A Heart So Haunted, page 15
“I interrupted your …” He sniffed the air. Delicate wrinkles appeared along the bridge of his nose. “Meal. A sad meal at that.”
“I didn’t expect company so abruptly.” His eyes fell, heavy, on me then. In a huff, I hurried to gather a pair of shoes, towels, a broom, and the wet-mop. I was scared he’d go up in smoke as soon as I walked away, just like the blood from his chest.
I whirled back down the hall, arms full. Thankfully, his figure still hovered at the end, closest to the living room.
“I can assist.”
“I’ve got it.”
A clawed hand shot out and blocked my path just as I made to brush by. That earthy scent, the feel of unnaturally warm skin so close to my own, engulfed me.
I stopped in place.
“Allow me.” He reached for the towel, and this time, I didn’t object.
I put on my shoes and swept in silence while Hadrian kept to the corner of the room, careful to not touch the light that pooled from the lamp in the living room. By the time most of the glass was in the dustpan and the cabinets had been wiped down, I asked, low, “It still hurts?”
He stopped by the pantry door, the wet towel dangling between two pinched claws. He draped it over the sink. I didn’t think he’d answer, until he said, “Not the skin. Within the room you found me, I felt no different, like this or as a human. Within the house, if I stand in it too long, it burns here.”
He tapped his chest. Right beside his heart.
I dumped the glass in the trashcan by the island, careful to wipe out any glittering remnants.
“Imagine trying not to blink.” His voice turned smokey, gritty. I could have sworn his silhouette feathered at the edges. “It burns, begins to hurt, and as soon as you blink, the need comes on tenfold. You have to blink so many times your eyes water. It’s simply an urge I cannot control.”
“So you don’t decide when you change?” I’d gathered as much from when I’d found him.
His jaw ticked. “I could not in that room, no. I am unsure, but it feels similar out here. But there is—” he stopped himself. “There is much that has changed. In this house. It feels different from before.”
The strained, borderline hostile way he said this piqued my curiosity, but a flicker of tension radiated over his shoulders, like he might bolt at the first chance. I decided to treat him like a cat: Give a little, but don’t push. Eventually, he’d tell me.
“What do you do, then? During the day.”
That stillness came back. The air thickened, like he was debating whether or not he wanted to tell me.
“I am here but not. I can see you all, but am still along the shadows. The slightest of places,” he muttered. Those yellow eyes latched to me. “I can hear some conversations, some movement, but not all.”
I waded through the surprisingly heavy moment and propped the broom against the wall. I forced a slight smile.
“So you really could hide in a closet if you wanted to?”
“Wherever darkness touches, I am there.”
My smile fell. “That’s so sad.”
“I’ve had worse things to do with my time.” He slunk back into the pantry, angled just so to where I couldn’t make out his expression. “That lamp is horrid, just so you know. The bulb makes my eyes ache.”
“Remove LED bulbs.” I feigned a checklist. “Got it.”
The door groaned as he slipped inside. His horns scraped along the frame. Then, it was just me and two floating eyes and an ugly lamp shining from the living room.
I tried to search for the right words. Did he want me to remove the bulbs and find warm ones? The idea of being cooped up in the house all day, unable to do anything, sounded as appealing as making me take up public speaking.
I reeled the idea back. Making him comfortable might not be the best idea. He could be lying to me. There was no telling what he actually was doing, if he could only move along the shadowed areas like he said. Maybe I’d wait a little while and see how things went with him here before giving an inch. Knowing my luck, he’d take a mile if I let my heart soften.
After a moment, I reached for the towel over the sink.
“Did you hear anything last night? Like crying?” While he had complete free rein of the house, I thought. So many shadows, so much to slip through. “I didn’t hear anything, but I fell asleep pretty early.” And Emma hadn’t mentioned anything. Not that she’d tell me.
A long pause.
“Hadrian?”
I draped the towel back over the sink and opened the pantry door. Nothing but shelves full of nonperishables, stacks of reusable storage containers, and an unnecessarily large bag of flour on the floor.
Hadrian was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
The house seemed to settle for a few days.
It made me anxious, now that I knew he was there. Existing. Listening.
“Keep or throw away?” Sayer held up a box labeled ATTIC. A welcome breeze sent the tree branches rustling overhead. I stopped, hand on my trunk liner, lips parted.
Immediately, Haddy—Hadrian’s—curled body materialized in my mind. It was difficult to walk up those steps, to clean out that room little by little, and not think of him—the way his voice echoed off the attic ceiling, the muted floors and dusty coat hangers. I shook my head, willing them all away.
“What’s in it?” I croaked. I wiped my brow with the back of my hand.
Behind us, Emma stood on the porch, separating bags of clothes that were good enough to give to the women’s shelter and then others that were too moth eaten or holey to reuse. We’d decided to take a break from working on the actual house today—mostly because sorting through items was easier than peeling more wallpaper. With my tentative September deadline inching closer, I didn’t want to end up panic-dumping anything to the landfill when things could be reused. And it gave me time while Sayer and Emma sorted through boxes to go through paperwork—not only to submit death certificates to the bank, Social Security office, and insurance company, but to look for journals. Notes. Envelopes. Anything personal that might have been left, besides the official power of attorney and the will. But I came up empty.
My promise with Hadrian loomed the more I searched and the less I found. I could only flip through so many folders, desk drawers, and cabinets before doubt crept in. Fear of what I might find—or what I wouldn’t.
Sayer jiggled the box. “Don’t know. Old toys, I think?” Squinting, he rubbed his chin on his shoulder to wipe away a drop of sweat.
I stood on my toes to get a look inside. An old threadbare toy harp sat at the top. The strings were frayed to the point of snapping, and if I focused, I could just make out tiny teeth marks on the plastic bottom. Donald The Chihuahua, most likely.
“If they’re all like that harp, they should probably be thrown out,” I said.
“I’ll put them in the garbage pile,” he concluded. Just as he turned, I couldn’t help it. I reached out and grabbed the harp. I needed to touch it. One last time.
It was the palest of lavenders, with worn edges and light creases in the frame. The memories sat on the edge of my mind, as if to say, Wait, come back, just one more time.
I’d sat for days on the back porch, singing to the birds with the dream of being in an opera one day. The dream hadn’t lasted long, because I remember the harp had disappeared not long after that, and my newfound fixation had been dolls. I think I’d decided fashion design was a more enticing route at that point.
I suppose part of that dream had come to fruition. Except dressing people wasn’t my forte—now I knew I didn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with people all day. Dressing a home, so to speak, was a lot more fun. Houses always seemed to speak to me when I picked out palettes and inspiration ideas. Unlike people, who spoke at me most of the time.
I plucked a string on the harp. It made a sad, loose twang.
Sayer shivered.
“Do you ever look at old toys and get sick thinking about how time moved so fast?” I said, voice thick. Not just where the time pranced off to, but how life could pivot just as quickly. It needled you in the side some days; others, it grabbed you by the throat and spat in your face.
Each inhale burned in that moment. Especially lately—it squeezed my throat so tight I could hardly see straight.
I’d been so lost in the little things—paint colors and paperwork and item orders—that I’d not stopped to breathe. Four weeks had already passed since the funeral.
How would I feel in the next four? Six weeks? Eight?
“That’s why I made my mom go through everything after I left school. I couldn’t look at it.” Sayer sighed. He examined the rest of the box’s innards. “It’s too depressing for me. Kudos to you for at least getting rid of some stuff.”
I gave a watery smile. “Really?”
He scoffed, nodding, then rummaged through the box. “Absolutely. Me, going through old toys? A recipe for a midlife crisis. I’ll pass.”
I gave the harp one final sorrowful plunk before setting it back on top.
“This looked cool, though. I found it under a pile of clothes. I tried to open it but almost lost a fingernail.” He held out a wooden carved box, no larger than his palm. A rusted metal latch sealed it shut. Something rattled inside when I shook it. I tried to use my thumbnail to pry it open, but as Sayer said, the latch held true.
“Careful,” he warned. “If you damage a nail, it might not grow back the same. All thick and curved and—what?”
My nose wrinkled. “Thank you, Doctor, for that lovely mental image.”
“My grandfather could show you his feet if you need proof. The number of times a horse stepped on his big toe. You should see how ugly it grew back—”
“I think I’ll pass.” I shook it again. “The box is neat, though. Reminds me of a trinket tray. It could go on one of the mantels, maybe the library. It might match the feel of the room when it’s finished.” Most of the rooms had a hearth, even if they weren’t functional.
“What about this bag?” Emma called. She held up a white trash bag and shielded her eyes from the sun. “Do you want me to put it in the hallway closet for now?”
I hesitated a moment too long. Did she want me to answer? I couldn’t tell if she was looking at me or Sayer.
“Donate,” Sayer said. He swiveled back to me. “And shame on you.”
I stalled, eyes going wide in silent question.
“For not letting me help you clean up that wall after I hit my head through it.”
A chill—similar to how I felt when a fork scraped across the bottom of a bowl wrong—raced over my spine.
Sayer remembered the first wall incident, but didn’t go on to mention the night when I told him I’d break the wall down anyway. As if his memories had been flipped completely.
“Mind telling me why you two are acting like the other hasn’t showered in a week?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I showered this morning.” I gathered my composure. Maybe the memory issue was nothing to worry about.
“I mean the wide birth you’re giving each other.”
I tried to keep my shrug nonchalant. “We’ve agreed to disagree.” And left it at that.
Still, I knew that Sayer knew. But I’d rather stick my hand in a flooded toilet than bring up the words Emma and I had exchanged—especially when she was bound to hear from the porch.
By lunchtime, Sayer agreed to help Emma go through the rest of the boxes we’d collected from the garage that wouldn’t fit in my car to donate. I would either take the rest to the shelter, which was a forty-minute drive outside of town, or to Meredith’s. By late afternoon, I’d already unloaded a few boxes at the shelter and made it back to Meredith’s before closing.
I wiped my palm over the back of my knees as I pulled the trunk lid down. “Can I ask you something?
She sat the last box in front of the store’s door as a momentary doorstop. Her T-shirt was damp around the neck. I’m sure I didn’t look much better.
She fanned herself. “Sure, sure. What’s on your mind, honey?”
“Did Aunt Cadence ever talk about the house’s history?” My words were breathy. What I would have done—the amount of money I might have paid—just to go lay in that puddle off the sidewalk, no matter how inappropriate.
Meredith pulled a tissue out of her pocket and blotted her face. I propped both hands on my hips. “Oh, this and that. I know she went to the deed’s office once or twice. She usually just brought me my junk, talked gossip a bit, then left. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“You check the info on the historical registry?” She folded her tissue. “On the house, I mean?”
A wilted nod. “Yeah, I saw when it was built. The first owner. Not much else.” The first owner, who wasn’t a Belfaunte. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe Hadrian was telling me the truth about it being his house at one point. I just wanted proof. Something solid to point me in a direction.
Or something not-so-solid, like speculation, that would give me an idea as to what exactly I would be looking for.
“Well, if it ain’t on the registry or in the historical records, I don’t know what to tell you, dear.” She huffed, then eyed me. “Somethin’ wrong with it?”
“Oh, no. Right as rain.”
She made a noncommittal noise. “You’re a bad liar, honey.”
My mouth fell open. Maybe the comment stung since Hadrian had said something similar. “I’m not lying.” The half-truth fell out before I had a chance to think. “I just have nights where I think I hear things.”
She scoffed. “Well, that doesn’t surprise me.”
I shot her a look, only slightly offended. “I thought you said it wasn’t haunted?”
Meredith’s cheeks tightened. “Haunted? Oh, heavens no. I never said it was haunted. You poor thing—is Emma not keeping you company enough?” I must have given her a look that asked, How do you know that? When she added, “Oh, Ivan told me she was staying with you. Said you might be giving him the listing when the time comes to sell.”
Because of course he had.
“But no, I’m not saying Cadence is haunting you, dear, or that Harthwait is haunted by anyone.” She shuffled over and patted my shoulder. Gave it a squeeze. “I’m saying, it’s normal to hear things after someone passes. I know Cadence talked nonstop about hearing that dog after she had to put him down. Heard his nails on the hardwood all the time. Heck, I had the same thing happen when Annie died. You know that droopy rescue I had when you were little?”
I nodded. A smile threatened my lips. “The basset hound?”
“God bless that thing. Lived to be sixteen, can you believe it? I heard her ears swishing all over the floors, the couch.” Meredith’s mouth turned firm. “What I mean to say is, there isn’t anyone haunting that place, Landry. It’s just grief. And that’s normal.”
Just grief. Those two words clanged down from my nape, all the way to my knees.
My eye twitched. Well, I might not have had a dead chihuahua scratching at my bathroom door, wanting to shred the shower curtain, but I had a something that slithered from the linen closet that wasn’t really a linen closet.
But if I said that, I’d be the next candidate for an inpatient program.
“Who did Aunt Cadence use for researching the place? Was it the town records, or—”
“Please don’t use those people. Go to the Hemlock if you do.” She gave me a hard head shake for emphasis, then started back toward the store entrance. “Those clerks are absolute”—a wide-eyed, raised-brow glare that told me the workers were anything but—“peaches. Don’t even waste your breath.”
Well, it wasn’t much, but it was something.
There wasn’t much reason not to. So before four o’clock, I drove out of town.
Hemlock was the same to Stetson as twins were to each other—the same word, just a slightly different font. The thought occurred to me that I could have done a search through the library, but starting with something solid—like a name on a deed—felt more enticing.
Much like Stetson, Hemlock had one stoplight that blinked every thirty minutes and three antique shops per street corner. Where Stetson nestled against a railroad track, Hemlock teetered on the edge of the Wasleck River, which eventually bottomed out into the marshes before reaching the Atlantic. Roads were crowded with heavy live oaks blanketed with Spanish moss and the promise of acorns. In the near distance, sea oats danced in the river breeze. Side to side, like a woman’s skirt—almost tempting enough to wade through. If you did, you’d get a few feet out. Before you’d know it, you’d be drowning.
I parked across the street where the shops had already gone dark for the day. My reflection followed through the windows as I crossed, then beelined for the clerk’s office. Like everything else, closing time was in six minutes.
Hopefully it took six minutes to get a deed.
There was a burst of cold along with the scent of dingy brown carpet when I opened the courthouse double doors. The only sound was the air conditioning humming overhead.
I headed to a sliding-glass window halfway down the hall. A seating area waited, empty, with one magazine resting on a tapioca-colored coffee table. Likely a year-old copy of People.
A woman glared at me as I approached. Slender glasses perched on the end of her nose; the chain around her neck swayed as if I’d caught her mid-task.
“Hello,” I breathed. As if she couldn’t see me already.
She didn’t speak. She also didn’t open the glass window. Only, pointedly, moved a stapled stack of papers from one side of her desk to the other.
I waited. Pushed a smile.
Seeing I wasn’t going to leave, she sighed and slid the window open. “Can I help you?” The mole under her eye moved with each chew of her gum.
“I need a deed record,” I said. “For my property.”
Her nostrils flared. Penciled in eyebrows, arched like two rainbows, inched to her permed hairline. She turned to her computer and started typing, fingertips first. Her wrists didn’t rest on the desk. “County?”
“Colleton.”
A grunt. A fat butterfly pin glinted against her purple turtleneck.
