The Haunting Between Us, page 11
“Oh, your dad doesn’t know?” Cameron asks. “How about your mom?”
“My ma knew.” A lump forms in my throat.
Cameron glances at me, his face melting into concern. “I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“No, it’s okay. I told her I liked guys when I was thirteen. She was great about it.” I take a deep breath. “She died in a car accident a month later. She was driving me to soccer practice. I escaped with a broken leg and a few scrapes.”
God, it still hurts so much to talk about it. The memories flash by: Ma in the car, smiling. A noise like an explosion. The car crumpling around me. Everything going black.
I peer up at the leaves blowing in the light breeze, fighting back the grief that’s welling up. “Ma died the instant the truck hit the driver’s side door.”
Cameron stops on the path and looks at me with kind, sad eyes. “I’m so sorry, Hugo.”
I’ll lose it if I keep looking at him. I turn away fast and start down the path again, keeping my head down. “We got through it.”
Emotions pound on my insides, trying to spill out, but I choke them all back. Something I’ve perfected over the last three years.
We hike in silence for a while, concentrating on the sounds of the forest. It’s serene, and it soothes me a bit. When the emotions have ebbed, I continue. “Anyway, yeah, I haven’t told Pa. We move around so much that he’s hardly noticed I haven’t had a girlfriend. And I’ve only dated guys for, like, a week at a time, so it’s hard to even call them boyfriends. Just guys I’ve kissed.”
I peek over at Cameron. He’s smiling and fighting a blush.
“What?” I say with a smile.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Cameron laughs. “Just seeing somebody like you talking about kissing guys.”
“What about it?”
“It makes me smile, that’s all.”
“How about you?” I ask. “Any boyfriends?”
He loses the battle with his blush. “Uh, no. No boyfriends.”
“Girlfriends?”
“Definitely not!”
“You and Abby seem close. Never been anything more than friends?”
“Me and Abby? Oh my god! You sound like my dad.” Cameron laughs. “Abby and I have been best friends since the third grade. But yeah, only friends. I’m pretty exclusively into guys.”
“Cool.” I nod. “Yeah, me too.”
We walk in silence, the only sounds the pine needles crunching under our feet and the occasional chirping bird. But in the dappled light of the forest, Cameron’s smiling, and I can’t help but smile too.
13
The Library: Cameron
Hugo and I make our way along Lawrence Street, the main drag of Uptown Port Townsend. And by “main drag,” I mean a few random shops, a neighborhood pub, the Uptown Theater, and the Port Townsend Library. The tourists rarely make it up this far from Water Street, so everything here caters to locals.
Like everything else in this town, the library is more than a hundred years old, a white painted brick building with architecture from the Victorian era. Despite its age, the building is in pristine condition with trimmed hedges and not a spot of dirt on the walls. We climb the flight of stairs to the front entrance, passing wrought iron globe lights. The words CARNEGIE LIBRARY are etched on the stone facade above the entrance. Hugo opens the door and gestures me in.
“Thanks,” I say with a smile.
“My pleasure.” Hugo smiles back.
“What a perfect gentleman you are,” I say, dripping with sarcasm.
“Get in before this door smacks you in the ass,” Hugo says, laughing.
Inside, bookshelves line every wall and form several aisles in the middle of the room. Scattered people sit at old wooden tables, reading books, typing on laptops, or resting their heads in their hands, taking afternoon naps. Oak-trimmed windows line the walls, providing ample natural light for reading. Box beam ceilings and antique lamps complete the classic aesthetic. I’m a bit of a bookworm, and I’ve spent many an hour here. It’s like a second home.
Mr. Peterson sits at the front desk, eyes on his monitor, clicking his mouse. A cardigan sweater covers his button-down shirt, and he’s got on khaki chinos and brown loafers. His style screams librarian, and it suits him to a tee. As we approach the desk, he looks up from his computer. “Cameron. Good to see you again.”
“Hi, Mr. Peterson. This is my friend Hugo.”
“Hey.” Hugo waves.
“Hello, Hugo. A pleasure to meet you.” Mr. Peterson nods.
“You said you had stuff about 16 Sycamore Lane, right?” I ask.
“Yes,” Mr. Peterson says with a sigh. “You really want to know more, huh?”
“Yeah. I’m doing an essay for school. I was hoping you had old plans or some history about the place?”
“We do,” he says with a snap to his voice. He gets up from his chair. “Ms. West, can you watch the front desk while I’m gone?”
A squat woman with dark skin and locks looks up from the other side of the desk. “Will do, Mr. Peterson.”
“Thank you. Follow me, gentlemen.”
Mr. Peterson turns with a flourish and leads us down two flights of stairs, then along a long hallway. In the basement, the only light comes from old yellowed ceiling lamps illuminating drab olive walls. This is my first time in the archives. It’s unsettling, a bit like a morgue—the exact opposite of the warm and welcoming upper floors.
We come to a metal door, and Mr. Peterson takes out a massive key ring with no fewer than twenty keys, poking out in jagged spikes like some kind of medieval weapon. He riffles through them until he inexplicably finds a key identical to the ones around it.
“Here we go.” He opens the door, and I’m hit with stale air and a waft of musty paper. With a flip of the switch, fluorescent lights flicker several times, then glow steadily, revealing a large room with row after row of metal shelving filled with white banker’s boxes, each labeled with care. Large metal file cabinets with wide, short drawers sit in the middle of the room. Mr. Peterson runs his finger along the drawers of a particular cabinet until he gets to one labeled So–Sy.
Fragile documents faded with age fill the drawer. He thumbs through the papers, then stops on an especially yellowed one.
“Okay, here we go,” Mr. Peterson says, pulling out a few large sheets. “The original plans for 16 Sycamore Lane, circa 1880. These are fragile, so I’m afraid I can’t let them leave this room.”
“Can I take a few photos with my phone?” I ask.
“Sure. Just no flash, please.”
Hugo helps Mr. Peterson hold up each page of the plans as I take pictures. After we’re done, Mr. Peterson delicately places every page back into the drawer while Hugo and I go through the photos.
“Look,” I whisper, pointing to the second-story floor plan. “There’s the hidden room.”
“Let me see that.” Hugo leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine, and my stomach tumbles. “Wow. It really is a whole separate room, just boarded up. What about the third story? Where does that spiral staircase lead to?”
I swipe to the next photo, and Hugo gasps. “I know that room! The door is locked, and we don’t have a key.” He shudders. “I just gave myself the heebie-jeebies.”
“It is totally freaky having locked and hidden rooms in your house,” I agree. “I wonder what’s in there?”
Mr. Peterson finishes putting away the plans and turns to us. “So, how much do you two know about the history of 16 Sycamore Lane?”
I shrug. “Just that Emily Thornburn died in that house and strange stuff happens there.” I’ve heard more about the hauntings and rumors of missing children, but I don’t want to repeat things I heard secondhand from friends. And of course I keep our recent experiences to myself.
“I heard she inherited it from her father,” Hugo adds.
“That’s right.” Mr. Peterson has a glint in his eye. “But do you want to know the full story? I’ve spent hours researching that house. Bit of a local history buff, I’m afraid.”
“That’d be awesome,” I say.
“Follow me.” Mr. Peterson waves us deeper into the archive room, passing rows of bookcases lined with endless boxes. He turns down one aisle and finds a box with the word THORNBURN written on the side. With the box in hand, Mr. Peterson guides us to a table with a desk lamp, where we sit. He opens the box filled with papers, photographs, and newspaper clippings.
“Charles Thornburn was a war hero and the sole heir to his father’s lumber fortune. By all accounts, he was an upstanding citizen, but the war changed him. He returned with a bizarre fascination with death and became the town’s mortician.” He shows us a fragile-looking photograph of a man in a military uniform and a pregnant woman in a white dress.
“Mind if I take pictures?” I ask, taking out my phone.
“Be my guest.”
I take a picture of the photo and keep my phone out.
“He built 16 Sycamore Lane in 1880 both for the family business and for his wife, Greta. They intended to have a big family.”
“Are you telling me that house was a mortuary?” Hugo says, eyebrows raised.
“That was the intent, yes. But it never came to pass,” Mr. Peterson says. “Greta went into labor only a week after she moved into the house. The delivery did not go well. She died giving birth, and there was something wrong with the child. That child was Emily Thornburn.”
Hugo and I trade glances.
“The White Lady of Sycamore Lane, if I’m up to date on the local folklore.” Mr. Peterson looks at us, eyebrows raised.
“That’s right,” I say. “At least that’s what I’ve heard kids call her.”
Mr. Peterson nods. “After that, Charles Thornburn became a recluse. He blamed himself for his wife’s death and his daughter’s condition. Sometimes Emily was sweet and docile. Other times she was a nightmare. Her tantrums were famous. People could hear her screams all over town.”
I give Hugo another glance, and he nods. That must be why Chloe sensed both good and evil in the house: the two opposing sides of Emily’s personality.
Mr. Peterson continues, “Mr. Thornburn and Emily never left the house. The only person who ever saw them was Emily’s nanny, Agnes Finch. She purchased food and supplies and kept the house running.” He pulls out a photo. “This is one of the few photos of Emily and Ms. Finch.”
A little girl in a frilly dress sits in a wingback chair with a wide smile. Too wide. Her eyes are vacant. A silver locket shaped like a heart hangs from a chain around her neck. Next to the girl is a pretty young woman in a black dress with a white lace collar, her hair drawn back into a bun. “This was taken shortly before Emily’s father died. She was ten years old.”
Hugo’s face contorts for a moment. He was only thirteen when he lost his mom. He doesn’t acknowledge my gaze.
“How did he die?” I ask as I take a picture of the photo. Digging into the death of a parent might upset Hugo, but I’m overwhelmed by curiosity. Plus, it could be an important detail.
“Gunshot wound to the head,” Mr. Peterson says in a grim tone. “The local sheriff ruled it a suicide. But neighbors reported a young man around Ms. Finch’s age sneaking into the house on a regular basis, though no one ever got a good look at him. People assumed it was her lover. The town erupted into rumors that Mr. Thornburn’s gunshot wound was not self-inflicted.”
“Did they think the young man did it?” I ask.
“That was the popular theory. People speculated that Mr. Thornburn had taken a liking to Ms. Finch and that he walked in on her and this young man together and it ended in a gunfight. Others think Emily went into one of her famous rages and got her hands on a firearm or that Ms. Finch did it. Emily was the sole heir to her father’s fortune, but it went into a trust until she was eighteen, controlled by Ms. Finch.”
“What do you think happened?” I ask Mr. Peterson.
“The simplest explanation is usually the right one. Mr. Thornburn was a troubled man.” Mr. Peterson’s lips press into a tight line.
“What happened to Emily after her father died?” Hugo asks.
“Emily and Ms. Finch lived alone in the house for many years, and no one saw the young man again. People saw Ms. Finch in town from time to time, but it became less frequent as she got older. Eventually, even she stopped leaving the house. All the food and supplies were delivered on a schedule and left on the back porch. People sometimes saw Emily bringing in the supplies, always wearing a white dress. Hence the nickname White Lady.”
“What happened to Ms. Finch?” I ask.
“Another mystery. No one knows. She immigrated from Ireland and had no local family. The sheriff checked in on her after people in town hadn’t seen her in over a year. Emily told the sheriff that Ms. Finch had left for good a few months prior. No one ever tracked her down. But after the sheriff’s visit, things got really strange.”
Mr. Peterson takes out a stack of yellowed newspaper clippings. “There were many unsolved cases of missing children in Port Townsend in the 1940s and 50s. There was no evidence linking Emily Thornburn to them, but of course the townspeople had their own ideas. There was one day when many of them gathered outside the house to demand answers, but nothing came of it. To this day, those cases remain unsolved.”
Mr. Peterson pauses with a distant look in his eyes. We stand in silence for longer than feels comfortable. I clear my throat. He comes back from wherever he was and sighs. There’s a distinct change in his demeanor. When we started, he seemed excited to talk about the house, but now he’s quiet and withdrawn. “Well, boys, this has been fun, but I should get back to work.”
“Thanks, Mr. Peterson,” I say. “Mind if we look through the rest of this box?”
He nods absentmindedly, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. “Sure. Just leave it here when you’re done.” Mr. Peterson waves goodbye and heads back upstairs.
Hugo and I spend a few minutes searching through the remaining contents, finding articles about the missing nanny, Emily’s death in 1959, and the unsolved cases of the missing children. There are even some highly speculative articles about the nanny’s lover, saying he was a local fisherman who called off the relationship out of guilt after Mr. Thornburn’s presumed murder.
Another photo of Emily catches my eye. She’s wearing the same white dress as in the first picture, but in this photo, she has a terrible scowl, fists clenched, and eyes shooting daggers.
“She was a real Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, I guess,” I say as I take a picture of the photo.
“I bet that explains why Chloe senses both good and bad in the house. There was something wrong with Emily’s mind.” Hugo’s brow wrinkles, and he frowns. “Kinda sad, really.”
“Emily is certainly a tragic figure.” I sigh. “Let’s get outta here. This place gives me the creeps.”
On the way home, we cut through the forest again. The mid-September days are getting shorter, and the air has a touch of chill. Dappled light through the trees casts long shadows on our path.
Hugo’s hiking ahead of me, trying to find his way back. I’ve corrected him only once. Not bad for his second time through the mazelike trails of the forest. He stops at each fork in the path, pauses for a moment, and then chooses without looking back. He exudes confidence, but not in an arrogant way. He’s just good at everything he does without making a big deal of it.
“Hey, Hugo,” I call. “I’m not sure I properly thanked you for your help with Bryce last Monday.”
Hugo sighs. “I hate fighting, but sometimes it’s the only choice with people like that. Plus, that asshole had it coming. But I hope I didn’t make things worse for you.”
“Since I came out years ago, Bryce has never missed an opportunity to make a homophobic remark every time he sees me. But he hasn’t made a peep since Monday.”
Hugo cracks a smile. “Glad to hear it. Let me know if you have any more problems with him.”
I smile back. “Thanks! I will.”
My phone buzzes.
Abby: Chloe wants to meet at the house in an hour. She talked to her aunt
Cameron: Cool
Abby: Matty found out and wants in too
Cameron: Of course [eye roll emoji] I’ll check with Hugo
Abby: And Taylor
I laugh out loud, and Hugo stares at me.
“How do you feel about inviting half the theater tech class over?” I ask.
Hugo’s laugh has a touch of nervousness. “As long as Pa doesn’t find out, the more the merrier.”
We have time to kill when we get back, so we stand outside the ominous house, staring at the imposing structure. Several uneasy minutes pass without a word between us. The wind blows through the trees, making the leaves flutter. A whistling sound comes from the porch, an eerie chorus.
“I hate that damn house,” I say, glaring at its decaying walls. “But I’m also dying to know what’s at the top of the spiral staircase.”
“Me too,” Hugo says. “We’ll be okay if we go in together.”
I doubt it, but all I say is “Okay.” Another dumb thing I’m going to do to impress a cute guy.
We both take a deep breath and head through the front door. The same oppressiveness as before envelops me, but this time it’s mixed with a strange undercurrent of excitement.
You left me. Now I have you. Those same words echo in my mind again, but this time I’m 95 percent sure I imagined them.
Hugo heads upstairs, and I follow. We hover near the entrance to the bathroom, neither of us willing to be the first one to go in. A nervous laugh escapes my lips. “Let’s do this.”
Hugo nods, and we both head in, bumping shoulders, then climb through the hole into the secret room. The afternoon sun shines through the window, extending the shadows and making the room appear even more ominous than it did earlier. We size up the spiral staircase with the hammer and crowbar in hand.
“Well, here goes nothing,” Hugo says as he climbs the stairs and wedges the crowbar into a seam between the ceiling and the wood. I squish in next to him and shove the hammer claw into the other side.
