Date: 2018-06-11 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Horror
Description: "Something is watching from behind the walls..."The move into 889 Morgan Road was supposed to be a fresh start for Joseph Dubois and his family. What they got instead was a nightmare. Dark shadows in the halls are only the beginning. At night, guttural noises issue from behind the walls, and the family reports seeing a terrifying figure wandering the premises. Desperately seeking someone with experience in supernatural matters, Joseph calls upon his uncle, Marcel. Retired surgeon Marcel Dubois has a special gift: The ability to communicate with his dead wife. Harnessing this gift allows him to
Publisher: Independently published

Malefic

Ambrose Ibsen

Copyright © 2018 by Ambrose Ibsen

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses and events are the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Thank you for reading!

About the Author

One

I seldom pick up the phone after dark, but on that rainy night in June when my landline started ringing off the hook, I felt compelled to answer it.

Phone calls in the night tend only to bring three things; juvenile pranks, wrong numbers or bad news. However superstitious it may seem, I thought I heard in the phone's ceaseless ringing the menacing promise of the lattermost and rose from my easy chair to pick up the receiver.

I'd only just put Astrud Gilberto on the turntable for a little spin and had to bring the volume on “Aruanda” down before answering. I carried the phone back to my chair, back to the glass of unfinished whiskey sitting on the table beside it, and finally uttered, “Hello?”

The rain seemed to slacken for the first time in hours as I waited for the caller to respond. “Hey, Uncle Marcel,” the words eventually came. “It's me... Joseph. I-I'm sorry to bother you... I know it's late....” His words were all broken up, sounded like they were being dragged out of him forcibly.

At any other time, I'd have been very happy to hear from my only nephew, Joseph. I'd spoken to him just recently, in fact; he and his family had moved into their first home and he'd called just after the closing to tell me about it. It was clear from the shakiness of his voice that he was troubled however, and I wondered if something had happened to his wife or daughter.

“It's no bother at all,” I said, kicking my heels up onto the ottoman. “What can I do you for, Joey?” I snuck a small sip from my glass.

He was slow in replying. “I'm calling because... well, because I need your help. I need someone's help.” He cleared his throat, though it did little to minimize the childish sway in his voice. “When we last spoke, I told you about the house, right? We'd just closed on it and were getting ready for the move.”

I was puzzled. Why was my nephew calling to discuss his recent move at a quarter after eleven?It sounded to me like the sort of conversation that could wait till morning. Despite my confusion, I didn't interrupt him. “That's right, yes.”

“Well, there's... there's something wrong with it.” I heard him suck in a deep breath, and he didn't release it for a good ten seconds.

“There's something wrong with it?” I echoed. A dozen scenarios flashed through my mind, each increasing my apprehension. Was the house filled with asbestos? Infested with bedbugs? Sitting on a bad foundation? Stricken with mold? “What's the matter?”

His next question for me was more illuminating than any straightforward answer would have been, and I began to understand the reason behind his call when he asked, “Uncle Marcel... I know you read about them a lot, but... do you believe in ghosts?”

It was my turn to sit in protracted silence. Fidgeting in my chair, I emptied my glass and set it aside with a thump, feeling as though I needed immediately to pour myself a refresher. I took the black fountain pen I carried always in my breast pocket and tapped it against my thigh. “What's this about, Joey?”

My nephew's reply rushed out like water from a sputtering tap. “There are things in this house. I don't know how else to explain it. Melissa, Megan and I have all seen and felt... something. Heard things, too. I'm... I'm at wit's end... Do you believe in them, uncle? Do you... do you know how to get rid of them?”

I glanced at the bookcase beside the rain-splashed window, its shelves teeming with old books—most of which dealt with the subject of the supernatural. Leaning forward, I pulled a legal pad from the side table drawer and set it on my lap. With a grunt, I popped the cap from the fountain pen and prepared to take notes. “You think your house is haunted?” I came right out with it, had tired of his pussyfooting.

With evident shame, he offered me a pained, “Yes.” Before I could question him further, he continued. “I know that after Aunt Constance died, you got really interested in ghosts. Do you believe they exist? Can you get rid of them—ward them off? I've never believed in this kind of thing before, to be honest with you. But since moving in...”

At the mention of my late wife, I stared at the pen in my hand, admiring its weight and the glow of the gold trim in the low light. “I believe, Joseph, that there are more things in this world than we can account for through mere smell, sight, taste, touch and sound. We possess other senses, and there are things, entities, that may be said to stimulate them.” I paused, chuckling lightly. “But I can't say for sure whether they're in your house.”

“OK, then... suppose they are here. Suppose I'm not going crazy—that Melissa and Megan are sane, too. How else can I explain the shadows in this place? The voices we've heard—the footsteps?”

“Too often, the unexpected is taken for the supernatural, Joey. In a dozen cases of so-called haunting, you're lucky to find even one that has any merit.”

“You're not hearing me,” he insisted. “I know that there are frauds in the world... or that people mistake things for ghosts. I just want to know if there's any way to get rid of the real deal. If my house is really haunted, what can I do about it?”

“There are ways to break up a genuine haunting,” I assured him.

“Excellent. C-Can I ask you a favor, then?”

I already knew what was coming.

“Will you come visit us?” he asked. “Will you come to the house, stay with us? Maybe, if you experience what we've experienced, you'll believe me. If there's any way you can help us with this problem, I'd appreciate it. Otherwise... I think we're going to have to abandon the house.”

I sat upright. “Come now, Joey, that's unnecessary. Don't be silly—you just bought the thing. Of course I'll come visit. It's been too long anyhow, and you know I'd love to spend some time with you and your family. But in the meantime, I don't want you doing anything rash. Walking out on your new house is a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?”

He didn't answer that question, which told me he thought it a completely appropriate remedy. Instead, he expressed great relief at my willingness to visit. “When can you be here?”

As a retiree, I had nothing like a regular schedule to adhere to. If I'd wanted to, I might have driven to the airport at that very moment. “I can be there in a day or two,” I said. “Let me plan my travel and I'll get back to you. The house is in Detroit—near the train station?”

“It is,” he replied.

“Good. I could take the train out of Buffalo Grove and meet you at the Detroit station. In fact, if I get to bed soon enough, I might be able to light out tomorrow morning. How does that sound?”

“That would be excellent. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Uncle Marcel.”

“I'll call you tomorrow when I've got a ticket and an exact time,” I said. “Are you free to pick me up from the station?”

“Absolutely. I'll clear my day.” At the start of the call he'd been fearful and awkward; now he seemed on the verge of joyful tears. “We'll get our spare room put together for you and everything. Thank you so much.”

“It's nothing at all, my boy. Say hello to the wife and daughter for me. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

The call ended. Massaging my temples, I set a few notes down on the legal pad. Joseph believes his new house is haunted. Seems at the end of his tether, and threatens to move out. Mentioned shadows, voices, and more. I've agreed to visit him in Detroit. Then, standing, I asked aloud, “What do you think, Constance? Can we do anything for the poor lad?”

I crossed the room, returning the phone to its dock. I then stopped by the kitchen for a spoonful of peanut butter. I'd planned to listen to more music and dig a bit deeper into my liquor cabinet, however plans had changed. I now had an early morning to prepare for.

From the living room, I heard a short burst of scratching, followed by the dull thud of a pen dropping onto paper.

I returned to my chair, and found that a reply to my earlier question had been scrawled upon the pad.

Maybe we can.

Two

The train attendant nudged me awake. “We're close to the station, sir,” she said as she walked down the aisle.

I sat up with a start and spared her a groggy thanks. Since I'd dozed off, the sky had brightened a good deal, and the view outside the window had transitioned away from pastoral Midwestern scenery to the concrete cityscape of downtown Detroit. Stretching for a moment, I gathered my things.

The messenger bag was slung over one shoulder, and I retrieved my valise from the overhead compartment. The valise proved especially heavy, since I'd packed a number of books along with my clothing and toiletries—mostly volumes focused on the subject of spirits. Nestled in with my things were the letters of Pliny the Younger—Firth's English translation from the turn of the last century—and a handful of other hardbound classics from my collection. At a Barnes and Noble near the Buffalo Grove station just that morning I'd also acquired some more contemporary materials—J. Kelly Thompson's Practical Ghost Hunting and the oft-recommended Confessions of a Ghost Hunter by Harry Price. These I had intended to dig into on the almost five-hour train ride to Detroit.

Not that I'd managed to read even a single page.

In the minutes before the train came to a halt, I visited the bathroom to check myself out in the mirror, and was dismayed to look exactly as I feared I might: Like an old man who'd fallen asleep on a long train ride. It was by no little effort that I managed to smooth out the wrinkles marring my slacks and blazer, and the silvery cowlick that'd sprung up over the course of my nap proved especially stubborn. I washed my face with cold water and then toweled myself off, running a fingertip along my bristly mustache. It was patchy, very much a work in progress.

Ten minutes later, I was following the other passengers out of the train and onto the platform.

Tugging my valise along, I passed through the terminal and into a well-lit lobby crawling with visitors. Some were preparing to board the train, which was on its way eastward, while others had gathered to meet the newly-arrived. I paced slowly through the crowd, studying faces and searching for my nephew. Five minutes of staring at strangers yielded no sign of him.

Though the two of us had spoken semi-regularly over the past few years, I hadn't actually seen him outside of photographs in quite some time, and it was perhaps for this reason that I did not at first recognize the small, nervous-looking man standing near the exit, nor in him the sturdy jaw and aquiline nose that are the hallmark of our family line. I hesitated in approaching until I'd noted these features, masked beneath a mop of unkempt black hair and a rough coating of stubble, and when I did begin towards him, it was with a forced smile.

Forced, because he looked to me rather unwell.

Despite my retirement from medicine, it was impossible for me to unlearn the art of patient assessment, and it was through that lens that I appraised him. The dark circles beneath Joseph's eyes bespoke a lack of sleep. The inattention to his personal appearance—the baggy t-shirt, tattered jeans, shaggy hair and stubble—implied a distraction with other, more pressing matters. Indeed, some of the homeless cycling through the throng in search of change looked more presentable than did my nephew.

When our eyes met and he drew away from the wall to meet me, extending a hand to shake, I couldn't help noticing the stubbiness of his nails. He'd taken to chewing them lately, and his fingertips were frayed and raw. “Hey, Uncle Marcel.” It was a cough more than a salutation.

“Joey, how are you, my boy?” I asked, bringing him in for a hug. It probably wasn't appropriate for me to refer to him as a boy these days, nor to call him “Joey”, as I'd done throughout his childhood, for he was cresting the latter half of his twenties now, and had a wife and daughter. Though, as I beheld him in the lobby, he looked rather more advanced in age than that—he appeared a haggard thirty-five or forty, easily.

In a shaky voice that would fool absolutely no one, Joseph replied, “I'm good, real good. How are you?”

I set a hand on his shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “The ride was about as exciting as a dental cleaning,” I chuckled. “I hope you weren't waiting long.”

Joseph shook his head, mumbled something about the car being parked nearby. He couldn't seem to maintain my gaze, instead scanning the scuffed-up floor.

I looked down at our feet and nearly asked him, “Is there something interesting down there?” Instead, I nodded towards the exit, fiercely curious—and not a little concerned—about what was eating him. “What's good around here? Let's find a table somewhere and get a meal in us, yes? You can tell me all about this house trouble you've been having when we're fed.”

“There's, uh... there's a great Mexican place not far from the house. The realtor took us there before we bought the place, and it's just about the only good thing to come from this entire move,” said Joseph, toying with his keys. “Sound good?”

I was interested enough in the prospect of tortilla chips and margaritas to ignore my nephew's dire tone right then, and agreed. “Perfect. It'll be my treat. Vamos!”

Three

The décor was more vibrant than I'd expected.

The tables were topped in painted clay tiles and set with napkin and silverware holders in the shape of small cacti. The lamps over the tables were coppery, and had simple, circular designs hammered into them. The bar was festooned with garlands of flowers and mini sombreros. They were nice, festive touches, all of them. But far and away the most eye-catching bit of décor was to be found on the walls, which were covered in large, detailed murals. The work was rather good, but the subject matter of these paintings hardly seemed suitable for a casual eatery.

I pointed to a prominently-painted figure near the kitchen entrance as Joseph and I were guided to an open table by the hostess. The figure was evidently a Mesoamerican warrior—open-mouthed and bare-chested—and he looked to the heavens, clutching a still-beating heart in his fist. In the figure's other hand was a curved blade, and at his feet was sprawled the armor-clad corpse of what I took to be one of Cortés' men. “I'll have what that fellow's having!” I declared.

The hostess offered a polite laugh, probably having heard that same joke a dozen times before.

We were seated in a booth across from an enormous painting of a Mayan step pyramid. Depicted at the base of the ominous structure, behind which hung a golden sun, were Mesoamerican warriors and conquistadors locked in combat. These battle scenes were lent an eerie reality by the amber mood lighting that drifted about the room from the warm hanging lamps.

A waiter came by within moments, allowing us to order beers before the silence of the preceding car ride had a chance to re-engulf us. I remarked on the scenery when the waiter returned with a pair of frosty Tecates, and asked him about the pleasant mariachi tune chirping overhead. “Is that Pedro Infante?” I queried. The waiter wasn't sure, but promised to be back soon with a basket of chips and salsa.

Joseph, devoted to his silence, picked up his menu and examined it disinterestedly.

“What's good here?” I asked. “Anything you'd recommend?”

He shrugged. “It's all good. The carne asada tacos are my favorite. The tamales are really nice, too.” With that, he set about putting a sizable dent in his beer.

“Carne asada it is.” I took a pull from my bottle and offered him a smile that he barely returned. Joseph had never been an especially talkative person; even as a boy he'd been rather reserved. The man sitting across from me now was practically mute, though. His insistence on freezing me out with curt half-replies was getting old. I tried a different tack. “So, how have things been, Joey? How's married life? And parenthood—I'll bet Megan has sprouted up like a weed, hasn't she? How old is she now? Seven?”

Joseph spent awhile wiping the condensation from his beer bottle with the pads of his thumbs, as though he'd earlier recorded the answers to such questions upon it and now sought to find them. Eventually, he delivered the perfectly limp and vague reply of, “Things have been better, to tell you the truth.”

Any answer was better than no answer at all, and having broken through the surface I grew in frankness. “Not merely as your uncle, but as a physician, I have to say you aren't looking well, Joey. What's going on? I mean, what's really going on? You look absolutely exhausted, like you haven't slept a wink all week.” Grinning, I wiped a drop of beer from my mustache. “Or could it be that you're just not happy to see your dear old uncle?”

“It's not that,” he replied quickly enough for me to believe him. “Of course I'm happy to see you. It's just that... things have been rough for me lately. The house, it's...” He sighed, started over again. “Moving hasn't been anything like what I expected.”

I nodded. “They say that moving is one of the biggest stressors we face in life, up there with deaths in the family and grave illness. The disruption to routine is a great strain. Never mind the packing and unpacking. It never ends! I imagine the wife had a lot of boxes for you to haul around, yes?” I smirked, hoping to lighten the mood.

“I wish it was just the lifting that had me feeling this way. That was the easy part—it's not like we own all that much.” His accompanying laugh was devoid of mirth. “No, it wasn't until we'd gotten everything unpacked that things went sour.”

The promised chips and salsa arrived, and I eyed them hungrily as I asked, “So, you're pretty well convinced that the house is haunted, then?”

He only nodded.

“Let's get down to brass tacks,” I said, rummaging through my messenger bag for a dogeared Moleskine notebook. I fished out my reading glasses and turned to a clean page with a lick of my finger. Around a mouthful of chips and salsa, I prompted him to explain his troubles with the house from the very top. “Don't spare any detail.”

The dodgy look in Joseph's eye transitioned very quickly into one of seeming protest, as if he didn't think the hashing out of these facts aloud would do any good. The last of his beer—along with the inaugural pull of a second—proved steadying enough to get him started, however. “Well... let's see...

“The neighborhood is actually really nice. Except for ours, every house on the street is a new construction. When I called before, at the closing, I think I mentioned that this place of ours was abandoned for years—that it's been empty more than it's been lived in—but you wouldn't know by looking at it. We loved it at first sight. And it was affordable, too. We shouldn't have been able to afford a house like this one—not on my salary. But the price was right. It was close to work, had a nice yard for Megan to play in. The kitchen is huge, and there's room for that garden Melissa's always wanted. We jumped on it, and for awhile I felt certain that moving there was the best decision we'd ever made. Saving for the down-payment really did us in, of course. And some of our furniture didn't survive the move, so financially things have been shaky—”

Believing that I'd just struck upon the true reason for his sulking, I began searching immediately for my checkbook. “Now, is that what's got you so frayed around the edges? You should have told me you were having money troubles over the phone, Joey. I'd have mailed you a check—wired you something. How much do you need?”

Joseph taught history at a public elementary school, and his wife, Melissa, was a homemaker who sometimes earned money on the side by selling hand-sewn goods at farmer's markets and craft shows. The two of them had never known anything remotely like financial stability, though early on in their marriage this constant lack of funds had concerned them little. It hadn't been until the birth of their only child, Megan, that their costs of living had erupted and they'd begun worrying about money. I'd offered on numerous occasions to lend the family financial support—had even tried to help them with a down-payment as they'd set out in search of their first home. Joseph seldom took me up on such offers however, too prideful to accept handouts.

He waved his hands in the air, dispelling the subject of money like a foul odor. “Thanks, uncle, but don't worry about that. I stumbled into a new summer gig in town; they'll give me full-time hours until school starts up again in August, so we don't need money right now. What I do need your help with—if this is really something you can take care of—is what's happening within the house itself. I didn't know where else to turn, but when I remembered your interest in these things I thought you might be able to help us. Or, at least, give us some insight into what we're dealing with.”

“I believe I can,” I replied. “Yours isn't the first instance of 'haunting' I've dealt with over the past few years. It's become quite the hobby for me, ghost-chasing. Tell me more about what you've witnessed, when it all began. I'll devise a plan and we'll get things straightened out over there sooner rather than later, just you watch.”

The waiter dropped off our entrees. We'd both opted for three carne asada tacos, and I began consuming mine with a swiftness that strained the borders of politeness. They were damn good, wrapped in freshly-made tortillas and topped with ample onion and cilantro; not since a vacation in Puerto Vallarta had I eaten a taco their equal. I hoped that Joseph's ramblings would go a bit long, if only to give me an opportunity to enjoy another three. I listened patiently between bites as Joseph explained his troubles with the new house, pausing now and then to jot down the occasional note.

“It started with the shadows,” he began, nudging his plate away, untouched. “I noticed it the very day we moved in. There's something up with the shadows in this place, with the way the light behaves. It's more noticeable at night, but even during the day you catch sight of your shadow behaving strangely. For whatever reason, the shadows in this house are long—they stretch. All three of us noticed it, thought it weird. But we let it go. Why obsess over something bizarre but ultimately harmless like that? Had it stopped there, I'd have been happy as a clam with the house. But then I began hearing things.

“It's the damnedest thing, the noises that house makes. It isn't like any other place I've ever lived. Since college, I've hopped from apartment to apartment. I've lived in good parts of town and bad, I've lived above, below, beside and across from other people. I know what it sounds like to live close to others, and the kinds of sounds that old buildings can make. But where we live, we shouldn't be able to hear much of our neighbors—the houses on Morgan Road are fairly staggered. Kids playing across the street, dogs barking, cars speeding by—sure, fine. We get some of that. But those noises from around the neighborhood aren't the ones that trouble me. I've been hearing things within the house. And they aren't just bumps or creaks. They're voices.

“You know that feeling when you walk into a loud, crowded room—when you step through the doorway and suddenly the whole place goes silent? That uneasy feeling you get when you realize, deep down, they were all talking about you? That's kind of what living in this house is like. I'll be upstairs, or in the bathroom, and I'll hear someone speaking in a nearby room. A room that ought to be empty. The minute I go to investigate, you know what I find?” Joseph paused.

Dabbing at a splotch of salsa on my blazer, I shook my head.

“Nothing,” he continued. “I follow the voices, enter the room and find no one there. Things suddenly go quiet, as if on cue, the moment I pass through the threshold. I only tend to hear them after sundown. Mel and Megan claim to have heard them, too, so I know it's not just me.”

“What do the voices sound like?” I asked. “And can you tell what's being said? I just want to narrow things down a bit, make sure that you're not hearing one of your neighbors chattering out on the lawn.”

Joseph shrugged. “I haven't been able to hear what's being said, no. It's kind of muffled. There's something about the voices, though...” He tore off the edge of a paper napkin and rolled it into a ball between his fingers. “It's hard to explain, but they don't sound right. They don't sound like normal people talking, at least. They're kind of... animal-like, maybe? Like something you'd hear in a horror flick. And I'm certain they're coming from inside the house.

“There are other sounds I can't explain. For instance, sometimes we hear footsteps in the upstairs when we're all downstairs. And there's a tapping behind the walls. It isn't very loud—in fact, I'd say it's just loud enough to be distracting, just loud enough to get your attention when you're trying to focus on something else. I hear it sometimes when I'm watching TV or reading, usually in the living room. Sometimes, though, I hear it elsewhere in the house. I don't know what the hell it could be. It's kind of repetitive, almost rhythmic, and you get to feeling like someone's drumming their fingers back there—like someone's watching from behind the walls and trying to get your attention.”

“Mice,” was my response. I flagged down the waiter and ordered a second beer. Treating myself to one of Joseph's neglected tacos, I explained, “This tapping you hear behind the walls sounds like mice to me. They make quite the racket, especially if they're well-established. Since the house sat vacant a long time it's almost certainly rodents. I'd bet on it. No telling what kind of critters might have set down roots during the house's abandonment. I'd recommend mouse traps, the old-fashioned wooden kind. Peanut butter makes great bait. Set them along the baseboards and see if you don't discover a slaughter in the morning. Voila—no more annoying sounds behind your walls.”

Joseph seemed appreciative of the advice but didn't look convinced. “Well, there's another thing. I haven't seen it, mind you. At least, I don't think I have...” Here, he inserted a nervous laugh. “From the very start of our stay in the house, Megan has claimed to see this figure. She describes him as a man with a mouthful of cotton. Weird, huh? We've started referring to him as the 'Cotton Man'. I wrote it off, of course. Kids make up dumb stories all the time, and Megan's at an age where invisible friends and tall tales are common. But the way she's clung to this, coupled with everything else happening in the house, makes me think there could be something to it...

“Megan wakes up some nights—most nights—howling. It's always after midnight when this happens. Mel and I both scramble into her room and find her standing on her bed, screaming at the top of her lungs. It takes forever to calm her down, like she's trapped in a low phase of sleep. When she comes to, she always says the same thing, though—that there's someone in the room with us, and that she's seen them on the floor, next to her bed, staring up at her. She always describes him the same way, too. 'A man with no eyes. His ears and mouth are stuffed with cotton.' According to her, this figure crawls around on its belly like a worm and watches her while she sleeps.

“The first few times, Mel and I had a good laugh about it. We figured Megan just wasn't used to the house yet, or had eaten too much junk before bed and given herself nightmares. Now that it's an almost nightly occurrence, I'm no longer sure it's just her imagination. I should know better... but I think I've let it get to me.” Joseph smiled sheepishly. “Sometimes, I see things in the corner of my eye, or in one of the windows, that I can't readily identify. Things that shouldn't be there. At least, I think I see them. I can never be sure. It always happens when I least expect it, and the instant before I realize what I'm looking at it's already gone from sight.” He sighed, adding, “I know how that sounds, and I realize that the doctor in you will probably think me insane, but...”

“No, I don't think you're insane.” I ceased my munching. “Over-stressed, under-fed and sleep-deprived, maybe. And possibly witnessing something truly supernatural. But not insane.” I ran through my notes quickly. “Disembodied voices, recurrent nightmares, odd tappings and possible sightings of a strange figure. Now, I could likely explain each and every one of these things naturally, and will strive to do so once I've had a chance to investigate the house in-person. But before all that, I want to know if there's anything else going on in the house that's led you to believe it's haunted. Do you know anything of its history? Anything that jumps out at you and which might have convinced you subconsciously that this place is inhabited by spirits?”

Joseph suddenly grimaced. “Actually... There is, uh... there is something about the house that I don't think I mentioned over the phone. We didn't put a lot of thought into it initially, but as things have gotten worse, we can't help but return to it.”

“Well?” I pressed. “What is it?”

“Ten years ago, a body was found in the house.” Joseph shrank into his seat.

I set down my pen and loosed a hearty laugh. I soon came to realize that my nephew wasn't kidding, though—he remained slate-faced, mumbled an apology. “Someone died in the house? Why didn't you mention this earlier?” I asked, trading my laughter for annoyance.

“I'm sorry, it slipped my mind. Truth is, we don't really know much about the incident,” he explained. “The realtor mentioned it in passing—probably had to disclose it by law—but she didn't give us any details. I don't know who was found in the house, or where, or even when this took place, exactly. She only said that a body had been discovered by the previous owner. The person who owned the house back then was apparently trying to fix it up, but he ended up abandoning the house before he completed his work.” Joseph's eyes widened emphatically. “Really, that's all I know. When I called you, I wasn't thinking straight. I should have said something about this sooner...”

“I wish you had. But at any rate, this isn't proof positive of anything supernatural. It could be a coincidence. People die in all sorts of places, but that doesn't necessarily mean that their souls linger there. I'll bear this in mind as I begin my work.” I wrote down the words “DEAD BODY” in big, honking letters, and circled them a few times. “Anything else you forgot to mention? Was the house owned by a bunch of Satanists, perhaps? Is it built on an Indian burial ground?”

Joseph picked a piece of onion from one of his tacos. “N-no, I think that about covers it.” Now that he'd discussed the particulars of the situation with me, he slumped in his seat as if relieved of a great weight. “So... what exactly will you do? Is there some kind of ritual? Do you communicate with spirits, or...?”

“Trade secret,” said I, snapping the Moleskine shut and dropping it back into my bag. “But all shall be revealed soon enough. I can assure you that it'll be completely painless. In previous cases, I was able to resolve things within a single afternoon.”

He brightened at this news. “So, is this what you do now—hunting ghosts? Since you retired, I mean? Or is this something that you and Aunt Constance used to do together?”

“It's only in the past few years that I've taken an interest in this field,” I explained. “Though, it does make me feel closer to your aunt in some sense.” Fiddling a moment longer with the fountain pen, I returned it to my breast pocket. “I need to ask you something important before we set off for the house and I begin my investigation. Just one last thing, Joey.”

Joseph mirrored the graveness in my expression. “Sure, what is it?”

I pointed at the remaining tacos on his plate, still untouched. “Are you going to eat those?”

Four

The restaurant was within walking distance of the house. One had merely to exit the parking lot and take a right to find their way onto Morgan Road. As we set off down the quiet street, flanked on both sides by sharp modular constructions that looked fresh out of the box, I tried to guess which house was Joseph's. It seemed to me that a house so shadow-haunted and unsettling as what he'd described would stand out amongst the rest, and when Joseph pulled into the driveway to 889 Morgan Road, I saw that it did stand out, though not for the reasons I'd anticipated.

To begin with, Joseph's was an older house—the sole survival of the neighborhood's anterior dark age—and it struck me as rather charming in contrast to the manufactured neatness of those adjacent. Standing at two stories, the house had a look of depth and weight to it, as of something that had been built to last. Age had worn away its sharpest edges, lending it some character, and the refresh performed by the neighborhood developers—new, sand-colored siding, new windows and front door, a re-paved driveway and sidewalk—made the property comelier still. Furthermore, standing with no little distinction amongst the standard-issue oaks and maples rooted in every other lawn, was a lovely Callery pear tree whose white flowers were at that moment in full and odorous bloom.

Joseph parked the car and pulled the keys into his pocket, staring up at the house through the windshield as if gobsmacked. Brushing a dry tongue over dry lips he rested his hands upon the steering wheel. “Well, here we are.”

I admired the house from where I sat, patting him on the arm. “It's a lovely house, Joey. It has a fine character to it. Unlike the rest of the houses on this street, it doesn't look like it was punched out of cardboard! I rather like it.”

My nephew frowned, massaging the back of his neck. Once upon a time he'd probably shared my opinion. Time spent living in the house had changed his tune, however.

I opened my door and let my legs stretch out onto the driveway. “Don't let recent experiences poison you against the house!” I warned. “It's like I told you before—we don't know what we're dealing with yet. There's every chance that the problems you've mentioned are completely ordinary. Let me be the judge.”

Joseph sighed, then climbed out. “If you say so...” He retrieved my valise from the trunk and led me up towards the porch. He'd made it only a few steps before remarking on the weight of my bag. “Geeze, what did you pack in here? A bunch of bricks?”

I laughed. “Just some reading materials. They might come in handy.” A gentle breeze set the Callery pear twitching, and I whistled at it, drawing Joseph's attention. “That's a gorgeous tree,” I remarked. “The most beautiful one on this street, bar none.”

He chuckled to himself as he dragged the valise behind him. “It's nice to look at, sure. Can't stand the smell, though. Reeks like a urinal cake.”

An assortment of toys—a hula hoop, a handful of naked dolls, a single roller skate—were peppered throughout the front lawn where Megan, my great-niece, had forgotten them. A black hose snaked through a patch of rough dirt that seemed to demarcate the boundaries of a garden not yet planted. “The lawn is enormous,” I said, stepping up onto the porch as Joseph fiddled with the front door. “You'll be able to plant quite the garden here. Your Aunt Constance was always in the garden. You remember, don't you—the garden back at my place?”

Joseph paused halfway inside the door, donning what seemed the first genuine smile since our meeting at the station. “Yeah, I remember,” he replied. “I came to visit one summer in seventh or eighth grade. She had me help her weed the whole thing, and then I got to pick some of the lettuce we used in our salads for lunch. You still keep up the garden, uncle?”

I nodded. “I do what I can. I don't have your aunt's green thumb, so a lot of the trickier plants have unfortunately been mulched. There are still roses, shrubs, asparagus... some rhubarb, I think. A lot of the trees she planted years back are towering now, giving the property a good bit of privacy. Some mornings, looking out the window, it almost feels like a nature reserve.”

We entered the house. To the right of the entrance was a living room, and beyond it there looked to be a kitchen of good size. The living room was home to a single sofa and a television left mumbling on a small table. To our left was a dining room, which would have been empty except for the square dinner table surrounded by folding chairs. The floors were a solid and rather pretty wood throughout. From this entry point, I could make out a stairwell ahead of me that led into the upper story, and it was from there that I first heard the shuffling of feet.

Melissa and Megan started down the stairs to meet us.

Wearing a baggy sweatshirt and grey leggings, Melissa combed a lock of raven hair behind one ear and bobbed her head in greeting as she descended. She wore something else, too—something I should have anticipated: A haggard countenance replete with dark circles under the eyes. Like Joseph, she looked worn out, older than her twenty-something years. Her features looked sunken, and as she approached I noticed a marked blotchiness to her skin.

Behind her came Megan, their daughter, who descended more guardedly. She looked like her mother in miniature, down to the dark circles and splotchy skin. Where Melissa came and wrapped me in a quick hug, the little girl remained half-way up the stairs, studying me from the heavy wooden bannister with suspicion. I wasn't surprised—I hadn't seen her in some years, and knew it unlikely that she had any firm memory of me.

Doing my best to mask my concern, I smiled and waved to the girl on the stairs. “Well, if it isn't Megan. How are you, my dear? Do you remember me? It's Uncle Marcel!”

Her dark gaze narrowed and her lips quirked in a curious smile. Finally, she shook her head.

Clutching at my chest, I groaned. “Oh, don't tell me you've forgotten all about me?”

This won me a grin.

I eased a small chocolate bar I'd purchased in the Amtrak dining car earlier that morning from the pocket of my messenger bag and proceeded to hand it to her.

Her smile widened, and she grew bold enough to come forward and take it.

“You have a lovely house,” I said, turning back to Joseph and Melissa. “I can see why you jumped on it the way you did. Great location, lots of space. This will make an excellent home for the three of you, I'm sure of it.”

Except for the crinkling of the chocolate wrapper there was silence. You'd have thought I'd been giving a eulogy for all the response I got. It was clear that the home's owners were of a very different mind.

Melissa, cradling her arms, spared a weak smile and glanced at Joseph. “Why don't you help your uncle get his things into the guest room and give him a tour of the upstairs? I'll put on some tea. What do you like?” she asked me. “We have a few different types.”

“Have you got any green tea? Otherwise, anything is fine, my dear.”

“Er... we have one with lemon in it, I think. Is that OK?”

I gave her the thumbs-up.

Both she and Megan disappeared into the kitchen. Already, the girl had a bit of chocolate on her cheeks. I supposed her next order of business was to spread traces of that chocolate onto every household surface within reach.

Like a reliable bellhop, Joseph picked up my valise and began treading up the stairs. “There's, uh... only one bathroom. It's up here. We've got a guest room set up for you. I'm sorry if it's a little... sparse,” he said.

I held onto the carved bannister as I began my ascent. Made of hefty wood and impeccably smooth, I wagered it must have weighed nearly as much as I did. The stairs creaked slightly, but were in great order for a house once abandoned. “The house has great bones, I can tell,” I called up to Joseph as he arrived on the landing.

With what I could only classify as annoyance, he turned and shook his head. “Everyone who comes in here and knows about the house's history says that. 'Gee, this house must have good bones.' It's true, of course... but wouldn't it have been better if this house had fallen to bits like all the rest that used to stand on this street? The newer homes might be a little generic-looking, but I doubt any of them are infested with ghosts.”

I sighed. His stubbornness on the matter was grating. “How many bedrooms are there?”

“Three,” he responded as I joined him in the hall. “Melissa and I use this room nearest the stairs. Megan sleeps—or tries to sleep—in the next one. The one near the bathroom at the very end, the biggest one, we use as a guest room. Melissa and I don't have a lot of bedroom furniture, so we chose one of the smaller bedrooms for ourselves. I'm sorry if it feels empty in there...” Joseph waved me into this last doorway, which was situated near the bathroom.

The room was indeed quite austere. A twin-sized collapsable cot had been set in one corner and made up with fresh linens and pillows. There was a small chest of drawers on the other side of the window, a thrift shop piece, whose uppermost drawer sat askew. Lastly, a white folding table and metal folding chair sat against the wall immediately to the right of the door.

“Marvelous,” I said, dropping my messenger bag onto the table and stretching my back. “This will do nicely.”

“Are you sure?” asked Joseph, a little red in the face. He was ashamed at offering me such spartan quarters.

I hadn't made the trip to Detroit to seek out comfort, and told him as much. “Absolutely, this room is fine. It's got everything I need. You know me, lad. No frills necessary.” Strolling towards the window, I peered out onto the front lawn and gave a clap, adding, “And a wonderful view of that tree, to boot. I love it.”

It was at that moment, when standing before the window and preparing to follow Joseph back downstairs, that I took notice of our shadows spilling across the floor. Backlit by the daylight streaming through the glass, the two of us cast imposing shadows—nice and lengthy—but I saw nothing sinister in them. “Is this what you're talking about, with the shadows?”

Joseph peered down at the floor, gave his foot a little shake as if to test the shadow and ensure it was really his, and then nodded uncertainly. “Yeah. I mean, kind of. I guess it doesn't look all that long right now, but... after dark, it gets worse. They get longer, I mean.”

“It's possible,” I replied, “but this effect is clearly caused by the daylight striking us in just such a way.” I waved my hands back and forth, paced through the room a bit to demonstrate. “Any unnatural lengthening of the shadows, especially at night when light is low, could be due to a number of things.” I looked out the window again, scanning the street. “Could be down to street lamps shining through the window, or perhaps some quirk in the installation of the panes themselves—a trick of the light due to the angle of the glass or a gentle slope of the walls.”

Joseph was already standing at the door, arms crossed like a parent who'd had enough of their child's idling. Probably those explanations had already crossed his mind, and had proven insufficient to dispel his own closely-held theories. Hearing me tread old ground like this was only going to frustrate him, and so I dropped it and returned downstairs, where Megan and Melissa both awaited in the kitchen.

Accepting a mug of hot tea, I was guided to the dining room table, where I sat down and took in my pleasant and sunlit surroundings. Except for the three tenants of the house—all of whom looked completely out of place due to their haggardness—I couldn't single out a thing that struck me as “off”. Quite the opposite; despite the lack of furnishings, the house felt welcoming and wholesome to me, and I was reminded of the small house Constance and I had moved into shortly after our marriage, just outside of Chicago. It had been similar to this one in size, and at the time—as I'd been working through my residency and quite penniless—similarly bereft of decorations. I regaled the trio with my reminisces, and they were tolerated as favorably as one might expect the nostalgic ramblings of an old fart to be.

Megan, who'd made light work of her chocolate bar, and who still wore traces of it around her lips, sat to my right and examined me through narrow eyes. With a chocolatey hand, she tugged at the sleeve of my blazer and asked, “You're here to see the ghosts, aren't you?”

Where Joseph and Melissa bristled visibly at the question, I nodded and smiled warmly. “That's right. If, of course, there are actually any ghosts to be found. Your father tells me that you've all been frightened by things in this house. I'm here to see what it's all about.”

Not missing a beat, the child shrugged and looked to her parents. “He doesn't believe in the Cotton Man, does he?”

Melissa quietly dismissed her daughter, sent her into the next room to sit in front of the television while we adults discussed things. I gave her a little wave as she ran off to watch cartoons. Every now and then, when her interest in the program waned, I'd catch her turning around and listening in from the sofa.

Sensing that the time had come for me to discuss matters with more thoroughness, I invited Melissa to give me her take on the house, and her testimony proved similar enough to Joseph's. She attested to hearing the tapping from behind the walls, and to the occasional burst of footsteps issuing from an unoccupied upper story. When it came to the subject of disembodied voices, she claimed to have heard something that she associated with speech, but she did so with a good deal less vehemence than my nephew had, and on that particular “symptom” of haunting she seemed, too, less reticent to accept a natural explanation.

Melissa's opinions differed also on the subject of this so-called “Cotton Man”. Where Joseph had been willing to entertain the possibility of its existence, she asserted that the figure wasn't real; that it was a phantom dreamed up by her impressionable daughter and nothing more. Though she'd allegedly been frightened by shadows and noises in the house, she claimed never to have seen anything like what her daughter had described, and seemed more interested in having Megan seen by a clinician specializing in sleep disorders—a reasonable desire, and one that I shared, in light of the circumstances.

Though I couldn't ask Melissa outright for fear of rocking the boat, it seemed apparent to me that her unsettled state issued more from her husband's paranoid behavior than it did the goings-on in the house. As such, I tread very carefully thenceforth.

“Joseph tells me that a body was found in this house roughly ten years ago?”

“Yes,” replied Melissa, “but that's all we were told. I don't know who it was, or what the real story is. And honestly, I'm afraid to look into it. I did a web search a few days ago but couldn't pull up anything about it in the news. When the search came up blank, I decided it was for the best. Whatever's going on here has to be tied to that body, though. I mean, that's the only thing that makes sense, right? Someone died in this house and their soul is still trapped within its walls.”

“It's possible,” I replied. “And of course I plan to reach out to any spirits on the premises, should there be any. But when dealing with situations of this kind it's always better to keep an open mind. That means maintaining a healthy skepticism.”

“So,” prompted Melissa, “what will you do? Hold a séance? Did you bring ghost-hunting equipment with you? I thought about calling this local outfit that deals in parapsychology—like what you see on ghost-hunting TV shows. Your nephew here vetoed me...”

“I did,” interjected Joseph, clearing his throat. “I don't want a bunch of losers stomping through the house, putting things up on the internet for all to see. It's so fake, so gimmicky. I don't want this to become a media spectacle. That's the last thing we need—for this place to earn a reputation for being haunted! I just want it dealt with quickly and quietly. That's why I called you. You've dabbled in this stuff back in Illinois.”

I nodded. “Twice now. Both wrapped up very nicely. In recent years, I've begun studying the nature of the human soul and its potential for lingering after bodily death. Though I'm far from working out all of the details, I believe I've learned enough to effectively dispel spirits. One must only figure out what they want and give it to them. When that's through, they tend to move on from this world happily, and with little fanfare. It isn't like those corny TV shows, where grown men run through dark castles, shouting at dust motes.”

“How do you find out what they want?” asked Melissa. “Ghosts, I mean? Do you use a Ouija board?”

“Not quite,” I replied. I wasn't comfortable with revealing the entirety of my process to them, but gave a brief explanation if only to maintain their confidence in me. “I hold a séance of a kind, but like I said it's a good deal less theatrical than what you might find in fiction. I call out to them after dark, at an hour when the psychical activity has reached its zenith. Then, I perform something like automatic writing in a notebook. That is, I allow the spirits to communicate through my pen—to guide it. I ask questions aloud, and if they're feeling chatty, they answer them through writing. When this dialogue is complete, I find I usually have enough information to go off of.” There was some misdirection and untruth to this, but the general gist was close enough.

Megan wandered back to the table and stood beside her mother. “Hey,” she asked me, “are you here to see the Cotton Man?”

“That's right,” I said.

“How long will you be here?” asked the girl.

“A few nights. I promise not to leave until I've shown that nasty Cotton Man the door.”

Megan mulled this over a moment. She turned slightly, glanced over my shoulder for an instant as if something behind me had caught her eye, before replying, “I wonder if he'd like to speak to your wife.”

This single comment threw the room into a commotion. Mortified at the child's frankness, and worried that an irreverent mention of my late wife might prove insulting to me, Joseph and Melissa were quick to scold her. “Aunt Constance was a very sweet woman who died when you were barely born, and talking about her in that way is very rude, Megan,” the girl's mother could be heard to say.

When this subject came up in casual conversation, things always played out the same way. I was not new to the mountain of apologies, the stream of well-meaning condolences, the awkward silence and the overall assumption that the topic was off-limits, lest I burst into tears or outrage. It was true that I missed my wife, and that the pain of her death would never fully leave me, but that wasn't the whole truth. Things were more complicated than that, because Constance wasn't gone—not entirely. I laughed off the girl's remark, asking, “I wonder, too. He may just get to.”

The girl fell silent and was about to march back to the television when, suddenly, there came a thump from the ceiling above.

Melissa startled, and Megan looked upward, but it was Joseph who reacted most violently to the noise. Sitting at attention, his face went grey and his eyes quivered as they bored into the ceiling. A second thump, timed shortly after the first, saw him shoot out of his chair on shaky legs.

Less bothered, I stood and offered to investigate. “Are these the footsteps you've been hearing?” I asked, removing my blazer and draping it over the back of my chair. “Let's go and have a look, shall we?” I rolled up my sleeves.

Joseph answered the call, albeit with the utmost hesitance. Traipsing through his house as though he were a stranger there, he made it as far as the foot of the stairs before ceding the lead position to me. I started upstairs, Joseph close at my heels, and listened for any other noises. The footsteps had ceased just as quickly as they'd begun—a stutter-step on two heavy feet. That is, if they'd been steps at all. I wasn't yet convinced and began a survey of each bedroom. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I muttered under my breath.

We discovered the culprit in Megan's room.

At sighting it, Joseph's eyes nearly popped from his head.

“That's it?” he asked, pointing at the pair of dolls on the floor.

In the otherwise neatened room, two large dolls sat upon a pink rug, which was placed beneath a pair of wall-mounted shelves lined with still more dolls. The two toys on the floor, their accessories strewn about like the remains of suicide jumpers, had almost certainly been separated from their besties by the draft. As I started into the room and picked up one of the fallen dolls, the vibrations of my footfalls traveled through the walls and set a third doll, still perched, swaying perilously. Their position on the shelf was precarious, and the slightest disturbance was enough to send them falling. It was hardly a paranormal occurrence. The only thing it proved was that Megan needed to take more care in shelving her toys.

“You see?” I said, smoothing out the doll's clothing and returning it to its proper place. “It's just as I told you. What's happening in this house may not be supernatural at all.”

Though usually inclined to argue, Joseph, when faced with proof of his error and premature fright, admitted, “You've got a point.”

We had a good laugh about the tumbling dolls, Joey, Melissa and I, though what I sensed in the room shortly before my nephew and I returned downstairs I did not then disclose for fear of stirring up unnecessary concern.

The girl's room, I judged then and there, was especially drafty, and any strange noises issuing from therein had to be the result of a persistent wind meddling with its contents. I felt confident in this appraisal because I felt the draft myself—or, I should say, I encountered something that reason demanded I interpret as a draft.

Joseph had turned back into the hallway and I'd been a few steps behind him when I'd felt the air about me shift subtly. The hairs on my exposed forearms twitched against this sudden disturbance; the gust was like that created in the wake of someone walking by very quickly, and I had the sense that an individual—unseen, but very much a material entity—brushed past me as I went to exit the room.

The feeling was so unmistakable that I actually halted, like I'd been elbowed by a stranger in a crowd, and looked around in search of the guilty party.

But I was alone. Joseph was already starting down the stairs.

Five

We chose for our dinner a variety of pies from a local pizzeria, each of them delicious, and spent the hours before nightfall catching up and reminiscing. I shared several embarrassing stories about Joseph in his childhood, which he weathered with a red face, and which left Melissa and Megan cackling. The biggest hits of the evening were the supreme pizza with thin crust, the cold cans of pilsener from a local brewery and my oft-told chestnut about the time I took a young Joseph fishing and dropped a large walleye into his lap—a shock, I suspect, for which he's never fully forgiven me.

It'll sound a bit conceited perhaps, but as the hours passed and my hosts loosened up, I got the impression that my presence in the house was behind this thaw, and that the three of them—having just dealt with a stressful move into their first home—were not in need of a ghost-hunter at all, but of the warmth and guidance of a trusted family member. Well-fed and seemingly pleased to carry on with another adult, Joseph and Melissa were more animated now, and for that I was very glad.

My initial alarm in regards to the girl, Megan, also appeared to have been premature. Having the opportunity to speak with her a good deal, and to carry out subtle examinations of her physical and mental states, I felt certain of her good health. No deficits in her fitness could be found; like her parents, she was merely sleep-deprived and stressed by the change in environment. By the end of my stay, which I was willing to extend as long as necessary, I hoped that the three of them would be able to put this silly ghost talk behind them and return to normalcy.

My life is too often one of solitude. Knocking on the door of sixty-five years and living alone, I do my best to keep in touch with friends, to fill my time with hobbies and the occasional bit of volunteer medical work. Even so, my days are on the whole spent quite alone, and it would be a lie for me to claim that the isolation of such a life is in any way enviable. My wife and I were never blessed with children, and since her passing I have known more of loneliness than I should like. As such, spending time with my nephew's family in this way did me more good than I can say, and in remembering years long-passed I felt that old, familiar nostalgia creeping through me, dampening my eyes and tightening my throat.

Luckily, at my age, one can blame their unsightly sentimentality on one too many beers.

Megan proved quite curious about my wife, who'd passed on six years ago, not long after the girl's birth. “Was she nice?” she asked at the tail end of one of my stories.

“She was. I think you two would have gotten on well,” I replied, digging an old photo out of my wallet and presenting it to her.

This photo of my late wife had outlived several wallets, and had been run through the wash in my carelessness. Despite its many creases it remained intact. Photos of Constance were not in short supply, but this one had always been my favorite. I'd snapped it myself, shortly after our marriage, in the first house we'd ever lived in. She was seated on the edge of our bed, hands piled in her lap, back-lit by the glow of the midday sun. Her golden hair spilled over the shoulders of a black sweater. My wife had never liked being photographed, and at posing for this impromptu shot, she'd met me with a smile that was half amusement and half annoyance.

“This,” I said, “was your great-aunt, Constance. She was about your mother's age in this photo.”

Megan examined it only briefly, before remarking, “She was pretty.”

I smiled. “I always told her she looked like a blonde Chantal Goya.”

“Who?” asked the girl.

“Sorry, I'm showing my age.” I chuckled and polished off my pilsener.

At one juncture, when the only thing she could think to fill the silence with was the ghostly elephant in the room, Melissa asked me what my plans were for the night. “What will you do? Do you plan to hold your séance tonight? You mentioned doing some automatic writing. Can we watch?”

I shook my head. “No, not tonight. Tonight my plan is simply to observe—to see if anything worthy of further action presents itself.” I cleared my throat. “And, as I told you before, it's hardly as dramatic a process as what you find in films. When—if—such a thing proves necessary, I'll be conducting it in private. Please understand, the interference of other parties can complicate things. It's better if I go it solo.”

When Megan had nodded off in her seat, a slice of pepperoni pizza still clutched tightly in her hand, Joseph carried her off to bed, sparing me a nervous smile. “She's sleeping like an angel right now,” he said, “but it's hard to say how long this will last.”

Some minutes later, when we'd cleared the table, the three of us decided to make like the girl and turn in for the night. I thanked the two of them for their hospitality and told them to wake me in the event of any noises or queer happenings.

“If things go like normal,” said Melissa, “then you won't need us to wake you. You'll hear it.”

The two of them were on edge again, convinced that our pleasant evening was about to be followed by a horror-filled night. Nothing had spooked us since the falling of those two dolls shortly after my arrival, but they were sure that a fresh terror was lurking just around the corner, and they seemed to want to prepare me for it. They asked me repeatedly whether I needed anything, if the room was really comfortable enough, and even offered to switch rooms for the night. By the tenth such exchange, I had to order them to bed like children.

Joseph and Melissa retreated into their room, the one nearest the top of the stairs. I bid them goodnight before peering into the girl's room. The door had been left ajar, and I could see Megan slumbering peacefully with a stuffed fox in the crook of her arm. I took some minutes in the bathroom and changed into a set of flannel pajamas. When I'd brushed my teeth, I stepped back into the hall and prepared to enter my room. I'd meant to switch off the bathroom light, however a slight movement in the hall distracted me from the task and I paused in the threshold.

The movement had come from my shadow, I now realized, and for a moment I was extremely amused at having been taken off-guard by it. My amusement waned, though, as I took stock of the thing as a whole and discovered that the light had taken some interesting creative liberties with the silhouette of my body.

In a word, the shadow was misshapen. It was simply too lengthy, and the effect set my limbs—especially my arms—so out of proportion as to be grotesque. I waved both hands, conscious of the vanity light still shining to my back, and puzzled over the strangeness of this shadow. Surely the light, bending around the doorway—and perhaps issuing from bulbs of subtly non-standard shape—was responsible? I backed in and out of the door, but my shadow continued behaving strangely. Like black rubber, the thing stretched all the way to the end of the hall, and seemed to creep up the wall. Had I remained there, it might have continued rising like a tide of brackish water.

I wrote it off. The effect was curious, and I could understand how it might seem unnerving under certain circumstances, but having traveled hours by train and imbibed three beers, I reckoned the look of the shadow had more to do with my beleaguered perception than it did some ominous force.

I put out the bathroom light, slipped into the guest room and shut my door.

* * *

Seated at the white folding table that Joseph had earlier put up in the guest room, I began my nightly ritual.

Years ago, before my wife's passing, I'd been a practicing surgeon. The long hours required by such a job had left their mark on my marriage; there were days—weeks—when Constance and I only managed to see each other in passing. Looking for a way to bond and keep the romance alive despite my busy schedule, the two of us devised a sort of game.

I would bring a notebook with me to work—usually a leather-bound one that the two of us had chosen together—and on my long shifts I would find the time to write my wife a loving note. Then, upon my return home in the small hours, I'd leave it on the kitchen counter for her to find. While I slept and prepared for my next shift, Constance would read my message and pen her own reply, which I could then read once I got to work. This habit, which we kept on for years, allowed us to feel present in each other's lives when my work was at its most demanding.

And it was a ritual that my wife was determined to maintain even from beyond the grave.

One night, shortly after her death, upon revisiting our years of correspondence in a number of these old notebooks, I discovered what appeared to be a new message—this one written on a napkin, beside which I'd left my favorite black fountain pen. I hadn't seen her write it, but that it was in her handwriting I had zero doubt. It had been short, simple, and had brought me immense comfort in my destructive, alcohol-soaked mourning.

I'm still with you, my love.

It was in this fashion that I discovered my wife still remained in this world, at least in some capacity. I responded to the note, thinking I might simply be insane. The next morning when I arose from hungover sleep however, I saw she'd left a response.

And so our game of exchanging the notebook continued.

The mechanisms behind this sustained presence were a mystery to the both of us, and my growing interest in paranormal phenomena have largely stemmed from a desire to understand our arrangement. Constance's access to the world of the living was limited. She existed in a different space—a parallel world of a kind—where restless souls remained in uncomfortable stasis. Why her soul—or anyone's—remained in this sphere years after death was hard to say. Perhaps the world she lived in was like Purgatory, a waiting room for souls.

Whatever the case, it was from that waiting room that she was able to reach out to me nightly, penning me fresh notes and sharing insights from this other, spectral world.

In the years since her death, my wife's soul had been strongly associated with my black fountain pen, which she herself had gifted me on one of my birthdays. I can only imagine that her spirit chose to migrate there because she knew how precious the thing was to me, and that it would always be close at hand. This closeness, of course, would then apply to her by extension; wherever I brought the pen, I brought Constance with me as well.

From my messenger bag I took my newest leather-bound journal and set it open to a clean page. Locating my fountain pen, I licked the nib and wrote a note to Constance, letting her know of the day's events.

Dearest Constance, I began, it is well after dark as I write this. I arrived in Detroit without incident and have passed quite a joyful evening with Joseph and his family. The house is lovely—it reminds me of our first home, in fact. Joseph, Melissa and Megan seemed at the end of their tether when I arrived. To be honest, I don't know what has them so uneasy. The house is lovely, as is the neighborhood. In my time here, I've heard no strange or inexplicable noises, have seen no phantasms. Though, I will say this—and mind you, it isn't proof of any psychical malady in and of itself—the shadows in this home do behave somewhat strangely. Just before I sat down to pen this message, I noticed it in the upstairs hallway, with the bathroom light to my back. The shadows here lengthen, seem to have a mind of their own. I'm convinced that there's a natural explanation for this, though I've been racking my brain these past few minutes and I can't for the life of me say what it is. I wonder, my love, what your impressions of the house are? Have you sensed anything? How do things look from the other side? All right, I'm off to bed. I'm hopeful that I'll see you in my dreams. Marcel.

Turning to the next clean page, I left the fountain pen sitting in the seam of the open journal and rose from my seat, putting out the light. The spartan guestroom was plunged into complete darkness, and it was only after I'd situated myself in the cot and stared at the window awhile that my eyes began to detect the faint moonlight drifting through. It must have been a cloudy night, for only a weak glow issued from the panes, settling here and there like a thin film of moon-colored dust.

I closed my eyes, stretched out and took a deep breath, inviting sleep.

I didn't have to wait long.

Six

Scratch-scratch.

Scratch-scratch.

I awoke to the familiar and comforting sound of my fountain pen skating over crisp paper.

Constance was replying.

Through squinting eyes I peered across the room and caught the glint of the pen's gold trim in the faint moonlight; I watched it bob and shift in her unseen hand as though suspended by a string.

I'd nearly slipped back to sleep when I heard the pen drop inertly onto the notebook with a thud, signaling the completion of her missive. Late though it was—my Seiko told me it was just past two in the morning—I thought about getting up to read it. There comes a time in a man's life when his body gets finicky and he has to take his sleep where he can get it however, and having happened upon the one really good position on the tiny cot that kept my back from seizing up, I gave my pillow a quick fluff and resolved to read it in the morning.

And I would have done exactly that, except for what I heard as I sank once more into sleep.

I heard a noise outside my door. At first, it struck me as a voice, and seemed to be accompanied by a great, almost impatient sigh. In the ensuing stillness, knowing only that I was too tired to know what I was hearing, I explained it away as the far-off groan of a hinge, or some facet of the house settling against the wind.

I'd begun drooling on my pillow when I heard it again, and this time it woke me completely. It was louder, more insistent, though no clearer than before. Hard though it was to classify, my ears inexplicably took it for a voice. And if it was a voice, then it didn't belong to anyone I knew to be living in the house. My chest grew tight and I hesitated in leaving the bed to investigate.

The trouble was that voices—at least, human voices—didn't sound like this. Maybe, if one could train a bullfrog to croak out a couple of familiar syllables the effect could be reproduced, but as I listened from the cot I couldn't make sense of what I was hearing. Frogs in the yard? Had someone left the television on downstairs?

I amassed sufficient courage to throw off my covers, and I sat at the edge of the cot until my head felt clear enough, and my legs steady enough, to approach the door. The floorboards singed the soles of my feet with cold like blocks of ice as I paced across the unlit room. Reaching out blindly for the door and the light switch in tandem, I yanked open the former and batted pitifully at the latter. The sudden influx of light was painful and my vision was filled with spots; I supposed that if something had been lurking outside my door, it would have found a prime opportunity for assault in my subsequent fit of blinking, squinting and cursing.

No attack came from the hallway however, because there was no one there—a fact that I blearily confirmed some moments later.

I peeked out into the dark hallway but could turn up no trace of anyone. Still shaken, I stood in the doorway for close to a minute to make absolutely sure. Joseph and Melissa still had their door closed. Megan's remained ajar, as before. The air was alive with the even sighs of pleasant sleep. The hall, lit solely by the moonlit window at its terminus, was empty.

Back in the room, easing the door shut, my weary gaze found the notebook on the table. The pen sat upon it and a fresh message was scrawled across the page I'd left open. Now that I was up, I saw no reason to put off reading it and sought out my glasses.

Not that I needed them. The message was brief, and was written in a larger, more aggressive hand than was the norm.

DARLING, I WISH WE HADN'T COME HERE. THEY HAVEN'T LEFT ME ALONE SINCE WE ARRIVED. THEY'RE ALWAYS HERE. EVEN NOW I CAN HEAR THEM CALLING ME—

The note ended there, as if Constance had been interrupted in its writing and had suddenly dropped the pen. The handwriting was hurried, choppy; the penmanship of one under duress.

I thought to write a response, but my hands were too unsteady to make use of the pen. Gnawing on my thumbnail and pacing over the creaky floors, I tried in vain to dispel the air of alarm that now filled the room. My mind was racing with questions that I desperately wanted answers to—“Are you OK?” was chief among them. Moreover, who, exactly, had she been referring to in her note? She sounded harassed, pursued, but had told me nothing about her stalkers. How many were there? What did they want? How were they interacting with her? Did this mean that the house was truly haunted, then? The confused nature of the note kept me from making any concrete judgements.

My pacing had reached a maniac stride when I was distracted yet again by a noise in the hall—the same sound that had drawn me out of bed in the first place.

A voice—low and croaking—mumbled from the hallway.

I watched the door intently, and then stood bolt upright as the knob began to rattle.

“Joey?” I asked, voice wavering. “Is that you?”

The knob began to turn, and at that moment my fists were balled till the veins in them quivered.

“Melissa? Megan?”

No reply. My mouth felt dry as chalk. Without realizing it, I'd begun holding my breath.

The turning of the knob was complete, and the door fell open with a metallic pop, soon followed by the slow rasp of its hinges. It eventually came to rest a third of the way open, and the velvety darkness of the hall entered into view. Though I stared a long while and felt something like a cool draft seeping into the room from the open door, no visual sign of the one who'd opened it could be found. There was only darkness; darkness and the malign possibility that was its perennial concomitant.

Heart racing, I marched across the room, heedless of the chill climbing down my spine, and took hold of the knob. Darkness so thick it may as well have been a curtain met me as the door flew open with a squeal.

And within that darkness, a shadow, as of a person with very long limbs lumbering towards the stairs, was briefly glimpsed. The distortion of the profile made it impossible to say just who or what I was looking at, but the lack of audible footfalls bespoke the drifting stride of something weightless and thus inhuman. The fleeting hope that it was Joseph or Melissa returning from the bathroom vanished at once.

Then I heard a terrible pounding. It sounded like a battering ram was being taken to the front door. Despite the hammering of my heart, I couldn't help investigating and I stepped out into the hall, groping for the light.

Bracing myself, I headed for the top of the stairs. The banging sound came again, and this time my aged years were able to pinpoint it more effectively. It was definitely coming from the level below.

I descended the stairs into the unlit lower story all by my lonesome. Surely Joseph and Melissa had heard this commotion and would soon join me, but in my terror I hadn't even thought to rouse them.

There was a third bang, and with it came certain vibrations that I sensed in my clutching of the handrail. The wooden bannister—and the very air around me, for that matter—was frigid. The night had been reasonably cool for summer, but as I staggered down the stairs I felt like I was venturing deeper and deeper into a walk-in freezer.

When I'd reached the bottom of the staircase, I immediately went searching for a light switch. Further blows were struck as I sought out the lights, each of them causing dishes and silverware to jingle in the kitchen. When I finally discovered a switch near the base of the stairs, I flicked it.

I found myself in close proximity to the front entryway, with the dining room to my right. Neither space contained the source of this racket. Cutting to the left, I plumbed the dim depths of the living room, and it was there that I stumbled upon the origin of the infernal pounding.

Megan stood before one of the living room walls. Holding a hammer in one of her small hands and staring dazedly ahead, she'd been striking the hardiest blows her young arm could manage. This assault had resulted in a series of large dents and cracks, and I saw that the head of the hammer was presently embedded in the drywall. The girl, jittery in her movements, grunted demoniacally as she sought to pry the tool loose.

“Megan!” I barked. The girl startled at the sound of my voice, and instantly her grip on the hammer relaxed. “What are you doing?” Rushing towards her, I took her by the shoulders and examined her. She was drenched in a cold sweat that left her Pete the Cat pajamas sodden around the chest and back, and her eyes were unfocused. Standing slack-jawed, shuddering, the girl didn't seem to notice I was there. I waved a hand in her face, snapped my fingers, but couldn't get her to react.

A panicked Joseph and Melissa stormed into the living room, nearly tripping down the stairs.

“It's nothing,” I announced, stepping back so that the parents might scoop up their soggy girl. “It appears she's sleepwalking.”

“Sleepwalking?” Melissa palmed the girl's dark hair from her clammy brow. “She's sleepwalking?”

I gripped the hammer and pulled it from its resting place. There was a small hole left in the drywall, roughly an inch across. “Yes, and it seems she had her mind set on a couple of home improvements. Quite handy, this one.”

Joseph studied the damage to the wall, then peered into his daughter's face. “M-Megan has never done this before,” he stammered. “Is this normal?”

“Every child is different,” I replied. “Sleepwalking is just one of those things. It can start up without warning and abate just as suddenly. I've heard it put down to stress, so in that sense I'm a little surprised this is the first time. Sleep disorders aren't my speciality, though.”

“Megan?” Melissa knelt down and caressed her daughter's cheek. “Are you awake, sweetie?” She peered up at me while waiting for the girl to awaken. “She kind of gets this way when she has bad dreams and screams about that figure in her room. She stays unresponsive for awhile and it's hard to wake her. But she doesn't wander. And where the hell did she even get the hammer? Maybe we should splash some water in her face?”

“I'd just put her back to bed—no need to wake her,” I said. “This lack of responsiveness is typical in cases of sleepwalking, I believe.”

Melissa took the girl's hand and led her back to the stairs. “Are you awake, sweetheart? Why did you do that? Why did you hit the wall? You could have hurt yourself, baby.”

I heard Megan groan a little, as though the question required a lot of thought. Then, dreamily, she replied, “I had to let the birdie out.”

At hearing this, Joseph turned to me, wide-eyed. “Birdie? What the... She must be talking about the tapping I mentioned—from behind the walls.” He grit his teeth. “This damn house is getting to her. It's... it's driving her to do this weird stuff. Do you get it now? We've got to get her out of here. We can't stay anymore. This house is a nightmare.”

Careful not to disclose prior events, I laughed off the girl's sleepwalking. “Don't worry about it. We'll talk about it in the morning. I'll admit she gave me a good scare, but in the end it was only a little childish mischief. Bear that in mind, Joseph—that's all we're dealing with here. The wall can be patched and your daughter's sleep hygiene can be improved to—hopefully—put a stop to these little nocturnal episodes.”

“I hope you're right...” Joseph scanned the room with pursed lips. Though he turned up no ghouls or phantoms, he shivered just the same. Walking back to the stairs, his shoulders remained tense.

My stomach sank as I recalled what I'd witnessed mere moments before emerging from my room. The turning of the knob; the muffled, croaking voice I'd heard outside my door; the worrisome note I'd gotten from Constance. There was more happening here than a bout of sleepwalking, but for Joseph's sake I put on a happy face and urged him back to bed. “Morning will be here before we know it. Get some rest.”

Joseph and Melissa got the girl back upstairs, and the soundness of her snoring seemed to me a guarantee against further wandering, at least for what remained of this night. We bid each other a second “goodnight” and returned to our rooms.

The first thing I did when the door was shut behind me was revisit the journal. I still hadn't replied to my wife's earlier message. Picking up the book, I discovered Constance had written a brief addendum to her earlier scrawl while I'd been preoccupied downstairs. It was in as unsteady a hand as that which preceded it.

MARCEL, WE SHOULDN'T HAVE COME HERE.

I meditated on the messages for a time before penning my reply.

Constance—what's wrong? Your notes have me a bit nervous. What's in this house, and why does it hound you? I've been here less than a day—how can I abandon Joseph and his family now? Especially if the situation is as dire as you've made it seem? Come now, love, surely things aren't as bad as all that? Is there a sinister presence in the house that has intimidated you? More than one? In our previous experiments the souls of the dead have sometimes proven hostile, but I've never seen you react to them in this way. Please, tell me what's troubling you.

I went to bed. I don't mean to say that I slept, only that I got under the covers and stared at the ceiling until the sky began to lighten. The house remained quiet. My mind, coursing with apprehension, did not.

The hour hand of my Seiko was inching close to the five when I next heard the scratching of the pen against the journal, and the brief reply Constance left me did not much soothe my nerves.

IT'S NOT LIKE THE OTHER TIMES, was all she'd written.

Seven

Dawn brought no further communique from my wife. I found it difficult to mask my dismay at this fact over a bowl of Cheerios and skim milk at breakfast.

My hosts, despite the night's upheaval, appeared sufficiently rested and in good humor, and they were apologetic to find me less so. Megan claimed to have no memory of her sleepwalking episode, and when presented with the damage she'd done to the wall in her fugue state, proved incredulous.

Spreading butter over an english muffin, Joseph smiled at me from across the table, asking, “So, what's your take on the house, uncle? You spent the night observing, right? Where do you go from here?”

There was no way in hell I was going to be honest with him. To share the full extent of my dread would have robbed him of what little peace of mind he'd built up. After crawling out of bed an unrested husk of a man and steeping in the shower, I'd given my next step ample thought however. I had come up with a course of action by which I could better observe—and hopefully nullify—whatever forces lurked within these walls, and now had to pitch it to them.

“So, the night was mostly free of disturbances,” I lied. “There was a point when I thought I heard those voices you mentioned, though.”

“You did?” he asked, sitting upright in his chair.

I nodded. “It turns out that it was only your snoring.”

Melissa chuckled. “I live with it every day!”

“More seriously,” I continued, “I can't say yet whether there's anything supernatural to be dealt with here. In order for me to do a thorough investigation and to give the matter the attention it deserves, I'd like to stay here for a few more days.”

“Sure,” replied Joseph. “We'd be happy to have you.”

“Alone,” I added.

Joseph peered at his wife, grasping for a response. “Uh... wait, you want to... stay here alone?”

“That's right. Just for a few days. If there is something here, I think that's all I'll need. Furthermore,” I continued, “I want you three out of the house for awhile—for two reasons. Firstly, you need some distance from the situation. You've all been cooped up, have been giving this too much headspace. Spending a few days elsewhere will clear your minds, help make you reasonable again. The other reason has more to do with the nature of spirits. With so many people in the house it's difficult for me to differentiate between human and spiritual activity. If I'm alone, whatever souls might reside here will have no choice but to interact with me, and if I witness potentially supernatural phenomena, I won't be able to blame it on any of you.”

“Sure,” said Melissa, smiling like she'd just sat on a tack. “But... where will we go while you do this?”

“Anywhere you like, my dear. Find the best hotel in the city, or a resort of some kind, and I'll put you up there as long as necessary.”

“What about my toys?” asked Megan, slurping down the last of her milk.

I picked a few twenties from my wallet and slid them across the table to her with a wink. “I understand that this is quite an inconvenience for you, madam. Perhaps you could use this to buy a few new toys to enjoy in the meantime, yes?”

“Uncle Marcel, that's not necessary!” said Joseph, looking ready to intercept the crisp bills from his daughter's clutches. “Maybe we can find someone in town—a friend—to stay with. I'll make some calls. I don't want you spending all of your money sending us to a hotel. I really appreciate the offer, but—”

“If you appreciate it so much, why not prove it by taking me up on it, Joey?” I asked. “And for that matter, what else am I going to spend my money on, eh? Cigars? More whiskey? I'm an old man and I'm blessed to have more of the stuff than I know what to do with. If I can't spend it on the lot of you then it's no good. Pick your hotel—near or far—and I'll put you up in it as long as you like. I'll throw in funds for meals and entertainment. Travel, too, if necessary.”

“But, uncle—”

“Staying in a good hotel is quite the hardship, I know, but consider it the cost of science!” I joked, looking to Melissa. “Are there any hotels with indoor waterparks hereabouts? I bet Megan would enjoy that, wouldn't she? Perhaps they have a spa, too?”

Melissa's opposition to my plan waned at the thought of a free mani-pedi. “Well, there's that resort in Auburn Hills,” she said, nudging Joseph's arm. “And that's only about a half-hour from here on the freeway...”

“Oh, come on.” Joseph worked over his muffin for a time. “We don't need to do this. It'll be very expensive.”

“You mentioned that you'll be working a temp job over this summer, till school starts again,” I said. “Would this interfere with your getting back and forth to work, Joey? I don't mind paying for cab fare or gas, if so.”

“Well, actually...” Joseph hesitated. “I'm not set to start that job for another ten days, so technically, no, it wouldn't be a problem. But...”

I smacked the table playfully. “It's settled! Melissa, give me the number for this resort and I'll make a reservation at once. You won't mind terribly if I put you up in, say, the presidential suite?”

Melissa took hold of her phone and immediately began scrolling. “N-No, that'd be wonderful!”

I took my empty bowl to the sink and gave it a rinse, and like a needy dog Joseph followed. “Uncle Marcel, I appreciate this, but you don't have to do something so over the top. I mean, put us up in a hotel, fine... But it doesn't have to be Disneyland!”

“Would you prefer Disneyland?” was my rejoinder, and it was met by a squeal of excitement from the girl.

“No! No! The resort is fine!” he snapped.

“Tell me,” I asked him, arms crossed, “since school let out have the three of you gone on any kind of vacation?”

Joseph shook his head. “No, the move got in the way. And we didn't really have a vacation fund, either.”

“I thought so.” Eyeing Megan in my periphery, I gave Joseph's shoulder a squeeze. “Megan won't be a little girl forever. In fact, I guarantee—in less time than you think—you're going to look back on this summer and wish you could have done more. Pardon the cliché, but you won't get this time with your family back. You've just bought your first home. It should be one of the happiest times of your life. Instead, you've all been miserable. Let's turn that around, shall we?”

“If you insist,” he conceded.

“I do. On one condition, of course. Be sure to take a lot of pictures. Someday, when you're old as dirt like I am, those pictures will mean the world to you. An album full of family photos is the next best thing to a working time machine.”

“All right,” he promised. “I'll do that.”

I nudged him towards the living room. “Go on, then! You've all got some packing to do! I want you out of this house stat. It's soon to be a laboratory—authorized personnel only!”

* * *

Reservations were made and bags were packed. I gave Joseph a good ribbing about the tacky Hawaiian print on his swim trunks, and stuffed a much protested check into his hand to cover all of their expenses. Before they piled into the family car and departed for Auburn Hills, I asked them for directions to the nearest high-end grocer, and then arranged for a cab to pick me up within the hour.

889 Morgan Road was almost unbearably quiet without the family of three clogging up its halls. The silence was unwelcome, oppressive, and quite unlike the silence I'd known in my years as a semi-reclusive widower. I'm not sure I can articulate how it was different, but the singularity of its silence struck me most profoundly just as I saw Joseph and the others off.

When I'd finished waving, I re-entered the house, closing the door behind me. Outside, there'd been birds chirping. I'd heard a wasp speed by. A lawnmower had roared from somewhere on the next street over, and from two houses down I'd heard the dribbling of a hose as someone washed their car.

Inside the house, the only sound that awaited me was that of my pulse.

In closing the door, it was like I'd stepped into a thoroughly soundproofed space, and I'll admit that the shortage of sound was more than a little disorienting. Meandering through the rooms, taking stock of what I'd effectively made my prison for the next few days, even my steps did not make half the sonic impact I thought they should.

I went up to my room and flipped through the leather journal, hoping that Constance had written me at some point in the morning.

She hadn't.

Taking up the pen, I wrote her a short note.

Darling—I'm headed into town. I kicked Joseph and his family out. They're going to be staying in a hotel. It's just the two of us now. Well—the two of us and whoever or whatever else dwells herein. Please write soon.

Usually, Constance only wrote after sunset. Now and then she'd manage to write during the daylight hours—an allowance from the norm which neither of us could explain—but her messages almost always turned up at night. For reasons unclear to the living, spirits simply hit their stride after dark. I supposed, in that sense, Constance was playing by the same set of rules as whatever else wandered this house.

I was alerted to the presence of the cabbie by a honk from the driveway. I locked up the house with the key Joseph had left me and, climbing into the taxi, asked the driver to take me to the nearby natural grocer.

His name was Larry, and the two of us talked a great deal as I went about my errand. Wearing a ragged Detroit Tiger's baseball cap, he discussed his previous fares and, at my prompting, suggested his favorite place in town for good seafood. The grocery store was just over five minutes away by car—a walkable distance had I been feeling less lazy—and I asked him to wait in the lot for me while I picked up some food.

I filled a small cart with convenience foods—most of them healthy. I bought up ingredients for salad, as well as a few frozen entrees, tins of fish, a bit of fresh fruit and some prepackaged snacks. I also nabbed two bottles of cheap local wine, which I intended to enjoy when things around the house were slow. Carrying my bags out to the cab, Larry shuttled me back to Morgan Road in a jiffy.

So involved were we in a discussion about local fishing that I nearly overlooked an interesting landmark that popped up on my return journey. Smack-dab between a number of houses on Morgan Road was a small and ancient-looking graveyard. It sat only a short walk from Joseph's place. “Say,” I asked the driver, “what's the story there?”

“Oh, the graveyard?” he asked, clearing his throat. “It's real old. I don't think anyone's been buried there since before I was born. Surprised the grass has been mowed—in the days before this neighborhood got fixed up, it looked like a real mess over there.”

“I see. Tell me more about this street. I understand it was pretty sparse for awhile? That most of the houses were falling apart and abandoned?”

“That's right.” Larry cracked his window for a bit of fresh air. “It looks nice now, but for twenty or thirty years this spot was pretty much a no man's land. I remember taking this street as a shortcut in the 90's—when I was a teenager with a newly-minted license, and I tell ya, it was spooky. Crack houses, illegal parties, you name it. A real dive. They did a good thing when they came through and started building, though. These new houses are a little bland for my taste, but at least the meth labs are gone.”

I couldn't argue with that. Larry dropped me off at the curb and I set him up with a good tip. I appreciated our chat all the more because I knew precisely what awaited me inside the house.

The moment I passed through the door with my armful of groceries I was reacquainted with that maddening silence.

It's nonsensical to talk of a house in this way—and considering the nature of my work there, probably irresponsible—but I got the impression that the building was holding its breath. The air was unsettled, unnaturally tense. Imagine walking into a house where friends have gathered to throw you a surprise birthday party. The atmosphere was similarly weighted with expectancy, but as yet the celebrants were still lying in wait.

I crept into the living room as though it were a lion's den. Every corner was inspected for misshapen shadows. I made certain every piece of furniture was in its proper place. too. Finding nothing awry, I finally lowered my guard and shuffled to the kitchen to begin shelving my purchases.

Something was going to happen in this house, I could feel it in the air.

But it wasn't going to happen yet.

The house wouldn't tip its hand until after dark. Of that I felt confident.

It was early, too early for a respectable person to start drinking, but I eyed the newly-purchased bottles of wine anyhow. My afternoon was likely to entail a lot of sitting, waiting and listening for aberrancy, and I could think of nothing better to break up the monotony of such a day than a touch of vino. I had to wait also for Constance to get back to me. Finding a solution to any potential haunting hinged on her intel. Though, by the look of things, I'd be waiting awhile.

Before treating myself to a glass of wine, I hiked upstairs and checked on my notebook. I flipped through the thing hopefully, in search of fresh correspondence.

There were no new messages, though.

Deflated, I went looking for a corkscrew.

Eight

Stretched out on the sofa, I listened for sounds outside of the norm. There was no throaty moaning, no rattling of chains to be heard however; just me, a half-empty bottle of sauvignon blanc and a gibbering television.

When Joseph and I had first spoken, I'd gotten the impression that this was a veritable house of horrors—that a heart-stopping fright lurked around every corner. The fact that it was a rather ordinary house was almost disappointing.

There was one thing that did unnerve me, though—a thing which I repeatedly scolded myself for fixating on.

In the wall to the right of me was the hole Megan had made the night before with her hammer blows. It was small, an inch or so in diameter, and almost perfectly round. When glimpsed in my periphery, I couldn't help thinking it a dark eye embedded directly into the drywall. And then, whenever I stared into the little peephole, I'd find myself picturing the dark recess behind, and my mind would populate the inner wall with all kinds of vague horrors. The more I paid attention to the hole, the more I wondered whether I was being watched through it. This was ludicrous, clearly. A man of my age should have been ashamed at such imaginings.

Such was my discomfort that I considered patching it up myself, however. I wondered if Joseph had a jar of spackling paste tucked away somewhere and went so far as to rummage around in the downstairs closets in search of some. Coming up empty-handed, I decided to leave the living room altogether.

More out of listlessness than proper hunger, I made myself a small lunch at around two in the afternoon. A bit of salad and a tin of sardines in olive oil went down easy alongside more wine. Unable to find anything interesting on television, I spent time leafing through my leather journal and ended up writing a note to Constance as I sometimes did when bored or lonely. Whether she was in any position to read my ramblings I couldn't say. For all I knew, the presence in the house persisted in harassing her. Nevertheless, I wrote.

Do you remember, my love, the time we housesat for Ron and Dolores Jarvis? In Tampa? That's what this situation feels like at present. A big, empty house and nothing to do. I've been seated in the living room, anticipating aberrancy that hasn't materialized.

That time in Tampa, on the water, you decided to try your hand at baking something new and difficult—what was it? German chocolate cake? It's been so long... At any rate, the kitchen was unfamiliar, the right ingredients were hard to come by and I recall that the thing ended up a lump of charcoal. When Ron and Dolores returned two days later they were surprised to find that the house still reeked of burnt baked goods.

That's a stupid memory for me to waste precious ink on, isn't it?

I chuckled in spite of myself. I hadn't noticed it in the moment, but the corners of my eyes had grown damp. I wiped at them hurriedly.

It's during these especially quiet times that I miss you most, I think. It's hard to believe that there was a time when such silences were unknown to me. My days were filled with work. It was always the same—a blur of operations, dictation, consulting. You deserved more than I gave you—I should have been more present. I wasn't around enough, too busy chasing overtime. Maybe if I had been around, then I could have done something about—”

I stopped myself there. I considered, too, crossing out the entire thing, or ripping the page from the book. It was a stupid note and I regretted writing it.

Forgive me, Constance. Your husband is getting to be an old dolt. Sometimes the loneliness gets the better of me. You should have seen me last night at dinner with Joseph and his family, beating back those old nostalgic aches. I'm embarrassed. And I'm worried, too. You haven't written me back all day. I hope to hear from you soon, and pray that everything is all right. Would that you were here in more than spirit, love. I rather think you'd enjoy this sauvignon blanc.

* * *

I decided an exploration of the neighborhood was in order. It was important that I become a bit more familiar with the area and soak up some of the local color. I took off without a destination in mind just as the sun began to dip. Having spent so much of the day inside, sitting, my legs were glad for the trek.

My feet led me as far as the old cemetery—a thing I'd subconsciously fixated on during my ride back from the store—and I spent some time wandering between the rows of crumbling stones. Virtually none were legible, the writing long-effaced by the punishment of untold winters. A pair of neighborhood boys were seated in the grass near the entrance to the graveyard, playing with toy cars, and the two of them constituted just about the most interesting thing in sight thereabouts.

Where memorial statues remained, age had lent them somberness. Angels, once cherubic, took on a mournful cast for the pummeling of the seasons. Carved headstones, once ornate, were reduced to blurry slabs of rock more akin to something melting in the background of a Dali painting. It was all a very sorry sight, and I wasn't far into my exploration of the spot before my interest in it evaporated.

The houses surrounding the lot of tottering monuments were all new, practically identical constructions. Recalling what the cab driver, Larry, had told me about the neighborhood's past, I tried visualizing what that very spot must have looked like twenty—or even ten—years previous.

These meditations reminded me of Joseph's house, and of the fact that roughly a decade ago its last owner had allegedly abandoned it. Who had owned the house and why had they washed their hands of it? There was probably an easy way to figure out the who; the why was anyone's guess. Perhaps the previous owner had regretted his purchase; realized too late that the entire neighborhood was in a downturn at the time and cut his losses.

Leaving the gravestones behind, I got to thinking about ghosts. Specifically, the ghosts that were soon to begin stirring at Joseph's.

What lurked in that house, and how long had it been there? These were important questions that needed answering, and up to this point Constance had supplied me with nothing but vague, gut-clenching dread. In order for me rid the house of any phantoms, I'd have to know a thing or two about how they'd gotten there in the first place. When I'd learned that, I could find a way to cut their anchors.

The first ghost Constance and I had ever dealt with had been the spirit of a man murdered in the early 1900s; a man who'd been buried in an unmarked grave. A strip mall had been built atop this mound of bones, and when the manager of a new cigar shop in said mall—of which I was a customer—began reporting strange apparitions, I offered to look into the matter.

By that time, contact between Constance and myself had been normalized, and I asked for her help in resolving the haunting that so unnerved the owner of the shop. I was allowed to enter the building after dark, and utilizing Constance as a kind of bloodhound and translator, I was able to find the spirit and communicate with it. The spirit had told its tale of woe, and at discovering the whereabouts of his remains, I was able to inform the shopkeeper and arrange for a proper burial, upon which all supernatural activity promptly ceased and my lifetime cigar discount began.

The next time I surfaced from my thoughts, I found the sky darkening and the breeze scented with night.

It was time to head back.

Nine

The pager is going off again.

A tension headache is brewing.

Traffic is terrible.

Another red light.

My eyes are burning. It's been twenty-three hours since I last slept.

No, twenty-five.

What's it matter? It's been too damn long.

The light's green and people are honking now. For a second there I'd drifted off.

Now I'm turning onto my street, and I can't remember how I got there. There's a blank space between point A and point B.

I glimpse myself in the rearview. You look awful.

The pager chirps a second time.

I glance down at it.

It can wait.

Rolling into the driveway now, throwing the car into park.

There's a bottle of scotch waiting for me inside.

I wonder for the first time in hours what Constance has been up to as I shove the door open.

“It's been a hell of a day,” I mutter as I open the door. “How are things on the home front, dear?”

And then I catch sight of her.

She's sprawled out on the kitchen floor.

She isn't moving; looks as though she hasn't moved in quite some time.

Her face is whiter than the bone china she'd set out for tea.

The kettle on the stove has run through its water and is half-way to becoming molten.

Her eyes are glass.

“Constance!”

I shake her. She's limp.

“Constance!”

Her skin feels clammy.

I give her another shake. “Constance!”

She falls apart at the seams like a doll, and cotton spills from the torn edges.

Cotton spills across the floor.

The kettle turns black; the stove erupts.

There's something crawling towards me from the next room.

Blue arms and legs dangling loosely from shattered joints.

It inches like a worm.

It's got two holes for eyes, and when it opens its mouth to scream, a torrent of white fluff spills forth.

Its voice is the shrill whine of a smoke detector.

* * *

I awoke with a gasp, eyes nearly sealed shut with mist. Easing myself up from the sofa, I took to pacing around the living room, now painted heavily with night. So heavy was the pounding of my heart in my ears that I nearly missed the noisy vibrations coming from my phone. I fetched it from the kitchen counter and brought it to my ear, sounding like quite the mess. “Erm... hello?”

“Hey, Uncle Marcel, it's me.”

“Joseph.” I leaned against the sink and waited until I was confident the terror was gone from my voice. “H-How are things, lad?”

“We're good,” he replied, his tone marred with concern. “What's wrong? Did something happen?”

Finally, I exhaled and rubbed at my eyes. “No, no, all is well on the home front. Old fart that I am, I was dozing when you rang and the phone gave me a fright. Never mind that; how's the resort?”

Joseph chuckled. “It's great. Megan and I have barely left the water park since we arrived, and Melissa took the afternoon to visit the spa. When time comes to leave I'll have to drag them out kicking and screaming.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” I said. “I'm happy to report that things have been rather uneventful on my end. I picked up some groceries and went for a little stroll. Walked through that old graveyard. Kind of shabby-looking. They ought to relocate the bodies and pave over the thing. I'm sure it's not great for property values.”

“Ah, yeah. I'm not a fan of that graveyard.” Joseph paused. “Sometimes, when you drive by it after dark...” He trailed off. “Never mind.”

“What is it?” I asked. “Have you noticed anything about the graveyard?”

“Just that it's eerie,” he replied. “I mean, sometimes, late at night, the tombstones kind of look like people. It's a reminder of just how broken down the whole neighborhood was, once upon a time. I'm with you. I wish they'd tear it down or something.”

“Well, at any rate, I'm glad to hear you're enjoying yourselves. What were you calling about, lad? Just checking up on me?” I asked with a grin.

“I guess you could say that. I just don't know if it's the best idea—your staying in the house. If you want, I could come back there and stay with you so you're not alone. Melissa and Megan could hang out here, and—”

“Don't even think about it,” I shot back. “What did I tell you before you left? Have some fun with your family! I appreciate the concern, really I do, but I can take care of myself. I've got a few years before I'm due at the care home.” And anyway, I nearly added, I'm not alone here. Your Aunt Constance is with me.

“OK... Just make sure to call if something happens. Or if you want us to come back. Please, be careful.”

“Listen, Joey, if anything happens here, I'll update you. Scout's honor. But there's nothing to worry about. This is a field I've dabbled in for awhile now, and I've had genuine experiences with the supernatural before, so I'm not frightened.” That was a lie, but it sounded good. “Give Megan and Melissa a kiss for me, will you? And try to relax!”

He sounded like he was going to try and argue, so I hung up before he could get a word in edgewise.

Peering out the dining room window, I noticed that the sun was long gone.

Whatever lurked in the house at 889 Morgan Road was soon to awaken.

It was time for me to set up my night watch. I gathered my books and brought them downstairs, arranging them on the kitchen table. I brought the fountain pen and journal, too, and set them at the very top of the stack. “Let's see what this house is made of,” I muttered.

Ten

With an eye on my watch and a mug of hot tea in my hand, I did some reading. The television was off, and on this temperate night I'd shut down the air conditioning altogether so as to avoid its noisy interference. Only minutes remained before midnight now. I was up well past my bedtime.

By then I had paged through the bulk of J. Kelly Thompson's Practical Ghost Hunting. I'd taken some notes, and had found several sections within that seemed to corroborate my own theories and experiences with the paranormal. There was, for instance, a section in the fourth chapter that discussed the mechanisms that kept a spirit leashed to the physical world—and following it, a suggestion for cutting that same tether in order to free them:

A human soul that has passed from life in a fit of great emotion will often find on the other side of death a terrible confusion. There exists in the souls of the departed a sort of instinctual intelligence—a sense of what they must do when the body has breathed its last—however this innate understanding may be thrown into chaos when the soul is ejected from the body in a state of turmoil. It follows, then, that the spirits behind most episodes of haunting are often found to be victims of murder or other such crimes of passion. The soul lingers in confusion, mourns its untimely passing. The more discerning ghost will even take exception to the manner of its burial. Determining the reasons for a spirit's unrest is critical in the dissolution of any haunting. One must seek to find out what troubles a spirit, and then to ease said troubles. It is in this way that the condition known as haunting is effectively “cured”.

I meditated on these and other passages, wondering how I might apply them to the mysterious thing—or things—that haunted this Detroit home.

And along the way, I couldn't help wondering, too, how this might apply to the spirit of my dead wife. Why had Constance stuck around? What was keeping her tangled between two worlds, and how might I free her? I became distracted, I admit, in wondering whether I even wanted to free her. Was it sinful that I wished to keep her soul with me to the end of my days—to deny her the relief of the afterlife just so that I could enjoy her company?

These were questions for another time. All I needed then was for Constance to tell me more about what she'd encountered in the house. With more information, I'd be able to better follow this track and see about resolving the issues that kept spirits anchored here. Waiting for her to write, I decided to stretch my legs.

I began to pace throughout the house, inspecting each of its rooms. I found at every turn that I was not alone in this nocturnal watch, for I had my shadow to keep me company. Like a living Rorschach test, it was sculpted into all kinds of peculiar and absurd shapes depending on my placement in relation to the lights, and its disquieting tendency to expand into the room allotted left me wishing I could flee it. No matter how I quickened my step, the inky thing tagged along as shadows are wont to do, and I decided the only thing for it was to put it out of my mind completely.

My ambling brought me into the upstairs, where I walked laps through each of the rooms. The outside of the house was surveyed through every window. I stepped into the bathroom and washed my face with cold water, giving my stubbled cheeks a quick slap and summoning a little vigor. Then I followed the track, returning downstairs, to begin my dozenth survey of the living room, dining room and kitchen.

All was still.

That is, until I heard the tapping.

I had paused in the kitchen to refresh my tea when I heard a light rapping from elsewhere in the house. It was a very quiet sound, innocuous in its way, but it spoiled the silence all the same and I sought it out with a mind towards investigation. I left my mug on the counter and stepped out into the living room, where the tapping grew both in volume and rapidity.

Standing in the middle of the room and listening closely, I determined it was coming from the walls—specifically, from the wall that bore the wounds of Megan's hammer-blows. I approached and placed my ear to the drywall, trying to get a better sense of the noise, but backed up as I rediscovered the tiny crater that had been left there. Sure that mice must be the culprits for this noisiness, I struck the wall with my palm in the hopes of scattering them.

The tapping ceased, only to be replaced by another sound which I not only heard, but felt through the drywall.

Something thrashed behind the wall, and I heard its body bump and scrape about as it prepared to flee. There were impressive vibrations and a doubling of extant cracks as the thing was felt to scurry upward. Whatever it was, it put no little strain on the drywall as it slipped up and out of the room. I heard confused rustlings and clumsy plodding above my head.

Then, silence.

It must have been quite large, judging by the racket. Only a monstrous rat could set the wall shaking in that way. I considered following it upstairs, knocking on certain of the walls to see if I couldn't draw it out, but the ensuing quiet made me wonder if it hadn't fled the house altogether through some gap in the siding. It might have been a mole, possum or even a raccoon. I wasn't sure whether the exterior of the abode offered any points of ingress for such creatures, but would urge Joseph to call pest control to appraise the situation and seal off any such routes.

When I finally left the living room and got back to my tea, it had gone cold.

* * *

I enjoyed a handful of dry roasted peanuts as I resumed my rounds. The hour was half-past midnight, then quarter till one. The disturbance behind the wall did not make a reprise in that time. I was sure now, surer than I had been in the moment, that some animal was living behind the walls, and that a quick visit from a specialist would set the matter right.

I'd been about to begin another perusal of the upstairs when a flash of light brought me to the dining room window. Thinking that it must be a pair of passing headlights, I neared the pane and saw in fact that it was shining much closer. The light was coming from the outside of the house, near the porch.

Thinking it strange, I walked out onto the porch in my slippers to have a look around, and there discovered a fixture I hadn't earlier noticed. There was a light mounted to the right of the door—seemingly motion-activated—and its bright glow filled the entire front yard. I wasn't sure how I'd overlooked it. I meant to go back inside, until it occurred to me that something had to have set the light off in the first place, and I suddenly froze, glancing over my shoulder in furtive search.

Panning up and down the moonlit road, I saw nothing out of place. The scenery was overwhelmingly tame and suburban. Streetlamps were placed at regular intervals; most every house in view had left a light shining on their porch or outside their garage; the driveway was empty and the yard was clear of—

My gaze jumped to the tree several yards to my left.

Glowing eerily in the darkness, its flowers jittering in the breeze like so many white, waving hands, I saw that the tree's dark trunk was sheltering something. My study of the street had ended when I'd glanced over at the Callery pear and sighted someone lurking behind it. They weren't in view now, but the vague impressions of a white face, of a human form, held fast in my mind.

“Who's there?” I barked. “Come out, I've seen you!”

I counted to ten, waiting for the figure to step out of the shadows, and at the end of my count realized they had no intention of showing themselves. I wondered what kind of person had nothing better to do than to mess with an old man on a quiet night; it was the behavior of a degenerate. Perhaps the neighborhood's rehabilitation had been only superficial, and thugs still walked these streets after dark. The paleness of the face I'd glimpsed had been more like that of a china doll than a hooligan however, and this detail left me grappling with an ill-defined fear.

“Come out! I've seen you, so don't try anything funny. This is private property. Leave, or I'll be calling the police.” Who could it have been? Some rough looking to break in? Some sort of pervert trying to peek in through people's windows? “This is your last warning!”

There was no response.

I had no path left to me but that of confrontation. I marched to the tree without stopping to further puzzle over the trespasser's identity, for even then I was perilously close to losing my nerve and retreating to the house. Cool blades of grass slipped over the edges of my slippers as I did so, and like little green fingers they tickled my ankles and left them itching. A cool wind rushed past and chilled a sweat on my brow that I couldn't remember accumulating.

I whipped around the trunk of the tree and found my way into a tight southpaw stance, fists ready to fly at the slightest bit of movement, teeth bared. I hadn't thrown a punch since my days in the schoolyard, but wasn't going to let that stop me from trying to lay out a potential intruder. “All right, I—”

The breeze died out suddenly and I froze, fists drooping.

There was no one behind the tree, nor any sign that anyone had been there. Frankly relieved, I made a slow circuit around the trunk and looked up into its popcorn-colored foliage, panting. Adrenaline coursed through me, set my legs shaking as I leaned against the thing and took stock once again of my surroundings. I'd been seeing things from the porch—had let the moonlight play tricks on me, it was now clear. Like a senile old fool I'd run across the yard to tilt at windmills. I was just happy that no one had been around to witness my idiocy.

But then, perhaps there was someone in the yard with me, because as I braced myself against the tree I heard a sudden outburst of rustling to my back. Jerking with fright, I hobbled a few steps towards the house and watched as the row of bushes between my yard and the next began stirring vigorously, as though someone or something was crawling frantically through them.

I had very little nerve to spare, but invested what remained on exploring this flurry of activity in the hedge. I would have been overjoyed to find a stray cat or dog—but the fury with which the bushes shook told me it was something larger. In the moments before stillness reigned again, my ears registered the snapping of twigs, the crashing of leaves and another noise, especially alarming, which struck me as the sound of something being dragged against the ground with no small effort.

I stood at the end of the hedge in the new silence, staring into the mass of knotted foliage, which still jerked and settled for the disturbance. Carefully, I knelt down and reached to my left. There, a small chunk of concrete had been left sitting beneath the end of the gutter as a support. Armed with this hunk of stone, I paced up and down the line, ready to meet the culprit with violence if necessary.

The moonlight proved sufficient to penetrate the tangled branches, and by my second pass I grew confident that no one skulked within the hedge.

But my search did bear fruit of another kind.

I returned the chunk of concrete to its proper place before squatting beside the hedge. There was something white, set aglow by the moon, left wrapped around the trunk of one squat bush, and I stuck my hand in to examine it. The material gave at once, felt scratchy against my palm, and in taking a closer look I found it was precisely what I'd judged it for at first glance.

A mass of knotted cotton.

The material was fluffy and coarse, the kind of thing one might find within a cheap pillow. Further, for litter that might have blown in from afar, it was surprisingly clean, giving it the impression of something only recently—and perhaps deliberately—discarded. I squeezed the stuff in my hand; though I was surely mistaken, the fibers seemed somehow warm to the touch. Almost as if it just came out of somebody's mouth...

Horrific visions of Megan's phantom, the so-called “Cotton Man”, flashed through my mind. I dropped the cotton and wiped my hands furiously against my pant legs.

“You're a doddering idiot, Marcel. You've really done it to yourself now.” Disgusted with myself for being so easily shaken, I strode back to the house, bruised ego and all, and locked myself in. The porch light went off like a camera flash, blinding me as I sped inside.

Having returned to the house, I found no solace. In fact, the silence felt mocking now. If houses could laugh, this one would have done so heartily at my frightened antics.

At this point, I was getting desperate. Unable to differentiate the shadows and strange coincidences about the property from bonafide spectral phenomena, I yearned to hear something from my wife. I trudged over to the table, picked up the notebook.

Despite the late hour, there was no word from Constance, however.

I tried to remember the last time she'd gone this long without checking in, and when I found I couldn't remember such an instance in all these years, my apprehensions were doubled. “Why haven't you written me?” I asked the pen sitting on the table. “I need your help. This house is giving me the runaround.”

Though I'd promised Joseph that I could cure his house of whatever ailed it, it dawned on me—for the first time—that success was not guaranteed. I'd been arrogant to think I could walk in and immediately purge the house of spirits despite my beginner's luck in other instances. Looking back, my early dismissive talk when presented with his testimony felt especially inappropriate in light of recent events. I'd doubted my nephew, told him to keep an open mind, and assured him that his house was not likely to be haunted. Perhaps I'd made him feel like an idiot for even thinking it. Further, I'd promised him that if there were ghosts here, I'd take care of them like I'd done in my previous cases.

But as Constance had written—this wasn't like the other times.

If she didn't write me with more details, soon, I wasn't sure I'd be able to do a thing for this house. I was jumping at every shadow, letting the place mess with me. It was getting harder and harder for me to stave off paranoia, and I now had some sense of what Joseph and his family had lived with for the past month.

I prepared for bed, though sleep was the furthest thing from my mind.

I kept the bathroom door open while brushing my teeth so that I could keep an eye out for anything unnatural. The shower curtain fluttered in the draft, and a few times I peeked behind it, sure that I was about to glimpse something horrific lurking in the tub. Save for a little soap scum near the drain, there was nothing there worth getting worked up about.

I put out the bathroom light, not daring to look at what it had done to my shadow in the interim, and returned to my room, where I closed the door and locked it. It struck me as a silly thing to do—why lock a door when I was the only person staying in the house? The reasoning was perhaps disgraceful, but a closed door brought me a modicum of comfort. I was not alone in the house, and the powers that dwelt there with me were not likely to be hampered by a mere bedroom door, but closing it and throwing the lock with gusto almost lulled me into the false belief that they would.

Before shuffling into the cot, left unmade and looking rather unappealing, I paused at the desk and scribbled out a short note for my wife in the journal. I prayed that she would read it, and that I'd get a reply sooner, rather than later.

Constance, I'm at wit's end. I hope you're all right, darling. Your silence has me on edge. I have spent the bulk of the day inside, watching and waiting for things to manifest. There have been sounds behind the walls, and a curious episode in the front lawn. Last night, too, I heard things that I cannot readily explain. You tell me that there are spirits here, and I don't doubt it. But I must know more about them. I long for your insight.

Feeling defeated and still haunted by a nebulous unease, I put out the light and dropped into the cot.

Falling asleep was much easier than I'd expected—behind all my anxiety I'd been courting real exhaustion. Within minutes I was snoring.

It was staying asleep that would prove to be the hard part.

Eleven

I jolted awake. The sound of a fountain pen digging into paper had burst onto the scene, jarring me from sleep. I glanced up from my pillow just in time to see the pen drop against the table. It proceeded to roll onto the floor with a clatter that set my teeth on edge.

“What the...” I mumbled, sitting up. That gouging of the paper I'd heard brought a good deal of menace with it. I'd gone to bed hoping that Constance would write me, but now that she had I wasn't sure I cared to see what message she'd left. A note scrawled so hastily and angrily as this could hardly be expected to contain good news.

I was about to creep out of bed to read it when I felt a sudden tug against the sheet I still had draped over my lap. The thing was nearly ripped from the bed in a single pull, and it was only by grasping its retreating edge that I kept it from hitting the floor. Then, by the meager light issuing from the window, I watched a shadow cross the room. It stayed low to the ground, seemed to slither, before vanishing near the dresser. The air went cold then, and I heard the pages of the notebook fluttering in a sudden shift of the draft.

My heart slammed against my sternum and I felt suddenly short of breath.

There was someone in the room.

The floors creaked tentatively as something in the room shifted its weight. Eyes darting about in the darkness, I could find no sign of the one that had grabbed at my bedclothes, but could feel them biding their time. Like a modest bride on her wedding night I clutched the sheet to my chest and tried to find the courage to investigate further.

Finally, I rose from the bed. Gaze divided this way and that, I strode towards the light switch, the iciness of the floors torturing my soles with every step. I gave it a flick and lit up the room so that it could be studied in more favorable terms than the darkness had earlier imposed.

Now, having chased out the darkness, I saw that the room was empty and that I'd been taken—for the umpteenth time—for a fool. There was no figure lurking behind the dresser after all, no horror crouched in wait at my bedside. Old wooden floors sometimes settled in the night due to changes in temperature; half-asleep, I'd probably snagged the sheet on some metal edge of the cot and merely felt it had been tugged away. As usual, the reality was far less insidious than what my imagination had conjured up.

I felt ashamed, silly, but not wholly relieved, because there was one thing I couldn't yet explain—the urgency I'd heard in Constance's newest scribblings.

I peered down at the notebook. My ears hadn't misled me; the paper had indeed been gouged. The few letters she'd scrawled had been sliced into the next few pages of the journal.

She had written only three words, which I struggled to read for their erratic and violent script.

On second glance, squinting, I deciphered them. I tried reading the words aloud, but my heart jumped into my throat and cut me off.

UNDER THE BED.

The room came alive with the clanging of metal. The twin-sized cot lurched upward as something concealed beneath it began to shift. The springs and frame creaked horribly, and from the space underneath there came a single burst of laughter—loud and croaking.

I backed up immediately, struck the door with my back.

The cot fell into its normal, resting position with a sustained creak. And then the room was still once more.

From my spot across the room I knelt, toes digging into the floorboards and knuckles white, to peer under the bed. I couldn't breathe, felt like the oxygen had been vacuumed out of the room. The thin mattress sagged slightly, and the bottom sheet hung over the side of the metal rail. Easing myself lower still, I explored the dark space beneath.

I found nothing but dust bunnies.

There was no relief to be had; the spook had done what it had set out to do. Whether it intended to tax my old heart and kill me I couldn't say, but it was clear that the presence in this house was having a field day with me.

I sat down on the floor cross-legged while waiting for my pulse to calm. I was thankful, at least, that my wife was still keeping an eye on me. She'd been silent for some time, but knowing that she'd dropped in to warn me, to act as my guardian angel, made me feel less alone. “Thank you, darling,” I said, seeking out the fallen writing instrument.

Still shuddering, I reached absently to my left to pick up the fountain pen. The nib, I noticed, had been slightly bent in writing that last, furious message. The gold-trimmed cap had fallen directly beneath the table, near the base molding, and I groped for it while trying to ease the deformed tip back into shape.

My fingers padded around on the floors blindly. I took hold of the cap, but as I recovered it my hand encountered something else. Something unexpected—cold and rubbery to the touch.

Turning so quickly that I banged my head on the underside of the folding table, I glimpsed—for a mere instant—the blue human hand whose fingers I'd just touched with my own. The appendage was gone in the next moment in a fit of scurrying, but the sensory impression remained long after the hazy outline of its owner had disappeared from my periphery.

I felt eyes on me from somewhere in the room. The stare was as frigid as those fingers had been, and the sensation every bit as unmistakable.

Kicking my way across the floor, I scraped at the guestroom door like a dog that needed desperately to be let out, and barreled into the hallway on hands and knees. My joints clicked as I crawled out of the room and towards the stairs. Finally, standing with a groan, I limped down into the lower story and damn near ran into the front door. I put on every light I could find, but even that wasn't enough to soothe me.

Along the way, still clutching the fountain pen in my fist, I found I'd managed to gouge myself with the nib. Blood and black ink flowed across my palm in equal measure.

This house had just declared war on me.

Within five minutes I'd given my palm a hasty rinse and thrown some of my belongings into the messenger bag. In the next five minutes, messily dressed, I was speeding down the sidewalk and calling a taxi. I had the driver pick me up in the parking lot of a gas station around the corner.

Under no circumstances would I wait for my ride within reach of that house.

The driver eventually arrived, and I had him shuttle me off to a nearby diner. There, I drank a steady stream of coffee till the sun finally rose some hours later.

Twelve

Joseph's call the next morning found me still seated in the booth of a 24-hour diner, a jittery mess. The shuddering fear had largely faded by then thanks to the glow of the sun, but had been replaced with the shivers typical of one who's had more coffee than their body knows what to do with. A half-eaten breakfast platter sat before me, untouched for the better part of an hour. I should have eaten more, if only to prevent the torrent of coffee from burning a hole in my stomach, but food held little appeal.

I clawed the cell phone from my pocket and studied it a moment with my burning, sleep-starved eyes before answering. Finding a suitable voice to answer with and making myself seem unbothered after the nightmarish events of the prior night ranked among the hardest things I'd done in recent memory, and I had to dig deep not to sound like the gruff, frightened shell of a man I really was. “Hello, Joey.”

“Good morning,” he said, sounding almost irritably cheery. “How's it going, Uncle Marcel? Are you holding up OK? How did things go last night?”

I glanced around the messy table, at the clutter of mugs and plates I'd accumulated over several hours, and replied, “It was fine. Fine. Decided to come out to a diner for a bite of breakfast. And you? How are things?”

“Well, Megan and Melissa are at the waterpark for the moment. I decided to hang back a little and do some reading. It's been ages since I've had time to sit down with a book. There were some paperbacks in the gift shop downstairs. I picked up a Michael Crichton thriller, so I'll probably dive into that and then meet the others for lunch.”

Lounging in a hotel room, far from that accursed house, sounded mighty nice. Perhaps I'd try it sometime. “I'm glad you're enjoying yourselves,” I said.

“I just wanted to call and say thank you,” continued Joseph. “I really appreciate everything you've done for us. I hope we'll be able to repay you, uncle. We haven't been out of the house that long, but already I'm beginning to see what you meant. We'd stayed cooped up too long. I let the stress of the move get to me, and I think Megan and Melissa both picked up on that. Blaming ghosts for the trouble was convenient, but the problem was rooted deeper down. I just jumped to conclusions, I guess.”

How the tables had turned.

Joseph, having left home for a day, was now the voice of reason.

I was of a very different mind, of course.

“Don't mention it, Joey. I'm happy to help,” said I. “Now, bear in mind, I haven't cleared your house yet. It's entirely possible that there's something happening behind the scenes.” I bit my tongue to keep from telling him about the hell I'd lived through overnight. “Once I'm done with everything, I'll give you the all-clear. Till then, keep enjoying yourselves!”

“Sure thing,” he replied. “Thanks again. And please call if you need anything.”

“I will, Joey.”

I set the phone down and buried the heels of my palms in my eyes, massaging gently. The breakfast rush was going strong, and all around me the sounds of other patrons eating, of cooks and waitresses bantering, reached a headache-inducing crescendo. When next I opened my eyes, I looked past the plates and napkins I'd left sitting about, and to the leather journal, sticking out from the zippered edge of my messenger bag.

My exchanges with Constance had never been so sporadic and tense as recently. In previous investigations into the nature of ghosts, she'd always been forthcoming, sharing her impressions of a place or spirit with frankness. Now, she wrote me only in dribs and drabs—and with baffling haste. Something in the house was interfering with her ability to reach out regularly. Pursued by whatever ominous forces existed there, she was like a soldier squatting in the trenches, writing staggered notes between fearsome sorties, constantly under siege from a terrifying enemy.

It was becoming increasingly clear that I could not lean on my wife the way I'd done in the past. Though I was not a spiritual medium or anything of the sort, the task of unraveling this haunting was going to fall to me. I had a responsibility to Joseph and his family, after all. Considering what I'd witnessed there, I could not in good conscience allow them back to the house until the problem had been dealt with. I'd made a promise to him, and would exhaust the whole of my resources and knowledge before admitting defeat.

Moreover, I had to protect Constance. Something in the house was preying on her, and it had worked her up something fierce. There was no telling what might happen if I failed. What if the stresses associated with the house taxed her to the point of spiritual exhaustion? It's silly, perhaps, to worry over the dead, but I'd already lost my wife once. I didn't intend to lose her again. If she fell prey to whatever harassed her there, it was possible she'd be changed forever—or worse, that she'd leave this world for good.

The thought chilled my blood.

I had to do everything in my power to crack this haunting on my own. Constance's contributions were likely to be suppressed by the extant forces in the house, so I'd have to do my own sleuth work to get to the bottom of things. It would not be an easy road to walk, but there was too much on the line. My family meant too much to me to turn back.

A noise in the restaurant drew me from my brooding.

I twitched at the sound of it, gripped the edge of the syrup-stickied table.

From somewhere behind me, there'd been a loud croak. My stomach roiled, threatening to surrender a night's worth of coffee. My neck locked up as if to keep me from turning, but gradually I built up the nerve to glance at the succession of booths and tables to my back.

It sounded again—a clear, deep croak. A croak of the same character I'd heard throughout my stay at Joseph's.

I flinched at a third such croak, and watched as a young woman, digging her phone from her purse, silenced the noise and answered a call.

It had been her ringtone.

I handed the waitress more than enough to cover my bill and, throwing the messenger bag over my shoulder, stormed out of the diner and into the sunlight.

It was time to get some answers.

Thirteen

A cab brought me back to the house. At this point, I was considering a car rental.

Like a lover uninterested in discussing the spat of the night before, the house met me with a weighty silence upon my late morning return. It was just as well; I had nothing to discuss with it.

A quick shave, a few minutes in the shower and a careful disregard for anything remotely like a shadow served me well, so that when I'd dressed and applied my cologne I got around to feeling alive again. I left the bathroom smelling like Polo and began mapping out my day on the sofa.

The first order of business was to learn more about the house's past. I needed to know who had lived here, and when. I needed also to look into the matter of the dead body that had been discovered on the premises by the previous owner, along with any other incidents that might have been recorded during the place's years of dereliction. There was no better place to start than its current owner, and so I gave my nephew a jingle.

I wasn't sure if he'd pick up—it was possible he'd gone off to join the others at the waterpark—but on the third or fourth ring, he did, sounding groggy. “H-Hello?”

“Sorry, did I wake you?” I asked.

“Oh, no, it's fine.” Joseph chuckled. I heard him wipe the drool from his lips. “I, uh... I was supposed to be reading. Looks like I nodded off.”

“No shame in that,” I replied. “Anyhow, I'll be happy to let you get back to it as soon as you answer a few questions for me. I'm just getting some things together so that I can flesh out this place's history, and I want to know more about the previous owners. Can you tell me anything about them? You mentioned a young man owned the house and tried to fix it up a decade ago. Who owned it before that, and how long, approximately, did it sit vacant?”

Joseph knew practically nothing, it turned out. He rehashed what he'd told me earlier. “There was the young guy. I don't know much else. House was built in the 70's. Around 1975, I think.” He paused. “You know, I believe the previous owners were listed on some of the paperwork we got after closing. It wasn't much, but there might have been names there.”

“Oh? Where might I find this paperwork? I'd like to have a look at it.”

He yawned. “It should be in our bedroom—in a box in the closet. You'll find a shelf built into the wall, kind of high-up. There's a fireproof box on the left-hand side. Should be in there.”

“Much appreciated. I'll call you if I have any other questions,” I said, starting immediately upstairs. “You get back to your beauty sleep, now.”

He laughed and hung up.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I entered the first room, Joseph and Melissa's, and zeroed in on the closet. The metal box sat high on the shelf precisely as he'd described, and when I'd flipped through its unsorted contents on their bed, I singled out the documents pertaining to the house's sale. There was, in fact, an addendum to the deed that made mention of previous sales, and on this yellowed sheet I found the names of the house's previous owners.

Bringing this single page with me back downstairs, I tried making use of it to sketch out a tentative history of the house.

The house had indeed been built in 1975, and its first owner was listed as Willard Weiss.

The next note on the document described a sale from the City of Detroit to one Kevin Taylor nearly 43 years later.

Unless the record was incomplete, it appeared my nephew was only the third person to own this home. This, of course, raised many questions. How long had Weiss' tenancy lasted? How long had the house been empty before this Kevin Taylor picked it up? Had people lived in the house in an unofficial capacity—perhaps as renters? Squatters?

I used the names on this document to fuel my research, though the two leads proved hard to work with.

I searched first for the house's initial owner, Willard Weiss. Looking him up online, I added terms like “Detroit” and “Morgan Road” to the search and happened upon a few hits that fleshed out his story with more thoroughness.

It seemed, however, that Willard Weiss' story had ended.

The most recent mention of the man that I was able to pull up was dated to seven years previous. It was his obituary, a very brief thing. Weiss had been born and raised in Annapolis, Maryland. His age at the time of his death in assisted living was 84 years, and the periodical made mention of a wife, Irma, that preceded him in death. That was all.

Out of curiosity, I punched the name “Irma Weiss” into the search engine, along with the term “obituary”, and found a corresponding death notice from back in 1991. Irma Weiss, also an Annapolis native, had died in her 50's according to the obituary. Hers contained one curious tidbit that Willard's had not; a mention of a then-29-year-old estranged daughter by the name of Fiona. My hopeful searches for “Fiona Weiss” brought up nil, however. By my calculations, Willard Weiss' daughter would have been 66 years old, close in age to me, but I could find no trace of her on the web. Possibly she'd married, shed her maiden name and moved out of Michigan. The Weiss family had no answers to give me, then.

The house's second owner, Kevin Taylor, seemed more promising, though his name was a common one and I suspected that looking him up online would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

And it would have been, if not for the thing I stumbled upon some minutes into my search.

I'd used the terms “Kevin Taylor Detroit”, which had resulted in dozens of hits that, upon closer inspection, had nothing to do with the person I was looking for. One hit caught my eye, however. It corresponded, of all things, to a media website called VideoTube, and the thumbnail accompanying this result shocked me so intensely that I nearly dropped my phone.

It was a picture of the very house I was sitting in.

Hurriedly clicking the link, I was taken to a video, posted just over ten years ago, by VideoTube user FlipperKevin. The description told me I had the right man: Thanks for tuning in! This is Kevin Taylor coming at you with something very exciting. In this video, I'm announcing my newest challenge—the renovation of this abandoned house in just thirty days. Join me in this Detroit fixer-upper for daily renovation tips and updates on my progress. And don't forget to like and subscribe!

Joseph had told me that the house's last owner had been trying to fix it up a decade ago—the timeline matched this video, and the name on the deed addendum did, too. I hadn't expected the last owner, who looked in his early-to-mid twenties in the video, to be an internet personality, however. Diving into his channel, which hadn't been updated in a hair over ten years, I found several videos that had been shot in this very house, many of them with over a million views. FlipperKevin's channel had been very popular once, by the looks of it, which led me to wonder why—like the house—he'd seemingly abandoned it a decade ago.

I spent the next hour watching his vlogs about the home renovation project, and found him very entertaining. He would have been right at home on a home improvement television program, and appeared very skilled at his trade.

Among Kevin Taylor's videos in Joseph's house, there was one of him exploring the crawlspace, another of his replacing drywall, and one of him stabilizing shaky pipes. I watched them, one after the other, marveling at the way the house had changed since then. The video that most intrigued me was the very first one I'd come upon however—the one in which he'd introduced the house and pitched his audacious, thirty-day challenge. He gave a tour of the place, highlighting its defects to up the ante, but that wasn't what drew my attention.

There was one shot in this video that saw me take pause. Literally, I had to pause the thing so that I could take a closer look. The shot in question was of the house's exterior on a sunny spring day—specifically, the upper story. In one of the upstairs windows, I noticed something—someone—standing there.

The figure in the window was unclear, somewhat difficult to make out, though as I stared at the screen it seemed also to strain for visibility. It was a thing that wished to be discovered, a thing whose sole purpose was to unnerve. The broad strokes told me it was the form of a woman—probably an old woman. Dressed in white, the woman in the window seemed to smile, though her face was so distorted that her mouth appeared oversized—vacuous. White hair spilled past her shoulders. As a whole, she had the look of some grotesque Halloween window decoration.

The fact that this figure was standing in the window of the true master bedroom—the one I'd been using as a guestroom—was not lost on me.

Commenters on the video discussed its creepiness. Some maintained that this figure was a helper of Kevin's accidentally caught on film, and that his one-man challenge was actually a fraud. Others claimed that he'd put something in the window as an easter egg, intended to drum up discussion amongst his viewers. That Mr. Taylor had inadvertently captured this figure in his footage was clear to me, however. Vague and genuinely unsettling as it was, it didn't strike me as the kind of thing he could have planned ahead of time.

Studying this clip, I was reminded of a question that had been plaguing me for days.

How long had there been something supernatural in this house?

And now, adding to my list of questions: Was this blurry vision in the window a recording of something truly paranormal? One of the house's resident spirits—possibly my wife's tormentor? And, if so, what connection did this old woman's spirit have to the house? Was hers the spirit of the corpse that Kevin Taylor had allegedly discovered ten years ago? I searched, but found he hadn't made a video about that particular incident, nor had he mentioned it in any of his uploads.

Sitting on the sofa and asking myself these questions wasn't going to get me anywhere. I needed to get ahold of the man himself, and immediately began looking for the most recent contact information I could find for Kevin Taylor.

On this front, too, I hit a wall.

His last video upload, only a few days into his thirty-day challenge, was the most recent scrap of FlipperKevin content I could find. He had no website, and no presence on social media, either. After abandoning his challenge—and the house—he'd seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth. There was an email address listed on his VideoTube profile page, but whether he still checked the messages that got sent there was anyone's guess. I decided to shoot him an email, using “889 MORGAN ROAD” as the subject line.

Kevin,

My name is Marcel Dubois. My nephew and his family are living in the house at 889 Morgan Road. I understand you owned the house ten years ago, and even shot some videos of its renovation at that time. I have some questions for you regarding your experience with the house and would appreciate anything you can tell me of its history. A million thanks!

It was a long-shot, but at present I had no other lead to follow. I hoped he'd read my message and get in touch with me. If he was still in the area, I'd happily meet him for a bite—would pay him to talk if I had to.

Lastly, there was the matter of the corpse Kevin had found. Whose body it had been, as well as the circumstances surrounding its discovery, were impossible to guess, but I decided to look into it. At first, I considered calling the local police and asking some questions about the incident, but knowing how bureaucratic law enforcement could be, I tried my hand at searching the web for some mention of the corpse instead.

Melissa had told me that she'd made a half-hearted search into this subject; had she only pressed on, she might have found the tidbit I ran across in a local news article, dated from six years previous. It dealt with a number of cold cases, mostly missing persons. A local detective was asking members of the community to come forward with any information they could provide regarding a few specific cases. Among them—a body that had been found in a house on Morgan Road.

The house number had not been given, but once again the timeline of the find—ten years ago—dovetailed with my expectations, and I knew that the article was referencing the incident in this very house. Little was told of the corpse, but it was revealed to be that of an aged woman, a victim of suspected homicide. She was listed as a Jane Doe.

Probably, then, the woman in the window and this corpse were one and the same. How she'd died and why she'd lingered on remained to be seen, but this connection felt solid to me. I ran through my notes, looking for someone that might fit the description. Had it been the body of Irma Weiss, who'd died in 1991? I doubted it, since she appeared to have had a proper burial and an obituary written. Could it have been the body of Fiona Weiss, then? That, too, seemed like a stretch; she was close to me in age, and I rather disliked the idea that I myself would qualify in anyone's estimation as a particularly “aged” specimen. It was possible that the body was that of a homeless woman, too, who'd taken up residency during the house's abandonment. There just wasn't enough information for me to go off of. This lead, too, was dead.

There was a loud creak in the upstairs.

I glanced at the ceiling, pausing mid-stretch to listen.

A few moments passed, and then another creak.

And another.

Each creak was coming from the direction of the stairs. There were long pauses between them, as of a person creeping down the hallway, then down the stairwell—but slowly, like they were trying to avoid detection.

Another creak—this one sounding from just around the corner. I heard the characteristic moan of the board upon the bottom step as it buckled beneath a ponderous load.

I stood, walking around the sofa and craning my neck to look at the stairs.

In doing so, I couldn't help imagining the spectral-looking figure captured in Kevin's footage, and wondered if she wouldn't be standing on that bottom stair, smiling at me with that immense mouth of hers.

The stairs were unoccupied.

“You think you can have fun with me, do you?” I asked aloud, addressing the house itself. “Well, you don't know who you're picking a fight with. You're soon to regret it.”

I returned to my phone and, using the fountain pen, immediately began jotting a note for Constance in the journal, explaining everything I'd learned.

I've done some digging. Willard Weiss, his wife Irma and their daughter Fiona were the first to live in this house in the 70's. Ten years ago, a handyman named Kevin Taylor bought it up. He shot some video of the house, and I noticed something strange in it—a ghostly figure in one of the windows. I don't know what to make of it. I've reached out to Kevin for more information. In the meantime, I'm just worried about you. I know you're still here with me, looking after me. But what can I do for you, my love? I want to protect you, if I can.

If possible, answer me this one question: What is it that's haunting you? What's pursuing you—keeping you from replying to me? Knowing that much would help put me at ease, and perhaps it would get me started down the right track.

The rest of my afternoon was spent glancing between the open page of the notebook and my email, hoping for a reply from either Constance or Kevin.

Eventually, the sleeplessness of the night before caught up with me and I began nodding off on the sofa. I hadn't intended to fall asleep in that house again; spending another night there was simply out of the question. Still, tired as I was, I saw no harm in a brief nap and allowed my head to rest on the plush cushions.

A siesta, that's all it was. Just so that I'd be able to keep my head in the game.

* * *

When I awoke several hours later, it was dark.

Fourteen

Waking to find the sun had set was jarring enough.

The knocking I heard from nearby was still more startling.

It was sporadic, coming from either the door to my back or one of the walls. On its face, there wasn't anything threatening about it—the knocks were slow and gentle. Patient. How long they'd been going on I was unsure. I cleared my throat and uttered a quiet, “Who's there?” to no avail. The knocking continued.

Easing myself up from the sofa, I tried to regain my bearings. I peered at my watch but the numbers on it were incomprehensible to me. I cursed myself for my carelessness. Falling asleep in this house, especially after dark, was just about the most idiotic thing I'd ever done. Stranded in the inky living room, I felt out the walls and began to navigate towards one of the light switches.

The knocking persisted. I tried following it with my ears, which told me it was coming from the direction of the front door.

When I'd put on the living room light, I waited for my eyes to adjust and then approached the peephole. Finally awake, I glanced down at my watch and saw that the time was in the ballpark of 10 PM; I'd been asleep for six, maybe seven hours. Leaning towards the door, I tried to get a look at the late-night visitor.

But I stopped short.

The first thing I noticed was that there were no lights on outside. This may seem like a small, unimportant detail, except that the light on the porch was set to go off automatically at the slightest movement. If there really was someone on the porch, knocking to be let in, then they'd somehow avoided setting the light off.

The knocking continued, but this time it sounded from further away. I backed from the door and returned to the living room, where I could have sworn it was coming from the inside of the walls. Walking a slow circuit around the sofa and reaching out to touch the wall, I tried to single out the source of the knocking. The raps remained unhurried and staggered, but hearing them come from inside the walls made my throat tighten.

I'd heard scurrying and tapping from behind the walls before, and had attributed it to a large rat or some such.

But rats can't knock.

“W-Who's there?” I called out again, this time directing my voice at the battered living room wall. My gaze sank to the little peephole that had been made there, and the knocking stopped once more. From the hole, I sensed a bit of movement and drew near.

A single finger, the color of a serious bruise, emerged from the peephole, and I saw it writhe in a slow come-hither motion. With it came a series of unintelligible mutterings, as of several conspiratorial voices carrying on behind the wall.

I felt woozy, and knew then that I had to get out. The room was a blur as I turned from the wall, from the beckoning finger, and tried to step into my shoes. I stuffed my things into my messenger bag and prepared to take flight, but was forced to pause as I grabbed the leather journal.

I'd left it open on the side table, and saw that there was something new written on the page. Constance had left me a message while I'd slept. I glanced over it, eyes unfocused with terror, as I thrust it into the bag.

I'd ended my last note with a question, asking her point-blank who or what had been pursuing her in the house.

By way of reply, she'd written a single word.

FIONA.

Before I could puzzle over this answer of hers, my attention was called by the noxious tones of a voice, low and seedy in character. It sprang up from nearby, seemingly from thin air, but was difficult to pinpoint. I looked first to the wall, where the gesturing finger had since retreated. Turning, I looked to the dining room, the stairwell, shoulders tightening into shuddering knots.

Infernal mumblings broke out all around me.

From below my feet the knocking came again. That was the moment I realized the chatter was coming from under the floors. It was still too low, too muffled to make out what was being said, but the voices seeped through the thin gaps between the floorboards like a gas, fouling the air with horror.

Slowly, like the hiss of a settling soda bottle, the chorus of mumbling voices began to wane. A different voice—very much distinct from the others—sounded in their stead. From directly beneath me, so close that I could feel the wagging of the unseen tongue against the very floorboards I stood on, came a hideous, croaking laugh. Each chuckle was preceded by a long, soupy inhalation. The mental image that came with such a voice was one of a fat, disfigured toad trying on human speech.

Suddenly, the front door began to rattle as something pressed against its other side. The knob shook in an unseen hand. Upstairs, I heard a frenzy of whispers, followed by the slamming of a bedroom door. The air, hitherto still and stale, became agitated, giving new dimension to the chaos.

I yanked the messenger bag up by its strap and hurried for the exit. As I rushed to the door, the voices once again petered out and the upstairs doors stopped their slamming, but I got the distinct feeling that it was only a temporary stoppage; the house was only just getting started, and would soon boom with even greater horrors.

I charged the door and burst out into the misty night. Even as I reached the porch I heard a batrachian snicker issuing from beneath the floors. From deeper in, there was a terrible rattling inside the walls, as of something spasming behind them.

I fled into the night, not stopping to call for a ride until I'd left Morgan Road altogether.

Fifteen

“Why didn't you say something?” asked Joseph. “Why didn't you just tell me the truth?”

I shrugged. “I didn't want to worry you. I wanted you to think I had everything under control. And in my defense, I thought I did.”

“So, what happened?” He threw the car into park and wiped at his eyes, still bleary for the sleep I'd roused him from.

Rather than call a cab in my flight from the house, I'd chosen to reach out to its owner instead. It was time I leveled with him, revealed just what a nightmare I'd truly lived through since I'd kicked the three of them out. I undid my seatbelt and put the seat back a few notches. Per my directions, he'd parked in the well-lit lot of a 24-hour big-box store. I'd said precious little up to that point, but now that the car was stopped I unloaded on him.

“Your house is haunted,” I said plainly. “No two ways about it. And I'll be up-front with you, Joseph. The situation in that house is unlike anything I've ever seen. Unlike anything anyone has ever seen, I'd wager. In the past few days, I've spent a lot of time there, conducted some experiments. It would appear that my usual methods won't be enough to chase out whatever's settled there.” I sighed. “I'm sorry.”

He said nothing for a long while, but his body language spoke volumes. He knotted his hands atop the wheel and fidgeted in his seat. When he did respond, he did so with wide, roving eyes. “So... I was right.” He cleared his throat. “It's hopeless, then?”

I shook my head. “No, not hopeless. But it is baffling. What I'm saying is that my usual approach won't work here. I'll have to think outside the box. That doesn't mean I'm throwing in the towel.”

He sighed, leaning into the headrest and closing his eyes. “So... what went on at the house that convinced you? Did you hear the voices? The footsteps?”

“And more,” I admitted. “I've experienced a greater variety of supernatural phenomena under that single roof in just two nights than I have in the rest of my sixty-five years. I believe this is due to the presence of multiple spirits. I've dealt with one at a time before; your problem is something more complicated.” Rolling down my window to admit a bit of fresh air, I continued, thinking back to the last thing Constance had written me. “I looked into the house's past and learned a bit about its previous owners. Does the name Fiona Weiss ring any bells?”

“I can't say that it does.”

“I have reason to believe that the ghost of a certain woman remains in that house. Her name is Fiona Weiss, and she lived in it with her parents in the 70's. There was an episode of estrangement around the time of her mother's death in '91—and I don't know if she ever made up with her father, Willard. What's more, I don't know the circumstances behind her death. In fact, I have no proof she's dead at all. But when I reached out to the spirits, that name came up... which leads me to believe that she may be at the center of all this. Moreover, a body was found in your home a decade ago. I did some digging and found that the corpse was that of an older woman—Fiona might fit the bill, though why or how she died there is anyone's guess.”

Joseph's brow furrowed. “Wait, so... you managed to speak to the ghost of this person who used to live in the house? This Fiona?”

I'd told Joseph much, but I wasn't about to tell him everything. It had been Constance who had name-dropped Fiona Weiss, but my correspondence with my wife was something I'd never shared with anyone. Perhaps, at a later date, I'd tell him about the link his aunt and I still shared, but this wasn't the time for that discussion. I replied vaguely enough, “Something like that. Suffice it to say, I think that Fiona's spirit is in the house, and that she might be the one stirring up trouble. And judging by the noise, the multiple footsteps and other disturbances, I believe there are others in the house, too. I have no idea how they got there, but that's the impression I'm getting. A house packed with ghosts.”

“All right, so... you have a name. What can you do with that?” he asked.

“More than you might think. You see, ordinarily I'm able to commune with spirits in a different way. I alluded to my automatic writing previously, I think. That skill of mine isn't working in this house, though my need to make contact with the spirits remains. I'll have to find another way, and after giving the matter some thought I think I've found a suitable alternative. I mean to hold a séance in the house, Joseph. I'll buy a talking board, and the two of us will use it to chat with the spirits. All right? We can ask for Fiona directly and find out what's keeping her here.” This was the only path left to me; if I couldn't rely on Constance, I'd have to try and reach out to the spirits on my own. Despite my inexperience with such things, a talking board seemed like a simple and effective option.

He inhaled sharply, taken by surprise at the suggestion. He'd been happy to let me poke around in the house and combat his ghosts on my own, but at the thought of assisting his hackles were raised. “I dunno,” he blurted, “I don't think I'm really cut out for that kind of thing. Maybe we should call someone else.”

“I need your help. There's no way around it. Unless... you'd rather wake your wife and have her accompany me?” I grinned. “If you aren't man enough, maybe she'll step up for the sake of your daughter.”

I knew I had him when he glanced out the window, scowling. “So, what? We light some candles and play with a talking board like teenage girls at a sleepover? How's that going to help?”

“I need to find out who's in the house and how they got there,” I explained. “So, I'll ask them, and if they're in a talking mood, they'll tell me what I need to know. Then, I can try and find a way to send them where they belong. Maybe Fiona wants someone to know the truth about her death. Or perhaps there's something special about your house that just attracts the spirits of the dead. Until we know who's listening, there's no telling what's really happening there. And so, we reach out. Let's cast a wide net and see what we drag up from the bottom, yes?”

“When do you want to do it?” he asked.

“Tonight, of course. As soon as possible, in fact.” I pointed to the storefront up ahead. “I'm going to head in there and see if they have any talking boards on sale. They should be in the toy aisle if they have them at all. Want anything?”

Gritting his teeth, Joseph shook his head.

I stepped out of the car and headed into the store.

Ten minutes later I returned with a talking board tucked under my arm. “We're living in a mad world,” I said, setting the box on the dash. “For a mere twenty dollars, one can walk into a toy store and buy an instrument with which to contact the dead.”

Joseph started up the car, glowering at the glossy package. “Sure, but does it work?”

I combed a hand through my tousled hair. “The literature is divided on that, but there's no reason it shouldn't work. The spirits in the house are very active. I think they're yearning for a chance to speak and will do so through any means.”

“Are you sure about this?” he asked as he began backing out of the parking space. “Shouldn't we wait till morning? Wouldn't it be safer?”

I shared his trepidation, but shook my head. “We aren't looking for safety,” I replied. Pointing to the dash clock, I added, “Look here, it's almost 1 AM. We're soon to enter the witching hour. Between the hours of two and four in the morning, spirits tend to come into their own. If we hurry, we can have everything set up by two. There's no better time.”

He navigated onto the main road with a groan. “Uncle Marcel, I really hope you know what you're doing.”

I gave him a reassuring smile, but, “I hope so, too” would have been the more honest response.

Sixteen

I was all too happy to let my nephew lead the way inside. “It is your house, after all.”

The two of us stood in the moonlit front yard in the shade of the Callery pear tree. The porch light gave the occasional flash as we neared the door, only to shy away and discuss our plans. I'd already torn the cellophane from the talking board's packaging and intended to set it up on the dining room table. Joseph would collect a few candles and, in accordance with tradition we would conduct our séance free of artificial light.

The only stumbling block was in our having to actually enter the house; a thing neither of us really cared to do. Joseph had started his day in a fine mood—had begun to feel that the fear surrounding his new home may have been premature. Now that he stood before it in the dead of night with me in his ear, reporting the horrors I'd encountered therein these past two days, he was more than a little reticent to set foot inside.

Where Joseph had been distant from the house for the past 48 hours, I had not shared this luxury, and unlike my nephew, my feelings regarding the foul spirits lurking inside had not thawed in the least. I'd been there this very night, had been chased out by the most intense supernatural manifestations I'd ever encountered. In the countless books I'd read on the subject of parapsychology over the years, I'd never happened upon an account of such malefic proportion as this.

And now we were set to go inside and kick the hornet's nest.

“Come,” I said, waving him on. “Let's go inside.”

For a while there, he'd looked ready to set down roots beside the Callery pear and become a permanent fixture in the yard, but with a sigh he began towards the porch, rummaging in his pockets for his keys. Once he'd fussed over the lock, he threw open the door in a manner befitting an angry teenager and paused at the threshold, glaring all about the lower story.

I joined him there, and for a time we only watched and listened.

The house, doubtless seeking to lure us in with the false promise of normalcy, appeared peaceful and inviting enough. We entered, shut the door behind us.

Joseph had only just moved into the living room when he began sniffing the air. With a grimace, he turned to me and asked, “W-What's that smell? You been keeping animals in here?”

It took me a bit longer to notice it, but I found the air was laced with a powerful scent—something at once earthy and rank. We followed it to the kitchen, and found its source on one of the countertops, seizing with flies.

Two days ago, I'd picked up some food to get me through my stay in the house. Fresh fruit, salad, frozen goods and more. The apples and bananas I'd purchased now sat in a semi-aqueous heap on the counter, their peels sagging around congealed cores and their juices home to scores of buzzing insects. A stream of viscous liquid seeped from the door of the refrigerator, and I didn't have to open it to know that every last item within had spoiled.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, placing a hand against his nose to block the putrid odor.

“The spirits decided to help themselves to my groceries,” I replied, turning my back on the kitchen. “I've read about this—food rot. Malign spirits will sometimes exert their influence upon a place to make food spoil.” My nephew looked on the verge of nausea as he followed me back to the living room. “The things in this house want to send a message. Think of them like children acting out to get a rise. Don't be cowed by them. Now,” I said, marching to the dining room table and setting down the talking board, “about those candles?”

“Oh, right.” Pausing, Joseph looked to the stairs, his Adam's apple trembling. “Melissa always keeps candles in our bedroom, in case of a power outage. I'll just, uh...” He looked at the staircase as though its climb would be as perilous as Kilimanjaro.

“You do that,” I said, nudging his arm. “I'm going to get this set up.” I checked my watch. “We've got about twenty minutes before we hit our window. Let's make them count, yes?”

Joseph left my side with a whimper. I heard him ascending warily, turning on every light within reach.

While he procured the candles, I unpacked the talking board. For ages ten and up! declared the front of the box. I snickered at this as I unfolded the thing—made from a sturdy chipboard—and got a feel for the plastic planchette. Setting the pointer down on the board's open face, which was done in a generic “antique” style, replete with smiling suns and frowning moons, I thought back to my previous readings on the subject of seances and tried remembering the proper etiquette.

It'd been that estimable volume by J. Kelly Thompson I'd read some hours earlier that had touched on the subject of talking boards and their use in communing with the dead. As best I could recall, a proper séance was comprised of three phases: The salutation, the recitation of clear and concise questions, and the sign-off. One began the ritual by calling out to the spirits on the premises. When the nearby spirits had presumably taken notice of the callers, the next stage began. Questions were then asked of the gathered souls—necessarily short and concise to eschew confusion and ensure pertinence. Lastly, one had to say goodbye and effectively close the ritual. This latter step was a device much abused in fiction, deemed crucial lest the spirits remain and the session continue long after the living had walked away from the board. In truth, signing off at the end was—in Thompson's view—merely good manners.

Upstairs, Joseph could be heard to shuffle about. I heard him speak as he went looking for the candles and supposed he was talking on the phone. “Oh, hey. Just a second. I think I found them.” A few minutes later, he returned downstairs with a fistful of tapers, a box of matches and a knotted brow. He paused at the foot of the stairs, staring at me intently, and asked, “How the heck did you get down here so fast?”

I shrugged, motioning to the board. “What do you mean? I've been sitting here, getting the board ready.”

His laugh rose obnoxiously in the silence, but he soon quieted down. “No, I... I was just upstairs, in my room. I was looking for the candles and I saw you standing out in the hall. I thought you'd come up to help me look...” He was pallid by the end, and glanced up the stairs, to the upper hall.

I shook my head. “It wasn't me. I've been sitting here.”

“Then... who—”

“Doesn't matter,” I blurted, trying my best to hide the shiver that rode my spine. “The house will do everything in its power to distract and frighten us. Pay it no mind. Come, sit. But first put out the lights.”

I planted the candles in a couple of glass candlesticks and lit them with the same match. One by one, the electric lights in the house went off, until Joseph finally emerged, grey and shuddering, from the darkness and took his seat across from me. He looked awful in the candlelight, and I'm sure I looked just as haggard.

“Have you ever toyed with one of these before?” I asked, trying to keep my tone even and instructional. “It's really quite simple.” I extended a shaky finger and touched the top of the planchette. “This is our pointer, you see? We are each to maintain one finger upon it—a light touch—throughout the duration of the séance. Don't let go, and don't press too hard. Understood?”

He nodded dumbly. His sharp, quick breaths sent the flame of the nearest candle wavering. “What are we going to ask them?” he whispered.

“Let's see who's in attendance first, shall we?” I placed a finger on the planchette and invited him to do the same. When we'd both set our pointer fingers on the thing lightly, I drew in a deep breath and began, eyes closed. “We seek to make contact with the spirits inhabiting this house.” I paused. “If you're listening, we'd like to speak with you, to know more about you.”

I felt Joseph's hand tremble as he waited for me to finish.

For a time, I watched the flickering of the candles. The lit wicks cast our shadows across the walls, and in their bobbing there was an element of motion superadded to their long and incongruous shape. Glancing past the shadows, I surveyed the darkness for signs of new arrivals—signs that someone had come to the table to take us up on our invitation. When a minute had ticked by, I decided to ask for some sign that someone was listening. “If you're here, let us know. Give us a sign.”

I was so preoccupied with listening that I didn't at first notice the widening of Joseph's eyes, nor the quiver of his lips. It was only when he gasped and nearly let go of the pointer that I looked up at him and found his panicked gaze centered on the dining room window to our left.

“What is it?” I asked.

His jaw tensed. “T-The window... I see faces in the window.”

Turning so that I might better inspect the pane, I studied the glass for signs of these faces, and what I found nearly sent me spilling out of my chair. Nothing was certain in the low firelight, mind you, but reflected in that glass were a number of amorphous shapes that, taken from a certain angle, almost looked like faces. Gaseous, shadowy and no fewer than five in number, the undulating silhouettes were seen to possess features that more or less corresponded to eyes and mouths. They stared with dead, empty sockets; let their cavernous maws droop.

Shaking now, I looked back to the table. Though I'd gotten my desired result, I found I wanted nothing further to do with the talking board and struggled to remain in my seat. Joseph's eyes hadn't budged from the window, and he'd have kept staring into the glass all night if not for my order. “Look at the board!” I commanded him. “T-The house will try and distract us. It's enough that we know the spirits are here. They're listening. Don't let it distract you. It is, after all, what we wanted.”

Lips pursed, he looked straight ahead at the planchette and waited for me to continue.

“OK...” I cleared my throat and raised my voice. “I want to know how many of you are here. How many are joining us tonight?”

Joseph and I both held our breath while waiting for the planchette to move.

In response to this question, it never did. It was possible that the ghosts didn't care to answer; equally so that my nephew and I, in our terror, had pinned the pointer to the board and rendered it immovable.

Moving on, “Well, does anyone want to talk?” I chanced. “If so, please introduce yourself.”

We waited.

Leaving my finger on the planchette so long had led to my arm tensing up, and a slight ache radiated all the way up to my shoulder as I waited for some reply. I forgot all about this pain moments later when, through no conscious effort of my own, the pointer began to shift across the glossy board. “A-Are you doing that?” I whispered across the table.

Joseph shook his head.

It was as though someone had stepped up to the table, taken a seat, and begun nudging the planchette towards the rows of highly-stylized letters. The first was “H”, the second “U”, and in short order, “L-L-O” followed. “HULLO.”

We'd made contact with something. Now that we had them on the line, I hurried to think of another question to ask. I wanted to make it a good one, to ask a question whose answer might shed some light on the root cause of the haunting, but was so flabbergasted at the unnatural shifting of the pointer that I scrambled to come up with one. I settled on, “What's your name?”

We had to wait only a few moments before the planchette began a slow crawl around the board. My eyes followed its every movement, piecing together the letters that showed up in the clear plastic bubble at its center. When it finally stopped moving, Joseph and I looked to each other.

“Bradford from Annapolis?” asked Joseph. “Who's that?”

I shook my head. “All right... so, your name is Bradford. And... you're from Annapolis, are you? Well, it's nice to meet you, Bradford. Tell me, what brings you here to this house?”

With more speed now, the pointer began spelling out a response. I muttered the letters under my breath as they turned up.

“I JUST WANT TO TALK SARAH”

Joseph looked to me with evident confusion, giving a weak shrug. “What's that mean? Who's Sarah?”

“Erm... Bradford, I'm afraid I don't follow. What do you mean? Who's Sarah?”

Again, we waited.

This time, the wait was long, and at the end of it there came no reply. At least, not from the board.

Both of us were startled by the sounding of a loud creak from the foot of the stairs. Looking into the darkened lower story, we found the candlelight did not penetrate quite so far as that.

“It's the house settling,” I assured my nephew.

Another minute elapsed, and I took it to mean that our connection with “Bradford” had been interrupted. I decided to invite someone else to the table. “All right, is there anyone else in this house who'd like to talk?”

The point of contact between the planchette and my finger had grown sweaty. With a sudden gust, the wind found its way in through the nooks and crannies of the house and wreaked havoc on the candles. For a breathless instant, I thought they were all about to go out at once. As the draft dissipated however, they were all returned to stability and my attention was called back to the board, where a new message was being spelled out.

“F-I-O-N-A”

“Fiona,” uttered Joseph. “T-That's the girl who used to live here, right? The one you think is haunting the place?”

I nodded. “Are we speaking to Fiona now?” I asked loudly.

Suddenly, the planchette skated to the “NO” on the upper right quadrant of the board.

“Oh...” I said. “So... who are we speaking to, then?”

A pause. “NOBODY”, the thing wrote.

I forced a chuckle. “Right. Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nobody.” I sighed. “Do you know Fiona? Did you want to tell us something about her?”

The planchette slipped to the “YES”.

“OK,” I asked, “what is it? What can you tell us about her?”

Unexpectedly, the planchette began jumping between letters. The whole sequence, which ran for some time, spelled the following message:

“FIONA W. ADOPTED GIRL. BROUGHT TERRIBLE THINGS. FROM ANNAPOLIS. DONT LET HER LEAVE. NOT AGAIN.”

I had trouble following these staggered thoughts. “You're saying that Fiona Weiss was adopted? And that she brought something terrible with her from Annapolis?” The last bit proved most confusing. “Don't let her leave? The house, you mean?”

The pointer shot to the “YES” on the left, and did not budge as I asked this series of questions, leading me to believe that they were all answered in the affirmative.

“OK, thank you for that,” I began. “But... who are you?”

For the first time in the last few minutes, the planchette remained stationary.

“Are... are we still talking with Bradford?” I asked.

The planchette crept back to the “NO”.

“So, who? Who is this we're speaking to? Please, give us your name.”

Once more, there was no reply. Mr. Nobody was done with us, it seemed.

“How do you know all this?” Joseph asked, leaning forward in his chair. “How do we know we can believe you?”

Something happened then, which drew our eyes away from the board. The candle to my immediate right began to go out. It wasn't the draft laying waste to the flame this time, however; for an instant, the fire grew very small. And then, when it had shrunk into a mere column of embers, it went out with a hiss as if pinched between two wet, unseen fingers. A shudder crashed through me, and I nearly let go of the pointer.

My messenger bag, which had been sitting on an empty chair beside me up to that point, suddenly began to shift. I watched it from the corner of my eye as it began to move very slowly to the edge of the seat. Then, with a thump, it struck the floor and was dragged off swiftly towards the living room. I watched it get dragged into the darkness by an unseen hand, and heard—moments later—its contents being spilled out on the floor.

Joseph stiffened like a board and met me with his horrified gaze.

“Don't pay it any mind,” I warned him. “It's trying to frighten, to intimidate. Don't let it. Just focus on the board.”

Minutes had begun to tick by, but still there came no reply to our questions. The spirit we'd been chatting with had no interest in disclosing its identity—or else was unable to. I tried thinking of other questions about the enigmatic Fiona Weiss, but before I could ask any of them, the planchette began to sway.

The movement caught the two of us by surprise.

It was so sudden that we accidentally removed our fingers.

Before we could touch the thing again, we found—much to our horror—that it was now moving of its own accord. Guided by an invisible hand, the triangular pointer began rotating in a perfect circle.

We watched it make its hypnotic circuit in awe, backing up our chairs.

“Why's it doing that?” asked Joseph, his voice barely audible.

“It... could be that we're speaking to someone new.” Easing myself back into the chair and wiping the sheen of perspiration from my face, I attempted to call out calmly. “Are we speaking to someone else, now?”

The pointer halted, then jumped to the “YES”.

“Sit down,” I told my nephew. “We aren't through yet. Let's see what this one has to say.”

Joseph leaned back towards the table—albeit hesitantly—and looked down at the board, seasick. No longer daring to touch the planchette, he began working over one of his thumbnails with his teeth. “Who... Who are you?” he asked.

The pointer swiveled a few degrees and then began gliding over the board. The letters came up so quickly that we could barely keep up with them. Joseph and I repeated them aloud as the spirit spelled out its message. “D-E-E-P-I-N-T...”

When finally the thing grew still, we had our answer.

Not that we knew what to do with it.

“Deep in the marrow, a raven pleads; and in the marrow, the raven breeds?” I asked. “What is this supposed to mean? Is it a riddle of some kind?”

Joseph let out a howl. Falling out of his chair, he spilled out onto the floor and began a gibbering escape towards the exit.

“Wait—what are you doing?” I shouted, rising to follow him. “Where are you going?”

He slammed into the front door, rattled the knob until he confusedly pulled it open, and then fell into a panting heap on the porch. At first, he batted me away when I found him there, shaking and teary-eyed.

“What's gotten into you?” I demanded, giving his shoulders a shake.

Leaning on me, he managed to stand. Wiping at his face, he left the porch and walked down the drive. It was only when he was standing beside the car that he felt far enough from the house—and thus safe enough—to speak again. “It... the thing...” was all he could manage.

“What?” I asked. “Was it the riddle? Did it mean something to you?”

He shook his head fervently.

“Well, what then?”

Reaching down and clutching at his calf as though it had been injured, he winced and said, “I felt it touch me. I felt its hands... under the table...”

That was enough séance for one night. At any rate, I knew there'd be no bringing my nephew back inside the house till daybreak—if he ever set foot there again, that is. When I was sure he was calm enough not to get us killed, I ordered him to get the car started and then walked up to the house to put things away and lock up.

For the time being, at least, staying overnight at the house was no longer an option As such, I decided to gather my personal belongings and stopped briefly in the guestroom, where I packed my things and shoved them haphazardly into my valise. All the while, I kept one eye on the door, sure that a long shadow would stretch down the hallway at any moment.

Returning downstairs, I knelt in the living room and picked up all of the things the spirit had spilled from my messenger bag in its rude display. When I'd grabbed up all the spilled items, I hurried to leave, shouldering the bag and hauling my valise behind me. The headlights of Jospeh's car were coming in strong through the dining room window, and the sight of them drew me like a frightened moth.

I'd put out the candles, shut off the lights, tucked the board back into its box and was in the process of closing the door when, from somewhere in the shadow-darkened abode, I heard that sinister, croaking laugh.

I didn't stop to check—didn't dare to—but I felt reasonably sure that it had come from beneath the dining room table where only minutes ago the two of us had been seated.

Seventeen

Joseph and I returned to the resort in Auburn Hills. There, I found a room for the night and slept like a log, just down the hall from where the others were staying. On the car ride back, we decided on a few things.

Firstly, it was agreed that Joseph would not discuss the night's events with his wife or daughter, and would not return to the house until I'd found some way to sort the terrifying trouble out. We discussed a number of half-truths he could ply his family with, but he was under no circumstances to reveal the true gravity of the horrors. If Melissa—or Megan, especially—knew what was currently happening in the house, it would cause a good deal of unnecessary stress. Full knowledge of the night's events might also poison them against the house even further.

The second decision was that I'd be traveling to Maryland. Specifically, Annapolis.

What I'd find there that had any relevance to the haunting—if anything—I couldn't guess, but the forces in that house had made enough references to the city to make me think it worth a visit. The house's first owners—Willard and Irma Weiss—had come from Annapolis. Also, Constance had named Weiss' adopted daughter, Fiona, as her tormentor, and one of the spirits had revealed that the girl had 'brought terrible things' with her to Detroit. What those things were remained a mystery, but that their genesis had been in Annapolis was apparent. Lastly, the spirit that had called himself “Bradford” had named the city of Annapolis in his brief, cryptic message.

So, my next stop was Maryland. There was no way around it.

The picture painted by the obituaries for Willard and Irma Weiss was a lonely, isolated one, and I knew my odds of finding someone in Detroit who'd known them well was slim. It stood to reason however that they still had family in the Annapolis area—family that they may have kept in touch with over the years. Perhaps such family members would be able to tell me more about their daughter, Fiona. Furthermore, if I could locate the orphanage Fiona had been adopted from, then it was possible I could fill out the details of her early life. Based on what I was able to piece together from her parents' obituaries, Fiona—born around '62—had been roughly 13 years of age when the family had moved to the house on Morgan Road. And, according to the spirit that'd reached out to us through the talking board, the girl had brought terrible things with her to Detroit. I was determined to find out what.

Joseph no longer had it in him to protest when I suggested they stay at the resort a few days longer, and I made sure they had the funds they needed to remain out of their house until I cleared their return. I then began considering my own accommodations and looked into a number of hotels in Maryland.

While making my preparations, I called an old university friend of mine, Ulpio Ricci. He was a vascular surgeon of some renown in the Mid-Atlantic and had lived in Annapolis since graduation. In the last year we'd gotten together a few times, usually when his travels to medical conventions brought him close to my home in Buffalo Grove, and I hoped he'd let me pick his brain. I gave him a call that morning while booking plane tickets and plotting out a tentative itinerary.

One could not escape an encounter with Ulpio without first reminiscing about the past, or discussing his newest acquisitions in regards to wine. In person, he was warm to a fault—a dealer in firm handshakes and amusing—if not ribald—anecdotes. His energy came through nice and clear over the phone as he launched into a greeting. “Marcel Dubois! How're you doing? It's been awhile, hasn't it? I'm glad you called—you know, as it happens, I was just thinking about you the other day. I was at a wine tasting, sampling Bordeaux, and it reminded me of that little bistro we used to eat at after class every day in university that served a good—and cheap—Bordeaux. You remember that? The flavor was a dead ringer—a time machine in every bottle! I bought a case of the stuff, of course.”

“You don't say,” said I. “Perhaps I'll have to steal a glass from you. You see, I'm going to be stopping by Annapolis for a few days. I have some genealogical research I've been meaning to get done, and will be flying out there today if I can. I'm looking into hotels—any with a good reputation thereabouts?”

“You're coming to Annapolis?” he asked. “I'l have to give you a rain check on that Bordeaux, my friend—I'm currently in Los Angeles with Tracy. We're visiting our daughters for the next two weeks. It appears we'll miss each other yet again.”

“No kidding? That's a shame—”

“How long will you be in town?” he interrupted. “I could name a few hotels, but—” He set the phone down a moment, and I heard him speaking to his wife in the background. A moment later, he returned. “Why not stay at our place, Marcel? We're not in, but we've still got Mara, the housekeeper, popping in every now and then to check on the place. Knowing you're staying there will put our minds at ease. What do you say? You've free reign of the bar and humidor, of course.”

“Oh, I couldn't,” I said. “But thank you for the offer. I'd hate to impose like that—”

“Enough talk of imposition,” he said with a laugh. “Tracy agrees, you should stay. Think of it as a favor to the two of us. You enjoy our home while we're out and we enjoy the security of knowing someone's staying there. When are you set to arrive? I can have Mara meet you at the house with a set of keys.”

“Well, if you're really sure... It looks like there's a two-and-a-half-hour flight heading out of Detroit Metropolitan at 12:30. Depending on how far the house is from the airport, I'd probably be there around five o'clock.”

“Excellent. I'll have Mara on standby. She'll put together a guest room for you and everything. I assure you it'll be a more enjoyable stay than any hotel! And at least I won't charge you for tapping into the mini-fridge!”

The conversation drifted from that point to a number of other topics. Ulpio, some years older than me, was closing in on retirement, but still found himself performing operations routinely. He discussed his most recent procedures—AV Fistula formations and venous ablations were most common—and hearing him talk about his work I found I almost missed the world of medicine myself. I assume his wife, Tracy, wandered away from him because he immediately segued from his tales of the surgical suite to a rather lurid description of a new nurse practitioner who'd started working with his vascular team. “Her ass looks like a proper meal,” he confided.

Seeking to steer the conversation elsewhere, I chanced to ask him about the general layout of Annapolis, sought recommendations on restaurants. Knowing I'd have a lot of research to do I also inquired after the subject of libraries or historical societies. Just when I'd been set to end the call, I remembered the séance from the night before and the one spirit that had offered up its name. “Say, Ulpio, does the name 'Bradford' have any meaning to you? Know anyone who goes by it?”

“Bradford...?” He paused to think. “Can't say that it rings any bells. Have something to do with your genealogical work? You know, I wasn't aware you had family out this way. I thought your line came from down south.” Tracy called to him from somewhere in the background. “I'm afraid I've got to go, old friend. Text me if you need anything. I'll let Mara know to wait for you. Let me know once you're settled in.”

“I will, Ulpio. And thank you for this. I appreciate it. If you ever find yourself in Buffalo Grove, drop me a line. Drinks and dinner on me.”

I now had a place to stay. I ordered a plane ticket, called a cab and said my goodbyes to Joseph and his family. I met them in the lobby. Megan was still in her bathing suit with a towel draped over her shoulders. She looked impatiently back towards the water park entrance as her parents insisted on seeing me off.

“Do you have everything you need?” asked Melissa. From the very start, this sudden change in my plans had confused her. “I still don't understand why you need to go all the way to Maryland... isn't there someone in Detroit who can help?”

I smiled warmly and repeated the lie I'd told her earlier. “It's like I said, I've a friend in Annapolis who's very skilled in this area. I need to speak to him and get his take on things, but you can be sure that I'll return in a few days. And when I do, I should have everything I need to truly tackle the problem back at the house.”

Melissa accepted this, but any talk of her home, and of the great pains I was taking in curing it of haunting, made her suspicious on other fronts. “It's just... I didn't think the problem was all that bad,” she added quietly so that her daughter wouldn't hear. “Is it bad enough that you have to ask for help? Is there something really wrong with the house that we don't know about?”

“Nothing like that,” I insisted. “Incidents like this one are rare enough that they ought to be brought to the attention of a true expert in the field, however. That's all. For the purposes of research and documentation I'll be consulting with this associate of mine, and then I'll be back with the fix.”

Joseph struggled to maintain his facade of understanding. It was clear that he'd slept poorly, and even in the daylight he looked haunted by the things we'd seen the night before.

I reached out and gave his shoulder a firm squeeze, looking him straight in the eye. “All right, then. You take it easy, now. I'll handle this.”

My nephew nodded.

Dragging my valise behind me, I stood near the curb and kept an eye out for my cab.

It arrived within five minutes, shuttling me to Detroit Metropolitan with just enough time to board.

Eighteen

We're in Puerto Vallarta. Warm day, sunny.

The music is loud. Sounds like Pedro Infante. “Aqui Vienen los Mariachis”.

Constance is laughing that beautiful laugh of hers. She's into her second or third margarita. “I don't want to go home!” she says. Her hair is in golden braids, legs crossed. The ice in her drink leaves her lips extra pink; I want to kiss them.

“Maybe we won't,” I reply, giving her a wink.

She takes my hand. Hers is smooth, fragrant. I bring it to my lips, give her fingers a peck.

Something's off.

“What's the matter?” she asks.

I shake my head, get lost in the moment. “Aqui Vienen los Mariachis” starts over again.

The restaurant is empty. I look out the window and find it's dark now.

There's no one else with us; the waiters are gone. The barkeep, too. The lights have dimmed, and the Mayan step pyramid painted on the wall across the room almost looks real. The streaks of blood running down from its summit have an eerie kinetic way about them.

“What's wrong?” she asks.

I shake my head. Plant another kiss on her hand.

That's when it hits me. Her skin smells strange.

It smells like a Callery pear.

We're alone, but a long shadow seeps out of the kitchen, stretching slowly across the dining room like a leak. “Maybe we should get going,” I mutter, staring into my drink.

It's not Controy and Tequilla anymore—it looks soupy, black.

My glass is full of fountain pen ink.

There's something crawling down from the top of that step pyramid, I'm sure of it. It's got two black spots for eyes, like holes punched in drywall, and it's crawling on its belly. A man-sized worm slithering down the steps, robed in a thin veneer of ink, rather than mucous.

“What's wrong?” she asks again.

I look at her, smile.

I hear the blood before I see it.

She raises her glass, cocks her head to the side, and blood starts streaming from both nostrils. Then, from the eyes and ears. Her blouse is soaked through. It's running off the edge of the table like a red downpour.

The shadow stretches all the way to our table now.

“What's wrong?” croaks a voice from beneath the table.

* * *

The middle-aged woman seated across the aisle caught my scowl as I woke up, gasping. I'd been halfway out of my seat, ready to drop to the floor, when wakefulness had stolen over me.

“What's wrong?” she asked, clutching the magazine in her lap and glancing over the seats in search of a flight attendant. “Do you need help?”

I wiped at my face with quivering hands and chased the dream out of my head. “No, sorry. Dozed off for a minute there. Didn't sleep very well last night,” I said, forcing a smile.

Relieved that my facial contortions hadn't been indicative of a stroke, she returned my smile. “Oh, I see. Sorry. You just looked really uncomfortable for a second there.”

I thanked her for her concern and then turned to the open seat beside me, mortified. Here I was, cruising at 30,000 feet and causing a scene. When the flight attendant passed by, I asked her for a glass of water, which I subsequently drained in one go. Not long after take-off I'd leaned back in my seat for a nap, wanting to be fresh and alert by the time I got to Annapolis.

Well, I was alert now, at any rate.

Scrubbing the hideous nightmare imagery from my mind, I tried to focus on the work ahead of me. The moment I got off the plane, I'd have to take a cab to Ulpio's place to meet his housekeeper. Then, when I'd dropped off my things and gotten a good handle of the place, I'd have to begin looking into Fiona Weiss.

Would I find anyone in the city that had known the girl or her adoptive family? What could she have brought with her from Annapolis to the house on Morgan Road? It occurred to me that this would all be much easier if Constance were able to assist me.

Then again, perhaps my wife could be of help to me, now that we were out of that accursed house. No longer confined to that place, would she be able to resume her previous rate of correspondence? Fill me in on her observations and detail her interactions with the spirits? I didn't want to get my hopes up, but it was possible she'd start writing regularly again, and the prospect delighted me.

I'd been in such a hurry that morning to make arrangements for the trip that I hadn't even checked the notebook. It was possible she'd written me overnight in the hotel while I'd slept. I rummaged through my messenger bag for the journal and flipped to the most recent page excitedly.

Unfortunately, it was blank.

What this meant was impossible to say. Maybe she needed more time to gather her strength after encountering the dark entities in that house, or else she would wait until nightfall to reach out, as was her habit.

Or perhaps she's gone for good this time. Maybe the stress of dwelling in that house drove her out of this world.

I refused to entertain such dreadful scenarios, hopeful that her spirit remained intact in the fountain pen. Rather than worry, I decided to write her a quick note, explaining the newest developments on my end.

I reached into my blazer pocket for the pen, dug through the miscellaneous items bunched therein, but it wasn't there. My heart skipped a beat, until I recalled the messenger bag at my side. I'd probably shoved it in there after the chaotic séance, along with everything that'd been spilled out onto the living room floor. I picked through the bag's contents calmly at first.

And then, more forcefully.

I withdrew a few books, my phone and its charger and set them down in the empty seat where the leather journal sat, but even as I upended the thing and checked all of its zippered compartments I found no trace of my treasured pen.

No trace of my beloved wife.

My pulse shot up so quickly that my temples ached. Clutching at the arm rests, I tried to remember where I'd put it, how I could have misplaced it. In the years since my wife's death the pen had rarely been further than arm's reach. So, what the hell had I done with it? Think, you senile bastard! Think!

Heedless of the gawking from nearby seats, I dropped to the floor and began searching for it there. Maybe it had fallen out of my pocket while I'd been asleep and was laying nearby.

The woman across the aisle, probably convinced by now that I was demented, leaned over. “Are you OK? Do you need help with something?”

“My pen,” I gasped. “I... I dropped my p-pen.”

“Oh...” She glanced under her own seat, then sat back, donning a sympathetic smile. “I'm sorry about that. I don't see it over here.”

On the verge of hyperventilating, I removed my blazer and checked all of my other pockets, turning up nothing but lint. I sank into the seat, shaking, and tried to piece together the events of the prior evening. Think! Where could you have left it?

Though I would make a point of dumping everything out of my valise upon landing, I knew the pen wasn't in among my clothing and books. Think, damn you!

When I finally remembered, I loosed a groan that sent the flight attendant rushing down the aisle. “Sir, are you all right? What's the matter? I need you to stay in your seat, OK? What's the problem?”

As best I could remember, I'd put the fountain pen, along with the journal, into my messenger bag the night before. There, I'd expected it to stay safe and sound, and had given it little thought.

And it would have remained so, except for what had happened during the séance.

While Joseph and I had been huddled around the talking board, one of the spirits had dragged my messenger bag into the living room and spilled its contents across the floor. I'd taken this as an attempt at intimidation, a scare tactic. In that mess, it was conceivable that the pen had rolled beneath the sofa or some other piece of furniture.

There was another possibility, though, which struck me as likelier—and more sinister.

The things in that house had stolen it—were effectively keeping my wife hostage. I'd not considered the possibility before that there'd been something in that bag the spirits might be interested in. What would they do with it—with her?

Whether I'd overlooked it on the living room floor, or it had been snatched up by a dark presence in that house, the result was the same.

The pen—Constance—had been left behind.

Lost to that house of horrors.

I waved the attendant away and grit my teeth. Unless she could turn the plane around she was of no use to me. Staring at the clouds outside the window, fists buried in my thighs, I blinked back tears. “I'm sorry, darling. I'm sorry...”

Alone in that house with the hideous things that dwelt there, Constance's suffering was sure to be immense. I felt a terrible guilt at having been so careless and prayed that the monstrosities we'd contacted during the séance would leave her alone.

Odds were good that, without me in the way, they would focus their malevolence on her, however.

I spent the remainder of the short flight in a panic. Upon landing, I retrieved my valise and tore into it before I'd even left the baggage claim. As expected, the fountain pen was not in with my other things. Standing in the lobby, I tried to decide what to do going forward.

If I couldn't get back to Detroit in a timely fashion, then perhaps I could ask Joseph to look for the pen. I pulled out my phone and began to dial him, but at the mere memory of the frightful things we'd encountered there, I decided against it. I needed to know that Constance was safe, but couldn't ask him to go there, lest I put them both in danger.

There was nothing to be done. I was in Annapolis. She was in Detroit. I could only hope that she'd still be waiting for me when I returned. I would complete my work as quickly as possible and hurry back to her at the earliest opportunity.

It's not like the other times, she'd written me previously, regarding the haunting on Morgan Road.

And she'd been damn right.

Nineteen

I provided the driver with Ulpio's address and we took off. I was thankful, for once, to have ended up with a silent cabbie. After asking me “where to?” he didn't open his mouth again except to let me know the final charge. Staring out the window, my thoughts were fixed squarely on Constance.

Maybe you should go back to Detroit. The thought occurred to me every time my mind tried reaching for some interesting landmark in the scenery. Maybe you should call the whole thing off.

Ulpio's house was located on what seemed to be the very cusp of Annapolis. I noticed, as we wound down a lengthy road, that I was seeing a lot more green than concrete the further we went. When finally the cabbie—following the directions on his dash-mount—turned onto a long drive hidden between a row of manicured white oaks, I found the property singular in its remoteness.

At the end of the winding drive sat the house. It was a handsome construction in a rather old style; two stories, and exceptionally wide. It was hard to say, but by the looks of it, the place probably had six or seven bedrooms. Parked at the end of drive was a white Volkswagen, and seated on its hood was a thirty-something in stonewashed jeans and a baggy t-shirt smoking a Camel and staring down at her phone. I took this to be the housekeeper, Mara.

I settled the fare and stepped out of the cab, hauling my things with me. I still wasn't in a talkative mood, far too preoccupied with other things, but mustered a little politesse as I approached the housekeeper. “Hello, you're Mara, I presume? I'm Marcel Dubois, a friend of Ulpio's.”

Mara dashed out her cigarette and nodded. “He told me to expect you. If you'll follow me, I'll give you a quick tour of the place.” She started towards the front steps of the grand old house, and yanked a pair of keys from her pocket. “You'll need these,” she said, handing them over.

The acreage was boxed in by tall trees, providing a good deal of shade and privacy. A beautiful garden had been set up to the left of the house; wildflowers, ornamental shrubs and a number of vegetables grew in neat rows. I could smell the fresh mulch as we walked up to the door.

“Right this way,” she said, combing a hand through her shoulder-length hair. It was the color of brass—a dye-job—and her darker roots were starting to come through. The smell hanging about her was a mix of cigarette smoke and bleach. “I actually just stopped by to clean things up,” she explained. “Everything should be all set for you.” Pushing open the door, she led the way into the foyer, which was lit by a large hanging lamp of wrought iron.

The first thing I noticed as we walked in was that almost every surface in sight was made of wood. The hardwood furniture, floors and wainscoting gave the place a very warm and rustic look. “Lovely house,” I said, following her through the sitting room and to a wide staircase. “How old is it? They don't make them like this anymore.”

“It was built in the late 1800's, I think. Don't quote me on that. It's a German Colonial, the only one of it's kind in the area. It's actually been designated as a historical site, and Doctor Ricci put a lot of money into the restoration.” She motioned to the carving—a vaguely nautical motif—along the nearby molding. “I set up one of the spare rooms for you.” We stepped onto the first landing, rounded the corner, and continued our ascent to the upper story. Grinning, she added, “I don't know what I'm talking about. Except for the master bedroom and the doctor's study, they're all spare rooms. This place is pretty big. I live in a one bedroom apartment in town. This feels like a castle to me.”

Another iron chandelier was suspended from the high ceiling, dangling above the half-way mark of the staircase. The bulbs in it shone an orangish-yellow, resembling firelight. As we arrived upstairs, I noticed more details in the woodwork; small flourishes in the wainscoting, elaborate floral motifs in the crown molding. Ulpio was a world-class surgeon and businessman, and from the start of his career he'd always been ludicrously wealthy. I'd never visited his home however, and seeing where he'd put his riches to use over the years was fascinating.

Mara pointed out the locations of various rooms. “This one here is a spare room. Nothing in it. The next door here is the master bedroom. I don't imagine you'll need to go in there for anything. Next up is one of three bathrooms. If I were you, I'd use this one. It's the most spacious, and there's a huge bathtub in it, if you're into that kind of thing. Across the hall here is the door to the doctor's study, and he insists you make use of it. He keeps his cigars in there. Oh, and he wanted me to tell you about the bar; it's in the basement and should be well-stocked. There isn't much in the kitchen—they didn't grocery shop since they planned to be out of town a few weeks, but there's a grocery store a few miles from here.” She paused outside a door near the end of the lengthy hall and motioned to it. “I prettied this one up for you. Let me know if you like it. Otherwise, we can get you set up in another.”

“This'll do fine,” I said before I even set foot inside. And when I did cross the threshold, I found it more than sufficient. A full-sized bed sat at the center of the room atop a plush hand-woven rug. There was a dresser, a walk-in closet, nightstands on both sides of the bed, and enough open floorspace for me to do plenty of pacing. “Thank you so much, Mara. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” she replied. “I'll leave you to it. I'm sure you're tired after your trip. I'll be here a few more minutes if you need anything.” With that, she backed out into the hall and returned downstairs.

I unpacked my valise, dropping my clothes into the dresser. I crowded the nightstands with my books and set the messenger bag down on the bed. A quick test of the mattress confirmed my suspicions—it was damn comfortable. Even so, I couldn’t relax. I paced the room, hands in my pockets, and peered out the window as the afternoon drew to a close. There were only a few hours of daylight left but so much work yet to be done. I wasn't even sure where to start. I might have drawn a detailed plan on the plane, but my panic at having left Constance behind proved too distracting.

I called up Ulpio to let him know I'd made it, and to thank him for his hospitality. “Your house is gorgeous. I can't believe you haven't had me over sooner. The woodwork is beautiful. I really appreciate your letting me stay here. Thank Tracy for me, too.”

“Oh, it's nothing. I'm sorry I can't be there to properly entertain you. I hope you enjoy yourself nonetheless,” he began. “And make sure to check out what I've got in the humidor. Only the cubans are off-limits, my friend—anything else is fair game. Wines of all kinds in the cellar—spirits, too. Whatever you like.”

As long as we're talking about distilled spirits and not the supernatural kind, I thought to myself. “That's very kind, Ulpio. You have my thanks. I'll be sure to smoke and drink you out of house and home.”

We exchanged a few pleasantries and then signed off. Before I put my phone away, I sent Joseph a text message, letting him know I'd made it to Annapolis safely. He replied within minutes with a relieved, I'm glad. Let me know how it goes.

Sitting on the bed in that massive room, staring at the high ceilings, I felt very small. The layout of the house was straightforward enough, but its sheer size made it vaguely disorienting. One could wander through it all day, admiring the woodwork in every room, without noticing every detail. Beautiful though it was, the busyness and artistry of my surroundings felt a bit distracting, and I found myself wishing I'd just opted for a hotel room instead.

I hiked downstairs and found Mara in the kitchen, getting ready to head out. “Can I do anything for you before I go?” she asked, fiddling with her pack of cigarettes.

I glanced at my Seiko. “I know it's getting a bit late, but do you know of a good library around here?”

“A library? Yeah, there's the main library downtown. I think it's open till 9 or so.” She shrugged. “If you head out now you might have a few hours. In fact,” she added, “it's close to my place. I could drop you off on my way home, if you'd like. It'd be faster than waiting for a cab, anyway.”

I took her up on her offer at once. The less time I spent waiting around, the better. “Thank you. I'll pay you for the gas,” I said.

She locked up the door and paced to the Volkswagen parked out front. “Don't be silly, it's on the way.” Giving her pack of cigarettes a shake, she asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all,” I replied. “In fact, can I bum one off of you?”

The two of us drove into town smoking Camels and listening to the drone of public radio. Twenty-five minutes in light traffic brought us to the Annapolis Central Library—the biggest in the city's library system. Mara dropped me off at the curb and I thanked her profusely for the ride.

With a few hours left before they closed and determined to get some answers, I made a beeline for the front entrance.

Twenty

It'd been years since I'd set foot in a public library.

I wasn't sure exactly what I was looking for, but on the car ride over I'd considered a few potential angles for my research. Looking up a list of orphanages in the area would be a good place to start, I wagered. Searching for information about Willard Weiss and his family would be necessary, too.

The towering stone building, divided into three floors, required a roadmap to navigate. Before I had a chance to lose myself in the stacks, I stopped by one of the desks near the front and flagged down a librarian who'd been busy sorting books on a cart. “Yes, how can I help you?” she asked. Her name tag read “Delilah”, and she wore bright red lipstick with a matching red bow in her bottle blonde hair. Wrapped in a polka-dotted halter dress, she'd succeeded in looking like an old-time pin-up girl. She also looked completely out of place; her style was the loudest thing in the hushed building.

“Sorry to bother you, but do you know where I might find a phonebook around here?” I asked.

“A phonebook? Sure, I can find one for you. In fact, hold on just a moment.” She walked over to the desk and went rifling through one of the lower drawers. Moments later, she unearthed a dogeared phonebook and held it out to me.

“Thank you so much. I'll bring it right back,” I said.

“No rush, take your time.” She went back to sorting books.

I carried the phonebook into one of the small, cell-like rooms in the corner reserved for quiet study. There was no one else inside, so I closed the door and ignored the posted no-cellphone policy. I flipped straight to the W's in the phonebook, searching for anyone with the surname Weiss, and was ready to place as many calls as necessary.

There were disappointingly few listings, however. A mere four people with the last name Weiss were featured in the book, and whether or not any of them were related to Willard was impossible to say. I dialed the numbers, one-by-one, and hoped for an answer.

As it turned out, three of the four had been disconnected, and the fourth went to the voicemail box of a local aquarium supply store.

A dead-end.

It was possible, likely even, that Willard Weiss and his wife had stopped talking to their family in Maryland after making the move to Detroit in the 70's. Though some of his lineage might be found with a more thorough search, odds were good that any surviving relatives of his would know nothing about the man or his life in Detroit, and would thus be of little use to me.

I moved to the next lead I had—local orphanages. If I could find out which orphanage Fiona had come from, then perhaps I could find something pertinent in her adoption records. It was a long-shot, and I knew from my years in medicine that accessing such privileged information required a lot of hoop-jumping—not to mention consent. Still, unearthing whatever I could about Fiona's past seemed like my best bet in finding out the nature of what she'd brought with her to Morgan Road, and I ran several searches for orphanages in and around Annapolis.

This, too, proved frustrating. It turned out that there were no operating orphanages anywhere in Maryland; they'd all been shut down, rolled into the State-wide foster care system more than twenty years previous. Though the lack of orphanages seemed like a roadblock, I recognized it as a potential blessing, also. Since the facilities had all been closed down, the old records were likely sitting in a warehouse somewhere, and accessing them—perhaps illicitly—would be much easier. I had only to figure out where such records were kept. But in order to find that out, I'd first have to determine what orphanage Fiona had come from.

Whatever orphanage had been closest to the Weiss household seemed to me the surest bet. That would have to be my next step; finding their former Annapolis home. Sure that the internet wouldn't be able to tell me anything about real estate sales in the 1970's, I exited the quiet study room with a mind to dig into some old periodicals.

I walked the phonebook back to Delilah, who was still sorting books on her cart. “Sorry to bug you again. I'm actually from out of town,” I explained, “and I'm trying to do some genealogical research. I don't suppose I could ask you a few questions, could I?”

She donned a wide smile. “Certainly, sir. What would you like to know about?”

“I'm looking for information on a specific person—a relative of mine,” I lied. “Do you have any public records I could sift through—or even old newspapers, things like that?”

Her mascaraed eyes narrowed. “Public records? We do have some newspapers in our microfilm room... What kind of thing are you looking for?”

I thought about it a moment. Willard and his family had moved to Detroit in 1975, so looking at old real estate listings from around that time might give me something to work with. “Perhaps real estate listings? Houses for sale—that kind of thing? I'm looking specifically for listings from around 1974-75. Anything from the local papers will do.”

“Sure, I think I can help you out. Right this way.” She spun on her heels and led me down the main hall. We crossed through a large, crowded lobby and then turned right, entering a bank of elevators. “The microfilms are on the third floor,” she said. “I can help you get set up. Please be aware that we close tonight at 9, however.”

We stepped onto the elevator. “I won't linger,” I promised.

She showed me into the microfilm room, a dim little space whose rarified air and dustiness betrayed a marked lack of foot traffic. The rolls of film—35mm—were sorted in tall cabinets by year and periodical, and each contained as many as 800 pages of newsprint. Said rolls were to be mounted onto the spindle on the microfilm machine, a boxy grey hulk sitting on a heavy wooden desk. Once switched on, the film would roll clockwise, and each image captured on it could be studied on the screen thanks to the magnifying lens. A series of buttons and dials controlling the zoom and other functions sat squarely beneath the glowing monitor.

Delilah gave me a quick rundown on the machine, explaining its many functions and the system that had been used in sorting the film. I didn't have the heart to tell her that at my age I was old enough to remember a time before computers and had used microfilm as a grad student.

“You wanted local papers from 1974 and 1975?” she asked, opening one of the drawers.

“Yes, that's right.”

She handed me four boxes containing rolls of film. All told, they probably contained over 3,000 pages of newsprint.

“Much appreciated.” I loaded up one of them and queued the film to the first image.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” she said, sporting a rosy smile. With that, she left the room and I dove into my work.

* * *

Flipping through the rolls of film was excruciatingly monotonous.

I sped things up a bit by skipping the actual news articles and zeroing in on the sections of each issue that dealt with local home sales, but even then the work was slow and taxing on my vision. The flickering monitor didn't do my eyes any favors. Sitting till my back grew sore and my rear end went numb, I found nothing in the rolls corresponding to 1974 and loosed a string of curses under my breath. There'd never been a guarantee that I'd find anything in these rolls, but I wanted badly to find something that vindicated my efforts.

I pressed on through 1975, skimming only the real estate listings. The local paper's real estate section had only been three pages back in those days, and the layout left much to be desired. Packed with grainy pictures of old houses and brief, sometimes corny sales copy, the listings required a fair bit of zooming in order to be legible.

I'd been ready to throw in the towel, my eyes and head aching for the visual strain, when I landed upon something. In my hurried skimming of the pages, one listing stood out to me in particular. I zoomed in on it till the text was readable. Under my breath, I recited what I'd found. “For sale by owner. 1121 Price Street, Annapolis. Asking price: $65,000. Contact Will Weiss at 410-5673.”

The thing that had initially captured my attention did not appear in that brief bit of sales copy, however.

It'd been the photo of the house that had caught my eye.

I found it familiar, and a careful study of the grainy photo told me why.

It was the very house I was staying in.

Twenty-One

I caught Ulpio at dinner. It was an outdoor spot—lively music in the background, a lot of laughter and clinking silverware. “You didn't burn the place down already, did you?” he joked as he picked up.

“Listen, I've got a few questions for you. Do you have a minute?” I was standing just outside the library—only some minutes closed—and staring into the darkening sky. I thought I picked up a whiff of rain, but as yet the weather was dry. “I won't keep you too long.”

Sensing the gravity in my tone, he could be heard to excuse himself from the table, and within a few moments the chatter in the background had lessened. “Sure, what's up?”

“When did you buy your house, Ulpio?” I asked him flatly.

“We moved in shortly after we married, late 70's,” he replied, sounding confused at the urgency of my question. “Why do you ask?”

“Do you remember who you bought it from?” I asked. “The name of its previous owner? Did you buy it from a man named Weiss, perhaps?”

Ulpio whistled. “You're really making me think back with this one! Truthfully, I can't remember. I'm sure I've got the previous owner's name on the deed somewhere, but it was such a long time ago. My old man actually fronted the money for it when I was twenty-one as a wedding gift for me and Tracy, God rest his soul. It was in 1975. We spent some time there during vacations, but didn't move in till a few years later, when I finished school. Lot of history in that house. My father chose it because of its size and sturdiness—and because he secretly hoped Tracy and I would have about a dozen kids to fill it with.” He laughed.

“I see. Can you tell me much about its history? Anything you remember from around the time of the sale, or that you've learned in fixing it up all these years?” I leaned against the exterior wall of the library. A fat raindrop landed on my brow as I glanced once more into the sky.

“It was built in the 1890's, a real treasure. The local government has recognized it as a historical site. It's one of the oldest standing houses in all of Annapolis, and the ground it was built on was a POW camp in the Civil War.” Ulpio paused. “Now, if I may ask, why the sudden questions? Is there a problem?”

“No,” I assured him, chuckling. “No problems whatsoever. It's just that the work I'm doing has me digging into the past.”

“The genealogical work?” I could hear the quirk of his smile, as if he didn't quite believe me.

“Yes...” Clearing my throat, I continued. “Can you tell me, off the top of your head, whether there were any orphanages near the house. Say, in the 60's and 70's?”

“Orphanages?” He paused. “There was a place...” Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. “Yes, I remember. There was an orphanage—kind of a sad-looking thing—about an hour away, way down on Forrest Street. Or maybe it was LeBlanc. Either way, I seem to remember it was run by Carmelite nuns. I remember it distinctly because sometimes, while Tracy and I would go for rides through town, we'd see the nuns in their habits milling about the grounds, keeping an eye on the children as they played in the fields. Sometimes, too, the sisters of that order would come around seeking donations for the orphanage. It was called Little Flower, I think. They bulldozed it in the 80's—sometime in the Reagan years. I was happy to see it gone, honestly. It'd always been a gloomy eyesore. I don't think there's anything left out there except a graveyard. There was some talk a few years ago about a new outdoor mall going in on the site, but the graveyard was terrible optics and the project got canned.”

“So, this place was about an hour from the house?” I asked. “On Forrest Street?”

“No, it's Leblanc Street, I'm sure of it now. If you hang a left out of our driveway, go several miles down Price Street and hang a left at the gas station, go another forty minutes down that way, you'll find the spot.” Curiosity entered his voice in the form of a chuckle. “So, tell me, who is it you're looking for?”

“It's a long story,” I replied. Seeking some way to throw him off my trail, I asked him about his meal. “What's for dinner?”

Ulpio never missed an opportunity to talk about himself and began at once to detail the contents of his meal down to the wine pairing. “I'm a man of simple appetites,” said he, “so I opted for a pound of sirloin with scalloped potatoes and a bottle of local riesling.”

“Sounds delicious. Listen, I'm sorry for disturbing your meal. I'm going to grab a bite before I keel over. Thank you again for letting me stay. I'll try not to bug you again tonight,” I said.

After he'd offered me a handful of recommendations on solid local restaurants—“The steamed crab at the Maritime Lounge, just off the docks, is to die for”—he finally hung up.

My first day in Annapolis had brought me a new—and unnerving—lead.

I was staying in Weiss' former home. The photograph in the paper had well enough convinced me of that, but knowing that Ulpio's father had bought the home in 1975 removed any doubt. It also turned out, as I'd suspected, that the house had been close to an orphanage. It was possible—probable, even—that Fiona had been adopted from this Little Flower orphanage on Leblanc Street. Though the building was no longer there, the discovery that the place had been run by an order of nuns brought me some relief. If the Carmelite order still had a convent in the area, then perhaps they retained their old files on adoptions—and even if they didn't, there was every possibility that the diocese of Annapolis had them. I still couldn't be sure I'd find anything of note in Fiona's file, but if it existed at all I now felt more confident in my ability to track it down.

The day was spent, but at first light I'd resume my search for Fiona's adoption file. Having a clear objective and knowing where I might find the thing proved even more invigorating than the much-needed sandwich I scarfed down at a nearby deli before hailing a cab and returning to Ulpio's.

The day had started with its share of hopelessness, but as I rode back to the house in the back of the taxi, the possibility that I might complete my work in the next day no longer seemed so remote.

The sooner my work bore fruit, the sooner I could return to Detroit.

To Constance.

I just hoped I'd make it back in time to save her from the house. If I didn't, I'd never forgive myself.

Twenty-Two

The rain came.

Standing at the kitchen window with a glass of wine in hand, I watched the skies heave. From the distance sounded the flam of thunder. Bolts of lightning halved, then quartered the sky; I looked past the property's many trees and wondered if one wouldn't get struck before the storm was spent.

I'd opted for a 2007 Domaine Tempier Bandol—a fine bottle that had the added benefit of not setting my generous host back too far—among the dozens of wines on offer, and sipped it contemplatively while watching the rain pour.

It felt strange to sit and drink wine in this house, knowing who'd once lived in it.

Sometimes life throws us for a loop, seems utterly chaotic. My wife, who'd been in otherwise perfect health, had died before her sixtieth year when an undiagnosed brain aneurysm had suddenly ruptured. There'd been no good reason for it, and no one I could blame. It'd been a flaw in her design. Still, I often blamed myself for not being there, and wondered—even now—if I wouldn't have been able to save her had I not been working overtime that cursed day.

But sometimes—on rare occasions—happenings in life have about them an uncanny order. One can feel at times the unmistakable nudge of an unseen hand, guiding them along the track.

My stay in the Weiss family's former home could not be chalked up to mere coincidence.

This meeting had been arranged. It was kismet.

By whom I could not say.

I should have found some comfort in the fact that my hunch had been right. I'd set out for Annapolis certain that the haunting had had its genesis here, and that some digging would provide me with the ammunition necessary to uncover the whole shape of the thing. That I'd unknowingly found my way to this house, owned by an old friend, showed me that I was very much on the right track. My intuition told me the next day's planned efforts would reveal even more. I was on the edge of a breakthrough—of cracking the case wide open. If there was any antidote to what ailed Joseph's house—a reason for Fiona Weiss' persistence beyond death—I'd find it here, and likely soon.

But comfort was elusive.

All I could think of as I stared through that rain-patterned window was Constance. I pictured her walking through the halls of that dark house, a throng of long, distorted shadows trailing at her back. I could imagine her face—brow tightened with fear, eyes bulging, lower lip pinned beneath her teeth—as she raced to escape them. I pictured a long, black arm stretching out of an open doorway like a tentacle; a shadowy hand griping her shoulder. And just like that, the chase was done. The horde of shadows would drag her away.

Six years ago, I'd failed to save her life. Now here I was, on the verge of failing her a second time. I had to get back to Detroit, had to make sure that she—

My phone rang. Wine sloshed over the rim of my glass as I reached for it and took a seat upon one of the stools beside the kitchen island. “Hello?”

It was Joseph. “How's it going, uncle?” he asked. I could tell he was holding his breath.

“It's all right,” I said. “Though, if it keeps raining like this I'm going to have to build an ark. How are things back in Detroit?”

“Fine,” he replied. “Melissa's a little suspicious. She doesn't think I'm telling her everything. She wanted to run to the house today to pick up a few things, and I really had to put my foot down to dissuade her. She's pretty angry at me...”

I chuckled. “Well, she isn't wrong. We've withheld a lot of truth. Trying to hide anything from a woman is a lost cause, but do try and keep her from going there. Even during the day there's no telling what might be encountered. After what we witnessed during the séance, I feel that the spirits in that house are growing more active—and bold.”

“Definitely. So, anyway... have you learned anything?” he asked. “I know you haven't been there for a full day, but I was just wondering how things were going.”

At first, I wasn't going to tell him anything—figured it would be better to wait until I had the entire picture to start sharing details. Considering the nature of the investigation however, and the things we were up against, I understood that there were no guarantees that I'd even be able to finish my work. I'd been thinking about how life sometimes threw wrenches in even the best-laid plans, and when I extended that tendency to my own situation, I decided to spill. If something happened to me out here, then it was imperative that someone know what I'd uncovered, lest all my work be for naught and the haunting on Morgan Road continue unimpeded.

“Well, I came looking for information on the Weiss family,” I began. “I'm staying at a friend's house, an old colleague of mine. It's a fine old place, if a little big for my tastes. Anyhow, his father bought it in 1975 from Willard Weiss.”

“What?” he blurted. “You're staying in their old house?”

“That's right.”

He laughed incredulously. “Are you serious? What are the odds of that?”

“Candidly? They're damn close to zero. But here I am nonetheless. I went into town today and poked around the microfilm collection at the library. That's where I found the sale listing. I don't have a deed or anything listing Weiss as the former owner, but I'm confident that this is the same house. So, without my realizing it, I stumbled into the very heart of things.” I emptied my glass of wine and set it on the granite countertop before continuing. “My friend Ulpio and his wife have lived here for decades, so you can be sure there isn't anything left of its former owners. But I've learned that there used to be an orphanage within an hour of here—a place called Little Flower.”

“You think that their daughter was adopted from there?” asked Joseph.

“I do. The place was demolished in the 1980's, but was run by nuns. I'm hopeful that the old adoption records from that time are still around—possibly at the diocese offices. I'm going there first thing in the morning. These records are the only lead I can think of. There's nothing to be found on Fiona Weiss anywhere; precious little proof that she ever lived and no indication at all that she's even dead.”

“The board mentioned her, didn't it? She has to be one of the spirits that's haunting the house. You said that it was her body that the last owner found, right?” he asked.

I nodded. “It's very possible. At any rate, the board told us that Fiona brought something terrible with her to Detroit. I believe she spent the first thirteen years of her life here in Annapolis, and after being adopted, she lived in this very house for a time. I need to figure out what she brought, how she brought it and—in order to bring this haunting to a close—why.”

My nephew meditated on these questions for a time. “There are a lot of ghosts in the house, right?”

“Yes. I don't know how many, but there are multiple presences.”

“How did they get there?” he asked. “Some of them might have died in the house over the years, but... do you think it's possible that Fiona brought some of them with her? Would that qualify as bringing something 'terrible', like the board said?” He laughed sheepishly. “That's kind of dumb, I guess, but do you think it's possible to move a spirit from place to place? To bring it with you from somewhere else?”

I found his take rather insightful. Perhaps the house on Morgan Road was so crowded with ghosts because Fiona had brought them with her. I couldn't begin to guess at her reasons, but in wondering whether the transportation of souls was possible I had only to look at my situation with Constance. “It's not dumb at all,” I offered. “You might be onto something.”

“All right, it's getting late. I'm heading back up to the room. Have a good night, Uncle Marcel,” he said. “And stay safe.”

“I will, lad. Sleep well.”

I pocketed the phone, still deep in thought.

Had Fiona transported spirits from Annapolis to the house in Detroit? And if so, by what means?

I've mentioned that I have no solid explanation for the mechanics behind Constance's residency in my fountain pen. After death, I can only imagine that she—not ready or able to move on from this world—was drawn to it. The thing had been a gift from her to me, and thus the two of us shared a sentimental connection to it. Up to that point I'd always considered my wife's situation to be unique, but if Fiona Weiss had brought ghosts with her during the move in 1975, it stood to reason that she'd done so in a similar fashion, and that the spirits had been transported in a vessel not unlike my pen.

What had Fiona carried the spirits around in, however? And why had she done so?

Perhaps I'd find the answer here in Annapolis.

Picking up the bottle of wine, I took it, along with my teeming glass, to Ulpio's study. There, after a close study of his humidor's contents, I settled into a high-backed chair and lit up a Nat Sherman.

The house had more rooms in it than Ulpio and his family had needed even in the days when his two daughters still lived at home. This room, the study, had been earmarked as a bedroom once—and a sizable one, at that. Bookcases heavier than a grown man lined the four walls, loaded with books. Most dealt with medical subjects, though the bookcase to the left of the study window boasted three full shelves of gritty thrillers and airport novels. The desk at which I was seated was longer than I was tall, and I wasn't exactly short at over six feet. A laptop sat upon it, along with the humidor, an assortment of sticky notes, ledgers and the obligatory Newton's cradle.

Scanning the room by the low, yellowish light of the desk lamp, I loosed smoke into the air and studied the ornate carvings that covered the crown molding from corner to corner. As elsewhere in the house, the molding here had been carved by a skilled hand to depict various natural scenes; bunches of grapes, leaf-covered vines, clusters of flowers and the occasional songbird. I took in each panel absentmindedly—and then markedly less absentmindedly when one carving in particular caught my eye.

It was quite distinctive compared to the rest, and in both size and detail, it trumped its neighbors by a great margin. Positioned so that it sat directly above the door to the room, I wondered how I hadn't seen it sooner. A crack of lightning from the window across the room sent its glossy surface flickering, and for an instant imbued it with the stuff of movement.

It was a raven. Wings spread, beak sharp and raised, it looked more than a little hostile. Every feather had been painstakingly carved, the eyes smoothed into perfect orbs. These details, along with the natural stance the craftsman had so deftly bestowed on it, lent it the look of something real and set to take flight.

Over the course of the next hour, I worked on the cigar and emptied the bottle of wine. Thus with a red nose and a sway in my step, I retreated to my room. I glanced up at the raven as I exited, its talons appearing as fearsomely sharp as a razor, and I believe that I winced at the sight of it.

The storm waned and grew at turns; one moment the rain could be heard to thin to almost nothing, and the next the thunder would pulverize the quiet like a cannon-blast, bringing with it a fresh downpour.

Such weather, at least, made for good sleeping. And good sleep was what I needed if I was going to get to the bottom of things come morning.

Twenty-Three

Perhaps it was just my imagination, but the headquarters of the Diocese of Annapolis definitely looked affiliated with the Catholic Church. Standing out from the more modern buildings on its flanks, the towering stone structure with heavy wooden doors had more in common with a medieval cathedral than it did a modern-day office building. I wasn't sure what I'd find inside as I marched up the concrete steps just a hair past nine in the morning.

There were no monks wandering around in hair-shirts, no Gregorian chant issuing from the halls beyond the lobby, but there was a front counter, behind which I found a grey-haired woman in bifocals. She smiled and stood to welcome me.

Crossing the lobby, carpeted and somewhat stuffy, I leaned against the counter and adjusted my blazer. “Hello, I'm sorry to bother you. This'll seem a bit out of left field, but I have some questions regarding orphanages in this area. I understand there was once an orphanage on LeBlanc Street called Little Flower?”

I wasn't sure what'd done it, but the woman—the placard on her desk read “Ms. Anna Godfrey”—did not smile so widely as once, and plopped down onto her seat with a downward quirk of her lips which I took for distrust. “Erm, yes, I'm familiar. It's no longer in operation.” She balanced her elbows on the desk and leaned on them, asking, “What's this about, exactly?”

I grinned, hoping to put her at ease. “I'm in the area doing some genealogical research and my studies have led me to this particular orphanage, you see. I'm looking to speak to someone who knows about it and—if possible—to access some of the files from the 60's and 70's.”

Anna's expression relaxed, but there remained something of edginess in the arching of her thin brows. “Oh, I see. Yes, the Little Flower orphanage was run by the Carmelites. Unfortunately, the convent was closed not long after the orphanage was torn down. I don't know that we have the files here in the building.” She adjusted her thick lenses, her gaze riveted upon me. “I happen to know a good deal about it, though. Maybe I can answer some of your questions.”

I half-turned from the desk, shoulders loosening in a sigh. I hadn't come all the way here to chat with a secretary about the orphanage itself—I cared only for one of its former orphans. Sure that she was going to waste my time, I forced a tight smile. “You knew the place well?” I asked.

What she said surprised me. “Well, I should. I grew up there.”

“Y-You once lived at Little Flower?” I asked with a start.

At that moment the phone rang, but she gave me a quick nod as she went to answer it. “Diocese of Annapolis, this is Anna. How can I direct your call?” she asked over the phone. After a beat, she continued, “Sure, I'll forward you. Just one moment.” Finally, when the call had been transferred, she looked back to find me waiting anxiously for her to continue. “Yes,” she reiterated, “I grew up an orphan. The Carmelites raised me.” A warm smile graced her lips. “Very holy women, they were. They've all since passed on of course, but I think about the example they set for me every day. I don't know where I'd be without their guidance and care.”

“You don't say? When might that have been?” I asked. I studied Anna's face awhile, trying to guess her age. The bifocals threw me off, but I wagered she was a child of the 50's or 60's.

My guess proved right.

“Let's see... It was in the winter of '68-'69 that I arrived there. My parents died in a house fire when I was just shy of seven years old, and I stayed at Little Flower until I turned sixteen,” she said. Gaze narrowed, she laughed and readjusted herself in her chair, legs crossed. “So... what kind of work did you say you were doing? I don't think I've ever had someone come in here and ask about the orphanage before. Is there someone in particular you're interested in learning more about—one of the sisters, perhaps? I knew them very well, if so—”

“Actually,” I interrupted with a chuckle, “I'm looking to learn more about a particular orphan. Judging by the timeline of your stay, I think it's quite possible you might have run into them.”

“Oh? What was their name?”

I cleared my throat. “Her name was Fiona.”

Anna drew in a sharp breath, eyes widening as if I'd just slapped her across the face.

“You knew her?” I guessed.

The raw shock in her eyes shifted into a cold stare. Anna nodded. “I did.” The reply was uncharacteristically icy. Growing very small in her seat and digging a thumbnail into the hem of her blouse, she said nothing for a long while. The phone rang—twice, three times—but she didn't move to pick it up.

Her reaction had been so visceral that it'd taken me off-guard. I laughed nervously, tried to keep the conversation moving. “I know that she was adopted by the Weiss family prior to 1975, but my trail has gone cold and I know next to nothing about her. That's why I came, hopeful that her records might still be intact. Can you tell me anything about her? How well were you acquainted?”

She puckered her thin lips, her sharp gaze still dissecting me. “What kind of work did you say you were doing?”

“Genealogical—”

Snorting derisively, she threw up one of her hands as if to dismiss me. “Sir, I don't know why you'd come here asking about such a girl—especially one with her history—but you've come at a very bad time and I'm not inclined to discuss her at any rate.” Her fingers moved to the silver chain of what I took for a small crucifix pendant around her neck. “Gossip is a sin, after all.”

“Ma'am,” I insisted, “I didn't come here with the intent to gossip, I assure you. The truth of the matter is that Fiona Weiss has been implicated in certain grave matters—matters that involve my nephew and his family. I'm actually from Illinois—do you think I'd have come all the way to Annapolis merely to gossip? No, I came here today because I need help—and because I have nowhere else to turn.” I pulled out my wallet and counted out several twenties. “Now, I understand you're busy, but I'd be more than happy to compensate you for your—”

“Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” was her reply. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes agitated behind the coke bottle glasses. She motioned to the door I'd come in through. “Please, leave.”

Having just encountered someone acquainted with Fiona Weiss in life, I wasn't about to back down. I made another appeal, desperate to follow this lead as far as it would take me. “Listen, I'm sorry to have bothered you, but I have nowhere else to turn. I'm not asking you to spin me a scandalous yarn. I'm only interested in facts—facts that may be of great importance in helping my family. My great niece—a girl as old as you were when you were orphaned—has been caught up in the middle of this. Anything you can tell me about Fiona could go a long way towards helping the girl. Wouldn't that be worth it? Would that not be a charitable act? I'm begging you, Anna. Please talk to me.”

Either I looked absolutely pathetic, or my talk of Megan back in Detroit got through to her, because she loosed a troubled sigh and stood up. “Sir, that's enough.” Standing beside her swivel chair, she kneaded her forehead and then looked down at the watch on the inside of her wrist. “What could you possibly need to know about Fiona?” she asked, and I thought I saw her stifle a shudder. Her hands locked around the backrest of the chair and she nodded to the front entrance. “What kind of grave matter could she have a part in? And anyway, this is not the time or place for this conversation...”

“That's perfectly fine,” I replied. “We can meet elsewhere, whenever is convenient for you. What time do you take lunch?”

She combed a few silver locks behind her ears nervously, staring down at her desk. Just when I'd been about to beg further, she responded. “I take lunch at noon.” Ambling into the lobby, she pointed at the door. “There's a cafe across the street called Dave's. I can... I can meet you there if you really insist on this...”

It was a date. “Absolutely,” I replied. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

She nodded, eyes averted and distant.

“I'll... I'll see you there. Noon. And I'm sorry for the trouble,” I added.

Anna returned to her seat and I stepped back out into the sunlight. Racing down the steps, I sought out Dave's and claimed a table, determined to wait there till Anna's lunch break three hours later. Ordering a coffee, I took the table for two nearest the door and wondered what she had to tell me.

Whatever it was, it'd been sufficient to make her shudder.

* * *

Anna walked into the cafe at a quarter before noon. She scanned the place with hooded eyes, and when she spotted me her gaze shifted to the floor. She stopped at the front counter, ordered a sandwich and fountain drink, and was seated across from me within minutes.

I didn't rush her. Sipping at a cup of tea—after four coffees in the preceding three hours, I'd opted for a change in beverage—I waited for her to dig into her food.

She crossed herself—though whether she was saying grace or spiritually steeling herself before sharing what she knew I couldn't say. Showing no interest in her food, she rearranged the sandwich on her plate a few times before starting. “So... what do you want to know about Fiona?” she asked, gaze darting nervously about us as if fearful that we might be overheard.

The cafe was hardly busy at the moment; our closest neighbors were seated three tables away, and the bossa nova playing overhead, coupled with the whir of the espresso machines behind the counter, all but ensured that the baristas couldn't hear anything we said.

“I want to know everything,” was my reply. I'd bummed a pen from one of the baristas and had a stack of napkins to jot notes on, just in case.

Anna drew a heavy sigh, adjusting her glasses. “We're close in age, Fiona and I.”

Hearing her talk about Fiona in the present tense that way wasn't exactly inappropriate, and I couldn't help but grimace.

“I was six when I arrived at the orphanage. It was a year or so before Fiona was adopted.” Anna paused to do some mental math. “Yes, Fiona was adopted by a family in 1970, if memory serves.”

I wrote down this detail with a nod. “So, you knew her for about a year, then?”

“That's right,” she continued. “Fiona had been there since birth, but unlike most of the children who'd been given up as infants, she actually knew her mother.” She took a gulp of soda and frowned like it didn't agree with her. Patting at her lips with a napkin, she went on more quietly than before, so that I had to strain to listen to her. “Some kids, like me, were orphaned later in life. I still have memories of my parents from before the fire. Other children, though, were often handed over shortly after birth, or abandoned on the orphanage grounds as toddlers in the middle of the night. Most of them never knew their parents, and among them there was a fair bit of curiosity about where they'd come from. Resentment, too.”

“But Fiona knew her mother?” I asked.

“Yes.” Anna squirmed in her chair, arms folded at her waist. “Fiona's mother was one of the nuns.”

I dropped my cup of tea onto the table, splashing the napkin I'd begun covering with notes. “How's that? Her mother was one of the Carmelite sisters?”

Anna nodded, then shook her head with sorry eyes.

“Did she have Fiona prior to becoming a nun, or after?”

Her frown deepened as she continued. “It was an enormous scandal, as you can imagine. Fiona was conceived not long after her mother, Sister Ethel, took the vows. But it wasn't intentional, her pregnancy. You see...” Anna's voice wavered and came out so quietly that she was practically mouthing the words. “She was raped.”

I set down the pen and folded my hands on the tabletop. “How hideous. Did she know the offender? Was he caught?”

“No,” she replied. “I don't know all the details. I know she'd been walking near the orphanage grounds one evening and was apparently assaulted by a number of men. I heard that they took her away in a car, possibly drugged her, and when she came to it was in a hospital bed. There was... evidence that several men had violated her, but I don't believe they were ever found. In the assault, she conceived.” Anna was clutching at her upper arms with searching, nervous fingers. “Following that, some choices had to be made. Abortion, of course, was never on the table, but Sister Ethel had to decide whether she was going to raise the child herself and become laicized, or put Fiona up for adoption. She chose the latter, keeping to her vows, but for whatever reason Fiona was placed at the Carmelite orphanage where Ethel herself worked.”

“Why was that?” I asked. “Seems like a poor decision—torturous for both mother and daughter. And anyway, wouldn't such an arrangement lead to favoritism?”

Anna shrugged weakly. “I don't know why the decision was made. But Fiona knew the score, and so did the rest of us. Sometimes, the topic would just come up. It was an open secret. I understand that Sister Ethel was instructed not to treat Fiona more favorably and, in fact... wishing to maintain the illusion of neutrality, she actively avoided Fiona wherever possible, which led to a troubling dynamic. It was very tense at times. Even when one is brought into the world through a vile assault, there still exists a link between mother and child. The two of them denying said link was unhealthy, and may have accounted for Fiona's strange development.

“Fiona had never been a friendly girl, and though I lived with her in the orphanage for a year I don't think I ever saw her smile. She spoke very little. Didn't play like the other children. She was especially interested in birds, I remember. She'd stand outside and the birds would land close-by, like they didn't realize she was there. She'd talk to them, too. Some nights, owls or ravens would perch outside her window, and she'd speak to them through the glass. And then there was that toy of hers... None of us had much in the way of toys, as you can imagine, but I remember her having this little wooden bird. She'd stay up late, whispering to it, hardly sleeping. One of the other girls once asked her where she got it.” Here, Anna frowned. “She told them that her father had given it to her.”

“A wooden bird, you say? Some kind of carved toy?” I licked my lips pensively.

“That's right. She always had it with her. I saw it once or twice, up-close. It was pretty detailed—small enough to fit in your palm. I don't know where she actually got it. It's possible one of the foster families she stayed with gave it to her. You see, now and then she'd do a stint in foster care, take an adoptive family for a 'test drive', if you will. Every time, except for that last, it fell through. They all felt she was too strange and moody—unpredictable. And so, from a very early age, I think that Fiona realized no one in life—not even her biological mother—wanted anything to do with her, and she internalized that.

“When the rest of us would go outside to play hopscotch or pick flowers, she'd wander off to the graveyard next door and sit among the tombstones. Sometimes she'd sneak out at night and the abbess would find her sitting amidst the graves, talking to herself. Incidents like those made it hard for the rest of us not to gossip. Even when raised by a cloister of loving nuns, children can be very cruel to one another, and we all talked behind Fiona's back.

“There was, around that time, a minor Satanic panic going on locally. Throughout Annapolis and the neighboring suburbs, there was talk of cults. Dead stray dogs turned up—mangled—as if used in some kind of ritual. People went missing, too. A rumor spread amongst us kids was that Sister Ethel had been raped by devil-worshippers, and that Fiona, by extension, was the 'Devil's Daughter'.

“You know, there was one instance, a few years after Fiona got adopted, that I'll never forget. Things calmed down with Fiona gone and, eventually, people stopped talking about her. But I heard Sister Ethel talking to one of the other nuns one night, and she was inconsolable. Sister Ethel wanted to know if she'd done the right thing—if she shouldn't have given up her vows to become a mother to Fiona. She was sobbing, just absolutely devastated, but she said something that always stuck with me. She said, 'What have I let out into the world? My daughter is sin incarnate, and rather than face her I've chosen to stay here.' I didn't know what to make of that. She was obviously distressed, but I wondered then—and now—whether Sister Ethel didn't buy into the rumors we'd spread. You know, that she'd been assaulted by devil-worshippers and given birth to a demon.

“Sister Ethel passed away around the time the orphanage got shut down. A heart attack, I think. I went to her funeral. I attended a lot of funerals in the years following Little Flower's closure, in fact. Sister Monica, the last of that cloister, passed on at 90 years old last February. They were like mothers to me.” Anna dabbed at her eyes with a napkin and then returned her bifocals to their proper place. Finally, she found it in herself to take a small bite of her sandwich. “That's basically all I know,” she said. “Like I said, Fiona was adopted in 1970 and I never saw her again. I've wondered, from time to time, how she got along. How did things turn out for her? How's she doing these days?”

I declined to answer that. How could I? “To be honest, I haven't met her. Not yet. But thank you for sharing that with me. It's filled in some of my blanks.”

“Right, your genealogical study? Are you tracing her adoptive family's line? Are you related to them?” She fixed me with a curious look. “You said you needed this information to help your family. Is it a medical issue—are you looking into the family medical history, perhaps?” She choked down another bite of food while I searched for an excuse to lob at her. “How are you related to her?”

I was startled by the buzzing of my phone. It was Joseph. “Oh, speak of the devil,” I uttered, “this is my nephew. I have to take this. Please, excuse me. I'll be back in a moment.” I stood and exited the cafe, leaving Anna to her meal.

I didn't return.

Twenty-Four

“Things have taken a decidedly darker turn,” I said upon answering.

“You got ahold of Fiona's file?” asked Joseph.

“Not quite. I met with a woman who knew her—a fellow orphan, though. And let's just say that our conversation was illuminating.” I crossed the street, wandering out of view of the cafe and diocese building, and then plopped down in an empty bus stop shelter. “You won't believe me at first, but I find myself feeling quite bad for the girl.”

“You feel bad for her?” Joseph laughed incredulously. “For the ghost that's pulling all of the strings? I mean, she's the one who brought awful things with her, right?”

“I don't know the whole of it yet,” I replied, “but she seems to have had a very difficult childhood. Her mother was a nun—Fiona was conceived through rape. There may be a Satanic bent to the whole thing... I don't know yet. Anyway, Fiona grew up at Little Flower orphanage until 1970, when she was adopted by Will Weiss at 8 years old. They didn't move to Detroit until 1975. That's five years they spent living in Annapolis. A lot can happen in five years.”

“No doubt...” Joseph sighed. “Well, what now? Do you think you can convince Fiona to leave? What about all of the other spirits in the house—what's keeping them?”

“I don't have anything nailed down yet. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd put down Fiona as one of those spirits that can't let go due to trauma. She never knew love in life. Being denied her birth mother's affection probably left a deep psychological scar, and that want for parental love has probably resulted in her spirit being restless. As for what she brought—I think it's possible that she somehow transported some of those spirits to Detroit with her, like you suggested earlier. Maybe she brought spirits with her as... playmates, if you will—maybe she reached out to the dead in her loneliness and they clung to her. The trouble is, I don't know how she did it, what kind of vessel she used in transporting them.”

“I see. Well, how much longer will you be out there?” he asked, and I sensed a hint of impatience in his voice.

“Why? Trouble in paradise?”

“Well, it's just that I'll be starting my summer job in a few days. That, and... Melissa and Megan are getting a little antsy. Melissa wants to get back to the house. Megan isn't really enjoying herself anymore, either. It's getting hard for me to put them off—Melissa, especially, wants to know why we can't go home, and is sure I'm lying to her.”

“I'll see if I can't wrap things up quickly,” I said. “Perhaps I can catch a flight home tomorrow. Sound good? Provided, of course, that I don't encounter something that keeps me longer. It's high time we settle things at your house, but I don't want to leave until I have all the pieces.” I looked at my watch. It was just past 12:30. “I'm going to head to the site of the old orphanage. I doubt there's anything there, but I've been told about a graveyard on that road, and I understand that Fiona spent some time there as a child. I reckon it's worth a look. I'll let you know if I find anything interesting.”

The call ended soon thereafter. Dialing for a cab, I waited outside the bus stop. Minutes later, the taxi rolled up to the curb and I hopped in.

“Where to?” asked the cabbie, straightening his rearview mirror.

“There's an old graveyard on LeBlanc Street. Do you know it? I'd like to go there.”

He nodded. An instant later we were off.

Twenty-Five

“Keep the meter running,” I said, stepping out of the cab.

The lonely stretch of LeBlanc Street offered few sights of note. On the right side of the road, marked by tall metal railings, was the graveyard. It took up no more than a hundred and fifty yards of the vast, grassy field surrounding it. The tombstones sat close together like crowded teeth. Resembling florets of broccoli wedged between those teeth, I spotted small clusters of wilted flowers left in tribute upon many of them. There was an empty gravel parking lot on the opposite end of the thing and a paved walk leading into the cemetery that looked on the verge of crumbling.

I didn't start at once into the cemetery, first looking for any remaining signs of the orphanage that had once sat beside it. I walked through the field, spying interminable seas of corn growing in the distance. Buzzing insects sped by and tall weeds shot in all directions from the lumpy, stone-strewn earth I walked upon. Everywhere I stepped there were chunks of what looked to be broken concrete, and some fifty yards from the door of the cab I discovered a weatherbeaten slab of stone—perhaps a part of the former orphanage's foundation.

Except for the scattered bits of concrete that'd been left behind in its demolition, every trace of Little Flower was gone. Having seen the site with my own two eyes, I tried to picture what the place might have looked like in its heyday. I pictured a drab, boxy building in the middle of the field, something austere. Perhaps there'd been a chapel in the back, where the Carmelites would go about their daily prayers. And maybe, beside it, there'd been a small playground where the children would frolic...

Unlike the other children at Little Flower, Fiona Weiss had reportedly never been one to play with others. Instead, she'd always gone alone to the graveyard to chatter at the stones. And so, putting myself in her shoes, I turned away from the rubble and started towards the rows of graves.

I crossed the field, approaching the iron railing. Rounding the corner and slipping in through the open gate, my forearms tingling for the warmth of the sun, I took a slow scan of the tight rows ahead of me and wondered what allure such a spot could possibly have held for a girl of eight years.

Unfastening a few buttons on my shirt and draping my blazer over my arm, I began walking down the center path. It had once been paved in smooth, flat stones. Now, the path was marked chiefly by tufts of grass punctuated with the odd rock. Though not as sorry-looking as the tiny, crumbling cemetery on Morgan Road near Joseph's place, my surroundings were certainly overgrown and uninviting. The abandoned flowers and American flags were proof enough that some still came to this remote stretch to pay their respects, but before long I suspected this collection of monuments would come to look more like the battered remnants of the orphanage than they would grave markers.

I studied a number of stones as I walked, reading the names on them under my breath. Here was Michael A. Johnstone; there, twins Brigitte and Timothy Halsted, who'd gone in infancy. Further down, I found a grave marker belonging to one Sr. Gail Zimmerman, who'd passed in 1979. Her epitaph, a verse from Matthew, was crowned by a smiling cherub statuette, whose wings framed the top of the marker.

I'd walked nearly to the iron railing that marked the far border of the cemetery when I realized my trip here had been in vain. Fiona Weiss had wandered this very spot and laid eyes on certain of these graves, it was true, but in coming here I'd discovered nothing more about the girl. There were no clues waiting to be unearthed, no aspect of the orphanage preserved enough to confer any insights. My pilgrimage was fruitless, then.

I sulked back to the cab, a hand in my pocket and my mind roiling with questions I had no hope of answering. In 1975, the adopted Fiona Weiss had moved to the house on Morgan Road—and on that move she'd allegedly brought something terrible along with her. Just what it had been I had no hope of guessing, and as I exited the graveyard I glanced between the rows, hoping that I might run into her and ask.

I'd nearly stepped through the gate when one stone, tagged with black graffiti, caught my eye. Unlike the rest, this one had a bit of space around it—was separated from the others by a few extra feet. The stone was simple, unadorned except for the illegible scrawl in black spray paint that marred its side. My eyes scanned the name on it as a matter of course and I left the graveyard, looking to the taxi I'd left idling on the shoulder.

And then I halted.

A cool breeze rushed through the field, cooling the sweat I'd built up on my trek. I shivered, turning back at once and singling out that stone.

I'd recognized the name.

At first, I couldn't be sure where I'd read it—only that I'd encountered it semi-recently. The sight of it had flagged something in my memory, and so I strode back through the gate and stood before it.

HERE LIES BRADFORD COX

1929—1958

I stared at the writing a long while, as though I'd forgotten how to read. I knew that name—Bradford—but where had I heard it?

Then I remembered. Bradford from Annapolis. I just want to talk, Sarah. Memories of the séance on Morgan Road surfaced, sent my pulse hammering. Was the Bradford on this tombstone the same that had reached out to Joseph and I during the séance? Was that even possible? I pulled out my phone and ran a search on “Bradford Cox Annapolis 1958”, and the results stunned me.

I read an article about Bradford Cox, an Annapolis native. In 1952, near the campus of St. John's College, he'd murdered a student by the name of Sarah Cantor. The killing had made the national news and earned him a life sentence.

Now, I was standing before his tombstone.

“Bradford from Annapolis. I just want to talk, Sarah.” That'd been the message, then cryptic, that one of the spirits had passed on to us through the talking board. Now, it made some sense.

Fiona Weiss, frequent visitor to this graveyard while living at Little Flower orphanage, had seemingly brought the spirit of Bradford Cox with her to the house on Morgan Road in 1975. But how? And who—or what—else had she brought with her?

That was what I'd have to find out.

I stumbled back to the cab, panting. “All right, please take me back home. 1121 Price Street.”

Twenty-Six

I stuffed some bills into the cabbie's hand—ordering him to stay in the drive—and stormed into the house, dialing Joseph. He answered on the second ring. “You were right,” I said. “The girl—Fiona—she brought spirits to that house.”

Joseph was at lunch, and paused his chewing. “How did she do it?”

“Do you remember what one of those spirits told us during the séance? He called himself Bradford from Annapolis, and mentioned a girl named Sarah. Well, I've just left an old graveyard—a graveyard situated on the same lot where Fiona's orphanage once sat. There, I discovered a headstone bearing the name Bradford Cox. He died in '58, after murdering a co-ed named Sarah here in Annapolis. I believe the spirit we spoke to in your house is his. In fact, I feel confident that Bradford Cox may be this phantom your daughter has seen around the house—the one you call the Cotton Man.”

“Uh... so, how did it get there?” he asked. “Detroit isn't exactly next-door to Annapolis...”

Pacing up the stairs, I entered the guest room and began shoving my things into my valise. “I'm still working on that part, but I have some idea. You see, there have been cases of spirits being contained in, say, heirlooms. Antiques. Certain objects that the deceased had a strong tie to in life, or which appeal to the souls of the dead for unknown reasons. I suspect that Fiona owned such an item, and that one—or many—of the spirits in your home hitched a ride in it. How many she brought with her, and why she did so, remains to be seen. I've only ever heard of one spirit taking up residence in a haunted object before, but...anything's possible.”

“So, what kind of object is it? And if that's really the case, then what do we do with it once we find it?” He paused, racking his brain. “There was nothing left in the house by the previous owner—no furniture or anything like that.”

“If I had to guess, I'd say it's hidden, or lost. Perhaps she left it somewhere in the house, or it got away from her,” I explained. “Either way, we must find it and destroy it. Or, at least, get it out of the house. Whatever the object may be, I believe that her soul is likely bound up in it as well. If we can get rid of the thing, then the spirits leashed to it will leave this world.”

“OK. Should I go and have a look?” asked Joseph. “I can head to the house and start—”

“No,” I interrupted. “Absolutely not. I'll go and look. I'm heading back as soon as I can. I'll buy a plane ticket and set off for Detroit at the first opportunity. When I arrive, I'll give you a call and we can go there together. But you are not to re-enter that house by yourself under any circumstances, is that understood?”

“All right,” he said. “I won't go in. I'll wait for you.”

“Good.” I zipped up my valise and dragged it out into the hallway. “I'll call you when I've landed.”

I hung up and immediately began looking online for plane tickets. Exhausted and tense, I found my way into Ulpio's study and dropped into his high-backed chair. While hunting for a flight to Detroit, I poured myself an extra tall scotch from the decanter he kept on a side table. A few pulls from the glass went a long way towards steadying my hand. After a brief search, I happened upon three planned flights to Detroit out of the Annapolis Metro. I bought a ticket for the 4PM and then drained my glass.

Leaning back in the chair, I placed a quick call to Ulpio, informing him that I'd be leaving immediately. “Thank you for everything,” I said, trying my best not to sound winded and nervous. “It's been a lovely stay, but I'm afraid I have to settle some matters back home. How shall I leave the keys?”

“Already?” protested Ulpio. “You've been there a single night! Was the house not to your liking?”

“It's lovely,” I told him. “Perhaps you can invite me back one of these days. Unfortunately, I've got to go. Some unforeseen family troubles with my nephew.”

“Oh, I see,” he replied, sounding contrite. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

Staring up at the ceiling, my throat still stinging for the last gulp of scotch I'd taken, I began to peer about the room. My gaze settled near the study door—specifically at the carved wood panel positioned directly above it. I'd admired that detailed, life-like carving of a raven the night before, but when I gazed upon it now, I startled and nearly dropped the phone.

The raven.

“If you're in a hurry, leave the keys inside, on the kitchen counter. I'll go ahead and call the housekeeper to collect them and lock up properly. Mara lives close-by, so it's no trouble. Just make sure to engage the lock on the front door's knob, at the very least,” said Ulpio.

I barely heard him. “Y-Yes, I'll do that,” I replied at last, my gaze still fixed to the carved raven.

“Is everything all right?” he asked. His usually jovial tone was marred with concern now.

“Thank you for everything, Ulpio.”

I cut the line.

Anna Godfrey—the only living acquaintance of Fiona Weiss I'd been able to find—had mentioned something during our conversation at the cafe which now struck me as significant. Fiona had always carried around a wooden toy in the shape of a bird—a thing which, to hear Anna tell it, had had no little significance to her.

Was it possible that this wooden toy had been used to house spirits? Had Fiona used it to transport the soul of killer Bradford Cox—among others—to her new home in Detroit? According to Anna, Fiona had spent many a late night whispering to the thing—or, possibly, to the spirits housed therein.

I recalled, too, a message that Joseph and I had received during our séance—a cryptic limerick which had touched upon this theme of ravens that now ran like a thread through my investigation. I'd thought it a bit of sinister nonsense at the time, but now I saw it for what it was: A clue.

“Deep in the marrow, a raven pleads; and in the marrow, the raven breeds.”

I'd figured it out.

The souls haunting Joseph's house had been brought in that wooden toy. Fiona's soul had probably been bound to it in death as well—but where was it? The thing had to be hidden in the house somewhere. Maybe it had fallen into some crevice, or was underneath the house. Under the floors? Behind one of the walls?

I gripped the empty glass and shot up out of my chair.

The wall.

The night before I'd kicked Joseph and his family out of their house, Megan had suffered a bizarre sleep-walking episode, and had struck repeatedly at the living room wall with a hammer. When, immediately afterward her mother had asked why she'd done it, Megan had responded, half-asleep, “I had to let the birdie out.”

The wooden bird—and the likeliest source of the haunting—was behind that wall.

I felt sure of it.

When I had packed all of my things, I dropped the keys to the house on the kitchen counter as per my host's directions and engaged the lock on the front door knob as I stepped out. Then, rushing to the idling cab, I hauled my things into the back seat.

“Where to now?” asked the driver. He'd made a good bit of money on me already and was probably wondering how much longer I'd retain his services.

“The airport. That'll be my last stop.” I drew a hundred dollar bill from my wallet and dropped it into the passenger seat. “Ignore the red lights and stop signs as often as possible and you can keep that,” I said, slumping in my seat.

The driver picked up the bill and, after holding it up to the light, curled it into his pocket. “I'll see what I can do. Buckle up.”

Twenty-Seven

The flight, though only three hours long, seemed to drag endlessly on.

My thoughts had been so wrapped up in my investigations over the past day that I hadn't put much thought into Constance's plight. Since the night of the séance, when I'd let the fountain pen get away from me, she'd been left alone in that house. I had no way of knowing how she'd fared—if she'd still be waiting for me when I got back. If she was still there, I wondered if she'd ever be able to forgive me for my carelessness in leaving her behind.

I ignored the other passengers on the crowded plane and must have seemed quite rude. There was a gentleman seated across from me, and a middle-aged woman in front, who chatted with one another and seemed intent on dragging me into their conversations about current affairs. I ignored them, too deep into my own thoughts to weigh in.

Up to this point, I felt that I'd pieced everything together quite logically.

Spirits, like my Constance, could take up residence in physical objects.

At least one spirit from far-away Annapolis had found its way into the house on Morgan Road. Fiona Weiss had brought this spirit—and possibly others—with her in 1975. The only way I knew to do such a thing would be in the haunting of a particularly dear belonging—in this case, the wooden bird toy that Anna Godfrey had mentioned. This toy had allegedly never left Fiona's side, and she'd spent long nights whispering to it—or, more likely, to the spirits she'd invited into it. The lonely girl, in need of affection and companionship, had looked for it in the souls of the dead.

Now, that toy was hidden within the house. It had ended up behind the living room wall, and the spirits Fiona had brought in it—along with her own—were still tethered to the thing. During the séance, three spirits had made contact; Bradford's, Fiona's and one other, who had refused to give a name. Judging by Constance's correspondence, as well as the commotion in the house whenever the spirits became active, I suspected there were likely more. Perhaps many more.

The spirit of killer Bradford Cox was probably the one that my great-niece Megan had seen in the night—the so-called “Cotton Man”. It occurred to me that Cox, being a convicted killer, might have been put to death. The article I'd found had mentioned a life sentence, but the possibility that he'd gone to the electric chair for his crime could not be overlooked—at least, such an execution would account in some way for the “cotton” Megan claimed to see in the phantom's mouth and ears. To my mind, the cotton may have come from the sacks worn by those executed by that method in those days. Further research into Cox's death brought me to an article that mentioned he'd died by his own hand while serving out his life sentence in '58. The method was not given, but the stringing together of bedclothes, I thought, might still account for the specter's mouthful of cotton.

Everything hinged on my finding that wooden toy.

Clear-cut and logical as it all seemed up to this point, a nagging question remained.

What if it isn't behind the wall?

And then: What if you find something else back there?

I recalled the terrible sounds I'd heard while staying in Joseph's house—the racket that had sounded like so many animals scurrying behind its walls. What if something else awaited me behind that broken drywall—something more terrible than the carved wooden bird I sought?

I reflected upon the cryptic riddle Fiona had delivered during the séance.

“Deep in the marrow, a raven pleads; and in the marrow, the raven breeds.”

What had the spirit meant by this? The more I fixated on it, the less I thought I understood.

Fiona Weiss had led, by all accounts, a difficult life. Her conception had been the result of a heinous assault by several men. Sister Ethel, her mother, had decided to maintain her vows, rather than raise the girl, and for the duration of Fiona's stay at Little Flower she was kept at arm's length. Though she knew her mother, Fiona never enjoyed that maternal closeness that all children seek—and require to some extent if they're to lead happy, well-adjusted lives.

I puzzled over the riddle in a pseudo-philosophical way, focusing on the mention of “the marrow”. Perhaps, in her way, Fiona had intended to voice both her deep-seated yearning for her mother's love, as well as the maleficence that had brought her into the world. The girl had known where she had come from—that she'd been the product of rape—and thus this line might have represented the acknowledgment of some congenital tendency towards wickedness, passed on by her mysterious father.

Evil was the reason Fiona had come into existence. She was, in that sense, a physical incarnation of the malefic. Perhaps this little rhyme was an acknowledgment of that.

Maybe, too, it was her loneliness that had seen her reach out to the dead. Without friends or parents to look to for comfort, she'd gone walking in graveyards, chatting with whatever soul might lend her an ear...

There was an announcement overhead. “And if you'll look outside, you'll see that we're entering the Motor City. Please make sure all electronic devices are off and buckle up. We'll be landing shortly. Thank you for flying for us!”

I peered out the window.

Somewhere down there was a house where the shadows grew long.

A house where the doors slammed, and where croaking whispers sometimes sounded in the dead of night.

In that house, too, there was something hidden behind one of the walls.

My wife, God willing, was there as well.

I was soon to return.

And this time, I planned to put a stop to it all.

I was going to quiet that house, empty it of souls, before the day was through.

When I was done, I'd quit this ghost-hunting business for good. I'd had more than my fill of it since first arriving in Detroit. Once Joseph and his family were freed from its clutches, I'd return to my home in Buffalo Grove, with Constance in tow, and never again investigate those bumps in the night. Till the end of my days, I'd content myself by corresponding with Constance, never concerning myself with the “how”.

Looking back on it, I'd been an arrogant ass for thinking I deserved to know the ins and outs of the supernatural world—and I'd been stupider still to think that I could ever actually understand them. Perhaps one day, when my life was spent and I could join Constance, I would understand the true nature of death. Until then, it wasn't my place to know that world. In chasing the knowledge, I'd risked everything.

I prayed that Constance would still be with me at the end of it all.

We touched down. I shouldered my messenger bag and left the plane at the first opportunity, calling Joseph at once. When I'd grabbed my heavy valise from the baggage claim, I had only to wait ten minutes outside the airport for him to arrive. He sped up the front lot in his sedan, parking alongside the curb.

“You ready?” he asked, stepping out to help me with my things.

I urged him back inside, choosing instead to heft my bags into the back seat on my own. When I was done, I dropped, sweating and fidgeting, into the passenger seat. “Hurry. We need to hurry.”

The sun was beginning to set.

Twenty-Eight

“And you think it's behind the wall?” asked Joseph, peering nervously into the rearview as we neared Morgan Road.

“I do.” I couldn't sit still as we re-entered familiar territory. I recognized a few buildings—a school, the natural grocer, a post office. Then the Mexican restaurant on the corner came into view and I knew we were close. I tapped out a nervous beat on the car floor and clutched at my seatbelt, ready to throw it off the minute the car stopped. Outside, the light was fading rapidly.

“So, we're going to get in there and tear out the wall?” he asked, sparing me a nervous smile. I'd told him about the wooden toy—about the strong possibility that the haunting in his home emanated from it, but he seemed unconvinced. “Are you sure that getting rid of it will stop it?”

“Don't put words in my mouth,” I uttered, shifting in my seat. I rolled down the window, sucked in the fresh air and let it wash over my sweat-slick face. “I don't know what'll happen, Joey. All I know is that the spirit of an Annapolis serial killer is in that house, and that the girl—Fiona—brought him there. The carved bird is the only thing I can think of—the only thing that seems to have had any personal value to her.”

“Sure, but how would that work? I know we're talking about ghosts, but... would a ghost willingly hitch a ride in a little wooden toy? And why?” he asked.

In the distance I could make out the swaying flowers of the Callery pear tree. My gut tightened. “I've known a ghost to latch onto a fountain pen,” I nearly blurted. Thinking better of it, I merely shook my head. “We'll see, Joseph. We'll see. We're going to find something in that house, though. I know it.”

We reached the driveway. The sedan bounced up onto it and Joseph threw it into park. “OK, so—”

I yanked the keys from his hands as soon as he shut off the car.

“Hey! Come on!”

Climbing out of the car, I stared up at the house a moment, its borders lent an inkiness by the fresh night, and motioned towards the door. “Come on. There's something I need to do first.”

Joseph followed closely at my heels, hands buried in his pockets. “What is it?”

The first order of business, of course, was to find my fountain pen. I'd be better able to focus on the task at hand if I knew the thing was safe and sound.

The motion-activated porch light flashed on, giving us both a jolt. I lowered my head and went to work on the lock. Throwing the door open, I proceeded to enter, and went looking immediately for the lights. From the very first we found the air hard to breathe; it was still, sour, and plagued with the perfume of spoiled food. I pushed through the foul air, batting on the dining room, living room and stairwell lights. With these on, I nearly dropped to my knees and began searching for my fountain pen, except for one distraction on the living room wall that stole my attention.

Joseph saw it an instant before I did, and gripped my shoulder. “W-What's that there? Did you write that?” he asked.

“Of course I didn't,” I replied, jerking away from him.

There was, quite literally, writing on the wall. Black, runny ink had been smeared all over the wall where Megan had left it damaged. The letters were a hasty scrawl, and ink-flecked bits of drywall littered the floor where the writing instrument—a sharp-nibbed fountain pen, I was sure—had carved in. I stepped towards the wall, scrutinizing the message left just above the small, one-inch peephole the hammer had left behind.

DON'T LOOK

DON'T LOOK

DON'T LET HER OUT

From the last of these letters, a trail of black ink ran through a deep gouge in the wall whose terminus was the peephole. I scanned the floor below this message, shoved the rug and sofa away, but saw no sign of the pen. It occurred to me that it might have fallen into that opening after the note had been written.

“Who wrote that?” asked my nephew, peering at the wall and running his finger across the letters. “Was it one of the spirits?”

I didn't reply to him because I wasn't sure myself. My first instinct was that the message had been left by Constance as a warning. There was something dangerous or frightful behind that wall that she didn't want me to find. But then, I'd raced back to Detroit to dig into that very wall in the hopes of ending this haunting for good. Was it possible that one of the other spirits in the house had left this message to throw me off—that Fiona's ghost had written this to dissuade me from finding the wooden toy she'd used in transporting souls?

There was nothing to do but break through the drywall and have a look.

“It says 'Don't let her out.' What does that mean?” asked Joseph. “When we were messing with the talking board one of the spirits told us something like that, didn't it? It said 'Don't let her leave.' Should we really poke around back there...? It seems like a warning.”

“I don't know,” I sighed, regarding the letters with a wince. “Damned if we do, damned if we don't.” Wiping the sweat from my brow, I pulled my sleeves up and approached the wall, fists balled. “How lucky do you feel, Joey? How much faith do you have in my theories?”

“Hold up,” he said, stepping between me and the wall. “We don't know what's back there. What if... what if we find something other than the toy by opening up the wall, huh? Like... What if...” he trailed off, gulping.

I knew what he was going on about and nudged him aside with a callous laugh. “What, a body? You think there's another body in this house, like what the last owner found? No, I doubt it. More likely, the things in this house are trying to throw us off of their trail. They know I've figured things out, and that I'm searching for the object that keeps them rooted to this spot. If I get rid of it, that's the end of the line for them, so they want to scare us off. Don't let them.”

With a quaking fist, I reared back and struck the wall just above the small hole. The drywall cracked and small bits struck the floor. Prying away the broken material, I prepared to deliver a second blow, but this time I hesitated. What if Constance left you this message? I thought. What if you're wrong... what if she knows something you don't?

Joseph only added to my hesitancy. “Hold on! Shouldn't we think this through?”

Since I'd last fled this house I'd had more thinking than I could handle. I'd done nothing but think about this house, about Constance, about Fiona Weiss for days. I was tired of thinking. Right or wrong, I decided, there must be action, and so I stepped back put my foot through the pre-existing hole in the wall. The drywall split, and I heard chunks of it clattering as I pulled out my shoe and went at it again. When the hole was large enough, I thrust my hands into it and began to tear it away like an animal. Grunting and straining, I went at it for several minutes. Joseph, having no choice, stepped in and helped me.

Eventually, we'd ripped away a section of drywall from roughly eye level to the floor, and a few feet across, revealing the studs behind. By the looks of it, one of the studs had been cut away previously—making this a non-load-bearing wall.

We found it leaning against one of those studs in a mess of off-white cotton. Joseph and I stood stock still, staring at it a long while, until finally I found the courage to reach out.

A toy bird carved out of wood, some four or five inches across and sanded very smooth, sat in the fluff. Beside it, the gold trim marred in splotches of spilled ink, was my fountain pen. I grabbed up both items, studying them with closeness. Picking away the whitish fluff that clung to the toy, I examined its exterior and found it to be a well-carved thing in the general shape of a raven. It had a long beak, and its wings had been detailed in such a way as to give them a feathery tactile feel.

“So, this is it, huh?” asked Joseph. I handed him the bird and he toyed with it in his hand. “This is where the spirits are?”

I nodded. “I believe so.” I wiped the excess ink from the exterior of my pen and, giving it a thankful squeeze, slipped it into my breast pocket. Then, looking upward, I called out. “Fiona Weiss, I know you're listening,” I said. “I've been back to your home in Annapolis. I know all about you—all about the life you led. And I want to say that I'm sorry. Sorry that you never knew love—that your mother was never close to you. I know, too, about the friends you made.” I took the wooden bird in hand again and gave it a little shake. “You brought them here in this, didn't you?

“Was it because you didn't want to be lonely anymore? Is that why you surrounded yourself with these spirits?” I sighed. “I'm sorry for everything that happened to you in life, Fiona. I pray that you'll be able to find rest now that I've learned about your past. I don't know how you died, or why Kevin Taylor found your body in this house ten years ago. Let go of those bad feelings and move on from this house. And just in case you can't, I'm going to get rid of this thing, hopefully releasing you and everyone you brought here.” I held up the toy raven as if to show it to a crowd. “Be free, Fiona.”

I led Joseph out of the living room and instructed him to fire up the small charcoal grill he kept in the backyard. When he'd filled it with briquettes doused in lighter fluid, I lit it with a match and dropped the wooden raven into the blaze. The fire ate the old wood eagerly, blackening it. I prodded it with a stick and watched as it crumbled into ash, releasing a particularly foul-smelling smoke.

We watched the smoke drift up into the sky and stood, sweating, beside the fire until it was reduced to embers. Giving the white coals a stir and finding no trace of the wooden bird, Joseph looked up at me, and then to the house. “So, is that it? Is it over?”

I joined him in looking up at the house. Rounding the corner and slipping into the front yard, I gazed into the upper story windows in search of any ominous figures. “I guess there's only one way to find out,” I said. “Let's go.”

The two of us returned inside, and I headed immediately for the kitchen. Turning on all of the lights, I stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and sought out my shadow.

To our surprise and delight, it was a normal length and behaved exactly as expected.

“How about that...” muttered Joseph, testing his own. “It's really gone, isn't it?”

I nodded. “It would seem that way.”

We spent the next two hours cleaning the house with some thoroughness, constantly looking over our shoulders and listening for strange voices. When we'd cleared out all of the spoiled food and gotten rid of the broken drywall without incident, we grew in boldness and even began to feel comfortable in the house. There were no footsteps, no disembodied conversations and no distorted shadows any longer.

It was, perhaps for the first time since its construction, a perfectly ordinary house.

Finished with our cleanup, we locked the door and returned to the car. It was late now, but the thrill of the evening had us both in good humor. We started back to the resort in Auburn Hills, planning to stop by a nearby bar before turning in for the night. Melissa and Megan would be free to return the next day, and the family of three would be able to resume a normal life once more.

Joseph was overjoyed. Shortly before we arrived at the bar, he chuckled and looked to me. “Megan was trying to bust a hole in that wall the other night. Maybe we should have let her. She knew what she was doing!”

“A child's intuition is really something,” I laughed, looking out into the moonlit streets.

My laughter felt a little hollow, though, when I thought back to Megan's assault on the wall. In her fugue state she'd made mention of the bird, almost as if she'd known it was there all along. Or like someone had told her—like someone had asked her to break open the wall and find it. But who? Had it been that phantom, the Cotton Man, or else some other spirit in the house? I meditated, too, upon the message we'd found scrawled on the wall and I felt my smile fading further. Don't let her out. I wondered, not for the last time, if we'd done the right thing.

“You coming, uncle?” asked Joseph as he parked the car and stepped out.

I nodded.

It was too late now for second thoughts. I'd gone and made a cut in the heat of the moment; time would tell how well it measured.

Twenty-Nine

Three days. It was decided that I would stay with them another three days. If, in that time, nothing supernatural reared its head, I'd return home to Buffalo Grove and declare the case closed.

They proved to be the longest seventy-two hours in memory for their pleasant monotony.

We returned to the house the morning after Joseph and I had gone digging around in the wall for the carved raven. It was a fair day, the sunniest in recent memory, and the family was raring to return to a normal life after their exile to the resort. We dragged our bags in, unloading the sedan in several trips, and I brought my things back up into the guest room where I'd stayed days prior. The mood of the room had completely changed; perhaps it was simply my imagination, but the space seemed calmer, less threatening.

Melissa found a rude shock in the gaping hole her husband and I had left in the living room wall. “What the hell is this? Did you two set off a bomb in here?” she'd asked upon first setting eyes on it. “This is a mess!”

Her ire waned when I subsequently offered to pay for the repairs. “It's regrettable, but the object at the root of this haunting had been stashed behind that wall. In order to get to it, we had to do a bit of demolition work. Don't worry, I'm sure we can find a local contractor who can get it patched quickly.”

The family reestablished their daily routine and I stood by as an observer, seeking to distinguish any lingering supernatural phenomena. We unpacked and spent the first day in the yard, cutting the grass and dining at the Mexican restaurant around the corner. Settling into bed around ten, we were in for quite a shock in the morning.

A shock, because for the first time in ages we'd all managed to sleep straight through the night without interruption.

Megan didn't wake screaming, didn't sleepwalk her way downstairs with a hammer. Nothing strange drew me out of bed, and our shadows appeared quite ordinary even after sunset. By all appearances, the house was cured.

That isn't to say that all was well, however.

On that first night back at the house, I spent some time sitting at the folding table in the guest room, cleaning up my fountain pen and replacing its empty cartridge. Pulling out the leather journal, I penned a note to Constance and prayed for a reply by morning.

My dearest Constance—It has been days since our last exchange. I believe that the haunting in this house has effectively been solved, and that the spirits that once dwelt here have left this world. The shadows are no longer distorted, the house is no longer filled with such strange noises as once and all seems calm. I will remain here with Joseph and his family for these three nights and then return home, provided nothing paranormal takes place.

I pray you'll forgive me, Constance, for my error. I left the pen in this house during my trip to Annapolis, and I can scarcely guess at the horrors you were subjected to as a result. If you're giving me the silent treatment out of anger, I can't say that I blame you. All the same, I wish you'd give me some sign of your presence here. It occurs to me—with no little fright—that I may be writing this note to myself.

Are you still here? I suppose that if I do not receive a reply I will have my answer.

I awoke that morning and rushed out of bed to find the notebook empty, the pen sitting precisely where I'd left it.

I wrote my wife again the next night, and the next. Those notes, too, yielded no reply.

So it was that I came to terms with Constance's passing a second time. Her presence in the fountain pen had always been a mysterious thing—a thing which might end at any moment, and for no clear reason. I could only guess that the stress of dealing with the other spirits in the house had exhausted her to the point of crossing over.

Each morning at breakfast, Megan would look up at me from her cereal, asking, “What's the matter? You look sad.”

Each time, I would smile for her sake and reply with, “It's nothing much, my dear. Your old uncle just gets wrapped up thinking about the past sometimes.”

By that third night, I found my sleep interrupted not by hideous, croaking voices or slithering phantoms, but by heartache. Sitting awake in bed, I stared into the darkness and wondered whether I'd ever speak to her again. Maybe in the next life, I thought wistfully.

* * *

“Are you sure there's nothing we can do for you before you go, uncle?” asked Joseph as I finished breakfast on that final morning. “Would you like to stay longer?”

“No, that's all right. I've stayed long enough, I think—overstayed my welcome. It's just about time I head back home,” I replied. “But thank you. I appreciate your hospitality.” I'd purchased an Amtrak ticket the day before, and my one-way train to Buffalo Grove was set to leave at half-past noon. “If you can just drop me off at the station, that'd be swell.”

I'd showered that morning upon waking and had only to gather my bags now. Joseph and Melissa both offered to help me with them, but I waved them away. “Don't trouble yourselves. I've got some muscle in me yet!” When the meal was done, I took my leave and returned upstairs to grab them.

As I neared the guestroom—prepared to enter—I heard a noise that seemed to issue from within. Pausing, I listened hard and tried to figure out what it was.

It was a dull scraping—very slow, somewhat clumsy. For close to a minute, I remained outside the room, my hand resting on the door, until finally it ceased.

Could it be Constance writing me a note? Eager to find out, I burst into the room and looked immediately to the pen and notebook I'd left sitting on the table.

There was nothing, however, and the scraping noise did not make a reprise—if in fact it had come from this room at all. I paced around a moment, putting on my blazer and pocketing the fountain pen. I returned the leather journal to my messenger bag and zipped my valise. Before returning downstairs, I paused at the window and took one last look at the Callery pear tree outside. Its flowers were glowing in the morning sun, and I was only a moment in staring at them before my eyes began to water.

Turning from the window, I dragged my things clumsily downstairs and joined the assembled family in the living room. “Well,” I said, putting on a smile, “I guess this is it. Goodbye, all. It's been a pleasure.”

Melissa wrapped me in a warm embrace. “Thank you for everything,” she said. “Please get home safe, and if you need anything, don't hesitate to call us.”

To my delight, Megan followed suit and clutched one of my legs in a hug.

Joseph, keys in hand, motioned to the car and took my valise. Struggling, he dragged it out front and placed it in the trunk of his sedan while I finished saying my goodbyes. “I'll let you know when I've made it home,” I promised them as I stepped through the door. “You be sure to enjoy your house now, you hear? Everything is fine, but on the off-chance that...”

Melissa combed a hand through her dark hair, nodding. “If we notice anything strange, you'll be the first person we call.”

The two of them waved from the porch as I joined Joseph. I dropped into the passenger seat and he pulled out of the drive. In the next moment, the house on Morgan Road was gone—a speck in the rearview.

We made it to the station in good time, and I idled in the car awhile. “Do you need anything before I leave you, Joey?” I asked.

“Oh, no, you've done enough already,” he laughed. “Thank you, Uncle Marcel. For everything. If not for you, I don't know what we'd have done. You gave us our house back.”

I nodded, lips pursed. “You know,” I said a short while later, “I'm not sure I've ever told you this before. You asked me once why I had such an interest in the supernatural. I think I have your Aunt Constance to thank for this hobby of mine. You know, after she died, she reached out to me.”

“Oh?” asked Joseph, sitting upright.

“It's true. One night, she left me a note.” I pulled the fountain pen from my breast pocket and gave it a twirl between my fingers. “She used this pen of mine, wrote me a little something to let me know that she was still out there. Your aunt's death was unexpected; she died before her time, and without being able to say goodbye. I think that's why she stuck around in this pen of mine. Since her death, she's written me often, and her messages have brought me a lot of comfort. It was my interest in this phenomenon that really got me studying the paranormal. Though, in retrospect, I wish I hadn't been so obsessed with the mechanics behind it all. It doesn't really matter, in the end, how she was reaching out to me. Only that she was. The only thing that mattered was our bond.”

Jospeh stared at the pen a long while. “So,” he eventually continued, “is that like the wooden bird?”

“I think so,” was my reply. “At least, it was. She hasn't written me in days, and I'm afraid that her spirit might be gone from the thing. I left it behind while I went to Annapolis, you see, and the specters in that house had it in for her. I'm afraid that they may have upset the delicate balance we had—that her soul has finally crossed over. I suppose it's not a bad thing; I just hope she's at rest.”

Joseph sat in thoughtful silence, staring out the windshield.

“I'm going to go now,” I said, wiping discretely at my moist eyes. “Do me one favor, lad. Take care of your family. Look after them, cherish every moment with them. Life can be cruel. You're very fortunate to have a family that loves you. Some people—like Fiona Weiss—never know that love, and that's where real monsters come from.”

“Will do. Thanks again, Uncle Marcel.” He reached over and shook my hand. “Travel safe, and let us know when you get back.”

“I will.” I stepped out of the car and headed into the station.

An hour and two cups of Starbucks' coffee later, I was on the train, bound for Buffalo Grove.

Thirty

It was getting dark by the time I returned home.

It'd been a warm day in Buffalo Grove—muggy—but some coolness had stolen into the air now and heaps of grey clouds were rolling in from the west. Before long it would be pouring. The grass had exploded in length since my departure, and would need trimmed soon. I glanced to the garden as I approached, keys in hand, and found that the roses there had really begun to bloom in my absence.

A lazy bumblebee darted away as I approached the rose bush and plucked a blossom for myself. They'd been put there by Constance six years ago, shortly before her death, and every spring I labored in my clumsy way to keep the perennials going. She'd be happy to know that her roses were still thriving, six years on.

And I'd have liked to tell her about it.

I stepped inside, head low, and was faced with near-perfect silence. The chittering of songbirds in the trees surrounding the property was muffled as I slammed the door shut and tossed my blazer onto an empty kitchen chair. Hauling my valise down the hall and into my bedroom, I abandoned it near the bed. My messenger bag was tossed into the chair next to the closet, along with my shoes.

Made it back. That was the brief text message I sent Joseph before rolling up my sleeves and hunting around the kitchen for a glass. Carrying it with me to the living room, I glanced at the record on the turntable. Astrud Gilberto was still where I'd left her the night before my trip to Detroit. Starting it up, I lowered the needle and listened to the opening to “Aruanda” while plucking my decanter of scotch from the corner table.

I plopped down into my easy chair, feet propped on the ottoman, and filled my glass to the brim. There was a light tapping against the living room window as the rain got started, and as I sat there, in the same spot, listening to the same song, drinking the same scotch, I realized that I'd picked up right where I'd left off.

Except that now, I was alone.

I inspected my fountain pen with a shaky hand, then set it on the side table beside me. I peered at it in my periphery, daring it to write a message, but it only sat there. So, I thought, she's really gone, then.

I dug out the wrinkled photo of Constance I kept always in my wallet and studied it like it was the first time. Her golden hair, her sharp green eyes, her smile—this was the only way I'd be able to interact with her from now on. In memory.

Quickly tiring of the music, I shut off the turntable and immediately stood before one of the bookshelves lining the room. I returned to my seat with a lapful of old journals and a second helping of whiskey. Opening the first in the stack, I began to read. From between the pages slipped some pressed rose petals; remnants of seasons passed.

Marcel—How is the garden? Are the roses still in bloom? I hope that they're still growing nicely. I only worry because I know how you are with plants. Do you remember that orchid I brought to your office, years ago—the one in the vase with directions printed on a label? I'll never forget dropping off your lunch at the hospital and seeing the thing on the windowsill. You let it become a withered husk! The directions were printed on the side of the thing! I do hope you're taking more care with my flowers than you did with that poor orchid, mister! Forever yours, Constance.

I'd written her back, Indeed they are growing! I'll have you know I'm quite the horticulturist these days. Look here! I'd placed the rose petals in the notebook for proof.

Some pages ahead, I found another note of hers: You asked me in a previous note what it's like here, where I am. I wish I could tell you, but it's not an easy thing to describe. Suppose that you were standing in a vast, dark room. You can feel other people standing around you, but you can't see them. At least, not at first. But now and then, there are flashes, like lightning, and the whole room is lit up for a blinding instant. Sometimes they talk—most of them, though, are caught up with things that happened in life. They mumble about death, or utter seeming nonsense. I tell you, I haven't had a gratifying conversation with anyone I've met here. I'm thankful that we can share this bond, this correspondence. Without you, my love, I don't know what I'd do...

Another: Marcel, I'll continue writing you as long as I can. It's true that my ability to do so may be cut short at any time, but isn't that what lends life its beauty—the impermanence of it all? Don't distress over it, dear. Let's enjoy it however long it lasts. Even if I can no longer reach you, someday you'll join me on the other side and we'll be together again.

I went to turn the page, a tear rolling down my cheek, but a sudden buzzing of the phone on the side table kept me from it. Wiping at my eyes, I traded my glass for the phone, and found a reply from Joseph waiting for me. Glad to hear it! We all miss you already. One other thing—you forgot some of your books here, in the guest room. They were stacked under the cot. You want me to box them up and ship them to you? Let me know!

I reread the message, but was still left confused. Which books could I have left behind there—and under the cot, of all places? I was quite certain I had all of my books and other belongings with me—the valise had certainly been heavy enough on my return journey to convince me so. I rose from the easy chair, a bit unsteady for the drink, and paced down the hall towards my bedroom, intending to check my bag.

I reached into the room for the light switch.

My fingers stiffened and I froze before I even reached it.

From somewhere in the darkened bedroom there came a loud, unmistakable croak.

The thunder cracked, made the house shake from roof to floor. With it came lightning; a singularly bright jolt that tore open the sky. Through that burst of light I'd only glimpsed the inside of the room for a moment.

But that'd been enough.

Something was emerging from my valise. The lid of the thing flopped to one side as a figure began to slither from within it. I heard the thump of bone as it met the floor, and then an energetic scraping as it got to moving. The smell of decay filled my nostrils and drew up the booze from the well of my stomach.

Unable to breathe, I stood in the doorway, knowing that it could see me in the darkness. A gaze so sharp it may as well have been broken glass cut into me from the shadows. Numbly, I bumped the light switch with my hand more than I flipped it, and my bedroom was suddenly illuminated.

Laying prone on the floor was a withered human corpse. Its limbs were broken at the joints and bent at wrong angles. It was draped in a filthy, worm-eaten garb, and bits of drywall clung to its thinning mop of half-grey hair. Without warning, the cadaver began to spasm, and in doing so raised its head.

The eyes had long decomposed, leaving deep, cobweb-choked sockets. Even so, the brittle hollows seemed to stare with intensity. A mask of leather-like flesh clung to the thing, peeling from the skull at its foundation like bad papier-mâché. It possessed a large and contracting mouth that had been stopped up by a bolus of white fluff, cotton. Slowly, the cadaver retched and a torrent of the white fibers began to spill from its depths. Free of its gag, the thing looked up at me, let its mouth drop open, and revealed a dark void from whence there stared unnumbered human eyes. They were arranged against and atop one another—growing from the papery leather substrate of the mouth and throat like pores filled to bursting with pus.

There were sounds to my back—a clatter in the kitchen as my cabinets were slammed. The faucets in the nearby bathroom could be heard to come on at full blast, and voices drifted in from all around me. The air was pregnant with movement; drafts were kicked up where previously there'd been none, and I felt foreign bodies brushing past me.

“Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.”

“Can you hear me, Paula? This is your Edward—Edward Franklin Ames.”

“It's me, sweetheart. Bradford from Annapolis. I just want to talk, Sarah.”

“Hey, VideoTube! This is FlipperKevin, your favorite fixer-upper.”

Falling to the floor, I stared at the corpse as it lurched away. Dragging itself like an insect that'd been stepped on, but not quite dispatched, it scraped its way under the bed. As it did so, I got one look of its shriveled face from the side. Worn and decomposed though it was, it seemed familiar to me—and one of the voices I'd just heard in the hall told me why.

“Hey, VideoTube! This is FlipperKevin, your favorite fixer-upper.”

The corpse bore a striking resemblance to Kevin Taylor.

My chest seized and I lost consciousness before I could decide what that meant.

Thirty-One

The house was dark when I opened my eyes. The dull thud of my pulse told me I was still alive, but for a moment there I hadn't been sure. Maybe, I thought, I'd passed on—entered that “waiting room” between worlds where Constance was.

A crack of thunder told me the score, though, and I soon remembered how I'd gotten to the floor in the first place.

The corpse.

Jumping to my feet, I barreled out of the room. Bursting into the hallway, the living room, I searched for lamps and light switches, but found none in my blind scrabbling. Instead, I only managed to injure myself, earning bruises on my legs and head as I bumped into things. Even as I made a fool of myself in the dark house, the place did not feel empty to me. When I paused, head spinning, to gain my bearings, I felt the presence of other bodies squeezing in from all around me. The feeling came and went, but at times I thought myself standing at the center of a massive crowd I couldn't see.

I found my way to the side table beside my easy chair, and from its drawer I drew up my lighter. Flipping it on and holding it out in front of me like a torch, I saw that I was alone in the living room, even if I didn't feel like it. I glanced at my Seiko, trying to figure out how long I'd been out. The face of it had been cracked, though, and the hands weren't moving.

Woozy, I eased myself into the chair, lighter still burning in my grip, and took a deep breath. On the table to my right, reflecting the glow of the lighter, was my fountain pen. The cap was off, and I noticed that a mess of ink had gushed from the thing, all across the tabletop. I peered at the mess, pawing at my forehead, but soon noticed that it wasn't a mere spill.

Someone had written on the table with the pen.

My heart soared before I could make out the messy, splattered text. “Constance, have you written me?” I gasped, leaning over the table.

SHE'S WITH US NOW, read the message.

In a rage, I swiped at the ink, smearing it over the arm of my chair. “Damn you! What have you done to her? I tried to help you, Fiona! Why have you come here?”

There was a croaking laugh from the direction of the kitchen, but no other reply.

Somehow, that thing—that animate corpse that looked like Kevin Taylor—had gotten into my valise. Thinking back upon my last days at 889 Morgan Road, to our excavation in the living room wall, I realized what I'd done.

Constance had warned me not to open the wall, not to “let her out”. But I'd done it anyway, searching for that wooden bird I thought to contain souls.

The bird had not been used by Fiona Weiss in transporting spirits, however. It'd been a mere trinket, a decoy.

The souls had been stored in a human body.

There were too many blank spots in the house's history to be sure of much, but recalling the way that the corpse had opened its mouth to stare at me with that endless succession of eyes told me I was on the right track. Fiona had brought ghosts with her from Annapolis—not in a wooden toy, but within her own body.

Somehow, Fiona's body, still teeming with foreign souls, had been found in the house by its next owner, Kevin Taylor. I'd wondered what'd happened to the young man who'd purchased the house before my nephew ten years ago—but I didn't wonder anymore.

After finding the body of Fiona Weiss, he'd come to house those souls. They'd infested his body, turned him into something truly monstrous. Somehow, his body had been hidden within that house—I'd heard his movements numerous times behind the walls and written them off as the clamoring of vermin. When the wall had been opened however, the spirit-infected cadaver had been allowed to exit.

And that morning before I'd left Joseph's, it had entered my valise.

I grabbed my phone, staining the screen with ink, and stood. I stumbled into the kitchen by the lighter's faint glow and went looking for my keys. I had to get out while I still could—before the thing chose me as its newest vessel. Extending this haunting, gathering more souls, was likely its aim, and I could not give it what it wanted. Perhaps I'd burn down the house to put an end to it, or consult true experts in the field for a solution, but that was all to be dealt with later.

My immediate course of action was clear as could be.

I had to go.

I burned my hand as I shoved the lighter into my pocket. Scrambling for the front door, I gave the knob a yank and began to exit.

I'd been one foot out the door when I heard something—a voice—calling out to me from the direction of my bedroom. I stopped to listen, the rain pelting me as I stood in the entryway.

“Marcel, don't leave me with them. Please, come back. Let's talk, my love.”

I held my breath, sure that I must be hallucinating.

I hadn't heard that voice in six years.

It came again, drifting through the air like the smell of the storm. “Please, dear. Come here. I've missed you so. Won't you sit with me and talk awhile? I've so much to tell you. Listen to me, Marcel!”

I was so drawn by the voice—the dulcet voice of my dead wife—that I neglected to close the front door. Rain dripped into the kitchen as I wandered trance-like into the unlit living room. I felt my way to the hall, into my bedroom.

“Constance?” I asked, half-choked. “Is it... is it really you?”

A flash of lighting lit up the room. I saw the bed, the open valise, the trail of fluff and debris the corpse had left behind as it had fled beneath the bed.

“Down here,” she said, giggling. “Come down here.”

The voice was coming from under the bed.

My hesitance was sapped at the sound of her voice, and so I knelt, leaning till I was level to the floor. “Yes, my love? You... you're really here?”

“I am,” was her breathy reply. “I've missed you so, Marcel. Let's talk, shall we? There's so much to discuss...”

* * *

And we talked.

Oh, did we talk.

My days were filled with reminisce, with the sweet music of her voice, and I wanted for nothing. Meals became infrequent, drinks and cigars unheard of. How many days I spent in the bedroom, speaking to the one beneath the bed, I can't say.

At night, when I slept, she'd speak to me. Sometimes, she'd sing. Other voices would interrupt our dialogues from time to time, but I listened to them patiently, waiting for Constance to start talking again. How many voices—how many souls—were contained in Kevin Taylor's body! There must have been dozens. These, Constance confided, had been gathered from many sites, many sources, in the pursuit of creating something wonderful.

During one conversation, she asked me if I'd be willing to help her with something—if she could make a test of my devotion. Of course, I agreed. I'd do anything for her, and anything to ensure that our bond was never again interrupted. She assured me that I was doing precisely what she wished; that I was listening to her, and to the others within the vessel.

One day, when the rain had stopped and the sun was out in full-force, I understood.

I had been eating and drinking little, and had not so much as left the house in a week's time. My body reminded me of this in the aches and pains that sprang up everywhere; in the sudden whitening of my hair. Fearful that I might have pushed my old body too far, I drew upon my medical knowledge and did a brief assessment. Taking my old stethoscope from its case, I sat in my easy chair and tried listening to my heart.

I set the thing against my bare chest and listened. A quiet lub-dub lub-dub could be heard. I then shifted the instrument so that I could listen to my lungs, but instead heard something else.

Another heartbeat—this one distinct from the first.

Baffled, I shifted the stethoscope once more, this time to a lower spot.

There, too, the beating of another heart.

All told, I heard dozens of them. Mixed in with my gut sounds were the beatings of still more.

I rose, sure that I must be losing my mind. Journeying to the bathroom, I filled a glass with water and attempted to drink. I got only a few sips in before I began to cough, dropping the glass and nearly collapsing in a sputtering heap. Something had pushed the water back—had protested in my throat. Possessed by a horrible itchiness near my soft palate, I stood before the vanity mirror and opened my mouth to have a look.

Sprouting from those moist tissues, I found a sharp, green eye staring back at me.

My breath hitched in terror. But then, gradually, I drew in a glad breath.

I knew that eye. It was the very same I'd admired all those years in my favorite photograph of Constance. I stroked at my throat, swallowing carefully.

She was inside me.

I was the vessel now.

A smile spread across my lips. “I'll never lose you again, my love.”

Thank you for reading!

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About the Author

Once upon a time, a young Ambrose Ibsen discovered a collection of ghost stories on his father's bookshelf. He was never the same again.

Apart from horror fiction, he enjoys good coffee, brewed strong.

https://ambroseibsen.com/

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