Rhayven House

by Frank Bittinger

  He felt like Hiram Bingham III must have felt upon discovering the Quechua citadel of Machu Picchu high up in the Andes Mountains back in 1911.

  Looking up, he was pretty sure the roof certainly would need replacing. But the bare bones of the place seemed to be intact from what he could tell from his vantage point and with his limited knowledge from watching rehab shows on the home improvement channels. Hell, he’d even kicked the foundation walls just like the dude with the blue hair in the one home improvement show he watched awhile back.

  He grinned.

  A home could be built upon these bones.

  Restored, rather. Plucked right from the ravages of neglect and decay, out of the hands of time, and resurrected to glory.

  Yeah, he liked the look of the place. An overall serene feeling—despite the somewhat eldritch tones that created a pall around the place—came over him as he stood there and took it all in.

  Nearly locked in a trance-like state, Ian circled the house again and again, his head swimming with images of himself resurrecting the old majestic place from this dilapidated state, restoring it to the glory it remembered and deserved.

  His thought, I wonder who owns her, was followed by, I gotta have her. He stroked one of the porte-cochere’s columns and watched the blistered paint remnants fall like snow in a storm. A lost gem amongst the weeds.

  Around the other side of the house, he admired the big window jutting out from the building up on the second floor. Not just a bay window because it was actually an expansion of the room. What was the name of that? He remembered seeing on one of the home improvement shows. It was on the tip of his tongue. An Austrian-German word. Erker? Ärker? Couldn’t quite get it. Something along those lines. Beautiful. He wanted to get inside and check it out so bad, but the sour thought of getting arrested for trespassing was a deterring thought.

  Not usually spontaneous, because he lived by a routine damned near etched in stone, he surprised himself by that last thought. Over the course of the last year, after the loss of Alex, he’d toyed with the idea of moving from his townhouse, selling it and making a fresh start. After all, his book sales had gained momentum, and after the publication of his fourth, he was making enough money to live off his writing, and living pretty good. He’d often thought of pulling up stakes and moving out west to be closer to his sister and her family.

  But then he’d stumbled across this and Fate seemed to have other plans for his future.

  Ian’s mind began calculating and contemplating all the ways in which he could totally pull this off.

  He owned the townhouse free and clear, had a nice nest egg in the bank, and then there was the offer from the Japanese film company to write two more movie scripts to go with the one he'd already written for them and form a trilogy. That was enough to convince him he could do it.

  Providing someone was willing to sell.

  Coventon, Maryland, was a beautiful old town—technically a city, but he preferred to think of it as a town. However, living in town couldn’t really compare to living out here where the fall would turn the foliage a variety of reds, yellows, and oranges. He bet when light streamed down the mountain, it looked like the mountain was in flames.

  A plan formulated in his head; a trip to City Hall and the records office would tell him soon enough whose name was on the deed to the property and he could go from there. The worst answer he could get to any inquiry of whether or not the property was for sale was “No.”

  It wouldn't kill him to try.

  Not being completely devoid of brain cells, he realized he needed to have an inside look at the house before he ever bought it, and have professional opinions on the structure. Nobody wanted to move into a house that could collapse like a hastily dug mine.

  If, as he suspected, the bones were indeed good, most renovation and repair could be done in a few months. Professionals abounded in any area, and there were even honest ones who wanted work. And it would be both very cool and creepy to live in the valley so close to the mystical and mysterious Gold Church. That would surely spur his creativity and there might be a novel in it—not that his mind needed any help coming up with creepy stuff.

  Ian closed his eyes and imagined himself atop the tower in the room encased in glass with candles lit all around him writing his books late at night. Creating by flickering candlelight those gothic tales for which he was known—or at least garnering a cult following.

  Four stories up, he could be above the tops of many of the trees. In fact, it must have been the sun shining on the tower glass that caught his attention in the first place. Kismet, Fate, Destiny, whatever you wanted to call it, Ian felt attached to the house already. It was nothing short of a miracle to find the place now, after all the times he’d walked the mountainside with Alex.

  Once upon a time, the house had been surrounded by a beautiful landscape. It had to have been; the remains were in evidence: the remaining flowers the wild foliage had not choked out. A weeping willow nearly as tall as the house stood a solitary sentinel, draping its leaves and forming a huge canopy in the front yard. Wild ivy—the name of which he could never correctly remember and always confused with the name of a venereal disease, and would blossom with small white flowers later in the summer—spiraled up the trunk and around the limbs of the willow. The bottom boughs of the willow hung so low they brushed the ground. He reached out and grasped one, and then lifted his head to look at the mountains.

  Watching the leaves turn in the autumn would be incredible; a blaze of red, yellow, and orange as they metaphorically burned the mountainsides. The gardens would thrive again, and he’d be able to look down upon them from his writing perch. The patterns not obvious from the ground would jump out at him, his own private view of the gardens.

  Winter snow storms raging around him while he wrote in the tower were something to which he looked forward. All that snow, blinding blizzards, swirling around him as he wrote in the glowing warmth of all those candles. Staying up there in the midst of a thunderstorm felt more suicidal than eccentric and he didn’t think he had to worry about that one.

  As far out in the woods as the property was, in the valley between the mountains, he shivered a little when he realized no one would hear his screams should he suddenly come under attack, in the dark, from a cadre of evil clown- ventriloquist doll-zombie topiaries.

  The possibility of it actually happening was very slim, Ian told himself.

  Still, maybe he’d have to invest in a flamethrower just in case that slim possibility became a reality and the topiaries crept out of the woods in a covert attack. The damned things would face the flames and what could be more horrifying to a tree, especially a demonic topiary, than being burned to ash?

  Soon he found himself laughing at the sheer hysterical suggestion of the attacking topiaries. He wondered if his sister would find it equally as funny, since the concept of an evil clown/ventriloquist doll/zombie topiary contained the four basic elements that freaked her out the most. Somehow, he didn’t think she’d appreciate the thought as much as he did, and he took great delight in squirreling the concept away in his mental file so he could use it an torment her at some later time. Like perhaps her birthday.

  Maybe he’d find a florist out there in Oregon or somewhere close from whom he could order a topiary and have it delivered to her front door.

  The look on her face when she received it would be priceless, and he wished he’d be there to see it. Of course, sending her the evil topiary would be seen as an act of aggression. She would then be forced to return a salvo of her own, which in turn would force him to declare war. He figured her response would include cornstalks and corncobs in some form or another.

  Ian wiped the laughing tears from his eyes and took another long look at it. With his hands on his hips, he stood and stared, his eyes moving slowly over the decrepit house; he tried to memorize every inch, every broken window, each crack as best as he could. The he promised he would do what he could to save it.

  Y
es, the topiary would definitely ignite another war, but it was all in good fun and they both enjoyed it in the past.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ian utilized a handful of search engines in an attempt to find information on the property, but amazingly enough, it didn’t appear to have any web presence at all. Damn near everything had some sort of web presence. People can trace genealogy, find obscure knickknacks, and discover the history and pictures of houses that had been razed a hundred years ago. How could he not find a solitary entry for his house?

  No arguing needed; it met all the criteria to be historical, and in an area such as Coventon, full of history going all the way back to George Washington, how could there be nothing? Not possible. He just wasn’t looking in the right places.

  A map of Coventon didn’t even have the road listed. Even if it was a private road, it should have been listed for emergency safety purposes like police and fire department. But the map showed only the valley between the two mountains. The old Gold Church and its cemetery were listed, more than likely because they were a tourist sight for the paranormal crowd and people from the film industry.

  He reached over and popped a CD into the stereo. “Voodoo” by Godsmack filled the air around him. Seductive and sinister at the same time, Ian loved the song. Sitting back, he stared at the computer monitor, fingers thumping on the desk in time with the drum beats in the song. He acknowledged the strange attachment he felt for the house, but refused to give any credence to the fleeting thought he was utterly insane for wanting the house for himself. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he admitted to himself it would be a task to rehabilitate the house. But in his defense, it would be like building a house—except he would be working to beautify an old building someone had left to rot.

  Of course, Ian wasn’t completely enthralled to the point where stupidity would get the better of him and he’d stumble blindly into bankrupting himself over a decaying corpse of a former beauty. No, he’d get reliable contractors and electricians and plumbers to come in and give their opinions before he made any major decisions. Getting himself in a hole he couldn’t dig out of wasn’t in the plan.

  Something in his gut told him this wasn’t a wrong decision; something he had no explanation for kept telling him this was definitely doable and he was to be the one who did it. So much to do before he could even begin to plot a course of action. Nevertheless, a plan had to be formulated.

  Nothing could be accomplished until he figured out his next step; that step was finding out more info on the house, but he kept running into a whole lot of nothing at all. Ian cracked his knuckles and reached for his drink. What next? He was exhausting his less than computer genius researching skills.

  Somebody somewhere had to know something. A paragraph in an obscure book he could use as a springboard for more research. If he had the time.

  In that infinite space known as the Internet, there existed a website or an article some devoted—or demented, depending on how you chose to view it—disciple to history or old houses or whatever posted. There always was, just took patience and time to find.

  At least that was Ian’s experience whenever he’d researched anything for one of his books—never stop until you uncover the treasure you’re after. No matter how tired you are, never give up because you could be close—perhaps only a click or a turn of a page away.

  The old platitude “If it’s good, it don’t come easy” crossed his mind. “Fiat.” So be it.

  Then the idea struck from nowhere, and he actually laughed out loud because he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. The courthouse downtown had to have something on file. The house was on the edge of town, but still within town limits and therefore under the jurisdiction of Coventon. No way would the city, much less the county, pass up the chance to collect taxes.

  A trip to the courthouse and the records department was in order because that was most likely going to be the simplest route to get started. It may have been abandoned and possibly forgotten but it was still there. The house existed. The property had been no fanciful figment of his imagination. There was a deed or tax records in existence somewhere down deep in a dusty drawer and if he had to do so, he would dig until he exhumed his prize. Nobody could buy something that didn’t exist, but this house did exist. He’d seen it with his own eyes, touched it with his own hands. No phantom image, but a concrete reality he wanted for his own.

  Two

  Like it would be a piece of cake.

  The city tax office was oh so helpful when Ian called. Of course it was. He shook his head. Should he have expected anything different? The lady on the phone was brusk, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, made him feel like a complete moron when she kept saying the city didn’t have the house on record. Therefore he must be mistaken. He was to check his information again and call back when he had the info correct. She then said she would do her best to assist him.

  Did she think he used his imagination to dream it all up and got fun out of wasting her time?

  Ian felt confused.

  He knew they had a map and computers and it should have been a simple task to look up the information. He felt as if he’d hallucinated the house, maybe his whole schlep out to the valley was a figment of his imagination. Perhaps it was all a vibrant figment of his fractured mind.

  When he asked if anyone else could help him, Mrs. Reams said she could transfer him to the head of the tax record office. However, he’d only be told the same thing: They did not have a record of a house in that location.

  Disgusted, Ian hung up the phone. Would it even be worth the effort to go down there in person? He wouldn’t be able to hold his temper if they started telling him again he had his information wrong. Most likely he’d be arrested after telling her she was stupid; he never could tolerate stupid for very long before erupting like a volcano.

  There had to be a solution. One so obvious he just wasn't seeing it.

  He had an epiphany. He’d go back and take some shots of the house and show them to Mrs. Reams or her supervisor. They sure as hell couldn’t accuse him of having his information wrong if he came with photos of the house that allegedly didn’t exist.

  Grabbing his cell phone, he could use the camera on it to take a few shots. The quality wouldn’t be the best, but at least he’d have evidence he wasn’t dreaming the whole thing up. The drive wouldn’t take but an hour or so and he could be back in time to make the spaghetti he’d been craving for the better part of the week.

  And then, first thing in the morning, or around eleven when he actually got out of bed, he’d go down to the tax office himself and show the illustrious and fun-sounding Mrs. Reams the pictures of house and dare her to tell him he had incorrect information this time.

  Maybe he could take her a shot of vodka. That might help loosen the stick she had stuck up her ass.

  ~ ~ ~

  By the time Ian got to the house, it was late afternoon; between the sun going down and the shade the mountains cast upon the valley, he had limited time to snap some pictures with his less-than-stellar cell phone camera. Shadows crawled across the ground and the whole area had a creepy feel to it.

  Ian looked for signs anyone had been around the house since the last time he’d been there, but he couldn’t tell for sure. Already he had a sense the house was his territory and he didn’t want anybody else skulking around on his property. Just the thought felt like a violation.

  When he held the phone up to take a picture, he swore he saw somebody staring out of one of the broken windows on the second floor. A big shock. He lowered the phone. Shielding his eyes with his hand, Ian looked.

  Nobody there.

  A reflection of sunlight off the glass would have been the most appropriate explanation—had there been any sunlight or glass in the window. It had to be nothing more than his imagination; he was just thinking about somebody trespassing. His mind ran away with it and made him think someone had been staring down at him from the second floor window.

  Nothi
ng more.

  He wanted to go home, kick his feet up and eat. In addition to the anniversary of his dog’s death coming up, so was his birthday, which was the day before his mother’s birthday. He wondered if this would be the year he’d get an invitation from his family to join the celebration of his mom's birthday. Like there was a hope in hell of it ever happening; it never had before. He resigned himself to the fact he'd be holding the celebration for one again this year

  Sure, he was close with his family. He was the darling of the bunch. Especially when someone needed something like money to pay a bill. Of course then they’d call and make nicey-nice with the chitchat before coming to the point.

  The rest of the time? They didn’t recognize he still breathed. No, they weren’t mean to him; they just mostly forgot about with him unless they wanted something.

  It didn’t make him bitter. Instead, he just felt sad. It was their loss.

  Admittedly, he wasn’t a social butterfly by any means. If anything, he was a social dragonfly, stopping to hover for a second or two before zipping off back home.

  Home.

  Staring up at the house, transfixed by the shadows and light, Ian wanted it more than he’d wanted anything. As if it was subliminally calling to him.

  The damned place was here. He was staring at it. A personal visit to the courthouse would have to prove more fruitful than a telephone call.

  He would enjoy living in the little valley, in the shadows of the mountains. It was serene.

  And maybe, if he managed to buy the place and it wasn’t nearly as rotted away as it appeared, it could be restored in only a few months. He’d have to rely on the opinions of the contractors.