“Yeah.” She rubbed her hands down her denim shorts—her palms were sweaty. “Who are you?”
“Lizabeth.” The girl moved down to the bottom stair. “What are you doing here?”
Becca shrugged. “Didn’t have anything else to do after school.” She took a couple steps back toward her bike. “How’d you know who I am?”
Lizabeth took her turn to shrug. “Wanna come in and play?”
Chewing her lip, Becca scanned up the house to the top right turret. The window was open—she hadn’t noticed that before—and the breeze had drawn a curtain outside in airy billows. “I dunno.”
When she glanced back down, the girl stood within arm’s reach in front of her. Becca jumped. “God,” she said. “Don’t you make any noise?”
“You’re not supposed to swear,” she said. She twisted her foot, in knee-high white stocking and blue saddle shoe, in the grass. “It’s not acceptable in the house.”
“Not in mine either,” Becca confessed. “Is that your room up there?”
“Yeah.” The girl turned and looked up at it. “Wanna see it? We could see the ocean from it.”
Becca looked back at her bike.
“It’ll be fine,” Lizabeth assured her. “No one else comes out here.”
“Okay.” Becca followed the girl up the porch steps and into the house. The screen door, with its heavy bars, slammed shut behind them.
***
September 2013
Henry Gustafson shifted his weight back and forth on his scuffed loafers. The warmth of the pie pan had grown uncomfortable—he should have let it cool for another ten minutes—but the sweet aroma of apples and cinnamon floated up, and who didn’t like warm pie?
He cleared his throat and pushed the aged, yellowing doorbell, its chimes ringing through the house.
The new folks had spiffed up the place, that was for sure. Flowerpots hung in a long row off the railings, and a sign in bright green wooden letters read “The Hunters” over the steps onto the porch. They’d even put out a swing. He’d seen the missus on it a few times in the evenings when he walked Bruno.
A basset hound in the prime of life, Bruno sat next to him, mournful gaze turned toward the pie. His tail thumped dutifully on the wood, and the leash was slack, loosely held in Henry’s wrinkled hand.
The front door swung open. Mrs. Hunter was a young looker for middle age—they had two kids, sixteen and ten, and she didn’t look out of her thirties. Brown hair tied back in a bun, tee shirt, jeans. “Can I help you?” Her smile seemed genuine.
“Hi there, young lady. Is your mother home?” He grinned at her, waggling his scruffy gray eyebrows.
She frowned, but hastily covered it with a smirk. “I’m Mrs. Hunter.”
“Pshaw!” he said. “I’m Henry Gustafson. I live down the street.” He held up the pie. “Me and Bruno wanted to come by and welcome you to the neighborhood.”
“Oh!” She clicked the lock on the screen door and pushed it open. “Come on in.”
He followed her, Bruno in tow though the dog didn’t much like it, through the hall with an old grandfather clock and into the kitchen. They’d started a lot of work in there, too. New curtains blew in the breeze from the window over the sink. Some of the wallpaper had been stripped from the walls. They’d set up a breakfast table in the alcove. The windows were open, letting in a slightly chilly wind. He set the pie on the counter near the stove. “I hope you like apple.”
“Love it. So do the kids. I’m Bev, by the way.” She held out her hand and he shook it. “Would you like some iced tea? It’s not sweet, I’m afraid.”
“Unsweet is fine,” he said and took a seat where he could watch the surf from the window. “This house always had such a fine view.”
“I know,” she said as she got out the glasses and poured. “I thought we got it for an incredibly low price. Such a steal.” She brought the glasses to the table and sat down. “Let me guess, it’s got some sort of sordid history.”
Henry laughed and took a sip. “The house was built in the early 1900s. I can’t imagine there isn’t something sordid about it. It’s had its fair share of owners and been empty since 2007. Sad, really. Such a waste.” He scratched Bruno on the head, and the dog whined softly. He sat rigid, tail straight out behind him, ears slightly perked. Alert for a basset hound.
“He’s a sweetie. Bruno, you said?” She reached out and scratched his ears, which Bruno accepted without comment.
Henry grunted. “He’s a sack of skin and wrinkles,” he said, but he smiled. “Good company now that I’m without Melody.”
Bev wrinkled her brow. “I’m sorry. You’re a widower?”
“Five years since,” he said, offering a small smile. “She’d have been the one here delivering the pie.”
“Oh.” Her voice turned soft. “We lost Tom, my husband, about six months ago. Car accident. That’s why we moved.” She stopped and swallowed hard. “New start,” she said, a forced smile matching his own.
He cupped his glass of tea. His stomach flipped as he watched her hold back her tears. “I’m so sorry.” His gaze was drawn to the window as two young women came up the dune toward the house. Becca Claymore and a girl he didn’t know—Bev’s girl, probably. They were chatting, laughing, their voices carried in with the breeze.
“Wanna come in for a bit?” Bev’s girl asked. “Mom’ll fix us a snack.”
“Nah, thanks.” Becca’s smile was brittle. “I’ve gotta get home. We’re doing Saturday family game night.” Her laugh was shaky, uncertain. Her gaze flicked to the house and she grabbed her bike from where it leaned against the steps to the porch. Becca's hands were trembling, and his eyes were drawn to the thin scar that ran in a long line from collarbone to collarbone. It brought everything back.
They had been sitting on the porch that night, Melody drinking the sweet tea she so loved, when Becca had come into sight, bloody and wild-eyed, screaming as she sprinted away from the old Victorian house. Henry and Melody had hurried from their porch, and she’d run to them, flung herself into his arms, and sobbed. “She said she wanted to play,” she’d cried. “She said we could see the beach from her room.” She’d only talked about what happened that night once after that, at Melody’s funeral. “Mr. Gustafson,” she’d said, “I’m sorry about your wife. But I know it won’t make you feel better.” He told her that it was considerate to say. She shook her head like she didn’t believe him. “When Lizabeth said it to me—when she said she was sorry, before”— she bit her lip and rubbed her hands up and down her arms—“it was just to make her feel better.” She had given him a hug then, and he’d clung to her a few seconds longer.
“Mr. Gustafson?” Bev said.
“What?” He focused on the woman, her daughter standing next to her. “Sorry. Product of being an old man. You get lost in your own daydreams.” He scanned the beach outside the house. Becca was long gone. “You must be Miss Hunter,” he said, extending his hand to the girl.
“Lily,” she said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for the pie.”
“My pleasure,” he said. He grabbed his drink and finished the tea in a long gulp. “I’m happy to welcome you to Cherry Hill.” His stomach churned as he said the words. Next to him, Bruno gave a short woof. “See?” he said. “Bruno agrees.” He stood up. “Thank you for the tea, Bev.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Do you have to go? I’m sure Sammy would love to meet you. He’s out riding his bike and will be home soon.”
He curled the leash around his hand a few times. He scanned the windows and glanced at the ceiling—but there was nothing but a fresh coat of paint. He fought the urge to spin around and look behind him. “No,” he said. “I’ve got to get Bruno home. He likely needs to do his business, and he doesn’t need to do it in your house.”
Lily knelt down and caught the dog’s face in her hands. “Y
ou wouldn’t do that, would you?” Bruno whined and cowered down, brown eyes turned up at Henry. She stood up, giving Bruno one more pat on the head. “Thanks again for the pie.” She turned toward her mother. “I’m going to go take a shower, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, she strode out of the room and up the stairs. Long legs, taut skin, shining hair. Perfect.
“She’s sixteen?” Henry asked.
“Yes.” Bev rolled her eyes. “Almost grown up, and she thinks she knows everything. But she’s a good kid.” She smiled fondly, staring after the girl. “And I think she’s settling in and making friends.”
“Good. Becca’s a good girl, too. She’ll be a good friend. I’ve known her family a long time.” He took a few steps and tugged the leash. That was all Bruno needed and he bolted for the door. Henry opened it, and the screen door, tugging at the leash to keep Bruno from running down the stairs. “Thanks for the tea.” On the wall of the staircase leading up to the second floor, the family had hung their pictures. At the bottom was the most recent family photo. Bev, Lily, Sammy, and Tom—in his priest’s collar. He turned back to Bev. “Your husband was a priest?”
She nodded.“Episcopal Church.”
“Huh.” He held out his hand to her and she took it. He squeezed it gently in his own before letting go. “I’m glad you’ve moved here,” he said. “It’s great to have some good people in the house.” He let Bruno lead him down the porch steps and out to the street.
He turned. Bev had already shut the door. The fall breeze blew through, carrying the crisp scent of the Atlantic with it. A few clouds were rolling in, suggesting that tonight might bring rain. In the window of the living room, peeking out from behind the curtains, was a young girl with a blue barrette in her hair. She was frowning.
Henry started—he’d only seen her once before—the night Melody had died. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, she was gone. He turned from the house, but she stood in front him, between him and the edge of the property. Bruno yelped and tore away, ripping the leash from Henry’s hand and sprinting up the street. “Bruno!” Henry called.
He sidestepped Lizabeth, but she caught his hand. “My house,” she said, her grip freezing and burning, “doesn’t like you, or Bruno, anymore.”
He yanked his hand, and she let go. He stared at her for a moment and hurried after Bruno.
***
Halloween 2013
Beau eased the throttle on his Harley and cut the power, letting the engine die. He pulled his helmet off and set it on the bike, shoving his overlong bangs back out of his face, toward his ponytail. Settling the kickstand into place, he scanned the yard at the Hunters’ house. The handful of elm, white oak, and red maple among the pines lining the south edge of the property had flamed into color and then shed themselves onto the front lawn.
Bev, clad in jeans and a long-sleeved blue tee shirt, and Sammy were raking. Or Bev was raking and Sammy holding a large, black bag as his mom stuffed it full of dead leaves. The house itself was prepped for the evening’s festivities. A scarecrow—more cute than frightening—lounged in the swing on the front porch, bucket in his lap, no doubt to be filled with treats. They’d even planted a few fake gravestones in the front lawn and decked the lintel with fake spider webs.
“Leave ’em,” Beau called cheerfully. “They give the gravestones atmosphere!”
Bev rubbed the back of her gloved hand across her forehead. “You think?” She leaned lightly on her rake. The breeze blew a few strands of her brown bun loose and around her face.
Sammy set down the bag, which was only slightly smaller than he was. He was average height for his age, but thin, like his mom, who leaned more to wiry than svelte, though she was clearly strong.
Beau eased off his leather jacket and laid it over the seat of his bike. The breeze was cool, and his black tee shirt let it through. He headed up the small bank to the main lawn and held out his hand. “Beau,” he said. “We’ve spoken a few times on the phone. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get over here.”
“Bev.” She gripped Beau’s hand firmly. The confidence and strength of a single mom, even in the presence of a guy who outsized her by at least eight inches and over a hundred pounds. “Thanks for getting the house ready for us.”
“No problem. I’ve been helping LJ with stuff since we were kids.” He turned to Sam. “You like it here so far?”
“Love it.” He grinned. “I could watch the waves forever.”
“We both could,” she said, giving him a tight smile.
He doubted that feeling would last through Christmas, but he nodded and smiled anyway. “Nice Halloween décor. I wouldn’t have pegged a pastor’s widow for this kind of celebration.”
“I see word’s gotten around.” Bev’s body stiffened, her easy smile shrinking to a line. “I’ve always loved the holiday. And this place makes a perfect haunted house.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up...” Beau frowned. “I’m always shoving my foot in my mouth.” He nodded toward the porch. “Love the scarecrow.”
“I love making stuff like that.” She turned to look at it. “I used to spiff up houses a lot when I was in real estate.” She pushed a few more leaves around with her rake. “I’m looking to get back into it here, if I can.”
“LJ might be able to help. I came by to see if you needed anything.” Beau jerked his chin toward the house. “The old place can be quite a bit of work. But if you know houses, you probably don’t need it.”
“We did have one question.” She pointed to the unit to the side of the house. “We have central heat and AC, but there’s a boiler in the basement. Why?”
“Left over,” Beau said. “It was sometime in the eighties that the owners had the house converted to central, and I think getting rid of the old boiler was too much of a bother. Want me to take a look and see what it would be like to try and get it out of there?”
“Do you mind?” Bev said. “I’m a new-fangled girl.” She grinned. “I’ve never dealt with a boiler before.”
“Well, this is a hell of a first start,” Beau said, quickly adding, “excuse my language,” as he glanced at Sammy, who laughed.
Bev led Beau into the house, leaving her rake on the front porch. He dutifully followed as if he didn’t know the way—as if he didn’t remember everything about each step, each floorboard, each panel and window. The third porch step creaked under his foot; same with the second floorboard into the house.
“Come summer next, or maybe spring,” Bev said, “I think we’re going to get a new screen door.” She held it open for both Beau and his son. “This is just so heavy.”
“Yeah,” Beau said as the door slammed despite Bev’s efforts to ease it shut.
“Wow,” Beau said.
The inside of the house had been entirely redone. The wallpaper from two families ago—the huge rose pattern—had been stripped away, and the walls were now painted in a gentle, pale blue. The heavy curtains were gone, with light and airy sheers and blinds instead, currently up to let sunlight pour in. The furniture was simple, too. Family portraits dotted the walls. The room was awash in light. Beau drew in a deep breath, waiting for the darkness to creep in under the sweetness. All he sensed was the aroma of apple cider from the kitchen.
“This is amazing!” he said.
The floors and banister, stripped of years of polish and refinished, gleamed. He took two steps up the staircase. The wood railings had been refinished all the way up. “You’ve made some great changes.”
Bev grinned. “Thanks. You want to see the upstairs before we head down?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. At the top of the stairs, Lizabeth looked down at him, a smile on her face. She waved at him and mouthed Hi, Beau. “No,” he repeated. “It’s okay.” As far as he knew, Lizabeth never went down to the basement.
“All right,” Bev said. “Basem
ent it is.”
“Mom, can I go to my room?” Sam asked, that touch of ten-year-old whining in his voice.
“You don’t want to see the boiler?” His mother gave a put-upon sigh and rolled her eyes. “Go on. Go work on your costume for tonight.”
Sammy nodded and scooted past Beau. “Nice to meet you,” he said, and darted up the stairs. Lizabeth was nowhere to be seen.
Shaking, Beau followed Bev down the stairs, grateful for the dim light. He wiped away the beads of sweat on his forehead. The darkness sucked away the light cast by hundred-watt bulbs.
The boiler filled the room. Beau always sensed that, wherever he stood, something lurked on the other side of the ancient giant. Why had he volunteered to come down here? Because he’d stupidly wanted to make sure they still needed to do what they’d promised. To make sure LJ was still right. He circled the huge metal monstrosity. He laid his hand on the thing. The slick sweat of his palm chilled against the cool metal. What did he expect? Some kind of heartbeat?
“It’s huge,” Bev said.
“Yeah,” Beau managed, withdrawing his hand. His voice had a hushed quality, dying as soon as he spoke. He cleared his throat. “I haven’t been down here since I was a kid.” He forced himself to chuckle. “It always kind of creeped me out.”
“I can see why,” Bev said as she circled to the front of the beast, stepping out of view. “Basements are like that and, not to get too philosophical, as my husband used to say, there’s something good people don’t like about the dark places in the world.”
“Amen to that,” he whispered. This time the sound carried and his words filled the room. He cringed, waiting for the walls to shake, the face to appear and take him like it had taken Melody. But dust motes twirled in the air, and nothing broke the silence. “I think you might have to cut a hole in the wall to get this thing out.”
“Yeah,” Bev answered from the other side. She banged on the metal and Beau cringed, the echoing clang ringing through his gut. “I wonder how they got it in here in the first place.”
The Big Bad II Page 23