was a fluke. We didn’t bring him here.”

  “Not him.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about then.” With Dylan on my mind, I had another question for the little ghost. “Alyssa…is Dylan going to come back like you did? Because he died here?”

  As the light of dawn brushed the foyer with golden strokes, Alyssa shook her head and came a little closer. “There are rules. He died by his own hand. We were wronged. That’s what Mama says anyway.”

  “So you can’t pass over because you were murdered?”

  “I guess not.”

  “The man who killed you is also dead,” I reminded her. “Isn’t that enough retribution for you to move on?”

  Perhaps it was different when the man who killed you was your own father because Alyssa shook her head again. “We remain here. We can’t go. We need your help.”

  “I can’t help you unless you tell me what you’re looking for,” I said. “You have to give me more to go on. Just tell me what I need to do.”

  “Alyssa!” The stern voice rang down the second-floor corridor from the east wing of the house, where the Abrams’ main living accommodations had been. “Come here this instant!”

  It was the unmistakable tone of a mother ready to scold her daughter. Alyssa turned bright pink, and the fuzzy outline around her grew blurrier. I knew she was about to vanish.

  “Wait—!”

  It was too late. Alyssa disappeared from the foyer and reappeared at the top of the stairs of the mezzanine. She put her finger to her lips before running off, the pitter patter of her little feet fading into nothing. Seconds later, Ben emerged from his room with a loud yawn.

  “Oh, it’s just you,” he said, patting my shoulder affectionately from behind the couch.

  “What’s just me?”

  He headed down the stairs into the kitchen. “I thought I heard voices.”

  “You did,” I muttered under my breath.

  According to the police, the best thing to do
after a traumatic experience was to get back to your normal routine as soon as possible. On one hand, that seemed impossible. A man had killed himself right in front of me and I was supposed to have coffee like it had never happened? On the other hand, what else was I supposed to do but head into town like I did every other morning? The Black Cat Café was one of my main sources of comfort anyway, and as soon as Ben left for work, I didn’t want to be alone at the mansion anymore. Of course, the events of last night had spread through the small town like wildfire, and the owner of the Black Cat was the first to ask me about it.

  “Is it true?” Mason said as soon as I stepped up to the cash register. “Did you kill Theo’s ex-boyfriend for trespassing at your house?”

  I set my debit card on the counter with a quick snap. “Now Mason. If I had killed a man last night, do you think I would be standing in your café today? I need a double shot of espresso and the largest stack of French toast you’ve ever made. I’m talking record-breaking here, buddy. Can you do that?”

  My quick tone told Mason not to mess with me, and the message must have spread through the rest of the café because no one else approached me as I carried my coffee to my regular table near the front windows. Not long after, Theo and Sammy came in. Mason caught my eye as they walked up to the counter, and I drew a finger across my throat. He caught my drift and took their order without mentioning the events of last night. Sammy spotted me in the corner booth and ran over.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said, climbing into my lap. “You’re okay, right?”

  “Yes.” I smiled down at his cute, pink cheeks. “Forget about me. What about you?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Mom’s scared though. I think she might have seen what really happened last night. She keeps trying to talk to me about it—”