Threshold

by Sean Platt

  “Hello?”

  No answer.

  “Hello?”

  Hazel’s heart started to race again. Her breath nearly matched it as she swept her legs across the floor and pushed herself to standing.

  The sound again — this time louder. The only thing she was certain of was that it wasn’t her mother. Whenever Hazel saw her mom, she felt her warmth like a heater. This felt almost like ice.

  “Hello?” Hazel’s voice cracked on the O.

  Still nothing.

  She laughed, trying to shove the fear from her body. But Hazel couldn’t shrug it away. She thought of the girl she’d seen when they first arrived, the girl she’d thought of several times each day since. If memories had smells, the scent of that one was all over the attic.

  Nothing split the silence, so Hazel returned to the floor. If she just distracted herself, then surely the eerie feeling would fade. She continued to look through the journal written by a boy, curious to see the world from inside his mind. Even though she had a brother, boys were largely a mystery to her, weirdness wrapped in a crazy energy that made them do stupid things.

  The chirping turned into a whisper.

  “Hazzzeeeellll …”

  She dropped the journal and looked around, heart in her throat.

  “Hello?” Hazel hoped it was Mom, but knew it wasn’t.

  A clatter in the corner was chased by a rumble.

  Then, a hiss.

  “Hazel, come here …”

  “Who are you?”

  She heard only silence; the whisper was gone along with the clatters. And the hiss had disappeared.

  Hazel had to flee the attic. She turned from the boxes and made her way toward the door until the voice yanked her back.

  “Hazel!” it said, then hissed, “Karla!”

  “Mom?”

  The silence said nothing. Hazel crept toward the dark corner. The air was cold and raised the hairs on her arm as she crept closer.

  It took everything inside her to keep moving. Her eyes slowly focused until she could finally make out something in the shadows.

  The something stepped forward, giving Hazel a line of light to illuminate its shape: the girl from the window, her face half-skeleton, half-beautiful young blonde. The skeletal half was missing its hair. Rotted flesh clung to its skull.

  Hazel cried out, covering her mouth with shaking hands.

  The girl from the window stared at Hazel with her one eye, though it was the empty black socket that Hazel couldn’t turn from.

  The girl shambled into a patch of light. As she did, her skeleton side was met with warm pink flesh.

  Hazel wanted to turn and run, but was frozen.

  The attic lights began to flicker — off, on, off, on, off — as the ghost crept closer.

  Hazel’s heart was a jackhammer, but her legs were frozen, unable to follow her will.

  Run! Run!

  Dark.

  Light.

  Run!

  Dark.

  Light.

  The ghost was a foot away, close enough that Hazel could smell its putrid flesh, could feel the coldness rolling off it in waves.

  The ghost stared at Hazel oddly, head titled, long straw-colored hair seeming to float around her as if they were underwater.

  They were nearly the same height, and for a moment Hazel felt like she was staring into some sort of funhouse mirror. Though Hazel had dark hair, their faces were eerily similar, down to the slope of their small noses.

  Hazel, teeth chattering, asked, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Savannah,” the girl said softly.

  Dark.

  Light.

  Closer still — inches away.

  Savannah looked at Hazel as if examining a rare thing that should not be. She reached up to touch Hazel’s cheek.

  Dark.

  Light.

  The girl’s fingers brushed her, sending an ice-cold chill through Hazel’s flesh.

  Dark.

  Light.

  Savannah asked, “Why are you in my house?”

  Dark.

  Light.

  Hazel’s entire body was shaking, yet paralyzed. She couldn’t even answer the question. Her breaths were tiny. She was almost certain she was going to drop dead on the spot, scared to death.

  Dark.

  This time the lights didn’t flicker back on.

  Hazel swallowed as more cold fingers brushed her face. It felt like more than just Savannah’s. She wanted to pull away, to feel around to see if there were others in the attic, but she couldn’t move.

  Then, a low growl came from the darkness. Almost animal, like a wolf.

  “Get … out,” the ghost said, so softly that Hazel wasn’t sure she heard correctly.

  She stared into the nothingness, wishing the light would return, but darkness stayed to taunt her. She felt as if hundreds of fingers were scraping her body. Sharp fingers that would cut her if she moved an inch.

  “I said …” the ghost’s voice repeated, though this time it wasn’t the soft sweetness of a girl, but something darker, almost leathery.

  The lights flicked back on, revealing a fully rotted skeletal face, inches from Hazel’s, its mouth opened wide to rotted teeth and foul hot breath.

  “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

  Dark.

  Hazel fell to the floor, hitting her elbows and knees hard. She screamed, and in that bellow found the will to move.

  She scrambled toward where she remembered the attic door was.

  A loud roar swelled behind her.

  The walls shook as if hundreds of somethings were on the other side, trying to break them. If she didn’t reach the door, she was certain the walls would implode from every direction, burying her in rubble.

  She raced forward on all fours, until she saw a seam of light from the attic door.

  Got to reach it!

  She heard scurrying behind her, things chasing her.

  She moved faster.

  Reaching the door, she pulled it the rest of the way open, then went head first over the lip, hands reaching out to grab the ladder to break her fall.

  But before she could get all the way out of the attic, something stopped her momentum, grabbing her legs.

  Hazel screamed as the something pulled her back into the attic.

  She closed her eyes, kicking wildly behind her, trying to break free.

  Her foot found something hard, and it screamed, letting her go.

  Hazel plummeted, head first, out of the attic.

  She cried out, certain that she would hit the floor hard, head cracking open like a melon.

  But her fall was broken as she fell into Carter’s open arms.

  “Hazel!” he gasped. “What is it, child?”

  She hugged him tightly and cried, “I saw Savannah! She’s in the attic!”

  * * * *

  SCOTT

  “Probably wouldn’t seem half as haunted if they had more people inside,” Hudson said.

  He and Scott had been back in the house for less than five minutes before they heard the scream.

  “What the hell?” Scott turned to his son before rushing up the stairs.

  Carter was at the top, halfway down the hall, approaching, holding Hazel in his arms.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing at all, Mr. Dawson. Hazel was exploring the attic, and something gave her a fright. She’s perfectly fine.”

  Scott took Hazel into his arms. “What happened, honey?”

  “I saw Savannah in the attic.”

  “Savannah?”

  “It was the girl from the window, on the first day. She said her name was Savannah. She’s a ghost, Dad. She told me to get out of her house.”

  Scott, already exhausted, turned to Carter. “What is she talking about, and why the hell was she in the attic?”

  “I took her to the attic because I thought she might like to go exploring. We were looking through some of her mother’s things. Quite healthy, I think.” />
  Scott ignored the lecture on what was healthy for his daughter. “Was she alone?”

  “She wasn’t, at least not for more than a few minutes. I took her up there, then Jacquelyn needed help and sent Mara to fetch me. So I went, and heard commotion on the way back.”

  Hazel turned to Carter, her face twisted like it got when she was angry.

  “You weren’t right back! You were gone for a long time.”

  “No, Hazel, I wasn’t. I spoke with Jacquelyn for two minutes, helped her for five at most, then went back.”

  “You were gone forever! I went through four boxes!”

  Scott ignored Carter. He set Hazel down and looked into her eyes which reminded him so much of Holly’s. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you really see something in the attic?”

  She nodded again.

  “What did you see?”

  “I saw Savannah. She told me to get out of her house. Her face was half skull-like, then normal, then full skull, like a Halloween mask, but real.”

  Scott sighed, swallowed, and quietly said, “I want you to calm down and think — did you really see a girl up there?”

  “I’m not imagining things, Dad!” Hazel clenched her fists and held them at her sides. “Savannah was there! I can see her — just like Mom could!”

  “What?” Scott said, confused.

  She looked at Carter, then back to her dad. “Carter said Mom could see ghosts just like I can.”

  Scott spun to face Carter.

  “What kind of bullshit are you telling my daughter?”

  “Mr. Dawson,” Carter cleared his throat, “would you mind if we had a moment alone?”

  That was exactly what Scott wanted.

  “No argument from me.” He turned to Hudson. “Take care of your sister.”

  Hudson saluted, wrapped his arm around Hazel, and said, “Let’s go, squirt. Dad looks like he’s about to make a mess in his grouchy pants.”

  Scott saw Hazel almost smile and felt grateful for Hudson. Sometimes the boy surprised him, knowing when a gentle touch or friendly brother was needed.

  Good job.

  He waited for his children to disappear, then repeated, “What kind of bullshit are you telling my daughter?”

  “Nothing,” Carter insisted. He took a step back, put his hands out in front of him as if planting them on an invisible wall. “I promise, Mr. Dawson. I’ve only told Hazel the truth as I see it.”

  “As you see it? Well, you’re filling her head with something.”

  “Hazel said she saw her mother last night, and was quite upset. I consoled her by telling her that Holly could see things, too.”

  Scott blinked. “What?”

  “I told Hazel that her mom saw things, like she did. And it’s true, Mr. Dawson. When Holly was young, she saw ghosts, too. I merely relayed that truth.”

  “What the hell?” Scott exploded. “Why would you say something like that?”

  “I’m sorry you’re so upset about our conversation, Mr. Dawson. As I said, the manor has many stories, and far be it from me to deny what someone says they saw. I’ve seen enough myself to know better than to shut my mind to anything.”

  “My daughter is in a rough spot, Carter. The last thing she needs right now is someone feeding into whatever’s wrong with her.”

  “I might argue otherwise, Mr. Dawson. I might ask who are we to determine Hazel’s needs? Who are we to deny whatever she must cling to so she can lie down peacefully at night?”

  “Telling her stupid ghost stories, and that her mother saw ghosts, isn’t helping! She’s my daughter! She’s not your family, so if you don’t mind, I suggest you come to me before deciding what’s best for Hazel!”

  Carter met Scott’s gaze, his smile fading. He closed his eyes as if biting his tongue. Then, finally, his twinkle returned.

  “Of course, sir. I apologize.”

  Scott stared at Carter, surprised to find the old man backing down so easily. He probably feared for his job, regardless of what the will said.

  “What did she see in the attic, Carter? Are you saying she actually saw this Savannah?”

  “I’m not saying that, Mr. Dawson. I’m saying Hazel saw something we can’t, and that you must believe that.”

  Scott stared at Carter with more fury than he could articulate. He chewed his lip, rubbed his arms, then turned from the old man and marched down the stairs, not slowing until he stopped in front of Hudson’s door and pounded on the wood.

  “You guys in there?”

  “Yeah!” they called together.

  He opened the door. Hudson was laying a red Draw Two on top of a red 8. A smile cracked through his temper. “Uno?”

  “Yeah, Hazel brought it.”

  She looked up and smiled.

  “I’m glad you did, but why bother? I’m sure you could ask Jeeves where they keep the Uno supply and he’d lead you to a drawer stuffed with a hundred unopened decks.”

  They all laughed, and that felt good.

  “What’s up, Dad? Everything cool?”

  “Yes.” Scott nodded and smiled at Hudson. “Everything’s fine. But I’m going up to the attic, and I want Hazel to come with me.”

  Her face lost its color.

  “No.” She shook her head and scooted back on the bed with what looked like an involuntary lurch.

  “It’s okay,” Scott promised, stepping toward her.

  “No! I don’t want to go to the attic! I don’t want you to go to the attic! Please, Daddy, please don’t go!”

  Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “Fine,” he said with a sigh, “I won’t go.”

  It wasn’t as if Scott thought he’d see anything anyway. This was all clearly born in Hazel’s head, and he couldn’t let it seep into his as well. The important thing right now was to stand by her side, comfort her, be there. In time they’d get past this.

  Scott went to the bed, lay down next to Hazel, and hugged her to him. He stroked her hair, repeating that everything would be fine. Being beside her made him feel like the world’s strongest father, someone who could take on any trouble and be there to protect his child.

  Everything will be fine.

  But as Scott caught his reflection in the dresser mirror, he saw the uncertainty in his eyes. And the fear that things would never be fine again.

  * * * *

  SCOTT

  “Please!” Hazel pouted.

  There was no way he could say no. It was almost ridiculous how Hazel widened her eyes, collapsed her hands into a ball, and begged like she was still four.

  Even before he gave in, he knew he was going to collapse.

  Holly would argue, “What’s wrong with you, Scott? Don’t you realize your daughter’s a slot machine, just like your son? Have years of paying out taught you nothing?”

  It wasn’t that he disagreed — Hazel needed only one payout for every hundred attempts to see that pulling the arm eventually made the machine start to clink — but saying no was harder with Hazel than it had ever been with his son. That shouldn’t have been true, but there was no denying it. Before it was difficult saying no to his sweet girl. Now it was next to impossible.

  “Fine. You can sleep in my room. But only tonight. I’m not ready for bed, and don’t want to hear you snore, so I’m going to watch TV downstairs for a bit. You’re on your own for now.”

  “You can watch TV in here, Daddy.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Why not?” She pointed to the large wall screen. “There’s a TV right there.”

  “Because, Hazel, I’d like to watch stuff that you shouldn’t be watching.”

  “Like Bloodline?”

  “Yes, like Bloodline.”

  “Okay.”

  Scott smiled. “Good. Can you fall asleep?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Probably.”

  “Great. Just so you know, if you’re snoring while I’m trying to sleep, I’m going to s
tuff you in the closet.”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “I totally would.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m serious.” Scott stared at Hazel with serious eyes. “I wouldn’t snore if I were you.”

  He winked, then kissed Hazel on her forehead. He made it halfway to the door before he looked back, then returned to the bed for one last kiss on the forehead, this time pressing her to his chest. “I love you, Hazel. I’ll be back soon.”

  “I love you too, Daddy. Have fun watching your shows with all the killing and swearing and other stuff I’m not supposed to see.”

  Scott opened the door, flipped off the light, stepped into the hallway, and closed the door behind him.

  He went downstairs and made himself a snack, guilty for hoping he’d find Jacquelyn in the kitchen, both because he wanted her to make him something to eat, and because he wanted her company.

  She wasn’t in the kitchen, and neither was her daughter, Mara. Scott felt another flash of guilt — not too long ago he’d been wondering whether rage, insanity, or good old-fashioned desperation would be first to eat him. Now, he was disappointed when there weren’t women waiting to serve him. Holly would laugh and say, Figures.

  He made himself some popcorn — two bags in one bowl — and used the microwave rather than the air popper because he didn’t feel like the hassle. That made him feel worse, because if Jacquelyn had asked his preference he would have said air popped for sure.

  He grabbed the popcorn and two beers, then went into the media room. Scott had the Apple TV figured out his second night in the manor, and now had a ton in the queue. He was on his third episode of Homeland and returning from his second trip to the kitchen when he found Carter sitting on the sofa, staring at the paused screen.

  “Hello, Mr. Dawson.”

  “Hey, Carter.” Scott sat and pointed to the half-empty bowl of popcorn. “Want some crap?”

  “No thank you, Mr. Dawson. I’m afraid corn never sits well with me.” He pointed at one of Scott’s two unopened beers. “I will have one of those, though.”