by C. K. Brooke
DEEPWOOD
A Haunting
C.K. BROOKE
Copyright ©2017 by C.K. Brooke
Published by Elphame Press
Cover design by Plumstone Book Covers
All Rights Reserved.
I like ponds. I knew we’d found the right house when I spotted the little fishpond in the backyard, still glassy with ice after the long winter.
But Horst wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know,” was all he grunted, then continued to glance from wall to wall without really seeing.
“Twenty-seven Deepwood.” Mrs. Clark flipped to a new page in her binder. “Built in 1922, half-an-acre lot. Two bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths…”
My eyes trailed up the wooden stairwell. “May I go up?”
The realtor lifted her armful of paperwork, entreating me. Beside her, Horst looked bored and ready to leave.
“Anyone want to come with me?”
Mrs. Clark’s grin grew tighter-lipped. “I’ll stay put, I think.” She patted her hip. “The old joints aren’t what they used to be, I’m afraid.”
“How about you?” I asked Horst.
“Why bother?” He thumped the paneled walls. “Too much damn wood.”
So I climbed the stairs alone. My knee-high boots were noisy, clunking up the stairwell. By the time I reached the top, I was winded. Steps were so steep in older houses.
Only after catching my breath did I realize how chilly it was upstairs. “Odd,” I mumbled. Heat’s supposed to rise. Then again, this was Michigan, and Michigan is cold.
I walked down the narrow hallway. The warped hardwood floors groaned beneath my weight. Even beneath my peacoat, the backs of my arms prickled. I shivered, casting a quick glance over my shoulder. I was struck by how alone I felt up there, how utterly removed from the rest of the house.
A bedroom door hung ajar. I slowed before it, wary, as if someone might be lurking behind it. Silently scolding my childishness, I pushed it open. The room was bare, nothing but white paint cracking on the walls and a lone floor heater. A single window looked out to the thick, dark pines and militant oaks out front.
I left the first bedroom to check the bathroom. An old tub, an even older sink. Odorless, colorless.
Last, I entered the second bedroom. It was bright inside. Sunlight poured in through a window that provided a perfect view of the backyard’s tiny fishpond. The ceiling peaked, making the space feel larger than it really was. Behind me, I heard the hallway creak. And then, the door slammed shut.
My hand flew over my heart. I spun around and launched at the door, senselessly fearing I’d been locked in. Relief flooded me as I turned the knob with ease. It bowed open innocently at the hinges.
“Horst! That wasn’t—” I stopped, meeting an empty hallway. My eyes shot from the stairwell to the opposite end of the vacant hallway. “Funny,” I breathed.
“Everything okay up there?” rang the realtor’s voice.
I rushed to the narrow stairwell and hurried down, even though I knew I was acting skittish. It was an old house, and old houses had drafts. Still, I called down, “Were either of you upstairs a second ago?”
I arrived at the bottom step to meet my husband and Mrs. Clark standing exactly where I’d left them.
“Does it look like we were upstairs a second ago?” replied Horst dryly.
“A door shut,” I pointed up, out of breath, “apparently on its own. I thought maybe you were playing around with me.”
“The hinges must need tightening,” Mrs. Clark suggested. “Sounds like a couple of loose screws. How did you like the upstairs?”
“It was fine,” I lied, not wanting to hurt her feelings.
Horst tugged at his collar. “Why is it so warm in here?”
“Are you joking?” I frowned. “It’s freezing upstairs.”
“What happened?” he demanded suddenly, appraising me with winched eyebrows. “Why are you shaking? You can’t possibly be cold. I’m burning up in here.”
I hugged myself over my coat, noticing that my hands were, indeed, quivering. “I told you, it’s an icebox up there.”
Horst addressed the realtor. “I think we’re ready to see the next house, Mrs. Clark.”
“Wait.” I don’t know why, but I grabbed his arm, my fist closing over his leather jacket. “We haven’t even seen the kitchen yet, or the yard.”
“I’m sure it’s full of more wood,” he grumbled.
“It’s okay,” Mrs. Clark assured us. “This property’s been on the market for months.” Her mouth twitched downward. “Actually, going on two years now. It’s in a desirable enough neighborhood but, for some reason, we just haven’t been able to sell it.”
“Is something wrong with it?” I asked.
She shook her head of cropped brown hair.
“It looked pretty threadbare upstairs,” I noted. I hadn’t seen any nail holes in the walls, and not so much as a curtain rod hung over the windows. No signs of recent residence. “Does anyone live here?”
Mrs. Clark moistened her finger and turned a page in her binder. “The owners are investors. They’ve leased it out a few times, but no tenant has stayed for long. All short-term renters.”
“Either that or flakes,” muttered Horst, who had never broken a lease.
“Out of curiosity, how much is it?” I asked. A small house could mean cheap living.
“Who cares?” said my husband.
“Forty,” she replied.
We blinked at her. “Forty what?” I asked, while Horst ejected, “You mean one-forty?”
Mrs. Clark held up her binder, tapping the price on the MLS sheet for us to see.
My mouth hung ajar. Beside me, Horst screwed up his forehead. “You mean to tell me,” he pointed at the MLS sheet, “I could own this place for forty grand?”
“Is it infested?” I wondered aloud.
“Is there something wrong with the foundation?” He hiked a black eyebrow.
“Nothing’s wrong with the house,” she insisted. “Frankly, the landlords just want it off their hands. We don’t normally do this, but…” She fished around in her files again before withdrawing a packet of papers. “It’s recently been inspected—again. The seller hoped a paid inspection might offer some additional incentive to buy.”
She gave us the inspection report, and Horst and I paged through it. Indeed, the house from roof to foundation appeared to be in sound condition. It needed little beyond a few cosmetic touch-ups, and maybe a new hot water heater.
A comfortable life with an excess of disposable income flashed before me. I pictured us paying off every last dime of Horst’s college loans, of our cars and the credit card. “We could be debt-free,” I said under my breath.
“With a mortgage lower than our current rent,” he murmured, “we could go to Germany every year.”
I nodded empathetically. I knew how much he missed his relatives.
“Mrs. Clark,” he decided, “why not show us the kitchen?”
The realtor’s expression brightened.
In retrospect, perhaps I ought to have pondered, or even been concerned about, what had happened upstairs. Then again, it was just an old door. I must’ve simply forgotten about it. That, or Horst and I were so blinded by the prospect of our financial burdens finally being lifted, that it seemed far from reasonable to worry about what was most likely a loose hinge.
A few months later, we had closed on the house and were settling in. We hired painters and furnished the living room with a new sofa set. Our bills were a breeze, we ate out more than we ate in, and Horst invested in his choice centerpiece over the mantel: a seventy-two inch, high-definition flat screen television, in front of which he spent every evening until his eyelids dropped. I lay alone in our
bed most nights, listening to his snores drifting up the stairs.
We were content that spring and summer. But come autumn, something changed.
Horst had gone out to rake leaves one evening after wok. I watched him through the front window, his cheeks pink in the already-bitter cold. I sighed. It seemed the warm weather only lasted from July to August around here.
My husband squinted against a gust of wind. His enormous arms moved to and fro beneath his black sweater as he raked. I pushed aside the lace curtain to watch him more closely, my forehead pressing against the glass. He looked like the Hulk’s phantom, so surly and brawny and dark.
I dropped my hand, letting the curtain fall back into place. I’d been unhelpful enough. He deserved a hot cup of coffee as a reward for manning the yardwork by himself. I went into the kitchen and opened a cabinet in search of a coffee filter. From the island behind me, the sound of silverware clanged in my ears.
I spun around. No one was there. But the silverware drawer was wide open.
My breaths rattled in my chest. “Horst?”
No answer.
I abandoned the kitchen. My brain left no room for conjecture as I wrenched open the front door and bolted outside, crossing the lawn to where Horst continued to work the rake methodically. The frigid air bit my face, and my eyes stung.
It was clear my husband hadn’t left the lawn. He didn’t even notice me until I called his name, my voice coming out somewhat strained.
He turned to face me. “Yeah?”
“Dumb question, but,” I bit my lip, “were you just inside the house?”
He leaned against the rake, drawing a breath. “I’ve been out here like a good citizen, maintaining the curb appeal of our lawn.”
“S-so you didn’t open the silverware drawer,” I stammered.
He regarded me strangely. “No.” He set down the rake, his gaze not leaving my face. “You think someone might’ve broken in?”
“I don’t know, but…” I glanced helplessly over my shoulder. “I’m not going back in there alone.”
He grimaced and disappeared into the shed. When he reemerged, he carried a shovel. “Wait here,” he grunted as he passed me. He ascended the front stoop. “Got your cell on you?” he asked, his hand on the doorknob.
I nodded.
Horst raised the shovel. “If you hear me using this, call the cops.” And then he disappeared inside.
My heart hammered even as I tried to placate myself. Drawers could open on their own if the tracts had recently been oiled. Even though I knew we hadn’t oiled them. Horst would check everything out, and any minute he’d come out and declare all to be clear. Nothing was out of the ordinary.
It seemed like an eternity before the front door reopened. My hands were frozen in my pockets by the time Horst stepped out, the shovel limp at his side. He tossed it down into the garden.
“Well?” I said.
He only folded his arms, staring at me.
“What?”
“What in God’s name were you doing in there?”
“I was going to make you a cup of coffee.”
“For Christ’s sake, you left the fridge open, the sink running, and all of the cabinet doors open. As for the coffee pot, it’s smashed on the floor.”
I swore, then covered my mouth. “I didn’t do that! Oh, my God. Someone’s got to be—”
“No one’s in there. I looked everywhere. All I saw was that mess in the kitchen, which you claim you didn’t make.”
“I swear I didn’t.” I could feel my own blood pumping. Did he not believe me? “We should call the police, have them file a report.”
“Nothing’s missing, Cecily. Don’t you think if someone had broken in, they would’ve taken something?”
“But—!”
“I was out here,” he pointed to the lawn where I was standing, “the whole time. I would’ve seen someone go in. The only other way inside is the back door, by the kitchen, where you said you were. You would’ve heard it open, would have seen someone coming.”
I steadied my breaths. Of course, he was right. But it wasn’t making any sense.
“I still think we should call the police,” I persisted. “If you say the kitchen’s been trashed…”
“Look.” Horst pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is it possible you left the fridge ajar by accident, when looking for the cream or something, and more cabinets open than you remember? You were startled. Maybe you knocked down the coffee pot without realizing it when you ran out?”
Besides my irritation at his condescending tone, I didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or indignant. Either way, I was beginning to question my own sanity. And that frightened me more than anything.
“I guess it’s possible,” I conceded in a mumble.
He heaved a sigh. “Right. Well, it’s been a long day. The boss is being a jerk and I just want to put my feet up for a while.”
“Horst,” I whispered, before he could turn through the door again. “I’m afraid.”
I hoped the confession would stimulate an old feeling in him, a long-lost instinct to comfort me, to come near me and make me feel safe.
But that vague hope died with the impatient look on his face. “You gonna straighten up the kitchen or what?”
I lay in bed in bed alone, as usual, and tried for the first time in years to cry. But I was all dried up. I could only feel the desolation of the dark bedroom, which pushed me beyond tears into a kind of quiet apprehension.
I’d thought the extra money, the ability to pay our bills and furnish our home with nice belongings would make us happy, relieve the strain that had been weighing on our marriage. But so far, something about the house was only driving us farther apart than we’d already been for a while.
Still, though there was no logical explanation, something about the house called to me, kept me there. I felt it every time I looked out back to the fishpond, like a magnetic pull.
Optimistically, I had left the bedroom door ajar that evening. The nightlight in the open bathroom illuminated the hallway and the top of the stairs, in the rare case that my husband might decide to join me. But all I heard was the senseless drone of the television in the living room.
I stared at the shadows on the wall for over an hour, thinking, waiting. Would he come up and see that I’d left the door open, that there was room for him on the bed?
When the sound of his snoring issued upstairs, a red surge of rage coursed through me. I lifted my fist and threw it back, banging the wall behind my head. My hand throbbing, I lowered it and shoved it back under the cover.
Days turned to weeks. By November, Horst and I were barely on speaking terms. Too many small instances kept driving us apart. Keys and wallets missing and turning up in the unlikeliest places, lights flickering on or off with no explanation, valuables broken when no one was around to break them. When it happened to Horst, it was somehow my fault. When it happened to me, I had to be making it up.
Apparently, I loved to create drama.
He had stopped taking me seriously. By day, while out of the house and busy at work, I could deal. But at home—and especially at night, when the newfound night terrors came on—well, that was a different story.
Our electricity bill really pissed him off. I didn’t bother explaining why I was keeping so many lights on at night (at all hours, really). Horst wouldn’t believe me, anyway. I wasn’t crazy, had never been superstitious. But I felt a strangeness hovering, lurking around me. And I refused to be vulnerable to the sensation by myself in the dark.
When I did manage to sleep, I awoke every time in a cold sweat, feeling as though someone had just been standing over me. More than once, my throat felt constricted, like someone had closed their hands over it. But when I searched in the lamplight, no one was there. And so, I spent the rest of most nights with my eyes wide open.
It was a crisp afternoon when I arrived home from work before Horst. Not wanting to go inside on my own, I went for a walk instead. Piles
of wet leaves were caked over the grass, some cascading onto the sidewalk and in my way. I wove around them. It had been a wet autumn.
I tucked my mouth behind my scarf and tried to breathe in warmer air. After rounding back and almost reaching my house again, I nearly bumped into a neighbor heading in the opposite direction.
He stopped short, and I stumbled back. My eyes met a plaid flannel shirt. I raised them to regard a man with auburn hair and a beard. He had a tall frame, fair skin, and a pair of the most soulful green eyes I’d ever seen.
“Sorry,” I gasped. “I need to pay attention where I’m going.”
He smiled behind his beard.
I held out a hand and introduced myself.
“Howard Byrne.” He shook my hand. He carried a scent of cigar smoke and firewood. I found myself inhaling a lot around him. It smelled nice.
“You’re the new resident at number twenty-seven?” He nodded toward the house.
“That’s us.” I shoved my hands into my coat pockets again. “Do you live on Deepwood?”
“Longtime resident.”
“Oh, yeah?”
He nodded. “In fact, I could probably tell you anything about this street. For example, that house up there,” he pointed up the slope of the street to a house with a smokestack tumbling out of its chimney, “belongs to a retired widow who once knew the president. And the family that lives there,” he indicated another home, “emigrated from Lithuania. Of course, I also knew the family that lived there before them. Husband was a machinist.” He scratched his beard thoughtfully.
“Huh.” With the toe of my boot, I shifted a soggy mound of leaves aside. “What about my house? Did you know the previous residents?”
“Er…” His smile grew uneasy. Something about it made my stomach clench, as though my worst fears might be confirmed. Only, I didn’t know exactly what my worst fears entailed.
“No?”
“Well,” he hesitated, “no one’s ever stayed for long.”
“So I’ve heard.”