The Haunting of Rachel Harroway: Book 0

by J. S. Donovan

  She laid there, looking at the ceiling until Brett got up. He always got up before sunrise on the day of a photoshoot. Swaddled in his covers, he rolled over and kissed Rachel on her forehead. “You’re up early,” he whispered yet it was only the two of them in the house.

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” Rachel admitted. Staring at a ceiling all night, you notice every little spot on the paint.

  “I’m sorry,” Brett replied. “We’ll try to do something fun tonight. Movie, dinner, whatever you want.”

  “Going to bed early will be enough for me.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Rachel chuckled. “Look at us. We got a new house and we’re already acting like old people.”

  “Maybe we just wiser.” He kissed Rachel again and climbed out of bed. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way back.”

  He put on his comfy shoes, nice pants and smooth polo before heading out the room.

  After her shower, breakfast, and morning tea, Rachel opened her laptop and checked her website. Its layout was simple and classy, similar to her sketches with monochromatic blacks and whites accented by dark reds. She scrolled through the sales record, finding a few hits. A severed head for seventy-five dollars. A four-foot by four-foot hanging tree with leafless branches and dangling bodies. Three hundred and fifty dollars. It wasn’t her best day of sales but it was still a good start to the morning. She sifted through her framed sketches in the tall cardboard box and removed the two sold piece of art. After packaging, labeling and walking out the front door, she remembered that Brett had the car. In New York, walking to the post office was never an issue. Here…

  She stood out on the porch for a moment, listening to the birds, watching fall leaves drift off the trees surrounding her house. Odd. She thought, noticing that the trees nearest the house were mostly barren whereas the ones down the way were still puffy with orange, red and yellow leaves.

  Disappointed that she won’t be able to ship her sketches right away, she returned to her easel. If anything, she could keep production going. She stared at the blank page the same she had her bedroom ceiling. She looked at the front door and began to sketch. She kept the vision in her head as the pencil moved across the page. It was noon when she checked her watch. Could’ve been faster. She studied her finished work. Through the shaded doorframe, stood a sketched version Shaw and his glaring Taiwanese wife. Rachel smirked at the creepy couple. She didn’t even have to add blood. She snapped a photo the sketch and uploaded it to the website.

  In the kitchen, the backdoor’s knob jiggled and creaked open.

  Rachel stared at her easel thinking about what to draw next. She heard the quiet sounds in the room behind her but pretended to ignore them. It was a game Brett and her used to play. When she was drawing, he’d try to sneak up and scare her. If was he successful, Rachel would have to find some way to reward him. It had been a long few days, Rachel didn’t mind playing along. She got comfy in her seat. Her pencil doodled mindlessly. A tugging, as soft as a child’s hand, pulled at the back corner of her shirt. Rachel masked her giggle. Kept on drawing. She felt the tug, this time harder.

  She swiveled back in her back. “You’re going to have to try harder then…”

  Her eyes scanned the living room, the unpacked boxes of mother’s china, and the photos hanging on the wall. There was no one. Feeling her heart rate quicken, Rachel slowly got up from her bench. “Brett?”

  The house was silent.

  Barefooted, Rachel walked to the kitchen. She looked passed the counter tops and at the sealed backdoor. She tried the knob. Locked. She peeked outside the window above the sink. The decaying tire swing swayed on the thick branch. A few dozen feet behind, the mountain sloped. Trees descended down it, vanishing out of view and seemly reappearing miles away on the surrounding orange mountain range. Was I dreaming?

  Rachel lost her appetite to sketch. Fists on her hips, she faced off with piles of unpacked boxes. Some manual labor might be good for her psyche. Help her clear her head. She grabbed the first box from the stack and cut it open. Her mother’s China rested inside of crinkled newspaper and bubble wrap. Rachel picked it up, unable to keep herself from grinning. She’d had a lot of good memories eating off these expanse and ornate plates. When Brett stayed over at her apartment the first time, she served him undercooked salmon and asparagus. Brett ate every bite, followed it up with a gulp of wine and said how delicious it was. It was almost cute--his politeness--but when Rachel thanked him, he replied. “No, I meant the wine.” They two of them laughed.

  Rachel brought out the China during their year anniversary, after they landed their first paid gigs, when they moved into the newer studio apartment, and when they got married. With the bed and furniture assembly, they haven’t had a chance eat a meal on it. Rachel knew, at once, their special plan for tonight.

  She brought the box to the foot of kitchen sink, washed and dried the dishes by hand, and filled up the cupboard. When the plates were stacked six high, the bowls were resting in one another and all the rest of the dining ware had been stowed away, Rachel gave it a final look. Even though it was her mother’s China, she can’t remember ever sharing a meal with the woman. Her Episode happened when Rachel was five, and that entire day was blur of shouting, swearing, and broken glasses, ending with a searing imagine in Rachel’s young mind: the police shoving her mother--a towel dropped over her nearly naked body--into the back of the squad car to be taking to the local psychiatric ward. Through the car’s back window and with a hard face, her mother glared at her like she was the spawn of Satan.

  Brett returned home around dark to find a large portion of the boxes to be unpacked and thrown into a corner.

  “Someone’s been busy!” He shouted as he walked in the front door. He put his camera bags to the side and grabbed hold of the metal safety bar tucked under his armpit. The bar’s fork-like prongs fit under the copper knob. It’s angled base the touched down on the hardwood floor. “You wouldn’t believe what the clerk said when asked about the safety bar. Oh, you mean the Rape Bar? These people, babe, they are something else.”

  He wondered into the kitchen and stopped. A soft smile brightened his handsome face. A red cloth rested on the dark wood table like a diamond. Two glass plates, two glasses of red wine and multiple antique brass candlesticks set the table. Rachel walked in from the kitchen, her mitten hands holding a dish of shepherd's pie. She wore an apron over her dark red dress with a low cut neck.

  “Nothing’s more romantic than a Shepherd's Pie,” Rachel said with a smile.

  Brett pulled out a seat. “Whatever happened to an early night?”

  “I guess we're not wiser after all.”

  Brett chuckled. He looked at the empty plate before him and the covered dish in the middle of the table, practically salivating. “Would you like a hand with anything?”

  Rachel shook her head, grabbed the salad bowl and lowered herself to her seat. Brett used the tongs to fish out a large portion of salad--a mix of spinach, lettuce, diced fruit and raisins--and put it on his plate. He doused it with creamy Vidalia Onion dressing and took a big bite.

  “I don’t remember these candle sticks. They part of your mom’s stuff?”

  “Nope,” Rachel replied, her fork piercing the lettuce. “I found them in the basement. There’s all sorts of treasures down there.”

  They enjoyed their meal, discussing sales, Brett’s political rants, movies and stories from their apartment days. Who knew how much comedy could come from living in a single bathroom apartment? Names of old friends were tossed around accompanied by the shenanigans of their youth and art school. Too much drinking, too many missed opportunities. More so, for their friends then Brett and Rachel. They were on top of their work. Art and photography six days a week. As professor Yorkdale said in Rachel’s final semester, “The money stops when you stop.” It only took them nearly a decade of not-stopping before the money came and after that they worked even harder. Still, not every piece of
art was created with the intent to sell. Rachel and Brett had their private collection and then their very private collection.

  The meal ended. Faces as red as their wine, Rachel and Brett left the dishes on the kitchen table for tomorrow and raced up the stairs, nearly stumbling twice but laughing uncontrollably.

  Rachel woke up at 4:18am and slugged out of bed. She shambled through the hall, probing with her fingertips as her eyes adjusted. Brett drunken snores echoed from the master bedroom. Rachel reached the edge of the railing, sleep not fully left her. The front door was shut. The safety bar held firm. Quietly, Rachel wondered back to bed, able to breathe.

  “Honey, have you seen the keys?” Rachel shouted upstairs.

  The piping in the ceiling rumbled as the second-floor shower came alive. With pursed lips, Rachel double checked the key dish. Again. Not there. She’d already been upstairs to turned out the pockets of Brett’s jeans from yesterday and found nothing. She unzipped every pocket of his camera bags, shoving her fingers within every crevasse of which there were many. She formed a cone with her hands the vehicle’s window and peered through. No keys. Inside, she glanced the dusty face of the grandfather clock. Forty behind schedule Great. Brett wandered down the stairs. He wore only his boxers as he dried his wet hair with a towelette.

  “What are you looking for?”

  Rachel smirked angrily. “The keys, Brett. The car keys.”

  Brett shook out his wet hair like dog and combed through it with his fingers. “Did you check the, uh, bowl. The one where we store the keys?”

  Rachel chuckled in frustration and continued her search in the kitchen. Maybe it got put in the cupboard with the dishes. Nope. Why not the refrigerator? Anything’s possible, but the keys aren't there either. “I’m a day behind shipping, and there’s a local art museum curator who I’m scheduled to meet in…” She checked the time. “Twenty-two minutes.”

  “Okay. Okay. Calm down.” Brett said sifted through his camera bag that was already unzipped. He headed to the lamp beside the couch, moved aside the utility knife and duct tape roll and picked single key. “Here’s my spare.”

  Rachel caught it. “Thank you.”

  “No prob.” He kissed her as she hustled out the front door, holding the two packaged sketches and multiple cardboard cylinders.

  Brett leaned one of the porch’s posts as Rachel tossed the artwork in the backseat, waved him goodbye and speed down the winding street. She arrived at the local art gallery and showed the curator her art.

  “Ah, oh, wow,” were a few of the sounds made by the long-legged blonde as Rachel rolled out the various sketches on the white table. After a few moments of studying the various works of grotesque yet intriguing art, the woman flashed a pitied smile.

  Rachel stepped up. “Appalachia culture prides itself on local legends, some frightful, others uncanny.”

  “Yes, that is very true,” the woman said. “In Highlands, however, we are largely beyond such superstitions. Most of the residence are… older and enjoy the classic works. I am sorry but there is just not enough of a market here for what you’re selling.”

  Rachel returned to her car. She took a deep breath of mountain air and zipped up her leather jacket. The town was such a serene place the more she looked it. On a plateau over four thousand feet above sea level, it had a sort of whimsical appeal that was untouched by the troubles of the world. Its streets were off kilter ground, the buildings were a mix of classic brick walls and dark timbers, and the locals smiled at her whenever they walked by. Perhaps, the reason for her affinity to the place was not the Hadley House. It was the quiet.

  Her phone rang.

  “Hey, I got a call from client,” Brett said. “It may run pretty late.”

  “Do you need a ride?” Rachel replied.

  “I’m going to taxi over. I thought I’d give you a heads up first.”

  “Thanks. See you tonight.”

  “Bye.”

  Rachel hiked up the inclided sidewalk to the post office. She dropped off the sold artwork, checked her P.O. box and headed to the grocery store. Last night’s dinner had a diminished most of her refrigerator so she made sure to grab extra tonight. Her mind elsewhere, Rachel reached down to pick up a carton of eggs. Someone’s hand was already on it. Apologizing, she twisted to the stranger. Looking a back to her with cold, black eyes was the Taiwanese woman. She said some words that Rachel didn’t know, but the utter disgust on the old woman’s face was enough for Rachel to guess.

  Rachel let the woman have the carton.

  “Don’t mind Eva.” A familiar voice said from behind. Rachel turned away swiftly, sure that Shaw was looking at her buttocks. “She’s still reeling from the other day.”

  “Can I help you?” Rachel asked, not very politely.

  “No need for the lip, woman,” Shaw put his hands in his brown Cartagine Jackets.

  “Have you been sneaking into my house?” Rachel asked, getting closer to him.

  Shaw smiled, his teeth yellow and crooked. With his combed over hair, he looked like a junkyard car salesmen. He probably was. “You got a few screws loose in there, don’t you?”

  Memories flickered in Rachel’s mind. Her mother fought off three police officers as they tried to subdue her. Her screams filled the air. Rachel shook the thought and stared the man down. “Someone has unlocked my front door two nights in a row.”

  “And you’re accusing my wife and I? That’s rich. You made it clear what stance you're on visitors was the first day we met.”

  Rachel turned back and forth in the aisle noticing they were making a scene. Rachel whispered at the couple. “I don’t care if you did it or not, but if I see you anywhere near me or my house, I will call the police.”

  “I’ll call the police.” Shaw mimicked her and grabbed his wife’s hand. “Let’s get gone before the miss has another temper tantrum.”

  Eva stared at Rachel the way out of the aisle. Rachel pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to ease the migraine. It didn’t work. She finished her shopping.

  Miles later, her home came into view. Fists full of grocery bags, she fumbled with the house key and shouldered the door open. Closing it with her foot, she walked through the living room and stopped at the threshold for the kitchen. Every cupboard and cabinet door was slung open. All of the contains of the refrigerator spilled across the floor in a swirl of milk, orange juice and wine. Rachel lowered the grocery bags beside her feet and stepped gently into her desecrated kitchen. With a quiet squeak, the ajar backdoor opened under the wind’s gale.

  Rachel gingerly stepped over the multi-colored puddle and to the backdoor. Her hand pushed against it. It opened to the back yard and miles of mountains. She withdrew her cellphone and put it up to her lips. She hit Brett on speed dial.

  “Hi--”

  “Brett. Listen--”

  “--You’ve reached Brett Presley. Can’t take your call right. Leave a message. I’ll get back to ASAP.”

  Rachel closed the door and dialed 9-1-1.

  The police car zoomed down the street and skidded to a halt outside of the Hadley house. Arms crossed, Rachel stepped out of her car and greeted the officer. Officer Matthew Lynchfield stepped out. With a head of grey hair and a bolder-like belly, the man had the face of a sick dog and appeared to have his mind on a million other issues in his life, not the house before him.

  “You have some kind of party?” He asked as he entered the kitchen.

  Rachel smiled nervously. This is the guy they send in? “I believe someone broke into my house.”

  The liquid concoction on the floor pooled around the officer’s boot. He stared at it for a moment before taking a step back. “Anything stolen?”

  “I didn’t have time to check. Once I called you, I stayed in my car in case the trespasser was still around.”

  The officer nodded to himself. He matched around the kitchen, looking at the open cupboards. He vanished out the backdoor. Rachel chewed her thumb nail until he returned.

&n
bsp; “No one out that way. I’m going to look around the rest of the house.”

  Rachel gestured for him to do and walked with him. They searched the living room, side bedrooms, and the basement. The officer said little to nothing. His eyes were seemly lifeless and the way he looked at Rachel when she talked made her feel like she was talking to a brick wall. When he reached the messy master bedroom, he stepped over clothes and Rachel’s dress scrunched on the floor from last night. Apart from the embarrassment, Rachel search seemed to be fruitless. The move had jumbled everything. Something she thought was missing would end being in a different box or different room she couldn’t remember putting it in. These items included earrings, books, pencils and various random clothing articles. There was a high possibility that Brett moved them around but something felt off like she was part of someone’s prank but no one was willing to admit their involvement.

  Rachel checked under the bed. She felt Lynchfield’s eyes on her. Quickly, she stood and brushed herself off acting like nothing had happened. Lynchfield turned back to the dresser drawer and pulled it open.

  “Oh,” he emoted more than he had his entire visit.

  Rachel approached him silently and leaned over his shoulder, unsure what she’d see. His fat fingers held photos of Rachel laying on the bed, dressed in her undergarments or less.

  “Those are private.” Rachel snatched the photos man’s hands and shoving them in her back pocket.

  “Did you consent to those?” The man asked, casually handing a photo she failed to nab.

  Rachel quickly snatched it. “Yes.”

  “Lucky guy.” The officer mumbled.

  Rachel’s anger flared. “What?”

  “Huh?” The man crinkled her brow.

  “What did you say?” Rachel said, instinctively glancing back to the exit.

  “I asked if you consented to those,” The officer replied, sternly. “You said yes.”

  Rachel opened her mouth to speak, but decided not to push it. There was too much going on to call out a pervy cop. They returned to the living room.