by Etta Faire
"Carly doll, I have wonderful news. I'm getting married again, to Destiny the stripper." I could hear Destiny cackling in the background. They were both drunk.
I hung up without even offering a "Congratulations." Apparently, eccentricity runs in some families, and I was just happy we hadn't had any children.
Gate House came into view, exactly as I remembered it. It was not the traditional Victorian, probably because it was designed by a madman who never took an architectural course in his life. There was one main turret that actually looked like two turrets plopped one on top of the other, and three little ones just for show that didn't hold much. Each had its own entrance, detached from the main house. The guy had a thing for turrets.
Ronald, Jackson's lawyer, was a wax-mustached twig with slightly more twitches than he had pens in his shirt pocket, but then, I really didn't count either. Waiting for me outside, he paced the dark green veranda back and forth, making a circular motion in the air with one of his fingers when he saw me pull up, probably in an effort to get me to hurry up.
"You're half an hour late," he snapped, like he expected me to pay him, or apologize. Neither was going to happen. I agreed to two-o'clock-ish, and only because he'd insisted. I'd just driven seven hours straight from Indianapolis to Potter Grove. I had a car full of my entire belongings and I think I may have smelled a little like Dr. Pepper from a soda explosion somewhere around Chicago. He never even asked how my trip went. Did I hit much traffic? Did I make good time? As soon as my foot hit the first step of the porch, he thrust a stack of papers at me and a pen.
"I was on my way out, actually. I thought you'd forgotten. Like I said before I have to fly out of here at 3:30 and we have a lot to discuss," he said. "First and foremost..."
I heard a familiar sound and Ronald lost my attention again.
Rex, our Labrador and the only thing I missed about my marriage to Jackson, sprinted across the front lawn over to me. I swear the dog was smiling.
I hugged him hard, running my hands through his short golden fur. "I missed you too," I said, over and over again.
Ronald continued talking like I was listening. "There's a stipend of two thousand dollars a month while you take care of Rex."
"A stipend," I said, actually listening now. "Did you say two thousand?" That was more than I'd ever made freelance writing horrible articles from my mother's basement. Hot damn! Maybe I'd be able to tackle my novel after all.
Ronald continued in his monotone voice. "We've gone over this before, Ms. Taylor, please try to keep up. That's to cover utilities and expenses for Rex."
I remembered how much expenses were for a house of this size, and a couple thousand dollars was pretty bare-boned. I would have to get a side job while I wrote my book after all.
"Rex's schedule is outlined on page two. Please initial at the bottom that you agree to all terms..."
I flipped over to page two and scribbled my initials without bothering to look over anything. Ronald had to fly out of here at 3:30 and I had to keep up, after all.
Rex eagerly pushed his head into my hand as I made a mostly for-show attempt at reading whatever it was Ronald was pointing out to me. The dog's large dark eyes looked up at me in the same playful way as the day I met him, even though he had to be old, very old. His little scarred nose shot through my hand again and again. I definitely got the feeling he was trying to tell me something.
I always told Jackson that Rex was the smartest dog in the world. He dropped something hard and smooth into my hand then stood back and panted, waiting for me to pay attention to him. I missed him, too, from his lopsided ears to the little V-shaped scar on the tip of his nose. "In a minute, big guy. I promise we'll catch up or play fetch or whatever you want." I mindlessly shoved the thing he gave me into my pocket and tried to keep up with the fast-talking lawyer.
"Now, onto the house agreement."
"House agreement?" I said. "This is my house, right? As in, I agree to do whatever the hell I want with it like sell it or burn it, mostly sell it."
Ronald tapped his antique Rolex.
I stopped talking and paid attention.
"To boil it down," he said, turning toward the door that led to the kitchen, making his now-famous circular finger motion so I'd quickly follow him inside. "Everything. Everything's protected under this agreement. Not a single antique or piece of hand-crafted wallpaper can be sold... or burned, or else the entire agreement is null and void. You are to receive this house under the conditions that you take care of Rex without changing a thing until the dog's demise. Rex is very sensitive to change."
He pointed around the kitchen first, which was exactly like the day I left it, everything in gorgeous dark thick mahogany with ornamental designs carved into the woodwork. He opened one of the cabinets above the counter. I tried to remember what was in there -- water glasses and coffee mugs. I peeked in. I was right.
"You will see on pages four through eighteen that a detailed count has been made of all the china, glasses, goblets, silverware, stoneware..."
I stared at the pages that listed everything in the kitchen along with the place at the bottom of each page I was supposed to initial to say that everything was correct to the best of my knowledge and that I wouldn't change a thing. I should've known there'd be a stack of paperwork the size of an old phonebook to sign to get this place. The prenup I'd signed had been equally as thick. I was a fool to sign that eleven years ago, and here I was about to be the fool again.
Ronald saw me checking ahead through the agreement. "He's an old dog," he said, his voice finally rising out of its monotone, like he was trying to project optimism. "He won't last long, I'm sure. And then, at that time, the house is yours to burn.”
I looked down at my Lab. I'd rather have him alive. The only reason I hadn't fought for Rex during the divorce was because I knew I'd never get him. Jackson had owned Rex when I met him almost 12 years ago, and he hadn’t been a puppy.
Rex followed at my heels as I walked around the kitchen, and a thought occurred to me: How would anyone know if I accidentally threw out a fork or sold an antique tea set to help pay for electricity? This dog wasn't talking.
Ronald seemed to read my mind. "Mrs. Harpton will be here on Thursdays and Mondays to clean and inspect the place to make sure the contract is still in good standing. Come along," he said. "We have more to discuss and I have to fly out of here soon."
We went from room to room as the lawyer droned on, each sentence more of a life sentence than the last.
"And you will take no more than three weeks of vacation a year, completely at your discretion, but allowing Mrs. Harpton ample time to make arrangements. You are expected to be here all other nights.”
"All other nights?" I repeated. "You can't mean that. What if I get a boyfriend?"
The lawyer's alarm chimed on his phone. He chuckled, pulling it out of his pants pocket. "About the only thing a cellphone's good for around here since there's no coverage, I'm afraid. I've got to go. Remember, the phone people will be here tomorrow to install your landline around 11:00, cable and Internet too. I'll transfer the utilities bill next week."
He patted Rex's head then, after looking and seeing me scanning through the agreement, made a mock-signing motion to show me what I should be doing. I quickly initialed and signed the last few pages where spots were highlighted and handed the thick stack of papers back to him. The terms were weird, and restrictive, but I could always decline the inheritance later if I decided I couldn't stand it. Give the place to one of the people who were none too happy with me getting it.
But right now, I needed a house, a place away from my mother and her constant reminders that I was a 31-year-old failure without a husband, kids, or a career she could brag about at bingo. I also missed Rex, and in a way, this town. As creepy as it all was, it was also familiar and comforting.
As soon as the lawyer left, I plopped down on the rich Victorian settee in the living room and ran a hand over its crimson fabric, which was in
remarkably good shape for its age, no tears or stains, no discoloration. It was funny. I could almost hear my ex-husband's pretentious, snotty voice, calling me from the kitchen. "Carly doll, you burned the pizza again. Why do you buy those frozen, awful things, anyway?"
My stomach growled. And I almost cried. Pizza. I hadn't thought about groceries. I was in such a hurry to get here on time for a weird lawyer who'd just made me sign my life away that I'd forgotten to buy food. I'm sure Destiny hadn't left me anything to eat in this place that wasn't thoroughly seasoned with arsenic. I'd have to drive back down the hill or starve. I couldn't do it, not after driving seven hours straight. I leaned my head against the pillow, a frustrated tear falling down my cheek.
"Awww, how sweet," said a snotty familiar voice. "I miss me too."
Chapter 3
Dead, But Not Forgiven
I screamed and rolled off the settee, hitting the dogwood-patterned rug underneath, fully awake now despite the motion pill I took and my exhaustion. "Jackson?" I said, looking around the room. My throat went dry and I could hardly get my voice to work right.
What looked like the dark figure of my ex-husband appeared in the shadows near the entrance to the kitchen. I closed my eyes for a full three seconds then opened them again. He was still there. A very faded version. His color was weak and strange as he stood in the entryway. Or, was he standing?
“Did you fake your death?” I whispered.
I moved closer to him, blinking my eyes, telling myself my mind was just overly tired.
The thing by the kitchen was Jackson, all right. I was able to make out the beard he always claimed wasn't pretentious even though he had a special comb for it and the tweed jacket with the elbow patches he liked to wear because it made him look like "a walking cliche of an English professor." No one ever understood his jokes.
“Is this a joke?”
His laugh was loud as it echoed off the wall, causing the curtains behind me to sway a little. No human could do that. “Come on, Carly doll. I expected a hug,” he said.
Slowly, I moved for my purse, which I'd thrown onto the couch earlier. I suddenly had the energy to not only drive back down that hill but also to head back into Indianapolis again. My mother's basement awaited me. I cringed thinking about it, mostly because I'd made a "this is my life" speech about independence and never coming back that might've included something about a septic tank. Why did I have to burn every bridge?
I took a step back then another, never taking my eyes off the strange, yet familiar, figure floating in the shadows.
"Leaving so soon? But you just got here."
I must be imagining this, I told myself. "Ghosts aren't real," I said out loud in an almost defiant tone.
"Yet here we are." He crossed his arms so I could see the dumb elbow patches better. So I would know for sure it was him. He went on. "I have to say, I'd forgotten how cute you are when you're caught off guard."
I threw my purse back down on the couch. "I should've known this would be the reason you'd give me a house. You somehow knew you'd be able to come back and haunt it, so you thought it'd be fun to make Carly's life miserable one more time around. Well, I don't need to stay here."
That was a lie. I did. My mother said she'd be charging more rent if I came back.
He disappeared from the doorway, reappearing right next to me, and I screamed.
"I'm here because I need your help. I didn't mean to scare you. I do hope I didn't scare you."
I shook my head. "Nope, just annoyed me, like always." I was mostly annoyed I needed to get in touch with the lawyer and tell him to give this place to the Bowmans or Destiny, or whoever was next in line; I didn't care.
"Caaaarrrrllllly Mae!" Someone called from the veranda door off my kitchen.
I didn't move. For some strange reason, I was no longer sure if it was a human voice or another ghost's. Jackson disappeared and I slowly walked toward it.
"Caaaarly Mae!"
"It's just Carly now." I peeked out the kitchen window and almost toppled over. All I could see was a tuft of light blonde hair and the kind of broad shoulders that made little old ladies lose their bladder control. I knew exactly who it was.
"Brock Calhoun," I said, my lungs finally able to breathe normally.
He looked through the window at me with that same wild boyish grin from when we were younger, and I almost lost my faculties too. He looked good, but the best part was I could finally admit how good he looked now that I was a single lady, and he was a single man.
I threw the door open and hugged him, surprised by how strong he was when he lifted me up a little. He smelled good, like cologne. Single men always did. It was only after you married them that you got to smell their true selves, "Eau de no longer trying."
“Old George told me you were up at Gate House. So I wanted to come by, see if you needed anything.” He held up a bag from Thriftway. "I brought you a frozen pizza. I remember you used to love those things."
I snatched the bag from his hand like a hungry animal and looked inside. There was also beer.
“Bless you,” I said, my eyes almost tearing up.
He continued. "I would've called, but I won't have your phone number until tomorrow,” he said, looking me over.
I felt my face growing hot. "How will you have my number tomorrow? I mean, I'll give it to you, if you want it. Do you want it? The phone company's coming at eleven. But you can have my cell phone number right now." Tina's face came to my mind, and the guilt that went with it.
This was her man.
He pulled on the name-tag part of his light blue button down shirt that bulged at the seams in all the right places. At first I only noticed the shirt, but then I saw what he was getting at. He was holding his name tag. "I forgot you worked for Landover Cable and Phone," I said, turning on the oven and tossing the pizza onto a cold rack. I turned back around. He was staring at me.
"You look good," he said, without hesitation, like he wasn't just politely lying. I knew my frizz was extra frizzy, probably lumping out of its bun in a clown-like poof. I smoothed my hand over it to check. It wasn't too bad. I'd sneak off in a minute to check a mirror.
Brock Calhoun was voted sexiest man at the Thriftway by the girls there way back when. There were really only three of us voting. And after he asked Tina out instead of me, I changed my vote.
“Need some help moving in?" he asked. “Or do you like your car being full of stuff?”
"I'm not staying," I admitted.
His face dropped. "Really? Why?"
"Maybe I'll stay. I don't know." Had I really just said that? Was I seriously thinking about staying in a creepy old house that my annoying ex-husband was in the middle of haunting in a town with a murderer on the loose because a cute boy seemed interested? Being 31 and single had made me significantly more desperate than I ever thought I'd be. "I think the place might be haunted."
I pulled open the top drawer on the kitchen island and grabbed the bottle opener that I knew would be in there because it was always in there. I opened one of the beers and handed it to him. He took it and handed me something long and dangly back. It was a silver necklace with a shiny black stone pendant.
"Obsidian," he said, matter-of-factly, like that meant something. "My aunt thinks this place is haunted. It's from her."
His aunt Rosalie owned an upscale hippie shop in the main part of Potter Grove that sold overpriced incense and beaded clothing. I also heard she did seances and read people's cards on the weekends to make a little extra cash. None of the rich baby-boomer ex-hippies who vacationed at Landover Lake could leave the area without stopping in at Rosalie's Purple Pony shop. He pointed to the stone. “It’s supposed to ward off evil spirits, if you believe in that stuff."
I couldn't put the necklace on fast enough. "So this gets rid of spirits, huh? Evil ones," I said loudly so my ex would hear me. "They won't be able to touch me? Or follow me around? Or talk to me at all," I asked.
"Are they doing that right now
?" Brock's horrified expression let me know I shouldn't answer that truthfully.
"Come on," I said, taking another swig off my beer. "Let's go get my stuff. I guess I'll give this place a trial period." Again, I seemed to mostly be talking to my ex.
There were three levels to the main part of the house. The second floor had zero options for me to sleep in, unless I wanted to sleep in the nursery (with the bug-eyed weird horse sculpture mounted on the wall that I seriously doubted any living child actually picked out) or the maid's quarters down the hall from it. Nope. I pointed up the staircase to the man who was carrying the boxes. Sweat dripped from Brock's temple.
"You sure you don't want help?" I asked.
He shook his head "no," and we kept going up. Since I wasn't about to stay in the master, my only other options were a creepy room with what looked like dead blackbirds pasted to the wall or the room I'd begun calling Old Lady Death because its fleur-de-lis patterned wallpaper looked like a dead grandmother's dress. I pointed to Old Lady Death.
"I bet you start remodeling right away," Brock said when he saw the room. He set the suitcases on the bed and sat down on the wooden chair off to the side that looked more like an electric chair than one made for comfort.
"I wish I could. I signed an agreement not to touch anything in the house."
He laughed, but when I didn't laugh with him, he stopped. "You're serious."
"Part of the trial basis," I said. "I'm not sure I can live in a horror house."
"Sorry." He looked around, like he was searching for something to compliment. "Wallpaper's nice."
"Yes, if you like the lining of a casket. I'll probably spend most of my time terrified, but at least I’ll have Rex."
"Rex is good protection," he said, looking over at the dog who had peeked into the room as if on cue. "But he's an old dog. You should get a gun or some mace. You heard about the..."