The Mourning House Read online

  “Why was he trying to burn the place down?”

  “Son of a bitch was stark raving mad, is my guess. He came with us willingly enough—in fact, seemed more than happy to go—but we had to promise him we’d come back and knock the place down to the ground for him.” Kilstow rubbed one slender finger down the side of his nose. “Would’ve probably set the whole place ablaze had the fool’s kindling not been soggy from the rainy season.”

  “What was wrong with him?”

  “Hell, who could tell? Most homeless are schizophrenic, did you know that? They eat their hair, talk to themselves, piss their pants…if, of course, they’re wearing any.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He sobered up in the drunk tank overnight. Then we cut him loose.”

  “So he was just drunk?”

  Again, Kilstow shrugged. It seemed to be his signature move. “He was something.”

  Sam felt his eyes return to the house, tracing its frame, its mere presence. From his youth, he recalled the story of Goldilocks and knew without hesitation that this was the type of house that would be home to a family of fairytale bears. How did that fairytale end? Did they eat the little girl? He couldn’t remember.

  “Maybe you can put some lights out here at night, let folks know the place is occupied,” Kilstow went on. “Or at least keep the car visible in the driveway where it can be seen, and not around the back of the house or anything.”

  “That’s a good idea. I will.”

  “Where you from, anyway, Mr. Hatch?”

  “Pennsylvania.”

  “What brings you way out here to the Shore?”

  “Impulse.”

  Kilstow grunted what approximated a laugh. “Yeah,” he said, and glanced up at the turbulent sky. Thunder rumbled out over the water. When he turned back to Sam, that youthful smile was back on his face. “Well, then, I guess I’ll let you get back to it ’fore that storm hits.”

  “Thank you.”

  The rain came as Sam watched the cruiser glide back out toward the main road. Then he gathered up his tools from the yard, the cool rain feeling good on his tired, hot skin. Inside, he kicked off his muddy sneakers then toed open the cooler he’d shoved against one wall in the parlor, staring at the ceiling all the while. No time like the present to see if his repair job held. Anyway, there was nothing he could do about it now. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he twisted the cap off a Yuengling and waited for rainwater to come spilling through the cracks in the ceiling.

  When he awoke, darkness had its face pressed against the windows. He sat up off the floor, his neck and back aching. In his head, echoing like a distant shout, were the last few bars of “Old MacDonald.” He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. How long had he been out?

  Crawling to his feet, he winced at the tremor of pain in his back. His foot struck something in the darkness and his sock grew wet. He had dropped the half-finished beer bottle in his sleep.

  Outside, the rain came down in sheets. Drops of water fell from various spots on the ceiling and plinked to the floor where they had already formed little puddles.

  Sam trembled.

  He stumbled across the room to his backpack. He unzipped one of the compartments and fished around inside until he located the little plastic bottle of Ativan. Still trembling, he dry-swallowed a pill.

  What am I doing in this house?

  He looked around at the darkness, which was thick and impenetrable. Invisible things swirled in it.

  It was a different house at night. He had learned this last night, staring at it with eyes half-lidded while he reclined in the driver’s seat of the Volkswagen. Wholly unassuming in the daylight, the house had somehow become vast and rambling in the night. A shape-shifter. Again, he thought of optical illusions, of never-ending stairwells and the mathematically impossible prints of M.C. Escher. The longer he had stared at the house the more he swore the windows were repositioning themselves, the more he thought the roof bulged and humped on occasion as if something massive and oversized was walking around upstairs…

  Now, inside the place, he could feel the walls breathing all around him while the ghosts of his nightmares dug their claws in deeper.

  And then there it was: a soft musical tinkling emanating from somewhere in the room with him, a melody he had mistaken for a leftover part of his dream upon waking. It was a music box version of “Old MacDonald,” very faint but certainly real.

  Fear tightened a cold hand around his heart. His mouth went instantly dry. When he called out a hello, his voice echoed off the chamber-like walls and reverberated back at him. Then the sound died, leaving a tremendous silence in its wake.

  He spent the next twenty minutes searching the house, bottom to top and back down again. He could find no evidence of the source of the music, and began to convince himself that it had been a hallucination, that it had been nothing more than a side effect of the Ativan. In fact, he could suddenly feel the medication’s fuzzy calmness bleeding through him, fraying the sharpened tips of his nerves and milking the tense anxiety from his musculature. He closed his eyes and let his panic rise off him and dissipate like steam.

  5

  Eighteen months earlier, at the funeral, Paul and Katrina Shaw were ushered into the church and led directly down the aisle to the two caskets. The caskets were sleek white boxes wreathed in flowers. Both lids were closed. Paul Shaw touched the lid of each one while his wife, Katrina, wept audibly. Sam watched from the rear of the church. He hadn’t visited the coffins and he hadn’t spoken with the Shaws since the accident. Neither Paul nor Katrina looked at him as they left the church.

  Afterwards, people congregated at Geoffrey and Mary’s place in Chestnut Hill. It was a crowded affair. Snow fell from heavy clouds that scudded across a bleak, tin-colored sky. There were still Christmas decorations up, including the tree that had begun to sag and turn brown. Through the web of Sam’s fuzzy, drug-addled brain—he’d given himself a tranquilizer just before the funeral service—he began to grow confused, thinking the post-funeral gathering was actually the Fultons’ New Year’s party. At one point, he found himself standing in Geoffrey and Mary’s bedroom, staring blankly down at their bed and wondering where his coat had gone to.

  “Come back outside,” Geoffrey said, materializing beside him like a phantom. He put a hand on Sam’s back. “Do you want a drink or something?”

  Sam did not respond though he allowed Geoffrey to escort him back out into the main room and into the swarm of people.

  At some point, Paul and Katrina Shaw showed up. They looked quiet and dignified, their hair the color of the snowy midday sky, their faces ruddy and their eyes somber and reddened. Sam negotiated across the room and over to the lunchmeat buffet that clung to one wall, creating as much distance between him and the Shaws as the tiny townhouse would allow. He had never had a good relationship with Annie’s parents, particularly her father. (Paul Shaw vehemently disapproved of his only child running off to marry a man whom she had just recently met, who had no doubt amassed a large debt of medical school bills.) At one point, through the sea of people, Paul Shaw’s bleary eyes met Sam’s. As if watching a dream on playback, Sam saw the old man rise unsteadily from the folding chair where he’d been sitting, his necktie askew and the pleats in his suit pants ill-defined. Like the dorsal fin of a shark, Sam’s father-in-law cleaved through the crowd until he was breathing like a bull in Sam’s face. Sam could smell the man’s aftershave and, beneath that, the sour-sweet stench of sleepless nights. Sam found he could not recall who had made the phone call to the Shaws to tell them about the accident. It hadn’t been Sam.

  “You,” Paul breathed, and Sam studied the man’s face. His skin was crosshatched like an Italian loafer, his forehead faintly freckled. His silvery hair looked as fine as cobwebs. When he spoke, Sam could see that Paul Shaw’s teeth looked like tiny yellow pickets driven into the purpling bands of his gums. Silver fillings winked at him. “You did this. You took them both from m
e, you bastard.”

  Heads turned in their direction.

  “Tell me,” Annie’s father said, his ruddy cheeks quivering and his picket-like teeth clenched. Sam could make out a patch of fine white hairs along his chin where he’d overlooked when shaving. “Were you drunk? I want to know.”

  Sam just glared at him.

  “Tell me, you son of a bitch.” Spittle flew from Paul Shaw’s lips. By the way the old man’s hands shook, Sam could tell his father-in-law wanted to hit him. “I want to hear you say it!”

  Geoffrey hurried between them, saying, “Enough.”

  “Tell me!” Paul shouted at him over Geoffrey’s shoulder.

  “It’s already hard enough, Paul,” Geoffrey said quietly to Paul Shaw while the roomful of people looked on. Geoffrey put one hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Please.”

  Sam felt as if his head had become detached from his neck, and that it was floating somewhere just above the room like a balloon. He could see everyone, even himself. Colors began to bleed from the people and from items around the room, pooling in vibrant colors on the floor. Paintings dripped from the walls like Salvador Dalí clocks.

  “I want to hear you say it, you son of a bitch!” Paul shouted as Geoffrey attempted to maneuver the old man away from the buffet table. “Look what you did to my daughter! Look what you did to my baby granddaughter!”

  Slowly, Sam undid two buttons of his dress shirt then slid a carving knife from one of the meat trays across the buffet table in his father-in-law’s direction. Paul’s eyes darted to the knife then jumped back up to stare at Sam. Sam opened the part in his shirt and revealed his chest to the old man.

  “Please stop,” a woman whispered very close to Sam’s face. He thought that if he didn’t turn to look at the woman he could convince himself that she was Annie. Hi, Annie. He kept his eyes on Paul, who was being pushed back through the crowd by Geoffrey. “Please, Sam.”

  It was Mary Fulton, Geoffrey’s wife. Sam could smell her perfume and see the outline of her frizzy hair in the periphery of his vision. How had he mistaken her for his dead wife?

  “You’re making a spectacle,” she told him.

  Sam’s balloon-head laughed. Then he collapsed to the floor and the world went black.

  6

  By the third day, Sam Hatch began to wonder if he was alone in the house. The proof was subtle—a shoe misplaced; his carpentry tools set up in a slightly different fashion than he had left them; a single bottle cap driven straight into one wall, glinting out at him like a sightless eye. One afternoon, upon opening the front door, he was startled when a wedge of two-by-fours clattered through the doorway and slammed down through the threshold. Someone had laid them against the front door when he wasn’t looking. He had gathered up the boards and tossed them into the high weeds behind the house, only to find them stacked against the front door sometime later. He eventually carried them inside and wound up using them as molding around the base of the parlor walls.

  The county turned the water on, and on the morning of his fourth day, while beneath the spray of warmish water, Sam thought he heard sounds coming from the showerhead. They were distant, high-pitched, and erratic. He shut the water and listened, chilly and dripping in the stall, but could hear nothing. It seemed the sounds would only come when the water was on. The sounds unnerved him. They sounded like a child’s nonsensical babbling coming from the pipes.

  It occurred to him that he had been spending too much time in the house. Surely these strange occurrences were the products of his overwrought and stir-crazy mind. He decided to slip out for something to eat.

  Mindy’s was a quaint diner with 1970s paneling on the walls and vinyl upholstered booths that looked gummy and worn. He waited to be seated despite the utter vacancy of the place—he wondered just how good the food was for the place to be virtually empty at lunchtime—then was shuttled without ceremony to a booth at the back by a woman in a pink outfit and apron whose hairdo recalled Elsa Lanchester in The Bride of Frankenstein. Around a mouthful of chewing gum, she told him his waitress would be over momentarily, then slid a laminated menu across the table to him. He stared at the menu absently for what felt like an eternity before he sensed someone approaching the table.

  “Hi.” The waitress was young, tanned, pretty. The name tag above her left breast read KAREN. “What can I getcha?”

  He was aware that his hands were shaking so he stuffed them beneath the table and into his lap. “What do you recommend?”

  “Our milkshakes are the best in the county.”

  “Interesting. How are your eggs?”

  “Even better.”

  “I’ll have a plate of scrambled eggs and some toast.” Though just saying it caused his stomach to fist. “And a milkshake,” he added, causing the waitress to smile.

  She winked at him. “You got it.”

  Ten minutes later, when she returned with his food, she propped her hands on her hips and smiled more widely at him. “So…is it presumptuous of me to assume you’re the guy who’s living in that creepy old house off Tar Road?”

  “That’s me. Have you been spying?”

  She laughed musically. She was attractive and had nice teeth. “Hardly. My brother said he met you a few days ago.”

  “He did?”

  “He’s a cop,” she said.

  “Oh. Officer…Kilstow, was it?”

  “To me, he’s just Jake. Though when we were growing up, I had more, uh, choice names for him.”

  This made Sam return the woman’s smile. It felt like his face would crack.

  “What in the world are you doing out there in that house?” Then, the second the words were out of her mouth, her smile faded. “I’m sorry. Am I being rude?”

  “Not at all.” Beneath the table, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “Something about the house just called to me. I’ve got nothing but time on my hands so I figured I’d fix it up. A summer project.”

  “A summer project,” she repeated. “Do you actually sleep there?”

  “Sure.”

  “And it doesn’t creep you out?”

  “Why would it?”

  “Are you kidding? That place looks like it grew up from the ground straight from Hell.”

  “It’s just an old house. I guess I relate to it.”

  “You’re not old.”

  “Well, thanks.” He was forty-two but he wasn’t going to tell this woman that. If he had to guess, she was in her early twenties—no older than her police officer brother appeared to be. “Age is subjective, I guess.”

  “I’m Karen,” she said.

  “Sam Hatch.”

  “Well, you be careful in that house, Sam. It bites.”

  “Bites? As in it sucks, it’s a real bummer?”

  She leaned over the table—he could smell a combination of floral perfume and maple syrup coming off her—and pointed to a vague horseshoe-shaped scar on her bare forearm. Indeed, he thought he could make out the divots in the flesh that resembled the indentations of tiny teeth.

  “No,” she said. “Quite literally, it bites.”

  * * *

  It had been his intention to ask the waitress to clarify what she meant, but he found himself growing increasingly antsy in the booth waiting for her to return. Before she came back, he dumped a wad of cash on the table and hurried out into the daylight. He could feel something akin to nausea roiling around in his guts and hoped fresh air would do the trick. It didn’t. He trotted around to the back of the diner and vomited into the bushes. His skin was blistered with sweat and his heart was strumming like a banjo. Like a sudden panic attack, he felt the overwhelming urge to return back to the house.

  7

  He began to regain his composure the second he pulled the VW onto the gravel drive that led to the house. It was an eerie calm that overtook him, but he welcomed it, desperate for its soothing qualities. He’d popped a Xanax on the drive back, but it didn’t seem to be taking hold just yet.

  He parked the VW o
ut front, just like Officer Kilstow had recommended. Before going inside, he stood in the yard momentarily staring up at the house. He felt the Xanax begin to numb him.

  Inside, he was aware that some of his tools and personal items had been slightly rearranged. His bedroll was positioned differently than he’d left it. Across the room, a hammer and a screwdriver were crossed in an X over each other on the first step of the staircase. He proceeded to go to the stairs but nearly sent himself sprawling across the floor as the toe of his boot snagged on a warped floorboard. He paused and examined the floor. One of the planks had risen about a half inch at one corner. He stepped down on it, pressing it back into place, and the wood groaned in protest. When he lifted his foot off, it sprung back up again.

  This was a mistake. What the hell am I doing here?

  It wasn’t just the question that bothered him, it was his lack of a suitable answer. The notion of fleeing the house and not looking back sent a tremor up his spine. His hands began to shake. His mouth went dry, his tongue nothing more than a dead fish. He dropped to his knees and pressed a finger against the upturned corner. It squealed and seesawed.

  The sound of a distant dog barking caused him to spring upright, his heart slamming against the wall of his chest. He hadn’t realized just how on edge he’d been until that moment. The dog barked a second time—a dull, muted sound. Sam went to one of the grimy windows and looked out. In every direction he could see, the fields were empty. He could see the old church in the distance, and the falcons wheeling in the cloudless sky. He could see no dog.