by Amy Cross
Silence.
I race up, convinced that there has to be some kind of explanation for this. He's here. He's in the house, and he saw me. I don't know how that could have happened, but I didn't imagine his face just now.
“Dad! Dad, I'm here! Dad, where are you?”
Five
“It's not a ghost,” Greta says as she stands in the hallway, looking up the stairs. She hesitates for a moment, before turning to me with a hint of fear in her eyes. “You have to understand that. The thing that lives in this house... It's definitely not a ghost.”
I swing the door shut as the storm continues to rage outside in the dark yard.
“Why did you have to stay?” she continues. “I told you to leave. I thought you had a little more time before it'd start making its presence felt, but still, you should have listened to me!”
Looking down at my right hand, I see that I'm still holding her business card.
“Have you seen it?” she asks.
I glance back at her. I swear, I feel too shocked and nervous to even say a word.
“Have you seen it, Paula?” she asks again. “This is important. Or have you only felt its presence?”
“I saw him,” I stammer, as a shudder passes through my chest. “I saw my father. He was in the dining room, staring straight at me.”
She shakes her head.
“I saw him!” I say firmly.
“You saw something, but it wasn't your father.”
She pauses, before rubbing her hands together and blowing into them.
“It's so cold in here,” she continues. “Your father always kept the house nice and warm.”
“I can put more wood in,” I reply, slipping past her and heading into the next room, before stopping as I see that there's a fresh bag of wood right next to the oven. When I left this room just half an hour ago, I was almost out of wood.
“What's wrong?” Greta asks.
“Nothing,” I reply, heading to the bag and taking some wood out. My hands are trembling, but I'm starting to wonder whether it was a bad idea to call Greta over here. As I put wood into the oven, I can tell that she's watching my every move.
“It's called a Witcharoo,” she says suddenly.
I turn to her. “What is?”
“The thing that lives in this house.” The oven's light is flickering across her face. “The thing that has lived in this house for a long, long time. Since before your father ever moved here, for sure. Since the house was built.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Ghosts are real,” she continues, “but very rare. The vast majority of departed souls simply... depart. Where they go, I don't claim to know. Most supposed ghost sightings... Not all, but most, are actually cases of Witcharoo encounters.” She pauses, and then a faint smile crosses her lips. “Oh, you're looking at me as if I'm speaking the most awful nonsense,” she adds, stepping over to Dad's favorite armchair. “Do you mind if I sit?”
“Go ahead.”
She sits in the chair, and then for a moment she looks toward the ceiling as if she expects to hear something.
“People have been talking about this house for decades,” she continues finally. “About the Witcharoo that lives here. There are people who study this kind of thing. My parents knew all about them, and they taught me. When a house happens to be built around a Witcharoo, nothing can be done to drive the creature out. Witcharoos never leave, not ever. They can occasionally reach out beyond the house, if they really need to influence something far away, but basically they stay put. Even if the house is destroyed in some way, the Witcharoo remains on the land. They're utterly, utterly impossible to get rid of.”
She looks at the ceiling for a moment longer, before turning to me.
“They're mimics, at heart,” she continues. “They're a type of spirit. They don't like to be lonely. Well, who does? They like a house to be lived in, but sometimes their -”
Suddenly there's a brief, loud bang from upstairs, as if a door was slammed shut.
“They don't like to be talked about, either,” Greta mutters. “Witcharoos are natural mimics. They mimic the dead. The Witcharoo in this house would have mostly stayed undetected while your father lived here. Your father bought the house, remember. He didn't inherit it. So he didn't know the people who lived here before, which means the Witcharoo would usually understand that there's no point mimicking anyone. But now you're here, and the Witcharoo understands that you're Roger's daughter, so it's putting its talents to work. I suppose it can't help itself. Appearance, voice, smell, habit... As I said, a Witcharoo can be a very convincing mimic.”
“I saw my father's face,” I tell her. “I might even have heard his voice. And I smelled his cologne.”
“The Witcharoo knows you're planning to leave,” she explains. “It wants you to stay. That's why it's mimicking your father.”
I open my mouth to reply, but I can't quite get the words out.
“It's impossible?” Greta asks, as the smile returns to her lips. “Is that what you were about to say? Do you think such a thing couldn't possibly exist without being better known?”
“It's crazy,” I point out. “If these things were real, these Witcharoo things, then why would the only people who know about them be...”
My voice trails off.
“Nutty old ladies?” she asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “You make a good point, but Witcharoos have no bodies of their own, so there's nothing to grab hold of and show to people. Nothing to cut up, nothing to eat or skin for fur. Nothing to make money from. They also tend to get mistaken for ghosts a lot, and in most cases ghosts are fairly easy to disprove. Witcharoos also know when to hold back, when to -”
She flinches as another door slams upstairs.
“That's a warning,” she adds.
“A warning?”
“It wants me to shut up,” she continues. “As I mentioned, they hate being alone. But they hate being talked about more. It's worried you'll be scared off, and that it'll be left by itself in the house.”
I look up toward the ceiling, trying to imagine some kind of thing being up there.
I can't.
This has to be nonsense.
“It wants you to stay,” Greta adds after a moment. “That's all. So long as they're not lonely, Witcharoos are perfectly harmless. They can be utterly vicious if they're threatened, or if they think they're going to be abandoned, but otherwise they're rather placid creatures. There are accounts of people living quite happily with one in the house, never really minding them at all. Most Witcharoos even drop the mimicry altogether after a while, and just settle into the background, content to have a little company. Others like to offer occasional, subtle reminder of their presence. A whiff of a familiar cologne. The sense of someone in the room. No more than that. They only -”
Before she can finish, there's another loud bump, this time coming from the stairs.
“Oh, you don't like me, do you?” Greta continues with a smile, turning and looking toward the hallway. “You want me to keep my big trap shut.”
“Do you have proof?” I ask.
She turns back to me.
“If you're making these claims,” I add, “you must have proof.”
“There are books about them,” she replies. “Accounts of living with them, or of investigating them. But these aren't the kind of books you'll find on Amazon or at the local library. Not all discoveries are meant to be shouted from the rooftops. Some are better kept under wraps.”
“But -”
“All you need to understand,” she adds, leaning forward in the chair, “is that you should leave this house.”
“Why are -”
Suddenly there's another bang, and I turn just in time to see that the banister is shaking slightly, as if it was struck.
“You don't want to live the rest of your life in this house,” Greta continues. “You're young, smart, pretty... You have your whole life ahead of you, but living with a Witcha
roo can make a person rather complacent. People who have a Witcharoo in the house often retreat from the world and become reclusive. They start thinking differently, just in subtle ways that make them more likely to stay home. They no longer need to seek out friends and family, because they have this background hum in their life, a sense of having something nearby when even -”
She flinches as there's another bang, this time from within the room.
We both turn and look over at the doorway, and sure enough the frame is rattling slightly.
“I should leave soon,” Greta says, with a hint of fear in her voice. “I'm persona non grata in this house now, since I've been rather -”
Before she can say another word, an old vase topples off the windowsill and crashes to the floor, shattering as it lands on the floorboards.
“I think that's my cue,” Greta continues, wincing slightly as she hauls herself up from the creaking chair. “It's alright!” she calls out. “I'm going now! I've said my bit and I have no intention of pressing my point further!” She turns to me. “I've told you what I know. I hope you'll make the right decision, and leave tonight, but I can't force you. You have to decide for yourself.”
She shuffles toward the hallway, but I still can't help thinking that all this Witcharoo talk is a load of old rural nonsense. Following her to the front door, I want to tell her that I don't believe a word she's just told me, but at the same time I can't deny that there have been some strange sounds in the house over the past few minutes.
“Would my father have known about this thing?” I ask.
She opens the door and steps out onto the porch, as the snowstorm continues to swirl outside. Turning to me, she hesitates for a moment.
“You must have noticed him withdrawing from the world,” she points out. “Once he moved to this house, didn't you see that he was more solitary?”
“I thought that was just him getting old,” I tell her.
“You'll be safe here,” she continues. “At least, the Witcharoo won't hurt you, not physically. But you'll end up like your father if you stay. You'll sink into isolation. Please, Paula, don't let that happen. Go home to New York and -”
Suddenly I hear a bumping sound over my shoulder. Before I can turn and see what's wrong, a vase from the hallway table flies through the air, missing me by inches and slamming into Greta. She raises her hands just in time, keeping the vase from hitting her face, and we both look down as it smashes against the steps.
“I should go!” she says, hurrying down the steps and then heading straight for her sled. “I very much hope that you'll leave this place, Paula. The Witcharoo can only work slowly, but over time it'll lull you into a sense of security. Please, don't let that happen.”
With that, she heads off into the storm, leaving me standing in the doorway and watching until she disappears from view. I hesitate for a moment, before turning and swinging the door shut, and then I stand in the hallway and listen to the silence of the house.
“Hello?” I call out.
Nothing.
“Are you here?” I ask. “Witcharoo? Are you here right now?”
I wait.
Finally, I allow myself a faint smile.
For a moment there, just a moment, I actually let Greta's rambling claims get into my mind. I so nearly started to believe all that nonsense, but now she's gone and I quickly tell myself that she's just some crazy old woman. In fact, she seems so dedicated to her claims, I wouldn't be surprised if she set up those bumps and flying vases with wires, although I don't find any evidence when I check the hallway table.
If these Witcharoo things existed, they'd be common knowledge, not the preserve of mad old ladies living in the middle of nowhere.
And yet, the following morning, the first thing I see when I get up is a set of flashing blue lights about a quarter-mile from the house.
Six
“Is something wrong?” I ask, winding down my car's window as I slow on the road.
Officer Michaels is over by his patrol car, but he comes and leans down to me as several other officers work to pull something from one of the snow-drifts.
“There's been an accident,” he explains. “One of the locals. God knows what she was doing out here in the middle of the storm, but someone came by this way a few hours ago and spotted her.”
I open my mouth to ask what he means, but suddenly I spot a familiar-looking sled abandoned by the side of the road. A moment later, I watch as the officers start lifting a body from the snow. The arms and legs are frozen stiff, but suddenly the face comes into view and I'm shocked to see Greta's bloodied features. Her eyes are open wide, and her mouth is frozen in a scream.
“Did you know her?” Officer Michaels asks. “Yours is the nearest house, so I was going to come by later and check. She wasn't visiting you last night, was she?”
I watch as the frozen body is placed on a piece of tarpaulin, and then thankfully a sheet is placed over her, hiding her face.
“Ms. Lawson?”
Turning, I realize I didn't answer the question.
“No,” I lie, surprising myself. Why am I not being honest with him? “I'm sorry, I've never seen her before in my life. Do you know what she died of?”
“Exposure, maybe. The temperatures were low enough last night.”
“It looks like she had some scratches on her face,” I point out.
“Probably from when she fell,” he replies. “I'm sorry, I really shouldn't go into detail. I guess maybe we'll never know what she was doing out here all by herself, so late at night. Then again, she was known in the area for being kind of a strange one. Always filled with crazy ideas. She was probably out chasing shadows. There's no next-of-kin, at least not that we're aware of.” He sighs as he takes a step back. “Heading into town?”
“Just to get some supplies.”
“Are you going to be staying at the house much longer?”
“Just a few more days,” I tell him, as I put the car into gear. At the same time, I can't help glancing at the tarpaulin one more time. “I'll be gone soon,” I add. “I just need a day or two more at the house. Or a week, maybe.”
***
By the time I've been into town and bought some food, and driven all the way back to the house, I've begun to put the horrific image out of my mind. When I pass the accident spot again, the police have already left, although I can see a gap in the snowdrift where Greta's body was pulled out. I slow as I pass the site, but I tell myself that the whole thing must simply have been a tragic accident.
And then, when I get back to the house, I see that all the lights are on inside, and that someone has kept the wood-burner going while I was out.
Pushing the door shut, I wait for a moment, but the only sound comes from the roaring flames in the oven. For the first time since I arrived the other day, the house feels properly warm and lived-in. In fact, it's the way I remember it being when I used to come and visit Dad. He might have been something of a loner in his final years, but he always made sure that the house was friendly and welcoming. As I carry my bags of groceries to the kitchen, I can't help feeling a flicker of relief as I realize that the house really seems to have recovered from being left empty for so long.
I set the bags down and start sorting through them.
And then I freeze, as I realize that someone is right behind me.
I don't dare turn, not yet, but I'm absolutely certain that there's a figure standing just a foot or so away, watching my every move. I look at the window, hoping to see a reflection, but the glare of the snow outside is too bright. For a moment, I consider turning and looking straight at the figure, although I quickly tell myself that I'm not ready to see Dad's face. Not yet. Then again, maybe it's not Dad, maybe it's -
Suddenly I hear a faint shuffling sound.
I turn, instinctively, but in the blink of an eye the sensation disappears.
I'm alone in the kitchen.
My heart is pounding, though, and a moment later I look through into
the front room and see that there's more wood next to the fire. Stepping over to the back door, I peer out and spot several more bags that have been hauled from the woodshed. That was a job I'd been planning to get on with later, but apparently someone did it for me while I was out. I know I locked all the doors and windows before I drove into town, and I'm certain that no-one else has a key to the place, but I keep seeing little signs that someone has been helping me out.
I open my mouth, ready to call and check whether anyone's here, but at the last moment I hold back.
Dougie?
Could Dougie have showed up?
I head back to the hallway, but still all I hear is silence.
“Dougie?” I call out finally. “Karen? Are you guys here?”
Grabbing my phone, I bring up my brother's number and try to call him, but I'm put straight through to voicemail. I try Karen, with the same result.
There's no-one here.
Of course there's not. I'm just letting Greta's crazy ideas get to me. She was very convincing, but that doesn't mean I have to become some kind of credulous idiot. I'm definitely not the kind of person who believes in ghosts and ghouls and things that go bump in the night.
This is just a house.
An old, empty house, and I'm rattling around all alone in here.
Heading back into the kitchen, I get on with the job of unpacking my groceries. As I do so, I can't help wondering whether I bought enough. After all, I think I might be here a little longer than I originally planned. Maybe even a week, or a week and a half. Or two weeks. A month at most.
I could stay until the new year, and then see how things are going.
Once I've packed everything away, I make a cup of tea and take it to the front room, and finally I settle in Dad's favorite chair. The fire is roaring, and for a moment I feel as if all my work with the boxes can wait. Closing my eyes, I lean back in the chair and feel the fire's warmth against my face, and I start daydreaming about how I could live here and work from home and never have to go back to the craziness of the city. After all, I have some savings, and I've always wanted to set myself up as a freelancer. All I'd need would be a decent internet connection, and I could be my own boss. I could even start growing some stuff in the garden, enough to minimize my trips into town. After a while, I could be completely self-sufficient.