by Knox, Abby
“Let’s get to the main event now, D.”
She steps back, her eyes wide.
“I don’t mean it that way,” I say. “I mean let’s get to the Milton House and out of the cold so we can talk. I think you and I have a few things to hash out before the night is over, don’t you?”
Chapter Ten
Dahlia
So, I think, as I smirk to myself while unlocking the front door of Milton House. He also wants to talk about “things.” Things that happened in the past? Things that I sense are happening between us now? I can’t tell for sure.
Don’t get too excited, Dahlia. He might just want talk about “keeping things casual and seeing where they go.”
Just like the day before I transferred out of state.
When I twist the key in the lock, the heavy oak door creaks open and we step inside.
I switch on the lantern to guide our way, and it illuminates the front room with a soft white glow. Something feels off inside the house, like somebody has been here. It makes no sense, though, as I’m the only one with a key and I changed the locks as soon as the tourism bureau took possession of the house. I examine the door for any signs of forced entry but there are none.
And then I realize it’s not the presence of someone, but the opposite, as if someone is missing and the house is unsettled. I don’t really believe anything specific about the afterlife, but something weird is going on here.
“What’s wrong?” Blake asks, stepping close to me.
“I don’t know. Probably just Halloween excitement playing tricks on me.”
Blake towers over me. “If you want to get out of here, just say the word.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What, you think I’m scared already?”
“No, you just looked a little spaced out for a minute there. If you’re tired…”
I stand up on my toes for emphasis but my eyes can only manage to be level with his Adam’s apple. “I’m not tired. I’m not scared. But I am curious what things you wanted to talk about.”
He blinks down at me for a moment then shakes his head. “Listen. I know you did a lot of preparation for this ghost tour, so let’s have it. I want to hear everything.”
I try to be the cool, low maintenance chick. “It’s fine,” I say. “We don’t have to…I mean, I know you think this ghost stuff is baloney, so we can just skip it if you want.”
“D, give me the story. And then we’ll talk.” He sees right through me. And I like it.
I switch off the lantern, then pull out my flashlight and shine it up my face from under my chin. “But be prepared to have the bejeezus scared out of you.”
He chuckles. “You know you’re the only person on earth who still looks cute when you do that dorky flashlight thing on your face?”
He’s trying to charm me. And it’s working. Before I let him distract me any further, I start my speech and lead him through the front parlor, putting my flashlight away and re-lighting the lantern.
“There’s no electricity; it was shut off shortly after Esther passed. I decided to wait to turn it back on until I can have everything inspected. So watch your step, please.” I switch to my tour guide voice. “The Milton House was built by Captain James Milton in 1899 and was passed down through the generations.” I continue on with the entire history of the house, leading Blake through the front hall, the parlor, and dining room, making note of all the changes and minor upgrades, fun trivia and the Milton family history.
In the dark, I can feel Blake’s eyes on me. The thought of it makes me feel a little shaky. I put out a hand on the wall to steady my tired ankles when I hear something crash to the floor.
I gasp and shine my light toward the sound of tinkling glass. Bending over to get a closer look, I see it’s a picture of the late John Milton, Esther’s husband, that had been on a shelf nearby.
“That’s so odd,” I say, picking it up, careful not to cut myself.
“You totally knocked that off with your hand, D.”
“No, I swear I did not,” I breathe.
Blake scoffs. We make our way to the kitchen while I continue with the tour. “It was back here in the kitchen where Esther Milton first reported unusual activity in the house. She had come downstairs for a midnight snack and, according to her police report, a figure was standing outside the window, perfectly still, watching her. Police responded, but they found nothing. When it happened again a few weeks later and the police again found nothing, she called the newspaper to come and investigate. According to the newspaper archives I’ve read through, the reporters also found nothing amiss. At that point, she decided it was the ghost of her late husband, and she started calling psychics, ghost hunters, and just about anybody else who would listen to her.
“Soon afterward, she began to report more and more mysterious incidents at the house…”
We’re headed up the stairs to the bedrooms as I list off all the evidence of haunting. “Flickering lights,” I say.
“Probably just old wiring,” Blake mutters.
“…Kitchen drawers found open that weren’t left open…”
“Forgetfulness.”
“Sounds of footsteps on the stairs when she was alone…”
Blake grunts behind me. “Foundation settling.”
I shake my head but I can’t help but smile; I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince me or convince himself.
Chapter Eleven
Blake
I keep up with her running commentary throughout the tour. I don’t believe any of it to be true, but I have to admit, Dahlia is pretty convincing. Was there ever any doubt she would be?
I stay close behind her, considering whether I want to choose the perfect moment to make her jump. Would she throttle me? Probably.
Maybe I could pretend I see a ghost, just for a laugh.
None of it seems right though. She’s having too much fun, and she barely pauses to breathe while she’s throwing so much information at me.
“…and then as Esther’s health deteriorated, the sightings increased in frequency. She saw people at the windows at night…”
“Tricks of the light.”
“…strange objects left on her porch…”
“Neighborhood kids playing tricks on her.”
“…and odd sounds coming from the basement…”
“Foundation quirks. Squirrels. Mice. Birds stuck in the chimneys. Water leaks.”
Dahlia has no idea how beautiful she is in the lantern light as she guides me through the master bedroom and the guest bedrooms. She’s switched her topic from the home’s history to talking about her plans to restore the house to its original look, down to antique furnishings in all the rooms.
We stop at one of the guest rooms. Some branches of tall tree, wild looking in the moonlight, butt up against the window on the far wall. Leaning against the opposite wall is a huge ornate mirror that was never hung on the wall.
“Some people might agree with you that all the phenomena has a rational explanation. And there was a time where Mrs. Milton herself might have dismissed all these things. But after several years of incidents, she had gained a bit of notoriety and wanted to turn her house into a bed and breakfast. You know, to use the haunting to create a source of income. But the town council at the time refused to change the zoning to help her out. It’s sad, but she never got to see her dream materialize,” Dahlia says.
“Because she turned out to be completely nuts?”
“She wasn’t nuts, it was just nobody believed in her, and soon she stopped believing in herself. When I moved back here, I became interested in local history and I visited with her frequently. She really was a wealth of knowledge. I’m glad I got to know her as a person, too. She was so kind, and always had cookies waiting for me whenever I’d come to visit. By that time, she got a full-time nurse in the house and the unexplained phenomena quieted down. Some people said it was because the nurse got her medications straightened out. Or maybe the ghosts finally decided to l
eave her alone.”
“Is that why she gave the house to the tourism department? Because you went to visit her?”
Dahlia shrugs like it was not a big deal. “She was a lot of fun to talk to. It made me sad that I hadn’t gotten to know her sooner. If I hadn’t transferred away, maybe I could have helped her write a book about her memories. Who knows what could have happened if I’d stayed?”
Her question hangs in the air between us. She turns and looks up at me.
“Do you … have any other regrets?” I ask.
“I regret not being here for Gramps’s funeral. I regret not being there for you.”
I open my mouth to reply when she nearly jumps out of her skin and latches on to my arm.
“Oh my god! Did you see that?”
My heart thuds in my chest and I instinctively slide my arm around her. “What? Where?”
“Something moved, just beyond the light, at the end of the hallway!”
“Stop,” I say.
“I’m serious, Blake.”
She is serious; I can feel her trembling.
“Probably just a mouse, but let’s go check it out if it will make you feel better?”
Who knew she could be so jumpy on a tour that she orchestrated? Or maybe she’s acting. If that’s the case, hand her the Oscar, please.
I take the lantern out of her hand and lead the way, my arm fixed around her. We creep toward the end of the hall, and I keep the light trained on the master bedroom door.
We both startle when we see the rocking chair by the window move on its own.
“What the fuck!” I yell.
Dahlia grips me around the waist and yelps just seconds before we see a small, shadowy ball of fur dart out the open window.
“What was that?” she whispers.
“That was a squirrel. But the bigger question is, why is that window open? Did you leave it open?”
“No!” she says.
I go into the room to close the window, Dahlia melded to me.
“That’s just the kind of thing Mrs. Milton told me about. She said back in the day, she used to find random windows open.
“She probably forgot,” I reply, carefully shutting the window and closing the curtain. “You'd be surprised how easily we forget we leave windows, doors, drawers, cabinets open. In any case, that was a tree-climbing rodent and not a ghost. A ghost wouldn’t open a window anyway; they can walk through walls, can’t they?”
“Oh, sweet Blake,” she sighs, sounding like I should know better. “If they don’t know they’re a ghost, they may try to open doors and windows.”
“Except that they’re not real,” I remind her.
She looks at me like I’ve just kicked her dog. “That poor woman spent years telling everyone she knew that she was being visited by the ghost of her dead husband and nobody believed her. Who are we to say she was wrong?”
I wrap my arms around her and pull her close, her shoulders drooping.
“May I tell you what I think? I think you’ve gotten too invested in this ghost thing and you don’t want to let her memory down.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“You’re just trying to convince me. That’s not the same as proving ghosts don’t exist.”
I sigh and pull my phone out of my pocket. “Listen. It’s one a.m. and I think we’re both tired. Let’s go home and we’ll call it a draw.”
“No. I’m not leaving,” she says.
“Well, I’m not leaving you here, scared and alone in the dark.”
“I’m not scared.”
“I don’t know why.”
“Because he’s a friendly ghost.”
“Why would a friendly ghost do things like leave windows open and freak out his own wife with footsteps on the staircase?”
“Because he wanted his wife to feel like she wasn’t alone. And, maybe, when we die, our attempts to comfort the living don’t translate. Maybe some of our messages come through damaged. And that’s why it’s unsettling. Maybe her husband was just trying to say he loved her, but showed up as a creaking staircase. Just like when the living try to communicate, it doesn’t always go so well.”
The subtext is so obvious it punches me in the gut. Two years ago, she told me she loved me, and I freaked. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with me?
I swallow hard. “Dahlia…”
“Settle down, big guy. We haven’t finished the tour. We still have the most haunted part of the house to explore. The basement.”
“D, come on. Let’s skip it.”
Her eyes pop wide at me and she stands on tip toe. “You’re a big chicken!”
I huff. “No, I am not.”
“If we don’t go down to the basement, then you forfeit the bet and I win.”
I scrape my fingers through my hair and mutter, “This is ridiculous.”
“Well, then, you lose, is all I’m saying.”
“All right, fine.”
Dahlia opens the door under the staircase and begins her descent, me still holding the lantern. I put out a hand to stop her.
“I can’t let you go down there first.”
“What do you think is going to happen? Wow, you really are scared, aren’t you?”
“No, but what if there are snakes or spiders or bugs or who knows what else? What kind of a person would I be if you got a snake bite before I did?”
“OK, fine, I’ll let you hold on to your chivalry for now.”
“I appreciate that.”
Shining the lantern and her flashlight ahead of us, we make our way down the stairs.
The dark, dank, cool space feels even more like death and doom than the rest of the house. I don’t understand why, but something in the air makes my blood pressure rise and the hairs on the back of my neck tingle.
We shine our lights around to get a better look. It’s not what I was expecting. The space is divided into rooms like someone had begun to build an apartment down here. There are studs, but no actual walls.
“Esther Milton reported noises in the basement at least once a month to police during the height of the apparent haunting. At first they came to investigate but they never found anything. After a while, they stopped taking her seriously and then she simply stopped calling them. She told me she decided it was just the ghost of her husband looking after her.”
“Looking after her by making weird noises in a creepy basement? Might want to find a better service provider from the afterlife, dude, ‘cause you really got shit wrong.”
“Talking to a ghost now? That’s belief. You lose.”
“Nice try, Dahlia Jane.”
She laughs. “The last time you called me that…oh my god.”
She doesn’t respond but her eyes widen and I feel her full-body shiver next to me.
“What is it?”
“Did you feel that cold spot?”
“It’s a basement; it’s probably coming from the vents.”
“No,” she says. “It’s not the same as a draft.”
My nerves waver a little, though my mind tries to keep a hold on the most logical explanation. I study her face in the lantern light. If she’s acting, she’s definitely fooling me. “I feel it on my skin, even inside my coat. Under my skin.”
“This isn’t funny, D.”
We examine all the partitions for the source of the breeze but don’t find it.
What we do find, however, in the farthest corner of the basement is one small room, is an old wooden chair overturned, and above it, a rope hanging from a support beam in the shape of a noose. The rope is swinging ever so slightly, like it’s being pushed—or swayed—by a draft.
The image of this completely sucks all the air out of my lungs. Dahlia whimpers and I try to pull her back but she doesn’t move.
“This is it,” she says. “This is what Esther and John want us to see.”
I suddenly get the distinct impression she’s winding me up.
“So help me, D, if you’re p
ranking me right now.”
She shakes her head. “No. No, this is the room where her husband used to go. Esther told me he used to come down here to think and to mess around with his old train sets. She was never allowed down here.”
“D, I don’t like this. Let’s get out of here.”
She shakes her head. “No. She told me there was something down here, there was something down here he didn’t want her to see.”
An ice-cold wind rushes past my ears, blocking out all noise around me, and next thing I know the door at the top of the stairs has slammed shut.
Dahlia screams.
“Whoa!” I shout.
I throw one arm around Dahlia and pull her up the stairs with me. She trembles like a leaf in my arm. “It’s OK, baby. I’m getting you out of here.”
She’s not speaking, not making any noise at all, other than her teeth chattering uncontrollably like she’s standing in a meat locker. She’s either truly freezing, or frightened out of her mind.
Chapter Twelve
Dahlia
I have no idea what’s going on, only that I can’t control the bone-deep cold pressing against my chest as Blake carries me up the stairs.
He kicks open the door to the hall, but I don’t even hear the doorjamb splinter. All I hear are my teeth chattering and a wind like a blizzard rushing around my ears. But why isn’t my hair moving if I feel like I’m in the middle of a windstorm at the North Pole?
“Change of plans. We’re getting out of here,” he says when he reaches the hallway.
He has me halfway to the front door when I try to pull away.
“Stop, D, I’m going to drop you.”
“P-put me down.”
“No,” he says, charging the door.
With all my might, I struggle against his grip.
Gruffly he gives in and sets me down gently on my feet. His hands never leave my hips while he questions me.
“All right, I put you down but now you gotta tell me what’s going on.”
I shake my head. “We’re close.”
He nods. “Yeah, close to you completely losing your mind because somebody is playing tricks on you. Let’s go. This sleepover is cancelled.”