The Haunting of Willow House

by Anthony M. Strong

  “I know.” Jake turned, the telephone still in his arms, and walked toward the front of the house. “Can I see my room now?”

  Chapter 7

  The house was dark and silent.

  Sarah lay in bed and looked up at the ceiling. She always found it hard to fall asleep in new places. Tonight should have been different, after a day spent unloading, and then a whole evening of putting her room to rights. The delivery guys had set up her bed and carried the nightstands, chair, and dresser up both flights of stairs, but there was still a lot to do. She unpacked clothes and hung them in the walk-in closet. She tacked several posters to the bedroom walls, the place feeling more like home with each one that went up, and then put the sheets and comforter on her bed. There was still a lot to unpack, but this was a good start.

  Despite all that, she could not sleep.

  She lay in the blackness, the only light a faint glow from the nightlight plugged in on the other side of the room. It was not much, but it cast enough illumination to make her feel comfortable.

  She heard her father moving around down below. After that, the only sound was the faint rustle of wind through the trees outside her window and the occasional creak as the house settled.

  She closed her eyes and pretended that she was back in her old room in Boston. Tomorrow was Sunday, and that meant they would go to brunch in Back Bay. After that, they would take a stroll along the Charles River or spend the afternoon browsing the upscale stores on Newbury Street. The shopping trips had all but stopped after Mom died, but the brunch ritual remained, if only because it reminded them all of happier times.

  But they weren’t in Boston, and there would be no Sunday morning omelets or waffles, no walks along the Charles, or anything else for that matter.

  Sarah rolled over onto her side and looked at the glowing alarm clock display.

  It was 2 a.m.

  She entertained the idea of getting up and finding the book she’d been reading, but it was buried in one of the boxes stacked along the wall, the ones she had not unpacked yet. It seemed like a lot of effort to start rummaging through them at this time of night.

  Her laptop wasn’t packed though. That was sitting on the dresser. Not that it did her much good. The Internet was not turned on yet, and wouldn’t be for a couple more days. That meant she couldn’t stream her favorite shows or email Becca. Besides, the room was cold, and she didn’t feel like moving.

  Instead, she pulled the covers up so that they were all the way to her chin and lay there, her mind wandering back to those happy times of waffles and walks, and then, just when she thought she would never sleep again, the tiredness overcame her.

  Chapter 8

  Andrew chose the room at the top of the stairs to be his writing den. It was the smallest of the three bedrooms, and the one that needed the most renovation. But it was also the furthest from the kids’ rooms, which meant less disruptions.

  In the brownstone he did his writing in a cramped third floor box room with a window overlooking Beacon Street. Down the road was Boston Common. Sometimes, when he was stuck and needed inspiration, he would take a stroll through the park. There, in an oasis flanked by cramped roads, tourists and locals sprawled on the grass, reading or listening to music.

  Not here though.

  In this house he had all the solitude he could ever want. Except that peace and quiet wasn’t what Andrew needed. What he needed were the words to start flowing again. He was three months late on delivering his fourth novel, and only halfway through. Everything ground to a halt the day they laid Jennifer in the ground. He knew exactly which page he was working on when that happened, because it was the same page that was on his screen when he got the news that she had gone off the road. He hadn’t written a single word since.

  Actually, that was not true.

  He had written lots of words, but none of them were any good. They mocked him, each one a small betrayal. And all the time that voice nagged inside his head.

  You’re nothing without her.

  It ate at him, consuming his soul until there was only one place left to go, and he went there without a fight. It was a dim, dark hell with a population of one. It wasn’t until after Sarah’s incident that he was able to crawl back out of the pit of despair he’d created for himself. She needed him. Jake needed him.

  What they all needed was a collective reset.

  So here they were.

  Maybe now he would be able to finish the damn book, hand it off to his agent, and never think about it again.

  He took his laptop from its case and set it on the oak writing desk that he’d bought in an antique store in Connecticut. All three of his bestsellers had been written at this desk. Now it would serve as the pallbearer for his fourth.

  He turned to the boxes marked office and opened the nearest one. Inside were books, papers, and several legal pads full of jotted notes. He scooped them up and deposited everything on a shelf near the window. He arranged them by height, the tallest volumes first, down through the smallest, and leaned a couple of volumes at an angle to hold everything up.

  There were other things in the box. A two hundred year old iron quill stand made in the north of England that had belonged to his grandfather. For decades it sat on the desk next to the old man’s reading chair, stacked with pens of varying shapes and sizes, including a big, bulbous fat one in the wider space at the top. It had always fascinated Andrew. He didn’t know why. After his grandfather died, it was the one thing he took.

  And then there was the bottle of vodka.

  It lay in the bottom of the box, taunting him.

  During the bad times, those dark days, he wasn’t adverse to a little self medication. At first it was a quick nip here and there, just to get the creative juices flowing. Or maybe to help him forget.

  It did neither.

  That didn’t stop him from persisting in the vain hope that something would change. Except that wasn’t the real reason. While it might not help him forget, it took the edge off. One shot became two, then three. Before long, he was polishing off half a bottle on a good day — Never in front of the kids though. But late at night, when the lights were out and he was in his writing room… Well, all bets were off.

  Until Sarah tried to follow her mother to the grave.

  He hadn’t taken a drop since.

  Not that his drinking had anything to do with what happened, at least, not directly. But he had a revelation that day. He realized that they were all broken, and if he didn’t take action, they might not all make it.

  Andrew left the bottle where it was and closed the box. Why had he even packed it? For old times sake? In case of emergency? Who knew? Tomorrow he would consign it to the garbage.

  He flopped down in front of the desk and opened up the laptop. The screen blinked to life.

  He pulled up the book, scrolled to the last of it, and there was that blank page.

  The cursor taunted him, dared him to write something. Anything.

  Andrew’s fingers brushed against the keyboard. He pecked at a key, then another. The progress was slow, hesitant, but it was movement in the right direction.

  Letters became words, and words morphed into sentences. He wrote in a trance, barely thinking.

  An hour later three new pages stared back at him.

  Were they good pages? Hardly. They were clunky, disjointed. — Three pages of crap. Disappointment washed over him.

  He leaned back in the chair and glanced toward the window and the dark night beyond. This house was supposed to be a clean break, a chance to put the past behind him and start the process of moving on. He’d battled for his family, almost lost his daughter, barely saved his own sanity. And still he could not write a damn thing.

  Andrew slammed the laptop closed, his eyes settling on the bottle of vodka. It stood behind the computer, waiting for him like a lost lover.

  Shouldn’t it still be in the box?

  He thought back, tracing his movements. He was sure he had not rem
oved the vodka bottle. Yet here it was.

  He leaned forward, extended his hand. Traced a finger down the side of the smooth glass, following the tantalizing curve from neck to base. It felt cold under his touch.

  There was a shot glass waiting there too.

  Had that even been in the box?

  Who cared?

  It was good medicine.

  His hand closed around the bottle. He dragged it forward across the desk. Stared at it.

  The liquor whispered to him.

  It seduced him.

  Come on, it said. What could it hurt, just one drink? And his mind played along. The part of him that yearned for the slow, steady intoxication, considered it. The kids were in bed, sleeping. It was well past midnight. The witching hour. Why not let the vodka cast a spell on him?

  Screw it.

  Andrew grasped the bottle and twisted the cap off. He took the shot glass and filled it. He placed the bottle back on the table and lifted the glass. The alcohol fumes caressed his nostrils, an old friend.

  I’ve missed you.

  The words rolled into his head as he put the glass to his mouth, tasted the first drops of liquor.

  And then he remembered where he was and why they had moved here. This wasn’t much of a turnaround. Here he was, about to get toasted. And why? Because the words didn’t flow like they used to? Or was it because he still missed Jennifer so much it hurt and nothing had really changed? Boston or not, the pain was still there. He wondered if it would always be.

  But he was better than this. He didn’t need to drink to control it. Not now. Not ever again.

  He gripped the bottle, emptied the shot glass back into it, and stood. The bathroom was across the hall.

  It only took a moment to pour the contents of the bottle into the sink, the clear liquid swirling away.

  There. No more temptation.

  Andrew dropped the empty bottle into the wastebasket. He would throw it in the garbage tomorrow. Right now though, he was going to bed. The book could wait. It wasn’t as if he’d write anything worth a damn anyhow.

  Chapter 9

  Sarah’s eyes snapped open.

  The alarm clock read 4:15AM.

  She looked around, wondering what had roused her, and then she realized.

  It was dark.

  Too dark. In fact, it was pitch black.

  The nightlight, which had bathed the room in a soft yellow glow only a few hours earlier, was no longer working. Had the bulb blown?

  A lump caught in her throat. For a moment she was overcome with an unreasoning panic. She’d hated the dark ever since childhood, always sleeping with a light of some sort. She lay still, holding the covers up, waiting for the paralyzing fear to pass. After all, there was a lamp right next to her on the nightstand. All she needed to do was reach out and turn it on.

  Except that now she realized something else.

  There was someone in the room with her.

  She could hear their soft, light footsteps crossing the room.

  A prickle of fear ran through her.

  She wanted to scream but nothing came out.

  Instead, she lay there, frozen with fear. Her eyes searched the blackness for any sign of movement, but it was no use.

  And then the footsteps repeated, louder this time.

  She had the unnerving thought that the owner of those footfalls was right next to the bed, leaning over her, watching her.

  That was too much. Willing herself to move, Sarah rolled over and reached for the lamp.

  Her fingers found the switch, turned it on.

  She sat up and looked around, heart beating so fast she thought it would push through her chest.

  The room was empty. There was no skulking intruder at the end of the bed, no stranger waiting to pounce. She was alone.

  But how could that be? She was so sure there was someone in the room. Was it possible that she imagined the footsteps? Maybe it was some kind of waking dream, a fragment of something that lingered when she awoke, finding its way, for a brief time, into the real world.

  And then she remembered the nightlight.

  She swung her legs off the bed, slipping out from under the warm safety of the comforter, and padded across the room.

  Some nightlights had sensors that turned them on when the room grew dark, and off again at sunrise. Not this one. It was the sort that had a small switch on the front, enabling it to be operated at will.

  And the switch was in the off position.

  This was no blown bulb. It was a deliberate act, which meant that the footsteps were not her imagination. Someone had been in the room with her.

  She turned and backed up toward the wall.

  Her eyes searched the attic.

  Nothing appeared out of place. Boxes waited to be unpacked. The laptop rested on her dresser, the power light glowing a dull orange.

  None of this gave her any comfort.

  And then she noticed the closet door.

  It was cracked open, just an inch.

  Had she left it like that?

  She could not remember, but it was possible. On the other hand, someone might be lurking in there right then, watching her from the narrow slit between the door and the frame.

  That thought made her blood run cold.

  She wanted to scream, to run from the room and never come back. And then it dawned on her, like a divine revelation.

  Jake.

  Her brother knew how much she hated the dark. He must have snuck up to scare her. It was the only thing that made any sense. The little shit. Was he hiding in the closet, waiting to jump out, arms waving? Well, she would show him.

  Sarah edged toward the closet. A tingling fear crept up her spine. She reached out, took the door handle in her hand and pulled. The door creaked open. The space beyond was cloaked in darkness.

  She reached toward the light switch on the wall next to the door, her fingers groping until she found it.

  The closet exploded with light. She blinked against the sudden glare. When her eyes adjusted, she saw that the space was empty. That didn’t mean he wasn’t in here, hiding.

  Like behind the row of clothes hanging on the rod along the back wall.

  She ducked down and peered beneath them, looking for his legs.

  Nothing.

  Sarah let out a relieved breath and turned back toward the door, just in time to see it swing closed with a thud.

  She stood there in mute horror, unable to make a sound despite the shriek that ached to find its way from her throat. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps.

  From the other side of the door there was the sound of retreating footsteps.

  She struggled to regain her composure. The little brat had gotten to her after all. Where had he been hiding, under the bed? It didn’t matter. The important thing was that she didn’t let him win. She swung the closet door open and then hesitated.

  The room seemed different, darker than before. The air was dense, cloying. The light didn’t reach into the corners now. The darkness was fighting for control of the room. She didn’t want to step out into it. Somewhere, deep down, she had a feeling that something lurked there, unseen.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  But that was ridiculous. What was she thinking?

  Besides, every second she lingered, Jake was making good his escape.

  Pushing the strange thoughts from her mind, willing them down, she stepped out into the bedroom, and hurried in the direction of the stairs.

  She had expected to see Jake below her, but the staircase was empty. He must have all but run down.

  Never mind that. He wasn’t going to escape so easily.

  She started down, one hand flat against the wall to keep her steady on the steep and unfamiliar staircase. When she arrived at the landing below, she paused, gathering her fury for the rant she was about to unleash.

  Jake’s room was the closest door.

  She knew it was his because she’d heard them earlier, discussi
ng the best place for the bed, and where to stash his toys.

  She took the knob and threw the door open, ready to give him hell, except that when she looked inside, something made her hold back.

  The bedroom was swathed in darkness, the only light a pale silhouette of the window cast across the wood floor. Jake’s bed stood opposite the door, the covers spilling over the edges. The boy shaped lump beneath them told her that he was there, and the heavy snores that emanated from his direction told her that either he was fast asleep, or he was a great actor.

  She wasn’t sure which.

  She stepped into the room, intent upon confronting him, but then she paused.

  He really seemed to be out to the world. But that was not possible. If Jake was asleep, who switched off her nightlight and closed her in the closet?

  Who’s footsteps had she heard?

  It must be her brother. It certainly wasn’t her father, and he was the only other person in the house. But Jake couldn’t have gotten back to his room, jumped into bed, and fell asleep so quickly. It was impossible. He was faking, he must be.

  But what good did it do to cause a ruckus in the middle of the night? Jake would howl and wail, and then her father would appear, mad at being woken in such a manner. Maybe he would decide she wasn’t mature enough, and take the attic room away from her. Maybe he would even give the attic to Jake.

  She didn’t want that.

  No, it was better to withdraw, let Jake think he had won, at least until morning. There would be plenty of time to get the truth out of him.

  Her mind made up, Sarah backed out of the room and pulled the door shut, then turned back toward the attic stairs.

  As she climbed, making her way back to the attic bedroom, she thought she heard a faint chuckle drift up from below. Dammit Jake, she thought, not bothering to turn around, not willing to give him the satisfaction, don’t push your luck.

  Chapter 10

  Sarah awoke to three sharp knocks on her bedroom door.

  She opened her eyes and rolled over, noting that it was past 10AM She still felt tired, but that was hardly surprising since she had spent half the night either lying awake or being the victim of Jake’s stupid pranks.