Chapter 2
Lisa’s strident voice echoed, amplified by the almost-empty house. “Abby. Get busy up there. It’s Wednesday, moving day—so you better get it together.”
Abby blinked back the familiar press of hot tears behind her eyes as the thought of a different Wednesday took shape in her mind. Back then it seemed like an ordinary day—school, homework, Campbell’s tomato soup, Dad’s grateful wink as he drifted off.
Setting down the box she’d been packing, Abby sank onto the mattress, caressing the brass headboard with her fingers. Today the open window let in a late-April breeze. Four weeks since the house sold. Twelve weeks since the bleak, icy, cold February afternoon forever frozen in Abby’s mind.
“ABBY. Are you done yet? I want to finish loading the truck. It’s supposed to rain.”
Abby ignored Lisa. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the rocking chair where she would watch her father sleep. She got to her feet and placed her father’s cherished items one by one into a carton; she lingered on each precious piece. Civil War books they’d read together, bike gloves, an old snapshot of them in the garden, captioned “Daddy loves Abby” in his bold, slanted cursive—bits and pieces of an abandoned life.
The ache in her heart grew at the sight of the faded quilt still folded at the end of his bed. Everything had remained in its proper place, as if February’s grand finale never happened at all.
Lisa stood at the door of the room. “It’s almost time.”
Her soft tone almost pushed Abby over the edge into tears, but she clung to her anger, the only thing that had never left her in all these months.
“Yeah, okay.” Abby shook her head, remembering the snowdrifts getting deeper as her father’s breathing became shallower. Then silent as snow, he had slipped away to another place. Now she’d be in another place, too. But not with him.
A refreshing chill crept up her arms and wound around her shoulders, accompanied by the subtle scent of coffee. Somehow the odd caress strengthened her. “Can’t wait.”
As she closed the door on her old life, the cool embrace returned, lingering until the click of the latch. Not the tiniest scrap of fear accompanied it. She knew ghosts didn’t exist, couldn’t possibly be real. But somehow this sensation spoke of pure, celestial love. Abby felt, more than heard, her name being whispered … again.
“Abigail … Come to me …”
From deep in her gut she wondered if her dad had found a way to say good-bye. How could she go to him? She ached for his presence with a pain so sharp she could imagine a butcher knife sinking into her heart hilt-deep.
The ride to the unknown house seemed to take forever, the silence in the truck thick enough to smother. Abby’s neck ached from staring out the side window, avoiding even a glimpse of her mother behind the wheel. She imagined a bright blue ribbon stretching from the home left behind to the one waiting by the bike trail. A connection that could tie her to the love in her past. But did it lead to new love in her future?
Lisa’s fake-chirpy voice broke into her musings. “We’re here.”
Speechless, Abby got out of the truck, leaving the door open as if she could jump back in and drive away. She fought the urge to rub her eyes as she stared at the monstrosity up the slope from the bike trail. The ancient house, topped with a tin roof and boasting an arrow-shaped weather vane, could be a movie set for a horror film. Dark windows, peeling paint, and a sinister atmosphere surrounded the place.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Lisa threw one arm around Abby and squeezed. “So much potential for so little money. The realtor said it dates back to Civil War days. Can you believe that? It’s perfect for us. That’s why I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Yeah, serendipity.” Abby slipped out of Lisa’s embrace and nibbled on a fingernail.
Budding leaves rustled as the temperature suddenly dropped. Abby turned her head to a faint murmur.
“Abigail …”
Lisa was pulling a bag from inside the truck, and Abby saw no one in the deserted yard around the isolated house. Her nostrils twitched at a faint tang; the outdoors with a tinge of coffee? Her heart lurched in a crazy, pre-teen crush kind of way. No doubt it was nothing more than the local Starbucks sending her heart soaring.
For almost two seconds Abby wondered if she had lost her mind, if it was Lisa’s fault, or if the blame belonged to Dad for dying. She rejected the latter; it made no sense to be mad at her father or his cancer. But nothing made sense anymore. Resentment tugged at her like a bobber being pulled by an unseen fish.
“My life sucks.” Saying it out loud made her life an official failure.
As she scanned the façade of the house she noticed a hexagonal window on the third floor. Abby thought she glimpsed a face, distorted by the wavy panes of old glass. She squinted, shielded her eyes against the backdrop of sun and stared. Nothing. Her heart did a hop-skip-jump, and spidery tingles ran up her arms.
Behind the house stood a large barn attached to an ivy-covered silo. Spotlights of sun shone through holes in the barn roof. She started toward the outbuilding to escape her mother at least for a few moments.
“No, honey, come see the house first.” Lisa’s voice held a note of pleading excitement. “Doesn’t it have so much potential?”
“‘Potential.’ The P word.” Abby trudged back to the house.
Lisa stood on the derelict front porch, opening the shell of a screen door with a flourish. “Ta-da.” She patted Abby’s back, ushering her inside.
Abby stepped into the foyer, gagging on a mixture of mildew, grease, and sour milk permeating the area. She brushed a cobweb off her face. “You’re kidding, right?”
Random leaves congregated in the corners. A small black mouse scurried into a hole in the baseboard. Strips of yellowed wallpaper embossed with faded roses hung in shreds from the walls.
Lisa sighed. “Abby, please. Give this a chance, okay? I would’ve had it cleaned before we moved, but things happened too fast.” Her voice brightened. “We can do it together.”
“Sure. I love to clean.” A twinge of guilt zinged through Abby when her mother’s smile froze in place and then faded.
“Pick a room for yourself on the third floor.” Lisa’s dull monotone matched the flat look in her eyes. Her mouth opened and closed, she gestured around the room in silence, and then plodded outside.
The squeal of the truck door sounded to Abby like the cry of a tortured soul, as if saying, “Welcome to hell, Abigail Whitney. Looks like you’ll be here for eternity.”
She rolled her eyes and ascended the curving stairs to the second floor. Six doors opened off a central area; one of them, smaller and arched, opened to another set of steps. She headed for the doorway. A second mouse skittered in front of her before running into an empty room. “Our guests will love sharing the crumbs—and their rooms—with you. Wait until I tell Dad about this place …”
As grief roiled to the surface, Abby made an effort to take deep breaths and push it away. “He’s not in pain; he’s in a better place. He’s not in pain; he’s in a better place.”
She recited the mantra she’d practiced for months. Dad had been a Civil War buff; a civil war between grief and healing went on inside her every day. Grief seemed to be winning.
After tromping up the paint-splotched wooded stairs, she explored the top level. She gave a cursory glance into one space draped in cobwebs, with shadowed nooks, warped floorboards, sloping rafters, and someone else’s junk. The other two rooms were finished with plaster and paint, and she chose the one that included a view of the bike trail and the barn. She rubbed a clean spot on the glass with her sleeve and looked outside, catching a glimpse of the river threaded between a profusion of trees.
She imagined her dad riding his Cannondale on the bike trail. In her mental image he rode away from her, his face already starting to slip from her recall. As she walked downstairs something crunched under her sneaker. Two M&M candies, one bright blue and one orange, were pulverized on the step.
A floorboard creaked over her head, and she stopped, her senses on high alert. Ghosts? Serial killer? She pressed her fingertips against the rough plaster wall, her ears tuned into every nuance of sound, her eyes scanning the stairwell. Stale air clogged her lungs, and the metallic taste of fear drenched her mouth. She had read about murdered girls in abandoned houses. Thick old walls didn’t let screams—or people—escape.
A door squeaked, a slow, deliberate sound followed by a stealthy footstep.
Abby waited in the curve of the stairs, back pressed against the wall. Her thin black sweater clung to her suddenly damp skin, and the urge to pee made her squirm. Footsteps came closer. She sniffed a sudden whiff of chocolate. The hair on her arms stood straight up, threaded between the goose bumps raised there. Her heart labored harder, a painful drumbeat in her chest. A dust mote floated through the air, tickling her nose with the threat of a sneeze. She held her breath, fight or flight vying for her attention. But if she didn’t handle this, Lisa might get hurt, too.
Taking a deep breath, she peered around the corner.
A piercing shriek split her eardrums. “Ahhhhh.”
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