The Haunting of Rachel Harroway: Book 0 Read online

  They stepped outside, greeted by the crisp fall air. Through the trees, the view of the surrounding mountains caused Brett to pause. He turned to Mrs. Swinley. “Do you mind if my wife and I discuss something?”

  The elderly woman rubbed her cold, veiny hands together and stepped out of earshot.

  Brett led Rachel down the elbow of the porch. He put his hands on the wooden railing and stared at the winding road vanishing into the woods. “I don’t know, Rach. It’s needs work.”

  “You’re right,” Rachel admitted. She’d seen the parts of the walls that needed to be spackled, and the way the shower spits out water in a few quick bursts before heating up and steadying out. “But we always discussed building a house together. It’s not the same, but it could be good practice.”

  Brett rested his bottom against the railing, crossing his arms. “I love area. The trees, the birds, the mountains. It’s flawless in that regard. My only concern is that we’ll get it, and something will go wrong and we’ll be stuck out on the mountain top in a big broken house.”

  “Something will break,” Rachel said, taking Brett by surprise. “But that’s life. I mean how long have we been searching? Two years?”

  “Four,” Brett sighed.

  Rachel pressed up against him, locked her fingers behind his neck. Brett looked down at through his rectangular glasses and smiled with uncertainty. Rachel pecked him on the lips. “Maybe it’s time to commit.”

  “Sorry to interrupt.” Mrs. Swinley appeared below the railing behind them. She held her hand over her cell phone. “I’ve received a call from another buyer. He’s placed a bid on the house. Would you like to counter offer?”

  Rachel and Brett traded looks.

  A month later, two moving trucks arrived.

  With the help of dolly carts and rental movers, Rachel and Brett funneled all the objects of their lives into the Hadley House. Dressed in old stained shorts and wrinkled shirts, they killed hours by painting over smudges on the interior walls without compromising the historic significance of the building. They kept the old furniture they liked, like the grandfather clock and wardrobe, and shunned the rest in the basement. Outside, they pulled weeds and mowed the yard, even taking time to try the old tire swing in the backyard. It was injury waiting to happen, but Rachel couldn’t stop laughing. During the evenings, they would discover game trials to secret rock ledges that were perfect for stargazing.

  They mopped and waxed the hardwood floor till it shined. They hung pictures on the walls. Some of Rachel, Brett and various family members. Other framed photos came from Brett’s National Geographic shoots and favorites collection. Rachel added a few pieces of her own disturbing artwork. She set up her sketch pad easel and bench in the living room accompanied by stands for her collection of numbered pencils. Brett put his laptop on the nearby dining table, making it his impromptu office.

  On the third night, when the boxes were piled high in the living room, Liam Harroway, Rachel’s father visited, holding three stuffed bags of Chinese food. Just like in his pastoral days, he wore black slacks with a tucked in white button up that muffin out at the bottom. The three of them sat around the dining room table. Brett’s laptop and camera bags set to the side.

  “This is just fantastic,” Liam said just like how he said it over the phone. “I can’t tell you how much having you two within driving distance means to me. There’s just so much I look forward to showing you.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Rachel scooped rice onto her plate and the container of beef and broccoli.

  Liam chewed on a dumpling. “With a house this size, when do you plan on having kids?”

  Brett concentrated on diving out the food containers. Rachel shifted in her seat. It going to be another one of those nights. “Brett and I were actually going to use the extra rooms for our personal galleries.”

  “Ah,” replied Liam, doing a horrible job to hide his disappointment. “...Good.”

  “Work is starting to pick up,” Rachel changed the topic. “Even more for Brett. His readers are loving his new material.”

  Liam nodded. His eyes, pools of blue, looked at his plate. “Your mother and I always wanted kids and tried for many years before having you. It was the biggest blessing. I know moving into a new house is scary enough, but young one can really help settle you into the place.”

  “It’s not on the agenda at the moment,” Brett said bluntly.

  Liam pursed his lips. He didn’t broach the topic again. After getting a brief tour of the house and yard, Liam said his goodbye. Rachel and Brett locked the door and headed upstairs to get ready for the evening. Brett sat at the corner of the bed and pulled off his shoe. “Your father doesn’t like me very much.”

  “That’s not true,” Rachel replied, taking off her shirt. “He’s just a little traditional.”

  Brett removed his other shoe. “He hasn’t liked me since we moved in together. It’s like nothing I do makes the guy happy.”

  Rachel shimmered out of her jeans. “You two just haven’t got a chance to know each other. Besides, he’s still coping with my mother, the loss of the church, and his sobriety.”

  Brett grunted. “I know that. It’s just… the standards he sets, I guess. It’s only been a couple of years since my career took off. What am I supposed to do? Put that aside everything for a child that either us don’t really want.”

  Seeing his discontentment, Rachel kissed him on the forehead. “You’re thirty-two years old. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  Rachel climbed into the shower. A few bursts of cold water shot from the showerhead before the steady stream of hot water filled the bathroom with steam. Dressing in their night clothes, they turned in for the evening. They curled against one another, cooed to sleep by the gentle creaking of house battling the autumn wind.

  Rachel jolted up out of bed, drenched in cold sweat and hugging herself. She looked around the darkroom, teeth chattering with no recollection of her dream. On the night stand, 3:00 am glowed green on the digital clock. She mumbled a curse, letting her eyes adjusted. Brett snored lightly beside her. He had the cover pulled tightly to his neck and shivered lightly.

  Careful not wake her husband, Rachel shimmied out of the covers. The soles of her feet touch the ice-cold floor. She curled her toes and walked to the dresser. The wood grinded as she slid out the draw. She turned back. Brett mumbled a sleepy nothing and rolled on to his belly. Dressing in lazy sweatpants, sweater and thick socks, Rachel tiptoed into the hallway. She squinted at the old analogue thermostat. The set temperature read seventy-three. The dial mark actually landed on fifty-one.

  “Are you kidding me?” Rachel complained to herself. She really didn’t want to wake Brett, especially after how long it took him to go to bed, but how was she going to fix the thermostat? He probably won’t know either but two minds are better once.

  The wind whistled and a soft scratching could be heard downstairs. Rachel brushed her fingers across the wall, allowing the hallway to guild her to the loft balcony. Arms crossed over her chest, she peered over the railing with glossy eyes. A tide of dry brown and orange leaves brushed through the open front door and tumbled across the hardwood floor.

  Rachel trained her eye on the blackness beyond.

  “Brett,” She called out, a little louder than a whisper. No reply from the living room. Her heart pumped. Cold air seeped through the threshold. Rachel jogged back to bedroom. Is someone in our house? She stood outside bedroom, keeping one eye to the stairs. “Brett.”

  “Huh?” She heard from the bedroom. Eyes barely open, her husband shambled out with only his boxers and the black hair on his chest to keep him warm.

  “Why’s it so cold?” He squinted at the thermostat. “What’s wrong with this?”

  “Nothing,” Rachel whispered. “The front door. It’s open.”

  Brett crinkled his brow.

  He walked passed Rachel and looked over the balcony. He cursed under his breath and hiked down the stairs. R
achel felt a twisting in her gut. She jogged to lessen distance between her husband and herself. She stayed a few steps behind him. Brett crushed a leaf beneath his foot. “Son of a…” He shivered at the wailing gales blasting through the front door, violating the house with more leaves and twigs. He flipped on the porch light and walked outside. Rachel leaned over his shoulder. Eddies of wind brushed felled leaves against their feet. Trees swayed. There was only the Escalade and the inky blackness of night.

  Brett twisted around almost bumping into Rachel. His expression was hard. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not going to let you go out here alone,” Rachel said defiantly.

  “You’ll catch a cold. Come on.” They returned inside and shut the door. “Did you lock it last night?”

  Rachel thought for a moment. All that stuff with her father left her scattered brain. “I thought you did.”

  Brett warmed his hands under his armpits. “I don’t remember.”

  The furnace raddled on in the basement. Warm air blasted from the brick sized ventilation grates on the floor and walls.

  “Furnace works. That’s a relief,” Rachel replied.

  Brett flipped on the living room light switch. Dead leaves flooded from the front door to the kitchen, taking up a third of living room. Brett grunted at the sight.

  “I’ll get the broom,” Rachel said.

  “You get some sleep.” Brett used the side of his foot to brush the leaves into a pile. “I’ll handle it.”

  “Sure?”

  Brett didn’t reply. He scooted leaves. Rachel got a broom and trash bag from the kitchen. Together, they cleaned up the mess, tied off the bag and tossed it in the front porch. They double checked the lock and headed to bed. Rachel felt that sickening feeling in her gut until she fell asleep that morning.

  After her morning shower, Rachel made hot tea and eggs. She found a few more leaves missed the night before and tossed them out the backdoor. Tired, Brett talked to a few clients over the phone while Rachel sorted through her boxes on the living room floor. She found a file box in the brink of collapse. It’s weight was disproportionate on one side and some of the cardboard seemed to rotting away. Stringy and aged duct tape wrapped a band around the top and bottom. Rachel twisted back to ask Brett if he knew what it was, but he’d left the room, talking over the phone about photo sales and publishing rights.

  Rachel severed the tape with a X-ACTO knife and set the lid to the side. Rachel pulled out a small stack of pictures. They were old black and white photos of a little girl and two adults that Rachel assumed were the child’s grandparents. They were farmer folk with stern faces. There was something was familiar about this girl. Rachel flipped through more family photos. One had a note on the back of it. “Sarah Sanders, 7 years old, mom-mom’s ranch.”

  Rachel’s eyes went wide. Suddenly, the box made sense. Her father gave Rachel her mother’s things when she moved out of the house in her twenties. Brett must’ve unpacked them from the moving truck. Rachel renived some dusty old poems and a King James bible. Inside the front flap, a penned passage read, “To my love. My life. From yours truly, Liam.”

  A small smile creeped up Rachel’s face. She set the book aside. Beneath the books, a cardboard flap had been cut the box’s size, dividing it’s contents into two sections. Rachel used her fingers to pull pack the flap. It was glued in. Weird. The point of the utility knife scraped away the glue. Rachel set the flap aside. A number mason jars containing odd roots and dried plants sat the bottom of the file box. One of the jars had broken, and glass fragments lingered around a dried herb.

  A flimsy leather-bound book rested on top the jars. There was no inscription or lettering on the journal’s face to allude to what it was. Rachel opened it. The first pages had blurbs written propery, flipped upside down, spelled backwards and in dozen different languages. French, Spanish, and German were just the dialects Rachel recognized. She flipped through pages. Each was disturbing as the last. Unknown tongues, odd sequences of numbers, and rough sketches of dead people and animals. Some looked to be drawn by a kid, others were masterful in their artistic style. All showed show a person killed in some horrid way. Rachel shivered involuntary. Her art was dark but something out this seemed… worst. Was this her mother’s journal?

  THUNK, THUNK, THUNK.

  Shaken, Rachel put the leather-bound book back in the file box and covered it with cardboard flap. She stood up as Brett walked through the front door with an inquisitive expression on his face and a phone at his ear.

  Rachel opened the door.

  A middle age couple stood on the porch. Like sea weed, salt and pepper hair calmed over the top of the Caucasian man’s balding head. He had deep sunken eyes, a crooked nose and chapped lips that his fat tongue slithered over when he looked at Rachel. Wrinkles roughed out his white suit.

  “Shaw,” the man extended his hand.

  Hesitant, Rachel shook the man’s soft and moist palm. “Rachel.”

  The Taiwanese woman next to Shaw glared at Rachel. Short and squat, she wore a green dress with an emerald broach.

  “Can I help you with anything?” Rachel ask politely as she could.

  “We just want to have a gander at what’s inside,” Shaw said with a big smile.

  The Asian woman kept glaring.

  Rachel blinked. “Why? What is this for?”

  “My own enjoyment,” Shaw said, stepping closer, leaning his head side-to-side, trying to steal a peak at lay behind Rachel.

  “I’ll call you back,” Brett said in the living room. He slid next to Rachel, putting his hand on her shoulder. He smiled politely at the couple. “Is there a problem?”

  “Nah,” Shaw replied. “Wanting to take a gander at what’s inside. That’s all.”

  Rachel and Brett traded looks. Rachel shrugged.

  The woman spoke in Taiwanese. Her tone was venomous.

  “I’ll tell them,” Shaw said in an angry reply. He looked to Rachel and Brett with a wide smile. “We’re placed a bid on this house last month. You two stole it right out from under our noses.”

  Shaw chuckled dryly, but his statement sounded like more than friendly jab.

  “I’m sorry that, um, we did that,” Brett replied.

  Rachel chimed in with a friendly demeanor. “I saw other listings around Highlands with fantastic views. Remember, Brett?”

  Brett nodded. “Real nice.”

  “I’m sure they still on the market,” Rachel said politely to the strangers.

  Shaw licked his bottom lip. “It ain’t the Hadley, though.”

  Both couples were silent for a moment.

  “What was your name again?” Brett asked.

  “Shaw.”

  “Shaw, what?”

  The man chuckled. “It’s just Shaw. Say you mind if my wife and I take a quick peak? Just one minute. We never got to see it when it was on the market.”

  “It’s kinda messy right now. Unpacking, you know.” Rachel replied, unsure if the woman’s death glare was her natural look or she hated Rachel with a passion.

  “I don’t mind. We just gonna to tour around. Won’t touch nothing. Scouts honor.” the man held up two fingers.

  “This isn’t a good time,” Brett said. “We have a lot to do.”

  Shaw shook his head. “I’m starting to get a little pissed of now. I’ve done nothing to y'all, and you’re not being very hospitable.”

  “I think it’s best if you left.” Brett said.

  “Screw you, man,” Shaw replied, face turning red with rage. “Let my wife and I see the house. You already stole it from us at least you can some courtesy and let us into the place.”

  Brett stepped outside. “It nice to meet you, Mr. Shaw. Please leave before I call the cops.”

  Rachel watched the dispute. She stood beside her husband.

  The couples stared each other down for a moment.

  “You should’ve just said no.” Shaw replied with a frustrated tone. “I would’ve left.”

&n
bsp; He grabbed his wife’s arm to go but she didn’t budge. She a frown consumed her face and she spit at Rachel’s feet. Brett balled his fist as the couple slumped into their clunky cadillac and drove off.

  Rachel returned inside, grabbing a pen and note pad. She began writing down the license plate number.

  “You beat me too it.” Brett replied.

  That night, Rachel awoke to find the front door wide open.

  Chapter Three

  Mother’s China

  Rachel nibbled her thumbnail. Her tired eyes traced the disembodied flashlight in the front yard. In the darkness, the yellow beam swung back and forth, reflecting on the Escalades’ rims, the house’s windows and the damp asphalt road. Rachel felt a twisting in her gut. She wanted to walk out there with Brett and search, but he forbade it. He always had a commanding attitude when things went wrong, and Rachel thought of it as a two edged-sword. In one hand, it was romantic that her husband was willing to fight every battle. But, as someone who makes a living drawing dead people, Rachel didn’t consider herself the most romantic woman.

  Brett hustled up the steps. A massive cowlick stuck up the side the side of his glossy dark hair. He wore cargo shorts and a green hoodie: the first articles of clothing he grabbed when they heard the door open. Without looking at her in the eyes, he hugged Rachel and shut the door with his foot.

  “Nobody?” Rachel asked into his shoulder.

  Brett sighed and pulled away from her. He locked the door. “It’s that Shaw guy.”

  “You saw something?” Rachel felt her heart bump.

  “No.” Brett adjusted his glasses with his finger. “But… either way I’m buying a safety bar tomorrow. Because the lock works, so someone is picking it or the realtor screwed us somehow.”

  Grabbing onto the railing, he heaved himself up the stairway and stomped into the room. Rachel double checked the lock and followed behind.