4. Donna
FOUR
Donna
WHAT LARS BEQUEATHED
Five minutes until I arrive at the farmhouse, according to my GPS. More like four minutes until I get to the stretch where the GPS will lose its shit and I’ll probably lose cell phone service and then some guy in a mask will walk out to the middle of the deserted road, force me to stop my car, and stab me to death.
Oooh—a pumpkin patch!
I should stop by there on my way home if I don’t get murdered.
For the forty-odd minutes I’ve been driving so far, I’ve been thinking of all the reasons why I should just try to sell the Olander farmhouse. The six acres of land is worth more than the eighty-year-old house, so it doesn’t really make sense to fix it up before selling it anyway. And it certainly doesn’t make sense for me to live on a huge remote property all by myself. Especially when I’d have to drive forty-five minutes to and from work.
Except Middleborough is so nice and the historic downtown is so quaint and I have such a clear vision of what the house could be.
And even if I only came out here two days a week when I have time off, it would be worth it to keep it.
And I could never afford this kind of secluded property on a nurse’s salary, no matter how long I save for. This is an incredible gift.
That property meant a lot to Lars, and it means a lot to me that he wanted me to have it.
Except now I have to pay rent on my apartment and the property taxes on this place because he left all of his money to charities.
And there’s something about that house that’s creepy as fuck.
But I refuse to be scared of anything.
I can do this.
I should really be sleeping on my day off, but I think I can get tons of cleaning done this time, then be out of there an hour before the sun starts to go down.
I turn onto the tree-lined road that leads to the lane that leads to the house that Lars built. The trees form a lovely canopy over the two-lane road, and it’s really very peaceful. As long as there aren’t any mask-wearing, axe-wielding murderers around.
But just in case, I call my friend Chelsea. It rings once. Twice. “Come on—pick up, pick up, pick up.” She should be at her desk at the office.
She answers before the fourth ring. “Why aren’t you asleep right now?”
“Oh, thank God.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m definitely not scared. Just don’t hang up.”
“Oh no. Are you goin’ to that Bulgarian lady for a bikini wax again?”
That makes me laugh. “No. Never again. I’m going to the house in Middleborough.”
“Ohhhhh. You mean your house? The one Lars left you in his will?” Chelsea is the coordinator for the home health-care agency I work for, so she knows all about Lars. She’s actually the one who assigned me to him a year and a half ago.
“Sort of. He had his lawyer create a trust for me so it wouldn’t have to go through probate.”
“Nice. I thought you said you ran outta there last time.”
“Yeah, I think I just got there too late in the day. When the weather was bad. And it’s just a drafty old house that creaks and moans, you know? For normal old-house reasons. But I got spooked. And the weather’s nice today, so I figured I’d give it another shot.” I slow down to turn onto the lane that leads to the property. I can’t help but sigh. It’s so pretty. Just a symphony of fall colors and the morning light hitting the water of the pond—my very own pond! “Oh my God, Chels, I can’t wait for you to see this place. The cranberry bog. It’s so beautiful. I mean, it’s surreal. But it’s really beautiful.”
“That reminds me, I gotta buy cranberry juice. I feel a UTI comin’ on.”
“Save your money—I can make you some!” I park my car in the driveway in front of the house. There’s a detached garage that I haven’t even looked inside yet. Popping in my earbuds, I open the car door, marveling at how still and quiet it is. I instantly feel ridiculous about being so scared the last time I was here. It’s so peaceful and wonderful. “You still there?”
“Yeah. I’m mainlinin’ coffee and replyin’ to five thousand emails. Keep talkin’. You at the house? Shoot me a picture.”
I do. I take a few steps back to get the entire two-story Colonial revival house in frame, with its wraparound porch and the shutters and the brick chimneys that extend from the ground past the roof on both sides of the house. “You can tell it was wonderful when it was first built in the late 1940s,” I tell her before texting the picture to her.
She’s quiet for way too long and then says, “Joel knows a really good but somewhat shady Realtor who could sell a pile of dirt to a prince. I’ll grab you his contact info. ”
“I mean, it needs some work—obviously it hasn’t been lived in for decades. Lars said he hired people to update things back in the early seventies so he could rent the place out, but they never finished the job. Like, everyone he hired would just stop working there after about a week. ‘Damn hippies,’ he said. ‘No work ethic.’ So he took it as a sign that he should be more picky about who lives here. And I guess I’m the only one he picked. But it could be so perfect. Right? It has good bones. If you saw this on Fixer Upper you would be like, I cannot wait to see what Chip and Joanna do with that place .”
“Okay, honey, okay. What’s that shadow in the upstairs window?!”
“What?!” My heart is suddenly in my throat as I look up at the upstairs windows.
“Just kiddin’. I’m fuckin’ with you.”
I exhale loudly, my pulse still racing. “That is really not cool.”
I scan the entire area, turning on my heels because I have the strangest feeling I’m being watched.
A crow caws overhead, and I almost scream, then laugh at myself for being so jumpy.
Okay, there’s a little bit of mist rolling in, so that changes the atmosphere a little bit, but it’s still sunny. I face death on a regular basis at work. What do I have to be afraid of ?
I walk up the steps to the porch and fumble with my keys.
“Why didn’t Lars sell the farmhouse a long time ago if he was living in a townhouse in Charlestown? Also why didn’t he leave you the townhouse in Charlestown?”
“Because he was renting it.” Opening the front door, I peer inside before entering. The air seems…stale? Heavy? Sad? Obviously that’s just my imagination. Air can’t be sad. It just needs to circulate. I step inside the vestibule, leaving the door open—to air the place out. “He, uh, Lars had the farmhouse built for his wife when they got married back in the late 1940s.”
I open the interior door to the front hall. I definitely don’t remember shutting this door on my way out last time, but of course it would close on its own if there are drafts. See? Logic. There’s a logical explanation for everything.
“It’s really sad, actually,” I continue as I look up the staircase in the middle of the center hall. The last time I was up there in the master bedroom I thought I heard someone crying and whispering, and that was when I bolted out of here. But it was probably just a breeze.
“Lars and his wife were young and in love, and he bought the property with a cranberry bog thinking they’d harvest cranberries, have a working farm, and raise a family here. He said his wife loved it so much and it was the happiest he’d ever seen her.” The hardwood floor creaks with every step I take. I go into the dining room to open the windows. “But then his wife got pneumonia and died after living here for only a matter of months. Lars was too sad to live here without her, and he could never bring himself to sell the place.” I struggle with the window, which seems to be painted shut. “He hired people to maintain and harvest the cranberry bog, but nobody’s been living in the house and he hadn’t been back here in decades.”
The two front doors slam shut in quick succession, and I spin around, my heart racing even faster than it did when I heard the crow. “Holy shit!”
“What happened?!”
But of course the doors slammed shut. I didn’t prop them open. I hesitantly make my way back to the front hall. Nothing to see here, except for a closed door. Shaking my head, I cross the hall to the living room to try opening some windows in there.
“Nothing. Just a light breeze. It was nothing.”
“ Ohhh-kaaayyyy. So did Lars ever remarry?” Chelsea asks.
“No. Never met anyone he cared about as much as her.”
“Until he met yoooouuuu ,” she says in a hushed voice.
“He cared about me like a granddaughter, Chelsea.” I don’t tell her that when he told me he wanted the property to pass to me he mentioned it was situated near Assawompset Pond, so it made sense for me to live there. I try not to read into that. Ever. “He was a sweet, lonely old man with no family, and I liked him.”
These living room windows are easier to open. Heavy and a bit sticky, but I can lift them open. I run my fingertips along the molding around the big window. It’s dusty, but everything here seems solid. It just needs to be lived in. And brought into this century.
I notice that I have goose bumps on my forearms and that reminds me to turn up the heat. As I pass through the room to adjust the thermostat, I remember there is no thermostat. Because this house was built in the late 1940s. I brought a space heater with me last time. I think I left it upstairs in the bedroom.
“It is sweet that he was your buddy,” Chelsea says. “Oh shit, I almost forgot! Joel finally has a new guy working in his office who’s recently divorced and kinda cute and probably not a creep. You gotta come to dinner with us—we’ll do a double date.”
“I don’t date, Chels, you know that.”
“Still?”
I freeze when I hear the floor creak upstairs.
I think.
Did I? It could have been the floor creaking beneath my feet, and it just sounded like it came from upstairs. Or there’s probably mice and who knows what other kinds of critters living in the attic. They’re probably super cute, like Disney cartoon animals, who are more scared of me than I am of them. We could peacefully coexist, and they’ll sing to me while helping me clean and get me dressed for a Halloween ball.
“Babe, it’s been, like, two years since Trevor…” She doesn’t finish that sentence because the sentence would end with dumped you and moved to Florida after you left Philly to go to the same college as him. Or something along those lines.
“It has nothing to do with Trevor,” I say with a tremor in my voice. “I just don’t have time to date.”
“Ohhhh, I see why you like that house. It reminds you of your neglected, cobwebby vulva.”
“Actually, my vulva is very well tended to, thank you so much.”
“By what?”
“By my no-strings guy.” With a deep, shaky breath, I gather my courage and head for the stairs.
“What no-strings guy?”
“My neighbor. I told you. We’ve had this thing for well over a year now.”
“Wait, not the neighbor you were always complaining about when you first moved to that apartment? The one who’d blast Chumbawamba late at night?”
“Yeah. That one. But he’s changed a lot. Now he uses headphones to listen to that song. ”
“Well, I don’t like you being out there by yourself, and I can’t leave work. I’d send Joel over, but he’s at work too. Why don’t you call your friendly neighbor to come help you, Donna? He sounds like the kind of guy who doesn’t have regular office hours. Someone who can help you get back up again when you get knocked down…”
That makes me laugh again. “Accurate. But that would be breaking the no-strings rule. We have a pact about this kind of thing. It’s just sex. We don’t get involved in each other’s personal lives. And I don’t need help. It’s just a house. I’m just going to do some cleaning. I can handle it all by myself. You get back to work. I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me.”
“You text me when you leave and when you get home, and you call me if you need to talk again, okay? I’ve got an admin mess or five to clean up over here. Love ya.”
“Love you—bye.”
I feel better now. The very thought of calling Billy for anything other than a sex or party emergency is hilarious. Although I can’t get over the fact that he actually fixed my dishwasher last night. And covered me with a blanket. That was pretty sweet. But I know he went out after that, so it’s not like it meant anything to him. And that’s fine. That’s the deal. He gets it.
I remove the earbuds from my ears and drop them into my shoulder bag. Now the house seems excruciatingly quiet. Expectant. Almost like it’s anxiously listening for a response from me…
Which is also hilarious because houses don’t have ears.
Ignoring the flutter of anxiety in my chest, I take one step up the staircase and wait. For what, I don’t even know, but nothing happens. Nothing creaks. No hellmouth appears, swallowing me up and trapping me in the basement. Two more steps up and I stop in my tracks because I hear something that sounds an awful lot like an exasperated sigh. But it’s probably steam seeping out of a pipe.
This is beyond ridiculous.
But I go out to my car to arm myself with a crowbar, just in case.
“Nut up, Fischer,” I say to myself as I ascend the stairs again, pride and curiosity winning the battle against apprehension. “I’m coming upstairs and I have a weapon!” I call out, hopefully just to some rodents and a leaky radiator.
Reaching the second-floor hallway, I am astutely aware of my elevated blood pressure and each and every hair that is standing up on the back of my neck. This terrible cocktail of excitement and trepidation feels very much like my reaction every time I’ve thought about the possibility of dating again ever since Trevor left. I am certainly not ready to face a serious relationship yet. But I am going to be the boss of this house, and it starts with returning to the master bedroom.
The bedroom door is closed. I don’t remember closing it when I ran out last time, but again, why wouldn’t it close on its own if this house is so drafty?
I have to pause when I’m a foot away from the door because I hear that sound again, more like a moan.
Definitely an old house sound.
I reach for the doorknob, but just as I do, the door pops open on its own.
And all I can hear is my own screams.