The Spectre of Hill House
Only the foolish don’t believe in ghosts. Especially in this town.
I don’t think skepticism is the root of foolishness, though.
They say the things that go bump in the night, or the shapes that flicker at the edge of one’s vision, eventually find their way to this valley. Which makes it even more depressing that the spectre haunting Hill House is… me.
It’s almost funny, in a way. I do find it interesting to be perceived as a whisper of a thing when I’ve got a mouth that moves faster than most people’s thoughts and a body that refuses to be tucked into a corner.
I’m all soft curves, light brown skin and a crown of unruly coiled hair that rarely stays put, a living, breathing oddity in a town that prefers its monsters to be easier to ignore.
I certainly never expected to earn a nickname, let alone ‘The Ghost of Hill House,’ at least not yet. It’s not said with cruelty, most of the time. No, direct cruelty isn’t the Drayring Valley Way. Most of the people around here say it with pity. I believe this to be infinitely more humiliating.
I would prefer if my failures weren’t so public, but I suppose spending most of my waking time at the gates of a place I’m not supposed to be has become town gossip. I think there’s even a meme from my last attempt to get the town council to grant me access to the grounds. Mortifying.
“Auburn, your latte is ready!”
At the chipper voice, I shake off the thoughts and steal one last glance out the window. It’s my favourite time of day. The world is still, and the people who do venture out into the sleepy early morning just before sunrise operate with an unspoken pact. The silence isn’t to be disturbed.
I cross the small, dated coffee shop to the pass-through. Well, what will become the pass-through in a few short hours anyway, once it stops moonlighting as a catchall for the army of shiny silver implements I could never name.
I wonder if Sarah keeps opening at 4 am just for me; it can’t be good for business.
Fortunately, the pensive brunette has never forced pity upon me, which is why I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere else, even if three new trendy cafes have popped up in the last year.
“This is a latte?” I ask, eyeing the questionable foam. I do sometimes wonder if a lack of pity is a fair trade for loyalty, considering the fact that Sarah seems to despise the idea of coffee.
The questionably coloured beverage sits on the counter with about as much confidence as a baby deer on a set of roller skates. It’s a sharp contrast to the confident, round-featured woman behind it, who cocks her head as she studies the cup between us with a raised eyebrow.
“Definitely,” she confirms after far too long for that word to carry any weight.
I pick it up gingerly; it might be active.
“Sarah, it’s green.”
I dare to bring my nose to the brim of the mug, it smells like coffee… I don’t know if I find that comforting.
“I was out of oat milk, trust me, you’ll love this.” Her expression is so sincere that it almost makes me abandon the need for questioning. Almost. She continues before I can kick off the interrogation.
“It’s either pistachio milk or green almond milk.” She assures me.
Against my better judgment, I take a sip.
“Well?”
It takes everything in me to swallow it and not spit it back into the cup.
“Uh, why do I taste leaves?”
She grins and laughs, a deep, rich sound that draws out my own.
“Guess it was the green almond milk, so that would mean you’re tasting spinach.”
I can’t imagine how incredulous my expression is, but by the way she doubles over with renewed laughter, I have to guess my dismay is clearly communicated.
She takes the drink and throws the contents back, doing nothing to hide the grimace on her face as she does.
“How about we just throw on a pot?” I shake my head. “It’s fine, if you do a full brew of decaf, you’ll need to throw it out by mid-morning anyway. Besides, we both know I’m just here to get some socializing in.”
She nods, her dark curls that are so similar to my own escaping from the messy bun piled on her head. After some movement behind the bar, hopefully throwing out the notion of spinach-flavoured milk (but what do I know?), she slips her apron off before settling in beside me.
“How has the packing been?” Her tone is bright, but the words are measured. She sounds almost as disappointed as I am.
“It’s only for four months.” I remind her quickly.
“Yeah. That’s what they all say, Burn.”
My hands fidget with the cuffs of my pullover. I can’t pretend I haven’t thought about making the move permanent. It might be nice to go somewhere people don’t whisper about me when they think I can’t hear.
I couldn’t, though. Even if I wanted to. Still, I can’t bear to think about that too closely right now.
“I assume Carina isn’t coming back then?
” My attempt at redirection blooms into instant regret as soon as the question leaves my lips.
As if my asking might be the thing to make it real, and not the months and months of terrible coffee from the woman who swore she would never learn to use the espresso machine.
Carina was the barista. Sarah was the baker.
They seemed like the perfect match, but Drayring does seem to drive people out.
Unfortunately, Carina is the Valley’s latest victim.
“And I assume you’ve hit another dead end?”
That stings. Not that I don’t deserve it.
“We’ll have to talk about her sometime.” I reach out to offer some kind of support, but stop myself mid-motion. What possible comfort could I have to offer? At least Sarah had something real to lose. I’ve just wasted a year chasing cars.
“Maybe. I’ll talk about Carina when you accept defeat on getting into Hill House.” The sentence is jarring. I can’t even reconcile that idea.
“Touche,” I mutter the word more to myself than to her.
The awkward break in conversation stretches between us so long that a sliver of dawn starts to creep across the faded hardwood.
Mercifully, the chipper ring of the little bell perched above the door breaks the silence as the only other soul fully functioning at 4:47 AM on a Tuesday steps into the cafe.
Rowan Downs, Drayring Valley’s golden boy, and my only other friend. The man who brings me water on days the weather has turned, and always gives me the red game piece, despite it also being his favourite colour.
“Sarah,” he nods toward her with a familiarity that sometimes makes my heart ache.
Ever since the three of us clicked, the years of history they hold haven’t ever seeped into our friendship, but it’s there.
The slight difference between a Drayring Valley local and a transplant, and how much I wish I had grown up here with them, too.
Even if Rowan would’ve been a few grades below me.
“Auburn,” The way he says my name always results in me desperately trying to school my face. It is a concentrated exercise in willing myself not to blush and my heartbeat to slow, but having Rowan’s full attention simply isn’t a thing I’m used to yet.
Not that anyone could blame me. He looks especially handsome this morning.
The tall, clean-shaven white man with effortlessly chic, wavy brown hair has green eyes so piercing they should be licensed.
All of his features individually are irritatingly good-looking; put together, it feels targeted.
Then he hits you with that easy, full smile and, well, good luck.
“So what are we talking about, ladies?” His deep voice is relaxed as he drops into the free seat opposite Sarah, but his eyes always seem to know more than they let on.
“Svalbard,” Sarah responds, she isn’t quite exasperated, but the word carries the same weight of hopelessness I’ve started to feel about the situation myself.
“Ah.” An odd expression flickers on his face as he makes his way toward us.
Rowan had been the one to find the posting.
He’d presented it to me with forced neutrality, and I’d somehow almost convinced myself that, despite the curve of his lips and supportive words, his eyes were begging me to find a reason to say no.
I’d almost done it, too. If he’d asked me to stay for him, I might have.
But he didn’t, and I won’t be foolish enough to act on delusion, so here we are.
“It’s just four months.” Rowan echoes my own words with a tight smile.
Sarah rolls her eyes.
“Allegedly. I was just saying I kind of thought this trip might be Auburn moving on.”
The beat that follows is distinctly uncomfortable.
Sarah would never actually see it as me moving on professionally.
It would be viewed as far more personal.
She would see it as me moving on from her, and Rowan and the cozy life of board game nights and listening parties we’ve built together over the last year.
“Nope.” I lie, “Just a calculated retreat.”