I used to live in a haunted house, so many of the hard-to-explain feelings experienced by the protagonist in this story are feelings I experienced. You know how sometimes you can just “feel” that someone is looking at you? It was just like that. No one was ever physically there, of course, but the sense of presence was extremely strong. Set the hairs tingling on the back of my neck every time it happened. This story also represents the first time I’ve written from the perspective of a female. (Photo by Sandra Seitamaa on Unsplash)
Footsteps.
Her brain muddled by the phantoms of fading dreams, Kelly assumed Steve had gotten up to go to the bathroom. Then she became conscious of his deep breathing and the warmth of his body next to her.
There shouldn’t be footsteps.
She held her breath. Except for faint starlight illuminating the bedroom’s only window, the house was completely dark. A floorboard creaked downstairs. Then another, and another, accompanied by the sound of heavy feet pacing the living room floor.
Her heart pounding, she reached over and shook her husband’s shoulder. “Steve,” she whispered, “wake up!”
“Huh? Wha—?”
Kelly slapped her hand over his mouth. “Shh! There’s someone downstairs!”
He removed her hand and stared at her, now wide awake, alarm in his eyes. They both listened. The wall near the open bedroom door cracked, sending a shiver up Kelly’s spine.
She could see the doubt forming on his face and pre-empted it, whispering, “I heard footsteps!”
Steve nodded and slipped out of bed. He grabbed a flashlight from the nightstand and crept toward the bedroom door. The floor creaked under his feet and he stopped. There was no sound from downstairs. The slap and hiss of tiny waves, muted by the closed window, drifted in from the beach outside.
Steve paused at the door and peaked over the railing that lined the upstairs landing. After a moment, he set off down the bare, wooden stairs, each step announcing his movement with creaks and groans. Kelly sat up and pulled the blankets to her chest. She saw the flashlight flick on and watched the beam sweep back and forth through the living room. After a few moments, the light returned to the stairs and brightened as Steve ascended.
She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. 2:18.
Steve flicked off the flashlight as he entered the bedroom. “No one there, Kell. Doors and windows are all still locked.” He placed the flashlight on his nightstand and crawled back into bed.
“But—”
“It’s an old house. Makes a lot of noise, that’s all.” He adjusted his pillow and turned to his side, facing away from her.
Kelly slipped back down under the covers and pressed herself against his back. Those were footsteps. I know what footsteps sound like. The air seemed suddenly charged, the house imbued with a conscious energy.
It was a long time before she was able to fall back asleep.
* * * * *
She stood in the cramped kitchen the next morning, wrapping dishes in newspaper and stacking them in a box. The dishes were white with gold inlay around the rim. They had clearly been expensive at one time, but now some of them had small nicks along the edges. She wrapped and boxed them anyway. They’d be going to the Salvation Army, and she doubted such slight imperfections would matter.
She couldn’t stop thinking about last night. Had it really just been her imagination? Maybe the wooden floor contracting as the night cooled just sounded like footsteps. Maybe the energy she felt was just the lingering presence of the man who had lived there for so many years and recently died. Maybe it was just an after-effect, like the swirl left on the ocean’s surface when a whale upends its tail and dives.
She stopped wrapping and let her gaze drift out the window. The sky had clouded up sometime during the night and was now completely overcast. She glanced up and down the narrow shore road. It wound along the coast, ending directly in front of the house. On the other side was a low, grassy dune, and beyond that the Atlantic. The ocean was flat. Flat as a sheet of dull gray metal under the overcast sky.
“I don’t get it,” Steve said.
Kelly moved to the doorway that led from the kitchen to the living room. Steve was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, surrounded by boxes. In front of him was a bureau drawer full of photographs and papers. All the furniture in the room had been pushed to the walls to make space. Even so, there wasn’t much. The small, threadbare blue couch, the recliner chair, the coffee table, and the television had filled the room when they first arrived.
Steve was staring at a photograph in his hand. Kelly walked toward him. The ancient hardwood floor creaked and groaned beneath her in a familiar pattern. She stopped, and a chill ran up her back.
Steve looked up at her and frowned when he saw the look on her face. “What’s wrong?”
Kelly hesitated. “I just…” She looked back toward the kitchen.
“What is it? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, fine. It’s nothing.” She shook her head. “Forget it. What were you saying?”
“Look at this.” He handed up a photograph.
A man stood next to a boat on a trailer. To his right was a small boy and girl. The boy, with a huge grin, was holding up a fish. On the man’s left, standing apart, was an older boy. He had a dour expression on his face. His hands were in the pockets of his jeans, and he wore glasses. It was Steve.
“You don’t look so happy,” Kelly said.
“Yeah. Well, no reason to be. I hated those stupid fishing trips. All he did was yell at me. I couldn’t do anything right.”
Kelly pointed at the small boy and girl. “These are Tom and Amy, right?”
“Yeah.”
Kelly handed the picture back to him. Steve stared at it for a moment, lost in thought, while Kelly studied him. It seemed to her that his attitude toward this job had changed. On the drive up here, and even just yesterday as they hauled decrepit furniture out to the dumpster, he had complained about it. Now he seemed to be engaged, as though rifling through his dead step-father’s private things gave him an intimacy he had been denied in life.
“I can’t figure out why he kept this,” Steve said finally.
Kelly shrugged. “Maybe he just wanted to remember. Why does anyone keep photographs?”
Steve shook his head. “That wasn’t like him. He never seemed to care about those things.”
Kelly waved a hand over the drawer. “I thought you were just going to throw all this stuff away.”
“I was,” he said. “But I started to think maybe Tom or Amy might want some of it.”
Kelly sighed. “Whatever.” Then, on a sudden impulse, “I’m going for a walk. Wanna come?”
“No. I want to keep working on this. You go ahead.”
He placed the photograph in one of several neat, careful piles on the floor and started poking through the drawer again.
* * * * *
From the dune across the street, the tattered, New England cape looked sad. The faded blue paint was peeling, and the white trim on the windows and doors was yellowed. The picket fence was tilting at odd angles. The grass was overgrown, and ragged clumps of weeds bent in the light wind. Scraggly, unkempt bushes framed the front entrance. A large dumpster sat in the driveway, next to Steve’s BMW.
She looked up the road, toward the sound of children’s voices. Several other houses lined the beach, but all save one were boarded up vacation houses that wouldn’t be occupied until summer. Only the yellow, two-story cape at the end of the street had anyone living in it. A dark green minivan was parked in front, and two small children were playing in the yard. Their shouts drifted faintly across the sand.
Kelly turned toward the ocean and followed a path through the tall grass to the beach. A receding tide filled the air with a salty, fecund smell. Tiny waves slapped the shore, moving small clumps of seaweed back and forth. The beach stretched on ahead of her, dull white sand meeting gray sea meeting gray sky. Seagulls swirled in the breeze. The air had a chill, even though it was April. Kelly pulled her sweater closer. Her sneakers left small, patterned footprints in the sand behind her.
Steve had never talked much about his step-father, but it was enough for Kelly to understand that Iverson had been unaffectionate and quick to punish—especially Steve. Her husband had grown up fearing him. When the man deserted the family, leaving his dying wife for a younger woman, Steve’s fear turned to loathing.
His brother had called a week ago to tell Steve Iverson had died. He said he’d make the burial arrangements and handle probate by phone, but he wanted Steve to go clean out the house.
“Not a chance,” Steve said. “Like hell I’m going to go up there and clean up his shit. He was your dad, not mine. Good riddance, that’s all I have to say.”
But Tom kept calling, and then Amy, too. Kelly came home from the office one day to find her husband packing.
“We’re going,” he told her.
“Are you crazy?” she’d cried. “How’d they talk you into this?”
He sighed. “Look, I get it. They’d have to fly out here from California, rent a car. It’d cost a fortune. Plus, with both of them having new babies…” He shrugged. “For us it’s just a short drive.” He glanced at her. “Yeah, I know it’s a pain in the ass. I don’t like it one bit, but I need to help out my brother and sister.”
“Half-brother and sister.”
“That doesn’t matter.” He went back to packing. “Anyway, it’ll be good to get away.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Picking through your step-dad’s junk. A real vacation.”
What she didn’t say—what she couldn’t say—was how much it unnerved her. She feared it would bring up ghosts from his past, just when she felt like she was making progress.
Standing on the beach now, Kelly realized she shouldn’t have been surprised. She remembered his face when he first got the news. Until that moment, she hadn’t thought it possible for an expression to show hatred and loss at the same time.
She looked up to see how far she had come and found that she had stopped directly in front of the yellow cape. Neatly trimmed bushes framed the front porch, and a white picket fence surrounded the yard. A red tricycle lay on its side in the driveway, next to the minivan.
The children had stopped playing and were staring at Kelly. She guessed they were brother and sister. The boy, who looked to be about seven years old, was dressed in jeans, jacket, and red baseball cap. His sister, about three years older, was bundled up in a light blue parka and woolen scarf.
Kelly smiled and waved. The girl hesitated, then waved back. It’s probably somewhat unusual, Kelly thought, for them to see people on this beach at this time of year. They must be wondering what’s going on in the old Iverson house.
A few yards in front of her, the sandy beach ended in a pile of sea-worn boulders. A tiny, blue-green crab scuttled into a crevice and waved its eyestalks at her. She turned and started back toward the sad, blue house. The kids returned to their game. Their voices mingled with the cries of wheeling gulls. The breeze had become colder and damper, biting through her sweater. Kelly shivered and walked faster.
* * * * *
Kelly and Steve sat next to each other on the sofa, which they had moved to face the fireplace. The fire was roaring, consuming the pithy, worm-eaten logs Steve had pulled from a pile behind the house. All the lights were out, and the flames threw flickering shadows around the room, making it seem as though the house were moving, as though spirits were everywhere around them, ducking in and out of sight.
The illusion unsettled Kelly. She pulled herself closer and looked up at her husband’s face. He seemed to be hypnotized by the flames. His breathing was slow and deep, and his eyes hardly blinked. Kelly could see the fire reflected in them. Kelly let her eyes follow his. The flames leapt and flickered, like dervishes dancing in a burning forest.
“I still dream about him,” Steve said quietly.
Kelly stiffened.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” he went on. “After all these years.”
She had dreamt about Iverson, too, ever since that first phone call from Tom. In each one the action was the same: Steve and his father were fighting, bitterly and viciously. Kelly would beg Steve to stop, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t hear her. It was as if she wasn’t even there, even though, in the dream, she would be grabbing Steve’s arm and screaming at him.
Several times she had awakened in a sweat. Iverson seemed more real in those dreams than he ever had in life.
“What are the dreams about?” she asked, wanting to know and not wanting to know at the same time.
“It’s always the same. Not the same exact dream, but whatever is going on, one thing is constant. I’m always seeking his approval. I had a flying dream once. I was flapping my wings and turning these stupendous somersaults in the air, and I kept looking at him, just wanting his approval. He just stared at me. Didn’t say anything. Like he was pissed off. Then the wings stopped working and I fell.”
Kelly waited for him to continue, but Steve seemed lost in thought again. Finally, she spoke. “Did he ever give you his approval?”
Steve let out a short, harsh laugh. “Not in a dream, and not in real life.” He paused. “He was an asshole.”
The fire popped and sparks bounced off the brick fireplace walls.
Kelly saw a brief flicker of pain cross Steve’s face. “It just seems funny,” he said, almost to himself, “after all these years.”
She lay her head on his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, strong and steady. She felt safe in his arms but also felt the need to protect him from the ghosts of his past. She just didn’t know how.
More and more she had come to understand how Iverson affected Steve’s thinking, his emotions, and especially his reluctance to having children. He always came up with reasons to put it off, but Kelly knew his reticence was out of fear he would somehow end up with a son who hated him. She hated that Iverson’s meanness, so many years ago, could poison her future.
This can’t be over soon enough, she thought. With Iverson dead and his belongings scattered and destroyed, maybe Steve could put it all behind him. Maybe they could get on with life. Maybe the ghosts would go away.
* * * * *
Kelly awoke with a start, her heart in her throat, her chest heaving. Her eyes darted around the room, confused, frightened. She felt a pressure in the room, as though the air had become clay.
Suddenly, she understood. Someone was in the house. She didn’t know how she knew, only that she did. She looked toward the bedroom doorway, a gaping black rectangle in the darkness.
There. Downstairs, in the living room. Someone or something, as aware of her as she was of it.
Steve grunted in his sleep and rolled over. The old bed squeaked with the movement. The house seemed to answer with its own sounds. The wall next to the bed cracked. Kelly sucked in her breath.
Footsteps began.
The hairs on Kelly’s neck stood up. The pattern of floorboard creaks was the same she had made herself earlier today.
She wanted to wake Steve, or reach over to turn on the light, but she was paralyzed by fear – afraid to move, afraid to make a sound, afraid to call attention to herself. Her breaths came fast and shallow.
The footsteps continued into the living room, stopped, went back to the kitchen, then paced back out again. They stopped in front of the staircase and Kelly’s heart jumped again. An image appeared in her mind: Mr. Iverson standing at the base of the stairs, looking toward the bedroom. He wanted to come up.
The stairs began to creak with the weight of an old man.
“No!” Kelly yelled. She reached toward her nightstand lamp but accidentally knocked it over.
“Huh? What?” Steve said, his voice groggy. “What’s wrong?”
Kelly groped for the lamp on the floor. “There’s someone in the house!” she hissed, knowing it was not true in the way Steve would think.
He turned on his own nightstand lamp and the room was flooded with light. Kelly pulled back into the bed and under the covers. She stared, wide-eyed, at the bedroom doorway.
Steve sat up and looked at her. “Not again, Kell. What is going on with you?”
“I heard footsteps!” Kelly breathed. She couldn’t seem to get enough air.
Steve sighed, crawled out of bed, and grabbed his flashlight. At the doorway, he shined the beam down the stairs and into the living room below. Kelly knew he wouldn’t see anything. The presence had gone. Faded away. Evaporated. Like morning mist before the sun. The house was an empty shell again. She could feel it.
The stairs creaked and groaned under Steve’s weight as he descended. Kelly heard him poke around, checking the doors and windows. A moment later, the stairs groaned again under his feet.
“Nothing there. Again” he said, as he crawled back into bed. “Is this going to happen every night?”
“It’s haunted, Steve. This house is haunted.”
Steve snorted. “You’re not serious.” Then he saw the look on her face. “What? You are serious? Oh, c’mon, Kell! I know you don’t want to be here, but this is ridiculous.”
She leaned out of the bed, picked up the lamp, and placed it back on the nightstand. A glance at her clock told her it was 2:18. “I don’t care if you believe me, but there’s someone in this house!” And it’s your damn, dead step-father, she thought.
Steve stared at her for a moment, then he turned out his light, pulled up the blankets, and turned away from her. “We’ll be done in a few days. Just…try to keep it together until then, okay?” Moments later, his breathing slowed and deepened.
Kelly lay with her eyes open and her brain spinning. How did she know it was Iverson? She couldn’t explain it, any more than she could explain how she felt his presence so strongly. What did he want? Was he upset about what they were doing to his belongings? Did he regret how he had been in life, how he had treated his stepson? Then she realized she really didn’t care what his reasons were, if there even were any. She only wanted him gone, like he was supposed to be. She found herself hating him even more for not meeting this one obligation.
* * * * *
Packing was going more slowly than Kelly had hoped. Rather than just throwing away all the junk and memorabilia, Steve was insisting on sifting through everything, as though he was struggling to understand his step-father. His sudden interest in the man who had abused him and whom he had ignored for so long irritated her.
She felt Iverson’s presence all the time now, in every room, watching her. Was it real, or just her imagination, a response to the previous two nights’ events? She realized it didn’t matter. She just wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.
Steve helped her move kitchen boxes full of serviceable cookware and dishes to a spot near the front door to await Salvation Army pick-up. Then she went upstairs to the second bedroom, which Iverson had turned into a library of sorts. Steve went back to pouring over the drawers and boxes full of old documents and photographs that, to Kelly’s increasing annoyance, Iverson had kept.
It didn’t make sense. Why would someone who apparently despised fatherhood and who estranged his adult children keep all this memorabilia? She could see the effect it was having on her husband. Rather than be cathartic, this immersion in his childhood and in the mind of his step-father was dredging up old doubts and feelings, just as she feared it would.
She tossed an old how-to book on electronics into a box and dropped into a chair. Bookshelves lined the small room’s walls, all of them filled to overflowing with dusty volumes. In fact, the amount of dust was incredible—she didn’t think the old man had cleaned the place in years, if ever. To make matters worse, the room’s single window was frozen shut. The air was stale and musty, and the dust kept making her sneeze. There was a desk and a filing cabinet, but Steve had removed the drawers to sort through the contents downstairs. The frames now stood empty, like the discarded crab shells she had seen on the beach.
Many of the books were do-it-yourself volumes on carpentry, home repair, plumbing, and electrical work. She wondered if he had even read them; the state of his house would seem to indicate he had not. He also had law books and books on forestry, seamanship, and flying, as though he were searching for something to do in the time left to him after retirement.
Steve wanted to keep some of them but Kelly flatly refused, arguing that they were all old and out of date. The less of his crap they took the better. She’d be happiest if they took nothing at all. She wondered if dead people followed their belongings, and the thought made her shiver.
She had expected to be done here and gone in another day or two. Give the past to the Salvation Army and get on with life. Have a husband no longer haunted emotionally by a dark and reclusive step-father. As long as Iverson had been alive, Steve was going to believe deep down that he could get the answers he wanted. He had even tried to question his step-father a couple of times, years ago, but the old man wouldn’t say anything. Then Steve’s anger would boil up and it would be over. With Iverson’s death, it should have been over for good.
But it wasn’t. Iverson wanted something. Kelly felt it, deeper than her bones. What if he followed them? What if Steve came to realize his dead step-father was still around? That he could somehow get the answers he craved? Then it would never be over.
She couldn’t let that happen. She didn’t know what she should do about it, only that she had to do something.
A muffled thumping from the back of the house caused her to jump. The wind had come up and was slamming the back screen door with every gust. She stood up. She was getting edgy. She needed a break.
She paused halfway down the stairs. Steve was again seated in the middle of the living room floor, this time surrounded by neat little stacks of papers and file folders. His blue jeans were splotched with dust and dirt. Unsealed boxes full of clothes, tools, kitchenware, and personal effects were scattered around the room.
Kelly was struck by a thought. No matter how rotten the person, it seemed almost cruel that his entire life, all his most valuable treasures, should be laid open to impartial evaluation, sorted according to someone else’s notions of value, and consigned to convenient little boxes and piles, then scattered to thrift stores, to strangers’ houses and closets, to the reeking earth of a landfill. It made her think of her own collection of things which had value to no one but her.
Steve glanced up at her. “Done already?”
“No.” Kelly continued down the stairs. “I need a glass of water.” She continued into the kitchen. “Want one?” she called back.
“Yeah.”
Kelly filled two paper cups from the faucet and brought them into the living room. Steve stood up, took one of the cups from her, and drank it empty. He had placed some photographs and certificates on the fireplace mantle, arranging them like a shrine.
“What’s all that?” Kelly demanded, but she already had a good idea. She felt her face getting hot. At the same time, morbid curiosity made her step around the file folders and approach the fireplace.
“That’s…his life, I guess you’d say.” Steve stayed back, fingering the empty cup.
Most of the certificates were in old, tarnished brass frames. One proclaimed that Ensign Dean P. Iverson had successfully completed flight training at the Pensacola Naval Air Station. Another announced completion of helicopter training. There were several commendations from the Secretary of the Navy, one for exemplary performance under fire. Commissions, from Ensign to Lieutenant J.G., to Lieutenant, to Lt. Commander, to Commander. Plaques from naval commands expressing recognition, and one from a merchant marine organization expressing thanks for rescuing a crew in a storm.
There were three photographs, two of aircraft and one a portrait of Iverson. He looked like any other Navy flyer to Kelly: crewcut hair, squared jaw, serious expression, starched uniform. She stared hard at the face and imagined that he was staring back at her. She surprised herself by not flinching.
“It’s weird,” Steve said. “These things were scattered all over, some in the filing cabinet, some in the desk. It’s almost like he deliberately kept them apart.”
Kelly spun around, suddenly furious. “Why are you doing this?”
Steve looked surprised. “Doing what? What do you mean?”
“Fawning over this crap. Why don’t you throw them in a box and send them to your brother and sister, or throw them in the trash? One or the other. Why are you wasting so much time?”
Steve’s face turned red. “What’s gotten into you?”
Kelly felt her fears boiling up, fueling her anger. She wanted to stop, but couldn’t. “I’m sick of being in this house,” she said hotly. “We need to get this done and go home.” She waved her arm at the plaques behind her. “But you keep drooling over every little thing you find. Why?”
“Why do you think?” Steve said evenly. “He ran my life for eighteen years.” Kelly could see that he was controlling himself, as usual. For some reason, that made her angrier.
“You hated him, Steve! Remember? How many times did you have to tell me that? So I don’t understand this stroll down memory lane you’ve been taking these last two days. Can’t we just finish and leave?”
Steve glared at her and said nothing.
“Oh, hell!” Kelly crumpled her paper cup and threw it into the fireplace. She snatched her sweater from atop a pile of boxes, and stormed out the front door, slamming it behind her.
She crossed the dune and descended onto the beach. She couldn’t remember ever being so angry, or so afraid. Yeah, Steve wanted answers, but those answers didn’t exist. They had never existed. He needed to let go of his damn step-father and hold on to her.
She walked for several minutes, her eyes locked on the dark sand in front of her feet, before she calmed down enough to look up. The cloud cover that had dogged the coast was breaking up. Patches of blue appeared and disappeared as a brisk north-westerly pushed the gray out to sea. The surface of the ocean was ruffled with wind-blown wavelets. Further away from shore, there were whitecaps.
She suddenly realized how cold it was. Her thin sweater was no protection against the biting wind, but she couldn’t go back to the house yet. She pulled the sweater closer and kept walking.
Three people were on the beach in front of her. Two were the children she had seen the day before. With them was a woman Kelly assumed to be their mother. All three were walking up the beach in her direction. They seemed happy to be together, laughing and holding hands. Kelly felt a twinge of envy. When they got closer, Kelly could see that the woman was about her age—early thirties, maybe. She was also pretty, rosy-cheeked and slightly plump. She looked guarded until Kelly waved, then she smiled and waved back.
When they were close enough, the woman spoke.
“Hi, how are ya?” she said, her voice thick with New England. Her children stood next to her, silent.
“Fine,” Kelly said. “A little cold.”
“Yeah, it’s a wicked wind today. That jersey doesn’t look like it’s doing the job.”
Kelly shook her head, smiling faintly.
“I’ve seen you on the beach a few times.” She glanced briefly at Iverson’s house. “Are you from around here?”
She knows the answer to that, Kelly thought. She shook her head again. “No. My husband and I are just up from New York to clean out the house before it sells.”
The woman nodded. “Old Mr. Iverson, may he rest in peace.” It didn’t sound like she meant it. She glanced at her kids, who had moved off to play tag with the waves. “We saw the ambulance and everything, about a week and a half ago. Sheriff told us he died right there in the living room.”
Kelly shivered from other than the cold.
“You were related?” the woman asked, but her gaze had fixed on her children. “Johnny! Stop pestering your sister!” She looked back at Kelly. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”
Kelly shook her head. “No, it’s all right,” she said. “He was my husband’s step-father. I never met him, though.”
The woman leaned closer, even though there was no one else within earshot. “He was a strange man, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“How so?”
“Kept to himself all the time. Never waved hello or anything. The only time he ever spoke was to yell at my kids for getting too close to his house.” Her eyes narrowed. “He was a mean one, that old coot.” Then she caught herself. “I hope I’m not offending.”
“No,” Kelly said. “Not at all. Neither of us liked him either.”
The woman’s eyebrows went up. “Oh. Well, that says it, doesn’t it?” Her eyes gleamed. Kelly could see she was eager to gossip. “He kept strange hours,” the woman said. “My husband worked the swing shift for a few years. Said he’d see the old man pacing around the house every night when he got home.”
Kelly caught her breath. “What time would that have been?” she asked, afraid of the answer.
“About a quarter after two in the morning, every night. Just pacing around, shining a flashlight up and down. It’s pretty weird, if you ask me.” She paused. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Kelly said, forcing a smile.
“You’d better get yourself inside. You’re covered with goose bumps!”
Kelly nodded, but the last place she wanted to go was back into that house.
* * * * *
When she finally re-entered, there was a roaring fire in the fireplace. She went to it and held out her hands to warm them. All the certificates and photos on the mantle were gone. She glanced around and saw them in a box with Tom’s name scribbled on the outside.
Steve came out of the office and paused halfway down the stairs. “You okay?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“Want to tell me what that was all about?”
“Should have been pretty obvious.”
Steve nodded and looked down. Then he came down the stairs and stood next to her in front of the fire. After a moment, he said, “Maybe you’re right. I’ll never know why he treated me the way he did, and all this stuff,” he motioned toward all the boxes of memorabilia, “isn’t going to tell me. I just…well, I guess I was just hoping. For something.”
She looked up at him. “He has to let…I mean, you have to let go. You have to stop wondering. You’re right. You’ll never know. It’s over. It’s done.”
He looked into the fire and nodded. “Yeah.”
Kelly followed his gaze. “Sorry I yelled.”
“It’s okay.”
“I just…I just hate this place. I can’t wait to get out of here.” More than that, she wanted to get Steve out of here.
“The Salvation Army’s coming in the morning. We’ll throw everything they don’t want in the dumpster, and I’ll run these boxes for Tom and Amy to the Post Office. I’ll also talk to the realtor about hiring someone to come in and do the cleaning, so we don’t have to.”
Kelly breathed a sigh of relief. She had been dreading that. It would have meant another two days in the house. “Thank you.”
“We’ll stay in a motel tomorrow night and head home the next morning. Okay?”
She took his hand and squeezed it.
* * * * *
They headed to bed at around midnight. Kelly closed and locked the bedroom door. Not that a door could keep out a ghost, but it made her feel better.
“It’s going to get stuffy in here,” Steve said.
“Let’s crack the window, then.”
“That will make it cold.”
“I don’t care. I want the flashlight, too. On my side.”
He handed it to her, then went to the window and cracked it open. “You’re acting kind of strange, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Steve came back to bed and crawled under the covers. “You really think this place it haunted, don’t you?”
Kelly didn’t answer. She clicked the big, heavy flashlight on and off, testing it. She didn’t for a moment believe it could do her any good, but its heft and solidness made her feel somehow better.
Steve shook his head, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and turned out his light. Kelly checked the time on her clock. Then she lay back on her pillow, gripped the flashlight, and stared at the door.
After a moment, Steve said, “You are going to turn out your light, aren’t you?”
Kelly sighed, placed the flashlight on the floor next to the bed where it was within easy reach and flicked off the lamp.
Soon Steve’s breathing became deep and steady. Kelly lay with her eyes open, listening to the slap of waves against the beach. The air wafting through the window smelled of salt and seaweed. One more night, she told herself. Then we go home.
Occasional gusts of wind rattled the window. The darkness thickened around her. The house creaked and groaned. Each sound caused her to suck in her breath and hold it. When she looked at her clock again, it read 2:16.
The footsteps came.
They started as before, moving from the kitchen to the living room, muffled by the closed door, but still distinct. Kelly’s skin crawled. Once again she was aware of a presence—stronger this time, as though some part of her soul had become finely tuned to this new awareness. She saw and felt with something other than eyes and skin. An image formed in her brain—Iverson as a shimmering wraith, pacing back and forth with a flashlight in his hand, muttering to himself.
A dry lump stuck in her throat. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. Blood roared in her ears. A vast universe of screaming noise filled her body, but not a sound escaped.
The footsteps paused at the foot of the stairs, then, to Kelly’s horror, began climbing. Each stair gave its characteristic creak.
She reached down and clutched the flashlight. Without thinking, she slipped out of bed. The cold hardwood floor groaned under her bare feet. She froze, but the presence was still there, the footsteps still climbing.
Her instincts told her to run, to scream, to turn on all the lights, to bury herself in Steve’s arms. Instead, she moved to the door. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and advanced toward the bedroom. Kelly pressed her left hand, shaking uncontrollably, against the door’s smooth, cold wood. Her other hand gripped the flashlight, her thumb on the switch, her knuckles white.
It stops here!
The footsteps came to a halt on the other side of the door.
A bitter cold, deeper than the frigid night air, swirled around her. The intensity of Iverson’s presence thickened the atmosphere, threatening to suffocate her.
“You’re dead,” she said, barely a whisper.
Can you read my thoughts? Your step-son doesn’t need you. Leave him alone.
In her mind, she saw his eyes burning into hers.
“This is as far as I’ll let you go,” she said, so quietly she could hardly hear it herself.
A long moment passed.
His eyes faltered, turned away.
Kelly remained standing, with her hand on the door, trembling in the cold and darkness, until she could feel him no longer.