The Haunting of Rachel Harroway: Book 0 Page 5

  “Honey, put down it down,” Liam said carefully.

  Mother smashed the plate on the counter and held up a jagged shard.

  Reality returned. Rachel tucked her hair behind her ear and turned her eyes away from the brown leaves. Laughter. A girl and boy peered out from behind a skeletal tree. They scattered, running in the opposite direction.

  “Hey!” Rachel shouted. “Stay right there!”

  She jumped out the tire swing and chased after the strangers. She ran through trees, hurdled over dips in the earth and ducked low hanging branches. Rachel slowed to a staggering, stop between four towering oaks. Birds took flight above leaves the color of fire. Mountains and trees dipped up and down, to the north, south, east and west stood hundreds of trees.

  “Come out here!” Rachel’s shouted. “No more games!”

  Her echo replied. “Games, games, games, games.”

  Rachel rested her palms on her knees, awaiting a response.

  Rachel hiked back to the tire swing, boiling with frustration.

  Hand on his pistol holster, Officer Lynchfield lingered in the backyard. “See something out there?”

  “Yeah. Two kids. One is wearing a blue skirt. I didn’t see other.”

  “There’s no houses ‘round these parts for miles,” Officer Lynchfield pointed out almost as if was a good thing. “Lead me to where you saw them.”

  “This way.” Rachel marched ahead to the tree where she saw the intruders. Keeping his hand on his pistol holster, Lynchfield studied the surroundings. “They ran..?”

  Rachel pointed farther into the woods.

  “Lead on,” Lynchfield said.

  Hesitantly, Rachel retraced her path. She felt the officer’s eyes on her. Glancing back, the officer scanned the nearby trees. She told herself she was being paranoid, but the farther she went into the woods, the more control Officer Lynchfield had. There were miles of uninhabited land all around between her and another human. Rachel walked into an area unfamiliar to her.

  “Stop,” the officer said behind her.

  He groaned and knelt by a pile of leaves. He swiped away the leaves with his hand. Below were dozens of dolls, stuffed animals and other child’s toys. Most were rotted and discolored from prolonged exposure to the elements. Some of the dolls were missing one or both eyes. A teddy bear had fuzz poking out it’s right arm and left leg hole. Creepy stuff, through and through.

  They spent the next twenty-five mutes shouting in the woods like idiots, calling the kids out, and telling them the consequences of avoiding a law enforcement officer. Echoes responded many times. The children, not at all. Rachel thanked officer Lynchfield and returned to her home with a new idea. She rummaged through the basement, kicking up dust and lint as she searched the far corners and near the furnace. There were no secret entrances or trapdoors to be found but that didn’t disprove Rachel’s theory. These kids were getting in somehow and if she couldn’t find the breach, she’d catch them in the act. A half hour of research, a forty-five-minute cab ridem and a long chat with the clerk, and Rachel purchased the cameras she needed. She hooked one up in the kitchen facing the door, one in the living room and one in the upstairs hallway. She bought cheaper models to hand in each of the bedroom and in the basement.

  By eleven o'clock, Brett walked through the front door. “Hey, babe. I got the Nyquil.”

  On her tippy-toes, Rachel stood on a chair’s cushion. She hooked in the final cable into the back of the security camera. “Tada!” She leapt down and hug her husband.

  “Um, what’s this?” Brett stared at the small camera tucked in the upper corner of the room.

  “Well, I thought that with breaks in, we’ll be able to see the person or persons in action,” Rachel looked at her creation, the long wire stapled into the around the top corner of the wall, above the doorway and upstairs. More cables joined this track from the study, kitchen, and basement. Brett gawk at it.

  Rachel smiled, hands proudly on her hips. “Impressive, huh? I have more upstairs. One in every room and hall, but the bathrooms. I thought we’d keep that private. All of their footage is input into my laptop in the bedroom. I bought some extra terabyte drives so the computer's memory wouldn’t crap out on us..”

  Brett lowered her camera and laptop bags to the floor. “When were you going to tell me about this?”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise. And you won’t believe how much safer I feel.”

  Brett rub his hand up his hair. “Rachel. Look at me.”

  Rachel did so.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Rachel stepped back at the comment. “Brett, I thought…”

  “I don’t know what you thought,” Her husband said. “We have a police officer outside, a safety bar at every door, how much more do you want?”

  “Nothing,” Rachel replied looking at the camera. “The camera should do it.”

  “How much did this cost?” Brett demanded an answer.

  “I bought it on bulk. Got a great deal.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  Rachel bit her tongue for a moment before speaking. “Three.”

  “Three, what?”

  “Thousand.”

  Brett’s face turned blood red and he shouted the F word. Rachel stayed back from him. In the eight years they’d known each, she’d never seen Brett get this angry.

  “Fhree thousand!” Brett shouted and cursed again. “That’s half our savings. This guy gypped you, Rachel. Can’t you see that? These cameras. They are worth half that amount.”

  Rachel nodded. “If we order them online, sure. But, we need them now, Brett. Not in two weeks with chance of them being damaged during shipping.”

  Brett gnashed his teeth and lowered himself to couch. He buried his face in his hands.

  Rachel stepped toward him. “I know you’re mad--”

  Brett’s brooding cut her off.

  Rachel sat down next him. “After we catch this guy, we can return the cameras and get the money back. Besides, I took it out of my half of the savings so I don’t see what the problem.”

  Brett turned to her. His eyes bloodshot. “There’s no such thing as your half of the savings and there’s no such thing as my half of the savings. It is our savings. We, together, decide what we spend it on.”

  “You buy your cameras all the time,” Rachel counter argued. “That’s five or six grand each, plus your lenses.”

  “Because they’re tax deductible!” Brett shouted.

  “So are the security cameras,” Rachel replied back. “We have our house labeled as our business center with IRS. It all works out. I did my research.”

  Brett refused eye contact. “That’s not the point, Rach. You went behind my back. First with the police officer and now with this.”

  “You didn’t answer your phone when I called yesterday. Why wouldn’t I call the police?”

  “Please, Rachel,” He said, standing from couch. “I checked my call logs. You never even tried.”

  Brett vanished up the stairs. A moment later, the piping in the walls hummed. Rachel stared at nothing in particular on the floor for a long moment. She sighed and pulled out her phone. She scrolled through recent outgoing calls from yesterday afternoon. None to Brett. Only the police.

  “There’s no way.” Rachel mumbled to herself, brain crippling.

  Around midnight, Rachel turned off the TV and crept to the master bedroom. The red lights on the cameras watched her like monster eyes. She opened the door slowly to find Brett curled up under the covers and snoring lightly. She climbed in next to him, hoping that the pressure on the bed won’t wake him. It didn’t, thank God.

  Her body. Her mind. Her eyes. All of it long for sleep, yet she could scarcely close her eyes. Millions of thoughts and fears ate her, and when she killed one the train would only pick up speed.

  The next morning, she pretended to be asleep when Brett got out of bed. He kissed her like he usually did but there was no love in it. When he was
out of the room and cooking in the kitchen, Rachel opened her eyes and pulled out her laptop. She opened the various camera feeds on a dozen different tabs and went through them one-by-one in fast forward mode. Even so, it took her hours to get through of the nothingness. She’d hit pause occasionally, rewind and play a segment. That “something” which quickly caught her eye at random times turn out to be the heater shaking up a curtain or a moth landing on the lens. When she sifted through the living room footage, something caught her eye at exactly 3:00am. She replied that five second segment a half dozen times. The living room in night vision. The grandfather clock ticks steadily. All is calm. Then, just for a moment, the front page of her canvas rippled.

  Rachel saved a separate file with just that clip, got dressed and headed downstairs. Brett plucked away at his computer. His camera equipment sprawled out across the table. At Rachel’s seat sat some cold scrambled eggs and toast. Rachel grabbed her plate and headed to the canvas.

  “Morning,” Brett said, only looking up from his screen for a second.

  “Morning,” Rachel replied and sat down on her bench. She bit into her dry toast and looked at the canvas front page. It was blank. She flipped to the next page. Blank. She flipped to the next one.

  Her toast fell from her teeth and onto the floor.

  Brett turned to her with a cornered brow. “Rach?”

  On the canvas before her was the phrase “TRUTH OR DARE” scribbled and dark sit nearly slashed through the sheet of paper.

  Rachel could barely breathe. Her world started to spin. She was going to collapse. She could feel it. Brett put his hand on her shoulder, reassuring her, straightening out the world for an instant.

  Rachel’s eyes watered. She pointed at the phrase with a shaking finger. “I didn’t write that…”

  Brett studied the canvas, glancing over the words.

  “Write what?” He asked honestly. “I don’t see anything, Rachel.”

  Chapter Five

  Time

  “A joke?” Brett said, not amused in the slightest.

  Rachel nodded, maintaining eye contact. “I thought it would lighten the mood after last night.”

  Brett sighed and backed away from the canvas. “I still have a few waterfalls and nature trails to shoot for NG. Will you be good here with officer whatever-his-name-is?”

  “I’ll be a-okay,” Rachel said. “The extra rest I got this morning is what I needed.”

  That was the second time she lied to him, and it was the second time Brett look at the canvas that clearly said, “TRUTH OR DARE?” and saw nothing. Or acted like it. Then again, he wasn’t the type to play tricks on her like that. He knew the stories Rachel had told him about her mother, the few that were, and no matter how spiteful he may be feeling, he would never make Rachel believe she’s losing it. Right? Rachel watched him walk out the door and lock it behind him.

  She stood up and walked away from the canvas, snapping a picture of it with her crappy phone camera. It appeared just how she saw it, phrase and all. To double check her theory she grabbed her hand mirror and reflected the canvas. The phrase was there. She could feel the pencil’s grooves with her fingertips. How could Brett not see it?

  Rachel decided it was best to shun her easel for today. Under the kitchen sink, she picked up window cleaner and rag, touring through the old house. As she wiped down the glass windows, Brett took helm of her thoughts. Nearly a decade they’d known one another. Rachel hoped that the house meant to progress their relationship wouldn’t be it’s bane. After a time of cleaning, unpacking boxes, and package some sold artwork. Rachel felt woods calling her. She took a long hike out in the backyard, passed where she found the children’s toys and up to a ledge on the mountain side. Her skin crawled as she dangled her legs over the cliff’s edge, but the adrenaline rush comforted her.

  For miles and miles, mighty mountains ruled. Their vast heights and immense sprawl seemed picturesque. Rachel rubbed her upper arms, feeling her goosebumps. The mountain breeze tousled her dark hair, and after only a moment, caused her to back inside. In the threshold of the hallway, she stared at the easel and the words “TRUTH OR DARE” scribbled across its face. She walked over it, studying it more intently than ever before. If was a figment of her imagine or an hallucination wouldn’t have the truth revealed itself by now? Rippppp! She tore off the front page and exited the house.

  The sun was low and orange. It hung on the blue sky. Rachel squinted at it, wondering where the day had gone. She rapped her knuckles on the police cruiser window. Officer Lynchfield awoke quickly, eyes wide and face stern. He wiped away drool from the side of his mouth and rolled down the window.

  “What?” He did little to hide his annoyance.

  Rachel unrolled the canvas paper. “I have a stupid question.”

  “Heh.” Lynchfield looked her over.

  The canvas paper rolled out a scroll. “What do you see?” Rachel asked.

  Lynchfield’s apathetic eyes scanned over the paper. “A blank page.”

  Rachel’s heart sunk. She forced a smile. “Thanks.”

  Lynchfield crinkled his brow and gave her a judgmental look.

  Rachel opened the metal grate guarding the fireplace. She shoved the rolled canvas paper inside and clicked on the candle lighter. The mislay fire danced in Rachel’s green eyes. The corner of paper curled and blackened under the heat. The fire took. Rachel shoved it into the ashy fireplace and closed the grate. She watched the paper burn, catching a final glimpse of the harrowing words before the paper dissolved along with a portion of her stress.

  She sighed and returned to easel stool. It felt oddly satisfying to look at a fresh page. Then she noticed something amiss. The pile of blank canvas paper was largely diminished. Rachel flipped back the large pile of paper already boasting sketches. The first few were of her latest artwork all the way to the portrait of Brett and bloody couple behind him. The pages after that thought caused Rachel to gasp.

  A drawing of a kid holding his knees in the back of a closet, the sketch of the authoritative woman lying dead on the floor, and a dozen more death scenes. Once with Rachel hanging from the upstairs balcony with blackened face and noose. Rachel stepped back from the easel, instinctive thinking it would separate her from the horror. She knew two truths immediately. One: she didn’t draw these. Two: by the distinct artistic style, it was clearly her work.

  Rachel hustled up and down the stairs, retrieving her laptop. She pulled it open, chewing her nail and reviewed the footage for the living room. She switched off the live feed and rewound back to the start of the day. In fast warded, she watched herself and Brett point at the canvas. Brett walking out the door and Rachel headed to the kitchen for clean supplies. She watched herself walk out of the kitchen and freeze. For a solid three minutes, Rachel in the footage scarcely breathed. A tear trickled down Rachel’s cheek as she watched the video unfold. Rachel in the footage approached the canvas and gently put down the blue bucket of cleaning supplies. She sat on the bench and started to draw. The fast forward video had Rachel flipping over a complete piece of artwork every thirty minutes without suffering quality. Flip. Flip. Flip. The paper rolled over the top of canvas adding to pile. Rachel checked the timestamp on the video.

  From nine in the morning till four in the afternoon, she drew without ceasing.

  Rachel paused the video and stared at the screen with slacked jaw. She no words. No thoughts. No explanation. She needed to get out of this house. She sat on the front steps with glazed eyes until the cab arrived. The middle-aged Romanian man with the thickest mustache she’d ever seen rolled down the window. “Nice place.”

  Rachel didn’t reply. She climbed into the back seat and told him the restaurant's address.

  “You must think of me as a one trick pony,” Her father said jokily over the soft oriental chimes that filled the authentic Chinese restaurant. “I just love this place.”

  Rachel smiled at him. She felt consequences of her sleepless nights in the aching of her mu
scles and the straining of her eyes. Around six in the evening, the place was largely vacant and moodily dim with orange lights casting comes up on the walls and Chinese artwork.

  “You called me at such short notice, you seemed bothered.” Her father asked, pinching a piece of beef in his chopsticks.

  You don’t know the half of it. “I want to talk about mom,” Rachel replied.

  By the looks on her father’s face, she’d torn open the stitches of an infected wound. Rachel felt the same painful memories but she far better at hiding it then her pastor-turned-drunk-turned-sober-retiree father, Liam.

  “Well,” Liam set aside the fork and clear his throat. “That’s an interesting topic. What makes you so curious about your mother?”

  Rachel shrugged. Because I’m losing my mind. “Because I’ve been thinking about her lately. I realized I don’t know her that well.”

  Liam smiled sadly. “She was one of a kind, that one. Smart, creative and beautiful like you. She had this outlook on the world that so… unique. Like hope with a healthy amount of cynicism. It made her very wise. I think that’s what I loved about her most of all. I could trust her advice.” Liam eyes lingered on his messy plate, lost in thoughts and memories.

  “When did she… you know?”

  Her father’s face turned pale white for moment. “Have her episode?”

  Rachel nodded, hearing the hurt in her father’s voice. The memories turned him to the drink for many years. Rachel felt a bitter twisting in her gut as she asked.

  “As much as I’d like to believe the episode was spontaneous, your mother’s insanity started a long time before her episode.” Liam pushed his plate aside. “First, she distanced herself from me, signing up for dance programs and art classes. Not unusual. She was a stay at home wife. But, then, I got his idea during my quiet time to surprise her at one of her recitals or classes and realized that she wasn’t there. She never signed up.”