A Heart So Haunted, page 9
His chest lurched with hiccups. Then he looked through me, searching while tears spilled down his round cheeks and muddied the blood on his chin to a watery pink.
I scooted closer, shoving away my growing sense of helplessness. I couldn’t leave him here, not like this. It made me wonder how long he’d been here, crying and waiting, alone.
He needed me.
“Hey, maybe I can go look?” I started to reach for him. The whisper of slippers stopped me. The boy’s moans, which had started to build to a wail, turned into hiccups.
A young woman rushed down the hallway by the stairwell. I couldn’t see the kitchen beyond, only shadowed walls that stretched for miles. A worn frock billowed around her ankles; a stained apron covered her lower half. She wrung a threadbare rag between her hands as if she’d been caught in the middle of something.
She tutted when she spotted the boy.
“Oh, Haddy,” she breathed. Her skin dewed with sweat, her dark hair tucked behind her ears. She wiped her hands on the rag and stuffed it into the waist of her apron band. The ties were frayed, stained, but edged with a faded plaid pattern. The beige in the plaid matched Haddy’s waistcoat, which hung crooked with one missing button at the top.
A knot formed in my throat. I knew exactly where I’d seen a waistcoat like that before: a history project Ivan had copied from me. I remembered it specifically because it was the first time he’d touched my elbow. I’d researched interior design for different eras throughout history, and that waistcoat looked almost identical to one I’d seen another child wearing in a textbook photo.
“Momma,” he said. His tears were almost dried now.
I sat back on my haunches. The woman didn’t appear to be his mother, but the way he gaped at her, how his arms reached up, up, the desperation in his curling fingers, sent a bolt through my chest.
I watched as she bent for the boy. She reached, just as needy as he did. As soon as her hands scooped under his arms to hoist him to her hip—her silhouette broke away. Little by little, she dissolved, like smoke dissipating in a gust of wind. She floated away like ash.
Just … gone.
I stared, mouth open.
The little boy’s eyes widened.
Then he wailed.
“Momma!” he screamed. His neck turned purple, face twisted in anger. Blood teemed like an open spigot from his mouth now; the louder he screamed, the faster it poured.
I looked around, frantic, trying to ignore the itching under my skin, the realization that I’d just watched a woman vanish into thin air.
“Wait, wait. Haddy.” I tried to inch forward in case he tried to bolt down the hall. “I can help you, Haddy. Just please, talk to me. Actually, I think you can help me. I need to get home, and you know this place, right?” Only a foot separated us now. If I touched him, what would happen? I couldn’t vanish. I was real.
Still, he screamed.
“Haddy,” I choked. I reached for his shoulder.
Just as my fingers brushed—actually brushed—the child’s shirt sleeve, all sound vacuumed out of the foyer. My ears popped as if I were in a car, barreling up a mountainside, the silence beyond it humming like a rattlesnake.
Haddy yanked away in a flurry of splayed arms. He scrambled backward, toward the same room he’d come from, and vanished, as if he’d never existed. Then something came forward from the shadows the boy entered.
I froze.
A creature slunk into the doorway. Taloned, reedy fingers hooked into the floorboards. Filth shuffled around its claws.
I fell back with a gasp, so quickly that my hand slipped beneath me. My teeth snapped down, sending a hot wash of metal through my mouth.
“Get away from me,” I blurted, eyes wide.
The thing crawled forward on all fours, a red, forked tongue flitting against the air. An unhinged, gaping set of fangs dripped spittle onto the wood floors. A couple teeth were missing in its lower jaw, the holes visible, as if the roots had been pulled, too.
Its head tilted. A growl rumbled from its throat.
“Get back,” I choked. Saliva fell from the corner of my mouth.
Citrine yellow eyes tracked me. It tilted its head to the other side, muscle coiling. Its skull wasn’t sunken, but it wasn’t healthily fattened, either. Protruding cheekbones, browbones, and a chin poked violently against its grayed, slick flesh. Two curved horns, longer than my forearms, jutted from its head.
“You,” the creature said. Its voice gravelly, otherworldly.
I clutched every pearl of self-control to keep from bolting. Predators tracked prey like this thing was tracking me. If I ran, it would likely give chase.
As if to taunt me, the same dainty laughter from before bounced distantly in the house followed by Haddy’s soft cries. This thing—was it keeping this child here?
A snarl, like a crocodile’s growl before it hissed, rippled from its maw. “Are you deaf?” it sneered.
“N-no.”
Those slitted yellow eyes didn’t blink. It slunk forward. If upright, it might have very well resembled something human-like, but the angle it crawled—
“Why are you here,” it snapped.
“The door,” I blurted. I pointed, as if that would help me. “The door won’t open.”
Those slits flitted to the parlor behind me. Its nose wrinkled. “Liar.”
“I’m not,” I urged. I tried to scoot back, but the fabric of my shorts picked along the floor. My elbows shook as I tried to keep myself from falling flat on my back. “I had to come, I heard him crying.”
A slick, saccharine smile pulled at the creature’s lips.
“You find it alluring, to save a child?” it purred. “How did you find this place, dearest?”
I swallowed. My tongue felt fat, and so, so dry. “I-It was covered. We found it renovating and—”
It feigned a lunge at my feet. “You opened it.”
I scrambled upright—and the thing chuckled. I stepped back, chest heaving, body near a constant tremble, without letting my eyes leave the creature.
“I did,” I admitted. There was no point in lying. I couldn’t have gotten here if I hadn’t.
Blood leeched from my face as it stopped in the middle of the foyer beside the broken chandelier. The creature’s shoulders rolled as it pushed to stand. A waft of heat, of dried ash and earth—not quite metallic, but almost—followed, as if it had emerged from a cavern in search of sunlight after years of hiding.
“Something brought you,” the creature grunted. “Did you feel it? Hear it? Tell me, what have you seen? What did you do?”
It wasn’t the words that alarmed me, but the way its body moved. The angle of its head. Every inhale, its eyes dropped to my chest, then flickered to my feet, my hands. It was calculating my next move.
Without a second thought, I bolted through the parlor, the child forgotten.
I couldn’t believe I’d done this—I needed to leave, right now. Fight or flight took hold of my body with the terrifying realization that a creature standing nearly seven feet tall would rip me to shreds. What if it wanted to keep me, too, like the boy? What if this was a mistake? What if Aunt Cadence had been right, and now I’d ruined it, and that door was covered for a reason—
My hair whipped like a snapping flag, my lungs heaved, and I slammed into the door in a flurry of limbs. Pounding, heavy, scraping feet gave chase.
Don’t leave the boy, my conscience urged. Would you have wanted to be forgotten so easily?
I needed to choose me. I needed home. Right now.
I twisted the knob and yanked. I cried out in relief when it popped open. Freedom—home—right there—a familiar hallway beckoning me forward.
I stepped over.
As soon as my foot stepped over the lip of the door, a seed of guilt made me hesitate.
What did that say about me, if I left the child here?
A clawed hand grabbed my shoulder, sliced clean through my sweatshirt. I whirled, elbow first. It didn’t knock away its grip, only pulled my shirt, and in a panic, I bared my teeth at the creature.
“Let go,” I growled, jerking back. It’s clawed hand cut farther down my sleeve and captured my wrist. I teetered—then stilled.
My lips parted. The smell of acrid burnt flesh, curdled blood, hit me next, so strong it made my eyes water. Acid rose at the back of my throat. I was going to throw up, right here, right now. The smell didn’t come from the house, but the creature’s chest.
The way the creature had angled its body before had covered the wound, but now everything was on full display. Its sternum was cracked down the center, ribs broken and brittle over the expanse of its heart. The organ fluttered helplessly beneath. I could have reached out and touched each ventricle, both atriums, even the cushion of its lungs. So many delicate pieces of a body, right there in the open.
“You’re hurt.” My voice sounded strangled.
Whatever flitted across my face set the beast’s mouth into a twisted snarl. “Do not take pity on me,” it growled.
My ears made a loud pop—I couldn’t tell if the creature released me, if I tripped, or if the tug that had brought me to the door tore me back into Harthwait. One moment, the hot feel of the beast’s grip was on my arm, and then it wasn’t.
I landed on my side, in a heap on the floor. My ears roared for a split second before the rushing quieted, replaced with the familiar whisper of AC through the vents. The dainty laughter was gone, the smell of summer air and daylight and burnt flesh with it. An ache bloomed between my eyes.
I rolled over with a pained hiss, half expecting to find the creature in the doorway, watching me, but it wasn’t. I sat upright, brow furrowed.
There was no door. No hole where Sayer had fallen and broken the sheetrock with his head. I pressed my palm against the smooth finish.
It looked just as it had this morning when I’d gotten up: an unblemished stretch of wall.
The door, and the creature, were gone.
Chapter Eight
I caught Sayer rubbing the back of his head as we worked to remove the shelf in the bathroom. If I mentioned him falling into the wall, would he remember? What if he didn’t?
He hadn’t mentioned it. Neither had Emma.
I chewed the inside of my cheek. “You okay?” I asked.
He sighed. “Just a headache. I’ll take something for it after lunch.”
My eyes darted to the crown of his head. I tracked his swallow, the way he squinted against the low light. How his jaw worked left and right.
Now was my chance. I needed to bring it up in a way that didn’t sound accusatory—in case he didn’t remember. But if he did, I didn’t want to look stupid.
I shuffled a bit. “It looks like you have a knot on the back of your head.”
He scoffed, then looked at me. “What do you mean?” His left hand searched. “I don’t feel anyth—oh. I must have bumped my head.”
I tried to suppress any recognition—or sudden flush of anticipation—that crept up my neck in pink splotches. If he didn’t remember, why did I? The thought boxed me in, pressed close, causing a shred of worry to claw its way into my neck. “Are you all right?”
He sighed, then wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. “It doesn’t help that it’s hotter than the Devil’s basement in this place.” He wedged the flathead farther between the shelf and the wall, used both hands to push in, then angle it away. Like a lever, it separated the two. Finishing nails released, one by one.
I stole a glance over my shoulder. An inkling started in my fingers—a tingle, as if they wanted to touch the wall, to run down the section that had been missing yesterday.
“Should I go turn the AC on? Close a few of the windows?” My eyes flitted over Sayer’s shoulder where he stood in the doorway. “I’m a little warm, I think.” I fanned my shirt open to be rid of the imaginary sweat.
“I’ll be … fine?” He said it like a question.
“Good, that’s good.” I rubbed the side of my neck, then pivoted to the steps. “I’ll get you a water and Advil, just in case.”
And so it went—Sayer and Emma and I chipping away at my task lists. Emma would work remotely early in the morning, log off at two, and start helping with odds and ends. Sometimes she would get coffee or lunch from town or run to the hardware store for something I’d forgotten to pick up myself.
Every night, I checked the hallway. The wall didn’t change, and neither Sayer or Emma mentioned it.
One late afternoon, in a desperate attempt to feel like I hadn’t imagined the whole ordeal, I snuck into the sunroom while Sayer and Emma set up our takeout in the dining area.
The air still pressed on my lungs when I stepped in. The wicker furniture sat in the same place it had for the last decade or two. Nothing had changed—not even the bench I’d dreamed about.
I took a seat, strangling the bench lip, trying to steady my breathing. My heart skittered as I lifted my attention from the floor to a potted fern across the room, then to my right—to the door I’d seen that thing in.
But nothing was there.
That night, at exactly 12:15 AM, the cries started again like clockwork.
They lasted for days.
Momma, no.
Momma, please don’t let him.
Momma, take me with you. Please don’t leave.
I tossed every night. The pleas, so similar to mine when I asked Aunt Cadence to let me stay, ripped layers from my lungs like a peeling onion, until one night I stumbled out of the bedroom, grabbed my keys, and locked myself in my car. I slept in the reclined passenger seat until sunrise kissed the trees, and got rewarded with a stiff neck.
To compound my rigidity, text messages filtered through sporadically from my mother. It only exacerbated the fact that I left that little boy on the other side of that door, alone. How many times had I cried like he had, wishing my own mother to come back in the middle of the night?
MOM: You need to send me pictures of things before you take them to donation.
MOM: Some of those items are mine.
MOM: I will drive down there and get them myself if you don’t mail them.
MOM: Speaking of mailing. Why haven’t the ashes shown up yet?
A poorly veiled threat.
I’d just finished removing the painter’s tape from the kitchen baseboards one Thursday when my phone vibrated on the island. I didn’t need to check to know it was Mom. I balled the tape up with more force than necessary, stood, ripped the retractable trash can out of its hiding place, and chucked the tape ball inside.
I could block her. Act like I broke my phone and didn’t remember her number. But if I did, what would I do if she actually drove down? At least when I’d invited her to the funeral, I hadn’t expected her to actually show up. At a funeral, with witnesses, there was nothing she could ask me for.
I should have known that would change as soon as I was alone.
Ping.
I stared, blank, out the breakfast nook window. I could go outside. Take a break. Plant those seedlings before they died.
Or, I could break down the wall. See if the door was there. Prove I wasn’t crazy.
Ping.
Slowly, I turned to where my phone lay face up on the island.
Eleanora Peluska blinked over the screen, the realtor. A second later, it lit up again, but with a different name. Carla Matterson.
I shouldn’t have been surprised Eleanora was reaching back out. I’d kept my interactions at arm’s length, because that uncertain part of myself couldn’t fully commit to giving her the listing. Not yet. Tack on Mom’s incessant calling, and my blood pressure was ready to bubble through the roof.
I couldn’t do this. I turned the phone off, stalked to the garage and grabbed a pair of gloves, and headed around the back of the house toward the shed. The seedlings stood tall against the shed side, a few leaves slightly curled. They were probably rootbound at this point.
I carried them down to the edge of the lawn, where I remembered Aunt Cadence’s garden used to be. I kept my head down and trudged back to the shed to dig around for a two-pronged hoe. Ten minutes later, I had a rectangular outline in the dirt, and I started to swing.
I didn’t look back at Harthwait once.
* * *
My body was on fire.
I slithered from my bed late the next morning. A cold sweat clammed my skin, plastering the thin sheet beneath the quilt to my legs and arms. I never understood how that happened: I could go to sleep, semi-comfortable in a huddle of blankets after a shower, then wake up sticky as a marathon runner by daylight.
I shut my windows, one by one. I thought I’d closed them before I fell asleep to an infomercial. Eyed the dolls on the shelf by my old desk, as if they had anything to do with it.
I retrieved a (maybe) clean shirt from a pile I’d let collect in the rocking chair. Laundry was a priority like hot tea ran in my bloodstream: seldom. Then again, the thought of doing anything that didn’t revolve around renovations made me nauseous. I averted my gaze; if I didn’t look at it, maybe the mound would disappear.
I forewent the jeans I’d left in the hamper and opted for shorts. Instead of brushing my hair, I finger-combed it, then tied it a knot at my crown. I didn’t make it far down the hall before Emma’s voice echoed up the steps.
“Of course! Let me go and see if she’s up yet and we can give you the full tour.”
“A bit late to be sleeping in, yeah?” This voice was deeper, familiar.
I rounded the corner, met by three sets of eyes. Two I knew, one I didn’t. Ringing started in my right ear.
Emma spotted me first.
“The woman I was going to get! Look who stopped by.” Emma’s expression brightened. I could have counted every single one of her teeth, top and bottom row, she smiled so wide.
Ivan stood in the doorway in casual clothes, Wranglers and a pair of boots. Not a lick of dirt coated the hems. A man I didn’t recognize, similar in age to the three of us, with long braids that fell past his shoulders, lingered just behind Ivan.
I floated, disconnected, until I reached the first floor. I wanted to curl into myself, so small I could disappear, from the way they watched me.
