by Sean Platt
“Well, let’s hope it’s still better late than never,” Hudson said, then stormed from the room.
Scott waited for the door to slam, then smiled awkwardly. “I’m very sorry.”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Dawson. I can’t imagine many better ways of spending your money than an attempt to locate Holly, though I must warn you not to get your hopes too high. Alastair conducted a very thorough search with some of the country’s finest investigators and found nothing. Of course, things change, but I’d hate to raise your hopes, or theirs.”
Carter’s words were bullets leaving exit wounds in his hope. Scott couldn’t bear to look at Hazel, certain she was crying, and was startled when her hand found his.
“Don’t worry, Daddy. We’ll find her.”
He met her eyes, and thought how damned lucky he was to have such a sweet, compassionate daughter. He loved her faith and admired her confidence, but hated how both swore to her that Mom was coming home. The more certain she felt, the harder it would be when she finally realized that Holly was gone and never coming back.
It was all Scott could do not to burst into tears.
“I need to use the restroom.” He stood. “I’ll be right back.”
Then Scott left the room and went down the hall, holding his tears until no one could see them.
* * * *
SCOTT
Scott returned and found Carter with his daughter in happy hysterics. She was doubled over, arm clutched under her stomach, gasping for breath. Carter, also, laughing, slapped his knee and said, “Then the pig, who also had four spots — like the cow and Mrs. Jennings — well, he starts peeing down his leg. Mrs. Jennings says, ‘Well, looks like the choice is made for me. I’ll have to stop drinking!’”
Carter barely managed to crack the last few words before a rattle of laughter stripped his breath and left him wheezing.
Hazel seemed relaxed around the old man. She’d never had a grandfather, and while Carter could never be a substitute for the real thing, if Galloway Manor was to be their home and the old man was a part of that home forever (which Davenport had made clear that he was), then Carter was cast into their lives for the foreseeable future. In that light, perhaps he’d be a good influence on Hazel.
Scott took a seat across from his daughter.
“Sounds like I missed some funny stuff.”
“I told Hazel she could have all the Holly pictures.”
“Thank you,” Scott said. “That’s very kind.”
“Nothing of it. Everything here in the manor is yours, including pictures. I might as well help you find the ones you’d want.” He turned to Hazel. “Would you like to ask your father?”
“Ask me what?”
Hazel smiled. “Carter said I could paint, and that there was a studio out back, with glass walls and a bamboo floor, all the canvases I want, and cabinets filled with every color!”
Carter winked. “I bet there are forty-seven shades of red.”
“That sounds wonderful, Hazel. I’m sure you’ll have fun.” Scott paused, unsure of what he was being asked. “Do you know your way to the studio?”
“I’m going with Mara. If it’s okay with you.”
“Of course it is. Have fun.”
He looked at Hazel’s smile, and wanted to enjoy it, but couldn’t help wondering how long he could keep her happy. How long before she “saw” her mom again and everything came crashing down?
Scott heard Holly in his head, telling him to accept what the universe offered and stop suspecting everything. But he found it hard to accept — or understand — what the universe wanted for him. Unless it was something bad, which Scott somehow felt he’d always deserved. He thought of Holly telling him to let go of his father’s shitty programming.
Your father made you, but you control the shape.
Holly would have believed that all of this was supposed to happen, whatever it was. Scott kept telling himself that if he’d done more of what she suggested, believed in the things that Holly had, then maybe she’d still be with him.
Mara appeared, and Hazel hugged him goodbye. He watched his daughter disappear then turned to Carter. “How straight do you shoot?”
“I assure you, Mr. Dawson, I never miss.” He smiled. “What are you asking?”
“What’s with the ‘haunted’ thing? Is it a game? Are we being messed with?”
“No, I assure you, there are no games here.”
“Is the house haunted? What do you think?”
“This house is old, and every room seems to have its stories. Some I believe, some I do not. Some I’ve seen, many I’ve merely heard. What exactly are you asking?”
Carter wasn’t threatening, nor did he sound defensive. His words were friendly, his tone matter-of-fact.
“Tell me about the girl Hazel said she saw, the blonde in the window. You said it was an accident, but I don’t think that’s all there is to the story.”
Something ugly swallowed Carter’s face. He seemed to fight a bitterness, twitching his mouth at the corners and tightening his expression. His folksy accent faded.
“I said I’d shoot straight and meant it, but that might be this manor’s darkest story. Speaking of Savannah makes me … uncomfortable.”
Scott waited for the man to continue.
Carter looked down at folded hands. “Savannah was Alastair’s daughter, the most delightful girl you could’ve ever known. Until she wasn’t. This sweet, sweet girl, who had never given her tutors a speck of trouble, was suddenly acting possessed.”
“Possessed?”
“There’s no other word for it, Mr. Dawson. Savannah had tics like you can’t imagine. She started punching and kicking, half the time screaming that her skin was alive and crawling. Alastair thought it was hormones, because love made him blind.”
“What was it?”
“Something much, much worse, Mr. Dawson. I think she had mental issues that Alastair couldn’t, or refused, to see. We all tried to help, but by the time Alastair came around to realizing what it was, Savannah’s mood was black enough to block the sun. Stayed that way for six months.”
Scott somehow knew already, but asked anyway. “What happened after six months?”
“Savannah took her own life. In the tub, with a razor.”
“Why?”
Carter shook his head, looking withered. Scott reached out and set his hand on the old man’s trembling shoulder. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”
“It’s okay, really.” He shrugged. “It hurts less each time.”
“Is that true? That it hurts less?”
“No.” Carter gave Scott an ugly smile.
“And have you ... seen her?” He couldn’t help himself. “Savannah’s … ghost?”
Carter took a while to answer, and seemed ancient once he did.
“Who hasn’t thought they might’ve seen something when alone with the night? Love and sorrow do make for easy ghosts. What I really hear you asking, Mr. Dawson, is if Galloway Manor is safe for your family. To that, I say yes, this is the safest place in the world.” Carter turned the tables: “Do you believe Hazel’s really seeing Holly?”
“Like you said, Carter,” Scott stared out the window, “love and sorrow make for easy ghosts.”
* * * *
HAZEL
“Good night.”
“No!” Hazel cried out, trying to pout but giggling instead, just like she had through the last ten minutes invested to keep Dad in the room. She’d run out of reasons a while before, and his patience was officially thin.
“Come on, Hazel. I’m exhausted, and it’s late. We have one week of summer left. Time to start getting ready for a school schedule.”
“Why? We’re not going to school.”
“You are going to school, you’re just going here. You still need to get up early and stay alert through the day.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, Dad. A few more minutes together before bed won’t hurt.” She patted the comforte
r. “Come on. Tell me a story. How about Lucky Dragon? I like that one.”
“Good night, Hazel.”
“Dad!”
“Hazel?”
“Say goodnight to Rawhide Strawberry.”
“I already said goodnight to Rawhide Strawberry.”
In addition to Hazel’s cowgirl doll with the reddish-blonde hair that she’d brought to the manor from Las Orillas, Dad had also said goodnight to Dusty Pillowbox and Jenny Lemontree, two times each already.
“One more time.”
“No, Hazel.”
Dad stood with his back three inches from the thinly parted door. He slipped through the opening, closed it, and sealed Hazel in darkness that wasn’t really all that dark because of the full moon sitting fat outside her second-story window. Moonlight pouring through the thin white drapes bathed the room in blue.
After Dad left, Hazel closed her eyes, wanting to sleep despite not feeling particularly tired.
Suddenly the room grew cold, sending goosebumps up her arms. She pulled the blanket tighter around her, but after a few minutes, the blanket felt like ice.
Hazel sat up and opened her eyes, figuring she’d get out of bed and grab another blanket from the closet. But instead she was frozen in place, no longer alone in the room.
Savannah was sitting on the floor, with two other girls.
Hazel’s heart beat like a drum in the silent night.
No, no, no, no. You’re not here.
The girls didn’t seem to notice Hazel, all gathered around something just below her field of vision. Maybe they were playing with dolls, or a board game. They were talking and laughing, though Hazel couldn’t hear what the girls were saying.
They were fading in and out, as if unsure whether they were going to stay. As she continued to stare, Hazel got the distinct impression that she wasn’t seeing ghosts so much as memories of something that had happened in the room. Memories like stains of the past making themselves visible.
The girls vanished the moment she thought it.
She swallowed, waiting for her heartbeat to slow.
Suddenly, movement to her right.
She leapt, and fell off the bed.
Hazel scrambled to her knees and peeked over her bed to see Savannah, slightly younger than the prior version she’d already seen, staring at the wall, again not seeming to notice Hazel.
What is she looking at?
In the present, there was nothing on the wall behind Hazel’s bed, but maybe in the past there had been something there, perhaps a painting or mirror.
The girl leaned in to get a closer look at whatever was hanging on the wall.
Hazel watched, lifting her head a bit higher over the edge of her bed.
Savannah leaned closer, then reached out to touch the wall. Instead of the white paint that coated it now, wallpaper lined the walls in blue and pink florals.
Hazel was spellbound, watching, waiting to see something that would reveal whatever had drawn the girl’s attention.
Savannah leaned even closer, practically putting her eye against the wall, as if peering through a peephole.
Dread worked its way through her gut. Hazel couldn’t help but feel something terrible was about to happen. Or she was about to witness something bad from the past.
Savannah froze, hair draping her face, so Hazel couldn’t see what she was doing.
Hazel stood to get a closer look.
Savannah flickered out of existence.
Hazel was paralyzed, afraid to move, terrified that if she turned around another version of the girl would be right behind her.
Savannah reappeared, face against the wall, again. This time she also had her hands on the wall.
She must be looking through a hole or something.
Hazel slowly moved around the bed, drawing closer to Savannah — if she could get close enough, she might be able to see what the girl was looking at.
Hazel was five feet behind Savannah when the girl’s head turned slowly back and forth as if she were telling someone no.
Hazel fell a step back, fear piercing her like a blade.
Savannah stopped moving.
Hazel could only stare.
Savannah suddenly flew backwards, straight into Hazel.
She dropped to the bed as Savannah sailed through her and fell to the floor. Hazel hadn’t felt the girl’s body, but she felt something — like an icy wave crashing into her.
Hazel’s heart raced faster as she looked at the floor and Savannah’s still body laying facedown, then turned to the wall.
And there she saw it — a tiny hole with green light bleeding through from the other side.
Hazel edged towards it, eager to see what Savannah had seen, heartbeat pounding in her ears as she inched forward, her every fiber ordering Hazel to turn away or else end wind up on the floor as well.
But the hole called, and Hazel couldn’t resist.
She took another step until she was two feet away, close enough to reach out and touch the hole, but not close enough to see through it.
She was desperate to spy the other side, and had to put her eye to the hole.
A voice in her head repeated:
Don’t do it.
Don’t do it.
Don’t do it.
Don’t do it.
But Hazel did it anyway.
She saw a cavernous stone room where there was none in the actual house. An emerald light seemed to bleed from the stone, perhaps reflecting light from something she couldn’t see. The only thing Hazel could see was a stone fountain with a large stone crow rising from its center, dark liquid spilling from its mouth and into the basin below.
Blood.
Suddenly something small and dark started to crawl out of the basin, drenched in sticky, clotted crimson.
She squinted to look closer as the dark shape clawed its way to the edge, then shook the blood away.
The raven lifted its head towards Hazel and opened its bright yellow eyes, glowing like searchlights as they fixed on her.
Its beak opened. A horrible shriek cut through the room.
Hazel gasped and stumbled back, barely managing to stay upright.
And then the hole was gone, along with the wallpaper, replaced by white walls in the present.
She turned around to find Savannah gone as well, then waited for more stains of the past to appear.
But after a while of nothingness, Hazel went to the closet, grabbed a thick quilt from inside a cedar trunk, and returned to bed.
She pulled the blanket over her head, trying to calm herself. It took all she had not to go find her father and report all that she’d seen. But Hazel knew it would only anger him, and likely get another jerky response from Hudson.
She stayed put, hiding under the blanket, trying to bar the ghosts, stains, or whatever they were from her head.
Failing that, Hazel reminded herself of what Carter had said — ghosts don’t hurt anyone.
Besides, if she could see ghosts and memories, maybe she’d see her mother again, in either ghost form, or memories of when she’d stayed here.
Hazel loved that idea a lot.
As her eyelids gained weight, she turned onto her side and stared at the big moon through the window. She smiled as she remembered back several years, sitting in Mom’s lap at the old house in the big comfy chair as she read Goodnight Moon out loud.
Hazel drifted off to sleep remembering the picture book with all its reds and greens.
**
Hazel woke to a whisper.
She opened her eyes and heard it again.
“Hazel …”
She had to be dreaming, because the carpet was sand, and her ceiling was sky. Mom’s call was far off, somewhere that Hazel couldn’t see. She climbed from bed and trudged through the sand. It warmed her ankles on her way to the door. She opened it and stepped out into the perfectly normal hallway.
She looked left, then right, and started toward the stairs.
“Hazel …�
�� Mom whispered again, seemingly from downstairs.
Though she’d heard her mother’s voice many nights since she’d vanished, Hazel had yet to see her — even in dreams. Another whisper, same direction.
“Hazel …”
She crept down the hallway, floor creaking beneath her timid steps. She followed the whisper and crept toward the stairs, ignoring her body’s chill as she found the first step. Her mind flared: X-rays of Savannah, not her playing, but as she’d seen the girl that first day, staring through the window, this time as bright-white bones under gnarled shadows.
“Hazel!”
The whisper turned insistent as she stepped down from the stairs. Hazel ran out the French doors, onto the back porch, then across the lawn to the white gazebo.
The whisper rang again — a trill in the wind.
“Hazel!”
She chased her mother’s music to the gazebo, until she saw her standing in the gazebo’s belly, a glowing goddess under the moon.
“Mom!” Hazel cried out as she raced into her arms.
* * * *
SCOTT
Scott sat straight up in bed.
Something was wrong.
With no tangible thought to drive it, he rolled over, swung his feet from the bed, and planted them on the carpet. Exhausted, he’d expected to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. But something was bothering him.
Not knowing why, he walked to the door, opened it, and peered out into the hallway. A chill ran through him at seeing his daughter’s door ajar. He crossed the hallway and entered her room. The bed was empty except for Rawhide Strawberry, Jenny Lemontree, and Dusty Pillbox, all staring up dumbly — the dolls Scott had been cajoled into kissing goodnight again, after a two-year hiatus.
He didn’t know if Hazel was sleepwalking, a habit he thought she’d grown out of. Maybe she couldn’t sleep and was exploring the house. A tremor ran through him, a father’s certainty that she was in danger.
“Hazel!” Scott walked the hall, his heart thumping. “Hazel, Hazel, Hazel!”