Landlocked Lighthouse (Locked House Hauntings Book 1)

by Mixi J Applebottom

  I turned around and hustled back with flicker of frustration. Those gargoyles. The mirror eyes. They want to stop me. Mesmerize me, slow me down. You can’t stop me. You’re stone but I’m unstoppable.

  I stepped up the stairs two at a time in large, leaping bounds, forcing my eyes away from the creatures on the ceiling. Finally, I stood at the last step and peered into the hallway.

  My legs were trembling and my heart was going thump thump thump. I couldn’t quite seem to remember what I was doing. My foot froze mid-air, almost upstairs. One more step.

  The dog barked.

  Don’t turn, I willed myself. I pressed my foot forwards and stopped again.

  Annabelle was crying.

  It sounded serious. Maybe she had fallen and scraped her knee. Maybe she had broken her arm. Tony broke his arm when he was little. Maybe he still is little. Children can break. Their very bones can snap. If your child’s bone snaps they carefully hold it together for weeks and weeks with a cast so it can heal.

  I stood like I was practicing flamingo yoga. My foot frozen mid air and my ears alert. My hands were in front of me, trembling. Why was I up here? I should go check Annabelle. Zippy barked again and I suddenly lost my balance and fell forwards.

  On the landing it was silent. I listened, lying on the floor, waiting for my baby girl to scream again. But there was not a flicker of sound. To the left was a long spiral staircase that wove around the room. The lighthouse surely sat at the top. The stairs were beautiful.

  I didn’t want to walk up there though. To the right was a large, wooden door with a squirrel on it. Ahead, I could see the edge of a glass table in a great room. The squirrel though, it caught my attention. It was one of those stained glass windows. A photo could be in there.

  I stood and waited again, listening for Annabelle. But my ears found silence.

  I pushed my long, brown hair out of my face and pushed on the large mahogany door. This door slid open smooth as fine whiskey. I wasn’t surprised to see a bedroom. I stared into the room and it was the same as the Lamb room. The headboard had many dancing squirrels carved into it. A dresser sat with a large mirror, but the mirror was cracked and splintered. A long shard of mirrored glass stuck from the floor like a knife. It was waiting for my poised foot. It almost felt like a trap.

  I shuddered the moment I saw it. Drips of blood dried on the tip. The trap had certainly worked on somebody. Or something. I checked the dresser, watching where my feet went with great care. It seemed in this house, I could lose track of what I was doing. The mirror shard stuck out sharply between my feet as I examined the drawers.

  The top drawer on this dresser was full. How much stuff had been left behind by the previous occupants? There were clothes and a book. The book said it was a diary, but was blank all the way through. Shirts, pants, and skirts were jumbled in a messy pile, like perhaps they had been rifled through already. My feet held their distance from the sharp shiny blade as I searched

  The next drawer had underwear: men’s, women’s and children’s in all different sizes and shapes. What the hell? The next to last drawer I checked had the photo. The mirror shard waited for a chance to slice me, but my feet paid close attention. I snatched up the picture, and I almost didn’t even look at the last drawer. I quickly whipped it open to check before I looked at the photo.

  There were the blue flowers, my great-grandmother’s casserole dish. Shock rattled me and I stepped back. I swear that wretched shard was waiting for me to find the dish. The mirror shard slid up through my thin, worn shoe and deep in my foot, up through the top of the shoe. They got me.

  Terror held me still. The pain hadn’t yet hit me. What the hell was happening here? I looked over and saw my pale face in the broken glass. My terrified face with a scream almost escaping my lips. Behind me I saw a gargoyle pressed against the wall like it was hiding. It did not have mirror eyes. Instead it had gaping holes where eyes should have been. I clenched my fist so tightly that my nails pierced my skin. No screaming. Screaming scares children. Do not do it! I counted to ten, then I quickly lifted my foot.

  The bloody, shining blade pulled out of me, and I felt the gushing of blood in my sock. Fear hit me more then pain, and I teetered for a moment and almost fell on top of that nasty shard.

  For a moment, I considered hopping over and sitting on the bed. But it seemed too far, so I carefully lowered myself to the floor, away from mirror chunks. I quickly ripped off my blue canvas shoe and then my worn out sock which was already turning red. The blade had caught me between my big toe and my second toe. The slit was one and a half inches deep into my foot and already gushing blood. My foot had been split. When the dog or the kids were injured I could wait to panic. I could wait until it is over. I could power through. But when it is I, when it is my own blood and my own pain I couldn’t seem to think.

  I just looked at that long, split line. That scream that was pushing on my soul ran towards my lips and burst out of me. I held it back as much as I could, muffling it with my arm. Count to ten, calm down. Calm down now. Right now! I could hear my grandmother’s stern voice. Children! Do not scream, do not scream!

  I didn’t even know how to put pressure on it. My toes were split apart. I sat there, trembling, and tears running in a river. I sobbed. Where was my husband? I need a phone! I need help. This is too hard. The pain burst forth. I had waited too long. Adrenaline over, pain began.

  I took my sock, slit it on the mirror knife, and tied the strips tightly around my toes, holding them all together. The foot changed from screaming to throbbing. The blood slowed. I lay back panting, tears still running. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Calm down.

  When I opened them, I was looking under the bed. Four mirror eyes were shining back at me, from way back by the wall. A long mirror shard was stabbing up from the floor into the mattress. I sat up, the hairs on my neck rising. The tiniest tip of mirrored blade pierced the comforter. This room wanted to kill.

  I picked up my ruined blue shoe and carefully tied it back around my foot. Better than nothing I guess. I looked down at the photo in my hand.

  This picture was of the empty room. The mirror un-shattered, the squirrel theme looking quite normal. Under the bed in the photo I could see two tiny shiny dots. Mirror eyes.

  The back had a drawing of a squirrel with the word “Caution”.

  Below in red was written: “I tried to warn you.”

  12

  I went downstairs with little fanfare. I limped, but I didn’t say a word. Somehow, I left the photo on the squirrel dresser. Once I got to the kitchen, I chopped up lettuce and tomatoes, cucumber and the like to make a rather dry salad. My foot ached, but farmers were tough. Wouldn’t it be nice to have dressing? I thought for a moment and then smashed up tomatoes and cucumber and even a bit of zucchini. I soaked that mushed-up mess in some water while I went to get the kids.

  They were outside by the lions, singing and dancing. “Annabelle, were you crying earlier?”

  “No Mama, I was singing!”

  I gazed across the land. It was beautiful. The old horse was standing on her brown legs, munching on whatever it was horses ate when nobody fed them. She was a good old mare. Old being the important word. She wouldn’t sell for a hundred bucks even. “Do you know where Zippy is?”

  Tony said, “I think she is sleeping still. She doesn’t look happy.”

  I called for the muddy red and white dog with the freckles on her face, and she slowly walked from around the edge of the house. Her perky wagging tail now dragged on the ground behind her. Her happy ears had fallen, and she slinked instead of walked. When she got to me, she just lay down and closed her eyes again. I sat down with her and stroked her head and she let out a tiny yowl. She didn’t even open her eyes. Just a cry. Help me. Please.

  My heart went out to her. But what could I even do for her? I debated doing what all farmers do at some point. Put down an animal because there is nothing else. I held her head in my arms and wondered if she would eve
n last another minute. Her fur was hot with fever. Her raspy breathing was labored, and it sounded painful.

  I was failing all over again. Husband coming home and staring at the field where all our cash was planted. We both with bated breath, begged for it to grow. For bills to be paid. And instead, it died. It took its damn time too. Week after week, we would watch, we would water. I bought fertilizer with grocery money hoping I had enough ramen to wait another week to eat. I cleaned out the horse stall, and the chicken pen and spread it gently in weak spots. I made compost from debris around the field and waited patiently.

  When the big pump broke and fixing it could not happen, I dug. I dug by hand a long channel to water with and siphoned water to the field with ten hoses I had cut into pieces. Husband joked for a month about how I could suck a hose better than anyone. I found bugs. I didn’t know what they were, but I caught them and loaded up the kids in that old truck, burning precious gas to get them identified. They were destroying our crop, so the electricity got turned off but I sprayed the field. It should make us enough dough to get us out of troubled times. Husband would remind me, we take care of the crop, the crop takes care of us.

  That’s why we were stretched so thin to begin with. Back a million years ago we lived in a tiny suburb in a tiny plain house. We had almost paid it off entirely. But we wanted more. Not just more money, we wanted more out of life. More than a tiny, plain house, more than working the nine to fives. So we calculated and saved and planned and bought that farm with the perfect tree in that field that cried out promises. That terrible house was part of the deal, but I could do terrible. I was tough. We played outside, we farmed, we laughed, we grew tougher.

  But the boss chopped Husband’s salary nearly three months after we had moved. It was cut much more than it should have been. Recession, they said. “At least he wasn’t laid off.” His hours doubled too. “Sorry, but it’s this or lose your job.” And oh, he hunted, he looked and searched and tried his damnedest to find another job. Despite his efforts, he never found one. We were on edge.

  Sometimes, I think recession means your boss can double your workload and half your pay so he can get another vacation house. He can threaten your job and steal your security and leave you penniless.

  And he did too, I might add. The boss got three new cars during that “recession” and our electricity was turned off for a total of six months. I don’t know if he tightened his belt too. I don’t care how many cars and houses he owned. He was the boss, he could make the big money. I cared about my husband working harder and harder and getting less and less. He deserved more. We planned on his income. We should have listed the farm that first moment we heard of the pay cut. But the lure of the crop was so strong. It should have easily made up for the income drop. It should have given us financial freedom. Building a house would have to be put on hold, but that crop! That crop would make up for everything.

  Sometimes, when you are in the middle of something awful you don’t even realize how bad it is. I was too proud to tell anyone. The disconnected phone gathered dust for two years by the time I was ready to cry for help. That one night, I finally couldn’t take it. We were hungry, Husband was working late again, and his boss was in that shiny new car. And I wanted my kids to eat something wonderful. Just for today. Something filling and delicious. We were out of gas.

  We took the old mare (not too old yet) and rode to the soup kitchen. And we sat out there, in the cart, on that Thanksgiving, and we smelled the turkey. Husband was still at work. My fury kept us warm. And still, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go in. I couldn’t admit defeat. That crop will come in next year. That damn crop.

  I turned the mare to go back home, and some busty chunky woman shouted, “You thinking about coming in?”

  My hands trembled with embarrassed anger. I should snap the reins and send this horse trotting. I said, “No.”

  “Wait, just a moment.” She reached up and held the bridle, stopping my mare. Her hands petted that mare’s silky nose. “I’ve seen you around. You guys have been having a rough go of it.” She waved at someone and a man ran out and the pair whispered something. I sat there, with my stiff back and pressed lips, tears sneaking out despite my efforts. My hungry sleeping children curled together in the cold.

  A minute later they had loaded up the cart with canned goods a big bag of hot turkey and mashed potatoes. I couldn’t even thank them. My voice betrayed me entirely, and I was mute. I just sat there, frozen and sobbing somehow all at once. She smiled at me in a sad smile, and let us leave. I never went back, even after the food ran out.

  Today, my dog was dying. My foot needed stitches, and I had nothing but crappy salad with mush for a dressing.

  I told the kids to get something to do, and they came back with a bag full of children’s things. A doll, a truck, crayons, books. I don’t know what else. I brought our salad in my little lunch box and the kids munched on it as we rode. Zippy lay in the back, panting.

  My foot throbbed as the old mare trotted down the road. I had never taken any animal to the vet before. If I couldn’t fix it myself, then it was put down. Those were the standard rules of farming. If it was a turkey with a broken leg, you’d even chop off its head and turn it into supper. That’s farming.

  I had no money. I didn’t have a damn thing. I wasn’t sure what my plan was.

  To beg, I guess.

  That was it. Nothing more, nothing less.

  I guessed I could leave Zippy. Vets take care of ‘em if you leave them.

  We were the only horse and cart in town. As always everyone else had a car that ran and gas to run it with. I found the vet with little trouble. The giant sign was hard to miss, and I had passed it a million times on the way to get groceries, when I used to do that. When we used to have food.

  I walked inside and waited for the secretary to come out of the back. She was making a racket, singing I think, and then she stepped out where I could see her and I swear I almost ran.

  It was her, the lady from the soup kitchen.

  I turned to escape, and I saw those two beautiful kids of mine, wrapped around their dog. Voice don’t fail me now. “I can’t pay you until payday.” My back still turned and stiff. I felt the tears try to creep, so I blinked them away.

  She cocked her head to one side. Hopefully she didn’t recognize me. “Do you have an animal?”

  I said, “I don’t think she is gonna make it.”

  The secretary’s face faltered a moment. We stepped outside and I lifted what was left of my dog from the cart. She seemed like a wilted flower. If only I had watered her sooner.

  The kids climbed down with their bag of things and came in. They sat and colored like regular farm kids. They survive the boring endless sitting still.

  I handed this woman Zippy. (Who might need the new name Floppy or Wilted.) “What kind of trouble are you in?” she asked me as she carried my dog. Maybe she asked the dog. Not sure. I didn’t answer.

  She set the dog on a metal table and examined her. The neck wound seemed to be healing, but even as it healed, her body failed. This round, busty lady ran her hands over my dog and I hoped the vet would show up soon so I could avoid any further awkwardness. She stopped and washed her hands, and then held one out. I shook it.

  “I’m Taffy. It’s a silly name. I shoulda changed it to something more beautiful when I was of age to change it. My father loved the stuff, taffy, and so he named me that.” She paused and looked me in the eye. “Your dog is in bad shape.” She took a slow breath. “We always had a bowl full of the stuff, all those rainbow colors sitting on the table. My mother used to make it. She had the candy shop that is now long closed. I always felt like it was a name more suited for a cat. And here I am, a vet.”

  “Like you can’t fix her?” I said.

  “We will see. Honestly, she’s doing terrible. But you know that or you wouldn’t have brought her. Frankly, I’d thought you woulda put her down by now.”

  I nodded. She knew farmers. “We mo
ved.”

  She smiled. “So it’s a suburb dog now? Should I paint her nails while she is here?”

  I smiled but tears trickled anyways. “That farm was killing us.”

  “You seem little better now. You’re still very thin,” she said and turned back to the dog. “I’ll give her the best chance I can.” She hooked up an IV bag of something or other. “How long has it been since you have eaten?”

  Did I look that bad? “She just got hurt yesterday. She went downhill so fast, too fast.”

  Taffy carefully shaved the fur around the neck wound. “Yesterday?” I could feel her brain ticking ideas around. “Yesterday. Tell me what happened?”

  I explained about the stick.

  “Was it a stick or an arrow? Like a homemade kind?”

  I faltered. “I… I didn’t really examine it. A stick, I think.”

  “Sounds like an arrow, and maybe poisoned.” She grabbed a scalpel and told me to hold her. I threw my weight into the dog, holding her down as the blade slit into the wound.

  The smell was putrid, and I had to hold my breath to avoid vomiting. Zippy let out a happy sound as infection and pus poured out of her like a waterfall. Abscess. That’s what this was. Why hadn’t I checked for that? I had lanced a few before, usually on a barn cat.

  “This one would have been hard to notice; it looked so healthy on the surface, but she is a lucky dog. I think she will make it. But this was poison.”

  “How do you know it is poison?”

  Taffy turned round her jolly body, her eyes piercing into mine. “Tell me what you last ate, and I will tell you. How much trouble are you in?”

  I bit my lip and waited a moment, considering. “We survive. You don’t have to worry.”

  “When is payday?”

  “Friday.” Honestly, I didn’t even know.

  “You’re lying. How bad is your foot?”