The Haunting of Ashburn House

by Darcy Coates

  Adrienne followed her friend’s gaze towards the top of the bookcase and burst into laughter. “No, sorry, that one’s mine.”

  Wolfgang, crouched in the narrow space between the top of the bookcase and the ceiling, blinked as though to prove he were actually flesh and blood.

  “Oooh, he’s magnificent.” Marion, more interested in the cat than the room, approached Wolfgang and offered him her hand to smell. “He’s part Main Coon, right?”

  “He was a stray, so I’m not really sure.” Adrienne gave a sheepish grin and shrugged. “Mum said he’s just fat.”

  Wolfgang headbutted Marion’s hand in a blatant demand for petting. She was happy to oblige and cooed to him while she scratched around his chin and whiskers.

  Beth scanned the books lining the lower shelves, and her mouth creased in disappointment. She seemed to have been hoping for volumes on the occult.

  “There’s a message in the hallway wall and some paintings upstairs,” Adrienne said, knowing those things would give the chill factor the black-haired woman sought. She reopened the door and waited for them to file through. Marion reluctantly left her new friend, who gave a languid yawn and flopped onto his side.

  Back in the hallway, they all stopped to read the message cut opposite the lounge room: NO MIRRORS. Light came through the open door and improved the contrast between the scratchings and the wood they were carved into. Sarah made a vaguely unhappy noise in the back of her throat, but the others looked enthralled.

  “She’s written it all over the house.” Adrienne rubbed at the back of her neck. “Anywhere a mirror should logically go. I probably look a bit of a mess this morning because of it.”

  “Naw, you’re fine.” Beth was bent over with her hands on her knees as she examined the scratches. “We don’t normally look this fancy. It’s just our stupid club rule this month.”

  “Oh, you’re in a club?”

  “Yeah, Jayne arranged it. She reckons we should do something to improve ourselves each month. In March we had to read a book a week. This month, we’re supposed to dress like city folk.”

  That explained the upper-class clothes and hairstyles that were simultaneously glamorous and not quite right. Adrienne suspected they’d been taking their cues from TV shows and movies; almost no one in her old city had dressed as fancily as they did.

  “I catch hell for it at the clinic.” Marion, grinning, was already turning towards the staircase. “But it’s kind of fun too.”

  Adrienne waited until Beth had had her fill of the scratched message then beckoned them up the stairs. “That reminds me, Jayne—you told me what everyone else does but didn’t say what your job was.”

  Beth lowered her voice to a deep, sinister whisper. “She works for the government.”

  “Jeez.” Pink tinged Jayne’s ears again. “Don’t listen to Beth. She’d make you believe I’m with Interpol or something. No, I’m just admin for utilities.” She shot Adrienne a sideways glance. “By the way, give us a call in the next few weeks to set up your account, okay? I hooked you up with electricity and water, but I didn’t know any of your details, so the account’s currently under the name Jane Doe, who was born in the eighteen hundreds.”

  “Utilities…” Crap, that was something I should have set up before I moved in, right? “Thank you—I didn’t even think—”

  The red tinge spread from Jayne’s ears to her cheeks, and she waved the thanks away. “It’s nothing. I just heard from Bobby that Sam’s uncle heard you were moving in this weekend, so I got it connected for you. Nothing worse than trying to live in a place without power or water.”

  “Thanks.” Adrienne was growing increasingly grateful that she’d opened the door when Jayne had knocked. Her first impression had been so wildly off the mark that she’d almost missed out on meeting the ladies.

  Friends, the voice in her head insisted, and Adrienne tried not to grin as she led them into the shadowy hallway. “Have a look at these.”

  Beth whistled as she scanned the row of portraits. “There’s a lot of them.”

  “And all of the same family,” Marion said, frowning. “That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”

  Good; I’m glad I’m not the only one who finds it strange.

  “Maybe they were narcissists,” Jayne said.

  Marion moved from one painting to another, squinting to make out the details in the low light. “Still, artwork this good would have been expensive. And the portraits look like they were done over just a handful of years—see the girl? Here she is as a toddler, and here again she looks about eight. But I can’t find any of her as a teenager.”

  Beth’s eyes widened as she looked between her friends. “Wait, you don’t know?”

  “Spill it, Beth,” Jayne said.

  “Guys, this is Miss Ashburn’s family.” Beth waved a hand at the portraits. “Mr and Mrs Ashburn, Edith Ashburn as a child, and Mr Ashburn’s sister-in-law. The only member of the family not in the paintings is Mr Ashburn’s brother, Charles.”

  She paused, palms held outwards and eyes wide, evidently waiting for a wave of amazement that never came.

  Jayne looked about them and shrugged. “Okay?”

  “Oh my gosh, you’re all uncultured swine!” Beth clasped her hands over her face in melodramatic despair. “Are you honestly telling me you’ve never heard of Charles Ashburn? The famous artist?”

  “Oooh, yeah, I think my mum has one of his landscapes in her living room,” Marion said. “Are you saying he painted these?”

  “Yes! And there’s a bunch more just like them hanging in the museum. How can you have not seen them?”

  Marion scrunched her face up. “The museum smells like dead rats, and Mr Benson kicks you out if you talk too much.”

  “Which is a small price to pay to personally view a deeply significant facet of our town’s history.” She was pacing as she ranted, and Adrienne had to step aside to avoid being bowled over. “Charles Ashburn wasn’t just Ipson famous—he was legitimately well known. He painted for a bunch of lords and such and travelled all over the place before he had a mental breakdown.” She stopped, breathing heavily, and stretched one hand towards the nearest image, which depicted Edith as a child. “He came back to live with his brother, Mr Ashburn, and began to obsessively paint his family. He completed close to ninety portraits before his death five years later. The museum has a dozen or so; it looks like the rest of them stayed here.”

  Jayne was shaking her head as she grinned at her friend. “Wow. I knew you liked urban legends about Ashburn, but I had no idea you were so obsessive.”

  “Dear, sweet Jayne. We’ve barely entered the rabbit hole yet.” Beth clasped her hands and fixed each of her companions with a deep, lingering stare. “Do you know how Charles Ashburn passed?”

  “I heard the whole family died in a disaster.” Sarah, the quietest of the party, spoke for the second time that day. Her eyes were wide as saucers as they flittered over the images surrounding them. “Everyone except Edith Ashburn.”

  “Glad to see someone here knows their history. Can you tell me what the disaster was?”

  Sarah’s lips fluttered open, and she shot Adrienne a frightened glance before fixing her eyes on the floor. “M-m…”

  “Yes?”

  “Murder,” she whispered.

  Prickles ran up Adrienne’s arms as she folded them over her chest. The portraits’ persistent stares no longer felt benign but desperate. Accusatory.

  “That’s right.” Beth began pacing around the group, her voice low and sinister. “And you want to know the weirdest thing? No one knows who did it. Was it the artist Charles Ashburn, already mentally unstable, pushed past what he could endure? Was it his wife, so meek and quiet? Or possibly Mr or Mrs Ashburn, stressed to fracturing by their brother’s disorder? Or”—she held a finger up to bring their attention off the portraits and back onto her—“was it a stranger who broke into the house and murdered them in cold blood? We may never know.”

  Adrienne
tried to smile, but her cheek muscles felt stiff. “Well, surely—there must be a way to know. What did the police investigation say?”

  Beth shrugged. “No one actually remembers. This was way before my time, remember. My granddad’s dad was just a little kid when it all went down, so anything I can tell you is coming at least fourth-hand. Some people say the family was hacked to death. Others claim it was a gun. Still others believe it wasn’t a murder at all but a disease that swept through the area and claimed almost all of the family. All we know is that Edith Ashburn was the only survivor. She went away for a while then came back as an adult and never left Ashburn again.”

  “Wow.” Jayne looked pale. “I heard her family died, but I had no idea—wow. No wonder she was so strange. That sort of thing would mess anyone up.” She grimaced and added in a quieter tone, “I should’ve been kinder to her. We used to have that stupid rhyme we’d chant when she came into town. Ashburn, Ashburn, burn Ashburn down. Oh, wow. I hope she never heard us.”

  “Eh, she was probably senile by then.” Beth seemed completely unconcerned with Edith’s well-being and turned back to the images. “She would’ve been a kid when the murder happened. Maybe she didn’t remember much.”

  Marion abruptly swore, and they all jumped. “Sorry,” she squeaked and held up her phone with an apologetic smile. “It’s just—I didn’t realise we’d been here so long. I was supposed to start my shift at the vet ten minutes ago.”

  “My fault,” Jayne said, turning towards the stairs. “I wasn’t watching the time. I’m sorry to leave so suddenly, Addy. Thank you for the tea and for showing us around.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Adrienne said and found she meant it. “It was really nice to meet you. Come back sometime… if, uh, if you want.”

  “That’d be great.” They’d reached the front door, and golden sunlight fell over Jayne’s silky blonde hair as she opened it. The others piled out towards the car, but she hesitated on the threshold and tilted her head to one side. “Hey, you said you needed to go shopping. Did you want a lift into town? I can show you where Ashburn Walk starts too.”

  “Yes,” Adrienne said, already turning to fetch her bag from the lounge room. “Yes, please, that’d be great!”

  Friends.

  11

  Memory Telephone

  Jayne dropped Marion off outside the vet clinic then showed Adrienne the narrow opening in the edge of the forest that led to Ashburn Walk before driving them into the town’s centre.

  “I’d offer to take you out for a coffee or something,” she said sheepishly, “but I begged Jerry to cover for me at the utilities centre so that I could come and see Ashburn. I really need to get back before the end of my shift, but maybe another time?”

  “Yeah, I’d love that.” Adrienne unbuckled her seatbelt as Jayne eased the car into an empty parking space. “Give me a call when—oh, wait, I don’t know Ashburn’s number. I don’t suppose you’d have a way to find it?”

  Jayne shook her head. “Actually, I’m pretty sure Ashburn doesn’t have a number. You might want to get a mobile. The coverage up there’s probably going to be dodgy, but putting in a landline would cost a small fortune.”

  “Oh, yeah, definitely.” Adrienne had cancelled her mobile rental the month before. She thought of the lone twenty-dollar bill living in her handbag and how many necessities were clamouring for its favour. A new phone will have to go on the buy-when-I’m-rich list. “Until then, visit anytime. You’re always welcome.”

  She slipped out of the car and waved as it eased back onto the main street. She waited until Jayne and her companions had turned the corner before looking at her surroundings.

  Ipson truly was tiny, she realised as she rotated in a circle and discovered she could see every shop in both directions. A hairdresser’s… the library… a couple of clothing stores… a second-hand store… a petrol station…

  She fixed on the convenience store not far from her drop-off spot. It was a charming, jumbled sort of shop with more stock than floor space. The shelves were stacked high and deep, and crates and pallets were strategically placed along the narrow aisles. The bell above the door rang as Adrienne entered, and she tried not to pay attention as the other shoppers turned to stare at her.

  Everyone here must know each other. She picked up a basket from the stack beside the door and tried not to look as self-conscious as she felt. I must stick out like a peacock in a pigeon display.

  She edged into the closest aisle and tried to make sense of its order. Dusting cloths were stacked next to the biscuits, and a little beyond them sat a crate of fresh apples. Is it arranged alphabetically or something?

  “Need any help, dear?”

  The voice was so unexpected that Adrienne jumped. She swivelled and tried to smile at the plump woman with steel-grey hair and a chin that dimpled when she smiled. The name tag pinned to her faded blue blouse introduced her as June Thompson, co-manager.

  “Yeah, thank you. I’m just looking for your cat food.”

  June’s smile widened, and bunches of wrinkles formed around her eyes. “’Course you are, honey. Just this way.”

  Adrienne tried not to notice how June kept shooting her furtive glances as she led her into an aisle that held, among other oddities, tinned beetroot, Chinese finger traps, and watering cans. “Right here, sweetheart. We have a couple of brands. Own a cat, do you?”

  “A huge one.” Adrienne glanced between the bags. They didn’t have the brand Wolfgang preferred, so she picked up one and began examining the ingredients list. She was prepared to compromise on a lot of things, but her cat’s protein intake wasn’t one of them. “He’s got the appetite of a lion.”

  “How sweet. I’ve got dogs myself.” June tapped her manicured nails on the edge of the shelf, a shining example of indifference, then swivelled towards Adrienne and blurted the questions she’d clearly been trying to repress. “You moved into Ashburn House, didn’t you? Is it true there’s bloodstains all over the walls?”

  That set the tone for the rest of her shopping expedition. June, who appeared to be one of the town’s biggest gossips, was desperately curious about the house on the hill. For her part, Adrienne was able to glean fresh nuggets of knowledge about her great-aunt. Apparently, Edith had done all of her shopping in that grocery store. “She never went anywhere else,” June said proudly. “Not even the hairdresser. I’d guess her hair must have been down to her thighs at least, but she always bundled it up on top of her head, so it’s hard to know.”

  “Did you talk to her much?” Adrienne asked while trying to calculate how many cups of instant noodles would push her over her budget.

  “Ooh, no, not at all.” June’s expression fell, and she shook her head sadly, her grey perm swishing with the motion. “Not for want of trying, I promise you. She never talked to anyone except to complain if we didn’t have the papers in yet. She bought the paper every day, you see. The rest of her shopping seemed to be on whims—some days she’d get vegetables, other days biscuits, or sometimes just a carton of eggs—but she always, without fail, bought the paper.”

  Adrienne poked around the story of the Ashburn family’s deaths as discreetly as she could but was disappointed to find June knew even less about it than Beth.

  “That must’ve been close to a hundred years back, sweetheart.” They were checking out by that point, June scanning the items at a glacial speed to prolong the conversation. “I heard there was a big police investigation, but I don’t think anyone went to jail over it. I don’t know of anyone who remembers the story now. It’s like that game the kids play—telephone, I think it’s called. One person tells their friend the story, maybe embellishes a tiny bit or forgets some details. That friend then passes their own version on to someone else, and so on, until it’s thoroughly garbled. By this point, anything you hear is probably going to be just as much myth as fact.”

  Adrienne was pausing to admire how insightful this was when June leaned closer, the back of one hand pressed bes
ide her mouth, and stage whispered, “Though if you’re curious, I’m partial to Stephen’s version where the Ashburns had a second child they kept locked in the attic, and the little darling went insane and killed them in their sleep.”

  “Oh, wow.” Adrienne tried to think of an appropriate way to respond to that. “Uh… wow. That sounds awful.”

  “Sure does. Twenty-one ninety-three. Thanks, honey.”

  Adrienne froze as she heard the total, her twenty-dollar note already held towards the checkout. Heat flooded her face. “Oh, uh, better take a couple of the noodles off—”

  “Never mind that.” June took the money with a grandmotherly smile and pushed the paper bags towards Adrienne. “Welcome to Ipson, honey. I hope you like it here.”

  I think I will. Spouting awkward thanks, Adrienne took her bags and backed out of the store. The bell jingled at her exit, and once again, glances were shot her way. She knew many of the shoppers had followed her and June around the store, staying an aisle over or lingering a few feet behind, and listened in on the conversation. But the attention didn’t feel as unwelcome as Adrienne would have expected it to. It wasn’t hostile, and she wasn’t being excluded from the tiny community. Instead, she felt sucked into its embrace.

  Keeping that happy thought at the front of her mind, Adrienne made a point of nodding and smiling at anyone who made eye contact with her on the walk towards the woods. Most smiled in return, and a few greeted her. Only a couple—mostly wide-eyed children—gawked.

  The main street was short, and there was only a brief row of residential properties between it and where the mountainside collided with the flats. She followed Jayne’s directions for locating Ashburn Walk—just beyond the blue house with the tyre swing in the front yard—and was soon stepping into the trees’ shadows.

  The dirt path was narrow. It looked as though it didn’t have any regular maintenance but was kept clear of grass and plants simply by virtue of being used twice each day. It took a few twists around large trunks but was mostly straight. As the crow flies, Jayne had said. Sure enough, in the infrequent moments when the trees thinned enough for her to see through their boughs, Ashburn always loomed ahead. Only the roof was visible, but the dark wood and its remaining flecks of grey-white paint were impossible to overlook. Ashburn had a presence, she realised, which had probably helped cement its identity as a local fascination. It didn’t just look like a house but like a living entity crouched on the hill, glowering over the occupants below.