The Haunting of Willow House

by Anthony M. Strong

  It was past midnight. Surely he would not still be awake. But the glow spilling into the corridor indicated that he was. Maybe this was a good thing. He might be writing again. Before the accident he would work well into the night, sometimes staying up until dawn, at which time he would emerge from his den, exhausted, and retreat to the bedroom. He claimed that he got the best writing done when the house was silent, everyone else tucked up in bed. He called it his special time.

  That was before.

  Since her mother’s death, the late night sessions had all but stopped. It was as if he blamed the work for what happened. After all, he wasn’t in the car with her that day because he was too busy writing. But self-pity didn’t pay the bills. She was still a teenager, but she wasn’t dumb. Sarah knew the previous books' royalties would not last forever, especially if he didn’t keep publishing. She worried what would happen when it all went away. Maybe that was part of why he was so insistent on moving them to this dump. Maybe the brownstone in Boston was too expensive for him to keep up on his own. A wave of compassion for her dad washed over her, and she had the sudden urge to walk into the room and hug him tight.

  She lingered outside the door, not wanting to disturb him if he really was writing again. She wavered back and forth, and almost continued on without investigating further, but it was too much. She had to know if he was writing.

  Sarah gripped the doorknob, the age worn brass cool under her touch, and turned. The door opened inward with a moan. She stepped into the room.

  Her dad was sitting at the desk with his back turned. The laptop was open, an empty white rectangle visible on the screen. Her heart fell. He wasn’t writing. The open page was blank. So what was he doing?

  “Dad?”

  He seemed not to notice her. Never moved.

  “Hey, Dad.” She moved closer, extended her hand to touch him on the shoulder. Her fingers brushed his shirt.

  Andrew jumped, as if he was surprised that someone was in the room with him. He looked up, the chair swiveling as he did so. “Hi, Pickle.”

  She ignored the nickname. “What are you doing? It’s so late.”

  “Oh, I was trying to write.” He looked back at the screen, at the white expanse of nothingness. “Pretty pathetic, huh.”

  “At least you’re trying.” Sarah’s eyes drifted past the computer, to the desk, and the open bottle of vodka. A shot glass sat next to it, brimming with the clear liquid. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about, Pickle.” Andrew moved the bottle, twisted the cap back on. He slid the shot glass away.

  “I am worried about it.” Sarah felt a pang of fear twist in her stomach. “You shouldn’t be drinking.”

  “Sarah-”

  “Don’t.” She shook her head. “You think I didn’t know what was going on in Boston, the late nights in your den, the hangovers. I could smell it on you every morning.”

  “I had no idea.” Andrew looked genuinely sheepish. “I got carried away, let it get out of hand. I was finding it hard to deal with things.”

  “We all were, Dad.” Sarah felt a tear push at the corner of her eye. “You don’t think Jake and I were struggling to deal with it too?”

  “I know you were,” Andrew said. “That’s why I stopped after the pills, when you tried to…”

  “So why the bottle?”

  “This is different.”

  “Is it?” She wiped the tear away.

  “Yes. I promise.” Andrew took her hand in his. ”I have it under control.”

  “How can you say that?” Sarah glared at him. “Sitting here with a full glass in front of you.”

  “Because it’s the truth,” Andrew replied. “I haven’t drunk any. The glass is still full. See?”

  “Then throw it away,” Sarah said. “Pour it down the drain right now.”

  “I can’t.” Andrew glanced toward the bottle. “It won’t let me.”

  “Then I’ll do it.” Sarah reached around him, snatched up the bottle by the neck, and turned away.

  “Sarah, come on.”

  “No.” Sarah swiveled back toward him, anger flashing in her eyes. “You talk about me coming to terms with what happened, you say I’m not being rational. You want the old Sarah back, the one who didn’t think about death all the time, and who thought that life would go on the same forever. Well, that person is gone forever, but at least I know what I am, and what I’m not.”

  “You’re right.” Andrew shrugged. “I’m not perfect, but you don’t understand. You can’t get rid of it.”

  “Watch me.” She stomped toward the door, went across the hallway into the bathroom, and upended the bottle.

  “It won’t let you.” Her dad’s voice carried from the other room.

  “Whatever.” Sarah ignored him. She watched the last of the liquor drain down the sink, and then went back across the hallway, depositing the empty bottle on his desk. “See. All gone.”

  “For now.” A thin smile crossed his lips.

  “This is ridiculous.” Sarah turned away, not wanting him to see the look of fear on her face. She raced into the hallway, all thought of the milk excursion abandoned. It was only when she reached her bedroom, slammed the door and flopped face down on the bed that she let go of the pent up emotions. An hour later, after the crying was done, she finally fell asleep.

  Chapter 27

  On Thursday, two days after the vodka incident, Becca arrived. She pulled up to the house in her bright yellow Toyota and parked in front of the dilapidated barn. She wasn’t even halfway to the front door when Sarah opened it and ran out, hugging her friend as if she hadn’t seen her in years, not merely a couple weeks.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Sarah said, refusing to release Becca.

  “Me too.” Becca pulled away, saw the strained look on Sarah’s face. “Are you okay?”

  “No.” Sarah’s voice trembled. Since discovering her father with the alcohol things had been tense. There was a cloud hanging over the house. Gone was the hope for a new start. It was Boston all over again, and even if her dad had not consumed any vodka since she found him nursing the bottle, it felt as if there was an uneasy truce that might be broken at any moment. The few conversations she had engaged in with her father had been brief and stilted, as if each was trying to figure out where to go next. It filled her with dread, and she didn’t know what to do.

  “Tell me everything.” Becca hitched her backpack high on her shoulder and took Sarah’s hand, leading her toward the house. “You will feel better.”

  And Sarah did.

  As soon as they reached the third floor attic room, she unloaded all her frustrations and fears. She told Becca about the weird events in the cellar, Jake’s odd behavior, and about Tyler’s visit. And finally, catching her father engrossed in a bottle of vodka.

  Becca sat on the bed next to her and listened to everything without interrupting. She nodded here and there, and then, when Sarah was finished, she was quiet for a moment digesting it all. After a short silence, she spoke again. “Sounds like you’ve really been through it.”

  “I’m not sure how much longer I can take it here in this house,” Sarah replied. “I feel like things are worse than ever.”

  “Maybe you should sit down and talk with your dad, tell him how you feel.”

  “No.” Sarah shook her head. “It won’t do any good. He’s changing. The drinking was a thing of the past; he hadn’t touched a drop for months, at least until we got here.”

  “Are you sure?” Becca asked. “People are good at hiding things like that.”

  “I’m sure. He kept it well hidden when he was drinking, but I could always tell. He’s different when he drinks. Not bad, just more subdued, out of it.” Sarah didn’t like to think about the months after her mother’s death. They were not good, and her father’s retreat into the bottle hadn’t helped things. That was part of the reason she downed the pills. A cry for attention was what the psychiatrist called it, and maybe it was. “I can�
��t explain it, Becca, but things feel…” She struggled to find the right word. “They feel off.”

  “You’ve been through hell in the last year. Give it time.”

  “No. It’s not time I need. It’s the house. I can feel it.”

  “The house?” Becca raised an eyebrow.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I swear, there’s something wrong with this house. There are cold spots, not always in the same place either. And I’ve heard things, seen things.”

  “The cellar.”

  “Not only that. My nightlight turned off all by itself. There were footsteps. The other night, I was sure there was someone in the room, watching me.”

  “So what are you saying, the house is haunted?”

  “I don’t know.” Sarah shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in that kind of thing.”

  “I don’t. That’s the frustrating part. But it’s happening anyway.”

  “Are you sure you’re not imagining it?”

  “I’m not.” Sarah paused, chewed her lip, and then took her friend’s hand in her own. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Of course, always. You know that you can.”

  “There was something in the darkness.”

  “I don’t follow. What darkness? Here at the house?”

  “No. When I was in the hospital, after I swallowed the pills. Before I woke up.”

  “You remember that?”

  “I think so. It was so dark, like I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. And it was empty. A vast nothingness that stretched in all directions, even up and down.”

  “You were dreaming.”

  “I don’t think so. It didn’t feel like a dream. It was real, and there was something living in the darkness. Something terrible. I didn’t see it, just sensed it, waiting for me to die. Whatever it was, I could actually smell the rot and corruption.”

  “Okay, now you’re spooking me,” Becca said. “You’re making this up, right?”

  “I wish I were,” Sarah replied. “And I’m scared that it followed me. What if that thing from the darkness is here, in this house? What if it’s mad that I lived?”

  “You’re talking nonsense.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know that there aren’t monsters waiting in the darkness for us to die.”

  “What other explanation is there for what’s been happening?” Sarah said. “I’m scared, Becca.”

  “Then maybe we should do something about it.”

  “How?”

  “With this.” Becca reached into her bag and pulled out a flat folded wooden board with two brass hinges. She opened it up on the bed to reveal a semicircle of letters, A through Z, and underneath, the numbers 1 through 9. On the left side of the board was stenciled the word YES, and on the other, the word NO. In the middle was a printed GOODBYE in large, ornate type. Delicate scrollwork framed the entire thing.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  “You bet. I found it in a store in Salem a few years ago. Neat, huh? I’ve played with it a few times at parties. Got some pretty creepy results. After we spoke on the phone, I thought it would be the perfect thing to bring up here.” She grinned. “And it’s a good thing I did. We can get some answers.”

  “No way. Absolutely not.”

  “Come on. Don’t you want to know?”

  “Yes, but not like that.” Sarah eyed the board. “What if it makes things worse?”

  “Do you trust me?” Becca said.

  “You know that I do.” Sarah felt as if she was being boxed into a corner, but she didn’t have the energy to fight back.

  “Good. We’ll do it tonight after your dad and brother are asleep.” Becca picked up the board, closed it, and slid it back into her pack. “Now, why don’t you show me to the kitchen. I’m starving.”

  Chapter 28

  At 9 o’clock in the evening Andrew made sure that Jake was tucked in bed. As had been the case over the past few evenings, the boy was playing with the old telephone, which had become something of an obsession for him, and begged for just a few minutes more. Like most boys, he resisted bedtime, and he would have tried to negotiate his way out of sleep, even if it were three hours later. Andrew was having none of it, and after a quick trip to the bathroom to brush his teeth, Jake settled down, leaving Andrew free for the rest of the evening.

  He turned out Jake’s light, pulled the door almost closed, but not quite – that way he would know if his son slipped back out of bed and turned the light on – and went down the hallway in the direction of his writing room.

  From above, on the third floor, he could hear Sarah and Becca talking. The girl had arrived earlier that day. Not that he would even have known she was in the house were it not for her brief presence at dinner. The girls grabbed slices of pizza (a household staple given Andrew’s lack of cooking skills) and were gone again before he knew it.

  Now they were in Sarah’s room, conversing in hushed whispers punctuated by the occasional giggle. Heaven knew what they were talking about, but he could guess. Boys. Not that it mattered. Sarah had been so depressed lately. She needed Becca more than she realized, and it was good to hear her laughing for once, even if it might prove to be short lived. If he was being honest with himself, Andrew knew that part of that depression was his fault. The drinking in Boston had gotten out of hand. He hadn’t realized she was even aware of it, but like all drunks, he had been deluding himself. Now she had caught him nursing a bottle here, at the new house, something he had sworn he would not allow to occur. He hadn’t even intended to start drinking again. It just happened, thanks in part to the strange availability of liquor. It was hard to quit drinking when the bottle never got empty. A rational Andrew would have questioned this turn of events, but it didn’t bother him. Who cared where the booze came from as long as it did its job? And boy, did it do that. Just a couple shots and some of the pain went away. it might not be a magic bullet, but it sure came close.

  Andrew slipped into the writing room, closed the door behind him. This time he turned the latch, making sure it was locked. The last thing he wanted was Sarah barging in again. This was nothing to do with her. He was the adult. She was a kid. She didn’t understand.

  Andrew went to his desk, sat down.

  When he touched a key, the laptop sprang to life. Maybe this time he would get some writing done. But deep down he already knew the answer.

  He turned his attention from the computer.

  The bottle was back, as usual. So was the shot glass, full to the brim and waiting for him as if some celestial bartender had snuck in and prepared it.

  Here you are, boss, just what the doctor ordered.

  The voice in Andrew’s head coaxed him, urged him on.

  You’ll feel so much better with a little medicine inside of you.

  The voice validated the need. It gave him permission.

  Andrew took the shot glass, observed it for a moment, and then downed it in one swig before slamming the glass back on the desk. The liquor warmed him as it went down. He felt the alcohol hit his stomach. The guilt eased a little. Another one would ease it more.

  He glanced down.

  The glass was full again. The celestial bartender never disappointed. He picked it up, lifted it to his lips – without pause this time – and took it back in one fluid gulp.

  Chapter 29

  It was after eleven when Becca pulled the old wooden board out again. She placed it on the bed, opened it, and reached into her bag, bringing out a worn teardrop shaped planchette with three tiny ball-shaped feet. She laid the pointer on the board between the words YES and NO, then sat back.

  “We’re really going to do this?” Sarah asked, worried.

  “Why not?” Becca grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

  “No.” Sarah shook her head. “Of course not, but aren’t these things dangerous?”

  “Only if I hit you over the head with it,” Becca said. “D
on’t be so nervous.”

  “I‘ll try.” Sarah wished Becca hadn’t brought the board, then she would not be in this situation. “How do we do it?”

  “Really? You don’t know?” Becca scoffed. “What kind of a Goth are you?”

  “The kind that doesn’t hold séances and talk to the dead.”

  “Until now,” Becca said. “Tonight we make you a real Goth.”

  “I thought the point of this was to find out what was wrong with the house, not initiate me as a real Goth.”

  “Two birds with one stone,” Becca said, matter-of-factly. “Now concentrate. If you don’t take it seriously, this won’t work.”

  “Fine. What do I do?” Sarah thought she knew how to do it, had seen boards used on TV shows and in the movies, but this felt different, more personal. If they were really going to try to talk to the spirits, she wanted to do it right.

  “It’s easy. All you do is touch it with your index and middle fingers like this. Don’t press down, just touch it.” Becca placed her fingertips on the planchette. “And then we ask questions. Actually, I ask the questions. You just provide energy and listen.”

  “Suits me.” Sarah looked at the board. ”Want to get this over with?”

  “Okay. Come closer.” Becca motioned her to scoot forward. “Sit with your knees under you, like you are kneeling.”

  “Like this?” Sarah adjusted herself.

  “Perfect.” Becca did the same, moving close so that their knees touched. She picked up the board and placed it between them, resting on their legs. “We both need to be in contact with the board. There’s more psychic energy that way.”

  “This is silly.” Sarah thought about hopping off the bed, refusing to play along, but instead she placed her fingers on the planchette next to Becca’s.

  “Now, clear your mind.” Becca took a deep breath. “Relax and think positive thoughts.”

  Sarah closed her eyes, took two large lungfuls of air. When she felt ready, she opened them again. “Good to go.” She smiled, although she felt a tingle of apprehension.