The Haunting of Rachel Harroway: Book 0 Read online

  Rachel nodded. She found it a chore to speak without her morning coffee, as black and bitter as can be. Throughout the long and unfruitful days, her thoughts couldn’t stay away from the children. The more she thought about it, the more real it felt.. The children, the flying objects, the voices, and the writing on the sketch pad. If they were solitary instances, questioning her sanity made sense. But the unexplainable encounters were sequential and stimulated all the senses. She couldn’t be crazy. What are you thinking?! Her internal critic yelled. Rest, Rachel replied. I just want rest.

  It was late one evening. Brett had fallen asleep. Rachel rested her back on the bed’s backboard and opened her laptop on her covered thighs. Feeling it’s searing effects on her bloodshot eyes, she dimmed the screen. Her fingers dances across the keyboard. The search results popped up. Hadley House, built in 1892 by Roy Hadley--Highlands only physician and pastor at the time. There was little about him on the web, barring the fact that he worked his practice from inside his home. That explained the inside upstairs loft next to the stairs. Roy wanted to watch visitors walk in and out. Rachel found no records of any deaths in his house. Besides, the children she encountered were not dressed appropriately with the timeline. If there’s anything learned from drawing different people all day. It’s fashion.

  Thanks to the historical significance of the house in Highlands history, Rachel learned about its next three owners though the information was dismal. A local elderly couples owned the house after Roy Hadley’s death in 1923. A decade later, another couple owned the house until the late 50s. They were bought up by an outsider. The historical records ceased after that sale.

  Rachel changed her tactics. She searched for murders in Highlands, North Carolina. After sifting through dozens of websites, she landed the name Reginald Barnes, a local lumber tycoon in the 70s and 80s. His name was mentioned in a forum discussing murders in the Appalachian. There was little detail about his death, only that the police believe it to be a robbery gone wrong. The participants in the forum made it clear that the murderer was never found.

  The next morning, Rachel dressed, took a shower and told Brett she was going out to run some errands.

  Brett looked up from the camera he was formatting. “You sure you don’t want your easel?”

  “Positive,” Rachel said opening the front door.

  Brett sat up. His concerned look made Rachel pause. He spoke, struggling to find the words for moment. “It’s not my place to tell you how to run your business, but, um, I’ve seen some emails from your clientele asking about a few portraits that were never delivered.”

  Internally, Rachel groaned. He wanted the best of her, Rachel knew, but she had bigger fish to fry. “They’ll get what they purchased. I’m in rush right now. We’ll talk later.”

  Highlands’ Main Street had many dips, slopes, and hills though it was built on top of the mountain’s plateau. The Hudson Library resided near the farther out of the main road and across the street from a strip mall that was two stories and made of lumber. It only took a few moments for the crone at the front desk to point Rachel to the preserved newspaper slides. The librarian lead Rachel to quant microfilm room, mumbled something polite and shut the door. Shelves of boxes filled three fourths of the room. Rachel hadn’t been in place like this since high school and that was only for a brief assignment.

  She typed in the 1983, Murder, and Reginald Barnes into the database and was directed to box near the back of the room. She found the proper paper, pulled it up on the outdated microfilm kiosk and started reading.

  July 17, 1983. Headline: Murder at the Hadley House. Four Dead.

  Rachel jaw went agape at the sight of the family picture. Staring back at her were four familiar faces, the two children, Amanda and Benny Barnes, standing in the middle of Reginald, a man with sideburns and icy eyes, and Lilith, a woman with short haircut and well-structured face. The man and woman Rachel had drawn in her portrait of Brett. But this time they didn’t have bullet holes.

  Rachel rubbed her hand over mouth, trying to process of the revelation. How does one process that you’ve seen the dead, standing before you, looking at you, talking to you? Rachel chuckled to herself. She wasn’t crazy, but everything in her world flipped. She was a pastor’s daughter. Her whole life she struggled with the idea of higher power and now she dealing with ghosts, spirits, or whatever the hell she saw in the basement or drew on her canvas. Why can she see them and not Brett or her father? Rachel racked her brain. She had no answers. Only more questions that spurred even deeper questions about life, the afterlife, evolution and intelligent design. Who do you seek these answers from? The internet, books, movies, or so-called psychic?

  She buried her face in her hands and let her thoughts dissipate. Maybe the big questions didn’t matter. What she needed to focus on was her torment. The children want her to find the “bad men.” Rachel would do it. She had no clue how and the entire idea seemed horrible, but if it could return an ounce of normalcy to her life… Rachel sighed and sat up. She cursed under breath and continued reading the article.

  The article discussed Reginald and his lumber yards, the business he brought to Highlands and the so-called spontaneity of his murder. Though the article alluded to this being a robbery gone horribly wrong, the journalist’s skeptical writing led Rachel to believing otherwise.

  One portion stood out in the article. “Only a few small knickknacks were taken from the Barnes’ Residence. The robbery was overtly brutal as forensics believe that Reginald and Lilith were killed almost immediately, and the gunman marched upstairs where he gunned down nine-year-old Amanda Barnes and seven-year-old Benny Barnes hiding inside the bedroom wardrobe. Apart from shell cases from a .45 pistol and handful of jewelry taken from master bedroom, the police have found no trace of the killer.”

  Rachel sought out newspapers from later years, in search of any development. She found nothing. Even stranger, the journalist, Hilda Kilgore, near stopped writing articles about two weeks later the murder report. Rachel jotted down some notes.

  A quick web search and Rachel had the number to the local paper. She called them. After the greetings, Rachel told them what the needed. “I’m writing a research paper about Reginald Barnes and was hoping you would have Hilda Kilgore contact info. If that’s available.”

  The woman on the other end of the line put Rachel on hold. A few moments later, the woman told Rachel Hilda’s address and phone number, making it very clear that this information is from the 1980s and most likely won’t lead anywhere.

  She tried out the phone number first, of course. And it led nowhere. The address was only forty minutes away. Rachel sped over there, realizing she’d already burned a large part of her day in the library on a lot of research that didn’t progress her search for the “bad men.” She drove down the topsy turvy mountain road, worry punched her in the gut. These men killed children. Shot them three or four times apiece while practically mercy killing the adult. It was 1983 as well, these guys could be in Timbuktu for all Rachel know and how would she separate herself from the children then? She could burn down the Hadley House, but Brett would divorce her at that point. Besides, they’d both invested a lot money into Highlands. Moving away, the more Rachel thought about it, wasn’t a viable option. She could try to convince Shaw to buy it, but he dresses like he’s dirt poor and his money is probably funny.

  Hilda Kilgore was not a ditsy twenty-year-old living with her parents. Rachel double checked the address she had jotted down.

  “This is the place,” Rachel said with discouragement.

  The girl leaned in the door frame. She wore a fashionable sweater and skinny jeans.

  “Do your parents have the information from the previous owner?” Rachel asked.

  “I could look, I guess,” The girl replied and meandered back inside. A good fifteen minutes later and Rachel was ready to leave. Finally front the door opened. The girl handed Rachel a phone number jutted down a sticky note with a cat on it.

>   Rachel climbed back into her car, and dialed the number. It wasn’t disconnected. That was a good thing.

  A gravelly man’s voice answered. “Ello?”

  “Hi, is Hilda there? Hilda Kilgore?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. “No.”

  “Ah, well, do you know where I may find her? It’s urgent.”

  There was some shuffling on the end of the line. “What do you want from Hilda?” It sounded like the man was yelling across the room to his phone.

  “I read article she published in the Highlands Tribune. The one about the Barnes family murder twenty years ago. I want to talk to her about it.”

  The shuffling stopped. Glass clinked together. The man returned to the phone, taking a breath after a long swing of something. “What do you know ‘bout dem murders?”

  “Only what I’ve read from Hilda. I’m on her side.”

  The line went silent.

  “Hello?” Rachel asked.

  “... I’ll give you her address. She don’t like to use the phone no more.”

  Rachel jotted it down. Before she could ask any more questions, the mysterious man hung up. Rachel scratched her head and re-read the address. Aiken, South Carolina. A three-hour drive from here. Rachel sent Brett a text, telling him she’ll be home late tonight. She tossed her phone on the front seat and set off, hoping that this would be the first step to ending her sleepless nights.

  Rachel learned really quick that driving after a week of dismal sleep is no fun. She made multiple pit stops, to refill her coffee, stretch her legs and question her decision. The doubt hit her about halfway through the trip. There’s a good chance that this address could be fake. Worse, some sort of trap. That was highly unlikely, she knew, but her disturbed mind defaulted to the worst-case scenario. If it is and Rachel survives, at least she have new influences for her artwork.

  The drab 1970s single story house came into view. Branches from massive tree drooped onto the gable trussed roof. Ankle high grass blanketed the front yard. Rachel parked next to the only car there--A dented minivan with a handicap tag hanging from the rearview mirror.

  Rachel grabbed her phone from the front seat. One missed call. Brett. Rachel slipped into her back pocket and jogged to the house’s front door. Behind her, the sun set. Two locks unlocked behind the door and a sixty-year-old woman rolls out to face Rachel. Her body was short, pudgy and slumped in a wheelchair that had seen better days. Thick glasses that made the woman’s brown eyes comically large.

  “Who are you?” The woman asked. Her hand held something beneath the quilt over her lap.

  “Rachel Presley. Are you Hilda?”

  The woman nodded. “I am.”

  “Can we talk?”

  Rachel fidgeted on the woman’s couch. The springs could be felt under the fabric. There was unfinished laundry and a pile books on the couch beside her. Ammonia assaulted Rachel’s nose yet she saw no animals. Nearby, a news anchor chatters inside the thirty-two-inch box television.

  Hilda rolled herself into living room. She winced with every rotation of the wheels, almost as if existence itself was pain.

  “The Barnes. It’s been long time since I heard about them,” The woman said, parking a few feet in front Rachel and then backing beside the couch so they could both watch the TV. “Why do you care about them?”

  “I bought their house,” Rachel admitted. “Needless to say, I’ve taken an interest in the history. The realtor left out the family slaughter in the sales pitch.”

  “She probably didn’t know much about it,” Hilda said with cold seriousness.

  “Children were murdered. That seems like headline news. Did they catch the killers?”

  Hilda large eyes stayed television set. Her lip quivered slightly. After a moment, she shook her head.

  They listened to anchor chat about the upcoming weather. Storms mostly.

  “In your article, you seemed convinced that this wasn’t a robbery.” Rachel refocused the conversation.

  Hilda’s hands tightened on her arm rests. “The Barnes had serious money. Reginald bought out nearly every lumberyard in and around Highlands. One-by-one, he strong armed the owners by cutting the cost of his lumber to a stupidly low sum. So much so that Regi lost money. Most of the yard owners couldn’t afford such drastic cuts. When they were weak, Reginald offered to buy them out. They accepted, begrudgingly. The first thing he did at his newly acquired yard was replaced nearly have of the workers with his own people from the north east. Friends he owed favors to, workers he trusted, someone’s nephew. When he owned the majority of the lumber yards, he was already in major debt. But then his monopoly skyrocketed. He boosted the prices up two hundred percent. It angered a lot of people but made Regi a very rich man.”

  “The man had enemies,” Rachel said, disappointed that her job just got a lot harder.

  “More than you would think,” Hilda swiveled the chair to Rachel. “If he was killed by robbers, they wouldn’t have murdered those children.”

  “It’s horrible,” Rachel felt sick, remembering their bullet wounds.

  Hilda nodded a few times. She fixed her glasses with her finger. “They shot those kids up as warning… Such a waste of life.”

  Rachel pondered for a moment. “With Reginald and Barnes dead, what happened to the lumber yard?”

  Hilda grinned. Her teeth were yellow. “Now you’re asking the right questions. Most were bought back by the state and then by their original owners. They fired all of Regi’s people and brought back the locals.”

  “Everyone wins,” Rachel said, understanding. “Could this be… ah, never mind.”

  Hilda looked at her seriously. “Say it.”

  “A hit?” Rachel replied, shakily.

  “Now don’t go telling the world.” Hilda rubbed the thighs of her dead legs. “Else, you might end up like me.”

  The old woman chuckle twisted into a wail.

  Chapter Seven

  Familiar Strangers

  Headlights sliced through inky blackness. Rachel squinted as the car sped by. Normally, she’d scowl after being bombarded by the stranger’s brights, but tonight her thoughts were on Hilda’s story. Rachel shuttered. Phantom pains spiked in her own legs as she imagined two men beating Hilda’s knees with baseball bats. All the reporter did was plant a seed of doubt, and they crippled her and scared her out of the state.

  Rachel felt her heart rate quicken. Spirits of the dead, murderers, and conspiracies, she was in the middle of it. Out of the suffocating fear, Rachel felt… alive. More than she had with her art. Her marriage. It was terrifyingly amazing.

  The lights were on her father’s house when she pulled into the driveway at eleven pm.

  “I’m home,” Rachel said, unlocking the door.

  Brett opened the door for her the rest of way and shut it behind her. “You were gone the whole day.”

  “I lost track of time.” Rachel admitted

  Brett crossed his arms. “I called you three times.”

  Rachel checked her phone. “I know. I was meeting with someone. You wouldn’t believe what I learned--”

  “Rachel,” Brett cut her off. “Tell me what’s going on. Your father has gone to bed. It’s just us. ”

  Rachel crossed her arms over her chest. “I was about to tell you.”

  Brett pursed his lips.

  “I’ve been looking into the history of our house. Can you believe that a family of four was murdered there? Mother, father and two kids. The murderers were never found.”

  “Does this have to do with the break-in?” Brett asked. “I know it’s scary, but you haven’t been yourself the last few days. You hardly sleep. You don’t finish your plate. You used to be inseparable from your easel and now you won’t look at the thing.”

  “Brett, it’s only been a few days. I told you I’m taking a break from my art.” Rachel said, starting to get annoyed.

  “That’s fine, but I had to FedEx all of your sold works today because if I
hadn’t, you would have lost some key clientele.”

  “When did this become about my money?” Rachel asked. “There’s a lot more important things going on right now.”

  “Firstly,” Brett said keeping his voice down not wake Liam. “It’s our money and we have a house we need to pay off. Secondly, we need to be establishing ourselves financially, otherwise we’re going to be SOL for the next twenty years?”

  Rachel longed to tell him about her encounter in the basement and all the unbelievable things that have happened but, by the look on his flushed face, he would hightail her straight to the mental hospital. Instead, she avoided eye contact and said nothing. She felt like child.

  Brett cleaned his glasses on bottom corner of his shirt. “I’m not mad at you.” He said begrudgingly. “I want… I only want things to go back to normal.”

  That’s what I’m trying to do.

  “If you say that you’re fine and nothing is wrong, I’m going to trust you, Rach. But if that’s not true. Let’s be transparent. That was one of our wedding vows. No BS. We aren’t like the rest of them.”

  Rachel locked her bloodshot eyes with his. She spoke calmly, clearly and confidently. “Everything is fine.”

  Brett’s frown sunk his entire face. He whispered. “Okay,” and then headed to the bedroom for some sleep.

  Rachel stood in the living room, all alone, unsure why she lied to the man she loved. And why it had become so easy to do so. Her mind went to Barnes murders and how she was going to solve them.

  Rachel handed the cab driver a twenty and removed herself from the vehicle. Her dark hair brushed across her cheek and small nose at the wind’s cold touch. Dry leaves and locust husks littered the front lawn. The Hadley House stood ominously with its sickly pale green paint and gathering of barren trees on all sides. Wading through inches of leaves, Rachel approached the front door. Brett had gone out to his photoshoot, and her father was at the bowling alley. She’d had a few hours to do what she needed to do: find out those kids.