Landlocked Lighthouse (Locked House Hauntings Book 1)

by Mixi J Applebottom

  It was like they had gone out panning for gold on a whim and found a billion dollars. He was excited to sell this place so they could all live together again, but at the same time he wanted to live here. To truly live! Not hustle, bustle, or fight for every scrap. But to relax and swim (if there is indeed a pool) and rest and enjoy every moment they had left in their long lives.

  “Honey! I’m home!” His voice rang out like a big, fat church bell calling all its patrons. He closed his eyes and listened to how he boomed. It was glorious and he could hear the tiniest hint of an echo. He turned and peered to the right, through the dining hall, past the caterer’s kitchen (he barely noticed it) and into the kitchen. Vacant except for a few coloring books and crayons on the floor next to the windows. He set the trumpet, and the new coloring book (Lisa Frank’s Puppies and Kittens) on the polished white counter-tops. The cabinets were dark and beautiful. He opened a few of them, not noticing the dishes were not his own. He did, however, notice the fridge stuffed to the brim with food. Curious.

  “Hey guys! I’m here!” He found a vase and watered the flowers, setting them too with the other gifts. Then he turned and explored. Back to the foyer, calling out again, “Hello?” He walked past the Lamb room, curious about the long hallway.

  The twinkling sparkle of sunshine bouncing off of water and dancing through the stained glass caught his attention. He pressed his nose on the glass and peered out (through the wolf), squinting, and he saw a clean pool and a hot tub. Gorgeous sparkling clean lawn chairs, smooth and swept concrete and two goofy gargoyles at the water’s edge. They were mid-wrestle and looked like they were playing by the water. Let’s have a grand ol’ time.

  He walked down the hall, practically skipping in the dancing colorful light. “Anybody here?” They must be off with the cart and the mare doing whatever it was they did. He saw the lion doors and yanked them open, so delightfully smooth as butter.

  It was a fantastic, large mahogany bed with lions carved into the headboard. Blood red sheets and a bright white comforter. He tore off his shoes and shirt and leapt on to it, bouncing around. It was magnificent. Even if they sold this house, they were taking the bed, nothing more to it!

  He rolled off the other side excitedly and turned to stare into the mirror. He looked good, better than he ever remembered. His stomach thinner, his arms were bigger. He flexed a few times and laughed at himself, so damn proud.

  There was the biggest, baddest tub he had ever seen. A solid gold (or maybe brass) lion’s head hung from the front. Big lion paws held it off the ground and a large tail swung up to pour water in to fill the thing. Twisting the handle of the faucet, he turned it on and climbed into it. Sleep crawled into his eyes and curled around him. He awoke hours (Would he have known if it was days?) later in the dark. Pitch dark. Slowly, he climbed out of the tub. His body felt vigorous, younger, and even stronger if that was indeed a possibility. He flexed and his arms were so pumped. Blindly in the dark, he felt around (Shoulda looked for a towel) and dried himself off with his t-shirt. He pulled on his underwear and pants and walked out to find his gorgeous wife and kids. His bare feet slapped at the hardwood floors until they turned to tile and then to marble. Flipping a switch to turn the light on failed; it stayed dark. He walked to the foyer, “Anyone home yet?” And silence echoed to him.

  He peered into the silent darkness, and finally, he gave up and walked back to the lion bed. He slept soundly between the blood sheets. When he awoke, it was again light, and the sheer brightness of it stung his eyes. He climbed out of bed and put back on his pants (When did he take them off?) and he headed down the hallway. He almost turned the knob to check out the room with the lamb on it, but instead decided to go up the stairs. When he reached the last step, he wondered if the cart and horse were sitting outside. Hadn’t he seen it when he drove up? Where was his wife? He paused, frozen for what seemed like a full hour, indecision buzzing in his ears. Then he stepped forwards. To the right was a door with a squirrel on it, and to the left was a hall that led to a great room. “You guys up here?”

  This room was dusty. Clearly she hadn’t cleaned this floor yet. Dirty spiderwebs hung from the gargoyle hanging from the light fixture in the middle of the room. Two gargoyles sat on end tables holding light bulbs over their heads as if they were in a perpetual state of finding ideas. There was a massive pool table, and in the felt were several animals, notably the lion. The table itself had four large gargoyles for legs, holding their hands up to the table.

  It was fantastic, even filthy, it was fantastic. This room had so much money in it. He never in his whole life dreamed of such furniture, and such wonderful custom pieces. It blew him away. He saw two more rooms, their big carved doors; a bear and a stag. “Hey guys, are you up here?”

  There were more stairs, presumably up to the light house, but it seemed silly to climb them. Why would the wife and kiddos be up there at all? They must have gone somewhere.

  He went back down to the foyer and tried to decide what to do next. Crap, he forgot about the groceries. He brought in all the food he purchased. Boring fare: beans and rice and oatmeal, flour and sugar and salt. He hadn’t purchased anything that would have spoiled because it would be another month until payday. He wanted to get her a phone. A proper, call me whenever you want phone. It was lonely living away from his children. After he set all the food in the kitchen, next to the flowers, trumpet, and the coloring book (puppies and kittens), he stepped back outside to find the pool. He wandered around the house, first he found the garden. Very beautiful with those fancy carved plants. They looked like animals. It was a garden. Then he circled around the back of the house on a pretty path that looked recently weeded and tended. She’d been hard at work, that was certain. He circled around to the pool, and it was indeed glorious and gorgeous. On the left a door with a lion that probably went to his bedroom somewhere. On the right was a door with a lamb on it, and it was opened, swinging freely. Aha! They were here!

  He turned and scampered in the door with great enthusiasm. It led to a small bathroom with yet another lamb door. He flipped that door open. “Hello!” But his face fell before his voice could even finish bellowing out across the room. Zippy lay on the floor in a pool of blood. Her back legs had been crushed, and she had sticks jabbing into her from all angles. Her teeth were still bared and covered in blood and she was dead. Eyes open, still snarling dead.

  20

  He ran out of the room, terror racing over him. Where were his children? He ran outside past the pool and around to the front of the house. The truck was sitting dead in the driveway, the cart was by the garage. They had to be here. They had to be in this house or in these woods or somewhere. Unless they took just the mare. Something could have been wrong with the cart, so they rode and walked. Kids on the horse, Mama leading the way.

  What the hell happened to Zippy! Her pretty red muzzle with the dark freckles curled up in a snarl? She never snarled! He got in his car and turned the key. Help, gotta get help. He needed a cop or a team of rescue workers. They could walk in a line and look for their bodies. He opened the car door and hurled violently. What the hell was he supposed to do? What the frickin’ hell? He turned the key again, and the car made a squealing grinding sound and then drew silent. Shit.

  He got out of the car, his shoes sliding on his own vomit. Shit shit shit. He gathered himself and stood there in his driveway feeling like a melted mess. That damn phone service. He had tried to set it up when they first moved in. But that phone lady said they still owed fees and money from way back when they got turned off at the farm. No way would they allow it. No phone for you, pay your bills! That’s what she said; pay your bills.

  He took a freaking bath. He took a bath and just scampered around this place like a dumb kid and they were in trouble. His wife, his kids; they were in real trouble. Where the hell are they? Where should he even look? Cops or just search? He stared way down the long driveway and counted to twenty. Not a single car passed. The odds of hitching a ri
de seemed slim, for his wife and kids and for himself.

  Maybe he was over reacting. Maybe they were fine, just out…. Camping?

  Nausea hit him again and his stomach emptied what little was left. He called out into the woods and nothing replied. He would have to find them himself. Screw it, he didn’t have time to flag down a car or walk the hours into town. He had already left them waiting a whole damn day so he could take a bath; an effing bath.

  Furiously he stormed back into the Lamb room without a single drop of appreciation for the beautiful carvings. He stared closely at the dead dog. His dead dog. Hit by a car? Her pelvis was clearly crushed. Both legs were twisted sideways unnaturally. But the sticks. They looked like normal sticks, straight from a tree. He pulled one, it resisted, and finally relented. It had a barbed tip.

  He stood up and rubbed his hands together. Okay, so, she sees something attacked the dog and so they run for it. Or something attacked the dog and they hide. Or they were also attacked.

  He closed his eyes and willed his stomach to behave, but all he could see was his little three-year-old angel full of barbed sticks. He opened his eyes and gritted his teeth. Clues, I need a damn clue.

  He tore open the dressers. Clothing sat in neat stacks. Clothes he had never seen before. They didn’t look like anyone rifled through them, she hadn’t packed in a hurry. He hesitated moving anything. What if the police did come? What if he was fucking up the crime scene?

  He opened the bottom drawer. It was empty, besides a picture. The picture had two children. Annabelle and Tony, but somber and frightened. They sat together holding hands on the end of the bed, the lamb peeking out on the headboard behind them. She was trying to smile, but he looked fierce. It seemed like an old photo, but they were his children. On the back there was a drawing of the lamb and right next to it was written “Faith, Innocence, and Resolute Spirit.”

  Beneath the lamb was scrawled in red ink; “They didn’t stand a chance.”

  Fuck. Why would she have written that? It was her handwriting, right down to the stupid curvy way she crossed the t’s. He held the picture in his hand, and he trembled. His hair stood on end. What the hell had she done? What the ever-living hell? He stared at his mangled, brutally murdered dog, and back at the picture of his children. Glorious righteous anger surged within him. He didn’t need the cops. He would avenge them himself.

  21

  They were dead. The dog was dead; therefore they were dead. Nothing more to it. He had to wait for her to return. His filthy wife. Slutty whore probably rode ten men to get these groceries. Suck a sausage to get breakfast. His blood roared around his body, racing to his ears. He stormed back into the Lion room and rummaged through her things. Her clothes, he tossed to the ground like the worthless mess they were. He didn’t even recognize them. Had she ever even owned a white dress? He crumpled it up and threw it. At the bottom of the drawer sat a photo.

  He laughed the cracking cackle of a man losing his shit. Is this the game then? Leave me little notes about what you’ve been up to. Oh, I’m gonna get you. There she sat on the bed looking so damn smug. He felt her smile. The murderous child-slaying monster. She was probably a pedophile. She wore a white dress with a red heart at the collar. On the back was a drawing of a lion and the words “It starts slowly.”

  He turned it back to look at her face. Her sitting on the edge of the bed with that smug little face. He noticed the red pen in a heart on the neckline, and on the hem she had written, “Victim or murderer? Can you be both?”

  He threw the picture to the floor and walked over to the crumpled dress. He punched the wall repeatedly. Then he leaned down and held it up. There it was, the dress in the picture missing only the red heart at the neckline. What have you done to them you bitch? If you did that to the dog, then who knows what you have done to the children. Who the hell knows.

  He laid the dress out on the bed, the white dress invisible against the white comforter and crimson sheets. Let’s go, baby. Let’s go. He turned and stormed his big bare feet down the hall past the stained glass. Up the stairs he went. Find another clue. He was gonna get her. Gonna find those kids, and kill her for whatever she did to them. As his feet carried him to the top of the stairs he felt all the hairs on his neck rise. He turned and looked around. He saw no one. But then his gaze carried to the gargoyles wrestling on the ceiling. They were laughing at him. Their big mouths opened in giggles, their shiny eyes burned towards him.

  “Fuck you guys. I am gonna make this right.” And in he went. In the hallway, he no longer had any recognition of the beauty of the house. He walked to the main room and stared at the furniture. His heart pumped so violently he thought it would crack. Finally, the giant pool table came into focus, and for a moment he wanted to slam his fist into it. The rage passed. He noticed the bear door and the stag door. He walked over to the stag door and opened it.

  Inside a nursery, with two matching bassinets, a gorgeous hand-carved rocker, and a changing table. Everything was crisply white and had carved stags on each piece of furniture. The ends of each bassinet had a name: Chessa and Alawn. A picture was sitting under the edge of the changing table. He picked it up and stared at it. There were two children, blurry, but it was them, Annabelle and Tony. They were standing there with forced smiles, staring at the camera while she held their shoulders. Her smile was big and gruesome looking, almost like blood was dripping from her lips. In that damn white dress again. They stood near the rocking chair, but above to the right, feet dangled from the ceiling. Someone had hung themselves during the family photo session.

  On the back it said, “Children of the Stag.” And next to it was a drawing of a rocking chair. Beneath that in red were the words:

  Ladybug, ladybug fly away home,

  Your house is on fire,

  Your children will burn.

  Except for the little one whose name is Ann,

  Who hid away in a frying pan

  22

  He found himself back in the great room shivering with fury. It seemed his rage came in big, bursting waves and then rested a moment. Good thing, because without a moment of rest he would burst his heart, or his head. He tried the Bear door, but it was locked. He turned back and walked around towards the Squirrel door.

  The door opened slowly as the hinges resisted. The urge to explore somewhere else, anywhere else, burst upon him. But as the door peeked open he saw a shard of mirror standing straight up out of the floor. He bent down and stared at it. It was sharpened like a knife, and it looked as though it would be very difficult to remove. Besides that, it was dirty… He bent closer, one hand on each side of the sharpened mirror glass his eyes drawing close. It was coated in blood! He lost his balance and tipped forward, the sharp blade kissing his forehead for a moment before he could catch himself. He pulled back and a trickle ran down his face. She set a booby trap for him?

  He had a sudden urge to flop on the bed and wait for her. She’d come waltzing in, wondering if he was stuck on this obvious knife, and then when she saw him, he’d leap up and shove her backwards. He bet that blade would do more than kiss her. It would penetrate.

  A little quiver of delight danced at the idea. He opened each drawer in the dresser, hunting for a picture. He carefully positioned his feet around the sharp mirror blade. He found the casserole dish first. It seemed odd it was in this drawer. That was the moment he realized he hadn’t seen a single other possession of theirs. Anything from the old house. The only items he recognized were the dog and this dish. If you could call Zippy an item. Where was their old lamp that sat next to his bed all those years? Or their other dishes? Or the silverware they got at their wedding? Where were their clothes and their children’s toys?

  He frowned. The rage dissipated. What happened here? His head ached. Where was his wife? Where were his children? Who had done that to his dog? He needed answers. Real answers. The pictures were weird, sure, but who had even taken them? It was not like they had a tripod… or a camera. Certainly not one that
could take these crisp, fancy pictures that look old. He crouched down, lost in thought, the mirror shard sticking up between his legs, almost kissing his bottom. If he had known he would have moved, or hesitated. But somehow, he had forgotten. His dripping forehead plinked tiny drops of blood into the dish as he hovered above the sharp glass.

  He reached for the drawer next to the casserole dish, hoping for a picture. He had the tiniest tickle on his rear and he reached back to scratch it. If his fingers had slid even a breath to the right they would have been sliced. In the drawer was a photograph. Here we have it! Shed some light on the ol’ wife. He adjusted his feet a little, and the sharp blade punctured a small hole in his pants. The picture was of the room. Just boring and meaningless. Like a hotel picture.

  He dropped it and stood up, unaware of the hole in his pants. He stepped backwards and his foot just clipped the edge of the blade, slicing a long thin cut across his shoe. His hair stood up and his heart pounded. Holy crap how did I forget about that blade? He shook his head in dismay. This house seemed to make you forget yourself. He sat on the bed, staring at the mirror shard, debating what to do next.

  When he stood up, the long mirror blade in the bed pulled out of his flesh. He was stabbed in the center of his left ass cheek. Blood gushed and his pants grew soggy. Then the pain hit. He was a tough man, but it was so unexpected he found tears dripping. What the hell? He turned and looked at the bed and he saw blood sparkling on the tip of a piece of mirror. The piece was long and sharpened, sitting from the floor up through the bed. He stepped backwards in horror and the mirror blade on the floor got him. His right foot had caught it sideways and it cut his shoe then foot to the bone. He scrambled out of the Squirrel room fast, tripping down the stairs, panting and frantic. What the hell was wrong with her? His wife was a monster!