Dream House: A Short Story

by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  I peered over my shoulder, my eyes locking with one of the cherubs at the bottom of the stairs. I could swear he moved. And wasn't he supposed to be smiling, not leering at me with an evil scowl?

  I blinked and his smile was back, all innocent and serene.

  Am I going crazy?

  *****

  Later I drove to the library, sat through a boring speech on categorizing books and found myself standing in the stacks in the history section.

  "Can I help you?" Mary Kendall, the head librarian, peered at me over horn-rimmed glasses.

  "I-I'm not sure." And I wasn't. I had no idea why I was standing there.

  "Are you doing research?"

  Research. "Uh, yeah. I was curious about…our house. About the former owners."

  Mary pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and turned toward the bookshelves. "This way."

  "We live at—"

  "Oh, I know where you live, Mrs. Kingston. The old Burroughs house. Reverend Charles Burroughs had it built for his wife Ursula." She looked at me. "What do you know about Danvers?"

  "Not much. We lived in Boston for five years. Before that we were in New York."

  Mary leaned close and lowered her voice. "You heard about the Salem witch trials, right?"

  I nodded.

  "Well, honey, this here is Salem."

  I laughed. "This is Danvers."

  "Used to be called Salem Village."

  My smile dropped. "For real?"

  "Can't get any more real."

  I chewed on this information for a few minutes. Salem, Massachusetts. Famous for the witch trials in the late 1600s. That was about all I could remember from high school.

  "I guess it's a good thing there aren't any witches around anymore," I said with a grin.

  Mary's eyes widened, but she said nothing. A second later she handed me a thick leather-wrapped book. "This will give you an idea of the history of the town."

  "Thank you." I signed the book out.

  Once back at home, I made a cup of chamomile tea, settled into a chair and began to read.

  Salem Village. 1692-1693. The Salem witch trials…families torn asunder by wild accusations of dark magic.

  I read for hours, haunted by horrific images from the past. It had been a brutal time, one filled with suspicion, misperception and mass hysteria. If a woman had any abnormal affliction, she was thought to be a witch. If she'd experienced any sort of bad luck, she was marked. If she consorted with a known witch, she was suspect and guilty by association.

  I read countless cases of friends turning on friends, and husbands turning on wives. Some were brought to trial, found guilty and condemned to prison where many starved to death. Others were hung.

  Then I saw a familiar name. Reverend Charles Burroughs.

  "Charles and his young wife Ursula were to oversee the parish," I read, "and in exchange were given two acres of land to build their dream home. Charles preached that God had no tolerance for witchcraft, and the hunt was on. It was his mission in life to lure out those practicing the dark arts."

  I paused, taking in this vital piece of the town's history.

  Then I continued to read aloud. "Unfortunately, Charles had no idea Ursula had fallen prey to a coven. Out of loneliness, she'd turned to witchcraft and used their manor for meetings. Since her husband had left her in charge of overseeing the building of their home, she took it upon herself to hire contractors who built secret passageways in the walls so that she and her 'sisters' could come and go as they pleased, unbeknownst to Charles."

  I glanced up at the family portrait, knowing that behind the wall were Ursula's secret passageways. Should I tell Ray? Show him the book?

  Logic suggested that my husband wouldn't care if there were passageways behind the walls or not. After all, what difference would that make? It wasn't as if I were planning to take up the dark arts, or anything.

  *****

  Ray went to work the next morning and I spent most of the day reading the book from the library and checking over my shoulder. With each passing hour, I was feeling more certain that someone—or something—was in our house.

  Now before you roll your eyes and berate me for not just grabbing my family and moving out, you have to understand something. This was our first real home. We owned it. Every square inch of rotted wood, every nail hole, every peephole, every secret hallway. We had every penny we owned tied up in that house.

  Plus, I had to prove to Ray that I wasn't going insane. Last night when he'd found me tapping the walls in the upstairs hallway by the boys' rooms, he'd given me a look that screamed, What the hell's wrong with you?

  Of course I know I probably looked a little deranged, but all I could think of was, What if something behind the walls wants to hurt my family?

  When Ray returned home that evening, I showed him the book.

  "Okay," he said. "So you're right. There are passageways behind the walls. But we're the only ones here now. You, me and the boys."

  "Can't you feel it?" I lowered my voice. "A presence. Something strong and…evil."

  "Come on, Christine. Enough of this."

  I picked up the book. "Listen to this. In August 1692, Rebecca Morrow, five years old, was found dead in the woods near the Burroughs Estate. All of her blood had been drained and a silver chalice was found in the bushes nearby."

  "You really have to stop reading this stuff," Ray said, shaking his head. "No wonder you're seeing things."

  "During the investigation," I continued, ignoring him, "many of the townswomen were brought forward to confess their sins. Most were innocent. Later, it was discovered that the coven in which Ursula belonged believed that if they drank the blood of a child no older than seven, they would remain forever young and beautiful."

  "That's horrible. Put the book away."

  "When Charles discovered his wife's betrayal, he ordered her to be hanged with the other witches. To be made an example of. Ursula cursed him right before she was hanged. She told him their home would become his prison. He could never leave. Unless he did one thing."

  "What?"

  "Charles could escape his fate and lift the curse," I stared at Ray, "only if he killed seven children before they each turned seven."

  "So what did he do?" Ray ran an impatient hand through his hair.

  "He hung himself. In the attic. He thought he could avoid the curse this way."

  "I guess he did."

  "No. The curse remained in place and his spirit suffered, according to another witch who was hung the following day."

  Ray rolled his eyes. I could almost hear him mentally ticking off all the illnesses he was sure I had. Depression, delusions, paranoia, maybe schizophrenia…

  I turned a page in the book. "The manor remained closed for many years and was finally reopened and sold to out-of-towners. They had no children. They lived there for over twenty years, until 1713. It was sold again in 1714 to an older couple whose kids were grown. They lived there from 1714 to 1762. The house was then sold to a family with one child—a son. He went missing about six months later and the couple sold the house in 1767 and moved to New York."

  A chill engulfed me. "The house remained empty for the next six years. The townspeople thought it haunted." I gave Ray an 'I told you so' look. "Finally in 1773, a family with teens moved in. In 1837 the manor was passed onto the oldest son, who lived alone until 1885 when he died in his sleep."

  Ray let out a soft sigh. "Christine…none of this is all that strange. It was the times. Things happened. They do in our era, too."

  "But don't you find it weird that things have gone missing and turned up in places we know we never left them? And I know I saw an eye in that hole. And what about the shadow in Danny's room? I saw it." I surveyed the room and took a deep breath. "It's Charles. He's still in the house."

  "For Christ's sake!" Ray snapped. "You're not thinking clearly, maybe coming down with something. Whatever is wrong, it's not the house. It's you."

  I held
up the book. "I didn't imagine the history of this place."

  "This was Salem Village, honey. Everyone knows about the witch trials."

  "Well, I didn't. Not until Mary at the library told me." I opened the book again. "You want to know the history of our dream house? In 1887 it was sold to a wealthy widow and her sister. When the widow passed away in 1926, the sister sold the house. This is where everything gets twisted." I took a deep breath, waiting for my husband to stop me.

  He didn't.

  "In 1926," I said, "the Morgan family moved in—husband, wife and three kids aged eight to fourteen. The wife became pregnant and she was warned by the townspeople that the house wasn't safe for her baby. She didn't believe them. When her baby was four, she found him at the bottom of the well on their property. Another accident." My heart raced almost as quickly as the words streaming from my mouth. "Grief struck, she blamed her husband and a rift was created in their marriage. She left a year later, in 1932, with the other kids. The husband stayed behind for the next five years until 1937."

  "Keep going," Ray said, his voice flat.

  "In 1940 the townspeople tried to turn the house into a museum, but no one wanted to step foot inside, so it was left empty for another four years. In 1944 a couple from New Jersey bought the house and began to restore it. They lived in the house and their daughter was born in 1947. When the daughter was almost seven, she went missing and was never seen again. In 1956 they had a second child, Victor. In 1960, at four, Victor was crushed during another round of renos, when the ceiling of a room caved in. The couple moved away in 1961."

  I was on a roll and nothing could stop me. Ray had to see where I was going with all this, why I was so terrified of this house.

  "The house was empty until 1963 when Linda and Scott Huntington from Toronto, Canada, bought the place. They had three sons—eight, nine and eleven. They lived there for forty-seven years. Their kids, who had their own families later on, stopped visiting because too many 'odd things' happened in the house and their own kids were terrified."

  "Chris—"

  "One of the grandchildren fell down the stairs." I pointed. "Right there, Ray. He broke his back and was paralyzed. In a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He had to live in a group home for the disabled. He was six years old. And in 2010 the oldest son accepted his inheritance and moved his family into this house. His kids were older so their time was uneventful—until his daughter got pregnant and fell down the stairs, miscarrying."

  "Coincidences!" Ray yelled. "All coincidences." He moved toward me, took one of my hands and kissed it. "Just plain rotten luck. But it's our house now. And we'll make our own luck—good luck. I promise."

  My eyes watered. "Can't you see what's happening, Ray? Something is going after the children. Before they turn seven."

  He dropped my hand. "So you're saying that because Nicky and Danny are almost seven, we should pack up and go?"

  "No, I—"

  "Then what the hell are you saying?" Ray clenched his teeth. "I don't understand you. You wanted your dream house, a renovation project. You got that. Why are you trying to ruin it? Do you want to go back to Boston?"

  "No, I don't want to go back."

  "Then what do you want?"

  "It's not what I want that matters, Ray. It's what the house wants."

  Without a word, my husband stormed upstairs. I flinched when I heard a door slam.

  *****

  Ray was gone by the time I awoke the next morning. My thoughts were consumed with the book. I needed answers. I read while Danny and Nicky cleaned up their rooms.

  After lunch I dropped the boys off at my sister Angela's house. She lived in Beverly, not far from Danvers, and she'd called me that morning to ask if the boys could stay for the weekend. To tell the truth, I was relieved that they weren't going to be in the house.

  Back at home, I sat on the swing on the porch, the book in my lap. I think I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew the telephone was ringing and it was four o'clock.

  "Hey," Ray said, the phone line a bit muffled. "I thought I'd pick up some pizza…taco for us…pineapple for the boys."

  "The boys aren't here this weekend."

  "What?" The line crackled. "Sorry, Christine, the line's cutting out. Sounded like you said they boys weren't there."

  "They're not. They went to Angela's."

  "Sorry, honey, you're cutting out."

  "Nicky and Danny are at my sister's."

  Silence.

  "Ray? Did you hear me?"

  "This line's really bad." I heard him chuckle. "Sounded like you said the boys were at your sister's."

  "Yes." I sighed with frustration. "They're at Angela's. They'll be back Sunday night."

  Another long pause greeted me.

  "Did you hear what I said?" I asked.

  "You said the boys are at Angela's."

  I let out a huff. "So you are listening."

  "I'll be home in about twenty minutes," he said, his voice so intense that it filled me with dread. "Promise me you won't go anywhere."

  "What's going on, Ray?"

  "Just promise me you'll stay where you are."

  I swallowed hard. "Okay, I promise."

  I heard the car door slam about eighteen minutes later. Record time for Ray.

  "Christine?"

  "I'm in the living room."

  Ray rounded the corner, his face flushed, sweat beading down his forehead.

  "You look terrible," I said, moving to his side. "What's wrong?"

  His eyes wild, he ran upstairs. "Danny! Nicky!"

  "They're at Angela's," I hollered.

  Now I was pissed. Ray was acting bizarre.

  "What the hell's going on?" I shouted.

  Footsteps thundered down the stairs.

  When Ray entered the living room, he walked slowly toward me, hands clenched at his side. "Where are they?"

  "Jesus Christ! Don't you listen? Nicky and Danny are at Angela's. My sister took them for the weekend."

  "Your sister," he said between clenched teeth, "is dead."

  Time stopped.

  I heard nothing but my own breathing.

  "Angela is dead?"

  Ray glared at me. "Yes."

  "W-what happened?" A sob caught at the back of my throat.

  "There was a fire."

  "Oh God…" I began to cry. "Are the boys okay?"

  "I don't know." Ray grabbed my shoulders. "The fire was four years ago."

  I batted away a tear and struggled to smile. "But…but I saw Angela this morning. When she took the boys."

  "Angela didn't take the boys anywhere."

  "Yes, she did! She drove them to her house."

  Ray gritted his teeth. "Angela couldn't have taken the boys today. She died in that fire four years ago."

  I slapped his hands away. "Then where the hell are Danny and Nicky? Don't you think I'd know?"

  Ray surveyed the room, his gaze resting abruptly on the wall behind the sofa. Our family portrait stared back at him. "You fixed the wall."

  I blinked. "I did."

  He strode toward the sofa and shoved it out of the way.

  "What are you doing?" I cried.

  "You taped and mudded every piece together. And then painted it. Why?"

  "Because it needed to be fixed."

  "All this talk about someone living in the—" His eyes flared.

  With a roar, he grabbed the sledgehammer and swung it. The photo crashed to the floor, glass flying everywhere.

  "Stop it!" I shouted. "What are you doing?"

  "And that godforsaken book!"

  Another hit and the wall panel began to crumble.

  "And this fucking house!"

  He swung one more time and the wall exploded.

  "Ray!"

  When the dust cleared, I saw my husband's face. He was as broken as the wall.

  "Oh God," he sobbed, tears streaming from his eyes. "Oh my God, nooo…"

  I moved beside him, to
ok his hand. "Ray, what have you done?"

  "What have I done?" He looked at me with pity. "No. What have you done, Christine?"

  He stepped aside so I could see what the gaping hole in the wall revealed.

  My boys. My beautiful boys. Their bodies pale and still, and their eyes empty…dead.

  "They're my lucky boys," I said.

  Ray gasped. "Lucky?"

  "I saved them, Ray. That's why they're lucky."

  "Saved them from what?"

  I walked to the coffee table and picked up the old painting that had once hung on the wall. "Reverend Charles was going to kill them so he could join Ursula. He'd already killed five children. He only needed two more." I smiled. "But I saved our boys. Now they can never be used to reunite such evil as Charles and Ursula Burroughs."

  We stood in silence for a long moment.

  Then Ray led me to the sofa, made a phone call and returned to my side.

  Somewhere deep in the house I heard laughter.

  "They're happy," I said.

  "Who?"

  "Nicky and Danny. Can't you hear them laughing?"

  I heard sirens in the distance.

  "It's time to go," Ray said.

  "Where are we going?"

  "I'm taking you to a safe place."

  I followed him to the front door. "To my dream house?"

  Ray turned away, but not before I saw tears in his eyes.

  "Sure, honey," he said in a hoarse voice. "To your dream house."

  ~ * ~

  If you enjoyed this book, please consider writing a short review and posting it on your favorite review site. Reviews are very helpful to other readers and are greatly appreciated by authors, especially me. When you post a review, drop me an email and let me know and I may feature part of it on my blog/site. Thank you.

  cherylktardif@shaw.ca

  Novels by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  Whale Song

  Whale Song: School Edition

  The River

  Children of the Fog

  Submerged

  Series by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  The Divine Trilogy (in order):

  Divine Intervention (Book 1)