What he did next was unexpected. “Another thing. The first time I did this, to Fiona, she kept hitting the wall from the inside. Until she died, she kept pawing at the inside of the wall, see? It was terrible to hear. I don't want you doing that, but in the off chance that those pills don't take you in a hurry, I need to do something.”
That was when he brought out the hammer.
I won't describe the pain I felt as he took the hammer to my knees and elbows, effectively pulverizing them. Suffice it to say that every blow dragged me back into full wakefulness until death by respiratory failure seemed an enviable alternative. When Weiss was through, sweat dripping from his long nose and his breathing almost as ragged as mine, my limbs had been rendered useless. Even if I survived this, had them casted immediately, my joints would never be the same.
Hauling my limp body further, the towering man heaved me up and into the opening in the wall. I landed with a thud, the darkness fast-encroaching. When he'd massaged my battered limbs into position so that they weren't in the way, he trudged over to some boxes and found my pillow. He slit the thing open with a utility knife and grabbed up as much of the cottony stuffing as he could hold. This, he proceeded to stuff into my mouth, and then into my ears, explaining, “I'm sorry for this. I'm hopping that by sealing you up this way the voices will be silenced. Maybe dampened, at least. God help whoever enters this house next. I'm doing everything I can to make sure you're never found. That the voices can't escape you. I pray it works.” He packed the stuffing into my ears with a screwdriver, and I heard no more.
When I was aware of my surroundings, I was accosted by terrible pains from every quadrant. When I was not, there was only a soothing darkness. A darkness that looked more and more appealing as the minutes passed.
Now, Weiss was measuring the opening. Now, he was cutting one of my leftover sheets of drywall to size, and pressing it into the hole. It shook as he taped it into place. I couldn't hear, but I felt my surroundings vibrate as he began applying drywall compound, as he shifted his weight, as he spoke close to the new wall and his voice reverberated off of it.
He'd worked slowly all the while, but from the dark space behind the wall I could see that he'd done a very fine job. Age had robbed him of speed, but not of his skill. I was impressed with his technique.
There was no sound. There was no light. There was very little air, and more often than not, my tired lungs refused to fully expand. The pain faded; my limbs were filled with throbbing warmth. Eventually, I don't know how much time passed, the vibrations stopped, too. That meant Weiss had left.
I was alone.
And then I remembered that, from the moment I'd first walked into it, I'd never actually been alone in the house. Something like a laugh emerged from the pit of my stomach at this realization, and all of the cold, shadowed bodies pressed into the space around me laughed as well, like they were in on the joke.
Forty-Three
I'm walking up the stairs.
Light gushes in through every window. It makes the wood floor look slick with melted gold. The boards have been oiled recently. They look like new.
I'm drawn into the hallway. There are voices, calm and polite. Happy, even. Someone laughs about a joke, but I don't hear it. I'm in the hallway, which is a nice shade of eggshell white now. The trim is different, too.
No locks on the doors.
The big room at the end of the hall, nearest the bathroom; I step into it and find my way to the window, which glows with fiery sunlight.
There's no crack in the glass anymore.
Birds flutter by the window as I glance out into the yard. The road is black and looks to be baking in the sun. I can smell the freshly-laid asphalt from here. I remember summer. The grass has been trimmed back. There are hearty-looking peonies in a planter just below the window, and in the sun their pink petals look about to combust.
The Callery pear sways. The flowers are less white this year, more yellowish.
There's a girl standing beneath its blossoms, and she's looking up at me through the window. Blonde braid, pink jumper, pinker cheeks. She's shading her eyes from the sun, staring upward.
Then she's gone.
The Callery pear's scent rides the breeze.
I can't believe I ever disliked it.
This was the third showing of the day. The realtor stressed this point. “The offers are going to come pouring in any minute,” she told the couple. “There's a lot of interest in this neighborhood, and I think you can see why.”
“No doubt,” said the husband. “But there's something I'd like to know. This isn't a new construction, is it?”
“No, it was built in 1975,” replied the realtor.
“Was it empty like all of the other ones?” inquired the wife. “I mean... how long did it sit empty? That kind of makes me nervous, you know? What if it was used as a drug den? How have the bones held up?”
“Well, to be honest with you, this is the only house the developers were able to salvage in the whole lot. It's been empty about ten years. I don't have much information on the last owner. He was a younger man, and I think he put some work into the house. Frankly, his work may have gone a long way towards preserving it these past ten years. Unfortunately, he abandoned it. The State reacquired it, and then the development company bought it—along with the rest of these lots on Morgan Road—for a steal. They decided this house was worth fixing, and I'm glad they did. It has so much charm, doesn't it?”
The husband paced into the living room. “Absolutely. It looks brand new! I never would have expected that it was abandoned.” He knocked on one of the walls, grinning. “It's held up great. Why did the last owner stop fixing it up? Any idea?”
“Hard to say,” replied the realtor. “Possibly he didn't recognize its potential. Back then, the neighborhood had been in a disarray, barely hanging on. But the development project has been going on for the past two years, and in that short time, things have really turned around, as you can see. ” She led them into the kitchen, pressing a hand to the breast of her blazer in mock adoration. “Oh, and have you seen this kitchen? The cabinetry is real wood—stained hickory.” She drummed her fingers against the cabinets. “It's timeless.”
The wife beamed, pacing through the kitchen. “It is lovely. I can't believe how much care has gone into the renovation. And it's so spacious!” She turned to her husband. “There's actual counter space here. A lot more room for the coffee maker, chopping vegetables...” She laughed. “I'm still surprised that this falls into our price range.”
The front door flew open. Tiny footfalls filled the house as the daughter raced inside. Pausing in the kitchen beside the trio of adults, she cleared her throat and tapped the realtor's arm.
“Yes, sweetheart?” asked the realtor, peering out the kitchen window. “Did you like the yard? It's spacious, isn't it? And isn't that a lovely tree?” She spared the parents a glance. “An ornamental tree of that kind usually costs a lot of money. It's gorgeous.”
The girl spent only a moment sharing her thoughts on the tree. “It smells funny,” she declared. With that admission out of the way, she asked the question that had brought her into the house to begin with. “Who is that man in the window?”
The realtor smirked, glanced at the girl's parents. “Man in the window?”
The girl nodded. “In the upstairs window. I was outside, by the tree, and I looked up. There was a man in the window. His mouth was full of cotton. He looked very sad.” She frowned. “And kind of scary.”
The adults in the room had a good laugh.
“A man with cotton in his mouth?” asked the realtor. “I can't say I've seen anyone like that roaming around, but I'll make sure to keep an eye out.” She looked back to the girl's parents, fanning herself with her hand. “Though, on the subject of cotton mouth, I could really use a cool drink. Do you have plans for lunch? If not, I'd love to take you to the Mexican restaurant down the road. They make the best margaritas in town.”
�
�Oh, that sounds amazing,” said the wife.
The realtor fished the keys from her pocket and led them back to the front door. “It's within walking distance, actually. They've got a kid's menu, too..”
The group started onto the newly-paved sidewalk, heading in the direction of town. Before leading everyone to the restaurant, the realtor had paused at the Callery pear, glancing into each of the windows.
There was nothing to be seen in any of them.
She laughed to herself. Of course there wasn't. The little girl had been mistaken, or else goofing off. A man with a mouth full of cotton—what a strange thing to imagine!
No, the house was empty.
But if she had her say, it wouldn't stay that way for long. “If you'd like to put in an offer, I'd be happy to draw up the paperwork after the meal,” she told the prospective buyers, much to their delight.
Thank You For Reading!
I hope you've enjoyed The House of Long Shadows. If you'd like to read the next installment in the House of Souls series, Malefic, you can find it here:
House of Souls volume 2 on Amazon
Please consider leaving a review for this book. Your reviews are invaluable to me; they help me to hone my craft and help new readers find my books.
Subscribe to Ambrose Ibsen's newsletter here:
http://eepurl.com/bovafj
About the Author
Once upon a time, a young Ambrose Ibsen discovered a collection of ghost stories on his father's bookshelf. He was never the same again.
Apart from horror fiction, he enjoys good coffee, brewed strong.
https://ambroseibsen.com/
The House of Long Shadows Page 26