The Haunting of Willow House

by Anthony M. Strong

  He let it drop from his hand.

  It hit the floor with a metallic thud and teetered briefly before coming to rest on its side.

  He admired his work, a slight smile touching his lips. But there was still more to be done. He went to the back door and out into the night once more. There was a second gas can in the barn. He would retrieve it and make sure to give everything a thorough dousing, just to be sure.

  And then came the fun part.

  Chapter 78

  Becca hurried up the driveway.

  She ran as fast as she dared, ignoring the tight pain that stabbed at her right side. She reached the house, passing the barn, and Andrew’s car, and raced up to the front door.

  She was about to knock when she hesitated.

  What if there was nothing wrong at all? She would look foolish. Worse than that, Sarah’s dad would probably call her parents, and then all hell would break loose. On the other hand, there was an unconscious man in a car at the end of the driveway, and no one from the house had bothered to investigate. Surely they must have seen the headlights.

  No, something was wrong. She knew it.

  Becca made up her mind.

  She hammered on the door and waited.

  Nobody came to answer.

  She rapped again, louder this time.

  The seconds ticked by, becoming a minute, then two. Still nothing. The house might as well be empty, except that she knew that it was not.

  Pulling her phone out, she dialed Sarah’s number again, even though she didn’t think it would do any good. She was right. It rang twice then went to voicemail.

  Damn.

  She gripped the door handle, jiggled it.

  Locked.

  There was only one thing left to do. The door featured a central frosted glass pane made up of several leaded panels. She would have to break it. The problem was, she didn’t have anything that would do the job. There would be something in the car though. A tire iron would do the trick. Except that she would have to go all the way back to the road, and then return. It would take far too long. She needed something closer — but what?

  Her eyes alighted on the flowerbeds on each side of the door. More precisely, on the rows of bricks, stuck half in the ground at forty-five degrees, that made up the edging. She bent over, selected a suitable brick, and pried it from the ground. At first it resisted, but then it came free, trailing dirt and grime.

  She felt a brief sense of satisfaction until she remembered what she had to do with the brick.

  If nothing was wrong, this would be breaking and entering. She wasn’t sure if Sarah’s dad would call the cops, but she didn’t want to find out. Regardless, she had to follow through, because the alternative, that the family was in trouble, was much worse.

  She gripped the brick tight in one hand, heaved it back, and brought it down on the glass with all the strength she could muster.

  The brick bounced back, jarring her wrist.

  She leaned in.

  The glass was chipped, with a spider web of fine cracks radiating out from the point of impact. Not bad for a first try.

  She swung again, letting out a grunt. This time the brick didn’t bounce off. It kept going amid a hail of glass. She almost lost her grip but somehow hung on. When she saw the ragged hole in the empty window, she used the brick to knock the last shards of glass away, and then threw it back toward the flowerbed before reaching through. Her fingers found the latch, and soon she was inside.

  The smell hit her the moment she crossed the threshold. She stopped, gagged. It burned the back of her throat, lingered in her nostrils.

  Gasoline.

  Why did the house smell like gas?

  She felt a stab of fear. This was so much worse than she had imagined.

  “Sarah?” she called out, hoping to hear a response.

  There was nothing.

  She ran through the house, went to the kitchen. The smell was worse here, and she could see that the floor was slick and wet. This was where the odor was coming from.

  The back door was wide open.

  She went to close it, thought better of the idea. The open door would allow some of the fumes to dissipate.

  She turned and raced from the room. By the time she reached the front of the house a faint cry reached her ears.

  It was coming from the cellar.

  She changed direction, opened the cellar door and peered into the darkness beyond. Seeing nothing she pushed a hand into her pocket and pulled out her phone, activating the flashlight. When she shone the beam downward, she gasped.

  There, at the bottom of the stairs was Andrew. He sat on the bottom step, trapped behind a heavy metal shelf unit that had fallen across the steps. Paint cans and boxes were strewn all about.

  He looked up at her, a mixture of surprise and relief registering on his face. “What are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t reach Sarah on the phone. I was worried.” She took a step into the cellar. “Are you alright?”

  “I busted my ankle. I can’t climb over this stuff.” He nodded toward his leg. “I fell.”

  “What’s going on? The back door is wide open, and there is gasoline all over the place. One spark and the whole house will go up in flames.”

  “What?” Andrew looked shocked.

  “Hang on,” Becca said, dragging a side table across the floor and wedging it against the cellar door to stop it from closing. “I’m coming down to get you.”

  “No.” Andrew shook his head. “Find Sarah and Jake first. I can wait.”

  “But–”

  “Don’t argue with me,” Andrew said, his voice hard, commanding. “Get them, then you can help me.”

  She looked at him, wavering between helping him anyway and doing as she was told.

  “Go!” Andrew shouted the word. “Now.”

  Becca jumped, startled.

  She lingered a second longer, and then, seeing the look on Andrew’s face, turned and fled down the hall.

  Chapter 79

  Sarah had all but given up on trying to get out of the bedroom when she heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. She thought it must be her dad, but then, to her surprise, Becca’s voice drifted through the door.

  “Sarah?”

  “Becca. I’m stuck in here. The door won’t open.” She wondered what her friend was doing back at the house, how she had known they were in trouble, but she could ask those questions later. There were more important things to worry about right now. “Please hurry.”

  “Hold on.” There was a pause, then the door handle rattled. “I can’t get it open either. I don’t understand it. Are you sure you don’t have it locked on your side?”

  “No,” Sarah replied. “There isn’t even a lock on the door. Can you find something to break it down?”

  “I don’t know,” Becca said. “I’d need something heavy, like a sledgehammer.”

  “I don’t think we have one of those.” Sarah paused. A sudden fear gripped her. “Where’s my dad, is he alright?”

  “The cellar,” came the reply. “He took a fall down the stairs.”

  “Oh no. Is he…“ She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. Her heart pounded in her chest.

  “No. He hurt his ankle, and the stairs are blocked. He told me to come find you and Jake before helping him. Your brother is nowhere to be found.”

  “Jake is outside. He’s fetching gas cans from the shed. I’m so scared. I don’t know what he’s planning, but it can’t be good. Please hurry.” Sarah felt her lip tremble. She fought back a sob.

  “There’s no way I’m going to get this door open. What about…” Becca stopped mid sentence. Then she spoke again, quicker now. “Hang on. I have an idea.”

  “What?” Sarah said, praying that Becca knew how to open the door. “Tell me.”

  “I have to go downstairs. Hang on.” And then she was leaving, her footfalls receding as she hurried back down the stairs.

  Sarah was alone again.

&n
bsp; She waited.

  It felt like forever, and then Becca was back. This time there was no timid rattling of doorknobs. Instead, the door shuddered under a brutal blow, then another.

  Sarah stepped back, alarmed.

  The door shook again, only this time there was a cracking, splintering sound. And then the lights went out.

  Sarah let out a shriek.

  From the other side of the door she heard Becca swear.

  “I can’t see anything,” Becca said. “Did the power go out?”

  “No.” Sarah glanced toward the nightstand. “My clock is still on. How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know.” There was another thud, and more splintering. The door crashed back on its hinges. Becca stood there holding her phone up, the flashlight blazing. In her other hand was a baseball bat. “We need to get out of here.”

  “Where did you get that?” Sarah peered at the bat.

  “Your dad’s office. I saw it when I was in there.”

  “You were in Dad’s writing room?” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “When?”

  “Do you want to waste time talking all night or do you want to get out of here?”

  That galvanized Sarah into action, of course she wanted to get out. It was all she’d been thinking of since seeing Jake go to the barn. “Let’s go.” She marched past Becca, and started down the stairs.

  “Wait up.” Becca followed behind, hurrying to overtake her. “I have the light.”

  “We have to stop Jake,” Sarah said, breathless. “I don’t know what he’s doing with gas cans, but he has been acting really odd lately.”

  “I know what he’s doing,” Becca said. “There’s gasoline all over the kitchen.”

  “What?” Sarah was shocked. “Why would he do that?”

  “Only one reason I can think of.”

  Sarah let that sink in. Was Jake really going to set the house on fire? It didn’t seem possible, he was such a mild mannered boy, but then, he wasn’t himself anymore. Even so, she found it hard to believe. “Are you sure?”

  “You think I’m making this up?” They had reached the second floor landing. Becca kept the flashlight held aloft so that they could see where they were going.

  “No.” Sarah wished she did. She glanced toward Jake’s room as they passed, peering through the open door. No sooner had she done so than the door started to move. It swung closed, slamming with a loud bang.

  “Holy crap,” Becca exclaimed. “Was that you?”

  As if in answer, the door opened again, then closed. Along the corridor the other doors started slamming, the chorus of thuds deafening. The lights flickered on, and then went off again.

  “This is insane.” Becca shouted over the noise.

  “Keep moving. It’s the witch. She doesn’t want us to stop Jake,” Sarah replied.

  A picture flew off the wall, whizzed past Sarah’s head. She screamed and ducked barely in time. It shattered on the far wall.

  Another picture, a photograph of Andrew and Jennifer taken on their wedding day, hurled itself across the hall inches from Becca’s face. It exploded across the floor sending shards of glass flying.

  Sarah kept her eyes fixed upon the beam from Becca’s light, ignoring the doors and the flying objects. They were almost at the main staircase.

  Becca led the way a step ahead of Sarah.

  Without warning, she came to a halt.

  “There’s something here. I don’t think we’re alone.” There was fear in Becca’s voice.

  “Please no.” Sarah stopped next to her friend. Her voice trembled when she spoke. “What did you see?”

  “I’m not sure.” Becca lifted the cell phone, playing the light across the walls, the floor. “Something moved.”

  “There, near the stairs.” Sarah could barely make out a shape, a darker black against the dark. “I see it.”

  Becca swung the light forward. The beam slanted across the floor, the wall, and something else. She let out a scream.

  The witch stood motionless. She wore a black waistcoat and petticoat, both old and tattered. The shift that poked out around her neckline was stained and discolored.

  She had been beautiful in life, but now her face was drawn, skeletal. Her faded, brittle hair, pulled back in a tight bun, must once have been a lush dark brown. Her lips, pressed into a grim sneer, were pale and thin. But it was her eyes that filled Sarah with dread, or rather, the deep, black sockets where her eyes should have been. Despite this, Sarah knew the witch was glaring at them. She could feel the pain, the anguish, emanating from this sad figure. She could also feel the hate.

  Sarah gripped Becca’s arm. She fought the urge to run. It would do them no good. Instead, she stood her ground. “You don’t scare me.” The words were forceful, defiant. There was no way she was going to let Martha Ward terrorize her family the way she had done the previous residents of Willow Farm.

  The witch observed her with cool indifference.

  “This is my house.” Sarah took a step forward. “My family.”

  “What are you doing?” Becca held her back.

  “I’m not putting up with this any longer,” Sarah said, all the while keeping her eyes on the apparition. “I’m done with being afraid.”

  “I don’t think this is such a good idea,” Becca said.

  “I don’t care.” Sarah could feel the fear turning to anger. She shrugged off Becca’s hand, inched down the corridor. When she spoke, her voice was hard, commanding. “Get out of my house.”

  The witch lingered at the top of the stairs, her dead stare drilling into the teens, and then, as if Sarah’s words had struck a nerve, she moved.

  It was so fast the girls didn’t have time to react.

  Martha Ward flew down the corridor, arms outstretched, face contorted into a twisted mask of rage.

  The hallway lights flashed on and off, creating a strobe effect that made the advancing witch seem like she was in some old fashioned silent movie.

  The doors flew back and forth in their frames, faster and faster, the loud cracks as they slammed over and over again a cacophony of noise that hurt Sarah’s ears.

  She let out a startled cry, threw her arms up. She stumbled backwards. Somewhere behind her, Becca screamed. The flashlight bobbed around in crazy fashion, splashing over the walls and ceiling.

  The air became ice cold, as if they had stepped into a freezer. It crackled with static energy that made the hairs on Sarah’s arms stand up.

  Then, just when she thought the witch’s talons would find her, rip into her, the apparition faded as if it had never been there.

  The doors ceased their banging. The lights flickered a couple of times more, and then came back on.

  Sarah stood there, shaken and terrified.

  Becca was the first to speak. “Do you think she’s gone?”

  “I don’t know.” Sarah could feel her heart pounding, the adrenalin rushing through her. “I doubt it.”

  “I’d really like to get out of here now.”

  “Me too.” Sarah turned to her friend. “But not without my dad and Jake.”

  Chapter 80

  Andrew waited at the bottom of the stairs, praying that Becca would soon return with Sarah and Jake. His eyes were fixed upon the triangle of light from the hallway above, because he didn’t dare look into the darkness beyond. When the lights dimmed and went out his heart quickened, but still he focused on the doorway.

  It was warm again now.

  Whatever was down in the Cellar with him had left and taken the sudden chill with it, and for that he was grateful. Even so, the memory of the fleeting touch, the unseen fingers raking his flesh, made him shudder. If it came back, he was not sure he would be able to keep his sanity.

  And then, without warning, the lights came back on, the glow from the hallway a comforting companion. Less than a minute later he heard footsteps, and Becca appeared at the head of the stairs, with Sarah close behind.

  “Dad.” Sarah took the phone from Becca, started
down the stairs, the flashlight beam pushing away the darkness. “What happened? Why were you down here so late at night?”

  “I fell.” He didn’t mention the vodka bottle, hoped she didn’t smell the spilled alcohol. “The door slammed on me.”

  “I’m going to get you out of here.”

  “Thank god.” Andrew felt a flood of relief. “Where’s Jake? I don’t see him.”

  “He’s not with us.” Sarah grunted and pulled at the fallen shelf unit. She struggled to move it until Becca joined her. Together they heaved it off the steps.

  It clattered away into the gloom.

  “What do you mean, he’s not with you?” Andrew felt his chest tighten. Fear clenched his throat. “Where is he?”

  “He went to the old cow barns.” Sarah spoke the words fast, as if getting them out in a hurry would make things better. “He is dragging gasoline cans back to the house.”

  “Gas cans?” Andrew tried to stand and grimaced. He remembered Becca’s words from earlier. “Jake is responsible for the gasoline in the kitchen?”

  “Yes.” Sarah took her father’s arm and let him lean on her.

  “Why ever would he do that?”

  “He wants to burn the house down,” Sarah said as they climbed the stairs, one agonizing step at a time. “He’s convinced that Mom is talking to him on that damn telephone.”

  “Except it’s not Mrs. Whelan,” Becca said. “It’s the witch.”

  “Witch?” Andrew’s mind raced. “What are you talking about?”

  “Martha Ward. She was hung from that old tree out by the road back in the 1690’s. She’s buried in the woods behind the house.”

  “And she’s mad as hell about it,” Sarah added. “She wants revenge for what was done to her.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” said Andrew. “A ghost?”

  “So you think we’re making it up?” Sarah asked. They were near the top of the stairs now.

  “No. I don’t.” Andrew shook his head. “I think I had a run in with her. It sounds crazy, but there was someone in the cellar with me. I’m sure of it.”

  “We met her upstairs,” Sarah said. A vision of the witch’s face, the eyeless yet somehow starring sockets, sent a chill though her.