The Haunting of Rachel Harroway: Book 0

by J. S. Donovan

  “Where was she?”

  Liam looked Rachel in the eyes and spoke with unapologetic honesty. “I still don’t know. I thought it was an affair but our love life was amazing. The church had nearly doubled in size. Life was good. No, great. So why would she have an affair? Was I blind? Instead of practicing what I preached and confronted her with love and understand, I said nothing. I thought things would just get better the more I prayed. And things did, but she still left most days and got home late. I vowed I wasn’t going to be a paranoid husband. I failed. One night, as I went to call her out on strange behavior, she interrupting me and pointed to the corner of the room, asking if I saw something. I didn’t. As the days progressed, she’d point out different aspects of the room and ask if I saw a person or some writing. I didn’t and I knew something was wrong.”

  “How long did that last for?”

  “All the way to the end,” Liam grunted in frustration. “She started to forget where she was. Said she was having blackouts. I got worried and begged her get some rest. Instead, she’d get up super early in the morning and drive away for long hours of the day. When she was home, I’d hear her talking to herself. Having two way conversations with air. One day, she lost it. She started screaming. The Orphans! The Orphans! Get out of my way. Only I can save them! When I tried to calm her, she threw plates at me, screamed, and ran around the yard with no regard that she was in her undergarments. The rest of the story you know…”

  The soft plucking of a Chinese instrument filled their silence. Rachel’s leg tapped uncontrollably beneath the table. She had no appetite. “Did mom ever improve?”

  Liam frowned. “She’s been in that mental hospital for twenty-five years, tried to take her own life multiple times and shows no signs of ever getting better. The last time I saw her, she was in a straitjacket, locked in a padded room and having seemly dozen conversations with the things she saw. The church elders and I tried to exercise whatever demonic force had done this to her. Your mother laughed at me and then cried. That was nearly five years ago.”

  Rachel took her father’s hand in her own. He placed his other hand on top of hers and smiled with his eyes closed. They shared unspoken sympathies. Deep down, Rachel wonder what would happen to this man if Rachel shared the same fate as her mother.

  The cab ride back was a blur of thoughts and mix emotions. Rachel shut her eyes and imagined standing in a padded room in a straitjacket. Scribbled in black across the all the cushioned walls were the words “TRUTH OR DARE.”

  After folding up her easel and storing it in the cluttered downstairs office, Rachel read Brett’s text.

  “Great,” She mumbled sarcastically. The client wants night photos and a few beers. Brett won’t be home for at least another two hours.

  Rachel took a long, hot shower. Wearing her lazy clothes, she checked every window lock and shut every door, both up and downstairs. With a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream and a cup of black tea, Rachel clicked on the television and forced herself to relax. She watched hallmark movies, something she never did, and stopped herself from thinking negatively. I am not my mother. She chanted internally.

  At the start of the second film, Rachel yawned and puffed the pillow under her head.

  Thump!

  Rachel’s eyes shot open. The movie was halfway over. Feeling terrible, she sat from on the couch.

  Thump!

  It came from the basement.

  Rachel stood up, her eyes on the old door at the side of the stairwell. “Hello?”

  Her voice echoed in the ancient house. She opened the door and stared down into the darkness. She toggled the light switch. The darkness remained. She grabbed a ruby red mag light from the key bowl and shined the beam to the depths of the stairs. Three steps, she told herself. Three steps and if she can’t see the problem, she gets the pervy officer outside.

  The first step creaked. The second groaned. On the third, Rachel felt a pull at the front her shirt, and she toppled downward. The following stairs beat her all the way to the basement floor. Bruises Throbbed on her shoulders, arms and the back of her head. Grimacing, she pushed against the concrete floor to rise. Musty air bombarded her sense of smell. Like snow in a snow globe, specks of dust flurried the beam of the flashlight. The laundry area rested against the leftmost wall. Covered coaches, stands, chairs and fashion mannequins cluttered the rest. Rachel’s beam of light scanned over the lost treasures, casting long shadows across the walls beyond.

  Rachel stepped forward, the flashlight held tightly in her hand. An object in the back of the room grabbed her eye. Her heart pounded. She closed the gap, navigating passed a nightstand with a dust-covered lamp. Behind her, light spilled from the upstairs into the basement. Rachel stepped over a plastic-wrapped rug. Farther than she’d ever gone in the basement, she found of late seventies and early eighties men’s blazers ravaged by moth holes and slumped over the back of a rocking chair. Women’s dresses spilled out of a gnarly tear on a black trash bag. A sequence of wooden buttons dotted the skirt of one. Rachel paid it little mind. Amidst the artifacts, she stood before the teddy bear. It’s tuffs of fur were caked with dirt. Darkened fuzz budded out of its right arm, and the stub where it’s leg was missing. Rachel blinked twice. She didn’t trust her eyes anymore. She touched the clumsy fur.

  It was the same teddy from outside that her and the officer had found a day prior.

  Wham!

  The basement door slammed violently.

  “Brett!” Rachel shouted.

  Her flashlight caught a glimpse of something scurrying by the mess of covered furniture. Rachel couldn’t track it with the light. It moved too fast. Out of darkness, a picture-less frame flung through the air, narrowly missing her face. It shattered into wood fragments behind her.

  The thing moved again.

  Rachel wasn’t alone.

  Chapter Six

  The Plea

  Rachel dashed for the stairs. A brass lamp flung passed her head at scary speed. She ducked behind a couch, ruffling the white sheet cover it and taking a face full of dust. A 2x4 zipped by. It crashed a few yards behind her, knocking into the rocking chair with a loud bang.

  “Brett! Someone!” Rachel shouted. Her voice bounced in the corners of the room as more trash and small dangerous things flew at her. Staying low, she scurried behind the mannequins. They crumbled like bowling pins as the chair crashed into them. Rachel hid behind a neglected nightstand and held her breath. She covered the flashlight beam in the palm of her hand, allowing darkness to quickly envelop her. Her heart thumped powerfully. What was happening? Soft feet pattered the concrete floor. Pat-pat-pat.

  The footsteps moved closer.

  Rachel pulled her knees up to her chest, making herself as small as she could behind the nightstand. Her eyes trailed to the red circle where the flashlight drilled into her palm. Clicking the mag light’s button seemed too risky. She wanted dreadfully to steal a peek at the person in the basement with her but he could be watching her right now, waiting for her to move.

  The pitter-patter walked by her. Something tickled her spine. The hairs on her neck stood in attention. She didn’t move. Her lung fought for release. She won’t to do it. One breath could be the death of her. Over the thumping in her chest, she listened for the stranger. Only the patter of feet. Was he holding his breath, too? For a long moment, the basement was quieter than death. Rachel couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She peaked part of her head out from behind the nightstand. She could scarcely make out shapes in the few feet behind her. The journey to the stairs would require an exercise in memory.

  Rachel’s lungs gave way and she gasped, drinking up the dusty basement air. Using the noisy opportunity, she clicked off the mag light and held the cold metal with her teeth. Coarse concrete bit into her hands and knees as she crawled from cover to cover, allowing instinct to guide her. She groped aimlessly at chair legs and old boxes. At one point, her finger tips broke through a web and multiple somethings crawled up her arm
. She swatted them away, not even wanting to imagine their size.

  With no other noise but the soft jets of her own uneasy breath, she almost believed she was alone. That lasted about a second before an unfamiliar sinking feeling pitted in her stomach almost as if her dread and fear were as tangible as the two inch something she felt crawl down the back of her shirt. It crawled down her ribs and toward the lip her pants before she was able squash it with her hands, feeling the burst of the egg sack and hundreds of tiny spiders scattered all over her body.

  Rachel’s shirt was off in an instant. She scuttled across the floor, wiping her side and feeling the hatchings escape in between her fingers and up the top of her hand. Her shoulder hit the shaft of a tall lamp. It wobbled. Rachel froze in place for a moment. She was done with this basement. Staying low to the ground, Rachel beelined for the where she believed the stairs to be. She wasn’t going to fall down them again. Rachel clicked on the mag light. It illuminated a stranger’s face. Screaming, Rachel scrambled in the opposite direction. Her back thumped against a metal bedframe, bringing a sudden halt to her escape.

  With fierce eyes, the strange nine-year-old girl glared at Rachel. Her copper-colored hair was brushed and combed. She wore a cobalt suspended skirt and a white button-up that held snuggling to her neck. Massive crimson holes burrowed into her collarbone, the bottom left of her ribs, and near her belly button. Rachel had research many wounds to authentic her art. These were the work of a high caliber bullet.

  Rachel couldn’t pull the mag light away from the wounded girl standing before her. A second child stood a few feet behind her. He was younger and fatter, dressed like a little business man with horribly drawn whiskers on his cheeks and multiple wet bullet holes throughout his plump frame.

  “What do you want from me?” Rachel said, surprised she could even say speak.

  The little girl locked eyes with Rachel, staring directly into the deepest part of her soul and utterly unaffected by the flashlight pointed at her pupils. Rachel felt completely violated as if someone had forced themselves into her mind and intruded on every thought, feeling and emotion. Bile rose. That same tugging feeling pulled at her bare skin, though her flesh didn’t stretch. Like lightening to a rod, it wanted Rachel get closer. Fear kept her from submitting. Her mag-light beam wobbled in Rachel’s trembling hand.

  Cloaked in shadow, the girl watched her with hollow eyes. Half of Rachel wanted to run. The other half wanted to fight. She found that she could do nothing. Her mind, her senses, everything she was and is felt trespassed upon in a way that felt like she’d never be alone again.

  “Answer me!” Rachel shouted, her voice cracking.

  The girl spoke. “Help us.”

  All blood left Rachel’s face. I’ve lost my mind.

  “Find the bad men.”

  “Rachel!” A muffled shout bled through the basement door.

  “Brett! I’m down here!” Rachel kept the light on the girl and boy.

  The little girl put her finger over her mouth, gesturing Rachel to be quiet. She whispered, “Don’t tell.”

  “Rachel!”

  Rachel shifted her attention to the old steps. When she turned back, the children had vanished. All that remained before her was covered furniture and the laundry area. Rachel stood slowly, her knees buckling together. She shined the beam of light across the vast basement. The 2x4, picture frame and all the rest of the objects that had been hurled at her were back in their original position like nothing ever happened. Even the teddy bear was gone.

  The stairs creaked beneath Rachel’s hurried steps. She burst through the door. Brett and Officer Lynchfield stood in the living room with worried expressions. The officer stared at Rachel’s brassier. She quickly covered herself.

  “Geez, Rachel, where were you?” Brett asked.

  “Basement,” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Laundry.”

  Lynchfield looked her up and down in a way that was far too personal. “You’re bruised head to heel.”

  Rachel studied the purple spots on her shoulder, hip and knees. “I fell down the stairs.”

  “Oh, babe.” Brett hugged her and pulled her tightly. She didn’t realize how cold she was until she felt his warmth.

  “We need to talk,” Rachel whispered.

  “We’re good, man,” Brett said to Lynchfield.

  The officer nodded skeptically, and exited out front door. An icy breeze marked his departure. Rachel fold her arms around Brett--her life raft--and sniffled.

  “What happened?” Brett asked. “Where’s your shirt?”

  Rachel opened her mouth but no words came out. She changed her chain of thought. “Let’s go away.”

  “What?” Brett pulled away. Behind his glasses, confusion could be seen in his eyes.

  “We can move or go on vacation or something. I don’t know, Brett. I can’t think straight in this place,” Rachel regretted saying it immediately.

  “Are you feeling alright, Rach?” He put his hand on her forehead. “You’re freezing! Do you want to go to hospital?”

  “No!” Rachel shouted. “I sorry, no. I’m… fine. I just need a few days to clear my head.”

  “Okay,” Brett said cautiously. “We’ll call Liam.”

  “I was thinking the Bahamas,” Rachel said to lighten the mood.

  Brett brushed his hand down the side her cheek. Rachel winced. “I’ll get some ice and a clean shirt for you. Lie down.”

  Rachel wandered to the couch. She closed her eyes and saw the children and their bullet ridden bodies. No sleep would come to her tonight. She feared sleep would never come again. Brett pamper her, asked all sorts of questions about the basement, the evening, the location of easel, etc. Rachel replied to him with half-truths and vague responses.

  The next morning, they packed up small suitcases and toiletries. Brett’s hurried pace alluded to his displeasure, but he didn’t voice his complaints. He had three camera bags slung over his shoulder and picked up Rachel’s easel.

  “You can leave it,” Rachel said, hauling her duffle down the stairs.

  “It will help you relax.”

  “I don’t want it,” Rachel said. Her sleeplessness was making her sassy.

  Brett looked at her like she had blasphemed and then put down the easel. He fixed the strap of one of his camera bags. Together, they headed out the door.

  They told their goodbyes to Officer Lynchfield.

  “I’m surprised you stayed this long.” There was some truth in Brett’s joke.

  Lynchfield’s face stayed neutral. “Welcome to Highlands. Nothing happens.”

  Rachel cracked a smile at the irony.

  “Y’all be safe now,” the officer said, not entirely sincere.

  Rachel and Brett climbed into the Escalade. The Hadley House vanished in their wake. Rachel couldn’t take her mind off the little girl and her plea. It’s all fake. You’re only tired. She wasn’t lying to Brett anymore. She was lying to herself.

  Rachel’s father welcomed them with open arms, and kept repeating. “This is great.” He lived in a two-bedroom house only two miles away from Main Street. The place was spotless and modern with nice countertops and hand painted Christian artwork/biblical quotes on the walls.

  “We’re sorry about the short notice, dad.” Rachel said. “We thought it would be more relaxing to get out of the house.”

  “There’s no need to apologize for anything,” Liam replied with a soft smile. “Quite honestly, I get lonely sometimes when here all by myself.”

  He removed the house key from his key ring and handed it off to Rachel. She surrendered it to Brett. Rachel had few plans to leave the house. After they settled in, Brett hunched over his laptop and photoshopped the rest of the day away. Liam came and went, either attending Alcoholics Anonymous or a bowling practice, another vice he picked up after Rachel’s mother went off her rocker.

  Rachel stayed in bed for the most part of day. It felt “safer” here. The Hadley House had made all sorts of weird n
oises throughout the day, like the sound of branches scratching a window, the rattling of a shutter or the wooden moans that echoed through the halls on windy nights. At her father’s abode, it was quiet and sincere. He had a bible in every room and a tiny fountain for his cat that’s easing trickle overcame the deafening silence. Outside the windows, cars drove to-and-fro, filled with hikers, locals and parents driving their children to the one school in Highlands. It was a sight Rachel hadn’t enjoyed since she had arrived into the Hadley House seven and half miles from civilization. The creepy aesthetic sold the house, now Rachel reminisced about her New York flat that was crowded, loud and altogether uninspiring.

  While reading one of her father’s theological books, Rachel dozed off. An amalgamation of disturbing sights and sounds bombarded sleep. Everything she saw and witnessed turned to blur the moment she jolted from the covers. Cold sweat soaked her clothes. Asleep, Brett rolled over, pulling the covers over his shaggy chest. Panting, Rachel slung her feet over the side of the bed and rubbed her eyes. She felt worse than she did before she rested.

  “Help us.”

  Rachel went still. Her eyes scanned the dark room. Two shapes watched Rachel through the cracked opened hallway door. The standoff lasted a long moment. Eventually the shapes vanished. Rachel pressed her hand over her racing heart. I can’t live like this.

  The next day was far worse than any other. Even when Rachel shared the same room as Brett or Liam, she felt the presence of another, watching her, waiting on her to do something. She went on a jog through the town. In the reflections of a pastry shop, the children were there. She saw them again in the bathroom mirrors. The next night, at 3:00am, the hallway door slowly opened and Rachel stared into its blankness for an hour, knowing looked back but unable to see them.

  “How are you doing?” Brett asked one morning.

  Rachel shrugged.

  Brett took her hand. “We don’t have the money right now, but once National Geographic cuts me a check, we’ll go somewhere nice. Would you like that?”