Chapter 3 #2
The entrance opens into a large living room with a fireplace on the far wall and a staircase leading up to the second floor tucked away in the left corner.
Beside the stairs, I can see through a doorway into what looks like a dining room, judging by the old gas lamp–style chandelier that hangs from the ceiling.
Though the air smells musty and feels a little dank, the house is empty, and the wood floors look like they were recently swept clean.
Mom crosses to one of the windows that overlooks the front yard and heaves it open. “I was thinking we could replace that old rocker with two of the Cracker Barrel ones you love so much.” She nods at the porch. “We could read out there all summer.”
With the fresh air seeping in and the lights casting everything in a buttery glow, the task of fixing this place up feels a little less impossible than it did out by the car.
Sure, the floors need refinishing, and the wallpaper is hideous and peeling, and the fixtures look centuries old, but we can handle all that.
There aren’t any beer bottles or food wrappers littering the floor.
The walls are free of graffiti. I don’t see any bugs or dead animals.
If you’d told me this place had been frozen in time for the past fifty years, I’d believe you.
“I could crochet out there.” I set down the box and join Mom by the window.
She smiles. “I’d love a hat.”
“I saw a few cool sweater patterns online…”
My mother’s eyes brighten, like she can see that I’m trying.
I do my best not to show that every optimistic word I say is sand grinding between my teeth.
Right now, I should be cruising around with Taylor in her new Jeep, top down, sun on our faces, music blaring, while I stop the mini plastic ducks she’s been collecting for months from spilling off her dashboard onto the road.
Bitterness rises in my throat, but I swallow it back down. That’s not my reality anymore and dwelling on it isn’t going to make this any easier.
Mom stands up straight and wipes dust off the seat of her jeans. “Want to explore?”
I shrug. Moving away from the front door feels like I’m surrendering, like stepping deeper into the house will solidify it, make this real. My new life.
In Harlow’s Rest’s “haunted” house.
Over the next hour, we unpack the essentials from our Honda Pilot and do our best to settle in.
Neither of us has the energy to venture upstairs, but we wander the first floor, learning the layout and figuring out some temporary living arrangements.
“Amity, look! Another fireplace,” my mother calls from the kitchen.
When I find her, she is standing in the middle of the enormous space, turning in a circle like a kid on a playground trying to make themself dizzy.
“The seller was telling me that the kitchen is where the last owner made the most renovations. They knocked out the back wall.” She points to the big bay windows in front of us that look out over the sea of dead grass that is our backyard.
I make a mental note: Get riding lawnmower.
“And extended the house, and then added the den and bathroom.” This time she waves to the two closed doors to our left.
“I guess they had planned to build out the second story too but didn’t get to it before they moved. ”
“Why did they move?” The guy from the video had all but said that ghosts scared every owner away.
Mom frowns, then shakes her head. “Why does anyone move? Life. Shit happens…” Something dark passes over her face, and I instantly feel guilty. Of course this is making her think of Dad.
I quickly change the subject. “What if we paint this white?” I head over to the fireplace.
It’s built into the wall with no mantel, similar to ones I’ve seen people cook at in historical movies.
“We could make it decorative, with flowers and stuff.” I glance at my mother.
“You know, assuming this place has actual heat.”
She rolls her eyes. “And AC.”
I run my fingers over some of the stone and it crumbles beneath my finger and drifts toward the floor.
Pulling out my phone, I snap a photo of the fireplace, as well as one of the view from the window onto the backyard.
It’s a good angle, capturing not only the stretch of yellow grass but also the rickety fence that alone stands guard between our house and the dense woods that pen us in on all sides.
Though it’s only midafternoon, shadows creep among the wind-whipped branches of the trees, oozing and crawling like something living.
I send the photos with a quick message to Taylor, letting her know we’ve arrived.
Reluctantly, I text my father too. But he doesn’t get the photos. Just a quick we made it. He sends a thumbs-up emoji in response. I watch my screen for a few more seconds to see if he’ll say anything else.
He doesn’t. I jam my phone back in my pocket. I shouldn’t be surprised, but my stomach feels sour and heavy all the same. Shouldn’t he want to know how the drive was? Or where we’re staying?
Shaking my head, I wander over to inspect the bathroom. The door sticks for a second when I turn the knob, and there’s a creak as I push it open.
A relieved sigh whooshes out of me as soon as I flip on the light, revealing a clean, relatively modern bathroom.
“That was dramatic.” Mom laughs.
“I was afraid we’d have to use an outhouse and shower in the barn or something.”
“Do you actually think I would do that to you?”
She’s not going to want to hear my answer to that, so I stay quiet.
The bathroom is not as big as the rest of the rooms on this floor, but it’s got a shower/tub combo that, from the sharp smell of bleach, was scrubbed down at some point in the recent past.
I tap the tub with my foot. It’s a vibrant shade of antacid pink. “This is a…choice.”
Mom snorts. “We will get it reglazed.”
I flush the toilet, then turn on the water in the sink and tub. Everything seems to work. The water even warms up quickly. Nothing is spewing blood or ectoplasm or whatever haunted houses are supposed to do. Sorry, YouTube Ghost Guy.
Mom hooks her arm in mine and guides me to the other door. It opens into a small, almost cozy room. The paint looks new. Even the pure-white baseboards.
“I thought this could be your room until we get the upstairs fixed up,” she says.
I face her. “What about you?” While every room is walled off except for a doorway, this is the only one (besides the bathroom) that actually has a door.
“I’ll be fine in the living room.”
“You should have your own space. For work and stuff,” I insist.
She waves me off. “I can work anywhere. Plus, I have an office on campus. I know how important it is for you to be able to take a break and have alone time. This gives you that.”
My muscles uncord beneath my shoulders. I can never hold on to anger when it comes to my mother. Especially when she does stuff like this. She is thoughtful and generous to a fault.
Which reminds me that she never would have uprooted us like this if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
“Can I choose the paint color?” I ask with as much excitement as I can muster.