Текст книги "Within These Walls"

Автор книги: Ania Ahlborn

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

CASE NOTES—REDWOOD PARANORMAL

DATE: October 7, 1986

INVESTIGATOR: Judith Depley, Conrad Milton

RESIDENTS: Michael (35) and Janice Clayton (28), Sam Clayton (5)

ADDRESS: 101 Montlake Road, Pier Pointe, Washington

RP received a call from homeowner Janice Clayton on 10/3 complaining of possible poltergeist activity. Homeowner reports hearing voices, items being moved. Sam Clayton, age five, isn’t sleeping—a condition both parents insist only developed after their move into the home this past July. RP entered the home on 10/7 at approximately 8:00 PM. Investigative session lasted from approximately 8:30 PM–2:45 AM. RP ran full EVP, EMF, and temperature scan. No EVP or fluctuations recorded. No evidence on photography stills. Neither investigator received any physical feedback. One glimmer of conceivable evidence: a faint scent, possibly vanilla or almond. However, homeowners have many scented candles throughout the home. Could not rule out environmental contamination. Homeowners have decided not to pursue further investigations—potentially moving away from the property.

FINAL RESULT: Inconclusive

ADDITIONAL NOTES: Home was the scene of the Halcomb cult murder/suicide of 1983. We had our fingers crossed on this one, but are relatively confident that the property is not haunted.

J Depley

11

Wednesday, February 17, 1982

One Year, Three Weeks, Four Days Before the Sacrament

EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED.

The house, which had once been quiet save for the subtle murmur of the television and the patter of rain, was now boisterous and happy, redolent of exotic incense burned by Gypsy on a constant loop. From patchouli to amber to pine, the entire place smelled of a Moroccan bazaar. When Avis (Audra?—she wasn’t sure what to call herself anymore) asked why Gypsy drifted from room to room with tendrils of smoke trailing her every move, Lily explained it was a cleansing ritual to rid the place of bad thoughts and ugly feelings. “Energy and emotion can get trapped in a place,” she said. If that was true, Avis was certain the house was noxious with her own resentment. It would be a wonder if there was enough incense in all of Pier Pointe to wipe it away.

The ever-kinetic Kenzie proved to be as addicted to Avis’s record player as Gypsy was to purification. Avis hadn’t marked a single moment of silence since Deacon and his friends had stumbled out of the wind and through the front door. If it wasn’t Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd, then it was Rush or Lynyrd Skynyrd or the Doors. Despite her slow-mounting exhaustion from the onslaught of noise, she didn’t dare ask for quiet. She was trying to adapt, to grow into her new skin and her freshly given name. If she had to give up the silence for Jeff to grant her a new life, so be it. She’d listen to those records forever if Deacon’s promise of euphoria was upheld.

She hadn’t heard her birth name uttered even once since the night Jeffrey stepped into the house and took her breath away. And while she wasn’t sure, it seemed to her that, over time, Jeff had given everyone their rightful name just as nonchalantly. Clover, Gypsy, Sunnie, even Noah and Deacon; the names struck her as ones that had been gifted rather than mandated by parents—people that were clearly no longer part of their lives. As far as Avis could make out, Jeffrey’s renaming was as much a convention as Gypsy’s smoke. It was a way to purge the soul of its past life and welcome it into its newfound family. Somehow, “Avis” felt right, like the name she should have had all along. As though, maybe, the fact that she had been born mislabeled had somehow contributed to a less-than-happy life.

Even Maggie noticed a change. “You sound different,” she had said during their phone call the day before. “Did you go back to the beach? You did, didn’t you? You saw that hot Tom Selleck look-alike again.”

If Maggie thought Deacon was good-looking, she had no idea. Next to Jeffrey, Deacon was ordinary, nothing but a guy with shiny mother-of-pearl buttons and a pair of scuffed-up cowboy boots. But Avis held her tongue, keeping her new living situation a secret from the girl who had, up until recently, been her only friend. It was that very evasiveness that had her skittering to the window when a pair of headlights slashed across the window glass.

Jeffrey was sitting on the couch with Clover and Gypsy at his feet when the light cut across the living room wall. They were watching a random TV show Kenzie had found in the TV Guide. Kenzie—the sultan of music—was also the one who picked out the evening’s entertainment. He chose the shows, was in charge of the volume knob, and never once let the TV rest on something as boring as the local news.

For a second, Avis convinced herself of the worst: those headlights probably belonged to her father. In the two years she’d been living on her own, he’d checked up on her only once. But maybe he’d gotten a wild hair. Perhaps something had compelled him to make the drive down from Seattle. And now he’d find a house—his house—full of peace-preaching hippies, the type of people he swore were screwing up the world.

Trying to keep her sudden bout of anxiety under wraps, Avis nudged the window curtain aside, wondering what the hell she’d do if it was her old man. But the whoosh of her pulse settled, if only by a beat, when, instead of her father’s white Cadillac, she spotted Maggie’s old Volvo parked in the driveway.

Maggie sauntered up the drive in a pair of bell-bottom jeans, avoiding rain puddles as not to soil her platform sandals. She did this while balancing a Saran-wrapped plate in her right hand. Avis opened the door before she had a chance to ring the bell.

“Audra,” Maggie said.

“Maggie.” Avis gave her a weary smile. “Hey, I . . .” Hesitation. “I wasn’t expecting you. You should have called. Where’s Eloise?”

“At my mother’s. And since when do I need to call before coming over?” Maggie peered over Avis’s shoulder and into the living room, then crushed the plate of what looked to be cookies against Avis’s chest, nudging her out of the way. “What’s this?” Raising an eyebrow, she noted the trio in the living room. An outburst of laughter sounded from somewhere upstairs. She shot a look up the steps, her face a mask of surprise.

“Just some friends,” Avis said, keeping her voice down.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

Avis glanced down at her feet. She felt bad, like the worst friend in the world. Maggie had always been there for her, and what had Avis done? She’d cut Maggie out, had kept the group a secret, as though Maggie hadn’t been important enough to be privy to such a huge change in her life.

But Maggie had a tendency to puff up like a peacock around people she didn’t know. She was smart and pretty and had a weakness for showboating—all traits that Avis found more threatening than before. She had yet to properly forge a relationship with Jeff. How would she make that happen if Maggie stole his attention away?

“Audra Snow, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve been a rotten friend.” She made her statement at full volume to garner attention. When Avis shot a glance back to the living room, wondering if anyone had heard her above the din of the TV, her stomach twisted. Jeff and both girls were watching them from the couch. Jeffrey’s expression seemed to be a careful balance of curiosity and fascination. Clover and Gypsy exchanged a knowing look before allowing their attention to return to Avis and her friend.

Other than shoving her out the door and ruining their friendship, Avis had no choice but to let Maggie float by her and into the living room. As soon as she did, a wide smile replaced Maggie’s annoyance.

“Hi there,” she singsonged, homing in on Jeff like a cheerleader sniffing out a quarterback. “I’m Maggie, Audra’s friend. I live just next door.” She caught one of Jeff’s hands with both of hers. Nausea roiled at the pit of Avis’s stomach as she watched them, Jeffrey’s mouth curling up into a strange, amused sort of smile. “And you are?”

“Jeffrey.”

His voice twisted Avis up. Her nausea grew tenfold. Suddenly, realization hit her. Perhaps she’d just run out of time to make that lasting impression. Maggie was going to steal away the man that was supposed to save Avis from herself.

Gypsy introduced herself, her voice deep and husky, like Stevie Nicks’s. She fingered the cross around her neck, as if considering something, then nodded to her cohort. “This is Clover.” Clover smiled, then exhaled a quiet laugh at something funny. “And Avis . . .” Gypsy motioned to her, reintroducing everyone’s host by her newly given name.

Every nerve in Avis’s body sizzled at the vocalization of that name. The moniker that had felt so right over the past few days felt fake now, as though she was only pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

“Avis . . . ?” Maggie gave her a questioning look.

“She likes it better,” Clover said. “It means ‘bird.’ ”

Avis’s face felt hot. Maybe she was supposed to stay Audra after all. The sudden flush of her cheeks might be proof that her life would never be different, that she was doomed to remain the person she’d always been—isolated, unseen.

“I’ll go make some coffee,” Avis murmured. She turned away from them, the plate of Maggie’s cookies held in both hands. Ducking into the kitchen, she slid the plate onto the island. Laughter sounded from the living room as soon as she left. Were they laughing at her? Anxiety rolled inside her like an undertow, threatening to overwhelm her, to stifle her with her own dismay.

This isn’t right, she thought. This isn’t me. Who am I kidding? I’m not Avis. This will never be my life.

Perhaps it had all been a mistake—inviting Deacon and his group to stay with her, befriending them at all. Deacon had convinced her that she was strong enough to surrender to change, but the longer she stood at that kitchen counter, the less she believed it to be true. She wanted to change, but she was weak. She wanted to be part of something bigger, but she was nonessential; she had nothing to offer. Her mother had been right. She was irrelevant. Inconsequential. Hardly worth mentioning at all.

The earth seemed to tip beneath her feet. With her fingers wrapped around the edge of the sink, Avis—no, she was still Audra—crouched to stop the world from spinning only to feel a hand press against her back. When she looked up, Jeffrey stood above her, his face a mask of concern.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s get you some air.”

And before she knew it, it was just the two of them standing out in the twilight, his arms around her, her pulse thudding inside her head.

Maybe it was the tender way his arm had looped around her shoulders, or that worn leather smell that clung to him even when he wasn’t wearing his jacket. Regardless of what compelled her, she tucked her arms against herself and turned toward him as if to block out the world. Lifting her hand, she dared to repeat the gesture he had done the first time they had met. She caught a strand of his hair between her fingers and held it in a wordless hello.

“I need you to understand,” he said, “we don’t take adopting people into our circle lightly. We only allow those who truly want to be part of our group, those who we believe we can trust with our lives into our family. It’s what keeps us honest, what keeps us faithful, what makes us unwavering in our beliefs.”

“Your beliefs,” she echoed back to him. “Like love and friendship . . .”

“Like whatever we deem worthy to believe in,” he said. “It’s everyone’s job to have faith in whatever belief we adopt, because every belief is for the good of the group and the good of our hearts.”

Blind faith, she thought. They don’t know what Jeff is going to ask them to believe in; they only know that they’re going to believe. It was a dangerous proposition, like signing a contract without reading a word. A red flag waved wildly in the back of her mind, assuring her that only the insane would agree to such allegiance. No free-thinking human being could offer the type of undiluted loyalty Jeffrey was describing. Every aspect of such devotion went against what she knew about free will.

And yet she remained in his arms, unflinching, because the idea of him telling her what to believe in was better than battling inner demons and figuring it out on her own. She’d spent her entire life feeling hollow, not knowing where to place her convictions. Jeffrey could relieve her of that indecision. He was offering to erase her uncertainty, promising to quell her meekness. Believing in the group was, in essence, believing in herself. If she believed, maybe she could be Avis after all.

“To be with us, you have to forget about your own individual needs. Everything we do, we do for each other. Do you understand?”

He pulled her closer, and it was then and there that she decided Deacon was right. Jeffrey would make things better. She had sloughed off her individual need for solitude when she had invited them all to live in her home; the group had given her a new name and constant companionship in return.

Jeffrey was real, what he was saying was true. If she made her old self disappear, she’d become something more than she was. Something better.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I understand.”

She would believe, because it was easy when the alternative was believing in nothing at all.

12

SHE’S HAVING AN affair,” Lucas confessed.

Mark readjusted the cardboard box held fast in his arms and stared up at his friend. Lucas loomed in the shadowed interior of the moving truck. “Are you . . .” He paused, as if trying to find the precise words to convey his surprise. “I mean, you’re sure, right? You’re sure?”

Lucas frowned, looked down at the box next to his feet. He felt claustrophobic. The walls of the truck seemed to inch inward as rain pelted the roof with fat, lazy drops. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, he thought. Maybe confessing that my worst nightmare is taking place will somehow solidify Caroline’s intent. Perhaps Caroline was right that Lucas had developed some weird inferiority complex. His insecurities were manifesting themselves into the ugly illusion that the woman he loved was a villain, a heartless bitch that was reveling in his misery. But how do you know that she isn’t?

“I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Lucas crouched, slid his fingers beneath the bottom edges of a particularly heavy box, and lifted with his knees.

“What the hell are you talking about? Of course you should have brought it up. Suddenly we’ve got secrets between us?”

Lucas stepped around Mark and hopped out of the truck. Wet splotches of rain bloomed against brown cardboard. He didn’t wait for Mark to follow him inside. If anything, he’d use the rain as an excuse to gain some momentary distance. It would give him a minute to breathe past the emotion welling up inside his throat.

Mark followed him inside the foyer a few seconds later, but neither of them spoke. They walked to their designated areas—Lucas to his new study just off the living room, Mark to the kitchen with a clattering box of pots and pans. When they met back at the truck a minute later, their conversation continued uninterrupted.

“I wasn’t going to keep it from you, I just don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it.” Lucas climbed back into the truck, slid his fingers through his hair. “Because if she can cheat on me now, she’s always been capable of doing it, right? Hell, maybe she’s done it before and I was too stupid to notice I married—”

“A fake,” Mark finished. “A cheating slut.”

The scorn in Mark’s voice, his disgusted expression, made Lucas feel better about allowing his grief to metastasize into rage. Mark knew how these things went. Years ago, Mark had been married to his high school sweetheart. Amanda had been a pretty girl with vibrant red hair and a smile that could stop even the most steadfast heart. Mark and Amanda had their standard problems. She griped about Mark leaving his cereal bowl in the sink every morning; he complained about Mandy hogging all the closet space with her endless racks of clothes. But it had all been lighthearted, the kind of fodder a loving couple stores up for harmless dinnertime jabs. And then, one day, Amanda started taking it far more seriously than Mark could comprehend. Suddenly, the cereal bowl was a personal affront, his quiet mutterings about closet space a code for her crowding him. Out of nowhere, Amanda decided that maybe they both needed a break. Mark panicked, tried to fix a problem he didn’t even understand with gifts and pleading and subordination. It didn’t work. A few months later, she sat him down and told him it was over. That, and she was keeping the house.

At first, all Mark could think was that it had all been his fault. He and Lucas spent hours on the phone while Mark racked his brain, trying to figure out what he had done wrong. How could he repair it? How could he fix himself? He started seeing a therapist, spent two hours a week spitting self-depreciation at a hired stranger, all in the hopes of finding some answers. After months of dumping money into a shrink that wasn’t helping, he found out Amanda had been sleeping with someone else. It had been going on for over a year.

Lucas had then watched his best friend live through a nightmare. He had listened to stories of how Mark had to pack up his things, how he had tossed out photos and hung Amanda’s wedding dress dead center where all his stuff used to hang in the closet—just a little reminder of the lifelong promise she had broken. She had gone so far as keeping the dog, even though she hadn’t wanted a pet in the first place. Goober the golden retriever was now living somewhere in Seattle with “the megabitch.” That was six years ago. Mark still hated her guts, and probably would until the day he died.

Lucas was terrified to find himself in a similar situation. Except, instead of Goober the yellow-haired dog, he and Caroline would be battling over Virginia the yellow-haired girl.

A scream sounded from somewhere inside the house, muffled by the rain but definitely distinct as it slithered out the open double doors. The sound of it weakened Lucas’s knees. His grip on the box in his arms slipped, the box slamming against the truck’s floor with a hollow thud. Another crunch. More broken glass.

Mark twisted to look over his shoulder, but Lucas was already running. He leaped from the truck and bolted for the house, crushed gravel flying out from beneath the soles of his shoes.

Both men bounded into the house like a pair of heroes only to stop short. Jeanie stood at the top of the stairs. She was bleeding, a vibrant red dribble inching its way down the side of her face, her left eyebrow in full bloom.

Lucas sprinted up the stairs, the rush of adrenaline making his head spin. By the time he reached the top riser, he was sure he was about to pass out from the sickening surge of panic. But rather than tumbling back down the stairs to the redbrick floor below, he caught his kid by the shoulders and stared at her, startled by the swath of red that dappled her skin.

“Jesus, what happened?” Alarm shot through his bloodstream when, rather than responding, Jeanie only cried. She reached out to touch the gash across the ridge of her eye. All the while, that nagging sense of being in the wrong refused to leave Lucas’s thoughts.

This was a mistake.

A bad idea.

This house wasn’t meant to be lived in by anyone, not after the things that had happened within these walls.

But the voice of reason chimed in just as it always did. You’re overreacting. This isn’t a horror movie. Halcomb’s house hadn’t stood empty for thirty years. Despite its gruesome history, people had occupied the place on the regular up until a few years ago. These were simple enough details to look up through Realtor sites and public records. And yet, there was his kid, crying, bleeding, looking afraid.

“Jeanie?” She met his insistence with more sobbing, as though speaking her name only amplified her hysteria. “Virginia!” He shook her by the shoulder, hoping it would snap her out of what Caroline used to call the screaming-meemies.

“Hey, kid!” Mark leaned down to meet her gaze, snapping his fingers at her face. “Hey! Chill out. What the hell happened?”

She managed to whisper, “I fell,” her words stifled by weeping she couldn’t control.

“Fell from where?” Lucas asked.

“The tub. I was hanging up my pj’s and I . . .”

Both men looked through the open bathroom door. Jeanie’s pajamas hung akimbo from the tension rod. A small blotch of red stood out in gruesome contrast against the lip of the blue enamel tub.

“Oh man. Christ . . . you could have killed yourself,” Lucas told her.

“You can’t join the circus if you’re dead, kid,” Mark said.

“Gee, thanks, buddy. Come on.” Lucas caught her by the hand. “Let’s get that cleaned up. You scared the hell out of me. If you ever do that again . . .”

She shook her head as the three of them descended the stairs. “I won’t.” She hiccupped, then paused, as though about to say something more. But rather than relating the story of how she’d cracked her head open, she went quiet. And that silence twisted Lucas up inside, because he could see it on her face.

Jeanie had definitely seen something upstairs, and she wasn’t going to tell him what.