by Ania Ahlborn
Vee skidded into her room, quietly shut the door, and locked it behind her. Bounding for her mattress—which still rested on the floor—she grabbed her laptop and threw open the lid.
An email notification popped up in the right-hand corner of her screen as soon as she connected to the Internet. Subject: HELLO FROM ITALY! Vee minimized the email, not having the patience for forced niceties from her mother, and opened up her browser instead.
Searching Pier Pointe on its own didn’t bring up much, and Pier Pointe ghosts didn’t bring up anything at all.
But Pier Pointe murder was a different story.
Vee scrolled through an endless list of articles before clicking away from web search to image search instead. That was when she saw them—dated-looking photos of the house she was in now. A dark-haired guy standing in the front yard with a bunch of people. A girl with stringy blond hair smiling at the camera from beneath the floppy brim of a hat.
It’s her!
And the boy, too.
The boy with wide, saucerlike eyes who’d leered at her in the orchard before she’d heard that piercing scream.
Oh my god!
She typed the message into her phone, her fingers flying over the on-screen keyboard.
You’re never gonna believe this!
But she stopped short of hitting SEND. No, not yet. She wanted to tell Tim first, and before she told him anything, she had to investigate.
19
* * *
IT WAS LATE, nearly midnight, but Lucas continued to sit at his relic of a desk with his head in his hands. He’d checked up on Jeanie earlier, asked her if she was hungry, made a couple of turkey sandwiches, and left them in the fridge in case she decided to tear herself away from her computer and come downstairs. And then he’d shut himself up in his study the way Caroline had warned him not to, hoping to find comfort in the room’s warm tones of green and brown. He stared at a scrawled list of names, people who he may or may not be able to find, folks who either knew Jeffrey Halcomb or people who had once run in his circle. They were all soft leads, none of which offered what that mysterious and frequent prison visitor could. He had nearly called the prison to ask Josh Morales if he’d talked to Officer Eperson about Halcomb’s caller. But that was unlikely. Lucas had just been to Lambert Correctional that morning. He didn’t want to come off as demanding. Or desperate.
Up until now, he had been able to squelch his anxiety about the project with the knowledge that Jeffrey Halcomb had asked him to write this book. With Halcomb at Lucas’s disposal, the book seemed as though it could have written itself. Even Halcomb’s insane deadline seemed manageable. All Lucas had to do was ask the right questions and transcribe Halcomb’s answers. But now, with his main source inexplicably playing hard to get and time running out, Lucas felt on the verge of folding beneath his sudden lack of confidence. Jeff Halcomb hadn’t just broken his promise—he’d stolen the last of Lucas’s hope.
Book or no book, Caroline was going to leave him. He’d fight for custody, but he already knew that Caroline would use his biggest weakness against him. She’d tell the judge he didn’t make any money. The judge would then ask how Lucas expected to support a child when he could hardly do so for himself. Lucas would lose. And after a few years of seeing his kid on school breaks, Jeanie would decide visitation was a pain in the ass. She’d find a boyfriend, which would seal the deal on her not wanting to spend three months of her life on the West Coast. Suddenly, he wouldn’t know his kid anymore, his daughter opting to not hang out with a washed-up loser of a dad who didn’t understand her, who couldn’t relate, a man who had turned into some weird hermit surrounded by books about ax murderers and serial rapists while living on the rural Washington coast.
And then there was the faithful literary agent John Cormick, the steadfast optimist. He’d drop representation of Lucas in two seconds flat after hearing that the book on Halcomb was stillborn.
Sorry, Lou. We’ve had a great run, but I gotta cut you loose. Keep your head up. Best of luck.
Without putting a single word of this new project to paper, he was already defeated.
“Fuck.”
He exhaled the profanity into his palms, dragged his fingers down his face, and let his hands slap against the varnished oak. Not knowing what else to do, he stepped out of the room with his head bowed and his thoughts scrambled, only glancing up for half a second to see Jeanie’s closed bedroom door. He made a beeline for the kitchen. Rummaging through the few unpacked boxes, he located his desk-sized coffeemaker—a little four-cup job just large enough to keep him fueled. It was a crappy old thing that needed replacing, one he had bought out of frustration, each trip to the kitchen for a refill robbing him of precious momentum. That was during a time when he’d actually had momentum. Now he was simply hoping for a caffeinated jump-start. Tugging the coffeemaker out of the box by its cord, he tucked it beneath his arm, grabbed a filter from the pantry, and fished a bag of Starbucks grounds out of the refrigerator door. He all but tripped over the box he’d left in the middle of the room, just barely catching himself on the wall.
“Jesus Christ.”
He continued onward, determined to set up his coffeemaker and get to work, no matter how shitty or unmotivated he felt. Maybe, somehow, by some miracle, he could pull a rabbit out of a hat. Because if he gave up now, it wasn’t just about the book—it was everything. Caroline. Jeanie. His career.
Goddammit, he forgot the water. He turned around, climbed the two brick steps from the recessed living room into the kitchen, and stopped midstep.
There was a voice.
It was far-off. Indiscernible. Nothing but a handful of muffled underwater tones, but it was distinctly female.
Lucas froze and listened as he stood in the mouth of the kitchen. He held his breath, trying to make out where the sound had originated. His first thought was that it could have been Jeanie watching some late-night TV, but there was no television in her room. When he had glanced upstairs on his way to get coffee, her door was closed.
The voice faded as quickly as it had come, leaving Lucas to shake off the goose bumps that had crawled across his skin.
Just my imagination. After all, houses had a tendency to unnerve new tenants, and this one had an especially good reason to creep someone out. Except what about the shadow figure he had thought he’d seen in the corner of the kitchen minutes after he’d first stepped into the house? Had that been more of his runaway creativity? It seemed to him that this house was making him jumpy as hell. If anything, it should have been sparking some literary artistry. But instead, it was just making him feel like he was losing his mind.
He stepped into the kitchen, still listening for what he swore he had heard—you didn’t hear a damn thing, Lou—and stuck the small glass coffee pitcher beneath the faucet. That was when he saw her; a blond-haired woman running through the cherry orchard. It seemed as though someone was chasing her. She looked panicked, half tripping over her feet as she darted between the trees.
Lucas’s heart sputtered. He squinted, struggling to see past his own reflection in the window above the sink. She moved out of sight before he could get his bearings, leaving him to stare at rows upon rows of trees glowing silver in the moonlight. A moment later, he saw a flash of two or three others, tailing her like pale streamers tied to her feet.
“What the hell . . . ?”
He left his pitcher of water on the counter, unlocked the door that led out onto the back patio, and stepped outside.
“Hello? Is somebody there?”
He had seen that sort of panic before, had spotted it on the face of a woman who had run up the platform stairs just in time to miss the number 7 train. Jeanie had been fussy that night, which was why they had left the party they were attending early to head home. Caroline was busy taking care of their toddler while Lucas stared out the train’s scratched-up safety glass, his head still fuz
zy from all the wine he’d drunk. A woman had come up onto the platform, just missing the train. A hooded figure appeared at the top of the stairs behind her. The woman’s eyes went wide, as if seeing her own fate approach. She held up her hands, fending the figure off. It was the last thing Lucas saw before the train screamed down the rails, nixing prey and predator from view.
Lucas had scoured for news of a subway station assault for weeks. Haunted by the fact that he may have been the last person to see the woman alive, he struggled with the idea that she was somebody’s little girl, someone’s Virginia. It had taken him months to shake her ghost. Now, the familiar dread was back.
Halcomb’s neo-followers—the new generation who, according to Josh Morales, took the time to write Halcomb prison letters on the regular—could easily be prowling the woods. Copycats looking to sacrifice a pretty blonde on the cult leader’s long-abandoned stomping grounds. The more Lucas considered the possibility of eccentrics hanging around the area, the more likely it seemed. He hadn’t spotted any markings on the property suggestive of such visits, but anything was possible. Some people traveled the country to check out haunted spots. Others drove thousands of miles just to get a look at crime scenes that were long since cleaned up. If people were dedicated enough to write to Halcomb thirty years after his crimes, how much of a stretch could it be for some nut job to visit the infamous house on Montlake Road?
“Is anybody out here?”
He looked into the darkness, but the night was still. All he could hear was the dull roar of the ocean a quarter of a mile away, the constant whoosh of water ebbing away from the shore.
Left with no other choice than to let it go, he turned back toward the house, nearly choking on his own heartbeat when he found Jeanie standing in the open kitchen door.
“Jesus, you scared me.” He exhaled a dry laugh, trying to steady his pulse. But his daughter’s dark expression didn’t offer much consolation. The shadows that cut across her face made her look severe. Her bruised eye gave her a skeletal appearance, like a death mask waiting to smile.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked.
“Just getting some air.”
She jumped onto the tail end of his lie as soon as it left his throat. “Did you see somebody?”
“What? No.” The last thing Lucas needed was Jeanie worrying about people creeping through the trees.
“Dad.” She stood steadfast in the doorway. Her arms coiled defensively across her chest. “I know.”
Every muscle in his body tensed. For a split second, he tried to assure himself that what she was referring to had nothing to do with the house. But he could see it in her eyes—fresh enlightenment, the spark of a riddle that had suddenly come clear.
“What?” It was the only word he could squeeze out of his throat, a single syllable heavy with the hope that he was wrong.
“I know what happened here.”
Lucas’s face flushed hot. “I don’t . . .”
. . . don’t know what you mean.
“Dad.” She looked him square in the face, not in the mood for games. “I read all about it online. I know what this place is.”
INVESTIGATION REPORT
Puget Sound Paranormal Group
CASE FILE: PPW101
DATE: January 6, 1989
RESIDENTS: Hailey and Robert Yates, Trisha Yates
COMPLAINT: Possible poltergeist activity. Items moving. Apparitions spotted outside by T. Yates, particularly in the backyard.
REPORTED PHYSICAL INCIDENTS: None
INVESTIGATION: Investigators Jesse Stern and Caleb Morrow conducted thorough tests, including three one-hour electronic voice phenomenon sessions, temperature readings, and electromagnetic field tests. There was a significant spike in EMF readings in the cherry orchard behind the home, as well as in the living room. Possible electrical problem in the home causing EMF spikes. Results were inconclusive. No EVPs. Temps were steady. No eyewitness accounts of items being moved as reported.
SUGGESTED ACTION: House cleansing for the residents’ peace of mind; however, PSPG does not believe this property to be haunted.
SUGGESTED FOLLOW-UP: None
20
* * *
Monday, February 22, 1982
One Year, Two Weeks, and Six Days Before the Sacrament
THAT MORNING, THE rain clouds allowed the sun to touch the earth for the first time that year. Jeffrey and his family were quick to take advantage of the weather, racing against another rainfall as they gathered in the cherry orchard behind the house to worship the sun.
Avis was not invited.
Left to sip her morning coffee inside the house, she spied on the group through the kitchen window as they sat in a loose circle among the wild grass and trees, chanting something back and forth as if in song, laughing among each other. They raised their hands to the heavens, swaying back and forth like a bunch of earth-loving hippies. She supposed they had left her out because she wasn’t truly a part of the group yet. Whatever they were doing out there, it was a family matter, but her exclusion nagged her regardless. Jeff had taken her into his arms and asked her to promise herself to the group; when she had, things had changed even more.
The girls cleaned out the master bedroom closet and transferred Avis’s old clothes to one of the smaller rooms down the hall—clothes that, now, everyone shared. Nobody owned any one item. Everything was communal.
Jeffrey was granted the largest room in the house, while the remaining two bedrooms were allotted accordingly: one for the boys, and one for the girls. Nobody slept downstairs despite the extra space. When Avis had suggested she sleep on the couch to give the girls more room, Deacon explained that the luxury of space and privacy was reserved for those who did not have enough room in their heart for others. He equated cramped quarters with how close Avis allowed the others to come, how open she was to being part of Jeffrey’s clan. And so they all slept together on the tiny twin guest bed and on blankets they’d spread onto the floor, while Jeff indulged in the space and privacy he denied his loved ones.
Gypsy continued to burn her incense. The sweet-scented smoke was now regulated to the master bedroom, purging Jeff’s personal space of any darkness that may have tarnished his purity while he slept. Clover cut fresh boughs of pine and arranged them in a vase on his bedside table, then smeared sap onto her fingers and pulled her digits across the windowsills and his door.
The pine tree symbolizes love and birth, she had explained while Avis watched her baptize the room. It’s why we decorate pine trees on Christmas. It’s a symbol of Jesus’s birth, of enlightenment. The pine needles ward off evil spirits and negativity.
Avis found it amazing to see so many people dedicating themselves to loving one person. When Jeffrey caught her arranging pine branches on the entryway table in the foyer, he captured her face between his palms and pressed her mouth to his. Love for love, Avis had thought. If I love them with my whole heart, this can last forever.
And yet, only a few days later, she found herself on the opposite side of the glass, exiled for a reason she couldn’t fathom. Why had they left her out? It felt like, within the handful of days that her new family had come into her life, she’d given them everything—her trust, her home, her long-standing routine. The drastic change had been immediate. One morning, she woke to the silence of an empty house, made coffee, and watched her reruns with Shadow snoring beside her on the couch. The next day, the place was bustling with unfamiliar voices and filled with exotic scents. The record player replaced the television. There was no time for lounging on the sofa. Maggie stopped checking up on her the way she used to, and when she did come over, she spent more time with the group than she did with Avis. Within the whisper of a single week, she’d gone from Audra Snow to Avis Collective. Avis Togetherness. Avis One-For-All.
But it wasn’t enough.
She turned away
from the window, her stomach sour with burned coffee, her tongue fuzzy with its heat. Maybe this was a mistake. The voice in her head was familiar—it was the one used to getting its way. Worthless, it said. They’ve figured out you’re a waste of time. Just a big fat zero living in her daddy’s house, a sad, insignificant nothing that can’t offer them anything but a roof that doesn’t even belong to her. She narrowed her eyes as self-deprecating insults coiled noxiously around her heart. Perhaps that voice was right. She was stupid to have thought someone like Jeff would see something special in her. Because how can a person see uniqueness when it doesn’t exist?
Abandoning her coffee cup on the kitchen counter, she drifted through the empty living room. The silence she had so wholeheartedly loved was now disquieting, reminiscent of some sort of ill-favored doom. The cynic inside Avis urged her to open a window, to yell out at them to get their things and get lost. Forget it! I’ve made a terrible mistake! Get off my property, now! But the weight of that silence kept that defeatism pinned down beneath her newfound hope. Her father had always told her good things don’t come easy. Perhaps she wasn’t trying hard enough. Maybe this was one of those things you had to fight for, dignity be damned.
She plucked a dirty shirt off the back of the couch, climbed the stairs, and began cleaning the rooms. Folding blankets that were strewn across the floor, she stacked them one on top of the other in rainbow-colored piles. She pulled back curtains and opened windows, letting the rooms breathe with sunshine and the scent of moist earth. Stepping into the room that had once been hers, she surveyed the new living quarters of the man that had her smitten. Her hand drifted across her old bed, her mind tumbling over thoughts sensuous enough to make her blush. By the time she had the window open and the bed made, the sound of voices cut through the quiet of the ground floor, but Avis refused to falter. She continued her work in earnest, reminding herself that if she only proved her worth, they would gift her with the thing she wanted most: inclusion.