by Liz Schulte
I walked into the house; goose bumps spread up and down my arms. I knew deep in my gut that I wasn’t alone. Someone or something was always watching. I wished it was Danny doing the haunting, but it wasn’t. After all, nothing about this feeling was new, I felt this way the first day we looked at the house–that somehow the place was evil. “Don’t be silly, baby—this house has been in my family for generations,” he’d said with such enthusiasm. It was all he had left of his heritage. I couldn’t disappoint him.
The house was a large and imposing Victorian mansion with a lovely view. The stained glassed windows were exquisite and original. The lawn was perfectly manicured. The Tiffany chandeliers had been there for over 100 years. I tried my best to make the beautiful house a home, but an uneasy feeling lingered in the pit of my stomach long after we unpacked. I had never been in such an oppressive space. The walls seemed to close in on me. Sometimes I even found it was hard to breathe. I was brought harshly back to reality by a knocking sound. I sat very still on my couch, one of the few possessions in the house that I had actually purchased, trying to decipher if it was my imagination, the house, or someone outside.
The knocking persisted, so I risked being wrong and checked the door. Slowly opening it, my heart fluttered at the prospect of seeing no one there, though it wouldn't be the first time.
Relief washed over me when I saw Detective Troy on the porch. Even though I pretended to hate him, I couldn't suppress a small smile. Honestly, I was so relieved to see anyone at all I opened the door all the way.
“Detective Troy, this could be considered harassment,” I said in a matter-of-fact voice, making a point of looking at my wrist where a watch would have been if I bothered to wear one.
Detective Troy was the officer in charge of Danny’s case. Ever since he investigated me for Danny’s murder, he had been making periodic, random stops by my house. I was never entirely certain of his purpose in stopping here. He always seemed uncomfortable to do so. His brash, pushy ways irritated me, but then again almost everything irritated me. Tonight was no exception. As soon as the relief wore off, annoyance quickly resurfaced. I was in no state to defend myself from the probing eyes of the police.
“I saw the light on—thought I’d stop by to check on you,” he said, looking past me into the house.
“Seeing if I am ready to confess more like it,” I snarled. “Why are you even in the neighborhood? Are you staking out my house?”
“Should I be?” He finally looked at me with a raised eyebrow, but no conviction. “I’m just making sure everything’s okay.”
“Okay ... that would be a matter of one’s perception, wouldn’t it?”
Detective Troy glowered as if he were in no mood to play games which made me want to play them even more.
“It's the same as it always is.” He didn’t seem satisfied by this explanation and peered into the house again.
“By all means come in, Detective. I have nothing to hide.”
The detective walked into the house, his steady eyes scanning the room.
“Do you mind if I have a look around?”
“Gee, nothing would make me happier.”
He grimaced, but kept walking. I took a seat in an overstuffed chair and waited. After a couple minutes he came back into the room.
“I'll be on my way.” He nodded good bye. Halfway to the door, however, he stopped abruptly and turned back to hand me his card. “Call me if anything happens. Anything at all.”
I gave him a half wave, half salute and closed the door behind him.
Everything about him was serious which made me nervous.
He was a strange duck. He’d been here a few dozen times in the past year and every time it was the same. He walked around the house, then left without explaining himself. This was the first time he stopped to give me his card though or made any indication that he might believe me more than he originally seemed. What had changed?
I glanced around the living room, trying to see my uninviting house from a neutral point of view. It didn’t work. I rolled my eyes and headed for the stairs. Half way up I heard another knock on the door. My shoulders sagged, I fought to keep the weariness at bay as I went back to answer it my feet suddenly very heavy. Assuming Detective Troy had forgotten something, I swung the door open wide with my best annoyed scowl, but there was no one. I peeked out onto the porch—nothing.
You should be used to this by now, I lectured myself, but it didn’t help. Dread swept through my body making me wrap my arms around myself tight.
As I crawled into my pajamas, I lamented my profession again. After all, it was my job that sealed my guilt in everyone’s mind. Writing horror novels, at one time, made me a bit of a celebrity in the town; now it just seemed like elaborate planning. No one wanted to hear my stories of strange occurrences. They assumed they were clever tales to divert attention from the murder I committed in my own home.
The solution struck me as I slid under the covers, I could write the story I knew to be true. The story I couldn’t convince anyone else to hear. They didn't have to believe me, the facts would still be out in the world. I could accomplish at least that before the house succeeded in taking me as well.
Chapter Three