The House on the Hill: A Ghost Story

by Irina Shapiro

  The House

  on the Hill

  A Ghost Story

  By Irina Shapiro

  Copyright

  © 2019 by Irina Shapiro

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the author.

  All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people (except those who are actual historical figures) are purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Notes

  An Excerpt from The Lovers

  Echoes from the Past Book 1

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Prologue

  If walls could talk, what a story they’d tell—a story of love, betrayal, and murder, the woman thinks as she stands at the top of the stairs watching the newcomer, who is completely unaware of the woman’s ethereal presence. The newcomer is moving around the house with the uncertainty of someone who’s trespassing in someone else’s space, trying it on for size to see if she could make a life for herself there. Many others have passed through the house over the centuries, but this one is different. She’s young, by modern standards, but she’s known the pain of loss and the heartbreak of betrayal. It’s right there in her shadowed eyes and the unhealthy pallor of her face.

  Maybe this one will be able to help me, the woman at the top of the stairs thinks. Maybe she’ll succeed where others had failed, and finally set me free so I can fulfill my promise at last.

  Chapter 1

  Lauren

  The Present

  The morning was bright and brisk, with wispy clouds racing across the aquamarine sky and playing peek-a-boo with the pale orb of the sun. It was mid-March, but there wasn’t a hint of spring in the air, winter stubbornly clinging on. The roads were clear, but snow still covered much of the ground since the temperature refused to rise above freezing, and the icy breath of the ocean held the shoreline in its thrall.

  Lauren peered at the GPS as it instructed her to make a right. The road she turned onto was narrow and surprisingly steep, flanked by ancient trees whose branches moved eerily in the wind. The house was about a mile away, perched on a hill that overlooked Pleasant Bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.

  Lauren hoped she was going to like this one. She’d seen several potential rentals over the past few weeks, but the ones she liked were too pricy and the ones she could afford were little more than shacks that smelled of mildew and had such low ceilings she could reach up and touch them. She hadn’t planned on leaving Boston, but the desperate need to escape her apartment and spend a few months in a place that held no painful memories overwhelmed her.

  In two weeks, it’d be a year since Zack died, killed by a sniper’s bullet during the spring offensive in Afghanistan. It had been his third tour and would have been his last. They’d made plans. They were going to sell their apartment in Brookline and buy a house in the suburbs, start trying for a baby, and live a wonderfully boring life where Lauren didn’t lie awake night after night waiting for him to call from overseas or avoid watching the news for fear of hearing something that would send her into a tailspin.

  While Zack was away, she’d concentrated on her work, finally completing the last book of the military romance series she’d been writing. She’d often heard the advice “Write what you know,” and this was something she knew—the heart-wrenching goodbyes followed by tearful reunions, the worry, the fear, and the pure joy of those first few weeks of togetherness after Zack finally returned to her, safe and sound. Those first few days were like a second honeymoon, but more intense, more precious. Zack had joked that the months of separation kept the marriage strong because the romance never fizzled out. It stoked their desire for each other and transformed the mundane details of their lives into something magical. They’d talk nonstop, their words tripping over each other and falling like a waterfall from their parched lips, and the need to touch, to feel, to worship each other’s bodies was so strong, they barely got out of bed.

  Zack had often remarked how lucky he’d been in his life, but his luck had run out a year ago on a windswept mountaintop just north of Kabul. Their life was like a record that had screeched to a halt, the song left unsung, the melody interrupted. Suddenly, Lauren was alone, widowed, a status people tended to associate with elderly women who’d lost their husbands to illness or old age, not with someone who was still in her twenties. She couldn’t bring herself to utter the word; it made her loss all too real. The rational part of her brain understood Zack was gone, but the emotional part, the loving part, still looked for him everywhere she went. She still spoke to him, sometimes out loud, and slept on her side of the bed, unable to move to the middle for fear of acknowledging that he’d never sleep next to her again. She needed to have pictures of him, but looking at them tore at her heart. She wanted to be in the place he’d called home, but every piece of furniture, every picture, every item of clothing reminded her of the husband she’d lost. Seeing his favorite mug for the first time after he died had led to a two-day cryfest that resulted in her hiding the cup from view lest she fall apart again.

  She’d put off clearing out his side of the closet, unable to get dressed in the morning without touching his shirts and sniffing desperately in the hope that a hint of his smell still clung to the laundered fabric. She’d finally done it a few months ago, but she hadn’t thrown anything away. Getting rid of Zack’s things seemed too final, too real. Despite her valiant efforts to cope, her life became reduced to eating, sleeping, watching TV, and reassuring everyone that she was fine, a lie no one really believed.

  She’d stopped writing. She simply couldn’t form an original thought as she sat day after day, staring at the blank screen of her computer. Her agent had been able to get her several ghostwriting gigs. It was much easier to organize someone else’s thoughts and turn them into a narrative than deal with her own. Her clients were happy, and her reputation as a ghostwriter grew, resulting in mo
re commissions. She was glad; it was imperative to keep busy in order to keep the worst of the pain at bay. But after a long, snowy winter spent mostly indoors, she needed to get out. She had to get away from the ghost of Zack, to inhabit a new place, to try to put the pieces of her life back together and come to terms with a truth that had come knocking on her door several months ago and shed a new light on her life as she’d known it. She had to get away, to spend a few months in a place that made her feel peaceful and whole.

  Cape Cod had naturally come to mind. She’d loved the place as a child. Her parents had rented a house on the beach for two weeks every August, and they’d spent their days tanning and swimming, followed by burgers and grilled seafood eaten on the deck as they watched the sun sink below the horizon. It was a golden memory of her childhood she still clung to and had hoped to recreate with her own children someday.

  The summer season wouldn’t officially start until Memorial Day, but if she found the right place, she’d be ready to move in as soon as the first of April, eager to watch spring arrive in a place that was nearly free of memories—her own rebirth, for lack of a better word. She owed it to Zack. She’d made a promise.

  “Promise me you won’t grieve for me should anything happen,” he’d said that last morning at their apartment.

  “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you,” she’d replied, clinging to him amid the rumpled sheets.

  Zack had kissed her tenderly and brushed her tangled hair away from her face. “Lauren, promise me you’ll move on. I need to know that you’ll be happy; that’s the only way I can leave and get on with my job. Promise me,” he’d demanded, his gaze anxious and intense. “Promise me.”

  And she’d promised, even though she’d been lying through her teeth. “Yes, I promise. I will get on with my life if the worst happens.” But she’d never imagined that anything could be worse than death, or that some secrets lived on, haunting those left behind from beyond the grave.

  Lauren’s eyes widened in surprise when the house finally came into view. She hadn’t bothered to look it up online, preferring to see it for the first time in real life and form an impression. It was a lot grander than she’d expected, the type of house one saw in advertisements for a holiday on the seashore. It even had an actual name, rather than just an address—Holland House. She parked the car and got out, smiling at Susan McPherson, who’d been waiting in her car but was now coming to greet her.

  “Sorry I’m late. Traffic out of the city was monstrous.”

  “It always is,” Susan replied breezily. “No worries. I caught up on some calls while I was waiting for you. It was too cold to hang around outside anyhow.”

  “Susan, are you sure this place is within my budget? It looks too—I don’t know—glamorous.”

  Susan gave a dismissive shrug. “Glamorous is not a word I’d use to describe this house. The location is perfect for someone who wants to spend the summer in blissful isolation, but it’s not overly appealing to families who prefer to be close to the beach. There’s a private dock, but no boat,” she added as she led Lauren around the side of the house to show her the breathtaking view. Beyond Pleasant Bay, the Atlantic stretched like a blue-gray quilt toward the horizon, its surface decorated with foaming whitecaps whipped up by the wind. Several small islands were visible from their vantage point on the hill. According to Susan, they were uninhabited, being too small and steep to build a summer residence to rival the one she was looking at.

  A wide patio hugged the back of the house, complete with wrought-iron furniture and a covered grill. A narrow wooden staircase led to the water’s edge, where a short dock extended into the bay. Both the stairs and the dock looked old and rickety, unlike the house, which appeared solid, if windswept, by comparison. It had the pleasing proportions often found in homes of colonial design, but Lauren didn’t think this house was a modern-day replica—it looked like the real thing.

  “When was this place built?”

  “The original house was constructed in the eighteenth century. It had two rooms downstairs and two bedrooms above. I believe the widow’s walk dates to the nineteenth century,” Susan said, glancing at the white-painted rooftop platform that was such a common feature of houses on Cape Cod. “Over time, the owners added indoor plumbing, several rooms, a patio, a sunroom, and, of course, the driveway and the garage. However,” Susan shook her head in dismay, “it’s not wired for cable or internet. Another nail in the coffin for the current owner. Families want TV and internet. Kids don’t spend their free time reading and playing board games as they did when I was a kid.”

  “No, I don’t suppose they do. Why doesn’t the owner just bring in the cable company?”

  “I think he just forgets about this place until it’s time to rent it out again, and then it seems like too much of an expense, or too big a hassle. I honestly don’t know. He lives in L.A., where he makes movies.”

  “He’s a film producer?” Lauren asked, curious.

  “No, he does special effects. One of those artistic types,” she added, as if that were the worst thing a person could be. “I think he’d happily sell the place if he could be bothered to deal with all the details of putting it on the market. As long as he gets a few tenants in each summer, he’s content to let the property sit empty for the remainder of the year.”

  “So, the isolated location and the lack of internet are enough of a drawback to keep renters away?” Lauren asked, amazed that anyone would pass up such a wonderful place.

  Susan looked furtive for a moment, then exhaled loudly, as if she had no choice but to tell the truth. “This house has a bit of a reputation.”

  “A reputation for what?”

  “Look, it’s an old house. It creaks, doors slam shut, probably because there’s a draft. Lights occasionally go on by themselves, but the wiring hasn’t been updated since it was put in, whenever that might have been. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Are you saying, in a very no-nonsense, dismissive kind of way, that the house is haunted?” Lauren asked, amused by Susan’s desire to explain away the ‘reputation.’

  “I’m saying it’s old, and it gets buffeted by winds from the Atlantic. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Neither do I,” Lauren replied. She wished she did because then maybe Zack would come to her. She needed closure, something she’d never have now. “Can we go inside?” she asked as she huddled deeper into her coat. The house’s location ensured it would be cool in the summer, but in the middle of March, it was arctic on that hill.

  “Sure. Sorry. I always tend to pontificate about the view. I must emphasize the sellable points.”

  “So, the house is a dump?” Lauren asked with a chuckle.

  “No. It’s nice.” Passable, in real estate speak, Lauren thought as she followed Susan toward the front door.

  The inside wasn’t too bad. The place could use a good airing out, but aside from the stagnant smell, it was more than passable. There was a sofa and comfortable-looking chairs arranged before the fireplace, several lamps, and a colorful rug that made the living room look cozy and inviting. The windows faced the bay, a major plus as far as Lauren was concerned. The kitchen was outdated, but she had no plans to do any serious cooking, so it would do.

  “This is the office,” Susan said as she threw open the door of a room that faced the front of the house and held a desk, several bookshelves, and a swivel chair. The white walls were bare, and the window faced the side of the garage. “You could write in here.”

  I doubt it, Lauren thought as she sized up the unappealing room. No inspiration would strike her within its utilitarian confines. Whoever had used this room in the past had left nothing of their personality behind, not even a picture on the wall or a tattered paperback they no longer wanted.

  “Shall we go upstairs?” Susan chirped, clearly happier now that she thought Lauren was interested. “There are four bedrooms: two kids’ rooms, a guest room, and a master bedroom. The master bedroom is not e
xactly in keeping with the rest of the house, but it’s very quaint.”

  “Sounds ominous,” Lauren joked.

  “Not at all. See for yourself.”

  The three smaller bedrooms were reminiscent of any B&B Lauren had stayed at. Flowery quilts thrown over twin beds with scratched wooden headboards, neutral carpeting, and colorful curtains to brighten the space. The master bedroom, however, was a surprise. A four-poster bed dominated the room, its massive mahogany posts intricately carved. The seafoam-colored quilt appeared to be made of thick damask and decorated with silver braid that matched the delicate pattern. A heavy wardrobe stood in the corner, the design matching that of the bedposts, but the item of furniture that really grabbed Lauren’s attention was the lovely secretary desk that faced the window, which opened onto the vista of tall pines and shimmering sea. The desk was mahogany, its surface smooth and satiny despite years of use. There were three drawers on each side, plus several small drawers in the top section. Each drawer had a polished brass knob and a fanciful pattern carved into the wood. The desk was reminiscent of something Charles Dickens or Jane Austen would own, but it had probably been crafted before their time.

  “All the furniture in this room is original to the house,” Susan said. “Eighteenth century. This room belonged to the last owner of the house, Mrs. Lacey. She was the current owner’s aunt. Died five years ago.”

  “Not in this bed, I hope,” Lauren said.

  “No, in a hospice in Chatham. She was a nice lady. My mom knew her well. So, what do you think?”

  “I think I love it,” Lauren said, already picturing herself at the desk, her computer in front of her as she began a new project, her own this time.

  “Great. Let’s get the papers signed, then, shall we? Why don’t we stop by the office, take care of business, and then grab some lunch? I’m starving.”

  “I don’t know,” Lauren replied lamely. She’d actively avoided social situations since Zack’s death, but Susan looked so crestfallen, she felt mean for refusing.

  “Come on. It’s on me,” Susan tried again. “I hate eating at my desk.”