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.