by Liz Schulte
Knocking sounds and whispers swirled through the vents. I pretended to sleep, trying to ignore them, but they scrubbed against whichever part of my brain caused fear like sandpaper. I spent most of the night with a pillow over my head to drown out the noises.
In the morning, I shuffled into the living room expecting the place to be trashed. Hell, based on all the noise I heard the night before I expected to find a Mack truck parked in my living room. However, everything seemed to be as it ever was—for the house at least. For me the day was different.
Somewhere in the night I had decided enough was enough; I was starting my own investigation. Where to begin was a problem though. Should I begin with the murder or the house? Were they connected or coincidence?
Regardless, this was a new day and a new resolve, which meant I should start it with a non-liquid breakfast. I would do this right and sober. I may not know what my first step should be, but I owed it to Danny to figure it out.
Shuffling into the kitchen, stretching my arms, I felt almost normal. I opened the refrigerator to inspect what goodies Susan left for me and it was as bare as it was yesterday. Nothing. Not even my moldy cheese was in the refrigerator. The cabinets that I had watched Susan stock with cereal and various dry foods only the night before were empty as well.
How could everything be gone? Moved would be one thing—I’d dealt with that repeatedly—but just gone? It was a new level of weird. I checked the trashcan and it too was empty, like the previous night never happened. Focusing to the best of my ability, I tried to remember for certain whether Susan had visited last night or weeks ago.
I considered calling her to check, but hesitated. If I were to call, admit that I was uncertain whether or not she had been here, I would be all but admitting to her that I was mentally unfit. The missing food would be a moot point. Whether she had been here or not, she’d think I was crazy. I poured myself a glass of water, but my hands shook too much to take a drink. The shrill sound of the phone carried through the house; the water in my hand sloshed to the floor. The phone rang again. I took a deep breath, set my glass down, then calmly walked over to answer it.
“Hello.”
A strange humming on the other end kept me from hanging up immediately.
“Hello?” I tried one more time, but received the same reply. I gently hung the phone back on the receiver and went to the kitchen, consciously trying to keep my breathing slow and steady. I reached for my water on the counter, but it was gone. I glanced around the room to find it six feet away on the table. I looked from the counter to the kitchen table then back again. Without warning a familiar wave of panic washed over me. My chest tightened like someone was squeezing and the room started spinning. I knew I needed to take one of my pills, but I couldn’t make it up the stairs. Fear ripped through me like a heart attack, collapsing me to the floor....
Danny’s disbelief about the person or thing coming in the house created tension between us for a couple days. Eventually, however, it blew over like every argument we had ever had. Danny liked to refer to it as the “incident” and thought of it as an amusing anecdote to tell to our friends. One morning he surprised me with a weekend trip back to Chicago to visit some old friends and do some shopping.
The break was much needed and appreciated. The stress that had been building inside me had me ready to snap. Danny arranged for Susan and Doug to check on Piper while we were gone and we hit the road.
Walking down Michigan Avenue and Navy Pier with the tourists, eating in wonderful restaurants, and visiting old friends who accused us of dropping off the face of the earth was just what I needed to get my head back in the game. The weekend flew by though and before I knew it, we were on our way back.
“I'm glad to see the old you,” Danny said, taking my hand as he drove.
“What do you mean?”
“This weekend was like old times. You’ve been so introverted since the move.”
“I’ve been trying.”
“I know.” He kissed the back of my hand.
“I thought I’d adjust faster than this too. I just can't seem to get used to the house.”
Danny sighed. “If you don’t like it any better in a year then we'll leave. I’ll sell the house and we’ll be back in Chicago in the blink of an eye. Life’s too short for you to be miserable.”
I appreciated Danny’s willingness to leave what was left of his family history, but couldn’t ask him to do that. On the other hand, I also had no idea how I could survive a full year there. I resolved to try harder to adjust.
“Maybe it's time to get Piper a friend—and you certainly need to start writing again. You can only dodge your publisher’s calls for so long. I have a handle on the renovations. You have a deadline. One of us needs to be working.”
“I know you’re right. I just can't focus. Maybe I’ll try writing in the library. This town does have a library, right?”
“Ha. Ha. Ha. You’re so freaking funny.”
“You love me, baby.”
“Yeah, you're ok.” His smile warmed my heart.
We arrived back home about four in the afternoon. The sun was setting and shadows covered the yard. The house resembled a mausoleum right down to being every bit as inviting as one. We burst through the door, our bags in tow, and I stopped in my tracks. Something was missing. I just couldn't put my finger on what. I looked around the house to see if I could discover what was setting me off, but found absolutely nothing. I went back to the car to see if we’d forgotten something, but it was empty and tidy.
Entering the house again, it dawned on me. Piper hadn't come out to greet us. She’d normally be chasing us from room to room by now, demanding our attention with each step. I searched the house, top to bottom. Danny and I looked in all of her usual hiding places, but couldn't find her anywhere. Finally, I called Susan and was flooded with relief when she said she’d brought Piper home with her. Susan said Piper was acting strange like she didn't want to stay in the house so she brought her to the store. Danny went over to get Piper while I started dividing the clothes into piles for laundry. When they got back, Piper wasn’t herself. She sat at the bottom of the stairs, looking up the staircase, whining. We tried to distract her with her favorite toy and food, but she wouldn’t budge—all day. Occasionally, she’d growl at something unseen by us.
Only later that evening while Danny and I were watching TV, did she finally move from her post. She took off growling and snarling, running back and forth along the bottom of the stairwell. She barked a few times, then yelped and ran into the room with us. Danny got up to check things out, but found nothing. He figured it was a mouse that had her attention all afternoon. She refused to come upstairs to bed, so we let her stay downstairs. I slept well that night exhausted from the drive and the weekend festivities.
The next morning Danny and I woke a bit later than normal. I went downstairs to take Piper for a walk. I found her lying at the bottom of the stairs where we left her the night before, still sleeping.
“Wake up, baby. Want to go outside?”
Piper didn't even twitch. My stomach sank as I looked at her. I covered my mouth with a shaking hands and knelt down. Her small body was cold to my touch. I backed up against the wall and called for Danny. He came bounding down the stairs.
“What’s up?”
Tears started. All I could do was point.
He looked at our dog, then back at me. Understanding immediately, he wrapped me in a tight hug.
“It’s okay. I'll take care of her,” he said trying to soothe me.
“But what happened?”
“What do you mean? She died, Ella.”
“But from what?
“I don't know. Maybe she got into something in the hardware store yesterday. She was acting weird last night.”
“Aren't we going to find out?”
“She’s just a dog. I don’t think they do autopsies on dogs.”
“Damn it, don't be glib! She was not just a dog, she was our dog. I shouldn't be the onl
y one who cares.”
“That’s so unfair. What do you want me to do? Maybe she got into the mouse poison I put down or the insulation. She died. I care. I just don’t have any answers for you.”
I fought against the memory and whatever had a hold of me. Strong hands clasped my shoulders and shook me. Eyes squeezed shut in terror, I kicked and flailed, desperate to free myself. My fist connected with something that felt human. It let me go and I scrambled across the floor. Detective Troy was hovering over me, perplexed and cautious, when I finally looked up. He held his open hands out in front of him and maintained firm eye contact.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, continuing to slide myself across the kitchen floor.
Detective Troy seemed shocked at my continued reaction to him. He took a couple steps back, but held eye contact. “It's okay. I came over to see you. I called, but my phone was acting up. I could hear you, but you couldn’t hear me. When you didn’t answer, I was concerned....”
Relaxing a little, my mind began to process the situation better. “How did you get in?”
“The front door was unlocked.”
I pushed my hands through my hair, shaking my head. I remembered locking it clearly.
“What happened?”
“My imagination was picking on me.” I felt close to tears.
“What?” Detective Troy truly sounded confused.
“I just … I had …” I sighed, trying to get the words out. “It’s been a bad morning.”
He looked like he wanted to call an ambulance. “I thought you were dead.”
“Not dead, just very, very confused. I think I had a panic attack.”
“What are you confused about?”
I picked myself up off the floor and paced around the kitchen.
“If I tell you, you can't judge me. Or make any inferences about me from it.”
“No promises ... but I'll try.”
“Not good enough.”
“That’s the offer. Who else are you going to tell? Not a lot of friends hanging around you. I'm probably your best bet.”
Ouch, that was harsh. True, but harsh. “I can take care of myself. I don't need friends.”
“Maybe. But telling yourself secrets will only get you an embroidered straight jacket." He sighed. "I won’t judge you—.”
“Much better,” I said, but the moment had already passed. I no longer felt like talking about the incident this morning. “You know, looking back, it really isn’t that big of a deal. I couldn’t remember what happened last night, then I had a hang up prank call. It all ended in a completely disproportional panic attack.”
“That’s not so bad. I thought you’d blacked out. Maybe you if drank a little less it would help with loosing time.”
“Drinking is not my problem—.” Something suddenly dawned on me. “That reminds me though—I'll be right back.”
If last night happened, I wouldn’t still have the bottle of Merlot. I dashed down to the wine cellar. The bottle was sitting on the shelf exactly where it had been. Certain of my insanity, I started back upstairs—then stopped cold again. Something caught my eye. An inconsistency. I turned back around to look more closely. The bottle in question wasn’t dusty like the other ones. I picked up the bottle and it was empty.
“What's going on?” I wondered aloud, more perplexed than ever.
“That's exactly what I'm wondering.” Detective Troy’s voice, right behind me, startled me so badly I let go of the wine bottle. It slipped through my fingers and shattered on the floor.
“Have the sudden urge for wine?” he asked looking at the glass scattered at my feet.
“No, I actually haven’t had wine since Danny died. This cellar was more his thing than mine.” I made a quick decision to explain what had happened last night, because I desperately wanted an outside opinion. “I wasn’t completely honest with you. I do remember last night, but I had a reason to believe this morning that what I remembered didn’t happen.”
“I'm not really following you.”
“The wine answers a lot of questions.”
“How does an empty bottle of wine prove anything?”
“I'll explain.” I told Detective Troy what happened the night before, then what happened that morning. He listened, but I could see doubt and confusion in his eyes.
“Why don’t you call and ask Susan?” he asked, as if it were all really that simple.
“She already thinks I’m crazy.”
“Then you have nothing to lose.” He shrugged. He was such a guy.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You were right. I don’t have many people who care about me. I would prefer those who do to not think I am completely insane—well, not any more than they already do.”
Detective Troy looked at me for a few moments. “Am I one of your friends?”
“I don’t know.”
He sighed. “That bottle isn’t proof of anything except you—or someone else— drank a bottle of wine and put it back on the shelf. You could have gotten drunk last night and came down here and drank a bottle of wine then had a dream that Susan came to visit. Stranger things have happened.”
“Well, thanks for bursting my bubble. That was helpful. I may still have some childhood hopes and dreams left, would you care to take a crack at those as well?”
“I have an idea. What's Susan’s number?”I rattled off her number and we went back to the kitchen. Detective Troy dialed the number.
“Mrs. Daniels? This is Detective Troy with the Montgomery Police Department. I need to verify your whereabouts last night. … Were you in the company of one Ella Reynolds? ... That is a matter of police business ... I see ... Is that right? ... Well, thank you for your time and input. You have a nice day.”
"So what did she say?”
“I can’t tell you. Police business,” he said, his eyes twinkling slightly.
“What? This isn’t police business. It's my business—”
“Does her answer really matter?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
“If I can’t distinguish my dreams, writing, or imagination from reality then I'm crazy and can’t trust anything that I think happened. That's sort of a big deal, given I’ve been operating under the notion that I’m right and everyone else is wrong.”
He studied my face, then confessed. “You dodged the bullet this time. She was here last night.”
“She was?” I breathed a sigh of relief and reflexively hugged Detective Troy. “That’s the best news I’ve had in a long time.”
The hug seemed to catch Detective Troy off guard almost as much as it did me. Then a slight smile touched his serious mouth. “She also said that our police department is full of small minded assholes, and we should leave you alone because you’ve been through enough.”
I smiled. “That's sort of sweet.”
“Depends which end you fall on,” he muttered. “But let’s not call this solved so fast—I have questions. Who was in your house? Why would they do something so strange?”
“I don’t know. I'm just glad someone actually did it.”
“Ella. Can I call you Ella?”
I nodded not caring what he called me. I wasn't crazy.
"Be serious. It's much worse that someone was in your home. It could be the same person who killed your husband. You need to start locking your doors.”
“Why would it steal food?” I wondered aloud not really listening to him.
Detective Troy was silent for a second. “Maybe someone’s trying to make you think you're insane, and trying to convince other people of it too. Isolating you.”
“They're doing a damn good job.”
Detective Troy looked at his watch and started for the door. “I'll do some digging, see if there are any incidents involving the house, see if anyone leaps out at me as possibly having a motive to try to get you to leave. Do you have any enemies? Crazed fans?”
“Haven't we been
through all of this before?” I snapped, then reminded myself that he was helping me and I should try to be nicer. “Not really. No enemies or stalkers that I know about—oh, hey, before I forget.... Do you call my house and hang up often?”
“What?”
“Like this morning.”
“No. That was the first time—and I didn’t hang up. My call was disconnected.”
“Okay.” Before I could retreat again, I pushed on. “Thank you … for everything, Detective Troy.”
“Call me Gabriel—and I'll be by later to do another walk through.”
“Okay, see you....”After Detective Troy left I felt much better. I actually felt like writing. I sat down at my desk and turned on the computer for the first time in almost a year. Staring at the screen I had no idea where to start my story. When in doubt, I thought, research! I didn't need to wait for Detective Troy to look into the house. I could go to the library and do it myself. I called a cab and got ready to go. I was motivated, which was more than I’d been in ages.
The building looked like a large old house. Inside it had a musty book smell and a crowded feel. I half expected the librarian to be a tiny, bespectacled old woman with her hair in a bun, shushing people, but instead a twenty-something man in khakis stood behind the counter. He stared at me as I walked through the door, his mouth slightly agape. I stopped by the desk and asked, “Where are your records and archives?”
“I know who you are,” he said with wonder in his voice.
“Yes, well, it is nice to meet you. Records and archives?”
“Did you really kill your husband?”
“What?”
“Did you...”
“No, no, that was rhetorical, as in I can’t believe you would ask me that, you asshole.” I turned and headed back towards the door.
“Upstairs and to the left,” he called behind me.
“Too late.”
I left the library, all my fragile good intentions crushed like a bug on a window. I decided to pick up groceries, then head home. My self-inflicted seclusion was much better than being judged by everyone around me. Walking through the grocery store was terrible. People watched every step I took, noted every item I put in my cart. I knew what a caged animal must feel like. I went through the store as quickly as possible, avoiding eye contact and unwanted conversation with anyone there.
After I made it home, I put my groceries away and lounged on my couch. I was sad that my good mood and attempt at being productive failed miserably. I was about to take a nap when it occurred to me that I was living in the past. I had a computer. I had the Internet. What the hell did I need a library with snotty employees for? I had Google! I searched the official name of the house, Magnolia Hill, with the name of the state and town and was surprised to find several hits. The house had a much more sordid past than Danny had led me to believe.
During the Civil War, it had been used as a hospital. Danny’s great, great, great, great grandfather, Jonah Reynolds, had built the house about twenty years before the war for his young bride. After the war started, both of their sons went into the military. It was the same old story; one fought for the North and the other for the South. It tore the family apart. Mr. Reynolds died a few years after the war of unknown causes. One of the sons died during the war, but the other one came back to Magnolia Hill. It was said that he was a bit strange and addled always talking to his dead brother, though he did go on to marry the daughter of a neighboring farmer. Tragically, she died after giving birth to a son.
This third Mr. Reynolds also grew up to be reclusive and only came out of the house on rare occasions. However, he managed to marry and father his own son, Justin Reynolds—a child who, by all accounts, was personable and friendly. The members of the town adopted him as their golden child. He was bright and charismatic with a wonderful future ahead of him. He studied at Harvard, but he still came back to Montgomery. He became the longest running mayor in the history of the city. He had six children and raised them in a house closer to town, visiting Magnolia Hill only periodically.
However, after his wife passed and he retired, he moved back to Magnolia Hill and followed in his ancestors’ footsteps, becoming reclusive. He left the house to his oldest son, Danny’s grandfather, Arthur Reynolds.
Nothing was written about Arthur or his wife Edith and from what Danny told me, his grandparents had lived in the house happily until they died in a car crash. All of Arthur's siblings were childless and died before forty from a variety of reasons: heart attack, street car accident, illness, war, and shot in a mugging.
I had no idea that Danny’s family had such a long and tragic past, they seemed destined to die young. While I was trying to save my research, the computer developed a mind of its own. First it froze. Then the screen started flashing. After that it went sort of matrix on me, and a series of numbers rolled past filling up the screen. Finally it turned itself off completely.
“Great. Thanks a lot,” I said to God, the ghost or no one in particular.
I picked up a notebook; it looked like I was going to have to do this old school. I flopped down on the couch. If the house wanted to stop me from using the computer, I would write the story by hand. But again, I was stuck.
After a few minutes of free association, however, the words finally began to flow. Mingling facts with the fiction, I let my mind weave its web into a tale of family curses and certain death. The afternoon went by in a flash, and I was so into my work that I barely heard the phone ring, managing to answer it just before the answering machine picked up.
“Hello?”
“How do you feel about Chinese food?”
I was caught off guard. “I don’t. Who is this?”
“Gabriel. What do you mean you don’t?”
“I have no feelings about Chinese food.”
“You seem ... different.”
“How?”
“You made a joke.”
I laughed. “And what? That’s a police matter?”
Gabriel gave surprised sounding snort that might have been a bit of a laugh too.
“I've had the strangest day,” I admitted. “It’s been ... odd and active, which in itself is odd.”
“You can tell me about it when I get there. I'm going to pick up Chinese food and I’ll tell you what I dug up today.”
“Okay.”
“Is your door locked?”
It struck me with weird glee that I wasn’t actually sure—I hadn’t been obsessing, for for once. “Um, I don’t know. I can’t remember if I locked it when I came home.”
“Make sure it's locked. I'll be there in a few minutes.”
“Yeah, okay.”
As soon as I was off the phone, I went back to writing. I was so happy to be back at it. Every long pent up creative impulse poured out of me. I had no idea if what I was writing was good, and I didn’t care. Everything seemed better, brighter and less creepy, as if a haze were lifting....
“You didn’t lock the door,” a voice said behind me.
I jumped and let out a few choice words. “Holy crap. Don’t you knock?”
“You were supposed to lock the door.”
“But you were on your way over.”
Gabriel shook his head. “What have you been up to today?”
“Writing.”
“Really? A new book?”
“That’s a bit unclear right now, but hopefully.”
“That’s great. I brought garlic chicken.”
“I’ll get plates.” I walked into the kitchen, but kept talking. “It’s nice to be writing again. It's like a weight’s lifted.”
“Did you write all day?”
“No.” I returned to the living room and handed him a plate. “I went to the library to do my own research, but I couldn’t handle it. Then I went to the grocery store where everyone stared at me. I came home in a fairly bad mood.”
“You couldn’t handle the library?” he asked incredulously.
“The librarian was mean.”<
br />
“All librarians are mean. It's in their genetic makeup. And who cares, it's a librarian.”
I moved my hand dismissively. “It isn’t important because I realized that I have a computer. I did some googling and found some interesting history about the house and Danny’s family. Naturally, I started writing about them. What did you find out?”
“Well … nothing. As far as I can tell, there was never anything reported while Danny’s grandparents lived here.”
“I thought you had something to tell me.”
“I do. Be patient. Your neighbor, Mr. Sexton, made several attempts to buy this house after Danny’s grandparents died. He filed petition after petition with the city trying to hassle you into selling.”
“Petitions about what?”
“The grass being mowed, the upkeep, normal stuff.”
“Why haven’t I heard about this before?”
“I don’t know. I imagine your husband would have known. Basically, it means he wants the property.”
“Well, he can have the damn thing for all I care. Hopefully he bulldozes it.” Just as I said it, the window slammed shut.
Gabriel was at the window instantly, checking it out. I stayed seated, watching him react to the unexplainable. “Spooky,” he said.
I laughed—he really had no idea—and continued to eat my garlic chicken, hungrier than I had been in weeks.
“Does this window close often?”
“This one, that one, every one—and oh, don’t forget the doors and the lights.”
“Have you had the wiring checked? Sometimes the way these old houses settle makes it hard for the doors to stay open.”
“I know all the excuses. Danny told me them as well. How about you live with this every day, then tell me that it is all just ‘old house’ stuff.”
“Was that an invitation?”
“No, but feel free to buy it after I leave.”
There was an awkward silence that grew more uncomfortable with each second that followed. I finally felt guilty.
“Now you see why I don’t have many friends. I can’t take a joke.”
He shook his head. “It was a bad joke.”
We spent the rest of the evening chatting and watching television. It was the most relaxing evening I had in quite some time—and it was kind of a miracle: two nights of human company in a row. I felt more at ease with Gabriel than I did with Susan, though, because it didn't feel like he was judging me—or maybe it was the opposite. He had judged me and found me innocent. After all, his investigation left no stone unturned ... and I was grateful, even if those stones were my life.
Chapter Seven