Authors: Mandy Hubbard
Fifty years ago, before their tragic end, the original owners started a Christmas tree farm. After they died, the farm quit selling trees, but the trees didn’t quit growing. They now form a thick forest, blocking the home’s view of the Green River valley. People say that you could once see the house from the road. But you can’t anymore. The dark shadows block it from view.
I guess that’s part of the spookiness of it. It’s hidden back here, behind fifty-year-old fir trees, just a hundred yards from the cliffside. When we were kids, it was “that house”—the one you’d dare your friends to run up to and touch. No one ever did, though. No one had the guts.
I can hardly make out the house through the raindrops snaking down my windshield, so I kill the engine and climb out, rushing across the lawn to the front porch. The old wooden steps creak as I bound up them.
Under the cover of the porch, I twist around and stare back the way I came, listening as the rain pounds the roof, spills
from the overflowing gutters. Lightning streaks across the sky, and almost immediately, the thunder rumbles, building and growing until it’s like I can feel it beneath my feet.
I turn back to the door and knock, then wait, wondering belatedly if I look like a drowned rat.
No one answers. I glance back and confirm Logan’s Jeep is parked next to my beat-up car, and then knock again, this time louder. Just as my fist connects for the third time, the door creaks open.
Logan’s standing in front of me. He looks different than he did just an hour ago—more athletic? And yet somehow less relaxed. He’s changed out of his jeans and sweater and into loose-fitting track pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt with an Adidas logo, a matching ball cap slung low over his eyes, making them look darker.
His whole outfit reminds me of the soccer-ball shifter I noticed today in his Jeep.
“Um, hey,” I say, suddenly nervous. He left so soon after me freaking out and, weirdly, I feel like I shouldn’t be here.
His grin is foreign, more like the Cheshire Cat than his normal warm smile as he steps aside so that I can come into the house. I walk into the large foyer, and he shoves the door shut behind me, twisting the lock. The sound of the bolt slamming shut echoes down the empty hall.
The rain is nearly as loud inside as it is out.
I turn to Logan. “I left my purse in your car,” I say, running a hand through my damp hair. “It has my cell, or I would have called you first.”
He gives me a blank, totally unreadable look. “I know. It’s in the kitchen.”
“Oh. Good,” I say, feeling stupid. Maybe it’s because he’s still standing a few feet away, not closing the distance to kiss me like he usually does when we see each other. But I don’t think that’s totally it either. Something about my being here seems wrong, off. I try to push it from my mind. “Sorry for bugging you. I just need to get it back, and then I’ll head home.”
“Sure, Harper. Hang up your coat and come in.”
There’s something weird about the way he says my name, too. Like he’s trying it out for the first time.
“Should I take off my boots?” I ask, looking down at his socks.
“Sure.” He shrugs, and I feel awkward again. He should be smiling at me. Hugging me. Does he think I overreacted at the maze when that creepy masked guy came after me?
I kick off my rubber boots and follow him, wondering if maybe my over-the-top freak-out is what really sent him home in such a rush, and the tools were a ruse. My bare feet are silent on the worn, cold hardwood. There are dark inlaid diamond shapes in the floor every few feet, and then the narrow hall opens up into an enormous kitchen. My purse lies on the tiled countertop, which looks like it was redone—poorly—in the eighties.
He grabs it and tosses it at me, and I barely manage to catch it. “Did you want a tour,
Harper
?”
I blink. He
is
saying my name weirdly, right? It’s not all in my head? Maybe I’m just being paranoid.
“Oh. Um, yeah, sure.” I glance around, taking in the toolbox on the table and the sheets of plywood stacked up in the empty living room. They really have been working on this place.
“Great. Let’s start upstairs.”
He walks past me, and I impulsively reach for him, intertwining my fingers with his. He hesitates a second, glancing down at my hand, before he pulls me toward the stairway, and finally, I get the smile, the warmth of recognition. It transforms his face.
So maybe he
had
been worried. Only not about what I thought. Did he think I was angry with him for bailing so abruptly? That would explain his hesitance.
We walk up the hardwood stairs, following a burgundy-and-blue oriental runner up to a landing where rain streams down a stained-glass window. My left hand glides over the banister as we climb the second half of the stairs and Logan pulls me against him. I unwind a little, glad that weird distance between us is gone.
“My house was too quiet when I got home,” I say.
He glances back at me. “Yeah?”
“Totally. It’s not the same without you.”
Understatement of the year.
In the dead silence of my house, all I do is think about Logan.
We make it up the stairs, where three dark wooden doors sit closed. “That’s my uncle’s room,” he says, pointing to the door at the end of the hall. “This one is mine.”
He twists the old crystal doorknob and we step inside. “I’ve only lived here a few months, so I haven’t really put up much
stuff,” he says, slipping his hand from mine and crossing the room to look out the window.
The dim light from the fixture mounted at the peak of the roof, just outside the window, reflects oddly through the glass. It makes the shadows of the raindrops appear to be sliding down Logan’s face, making it impossible to read his expression through the dark angles and shadows.
I stand in the doorway, taking in the heavy antique furniture. A queen-sized bed with a thick red quilt takes up one wall, the headboard and footboard sporting enormous, twisted cordials. Opposite is a battered teak five-drawer dresser, one brass handle missing from the second drawer.
Thick, dark blue drapes adorn each of the two windows.
“It’s probably not what you expected, but I like it.”
When he turns away from the window, he stares into my eyes so intently it’s like a challenge. Like he just
wants
me to say that I don’t like it.
I nod, tearing my gaze away from him. I must just be creeped out by the maze and the raging storm, or maybe it’s the memory of the dead birds and the cow bones. I’m reading between the lines, seeing things that aren’t there.
I don’t say anything in response. The truth is, I do like the room. I mean, yeah, it’s not what I pictured for Logan, but it’s oozing with elegance and old world charm. I wonder if the furniture was picked out from antique shops and flea markets, or if it’s been here for decades.
“Anyway, the basement is where the cool stuff is. Come on.”
Logan puts his arm loosely around my waist, but there’s an awkwardness to it as he guides me down the stairs, back to the foyer. Then we turn to a five-paneled, white-painted door with an antique knob like the one on Logan’s room.
The door sticks, but he yanks hard and it squeaks open. He reaches in and pulls at a string hanging from the ceiling. A single lightbulb flickers to life, illuminating the narrow wooden stairs. It swings back and forth on the wire, making the shadows on the walls sway and bend.
“Ladies first,” he says, holding the door open.
I take a tentative step onto the dusty, decaying steps and immediately regret having removed my shoes when I entered the house.
“Don’t worry,” Logan calls out. “Nothing here bites.”
“You sure about that?” I say, gripping hold of the worn wooden railing as I slowly begin my descent.
Logan steps onto the staircase behind me, and it creaks under his weight. “Basements…do they scare you?”
I breathe deeply through my mouth, trying to avoid the musty, dank scent. “They’re not on my list or anything. But they still creep me out when they’re so dark and musty.”
“Well…” Logan says as we set foot on the basement floor, “let’s see if we can’t get you some more light.” He pulls on another string, and then another, and the room immediately brightens. But somehow the light makes the space even less inviting. The cinder-block walls sport dark spots—possibly from the rain. The floor is bare cement, and boxes are stacked all over the place, from corner to corner. The ceiling is covered in
cobwebs and too low for comfort. There are no windows to be found.
“Uh, this is the cool part why, exactly?”
Logan chuckles. “I know, it’s kind of creepy at first. But this house is a hundred and twenty years old, so you have to look beyond the aesthetics.”
I nod. “And what exactly would I be seeing if I looked beyond that?”
“The boxes.”
I snort.
“I’m serious,
Harper
. Most of them aren’t that old, but a few are pretty amazing. I think they were left behind in the sixties, when the original family died. By the looks of the boxes, no one’s bothered with them in years. The dust on them must have been an inch thick. My uncle hasn’t set foot down here since he bought the place last summer.”
“But you have,” I say.
He nods. “Oh yeah, I spend a lot of time down here,” he says, his tone eager. He moves to a wall of boxes, pulling his hat off and running a hand through his shaggy hair. When his dark hair moves, I catch a glimpse of a scar behind his temple just before he puts the hat back on his head. I want to ask him where he got the scar, but he opens his mouth to explain something, so I decide not to pry.
“I started on this wall over here, but it’s mostly household stuff. Tablecloths, sheets, that sort of thing.”
“Mm-hmm. I know you wanted to give me the grand tour and everything, but I really don’t think some tablecloths are
enough to make me like this place.” I cross my arms, hoping it’ll shield the sound of my quickening heartbeat.
“Oh, don’t worry. You will.” Logan winks.
“And how’s that?” I raise my eyebrows.
“I’m glad you asked.” He pauses. And then with a flourish of his arm, he says, “This wall, over here, this is the good stuff.”
Reluctantly, I cross the space, my toes growing cold. I’m halfway there when the light-bulbs dim, then grow bright, then dim again.
Logan glances up at the dangling lights. “Sorry about that. The house has a bit of an electrical issue down here. Especially during thunderstorms like this.”
I swallow. “Are you sure we should be down here?”
He waves a hand over his shoulder, too busy looking through a box to see what must be a freaked-out expression on my face. “Nah, we’re fine. The lights usually stay on.”
Usually.
That’s comforting.
“Ah! Here it is!” He produces a leather-bound photo album.
“And what is
it
, exactly?” I ask, stepping up beside him.
“The Carson family photo album.” He pushes it toward me. “Seriously. Take a look.” Then he motions to a stool sitting close to the boxes. “Your chair, madam.”
I nod and take a seat as I pull the album onto my lap. The spine cracks as I flip it open.
A woman with an apron and a glowing smile beams up at me. Dark curls frame her face.
“That’s the one they found hanging from the banister.”
I snap the book shut and look at my hand. My left hand. The hand I slid along the banister just moments ago when we trailed down the stairs. My skin must have touched the spot where that dead woman tied the rope.
Logan chuckles. “I thought you said you knew all the stories,” he says, looking up from the box he’s digging through. In the dim light of the bare bulbs, his eyes have an odd, shadowed look to them, making them look more black than brown.
My heart climbs into my throat. “I did. They’re like urban legends at school. But it’s different seeing a personal family photo album while sitting in the basement of their house.”
A chill sweeps down my spine.
“Still. This is history we’re talking about. Flip to the third page.”
I swallow, slide my fingers over the cover, and find the third page, where twin little girls in matching polka-dotted jumpers stare back at me, sitting side by side on identical bicycles with cute little baskets.
“The twins were six. They say he drowned them in the bathtub.”
I snap the book shut again and stand, the stool clattering to the floor behind me.
“Just stop it,” I hiss, shoving the photo album into the nearest box.
“Stop what?” he asks, his hands buried in a box. “Ah, I found it.” He pulls out a rusted metal hook. “You know what this is?”
“It’s a hay hook,” I snap. I’m not amused by whatever game
he’s playing. Is this because I freaked out at the maze? “We have them at my house for feeding the cows. Makes it easier to pull hay bales.”