Chapter 3

Chapter Three

An hour later, they’d hauled in all the cleaning supplies, which they staged in a huge storage room next to the kitchen walk-in pantry. After that, they brought in nonperishable groceries and stored them in the pantry. Clarice had already supplied them with some food in the freezer, and if they needed anything else while they were here, they’d have to trek all the way back to Estes Park to pick up extras.

The four of them stood in the Great Hall.

Letisha checked her watch. “Two o’clock already. I’m taking my stuff to my room and grabbing a nap. Twenty minutes tops.”

Sybil yawned, swamped by an energy drain. “A nap sounds great.”

They grabbed their suitcases and began the trudge upstairs. Once at the second story landing, Maria paused.

“Wait,” Maria said. “Who gets which bedroom?”

Pauline shrugged and started down the hallway to her left. “Finders keepers.” Her voice drifted down the hallway. “I’ll see if I can find the gray lady haunted room.”

“White lady!” Sybil yelled down the hallway. “She was white! And she’s down this way!”

Pauline made a talk-to-the-hand gesture as she walked.

Letisha sidled up to Sybil. “Don’t antagonize the woman. You’re liable to wake up with the coffee dumped down the drain or the coffee machine broken. She appreciates how much you love caffeine.”

Maria’s jaw dropped a little. “Would she do that?”

Letisha snorted softly and looked down the hallway. Pauline was out of sight, so they knew she’d picked a room.

“Oh, yeah.” Letisha’s smile was sarcastic. “A couple of jobs ago she did some passive aggressive things.”

Sybil sighed. “It was before you started. A job before our last one. She took offense to something I asked her to do. Anyway, she started flirting with the homeowner.”

Maria glanced down the hall in the direction Pauline had gone. “Oh, snap. That’s messed up. I mean…that could go badly in so many ways.”

What could Sybil say that was better? “Exactly. The homeowner just ignored her, so that turned out all right.”

Letisha sighed and then smiled as if to discount it all. “Yeah. But that’s neither here nor there. We need to put our noses to that grindstone and do this big ass house. I don’t care how many radios play on their own or ghosts are living in the bedrooms.” Letisha cleared her throat. “I’m finding a room.”

With that, Letisha turned right and headed down the hallway.

Sybil said to Maria, “I’ll take a room on the third floor. The one with the woman in white.”

Maria’s expression still held concern. “You don’t still think you saw a ghost.”

Sybil reacted defensively inside but kept her tone even. “I’ve seen them before.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

Disbelief crossed Maria’s face.

Sybil headed for the stairs. She didn’t feel like talking about it right now or facing more skepticism. “See ya later.”

As she walked, she realized she hadn’t left enough time in the day to do a full inventory of the house like she’d said. She’d do it tomorrow.

When she reached the third-floor landing, she took in the musty scent and wrinkled her nose. Unlike the second floor, which had the advantage of light coming from the connecting first floor staircase and open landing, this floor of bedrooms appeared dimmer. She glanced at the light fixtures. Older sconces that had lived better days. She took her cell phone from her pocket and made a note about light fixtures needing a clean and polish. Clarice had given them permission to replace lightbulbs if needed. She pocketed the phone and headed down the hall. She paused and saw that at the end of the hall an enormous window was partially visible, and it needed a cleaning as well. They wouldn’t be climbing on any huge ladders for that. Clarice had assured them a company that did large windows would take care of it.

A bulb next to the third bedroom on the right made a pop, and Sybil jumped. She stopped, surprised. The room where the ghostly figure had shown itself. She hesitated. Did she want to take this room? Something tugged at her. Curiosity. A touch of fear mixed with defiance. She wanted to shout at the entire house.

You can’t scare me. You can’t scare me.

Instinct told her to take this one. She opened the door and stepped inside. The soft scent of rain drifted through the open window.

“Damn it,” she whispered as she rolled her suitcase into the room. The windows looked fairly new, and Clarice had mentioned that they replaced them last year with modern windows featuring dual panes and some sun protection. She slid the big window closed.

Before she could turn, the door slammed behind her. She yelped. Swung around.

No one was there.

Just the wind. Equalizing of pressure or whatever. Then she thought about it. When she’d been taking the video of the house earlier, the window hadn’t looked open. She took her phone out again. Flipped to the photos and videos. Nope. The window didn’t look open.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

She thought about all the weird things that had happened today. The skeptical part of her wanted to ignore the white figure in the window and the figure Maria thought she’d seen. They’d all heard the music. True, she couldn’t lump a door slamming and a window that had popped open into that realm of the unusual. After all, this was an old house. Creaks and groans wouldn’t be unusual in a structure at least one hundred and twenty years old. Drafts weren’t unexpected. Faulty window latches. You name it, it made for fun haunted house imagination shit, but it didn’t mean this house had ghosts.

Yes, it does.

The thought filled her head like a whisper. One of those things she’d noted since she was a kid that sounded like someone else. The kinds of voices that these days would find her put back on the crazy pills and into the funny farm.

She rubbed her forehead. Oh, Sybil. Maybe you are crazy. I told you that the way you think just isn’t right. It just isn’t right.

“Shut up, mother,” Sybil said, and set about unpacking.

* * *

“Well, this isn’t too bad for microwave pizza.” Maria said, as she ate the last bite of pepperoni on her plate.

A noise came from somewhere in the house. A deep, resonate groan. It echoed. Reverberated around the building obnoxiously.

“Jeebus H. Christ.” Pauline looked up from her personal-size vegan pizza. “What the hell was that?”

“Sounds mechanical. Like there’s something going on with moving parts,” Letisha said.

Sybil winced. “I’ll call Clarice tonight and ask if she knows anything about the noise. Maybe it isn’t serious.”

“So what's the plan tomorrow since today is kinda screwed?” Pauline asked, wiping her hands on a paper napkin.

Sybil took a sip of her iced tea. “We’ll tackle the first floor as per our original plan. After that, second and third floor. After that, attic and basement. Clarice already warned me that no one has cleaned out the basement and attic in about thirty years.

“Thirty years.” It didn’t come out as a question when Maria said it. “Remind me who lived here more recently. I mean, before the last renters.”

“Clarice and her parents,” Letisha said. She glanced at Sybil. “All her life and all of theirs, right?”

Sybil nodded. “Yep. Clarice moved out two years ago. She’s just now wanting it cleaned out.”

Pauline sat back in her chair. “Her health, right?”

“Yep. Her apartment in Estes Park is a lot easier upkeep. Her friends in Estes said they didn’t like her staying out here in the middle of nowhere at her age,” Sybil said.

Letisha and Pauline had heard most of this before. They’d also learned that Clarice had gotten the name of the cleaning company from Douglas MacKenzie, a man who had learned of the company through a friend of his. Word of mouth, in this case, was a good thing.

Pauline glanced at her watch. “I guess the fact Clarice’s family didn’t clean out their attic or basement for thirty years is a plus for our business.”

Letisha chuckled. “That it is.”

The clock on the dining room wall chimed the six o’clock hour.

“I’m going to tour the rest of the rooms tonight and make notes about the condition of each room,” Sybil said. “Tomorrow I’m planning on a seven o’clock start.”

Maria groaned.

“I get it,” Sybil said. “I’m not a morning person either. But I figure if we put in a nine-hour day, we should make significant progress.”

After putting their dishes in the dishwasher and cleaning up, all but Letisha and Sybil headed to their bedrooms.

Letisha rolled her shoulders, and Sybil thought she recognized that look. Concern mixed with displeasure inside Sybil.

“What’s up? You in pain?” Sybil asked.

Letisha put her hands on the kitchen counter near the sink and looked around. “A bit of fibromyalgia. Just some of the extra humidity today causing a flare.”

Sybil winced. “Sorry.”

Letisha stood up straighter and took her hair out of the ponytail that held back the long strands of her tightly curled hair. The hair spilled out, the slight kink flowing outward in an unruly wave that she said made her nuts.

“No need to be sorry. It’ll be gone by tomorrow,” Letisha said, her voice ripe with fatigue.

“Did you bring any medication?”

Letisha laughed, but with a total lack of humor. “Nope. I ran out of everything after I stopped using it last year.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Well, there are always regular pain killers.”

“This job is a big deal. I don’t have time to feel pain.”

It was Sybil’s turn to go quiet. She looked around the kitchen. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Letisha snorted. “Yeah. This is one butt-ugly kitchen. And I mean butt-ugly forever.”

Sybil laughed. She ran her hand over the old title countertops in an unflattering pink that had cracks on at least half of them. The grout was also in terrible shape. Sybil scuffed a toe over the tile, which suffered from the same pink and chipped in several places. The only thing that worked was the colossal size of the room and the generous cabinets and countertop space. That, and maybe the dishwasher, which looked younger than some of the other appliances.

“What are you thinking?” Letisha asked.

Sybil didn’t want to think about the kitchen anymore. “We aren’t here to fix the decor in this house or do renovations, so that’s a good thing. But this place feels...”

What could she say without being that crazy woman?

Letisha said, “Dark.”

Sybil’s gaze snapped from the tile floor to her friend’s eyes and solemn expression. “Yeah. That.”

Letisha made a soft, disbelieving sound. “I can’t believe I’m saying this because it’s more your thing. But ever since we got here, I’ve felt off.”

“The fibromyalgia?”

“That, yes. But also something I can’t really explain. It’s...I don’t know. I don’t feel quite right about this place, and I can’t put my finger on it to describe it.”

Sybil nodded. “Same here. There’s something in this house that’s…not quite right.”

Letisha rubbed the back of her neck and threw a look at Sybil. “One of your feelings? You’re not going to say ghosts, right? Because not every old creepy mansion is haunted.”

That stung. Sybil knew Letisha didn’t mean that in a bad way. Or...well, maybe she did. Although they’d been friends since they were four years old, it felt like a weird sort of marriage. People who claimed to care for each other who danced around the things they hated. Who let tiny resentments come out in a passive-aggressive fashion.

Sybil held up one hand as her resentment rose. “Look, let me get this off my chest. I used to keep all of this shit quiet most of the time, right? After that one time when I was a teen...well, I figured it was the safest thing to do. It’s safe when someone just keeps their mouth shut all the time.”

Letisha’s expression remained unimpressed. “You don’t have to keep proving it to me, okay? We’re forty damned years old. I was there for the history, wasn’t I?”

Sybil wanted to snap back, but sucked in the emotion and tried to make the bubbling anger disappear. Sudden tears hovered. She strained to keep them at bay. “Yeah, you were. You’ve listened to me all this time. I just...I sometimes feel like I have to keep proving myself. That’s it’s okay for me to say things like...that I feel something is wrong with people, or that I know it is. Or that there is something wrong with a place.” Sybil sighed, to calm herself rather than express grievance. “I’m sorry, okay. I shouldn’t repeat myself on stuff like this. I need to get my shit figured out. It’s my problem, not anyone else’s.”

If she didn’t have at least Letisha’s understanding, who did she have?

“It’s okay,” Letisha said around a yawn, as if she hadn’t noticed or didn’t care about the turbulence Sybil felt. “I’m dead. I’ll see ya bright and early for breakfast.”

Sybil gave in and made a salute. “Roger that.”

As soon as her friend left the room, Sybil felt the doubt deep inside that had never changed, no matter reassurances from anyone.

“Get over it,” she said, her voice edged with a hiss. “Just fucking get over yourself, Sybil.”

A small rumble echoed in the house, the groan of a door hinge or something else metal.

She took her small flashlight and flicked it on. A large beam illuminated her way as she left the area. Although she’d studied the house plans Clarice had given her, she didn’t have the light switches memorized. Easier to have this light for navigation.

Mentally, something nudged her. She stopped on the way to the staircase. She listened, but not with her ears. Her feelings. What she heard in her head. Something nudged again. She walked away from the staircase and toward the cellar door. The closer she got, the thicker the air seemed. She inhaled deeply as her heartbeat picked up pace, and her stomach twisted. Oh shit. What was this? She didn’t know, but the desire to run toward the cellar increased. What was here? The air thickened, a molasses of resistance. How could it be fighting her while attracting her?

What do you want? She asked mentally.

No answer.

She took one step and then another. Two things battled inside her. Continue or ignore it and run upstairs to her room.

She moved toward the basement door. She stopped several feet away. The gigantic chandelier in The Great Hall illuminated the staircase, but the second-floor landing was dim. The cellar door was dark wood, knotty and opulently carved. As her flashlight beam illuminated the door, a face jumped out at her.

Sybil gasped, stepped back and hooked her heel on the runner. She fell back and landed on her ass with a grunt. Her flashlight flew out of her hand and spun across the floor, throwing shadows across the door. The face appeared. Disappeared. Appeared as the flashlight came to a rest.

The flashlight beam illuminated the cellar door and the ugly face on it.

A gargoyle face. Or maybe a Green Man? Weird for a cellar door, but the Victorians had liked their excess. The door looked beat up enough to be that old.

She grabbed the flashlight and stood. For a moment she stared at the door, but curiosity drew her until she stood directly in front of it but far enough away she didn’t touch it. Even the doorknob looked the part. She almost reached into her pocket for the master keys. One of the skeleton keys must fit this door. Clarice had handed them to her without explicit instructions, and Sybil kicked herself now that she hadn’t insisted on labeling them.

She took stock of the gargoyle-like face. Someone had taken a great deal of trouble to carve this, and their talent seemed considerable. One couldn't ignore each horrendous detail and sharp edge in the features. The tall, pointed ears, the sharp chin and long sharp teeth with thin lips competed with another feature. Blazing red devil eyes.

“Talk about cliche,” she said under her breath, a bit amused. “Are you keeping shit out or keeping shit in?”

Uncertainty didn’t sit right with her. Slowly, she reached out and touched the basement door, the wood rough under her fingers.

“I might get splinters off of this.”

Or maybe, just maybe, she’d wish she wasn’t doing this. Wasn’t allowing her ability to feel stuff to kick into gear. Yet it was already there and way past the point of return. It had been from the moment she’d seen the house...seen the forest. It called to her. Whispered in a language she didn’t understand and nagged like a song that’s become an ear worm. She visualized a worm wriggling. Tunneling into her ear.

“Stop it.”

She closed her eyes. Thought about reaching out to whatever lived behind this door.

No.

She jerked her hand back. Her hand was shaking, and she looked at it. She had felt nothing, so why was her hand trembling?

She left the door, making her way upstairs and flicking the lights off as she went along. It wasn’t until she entered her room on the third floor and turned the lock on the door that some ease returned.