Falling Into Forever

by Delancey Stewart

  What a weird day.

  “Let’s go check out the haunted house!” Daniel practically yelled, bounding to the door. “This is awesome.”

  We headed back outside and without deciding out loud, the three of us began walking toward the end of the town center, where 54 Maple Lane sat dark and foreboding behind its iron gates on the hill.

  6

  ‘Effin Creepy

  Addison

  We walked together past the town square and up the hill that led to 54 Maple Street. As we got closer to the dilapidated iron gates that stood sheltered under the heavy drapery of neglected trees, I could see the old house standing beyond, quiet and still in the midst of the old overgrown property.

  A strange little thrill went through me as I turned over the idea that this was my house. I’d thought I had a house in New York—an apartment, actually—but it had never really been mine. It had been Luke’s, and he’d decided to sell it without even consulting me. As a newly homeless individual, owning a house, even a dilapidated creepy house, was a big deal. But still, none of this made any sense at all. And I didn’t know the first thing about home improvement. Michael didn’t seem hesitant though.

  The house was a Victorian, with a turret and a sweep of front porch that made me wish I could remember it better from my childhood. Today, it was gray and sad looking, with dark windows—some of which held cracked glass—and an eerie stillness hanging around it.

  I didn’t remember ever being inside, though Mom said that I had spent a summer here when she opened The Muffin Tin—that Mrs. Easter had watched me and a few other kids from town. Including Michael. Mom said the house was somewhat dilapidated even then, and that Mrs. Easter moved out right after that summer, taking a smaller cottage in town. And since then, this place had sat empty—thirty years of neglect, and probably many more before that. There was no way a woman on her own—especially one in her sixties as Mrs. Easter would have been then—could handle all the maintenance required by a place like this.

  Owning a home was something I’d imagined lots of times. But in none of my fantasies did the house sit, dark and foreboding, up on an overgrown hill behind a set of iron gates, and neither did my fantasy include any members of the Tucker clan. Luke, maybe. Although I was coming to see that there had been a lot of red flags in my relationship with Luke, and we were probably never headed in the direction of joint home ownership. Not really.

  “Wow,” I heard myself breathe as we stood outside the gates, looking into the vine-covered yard.

  “Yeah,” Michael said behind me. His voice was low, almost trepidatious.

  Daniel, on the other hand, was practically giddy. “Let me see that key, Dad.”

  As the boy fit the huge iron key into the rusty lock on the gate, Michael and I stared up at the old house, side by side. Having him at my shoulder made me feel a little better about approaching the house I’d thought of for so long as haunted and foreboding. Even if he was a Tucker, Michael was sturdy and strong. He wouldn’t let anything happen to us, and especially to his son. I wasn’t really scared, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to stay close to Dan as we checked out the place.

  The house had been beautiful once, I could see that much. Three stories rose up from what might have once been lovingly tended gardens and a manicured lawn. The paint appeared a weathered and peeling grey now, but it might once have been lavender, with white trim and sage accents. The huge porch that spanned the front and one side of the house was grand, I thought, and I could almost imagine early townspeople resting there in rocking chairs, fanning themselves against the humid Maryland summers.

  Daniel worked the lock, and after a moment, the gate opened inward with a groan I felt inside my bones.

  What were we doing? Was this really ours?

  Walking across the overgrown lawn of the house I’d always thought of as haunted felt a lot like trespassing, or tempting fate, at least. As we wound our way up what had once been a flagstone path to the front steps, the sun slipped behind gray clouds overhead and a distant rumble of thunder rolled in warning.

  “Shit,” Michael breathed, and his voice was so low, I wondered if he’d meant to speak out loud.

  “Dude,” Daniel practically sang with glee. “This is so effin’ creepy!”

  “Language,” came Michael’s stern reply.

  “Dad, I said—”

  “We heard you. I don’t want to hear it again.”

  I smiled, despite the creepy ambiance. Michael was clearly a good dad, and Daniel obviously respected him. I envied them a little. Like home ownership, I had kind of thought I was destined for parenthood at some point. I didn’t think people left children in trusts though, so my chances were probably pretty slim.

  You could almost hear Dan’s eye roll at his dad’s reprimand, but he was too busy creeping his way up the front steps, wisely testing each to see if it might be rotted, to reply.

  “You think this place is safe?” I asked, eyeing a hole in one of the risers skeptically. It was so shadowed beneath the overhang of the broad front porch that it was dark as night. I glanced back toward the iron gates behind us, part of me longing for the sunlight and open spaces of the town that felt centuries away now. A little chill ran through me.

  “Wouldn’t they have had to check it before she could pass it on? Make sure it shouldn’t be condemned instead?” Michael asked.

  I thought about that. He was probably right, it must be at least structurally safe. But could I actually live here? I was scared just standing on the front porch—I’d always been a little on the jumpy side. I did not see myself living here for six months just to sell the place. Though it would be a relief to get out of my mother’s house. I loved her, but Lottie Tanner had a way of suffocating people with attention. It was one of the reasons I’d gone to New York in the first place.

  But my life in New York seemed to be over for now. Since Luke had sold the apartment, I was homeless, and though I had a bit of money saved up, it wasn’t enough to buy a place, or even put down the deposit on a rental.

  We stepped carefully across the dusty old porch, which was scattered with pine needles and fallen leaves from the trees that grew dense around the upper floors of the house.

  “Ready?” Daniel asked us, key poised in the lock of the enormous front door.

  An ominous dread swept through me, and something made me swing my gaze to the front window. As soon as my eyes hit the darkened glass, I thought I saw something move just behind it, but it was so shadowy and dim it was impossible to tell. “Did you see that?” I asked Michael, my voice a whisper now.

  He looked at me, his eyebrows drawn low over those blue eyes, and then turned to follow my gaze to the window. “Oh yeah, the crack there? That’s leaded glass, too. It’d be expensive to replace.”

  I decided not to let him in on my paranoia and nodded my head. Yeah, that’s right. I was talking about the cost of repairs. Not the creepy thing I saw move in the window of our new house. Our hundred and fifty year old haunted new house.

  “Go ahead, Dan.” Michael put a hand on his son’s shoulder.

  The lock turned and Daniel gripped the handle, pushing the front door open with a low grinding sound as the bottom of the door departed the debris-strewn threshold.

  “Holy,” came Dan’s voice as he stepped inside.

  The entryway was a wide low space, with a stairway at one side just past a door, a long hallway extending before us, and a fireplace on the other wall. The old wood floor was covered in dried leaves and dirt, and the walls were dingy and smeared. Still, you could see the grandeur beneath—the high dark wood moldings, the built-in bench that might have held visitors as they removed outer things and came to warm their hands at the entry fire.

  “Who puts a fireplace by the front door?” Daniel asked, shaking his head as if those old Victorians were just too stupid for words.

  “I guess they wanted to give guests a warm welcome,” Michael said, grinning.

  Dad jokes. Huh. I smiled at
Michael behind his son’s shaking head. I hadn’t heard one in a long time, and something about the boy’s feigned disgust at the corny joke was charming. They were cute together, this man and his son. And despite the tension that I figured was natural whenever a pre-teen was in that stretch for independence while still under the guiding thumb of a parent, I could tell there was a deep fierce affection between them.

  A tiny spark of excitement filled me as I gazed around me. I’d always loved old houses, and especially loved seeing them decorated and shined up. I collected design magazines and had even fancied myself a bit of a decorator, though Luke had taken charge of decorating our New York place. And his taste, if you asked me, was essentially non-existent. He mixed centuries and styles, creating a mess that he referred to as eclectic. For a split second, before I recognized that the entire idea was ludicrous, I imagined myself getting to decorate this house. But I was not going to go through with this. It was crazy.

  We turned right, into the room that occupied the rounded sweep of the turret we’d seen from the front. Another fireplace sat in this room, and though there was a terrible jagged hole in one wall, the space was charming. I could picture it repaired and glowing with a warm fire, someone wrapped up on the couch, sipping tea by those big windows.

  “The parlor?” Michael mused.

  Wallpaper hung from the wall in tatters, and one low upholstered chaise sat in the middle of the room. There was a wooden door at the back of this room that hung at a diagonal—meant to slide into the wall around it to reveal a dining room behind. We walked through, each of us quietly gazing around us. Something about the air was thick and heavy, and whatever it was forestalled conversation or commentary for now. The sun seemed to have come back out, and light streamed in through high windows on one side of the room. A massive dining table sat in the center of the space, no chairs around it.

  As we entered the space, a long low screeching whine came from the back of the house, and my heart gunned out a machine-gun rhythm as my breath caught in my throat. I turned my head in the direction of the sound.

  “What was that?” I asked, unable to keep the fear from my voice as the sun fizzled again outside. There was something very eerie and ghostly inside this house. I decided I absolutely wouldn’t want to be here alone.

  I followed Michael through the side door and back into the entry hallway, one hand on his arm. I didn’t know the man, and he probably hated me, but holding onto something strong was my only option for not freaking out completely, and his arm felt solid and strong under my touch. He didn’t say anything about it, and I tightened my grip.

  The kitchen lay just behind the dining room, a long space with a broad work table in its center, a hefty chandelier dangling just above it. The stove sat on one wall, cast iron and sturdy, and it was flanked by built in cabinetry. One corner held a small table with benches built into the walls behind it, and a back door led into a utility room with a pantry to one side that held floor to ceiling shelving with a collection of old canned goods still waiting for someone to pick one up. My heart twisted a bit—this space would be amazing if we could modernize it but hang on to the Victorian charm. I knew exactly how I’d do it—antique copper tile on the ceiling, shiny subway tile for the backsplash and a huge apron front farm sink beneath the window.

  The current sink sat beneath the window in the kitchen, and Michael went over to investigate the drip coming steadily from the spout. I released his arm, and warmth spread through me when Daniel took my other arm in its place. He gave me a reassuring smile. What a nice kid.

  Michael turned the cold water handle once, and a low steady groan came from the pipes, making me shiver. The sound was not the same as the screeching we’d heard. But I was willing to believe that had been the noise. Because otherwise . . . I didn’t want to consider it.

  “This needs some attention. Air trapped in the pipes probably,” he said, twisting the handle back the other way to turn the water off.

  “I think the whole place needs attention,” I said.

  “Upstairs?” Michael asked.

  I nodded, and Daniel dropped my arm and led the way as we passed through a sitting room on our way back to the stairs. I glanced at the window where I’d seen something move earlier, but there was nothing there now. A harsh breath escaped me, but it wasn’t relief. I’d definitely seen something.

  Upstairs we found four bedrooms and a single bathroom, along with a creepy staircase inside a closet that Michael said probably went up to the attic. I opted not to climb it, and Michael talked Daniel out of it.

  “We can do it next time,” he said.

  A little jolt went through me. Next time? So he was planning to go through with this? There was part of me that was thinking of the place as mine too, but I didn’t think the terms of the trust were going to work. No one could possibly live here. Could they? And I needed to make a plan to get back to New York. At the moment I’d thought I could work for Mom for a few weeks until I didn’t feel quite so desperate, and then maybe she could give me a loan for the apartment. Of course, if we did fix this place up and sell it, I wouldn’t need a loan. And I’d have enough to replenish the savings account that Luke had slowly squandered over our time together.

  But this house. Yikes.

  We spent a little time in the master bedroom, admiring the rounded sitting area inside the turret. The windows looked down over the gardens outside, and I could already imagine the little sitting area I’d make there, the overstuffed chair with its comfy throw, the ottoman. The room was better kept than the rest of the house, and I had a strange sensation there of invading someone’s privacy, of being in a space where I hadn’t been invited. Had Mrs. Easter slept in this room? Or did I feel the lingering presence of someone much older? I shivered.

  Finally, we let ourselves back out onto the porch, and I took in the huge sprawl of overgrown yard. We descended the steps and wandered through the weed-filled garden and I imagined it trimmed and well kempt. It could be beautiful. Maybe if Michael worried about the structural things inside the house, I could fix up the garden. There was a wrought iron bench at one edge of the space that was pretty clear, so we sat for a moment, Michael and me side by side as Daniel prowled the yard. It was strange in a way—we’d just sat down side by side as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And now, with Michael next to me, sitting so close, I had warring emotions suddenly bouncing around inside me. I hated him. He was a Tucker and that was what I’d been taught to do. But really, I didn’t hate him at all. I actually felt myself drawn to him, to his confidence, his warm but firm guidance of his son.

  “This is weird, right?” Michael said, one hand rubbing the stubble at his chin as he turned to look at me.

  I let my gaze trace his face—the cleft in his chin, the strong jaw, the hesitant smile—before landing on his deep blue eyes. “I think that’s a pretty significant understatement.”

  “What do you think we should do? I mean . . .”

  “Neither one of us planned for inheriting a worn-down house. Together.”

  “Yeah,” he chuckled. “So we could sell it, I guess.”

  “Except for that stipulation about having to live in it.” I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine living here. I’d never sleep. I’d lie there at night, waiting for whatever spectral thing lived there now to come whisper “red rum” in my ear or for Freddy to appear in my dreams as soon as I drifted off. This place was a horror movie waiting to happen.

  “It’s probably worth some money though, to the right buyer.” I could hear him considering it, his voice slow and thoughtful. He didn’t seem to be thinking about axe murderers or ghosts.

  “Right, but . . . It needs a lot of work.”

  He nodded. “If I live here for a bit and fix some things up, maybe you could move in second, and then, after a year we could sell.”

  I couldn’t imagine what I’d be doing next month, but I knew that in a year I was not going to be living in this creepy old house alone just so we could
sell it. If I was going to collect whatever we could get out of this place, it would have to be as quickly as possible. And there was no way I could live with Mom for another six months. I’d lose my mind while gaining thirty pounds in muffin fat. “I don’t think that will work. I’m not staying that long.”

  “Oh, right, sure.” He sounded disappointed, his gaze moving to the dark edges of the yard. “You have to get back to . . .”

  “New York. Work. My actual life.” Although not much of my actual life still existed. At least not the man, or the place to live. I wasn’t totally sure about my job.

  “Right. Of course.”

  We sat in silence for a long minute, each of us lost in thought. It was strangely quiet here, considering how near to the town center we really were. If the garden hadn’t been so lush or the vines so thick, I probably could have seen Mom’s cafe from where we sat—we were a straight shot down the hill to the square.

  “Well, I guess we can go back and talk to Augustus, see what our other options are,” Michael said, standing.

  I stood too, confused as a stab of disappointment winged through me.

  “Daniel!” he called, taking a few steps back toward the gate.

  No answer came.

  “Daniel!” he called out again, an edge of something a little more urgent in his voice.

  We were met by silence, thick and heavy, all around us.

  “Shit,” Michael said, and without speaking, we went in opposite directions, searching the masses of greenery around us for his son.

  7

  Gnomes in the Garden

  Michael

  In the long list of crap I’d screwed up in my life, even I realized that losing my son on the grounds of a dangerously run-down and potentially haunted house was going to be up there. Shelly would have a field day with this one—she was usually the less responsible parent, and she loved any opportunity to point out one of my failings.