CHAPTER ONE #3
Still, I leave it nestled between an anatomy tome and a book about plants on the dining room table.
Not a single photo of family in sight as I loop my way back towards the front of the house. Not even Aunt Laura’s own kids. Part of me is relieved I came and not them. I can’t imagine how hurt I would be to find out my mom couldn’t be bothered to hang up a single picture of me.
But had plenty of space for a woman getting her chest cavity cracked open while a creature with horns and a reptilian tongue fucks her.
Still, the house is remarkably clean. Dusty, sure, but that’s understandable given no one’s stepped foot inside since they took her away.
Aunt Laura must have cleared away the mountains of trash I remember seeing the last time I was here.
The towers of old newspapers, the baskets of random journals and jars, tattered trash bags stuffed with filthy rags.
Still, none of that holds a candle to the infestation of creepy crawlies I remember the time we visited when I was nine. The scurrying roaches sneaking between the boxes.
The millipedes.
The spiders and ants.
The rats.
That single visit had been a core memory for me for years, a firm drive to never become like that.
Part of me can’t help wondering if that was Mom’s subtle way of teaching me to keep my room clean. If so, the plan worked because I can’t stand clutter or chaos to this day.
The columns of filthy dishes, the crusty pots and pans are gone from the kitchen. The counter space gleams beneath the dust to match the polished hardwood floors.
I can’t even spot a single cobweb in the corners.
Ignoring the door I know goes to the basement — because I’m not dumb enough to wander down there at nighttime alone — I pick my way upstairs.
I pause on the landing and follow the shadows filling the corridor to the row of doors leading all the way to the end. I wasn’t allowed up here as a kid and the newness of it has me pausing to collect my bearings.
Obviously, it’s the bedrooms, which means Aunt Laura’s room is behind one of the closed barricades.
Finding it isn’t nearly as concerning as the realization that .
.. there are no lights when there should be.
I saw it from outside. One of these doors should have a faint splinter coming from the bottom.
Unless someone’s inside the house and I scared them when I came in.
I take a slow, calming breath.
At best, it’s a homeless person trying to get out of the storm. I can understand that. At worst, it’s an axe murderer on the run and he’s going to kill me to keep me from calling the cops.
Realistically, neither option is great, but I pray for a homeless person as I creep closer.
The first door is a linen closet packed full of soft, fluffy towels.
The second door is a small bathroom that holds the lingering scent of baby powder. A scent I actually like.
I hesitate at the third door. I highly doubt it’s going to be another closet or bathroom. The remaining four have to be bedrooms. The whole thing makes me think of that game with the gun and single bullet.
Any second, I’m going to open the wrong door and get blasted.
Somewhere below, a clock strikes a single, terrifying bong that nearly has me wetting myself. The pen in my hand clatters to the floor and rolls into a puddle of shadows. Vanishing entirely.
“Shit!” I gasp, clutching my chest.
Annoyed and still shaken, I face the door, more determined than ever to hit whoever jumps out at me.
The third door is a bedroom, dark and empty. It overlooks the backyard so I know this isn’t it.
The fourth door is a series of stairs leading up to, I’m guessing, the attic.
I will not be going up there.
The fifth door is another bedroom, leaving only one to go. The main one. Aunt Laura’s room.
All the adrenaline I had after my scare vanishes as I approach it. I know it’s in my head, but every step feels like I’m running in a dream. Moving, but making no progress while the hallway extends into miles.
I reach the door after what feels like hours. My gaze travels down to the crack at the bottom and the absence of light.
Had I imagined it? Had it been a trick of my headlights reflecting...?
No. I saw the glow from the highway. I didn’t imagine that.
I swallow and the sound is like a bomb going off between my ears.
Lord, I pray silently, please let it only just be a putrid smell and not Aunt Laura’s ghost...
My eyes snap open as a new fear is unlocked.
Forget axe murderers. What if Aunt Laura is still haunting her old bedroom, waiting for an idiot to stumble in so she can possess them and...?
“Okay, calm down,” I tell myself with zero conviction. “Ghosts aren’t real.”
But I feel if anyone would demand a second chance at life, it would be Aunt Laura.
Biting back a whimper, I reach for the knob, ignore the icy bite of it in my palm and twist.
No smell.
It’s the first thankful thought that passes through my fuzzy brain, followed by a deep and alarming scream when boney, pale fingers tap against the window directly across from me.
My hand flies to the light switch and I smack it on.
Light floods the space, chases away the pool of darkness.
I am surrounded by a neatly kept room with dark, mahogany furniture, a bed I would have killed for as a child and a wardrobe that definitely leads to Narnia.
But I’m sprinting for the window and the escalation of the storm now howling with vengeance and slamming into the side of the house.
A branch sways and smacks into the glass. It shivers and twitches, clawing at the sill as if begging to be let in.
“Holy,” I exhale, gripping my chest and glowering at the offending culprit.
With no ghostly apparition to distract me, I confront the room and stare at the bed with its ornate posts, enormous headboard carved with winding vines and chunky foliage and wide canopy overhead. Sheer drapes the deep purple of ripe grapes are swept and pinned to the posts in dramatic arches.
Across the ocean of mattress, the sheets are crisp. Clean. The covers are a thick velvet pulled back just enough to invite a person to sink into the mountain of pillows.
If this is where Aunt Laura died and rotted, someone definitely changed out the sheets. Possibly the whole mattress. And I doubt it was a homeless person.
Unless Mom got her information wrong and she didn’t die in the house. It’s the only explanation because I’ve been nearly everywhere and there isn’t a single odor.
Feeling less crazy, I return to the hall to find my pen.
With it and my pad back in my hands, I go through each room and document the items. On my way to the stairs, I add a secondary note under the bed in Aunt Laura’s room — claimed, because that baby is mine now.
I will fight whoever I have to for it, and seeing as I’m the only person here, I think I earned it.
I’m making notes of the torn clippings pinned behind sheets of glass along the narrow hallway on the main floor when I notice the clock. I stare a long moment, brain fumbling, trying to fathom how I missed it when it’s directly across from the front door.
It’s beautiful. Tall with ornate craftsmanship across the top and fine, swirling patterns in the glass. It’s a delicately crafted piece of rich, polished oak and gleaming gold hands that extend over the six.
But it’s the face that has me drifting closer.
The open window peeks through into the cogs and wires. The steady flick and tick of shiny pieces that almost look out of sync. Like nothing is moving the way it should. Or maybe it is. I’m not a clock expert.
Below, behind a sheet of pristine glass, two pendulums swing in crisp uniformity. Their methodical precision is almost hypnotic, luring me to simply stand in the hallway and watch time pass.
But I blink and turn my focus to the pad. I jot the existence of the clock down and write my name next to it. Then scribble it out.
Mom would kill me if this thing goes off when she’s sleeping and wakes her up. As a night nurse at the hospital, she doesn’t take it well when she’s woken up for no reason.
I, on the other hand, have no such issue. As a Data Entry Specialist for an e-commerce company, I get to sit at home in my pajamas all day and manage product catalogs and track inventory from my parent’s basement. Not exactly glamorous, but I enjoy it.
At twenty-seven, people immediately assume I should have my own apartment, and I did, but after Dad’s stroke a few years back that left him numb on one side of his body and made to heavily rely on a wheelchair, I hate the idea of leaving him alone when Mom goes to work.
He says I’m being silly, but I’d rather be overcautious than get that call again.
Plus, with Dad out of work and Mom working around the clock trying to afford the bills, I want to help. Two paychecks make things easier for everyone.
Leaving behind the grandfather clock, I slip into the living room.
I inventory the weird little knickknacks.
The tiny demon figurines. A shriveled monkey paw.
The random collection of animal skulls. Human skulls — fake .
.. I think. The jars of brittle herbs, flowers, and .
.. teeth? Not all human shaped. Some are long and curved.
Sharp and yellow. Some are tiny. Like baby teeth.
What the hell was Aunt Laura into?
I dust off the hand that touched a tiny, doll shaped thing made of human hair on my pants before hurrying to the bookcase.
“Gah, so gross,” I groan.
The case built directly into the wall is stuffed with the same type of books I’ve been finding all across the house.
Anatomy. Plants I’ve never heard of. Rituals and occult histories and ... even spell books that should be in a museum. There are a few journals with neat, looping ink — dark brown — and pressed flowers, herbs. A few pages contain bits of hair.
A baggie of nail clippings and something that could be a patch of dried skin.
I touch nothing.