The Haunting of Abram Mansion

by Alexandria Clarke

  “I’m not,” I insisted. “I promise you. Okay?”

  He pulled away from my touch, like it was no longer as comforting as it once used to be. “If you say so. I should head back out. Basil’s probably wondering where I am.” He turned around to go up the stairs and ran into Della as she was coming down. “Hi, Della. Good day so far?”

  “Not too bad,” Della said, and though Ben might not have heard it, I could sense the lie in her voice.

  Ben waved over his shoulder. “See you for dinner.”

  Della waited until she heard the front door close before turning to me. “It’s getting worse.”

  “What is?”

  “Whatever’s happening in this house,” she clarified. “I’m starting to feel it out in the airstream. It’s spreading across the grounds.”

  “I’m doing the best I can!” My voice exploded across the kitchen and ricocheted off the subway tiles, coming back to me louder than intended. I took note of Della’s shocked expression. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I’m frustrated. I tracked down my grandfather’s business and all I got out of it was this stupid magazine article.”

  Della peered around me for a look at the magazine. “What article? Can I see it?”

  “Sure, but good luck making any sense out of it.”

  She sat in my chair and pulled the magazine toward her. She didn’t use the magnifying glass like I did. “I’ve read this article before.”

  “You have?” I looked over her shoulder, as if something new might have appeared on the old pages to trigger her memory. “When? How?”

  Her eyes flicked back and forth as she skimmed the article. “I’m not sure, but it’s definitely familiar.” She checked the byline. “Your grandfather wrote this?”

  “Supposedly,” I said. “I didn’t know he was interested in horticulture. Then again, I didn’t know a lot about him in general.”

  “Can I have this?” Della asked, holding up the article with a delicate touch. “I’ll return it to you tomorrow. I promise.”

  “Well, I was going to—”

  “One day,” Della said. “Twenty-four hours. That’s all I need.”

  Though she meant it as a request, it sure sounded like a demand, and Della was the only other person I could trust with all of this information. If she knew something about the article, it couldn’t hurt to let her figure it all out.

  “Okay,” I said, nodding. “Until tomorrow.”

  Someone cleared their throat behind us. I looked into the shadowy kitchen stairway and spotted Alyssa’s familiar outline. She wouldn’t come entirely into the kitchen, not while Della was there. Della and Alyssa’s intertwined paths prevented them from wanting to coincide again. Only Alyssa’s shoes and socks were visible, since she stood on the next to highest step.

  Della tucked the article into the front of her sweater, pushed in the kitchen chair, and left without a word through the back door. As she went, I caught a glimpse of the newly-trimmed garden. Basil had done a phenomenal job shaping the courtyard into its former grandeur. He had trimmed the topiaries into lions that guarded the pool and garden. They prowled and panted around the garden’s perimeter. As Alyssa moved into the kitchen, she too peered into the backyard.

  “It looks the same,” she whispered, pressing her nose and little fingers to the window panes in the door.

  “No, it doesn’t.” I stood behind her to get a better look at the garden, half-expecting to see the condensation from Alyssa’s breath on the glass. Of course, there was none. “It looks completely different.”

  “I meant the same as it used to,” Alyssa said. “Mama never liked the lions, but I did. Daddy made them like that for me.”

  A sour taste flooded my mouth. “At what point did your dad stop cutting bushes for you and start planning your mur—?”

  I cut myself off. I had forgotten who I was talking to, as well as her relative age. Sometimes, it was difficult not to talk to Alyssa as if she were a fully grown adult. She was so well-spoken for a five-year-old girl, and she sometimes exhibited maturity that far exceeded my expectations of her. Alas, she was only a child, one that didn’t deserve to be reminded of her death.

  “Did you need something?” I asked her, redirecting the conversation. “You don’t usually come out of hiding unless you want to tell me something.”

  “I heard someone snooping around in the study.”

  My blood ran cold. Had the stalker already returned to the mansion for another round of cat and mouse? I fished my phone out of my pocket. I had Hillary on my list of favorites. As I clicked her name and the phone began to ring, I crept out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the mezzanine. As I passed the fireplace, I grabbed one of the iron pokers and swung it over my shoulder like a baseball bat.

  “Officer Spaughton,” she answered.

  “Someone’s in the house,” I hissed, creeping along the hallway toward Percy’s study. “I think it’s the stalker.”

  Her tone changed at once, and I heard the squeak of her chair as she sat up straighter in her seat. “Where are you? Are you safe? Where is the intruder?”

  “He’s in the study,” I whispered, hardly breathing as I approached the door. It was slightly ajar, and I could hear someone shuffling around inside. I kept the fire poker up by my shoulder. “I’m right outside.”

  “Get out of the house,” Hillary advised. Something rustled in my ear, as if she’d pinned the phone to her ear to get her jacket on. “I’m on my way.”

  “No,” I replied, my resolve hardening. “I’m going to confront him.”

  “Peyton, don’t—!”

  I hung up on Hillary, knowing she would be here in five minutes anyway. With the fire poker in position, I tiptoed closer to the study’s entrance. Something had come over me—an adrenaline rush and the knowledge that this was my house as of right now. I’d been scared in my own home for too long, and I refused to be fearful any longer. A wave of anger came over me, forcing my foot up and into the study door. It slammed open, and I charged inside, yelling and waving the fire poker.

  “Get out!” I screamed at the figure crouched in the corner, examining Percy Abram’s art collection. “This is my house, you piece of scum! The police are on their way—”

  The “intruder” turned around. It was Basil. He raised his palms and backed away from Percy’s things, trembling with emotion. He eyed the fire poker raised over my shoulder.

  “It’s me, Peyton,” he said, his voice shaking. “It’s Basil. I was looking for some old paper to recycle. There’s a way to use it as fertilizer. I thought it might make for an interesting chapter in the book—”

  I lowered the fire poker. I was shaking too. The adrenaline rush hadn’t worn off quite yet. “I thought you were the stalker.”

  He gave an uncertain laugh. “Clearly. Are you all right?”

  I squeezed the bridge of my nose, wishing my panicking body would catch up with my brain. “I will be. Can you do me a favor though? Shout me a warning if you come into the house. This whole stalker situation has me a little on edge.”

  “Are you sure it’s not the house?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Basil rolled some of Percy’s papers up to manage them better and tucked them under his arm. He set his free hand on my shoulder to comfort me. “I know better than most that this house isn’t entirely what it seems. I’ve seen what it did to Della. It took her awhile to come back from that. I don’t want that to happen to you too.”

  I took his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you. I appreciate it. Did you find what you needed?”

  He waved the rolled-up papers. “These should do the trick. They’re practically disintegrating already.”

  “Good luck with your experiment.”

  He touched his fingers to his forehead—since he wasn’t wearing a hat—by way of farewell and escorted himself from the study. As his footsteps faded down the hallway, I slumped against the plush green armchair by Percy’s desk. A cold breeze tickled my shins.

/>   “False alarm,” I called to Alyssa, knowing she was there before I could see her. Sure enough, she peeked out from behind Percy’s bookshelves. “It was only Basil.”

  “Basil,” she murmured, elongating the “ah” sound. “Who is he?”

  “Della’s husband.”

  Alyssa left the study and crossed the corridor to watch from the window as Basil left the mansion and headed back to the greenhouse foundation. Alyssa peered down at him, her eyebrows scrunched together in consternation.

  “Is he your dad?” she asked.

  I snorted. “No, my dad is an enigma.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind,” I told her. “Are you okay?”

  She stayed at the window, leaning her chin on her elbows. In the yard, Basil shredded the papers by hand and added them to the fresh dirt of the greenhouse. She didn’t answer my question.

  “Helloooo.” I waved my hand in Alyssa’s face. No response. “I’m done. Let me know if you need me, kid. I’ll be downstairs trying to restart my heart.”

  The hours passed by slowly. I skipped the Black Cat Café that day because Hillary’s cruiser came screaming into the yard five minutes after I’d called her, and it took me an hour and a half to convince her that the stalker hadn’t actually returned to the house. She insisted on doing a perimeter check anyway, lingering near Basil’s greenhouse to inspect his new work. Basil talked to her for ten minutes or so, his hands moving wildly as he gesticulated his greenhouse plans to her. Hillary, mildly interested, let him go on until she got a call on her radio for someone speeding through town.

  “Keep me updated,” she said to me as she ducked into her cruiser and started it up. “I want to know everything that goes on out here.”

  “Will do,” I said.

  Hours later, the mansion was so quiet and boring that I found myself hoping something more exciting would happen. Without Andrew Anderson’s article to examine, I had nothing to go on until tomorrow. For the hell of it, I filled up the pool. The courtyard looked so much nicer after Basil’s marathon of gardening yesterday that it seemed silly not to take advantage of it. Not to mention, the sun was warm enough to stick my feet in without freezing to death. I got a towel and a book and set myself up outside. There, I spent the rest of the afternoon until it was time to pick up Sammy. Significantly tanner, I went inside to get dressed and ready. As I rinsed sunscreen off my legs in the bathroom nearest my bedroom, a short, distressed yelp echoed into the hallway.

  My first thought was that it belonged to Alyssa. I was starting to expect her freak-outs, especially with what Della said about things getting worse. I hopped out of the bathroom, still toweling off my legs, and listened in the hallway. All was silent.

  “Hello?” I called. “Everyone okay?”

  No replied.

  “Alyssa?” I ventured, hoping no one else was in the house that might question who Alyssa was. “Anyone?”

  I slipped on the new flooring but managed to catch myself before I hit the floor, using a table in the corridor to pull myself along. I tossed the towel on the floor and stepped on it to dry my feet before moving farther. The house was eerily quiet. The hair on the back of my neck prickled as I moved into the foyer. There was no sign of Alyssa or anyone else, so where had the scream come from? A small noise—a pained moan—echoed from the bottom of the kitchen staircase. I rushed downstairs.

  “Della!”

  She was splayed across the kitchen floor, blood pooling from her head. A heavy wooden rolling pin had tracked the blood across the white tiles. Someone had hit Della in the head and dropped the weapon. I dropped to my knees beside her, but I feared moving her. I didn’t want to injure her further.

  “Help!” I yelled. “Basil! Ben!”

  I dialed the emergency number on my phone, and the operator answered.

  “My friend has been attacked,” I babbled, brushing Della’s blood-soaked hair out of her eyes. She looked dazed, and her breathing was ragged. “Someone hit her in the head with a rolling pin.”

  “Is she breathing?”

  “Yes, but she’s having trouble.”

  “Is she conscious?”

  “I think so?” I examined Della’s eyes again. “Her right pupil is blown. That’s not good, is it?”

  “It means she needs immediate attention. What’s your address?”

  I gave her the street address for the Abram Mansion. “Please, hurry.”

  “I’ll have a team there in a few minutes.”

  As I hung up, footsteps stomped down the stairs, and both Ben and Basil emerged in the kitchen. Basil flung himself to the floor beside his wife, immediately tearing up.

  “Della?” he whispered. “My love, are you awake?”

  Ben helped me up. My palms and knees were stained with Della’s blood. The warmth and tackiness of it made my heartbeat speed up. I took one deep breath. Then another. The air wouldn’t make its way to my lungs, no matter how much oxygen I tried to take in.

  Ben wrapped his arms around me from behind, squeezing me tight. “You’re having a panic attack,” he murmured gently in my ear. He turned me to face the back of the kitchen so I couldn’t look at Della anymore. “You’re hyperventilating. Try to relax. I’m right here. The ambulance will be here soon. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  The reassurance felt false at first. Nothing was ever going to be okay, not until we got out of this damn house. But Ben squeezed me tighter, and the pressure of his arms forced my heart rate to slow. Steadily, my breathing regulated itself. Then Basil grabbed my ankle.

  “What happened?” he pleaded from the floor. “Who attacked her?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, hot tears burning the corner of my eyes. “I was in the bathroom when I heard her yell. When I found her, she was already like this.”

  “The stalker?” Ben muttered under his breath. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Why would he attack Della?” I said back. “Unless she saw who he was and threatened to call the police.”

  Basil draped himself over his wife, his sobs vibrating through his entire body. “This is my fault. I brought her here. I made her move. All for a stupid greenhouse.”

  Ben, the only one with enough brain cells to do damage control, knelt next to Basil, careful to avoid the puddle of Della’s blood. “Help will be here in a minute, Basil. We don’t know—”

  Sirens wailed in the front yard, and I ran to the foyer to fling the front door open. The paramedics dismounted from the rig and carried a stretcher inside. I sat on the mezzanine steps as they strapped Della in and took her away, keeping my head in my hands. Once they cleared the foyer, I waked over to the front window to watch as they loaded her in the ambulance. Basil climbed in after her, and they were gone in the blink of an eye. When the ambulance disappeared, it revealed the waiting cop car behind it. Hillary Spaughton, shaking her head, came into the foyer.

  “So there was someone in the house,” she said. “I swear, I combed this entire place. I can’t believe I didn’t find the guy.”

  “This house is huge,” Ben reminded her. “He could still be here.”

  “I’m done with this,” Hillary said. “I’m putting a security team out here in the woods. We’re going to catch this guy. I promise. Get yourself in the shower, Peyton, and don’t worry. I’m not leaving the two of you alone.”

  “Thanks, Hillary,” Ben said as he steered me away from the front door.

  I stayed silent while Ben led me into the nearest bathroom and started the shower. My body and brain felt numb. Basil was wrong. It wasn’t his fault that Della had been attacked here. It was mine. I was the one who had invited the two of them to stay at the mansion. I was the one who encouraged Della to face her fears and spend time inside, even though I knew of her rocky relationship with the horrors here. She had been attacked because of me, and I wasn’t sure if I could ever forgive myself for that.

  After Ben helped scrub the blood from my skin, he wrapped me in a freshly-laundered r
obe and lay me down in my bed. He drew the curtains, made sure I was comfortable, then disappeared for a few minutes. When he returned, he had a cup of tea and a cardboard box in hand.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing me the tea. “It’s Della’s relaxation blend. I thought it might help. And this was at the door for you. It’s from your mom. Have the two of you been talking again?”

  He set the box in my lap. It was an old shoebox, taped shut, with the Abram Mansion’s address written on the label in barely legible handwriting. I was surprised the mailman managed to decipher my mother’s penmanship.

  “I called her to ask about my grandfather.” I gestured for scissors, and Ben produced a sharp pocket knife that hung off his keychain. He cut the layers of tape off the box for me. “He sent me letters every year on my birthday. I asked Mom to give them to me.”

  I pried the lid off the box and let out a surprised gasp. It was full from end to end with unopened envelopes. Some of them were crinkled and worn, as if they’d been in the box for quite some time. Others looked almost new. With Ben’s knife, I carefully opened the one closest to me and read the first line aloud.

  “My beautiful granddaughter,” I said, voice shaking. “This will be the last time I am able to write you, and then I shall disappear. Please don’t come looking for me, but if you have it in your heart, go to my house in Falconwood, Connecticut. I have a responsibility to that house and its occupants, a responsibility that I must pass on to you. You may not understand, but you will soon, and for this understanding, I must ask for your forgiveness. I will try to be there for you, but I cannot make any promises. For now, this is goodbye, but I hope to speak to you again in the future. Yours forever, Grandpa.”

  Ben looked over my shoulder to read the letter for himself. “This is the same guy that your mom said abandoned you and your grandma, right? I thought he never contacted you.”

  “Mom hid these from me,” I said, studying the letter. “Because she was so mad at him for leaving.”