July 2, Tuesday

I HAD nightmares. Filled with bogeymen and monsters hiding behind trees and under beds and scratching on windows to get into the room where I slept and loom over me. I bolted awake to a demon sitting on my chest and screaming in my face. Shot through with terror I screamed back, frightening the creature enough for it to fly off and land in a corner where it stared at me with yellow eyes.

A rooster?

It bobbed its head then unleashed another ear-splitting cock-a-doodle-doo , flapping its black wings.

I sat up and waved my arms. "Shoo! Get out!"

Instead, it strutted across the room, exploring and… pooping? Ugh.

In the dawning light, the room where I'd slept was still steeped in shadows from the shuttered windows. I threw back the quilt and gingerly swung my legs over the edge of the sofa, keeping one eye on the rooster while I pushed my feet into my sandals and stood. Every muscle ached, presumably from being clenched in terror for hours. My mouth tasted rancid, and my bladder was very, very full. I stumbled, then gave the rooster a wide berth while I ventured further into the house in search of a bathroom. My footsteps echoed off the walls, kicking up dust bunnies. It appeared the house had been empty for some time.

I flipped on lights along the way, but a couple of light bulbs were burnt out. I opened doors and found closets, a storage room, and a small den before locating a powder room. The commode bowl was stained from rusty water and the faucet sputtered when I washed my hands in the sink. I found a hand towel inside the tiny vanity and washed and dried my face, then stared at my reflection in the aged mirror that was losing its silvering.

My hazel eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with shadows. My skin was pale and lackluster. My light brown hair was limp and overgrown. My travel outfit of navy linen pants and top were as wrinkled as newspaper and bagged on my too-thin frame. And with apologies to Betty Friedan, the thought skittered through my brain that I was glad Curtis couldn't see me now.

Not because he wouldn't find me attractive—I no longer cared about that. But I'm human and I fantasized that if I ever saw him again, I'd be looking my best and oozing success. If he knew he'd driven me into hiding, he'd be congratulating himself.

A noise outside the door sent fear to my heart, until I heard clucking. I slowly opened the door to see the rooster marching by. I chased after it to herd it toward the front door, but it scrambled away, squawking. Then a thought slid into my brain that raised the hair on my arms—how had the bird gotten into the house?

I forced myself to keep exploring, peeking into room after room on the first level. I found a kitchen with fireplace and keeping room, a dining room, another more formal sitting room with a fireplace, a library, and another bathroom. I mentally catalogued the quality finishes—glass doorknobs, inlaid wood, porcelain tile, thick moldings. The furniture in every room was covered with sheets and the windows were shuttered tight. I made a full circle without finding an open window or door, then approached the wide staircase with trepidation.

The wood treads were carpeted with a footworn blue Persian runner. I climbed the steps, testing for weaknesses in the wood, but the stairs and the handrail appeared to be solid. The stairs turned at ninety degrees then continued to the next level. On the second floor even more light bulbs were burnt out. With the aid of my cell phone flashlight, I opened doors carefully to find four large bedrooms, two bathrooms, and another sitting room. But I found no broken windows or other openings where the bird might've gotten in.

The Whisper House was huge, I conceded as I descended the stairs. If it were located in Manhattan, it would consume a good portion of a city block. And would be worth a fortune.

I was feeling giddy at the thought of having so much space to myself… and a little overwhelmed. A big house needed a lot of maintenance.

But it would keep my body occupied until my mind was clear enough to write again.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, the rooster reappeared, then puffed out his chest and deposited more waste on the floor. I used my arm to cover my nose and unlocked the front door to shoo him out. At the sight of freedom, he half-ran and half flew out the door. I followed him out to stand on the porch and took in my first view of the grounds surrounding The Whisper House.

The landscaping was wild, consisting of tall spiky plants that looked like some kind of succulent, and tall, leggy orange lilies that had crowded out other plants. The grass around the house was thick and tall enough to conceal small children, so I suspected it was home to lots of varmints and—I swallowed hard—snakes. Beyond the grass in every direction was a treeline that led into dense forests.

The sun was barely above the horizon, and it was already hot. I walked the wraparound porch and spied two outbuildings some distance from the rear of the house. One was a chicken coop. The invading rooster sat on the roof, flapping its wings. On the ground several chickens pecked at grass and flowers.

My pulse spiked. I didn't remember reading about chickens, but I conceded I was so taken with the idea of The Whisper House, I might've skimmed over a few details.

But how hard could it be to take care of chickens? People in the New Jersey suburbs had them in their backyards.

I went back inside and promptly stepped in rooster poo. I grimaced, covered my nose, and limped to the kitchen to look for cleaning supplies. I was pleased to find a few food items, including a bowl of eggs, to get me through a couple of days. Then, equipped with rubber gloves and an N95 face mask, I used a bottle of spray cleanser and a roll of paper towels to clean up the smelly mess and stuffed it all in a trash bag.

My phone pinged and I checked it to see a missed call from Frida. My phone battery was too low to make a call and besides, I wasn't ready to talk to her yet. I was afraid she'd talk me into bailing and going back to New York. I plugged in my charger and cabled it to my phone, glad that I didn't have enough service to check social media and see the latest awful things Curtis's groupies had posted about me.

I opened my suitcase and sorted through my clothes, realizing less than half the items I'd brought were appropriate for this weather. I rummaged through compartments until I found the information I'd printed about the house and the details of what I'd committed to. On the bottom of the eighth page, I found the paragraph I was looking for.

In return for occupying the premises, The Caretaker agrees to clean and maintain the house so it is fit to live in and to maintain the grounds, with the assistance of a groundskeeper, including the care and cleaning of the chicken coop, the barn and the equipment within, the graveyard, and the garden.

I blinked and brought the paper closer to my face. Graveyard?

How had I overlooked that little detail?