The Summoning: A gripping psychological thriller (Secrets of Redemption Book 4)

by Michele PW (Pariza Wacek)

  I scooped up the ice cream. “I have no idea.” I added the ice cream to her plate and took it out to her.

  She thanked me, but she was staring out the window, her eyes distant. I glanced up myself and thought I saw Maude trundling by with her ever-present shopping cart.

  I fetched the coffee pot to refill her cup, which was already smeared with her too-pink lipstick, and took the opportunity to study her more closely. Claire was right; she was thin. Her tunic was quite loose, and her cheeks were starting to hollow out.

  I went back into the kitchen. “Fred, can you pack up one of your famous roast beef sandwiches to go?”

  Fred rolled his eyes. “Helen Blackstone doesn’t need your charity.”

  “Oh hush,” Claire said, winking at me. “One sandwich won’t hurt.”

  Fred grunted, but packed up the sandwich. I noticed he added an extra helping of fries.

  I took it out to Helen, who was just finishing up. She glanced up at me and noticed the white Styrofoam box. “Oh, no dear. I don’t need a box.”

  I placed it on the table. “It’s a little something for your dinner. On the house.”

  “Oh,” she said. She appeared flustered, like she wasn’t sure how to respond. A drop of ice cream trailed down her chin. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know you don’t come into town a lot, so I thought it would be nice for you to have a treat.”

  “Well, that’s really sweet of you,” she said, reaching over for her purse. “Why don’t you come over later and let me thank you with a tour of the house?”

  “That’s really not necessary,” I said. “I was happy to do it.”

  “Nonsense,” she said, painfully pulling her wallet out of her purse. “I insist. When are you off?”

  “I really ...”

  “Oh, come now,” she said, tut tutting me before leaning forward and saying in a mock whisper, “You want to see a real live ghost, don’t you?”

  I paused. There was no question I wanted to see the house. Badly. But, for her to invite me like this? Something wasn’t adding up.

  “You don’t even know me,” I said. “And speaking of not knowing me, didn’t you ask for me?”

  She waved a gnarled hand at me. “We can talk all about that when you come over. We need to have a proper conversation when you aren’t working. Would tonight work, or is tomorrow better?”

  “Tomorrow,” I said, relenting. Working a double today would likely mean a late night. “I can be there late afternoon, by about four? Or maybe five,” I added, remembering I didn’t have a car. It was too far to walk, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend money on a cab, so I would have to figure out another way.

  Helen beamed. “Perfect. I’ll have the water on to make you a proper cup of tea.”

  “I’ll bring some dinner for us, then,” I offered.

  “You really don’t ...”

  “I insist,” I said. “And I look forward to your tea.”

  “Dinner it is,” she said, laying a twenty on the table.

  “I’ll get you your change,” I said, picking it up, but she shook her head. “No, it’s all for you. For making an old woman’s day.” She gritted her teeth as she slowly worked her way out of the booth.

  I quickly helped her up, wondering if I should bring her change anyhow, but she simply smiled and shuffled out the door.

  For a moment, I just stood there, watching her go.

  I was going to get a tour of the Witch House.

  I didn’t know if I should be excited or terrified.

  Or both.

  Chapter 12

  “Come in, come in,” Helen said, her face glowing with delight as she held open the screen door for me.

  I gave Claire a quick wave before stepping inside. She was so excited about my “visit” that she offered to drive me there and back, just as long as I told her everything.

  As I stepped over the threshold, I could see the signs of age and neglect on the house. Paint was flecking off the porch, and loose boards creaked when I stepped on them. Standing inside, in what I assume was the living room, I noticed a thin layer of dust coating the end tables and various bric-a-brac. The hardwood floors were dull and stained. A vase of dried flowers was browning at the tips. The house even smelled musty and old. I could feel my heart breaking as I looked around. In its prime, it must have been quite the showpiece. Now it appeared to be slowly sinking into decay.

  But despite all of that, I could feel myself start to relax. It felt so ... natural, to be there. Like I belonged.

  “Oh, let me take that into the kitchen,” Helen said, gesturing at the two white Styrofoam boxes I held.

  “It’s fine, I can do it,” I said. “In fact, maybe we can start in the kitchen?”

  She led me down a short hallway to an enormous farm kitchen complete with a round butcher block table. Huge windows covered one wall that looked out to a wild, unkept garden.

  “Wow, this is amazing,” I said, putting the boxes down on the stained counter. The appliances were old, and one cupboard door hung askew, the hinge broken, but I could see how amazing it would be to cook in. If I could cook, of course.

  “Yes, this is my favorite room in the house,” Helen said, her voice a little sad. “I love nothing better than to sit in here, drinking my tea, and looking at my garden. It’s a bit drafty in the winter, but I’ve found if I stuff the bottom of the windows with rags, it keeps a lot of the cold out.”

  “I’m really impressed,” I said, moving to the window to take a closer look outside at the glorious, colorful, chaotic jungle of a garden. Even though it was still early in the growing season, it was obviously out of control.

  “Ah, yes. My garden was my life,” Helen said, joining me at the window. “I wasn’t able to do much with it these past couple of years, as you can probably tell.” She held up her twisted, painful-looking hands. “It’s tough getting old and not being able to do the things you love anymore. But, enough about me. We still have a whole house to see.”

  She shuffled through a door on the right that led to a dining room complete with a massive antique table. “My father brought it from Chicago. It was a wedding present to my mother,” she said, keeping her eyes straight ahead as she walked past it. This room had more dust, and I could even see dead insects in the corner. I wondered when Helen had last walked through the dining room, much less cleaned it.

  Next, there was a smaller, den-like room with a worn, green couch and a small black-and-white television that led back around to the living room. It was clear Helen used that room quite a bit as there weren’t signs of neglect like in the dining room, which made me wonder if she went the long way through the living room every time she went to the kitchen. It didn’t make much sense to me to have two small rooms, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she had ever considered removing the wall between them to turn it into one big comfy family room, instead.

  There was also a laundry/mud room off the side of the kitchen and a small bathroom (that was more like a powder room) off of the living room.

  Upstairs, there were four bedrooms and two full baths. There was also a huge room in the attic that Helen told me was originally the servant’s quarters.

  I was in love. As I walked through every room, I found myself imagining how it would look with a fresh coat of paint, new flooring, and a deep cleaning. I could see exactly what needed to be done, and it could be spectacular.

  Of course, it was all just a pipe dream. There was no way I could settle down here. Not without Alan knowing where I was. At least not at the moment.

  After the tour, Helen took me back to the kitchen for tea before dinner. The rays from the late afternoon sun were slanting in the windows, which simultaneously made the kitchen cozier but also highlighted the dust motes dancing in the air.

  I had brought a fish fry—lake perch—along with f
ries and coleslaw. Helen seemed delighted with my choice. “Oh, it’s been a long time since I had a good old-fashioned fish fry,” she said.

  I offered to help, but she waved me off, claiming she could handle it and I should relax. “So, what do you think of the house?” she asked, fussing with the tea pot.

  “It’s lovely,” I answered honestly.

  She glanced up, a faraway look in her eyes. “Yes, it is.”

  I waited for her to say something else, but she seemed lost in thought. As I contemplated breaking the silence, she gave herself a quick shake, carefully picked up the pot, and brought it to the table, which she had already laid out with cups, saucers, sugar, and milk. The dishes were in a delicate china pattern of old-fashioned pink roses with gold rims.

  I insisted on pouring the tea, which smelled both sweet and spicy. “It’s my own blend,” she said as she watched me carefully handle the fragile pot. “One of my favorites. I’ll miss it.”

  I took a sip and was surprised by how much I liked it. I had never been a big fan of tea before. “What do you mean, you’ll ‘miss it’?”

  She gave me a sad smile. “Alas, I’m almost out of herbs to make my teas. Plus, my tea-making days are really behind me.” She stretched out her hands. “Just like my cleaning and repair days. This house is just too big and needs too much work for me to keep it up.”

  “Are you thinking about moving?”

  She nodded. “I found a nice assisted living apartment in Milwaukee. It would be perfect.”

  I shifted uneasily in my seat. She couldn’t be ... no. That would be too weird. “It sounds great,” I said.

  She sighed. “Yes. I would miss this place, but it’s time. All that’s left is for me to sell it.”

  “I’m sure there’s someone who wouldn’t mind living in a haunted house,” I joked. “Speaking of which, I thought you promised me ghosts?”

  She smiled, but it seemed forced. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right … this place is fairly famous. But I need to find the right owner. Someone who will cherish it as much as I do.” She paused and looked me straight in the eye. “Someone like you.”

  The teacup slipped from my hand, clattering on the saucer and spilling hot liquid everywhere, including on my hand. I winced, shaking it.

  “Oh, let me get you a cold washcloth,” Helen said, starting to get up from her chair. Waving her back, I said, “I can do it. I should be the one to clean it up. I’m so sorry about that. I think your cup is fine.”

  “It’s from my mother,” she said. Her voice still with that far-away tone. “I rarely use it.”

  I paused as I ran cold water over my hand. “Oh, I didn’t mean ...”

  “It’s too nice for just me,” she interrupted. “I thought it would be nice to bring out the good china for company.”

  I soaked a washcloth, wondering if I dared bring up what I was wondering ... what everyone in the town was wondering. How could she live in the house where her mother murdered a maid and then killed herself?

  Maybe by hiding her mother’s antique china, and avoiding the dining room with the antique table, and anything else that reminded her of her mother.

  “Did you know that there was a time in my life when I had no intentions of ever setting foot in Redemption?” Helen asked as I returned to the table, cloth in hand, to mop up the tea.

  “No. I thought you’ve never left.”

  Helen grimaced. “Well, it was a long time ago. Aren’t too many people around anymore who would remember. But Redemption is a difficult mistress. Once she decides she wants you, there’s no getting away.” She gave me a sharp glance. “I presume you’ve heard the stories?”

  I concentrated on the teacup, examining it for any chips or cracks. “Yes.”

  “But you don’t believe them.” It was a statement, not a question.

  I eyed her. “It does seem ... fanciful. A town deciding who stays and who doesn’t.”

  She bobbed her head. “You asked me why I went looking for you,” she said. My hand stilled, and I was having trouble breathing.

  She leaned forward. “It was because I knew you were coming.”

  It was all I could do to not drop the delicate cup again. Instead, I intentionally set it down carefully. “How?”

  She gave me a flat smile. “I dream, too.”

  I gasped. The sun flickered, and I thought I saw something shift behind her eyes.

  Something that seemed not ... quite ... right.

  But it was gone just as quickly, leaving me wondering if I had simply imagined it.

  “Anyway,” she said, her voice brisk. “It was a little over a year ago when my hands took a turn for the worse, so I knew the time was coming. I started researching facilities. When I found this one, I immediately got on a waiting list, and wouldn’t you know? They called this week.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” I said, wondering if I should try and circle back to the dream comment. Or did I even want to know?

  She picked up her teacup, her hands trembling slightly. “I need to let them know pretty quickly if I’m going to take it, or they’ll move me back to the bottom of the waiting list, which I of course don’t want to happen. It took almost a year just to get this call.”

  “You definitely should take it,” I said. “It’s not like you have to be here to sell your house, right? A realtor could take care of that for you.”

  She took a sip of her tea and slowly lowered the cup with a gentle clink. “A realtor could,” she said. “But it would be better if I didn’t own any property when I sign the contract. Otherwise, it could get ... messy. Legally.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She sighed. “It’s complicated, but basically, I can live there for the rest of my life. They’ll take care of food, my medical needs, and everything else, but in return, I have to sign over all my assets. So, I really need to sell my house before I sign the contract.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. There was no way I could buy it. Even if I could somehow get the money without Alan finding out, my sister would likely tell him exactly where I was under some misguided idea of “helping.”

  A black blur caught my eye, and I turned to the window.

  It was a black cat.

  My blood froze. Suddenly, I was thrust back into my dream.

  And so it begins.

  Helen clapped delightedly. “Midnight! There you are. And look, you brought home a gift.” She heaved herself out of her chair and shuffled toward the laundry area.

  Midnight? Gift?

  The cat glanced at her before turning to fix its dark-green eyes on me. Something dangled from its mouth … something that looked suspiciously like a baby rabbit.

  “Yoo hoo, Midnight,” Helen called from the door. The cat gave me one final stare before trotting toward the door.

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  Why was there a black cat here?

  What was going on?

  “Leave it. Midnight, leave it,” I heard Helen say before the sound of the door closing. “My word, Midnight. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

  Midnight padded into the kitchen and sat down right in front of me. Helen continued to shuffle along behind him. “A baby rabbit. Can you believe it? If I could garden, that would actually be helpful—one less rabbit eating my plants. But now, it doesn’t really matter.”

  The cat’s green eyes never wavered. Of course it was a rabbit. Of course.

  It’s time for you to choose.

  “Oh, look at that! Midnight likes you,” Helen exclaimed, coming into the kitchen. “That’s wonderful to see. I obviously won’t be able to take him with me.”

  A storm is coming. Beware.

  I stood up so suddenly, I knocked my chair over with a clatter. Midnight darted backwards a few steps.

  “I have
to go,” I said, through numb lips.

  Helen looked surprised. “What do you mean? We haven’t had dinner yet.”

  I scooped up my purse and straightened my chair. My hands were shaking so badly the chair rattled. “I know, but there’s plenty for you. You can have leftovers.”

  “But Charlie,” Helen said, bewildered. “We still have things to discuss.”

  I shook my head as I backed away from the table. “I can’t stay. I have to go.”

  “Charlie,” Helen called, but I had already turned and was striding as fast as I could toward the door.

  “Charlie!”

  I reached the front door and started fumbling with the locks, desperate to open it and get out of the house.

  “Charlie,” Helen said again, her voice slightly out of breath. “Listen to me. This house is meant to be yours. I know it, and you know it. Running away isn’t going to change anything.”

  This is her destiny. You and I both know it. She has to see it through. No matter how painful.

  The lock appeared to be stuck. No matter how much I twisted it, it wouldn’t budge. “I can’t,” I said. “Even if I wanted to buy it, I can’t.”

  I could hear Helen’s footsteps thudding against the wooden floor. “Why? What’s stopping you?”

  “Money, for one,” I said, grunting as I fought with the lock, attacking it with a vengeance. My hands were slippery with sweat, which made it even more tricky. “I don’t have a job. What I’m doing at Aunt May’s doesn’t even count, so there’s no way I could qualify for a mortgage.” This wasn’t exactly true, seeing as how I did have my trust fund.

  But I didn’t want to share the real reason.

  “Money isn’t an issue,” Helen said. “We can work something out. I don’t need the money right now. I just need to sell the house ...”

  “I can’t!” My voice was louder than I intended it, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. Panic clawed in my chest like a small rodent. Why couldn’t I unlock the door? Why couldn’t I get out? I was having trouble breathing again. Everything felt like it was closing in on me as the room became smaller and smaller. My side where the scar was forming was on fire. I whirled around to face Helen. “I just can’t. Okay? I’m only still here because my car is being repaired. As soon as it is, I’m gone. Do you understand?”