Peter parked the truck while Hannah parked the Prius. Their room was in the back, away from the road, and he and Hannah took the cement steps to the second floor.
The room was tidy, if small. The walls had a fresh coat of paint, and there were extra pillows in the closet. A flyer by the phone touted the motel as the perfect place for families to stay during graduation.
Hannah tossed Peter the TV remote. “I call dibs on the shower.”
Peter clicked on the weather channel. The Carolinas were getting the brunt of Hurricane Elmer.
He heard Hannah turn on the shower, heard her hoot at the water temperature. He thought about waiting until he was certain she was well into her shampooing routine and then slipping into the shower with her, but they hadn’t crossed that bridge yet. Their love life would return—he was sure of that—but best not to rush it. Better to settle the current mess first and then take it from there.
Dad looked so old.
His phone chirped, and he scrubbed the thought from his mind. He checked the caller ID. It was Moots.
“Mr. Larson?”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Moots?”
“I’ve been going through your father’s paperwork. Willem, my partner, he left things in quite a state. Anywhoo, ever since this morning, I’ve been piecing things together. I called up Lillian Dann, and we sorted it out. I felt real bad about our meeting this morning, you know, just awful. Usually, I’m so organized, but like I said, this whole business with Willem and Ms. Eagleton—”
“Was there something, in particular, you wanted to tell me, Mr. Moots?”
“Yes, sorry,” the lawyer said. “It’s about the other property.”
“What other property?”
“See, Ms. Eagleton wasn’t half wrong when she told you that you could move right in. She just didn’t…well, she might have gotten confused about the arrangement, what with planning to leave town and all. They won’t answer their phones, can you believe that? Either of them.”
“What other property, Mr. Moots?”
“The farmhouse. The one your dad bought at auction.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Peter and Hannah were zipping away from the motel.
Hannah rolled down the window and let her hair dry in the breeze.
“You think we’ll ever own a car that has working air conditioning?”
Peter smirked. “Hope springs eternal.”
He’d had to put the location into his phone to map the way; as a kid, he’d never had much reason to venture south of the train tracks. The phrase ‘other side of the tracks’ certainly applied to Maple City. This was where mobile homes muscled-out houses, where campaign signs remained in yards long after the election and every neighborhood had its own bar.
After passing Kellum’s Salvage, they reached the city limits where dirt roads replaced asphalt. Soon, the car was kicking up dust as Maple City receded in the rearview mirror.
Hannah pointed out a prefab building with a large, rustic railroad tie cross in front. A hand-painted sign proclaimed it to be The Lord’s Harvest Church. “You think they speak in tongues?”
“Probably. And handle snakes, too.”
“Snakes?”
“Probably.”
Peter’s phone informed him of an upcoming turn, and he took it. Fields of feed corn flanked them on either side.
“A whole lotta nuthin’,” Hannah offered in her best Midwestern twang.
“Welcome to Illinois.”
A patch of trees appeared in the distance, mirage-like and lush. Peter hoped for the best and was rewarded when his phone guided him the way of the foliage.
As they turned up the gravel drive, a sour taste came into Peter’s mouth. He tapped the brake a bit too hard, causing the car to cough.
“Peter?”
Perhaps it was the size of the place or the vacant windows that stared down like dead eyes. Whatever it was, Peter disliked the house immediately.
Lillian Dann was waiting for them in her bright orange Mini Cooper.
“Hey, you two!” she crooned. “Let me show you around.”
* * *
Lillian Dann was a pint-sized woman full of energy and positivity poised atop of a pair of ridiculously high heels. The sound of those heels tapping across the foyer floor brought to mind the clicking nails of a nervous dachshund.
“Such a spacious entrance!” the realtor cooed. “Think of the parties you could throw in this house.”
Peter looked around. The entranceway was littered with leaves, empty beer cans, an empty box of condoms. Looks like someone’s already beat us to it.
Before him, a sagging staircase split the room, leading up to the second floor. The left banister remained intact; the right hung halfway off, missing scores of balusters. Like a broken jaw.
“Old Mootsy felt so bad about the mix-up,” the realtor said. “He’s a good man in a tough situation. When he asked if I’d show you around, I said, ‘Of course, Mootsy! Anything for you, sweetie.’”
Hannah squeezed Peter’s hand.
“Is it safe to walk in here?” she asked, eyeing a large crack in the floorboards.
“You bet!” Lillian crowed. And to prove her point, she began hopping up and down. Dust rose from the floor. “These old farmhouses were built to last. Old school carpentry, solid foundations. Good bones. They knew how to make ‘em back then!” Hop, hop, hop.
She’s going to break her ankles doing that.
“What about water?” Peter asked. “Electricity?”
Lillian grinned and nodded toward the light switch next to him. “Give it a try.”
Peter flipped the switch, and a lone bare bulb flickered on above their heads.
“I pulled a few strings,” the realtor said, seeming quite proud of herself. “My Bobby’s cousin works at Sauk Electric. Got you back on the grid. You may need to replace a few outlets here and there, but that’s to be expected. Your dad did a good job fixing the place up. Good enough to rent, anyway. The plumbing is solid, and you’ve got your own well out back. I tell you, this house is move-in ready.”
Move-in ready? Peter eyeballed the stained ceiling staring through a single coat of paint. That was his father, all right. He had never been detail-oriented when it came to fixing things. His car wash was notorious for having hoses that were more duct tape than rubber.
“When did my father buy this place?”
The realtor flipped through her notepad. “It was purchased twenty years ago at public auction. He had it set up as a rental. Brought in steady income until a couple of months ago. It’s almost as if this was meant to be!”
Peter looked around at the dilapidated place. If this were fate, as the woman seemed to imply, he’d have to have a chat with the head office.
“The rent covered the taxes, paid for the upkeep. Most of the renters were itinerant workers if you know what I mean. Mexicans.” Lillian said the word in a hushed, conspiratorial tone that made Peter squirm.
“I don’t understand,” Peter said. “Mr. Moots wants my folks’ house sold lickety-split. Why not this place?”
The realtor referred to her paperwork. “The house is actually owned by Larson Enterprises.”
Larson Enterprises was a big name for a little concern that consisted of two storage units, a car wash and a suntan shop. But Bill Larson had divested all his holdings. Or so Peter had assumed.
“It’s excluded from his Medicaid eligibility as it’s part of a business property essential to self-support,” Lillian Dann rattled off. “As long as it’s rented, it stays in the family.”
“So, we’d have to rent this place? From my father?”
The realtor flashed a sly smile. “How does a dollar a month sound?”
“Sounds fishy,” Peter said.
“All on the up and up,” Lillian
said. “And if you decide later on to work up a little financing and make it official, I’d be happy to help you out with the paperwork.”
Hannah elbowed Peter in the ribs. “Can you imagine what this place would go for back east?”
“I can also imagine the taxes.”
Lillian held up a finger and quickly searched her papers. “Speaking of taxes, it does look like your father is a tad behind. Nothing we can’t sort out.”
“How much does he owe?” Peter asked.
Lillian brightened. “That’s the good news. Seeing as it’s just outside the city limits—and a fixer-upper—five hundred should cover it.”
This place isn’t even worth that in wood and nails.
“Follow me! I’ve got lots to show you. Lots!” The realtor took off down the left hallway, leaving Peter and Hannah standing in the foyer.
“Oh, my God,” Hannah whispered.
“That woman’s selling it like she’s actually…selling it.”
“Oh…my…God,” Hannah repeated.
“I know, right?”
“This place is amazing.”
Peter blinked. “What?”
Hannah clutched his arm. “This is just like my show, It’s Broken, You Buy It. You know, the one you erased from the DVR.”
“I didn’t erase it.”
“All of season two. You did, I know you did, but that’s not the point.” She was positively beaming. “This is that kind of house. A broken place we can put back together. I just know it is. I just know it.”
Peter wanted to burst her bubble right there in the foyer before they had even seen the rest of the house. In his mind, he had already started the calculations. He’d have to check the foundation, check the roof, repair that banister and God knows what else.
But he didn’t. He stayed silent and wondered at the spark in his wife’s eyes.
“Did I lose you?” Lillian Dann’s voice echoed from the hall. “Come on; I want to show you the kitchen. But put your imagination caps on first!”
“Go on,” Peter said and nodded toward the hallway. Hannah grinned a full-faced grin and bounded away. He was alone.
Peter scuffed his shoe on the floor. He carefully drew a circle in the dust with the tip of his shoe. Then he sketched in two dots for eyes. He paused before adding the mouth. Smiley face or sad? He left it blank.
He could hear Hannah and Lillian talking down the hall but couldn’t make out what they were saying. No doubt, the realtor was ingratiating herself with his wife, smoothing over whatever damage might have been done by Moots. The woman was good at her job; he had to give her that. The fact that she could present this shithole as if it were Caesars Palace while standing in piles of mouse turds had won her a modicum of his respect.
She’s going to have to fumigate those high heels of hers when she gets home.
Grey was the predominant color of the house—grey walls, grey floors, grey mood. It was a utilitarian place, of that he was certain. A plain house for people who did honest work. No room for frivolity. Whatever ghosts might haunt this place would no doubt shrink in horror at the midnight shenanigans of the local teenagers who spent their illicit Saturday nights here.
Hannah had gotten it wrong. This was not the sort of house featured on her home improvement show; this was every house in every horror movie he’d ever seen.
“Hello-oo, Mrs. Bates,” he called. The only reply was his wife’s distant laughter.
When had the place been built? The twenties? The thirties? And it was still standing; he had to give it that. In fact, the only real overt evidence of its decline was the staircase. The way it tilted. And that banister. What in the world had caused that?
He walked up to the staircase and mounted the first few steps. He shook the intact banister, but it held firm. Then, he gave the broken banister a kick, and it swayed out and back. Out and back.
Peter turned around a full circle, taking in the view from his elevated vantage point. It would take days—no… weeks, months—to get this bad boy into shape, but he had to admit it seemed more plausible from up here.
He thought about heading up to the second floor but reconsidered. Plenty of time for that later. Besides, who knew what he might find up there. The mummified corpse of a squatter? A nest of rabid raccoons? Best not to go it alone.
He tromped back down to the foyer. Instead of following after Hannah and Lillian, he opted for the second hallway, the one to the right of the staircase. He crept past what looked to be a wadded-up pair of underwear—this place had been quite the teenage brothel—and continued down the hall. He passed a large, empty side room with heavy, maroon curtains and imagined the pleasure he’d feel pulling the ghastly things down, letting in the light.
The end of the hallway opened up into a back room that looked out across the yard. A small pond lined with cattails lay a stone’s throw from the house, and beyond it a large, green harvester worked a field of soybeans, kicking up dust.
He felt a sudden itch and slapped the back of his neck. Damn mosquitoes. Once you feel their bite, it’s too late.
Peter spied a lone child’s boot sitting next to the back door, toppled over on its side. He reached down and picked it up. It felt small and familiar in his hand.
Stop it, Daddy! Tickling is torture!
Grief exploded in his chest. He sank to the floor, gripping the boot to him. Invisible bands of pressure squeezed his ribs inward, and he groaned.
Michael.
He tried to shove the memory away—the boy in the bed, his little pink feet, his fingers dancing across them causing the boy to giggle and kick.
No!
Another memory took its place—the last time he and Hannah had made love, her lying heavy atop him, her tears landing hot on his neck. And whispering to him. Whispering his name.
Michael!
Peter tossed the boot aside.
He took a deep breath, coughing at the harsh intake of stale air. He stood up fast, and the room seemed to pulse, a trick of pressure behind his eyes. He clenched them shut.
When he opened them again, he was facing a narrow, grey door. A basement door.
His vision had steadied and the room no longer moved about him. But the door…
It’s breathing.
Peter’s legs buckled, his sense of equilibrium not yet returned. The door, of course, was not breathing, but then again, neither was he. It was simply acting in concert with a door opened across the house by Hannah or Lillian Dann, the draft causing the two doors to move in sympathy.
He grasped the doorknob and pulled the door open. A belch of fetid air hit his nostrils, causing him to recoil. A wooden staircase descended into the darkness—a rickety invitation. Like the rest of the house, it sagged and bowed.
The third step down stood apart from the rest. Instead of faded grey, it was pale and unpainted. No effort had been made to match the rest of the stairs, and again Peter recognized his father’s handiwork.
He flicked the switch next to the banister, and a camera-burst of white lit up the basement before the bulb died. The flash afforded Peter a momentary glimpse of the full stretch of the staircase, from the top to the foot. No gaps. Good.
Peter pulled his phone, tapped on the LED light and placed a tentative toe on the first step. It responded with a groan. It felt springy but not dangerously so. He swallowed and took the next step. And the next. Soon, he was standing on the cement floor of the crypt-cool basement.
“Olly olly oxen free,” he called. No response, not even the squeak and scurry of a rat.
Training his small light about the room, the only thing he found remotely frightening was the sheer amount of clutter that had accumulated. It was a hoarder’s heaven and a picker’s hell—strewn plywood sheets, three-legged chairs, broken panes of glass. The useless detritus of generations.
Thanks a lot, Dad.
Peter was surprised at his anger, and he hated himself for it. His father’s only fault was growing old. He instantly wished he had given the man a hug the second he saw him, wished had held his hand like Hannah. She was the one who always knew the right thing to do—when to share a word or a touch or a glance to soften the moment.
Him? He hadn’t even looked the man in the eyes.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t have my wallet.”
Peter winced, remembering his father’s fumbling. Bill Larson, ‘Big Bear’ Larson as his friends called him, had always had the gift of the gab. A gregarious guy, his father was a man who got an invite to every barbeque. Granted, he had been a formidable grill master with his shiny tongs and Kiss the Cook apron, but it was his company they sought even more than his ribs.
When Peter was thirteen, Mr. Porter, a family friend, had pulled him aside at his 4th of July cookout. At first, Peter thought the man had spied him trying to sneak into his garage, where it was rumored he had a fridge filled with ice-cold Falstaff beer. But no such thing.
“Your dad’s a good man, Peter,” Mr. Porter had said, his Hawaiian shirt ablaze in the July sun. “When they laid me off from Primeland, he put in a good word for me at his job. I was working alongside him that very next week. If it weren’t for him, I never would have bought my tow truck, never have the business I have today. He’ll never mention it, so I am. That’s the kind of man your dad is.”
Peter kicked a pile of rusted rebar, sending them scattering. He didn’t need a stranger to tell him what a good man his father was. He had lived it. When his mother was off her meds and on the warpath, it was Big Bear Larson who’d protected him, who had made him feel like everything was going to be okay. He’d promised Hannah that very same thing this morning. But he was not his father. He wasn’t even half the man—not even half the father.
“I’m no one’s father,” he said to the empty room.
Something in the statement’s bluntness, in its utter honesty, woke him from his reverie. It was true. He wasn’t a father anymore. But maybe, he could take another crack at being a son.
The Nightmare Room (The Messy Man Series Book 1) Page 3