“From what you’re tell me, nothing’s missing,” The officer said.
“Thank God, but I didn’t destroy my own kitchen.”
“It’s messy. Not destroyed. Nothing’s broken.” The officer corrected.
Rachel didn’t know to respond to that. “It doesn’t change the facts that two nights ago and the night before, someone opened my front door in the middle of the night.”
The officer groaned. He pulled out a card and scribbled on the back. “If anything happens like that again, call this number.”
The man didn’t inspire confidence. Rachel thanked him and watched the squad car peel out of the driveway. She fished out the risqué photos from her back pocket. One of them was missing. She looked at the empty road.
She spent the afternoon cleaning up the kitchen. She scrubbed the floor, trying to get rid of the stench of wine and milk. The groceries on the floor were put away first, of course. But she couldn’t help but worried that some of the food had spoiled while she held the officer looking around the house. Thinking of Lynchfield made her shiver. Did he really steal a photo? Rachel was an attractive womanly in the right places, and knew that some men looked, but never had she felt so violated.
Brett arrived that evening. Rachel served him leftover shepherd's pie.
“You’re not going to have any?” He asked with a full mouth.
Rachel sipped her cup of tap water. “No. Not hungry.”
Under the ceiling light, they ate in silence.
“I called the cops today,” Rachel admitted.
Brett lowered his fork. He swallowed his bite with a furrowed brow. “What? Why?”
Rachel popped her jaw. “I thought someone broke in. I called you first. You didn’t answer.”
“I never got a call,” Brett argued. “When did this happen?”
“After I got home. Our kitchen was… messy, like someone poured out all our drinks, looked through the cupboard and left through the backdoor.”
Brett cursed under his breath. He got up and rummaged through kitchen. Rachel finished her glass of water while her husband double checked everything she’d already searched through. He returned and sunk back into his seat. “It’s that Shaw guy. It has be.”
“No,” Rachel replied. “I saw him and his wife at the store. If the officer is right then that would’ve been the same that the invader got inside. Then again, the officer questions if there is an invader.”
“Why would he question that?” Brett said frustratedly.
“Nothing was stolen. We searched the whole house.” And the officer stole a nude photo of me. Rachel decided against saying that. Brett was up on the wood-chripper already. If she brought to the police, Officer Lynchfield could easily deny it. All he’d need to do is tell them that Rachel misplaced it. A legal battle about-who-did-what didn’t seem worth the stress. She’s been in her new home for less than a week.
THUMP!
Rachel looked up to the ceiling. “Did you hear that?”
Brett scanned the room with his eyes. “No.”
Part of Rachel’s curious nature wanted to check it out but her gut convinced her stay and eat with her husband. They went to bed early. Bret didn’t spoon with her that night. It took him hours to get to sleep. Rachel stared at the alarm clock. It’s green numbers reflecting in her glassy olive colored eyes. As the hour’s waned, the house groaned under the wind’s force. Wooden shutters chattered lightly like teeth against the pale outer walls. Around three-ish, she couldn’t take the noise anymore. She forced herself out of bed and dragged her feet into the bathroom. Flipping on the light switch, she realized how tired she really was. Her eyes had dark circles and lines curving out from under them, her skin looked sickly white and her short black hair seemed greasy instead of glossy.
Rachel felt a tugging at the corner of her shirt, yet her shirt wasn’t moving. She washed her face in the sink and looked back into the mirror.
A silhouette stood behind shower curtain.
She sucked air and twisted around. No silhouette. She blinked a few times. The rings on grinded on the horizontal post as Rachel pulled aside the curtain. Only a regular old shower. She made an uneasy promise with herself to get some sleep and wandered out into the hallway. She peaked into the bedroom. Brett wasn’t there.
There was movement downstairs.
Holding onto the handrail, Rachel walked down the steps and toward the kitchen. “Brett?”
The wind moaned outside.
Rachel felt her way to the kitchen doorway. “What are you doing in the dark?”
She reached her hand around the threshold and flipped the night.
Every cupboard open. Mom’s China, plates, tea cups, glassware were all dashed across the ground in jagged chunks. There was so much that it covered the entire kitchen floor.
Rachel screamed.
“Babe?” Brett yelled, standing at the top of the stairs, half asleep. “I heard you from the second upstairs bathroom. Everything okay?”
Chapter Four
Lens
Officer Matthew Lynchfield brushed aside the broken glass with the side of his boot and jiggled the doorknob. He bent down and checked the locking mechanism. After a moment of fiddling with the lock, he twisted back to Rachel and Brett with an emotionless face and signature drooping eyes.
“And you’re one hundred percent positive that all the windows were locked and the doors had safety bars?”
Rachel took a break from squeezing herself to bush a strand of hair behind her ear. “We’re positive.”
Brett stared at the chucks of shatter China that turned the kitchen floor into a deathtrap. “After the first invasion, we’ve been extra cautious. The only time we remove the safety bars is during the daytime when no one is home.”
Brett wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling Rachel close to his side. He wore a hoodie without a shirt, shorts, and slippers. After they called the police, Rachel slipped on a wrinkled white-tee and sweatpants. Office Lynchfield walked back towards them. A fragment crunched beneath the weight of his foot.
“Watch it,” Brett said.
The officer eyed him but didn’t respond.
“We might be able to save some glassware,” Brett elaborated.
The mess looked back at Rachel. It didn’t inspire confidence.
Officer Lynchfield rubbed the sides of his mouth with two fingers. “Sound travels in this house, yeah? What I’m trying to understand is how every one of your plates gets smashed on the ground you didn’t wake up.”
Rachel glared at him. “We didn’t sabotage ourselves.”
“Never said you did, but there are lot variables that don’t add up.”
They stood in silence for a moment. The sounds of woods and wind seeped through the walls. Rachel kept her eyes on her bare feet. She imagined her soles and toes slashed open and bleeding red amidst shards of milk-colored glass. She chuckled internally. Brett and her moved here for inspiration, and Rachel was fully confident that she’ll never have artist block again. She felt Lynchfield’s eyes on her. Something about them made her want to avoid contact. The stolen photo stayed in the forefront of her mind.
“This is what I’ll do for y'all,” the officer began. “I’ll keep my cruiser parked outside. If anything happens, I’ll be within shouting distance.”
Brett inhaled and nodded. “We appreciate that.”
“Let me get the boss’s okay. I’ll be back shortly.” Lynchfield walked passed them and out to the porch. He withdrew his phone and leaned out the railing. His sad dog eyes glanced out into the abyssal blackness of night.
“I don’t like this guy,” Rachel whispered to Brett.
“At this point, we take what we can get.”
They grabbed the brooms and swept mother’s China along with every other glass dish or bowl into dustpan. Reluctantly, they tossed them out, remembering all the meals they shared. At least they got a final supper in before calamity. They’d dine on plastic and paper towels henceforth.
Brett tied
off the trash bag. Together, they walked outside and heaved the bag into the trashcan.
“Maybe it’s time for a vacation,” Rachel suggested.
Brett groaned. “I don’t think it's smart for us to leave house and all our stuff until this prankster is caught. And when he is, we sue the living hell out of him. Tomorrow, I’m going to have a long chat with realtor about who has any spare key house.”
“Good idea.” Rachel said as they walked back. “This whole situation is driving nuts.”
For the rest of that night, Rachel lay awake. Her body told her to sleep. She shut her eyes but didn’t drift away. A fear pressed at her side like the point of a spear. What if the perpetrator is watching her right now? Moonlight poured through the window. A spider dangled outside the glass. Its legs worked at spinning a web; a home of its own where it trapped unexpecting guests.
Rachel watched the sky turn from black to indigo to crimson and then to gold before she sat up. Brett drooled on his pillow. His nose twitched. Rachel admired his ability to sleep. Envied it, almost.
The shower spat cold water at her. She leapt, goose skinned. Steady stream of scalding water struck her next and shrouded the bathroom in mist. Swaddled in a towel, she spit toothpaste into the sink and cupped her hands under the faucet. By the time she swooshed the mint taste from her gums, the mist had faded and she saw the stranger in the mirror. Herself but with hollow eyes and a constant frown. She rubbed her hand down her cheek. What once was soft felt coarse and bumpy. The silver strand of hair grabbed the light above the sink. Rachel twirl it around her finger and yanked it from her scalp. She discarded her first grey hair into the sink and watched the faucet water send it spiraling down the drain. She understood a new fear. One that seemed much farther from the mutilation of her body. Her own age. Her own mortality.
She spent the first hour of the day dolling herself up for her own peace of mind.
The smell of egg and cheese leaked from the kitchen. Brett set out a plastic plate for Rachel with scrambled eggs topped with melting shredded cheese. “Tea or coffee?” Brett asked.
“Coffee,” Rachel replied, yawning.
The two of them ate without saying a word. After, Brett dialed the realtor, having a long talk that required a lot of pacing.
“Well?” Rachel turn away from her easel, swiveling on her stool top.
Brett adjust his glasses and put his camera back on the dining table. “She says that she’s very sorry.” He withdrew his camera from the bag and popped out the SD card.
“And?”
Brett slipped the card into its reader and booted up his laptop. “She doesn’t know anything. The bank confiscated it in 1983 after the last owner’s passed away, and the only keys that she knows of are the two she gave us. I’m just glad we have that officer out there.”
Rachel looked out the window and to the squad car parked on the front lawn. Lynchfield stood outside of it, dragging on cigarette and puffing rings of smoke into the air. He turned Rachel. She remained still. Can he see me in here? Lynchfield took another drag.
Rachel left her canvas blank and marked upstairs. She returned, hugging a dirty clothes hamper. After struggling to open the old door, she bounced down the basement stair. Her mouth twitched at musty aroma. She fought a sneeze and dropped the basket in front the washer and drier. After filling them up with nasty clothes, she scanned lamps, chairs, couches and more covered by dusty white sheets. Her skin crawled for no reason. She felt eyes on her.
“Hello?” Rachel called out. After a moment, she chuckled at her own ridiculousness.
A child’s laughter mimicked her own.
Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. Eyes wide, she stepped toward the antique furniture. The pipes in the wall rumbled as the washer took effect. She jogged upstairs. What are you doing? She asked herself. You’re just tired. Rachel slump down at her stool while Brett plucked away at his keyboard.
“Everything alright?” He asked.
“I just need to relax,” Rachel replied. She looked at the blank page for a moment. Across the room, her husband edited yesterday’s photos. His brow deep. His eyes focused. One hand gently pulled at his beard while he thought. Rachel smiled to herself, she maneuvered her easel so she could see the hunch of Brett’s back in the chair, looking like a twenty-first century rendition of Auguste Rodin’s Thinker. Rachel’s pencil captured Brett’s pensive expression, groomed beard, his glasses and dark brown eyes. A few black bangs strung down the front of his forehead. He brushed them aside. The rest of his hair was expertly cropped and layered.
Rachel allowed creativity to rule over her. She blocked out the soft hum of the water pipes and the clacking of her husband’s keyboard. Her hand took her beyond his image and two something in the background. Rachel didn’t know where the drawing was leading. It was almost as if her hand moved on its own.
After some undisclosed amount of time, Brett noticed his wife bouncing her eyes from the easel to him. Rachel nipped at the end of her pencil, studying the work. Brett stood up and walked over. He leaned behind her, studying the canvas. “That’s some spooky shuff.” He squeezed her shoulder proudly. “Good job, babe.”
Rachel heard his footsteps in the kitchen as he refilled his coffee mug. Tasting the wood her pencil, eyes studied her sketch of her husband, a black and white version of his real-life counterpart. Behind him but standing before the fireplace stood a man with greying hair swooshed to the side and thick sideburns. He wore an unbuttoned businessman's suit. The chunky bullet hole at the center of his forehead trickled blood down the bridge of his nose, over his tight lips and down to the bottom of his square jaw. Beside him stood a woman, both beautiful and intimidating, who had short puffy hair, long legs and a side button dress from a bygone era. An exit wound blew out just below her breast.
Rachel studied the artwork. It was one of her best pieces, and she complete it in half the time.
A phone rang. Brett answered from the kitchen. “Uh huh… yeah… I can make that. Thank you. Be there soon.”
“Work?” Rachel asked when he stepped out back into view.
“Yes. There’s a few waterfalls National Geographic wants for their website, believe it or not. The Secrets of the Appalachia is what they are calling the segment,” He grinned widely.
“Sounds intriguing,” Rachel replied.
Brett’s excitement faded. “I don’t have to go if you don’t want me to.”
“Are you crazy?” Rachel exclaimed. “We moved here for these opportunities. A few breaking and entries aren’t going to change that.”
“I don’t know,” Brett replied. “They’ve changed a lot, actually.”
“I’m joking,” Rachel clarified. “Enjoy yourself and pick up some sleeping medication on your way home.”
Brett kissed her on the forehead. “Will do. Thanks, Rach.”
Hastily, he packed his camera and laptop and hurried out the door. “I left the phone number of the cab company on the countertop. Don’t worry about the price.”
He waved to goodbye to Lynchfield and sped away. Rachel was alone in the big four beds, three bath house. Well, not entirely alone. She looked at the squad car, shuttered and placed the safety bar beneath the doorknob.
The rest of the afternoon dragged. Her artistic rush waned after the first sketch, and she returned to cliché, women and their demises. Nonetheless, her thoughts hung on the couple in the previous drawing of her husband. Something about them felt so… powerful, like her creation wasn’t just marks on a page, but a font of, albeit sinister, inspiration.
She finished folding the laundry and marched upstairs, killing her boredom by washing dishes, sweeping and mopping the dark wood floors, and dusting the face grandfather clock. She moved to the guest bedroom upstairs and approached the wardrobe. It stood a head taller than her and half as wide. She stood on a chair and swept her yellow feather duster across the top.
Click.
She stepped down from the chairs, noticing that the one of the wardrobe’s doub
le doors had tapped against the back of her chair. She moved aside the chair, allowing the door to swing the rest of the way. She peered into the wooden box. A dark stain smeared the bottom back corner. Rachel leaned down farther and brushed her thumb across it. It was dry and old, forever set into the wood. After shutting the door, Rachel finished her dusty, grabbed the chair and exited the bedroom.
Rachel stepped into the hall. She eyed the other bedroom across the way. She was torn between which one would make a better studio. There was office downstairs as well that they weren’t utilizing. The decision probably would have no bearing on her life, but Rachel stressed thinking about. Her father’s nagging about having a baby bubbled up, as well. She understood his concerns. Aside from her mother, she was the last of the Harroways. And it wasn’t like she didn’t like children but...
Click.
A tingling danced up Rachel’s spine. She put down the chair and quietly peered into the bedroom. The wardrobe door had creaked open. Rachel stared at it with concern, swearing she shut it. As she strutted towards it, the room twist and the floor inclined to side.
“What the…” She felt the blood rush to her head and her peripherals darken. Her palm smacked against the wallpaper, preventing her from falling. She clenched her eyes shut and took deep breathes. She opened her eyes, her sight clearing up and room returned to its original state. The wardrobe doors were firmly shut. The knobs didn’t budge, and Rachel noticed a keyhole she didn’t see before. Her stomach churned. She felt like she was going to vomit.
Rachel hurried downstairs and out the backdoor. A chilling breeze splashed over Rachel. Dry leaves danced by her feet. Rachel quickly shut the door and stepped away from the house. Her feet crunched through the blanket of fall leaves on in her backyard. All the surround trees were completely barren, and it was still two months out from winter.
She felt like she stood in the crosshair of some unseen force. The feeling in her gut was horrid. In the house, it was no better. What she would trade to get five minutes of sleep? Rachel plopped down on the old rubber tireswing. The ancient rope pulled taunts. The tire swing swayed under Rachel’s weight. She closed her eyes and saw her mother. She was tall and beautiful with the same nose and eye color. Rachel’s father Liam approached her, his arms out in a non-threatening manner.
The Haunting of Rachel Harroway: Book 0 Page 4