Chapter 8
As Dylan approached the house, he felt a strange sensation buzzing down his spine. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it intensified with each step. The wind picked up as he turned the corner to leave the town’s businesses behind, heading into the historic residential area. Many of the surrounding houses had been around for over a hundred years, and the Coates house was no exception. He had no idea how old the house was, but if what he had heard growing up was true, it might even be the oldest house in town. It was well known that the Coates family lived in Indigo Creek before anyone else, and before anyone called it that.
He crossed the last street, leaving the sidewalk behind. Past this point, Homer owned a large swathe of land. His brow furrowed as realization set in and he thought, I guess I own it now.
He sighed, not wanting his brain to go down a rabbit hole of anxiety around what that would mean, considering he swore he would never live anywhere near Indigo Creek again. He wondered if he should have taken his mother up on her offer to liquidate the estate and use any leftover funds to finance a move to New York, and had almost decided to turn around and head back into town when his phone buzzed in his pocket. His head shook as he read the message.
Picking up mom and Tinah. Be there in a minute. Didn’t want you to think I wasn’t coming to help.
Dylan shrugged and continued walking, keeping an eye out for oncoming traffic. The road was quiet, but he didn’t want to end up dead on the side of the road. After what seemed like an eternity, he started up the short driveway to the house. It seemed to be in decent condition. He never knew if Homer had money to keep it up, but from the outside at least, it appeared he had. It was recently painted, a nondescript gray color contrasted with the colorful exterior he would’ve expected from the large Victorian home. He cocked his head to the side and thought. Is it Victorian? I’m no architect. I’ll have to ask mom later.
He continued up the path when a tiny voice called to him from behind.
“Hey mister? You might not want to go to that house. It’s haunted and the old man who lives there is mean. I think he killed someone or something. There were a lot of cops and an ambulance up there yesterday.”
Dylan turned to see a small boy crouching in the yard across the street. He smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, another voice came from the house behind the boy.
“Michael! Get back here! What did I tell you about talking to strangers?”
The boy’s head jerked around and he ran to the house, waving his arms wildly as he spoke to the woman who had called to him. Dylan waved at her, trying to be friendly. She glared at him, dragged the boy inside, and slammed the door. The wind carried muffled yelling to Dylan’s ears, but he couldn’t make out anything. He shrugged and headed back up the path, noting the lack of furniture on the front porch. He’d heard Homer was a private man, and assumed if he spent time sitting outside, it might have been in the back. Making a mental note to check the back porch first thing, he walked up the steps and fished in his pocket to find the key.
As he walked through the front entry, Dylan was taken aback by how empty everything seemed to be. The interior was immaculate, though spartan. He made his way out back and found no chairs there, either. He wondered if Homer ever had company. His grandmother and mother both always entertained guests (if you could call it that) on the porch, as long as the weather was nice. He shook his head and wandered from room to room. Most of them were relatively empty, with a few antiques here and there, but nothing to suggest the house was lived in.
Dylan heard the crunch of tires on the gravel drive and peeked out to confirm it was his mother before heading up the stairs. He hadn’t seen an office or study or desk of any kind. He sighed as he mounted the first step, hoping to find whatever Mr. Miller had thought was so important.