Haunted Houses: Culver Creek Series, #3

1

Zoey pulled into the little parking area littered with fallen autumn leaves in between some garbage pails and what she assumed was the owner’s car. The place didn’t have an actual driveway. So that was one more thing it didn’t have in its favor.

The house was really old—1840s was the estimate. History was definitely its main selling point, maybe the only thing it had going for it, Zoey mused as she looked it over. There was something vaguely familiar about it, but she couldn’t put her finger on what that might be. It was a bland, shapeless building that had the misfortune of being both small and three stories tall. Half the house was stairways.

Charlene let her in through the front door, which was around the back, because of course it was. Zoey stepped into the living room/kitchen and noted the small door to her left that led into the home’s only bathroom. Judging by its location adjacent to the kitchen and the age of the home, it had likely originally been some sort of pantry.

The kitchen’s all new, Charlene said. I redid it last year. She imitated a gameshow hostess as she showed off the cherry cabinets, granite counters and stainless-steel appliances. Zoey didn’t have the heart to tell the woman she had wasted her money, so she nodded her head in a thoughtful sort of way. People who wanted a nice kitchen weren’t going to waste their money on this monstrosity.

Zoey wasn’t especially tall, but she felt it in the low-ceilinged room. She walked over to the front windows, which looked out on the road. The house sat mere inches from the blacktop. Building a house this close to the road wouldn’t pass muster with the township planning board, but that wasn’t an issue back in the 1840s.

What’s downstairs? Zoey asked as she examined the hardwood floors. They’d been painted but looked like they were original. That was a plus.

One of the bedrooms and the washer and dryer, Charlene said. The master bedroom’s upstairs.

Zoey smiled politely. Using the term master to describe either of this house’s bedrooms was extremely generous. Plus, Zoey had noticed the peaked roof on her way in. The master bedroom was going to come down to a head-bashing height at the sides. The fact that the two bedrooms were separated by the living floor meant there was no way anyone with a small child was going to want this place. She imagined a young mother balking at the idea of having to traipse up and down two flights of stairs for a midnight feeding. And in a house like this, the stairs were probably lethal.

Zoey looked around. Where were the stairs? She spied two doors on the far (though was anything really far in this tiny place?) side of the living room.

Stairs? she asked, pointing at the doors. Charlene nodded.

They’re Jersey winders, Charlene said proudly. But there was nothing to be proud about.

Zoey opened one of the doors, revealing a flight of narrow wooden steps that led steeply upstairs to the master bedroom. Forget about midnight feedings, someone was liable to break their neck just heading downstairs in the morning to use the bathroom.

Has anyone died in the house? Zoey asked.

Charlene made a spluttering noise, and Zoey pulled her head out of the doorway and looked over at her.

Uh, not that I’m aware of, Charlene said.

Zoey was disappointed that Charlene didn’t have any juicy stories, but she figured it didn’t matter much. A house of this age, well, it was more than likely that someone had died here. She could spin something, and maybe if she was feeling ambitious she could get in touch with the local historical society to give her story some accuracy. It might help sell this place, and Lord knew it needed all the help it could get.

My friend Avery recommended you, Charlene said. I had it listed for a while with another agent, but nobody was even looking at the place.

Oh, I remember Avery and Will, Zoey said. They had that place across from the cemetery. That place had practically sold itself. It was a dream listing. She didn’t know if she was going to have as much luck with this house, but she would see what she could do.

Is it all right if I start taking some pictures for the listing? Zoey asked.

Knock yourself out, Charlene said. Actually, I have to go into work. Would it be okay if I left you here on your own? There’s a spare key on the counter for the lockbox.

The first ever photograph of a ghost was taken not long after Charlene’s house had been built. William Mumler had a knack for capturing ghostly presences on film, which couldn’t have been easy with the primitive cameras he had at his disposal.

Sometimes as she snapped photos of clients’ homes, Zoey thought of old Willy Mumler and all the work he did to make visible the apparitions of dead Civil War soldiers who had returned to their old homes in non-corporeal form. She was blessed to have her smartphone’s vastly superior camera to take her photos.

She took the obligatory and boring photos of the kitchen and bathroom, but focused most of her attention on the two stairwells. Looking down into the lower stairwell was like looking down into the depths of hell itself.

Certainly, sometime in the past 200 years, someone had taken a wrong step and fallen to their death. The lack of proper lighting just added to the eeriness of the scene.

It was only when she was outside trying to get an exterior shot that made the place look at least vaguely interesting that she realized why the home looked so familiar. It was practically a dead ringer for a house in one of those ghost books she used to check out over and over again from the public library.

She remembered her mom sitting at the little table in the library’s children’s department as she and Arielle roamed the stacks to pick out books. Mom pursed her lips and shook her head in disapproval when Zoey brought an old and battered tome over to the table.

No, she said. You’ve borrowed that book five times already. Pick out something new.

But I like this book, Zoey said. It’s my favorite.

Why don’t you read a story? her mother said. She got up and grabbed a book from a display, setting it down on the table. Here’s one about a princess and a dragon.

Zoey made a face of disgust at the cutesy illustration on the cover of the book.

No, she said. I only like real books.

Well, I hate to break it to you, but this book isn’t real, her mother said, pointing an angry finger at the book about the haunted houses. Ghosts don’t exist.

Even at that young age, Zoey knew her mother was right. If ghosts were real, shouldn’t she, of all people, have seen one by now?

Charlene’s house was not the house from that old library book. Zoey recalled that one had been located somewhere in New York, not Pennsylvania, but it gave her an idea. That book had some good descriptions of ghostly encounters, and she just might be able to borrow one of those stories to add to her description of Charlene’s place.

Zoey’s phone rang, and as she always did when she saw an unfamiliar number, she offered up a little wish that it was someone calling to make an offer on one of her listings.

I’m looking for Zoey Wilson, the woman on the other end said.

This is Zoey.

Are you Victor Wilson’s daughter? the woman asked.

It was the last thing on earth Zoey expected the woman to say, and she found herself momentarily dizzy. She took a step on the uneven ground and almost careened right over the little wall that separated the backyard from the tiny parking area.

I am, she said when she had returned to more or less level footing. What can of worms had she opened with her affirmative answer?

Ms. Wilson, I’m with Defend the Innocent. We’re an organization that works on overturning the convictions of innocent individuals, and I’m happy to report that we have successfully had your father’s conviction overturned.

What? Zoey said. A ringing had begun in her ears—more than a ringing. It was a feeling that surged through her and threatened to drown out all sound and sensation.

Ms. Wilson, your father is being released from prison.

2

Sage Dorian’s dead sister had woken him up at three in the morning. He didn’t know if lack of sleep or general anxiety was to blame for his throbbing headache, but clearly the aspirin he had swallowed before leaving his apartment had not been up to the task of chasing it away. As he walked down the courthouse corridor, his shoes echoing on the slick tile floors, a wave of dizziness rushed over him. He stopped and steadied himself against the wall, assuming the dizziness was a side effect of the headache, but the vague queasiness only increased in strength. No amount of calm, deep breaths was going to chase this away.

Sage ran toward the men’s room at the end of the hall. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead as he ran. He burst through the door of the men’s room into the lone stall, clumsily latching the door behind him before hurling his breakfast into the toilet. Thirty seconds later, squatting beside the porcelain bowl, he felt remarkably better.

At the sink, he washed his face with cool tap water and surveyed the damage. His tie had not survived the ordeal unscathed, but otherwise things looked okay. He wiped at the mark on his tie with a damp paper towel and succeeded in turning the small, inconspicuous stain into a large wet mark.

He hated having to give testimony in court. He would rather run through a hail of bullets or race into a burning building than take his place in that witness box chair, but then that was probably why he was a cop. Unfortunately, if you were good enough at your job, if you caught the baddies, then they got to have their day in court, which meant you had to show up to give your side of the story.

The Josie Liu trial should have been an open-and-shut thing, but she had a good lawyer. If Sage got up there and in a calm, confident manner told the jury exactly what had happened, then justice would be served. Knowing that the fate of a murderer was resting on his shoulders didn’t exactly chase his anxiety away.

He was as put-together as he was going to get when he stepped into the courtroom. The media had turned out for this one. Murders weren’t all that common around here, and this one was more sensational than most. Josie had murdered a single woman, but the woman she killed had murdered four other women, one of the victims being Josie’s sister. There had been a podcast about the murders, and the national news media picked up the story.

Seeing the camera crews and reporters lined up at the back of the courtroom made a fresh wave of sweat break out on Sage’s forehead. He knew all the tricks one was supposed to employ to get through public speaking ordeals, but knowing the tricks and being able to deploy them when the panic set in were two very different things.

On one side of the courtroom, Sage spied Donna, the mother of the woman Josie had murdered, which also made her the mother of a murderer. She sat alone. Her face was stoic as she stared at the front of the courtroom, waiting for proceedings to get underway. On the other side of the room sat Josie’s parents. He noticed her mother’s tear-streaked face and the wad of tissues clutched in her hand. Her father, on the other hand, had dry eyes, but Sage saw the way he rested his left hand on his leg, his fingernails digging into the fabric of his pants. They had lost one daughter to murder, and Sage was about to ensure their other daughter received a life sentence. What hell must they be going through?

Sage slipped into an empty seat at the back of the courtroom. He felt cameras swivel his way and ignored them. That was easy enough to do because at that very minute his mind was miles away. Seeing Josie’s parents had reminded him of his own. His sister’s unsolved murder had driven his parents apart. Maybe the split had been coming for years, but Sage wondered how things in his life would have been different if his sister had never been murdered late one night as she drove home from work. He doubted he would be sitting here ready to give testimony in a murder trial, because he didn’t think he ever would have become a detective if his sister hadn’t been killed. His parents might still be together, and Melodie? What would she be doing right now if she were still alive?

In his dream, she had been watching something on television. She sat on an overstuffed couch eating pieces of fried chicken from a giant take-out bucket. He stood there watching her smiling at the screen. When a commercial came on, she turned and stared at him, and said, It’s not fair.

I know, he said. Melodie, I miss you.

But then the couch was empty. Melodie and the chicken bucket had disappeared, and when he looked at the television screen he saw her dead body lying on the ground as a television medical examiner snapped photos and the Law & Order theme music began to play.

Sage had awoken to a rerun of the cop show playing on his television and that familiar feeling of frustration. Melodie had been close enough to touch, and he finally had the chance to have that conversation they should have had while she was still alive, but as soon as she started to speak, she disappeared. Like she said, it wasn’t fair.

N o further questions, the prosecutor said.

Sage knew it was premature, but he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. He had survived the first round of questions. Of course, he had gone over them all ahead of time with the prosecutor, so it wasn’t like there were any surprises. Still, he had managed not to get tripped up. Although it felt like someone turned the thermostat up to 200 degrees, and his face was probably glistening with sweat, Sage felt like he was doing a pretty good job so far. Halfway there.

His eyes flicked over momentarily to Josie seated at the defendant’s table, and then her lawyer Arielle Phillips rose. She moved with easy, graceful confidence. She stepped out from behind the table, taking the time to turn and face the jury. Sage noted the way their faces seemed to relax as Arielle’s eyes met theirs. They liked her. She was their friend.

Then she turned her attention his way. She was not his friend. That was clear at once.

Mr. Dorian, she said, and he wasn’t sure how she did it, but she managed to make his name sound like something nasty and distasteful. You’ve been a detective with the Culver Creek Police Department for less than a year, is that correct?

Yes, but before that—

Thank you, Arielle snapped. And isn’t it also true that the victim was acquainted with your own sister?

Sage shot a look over at the prosecutor’s table, and the prosecutor looked up in alarm.

Objection! the prosecutor called out, but the judge was having none of it.

Answer the question, Detective, he said.

No, Sage said.

No? Arielle asked. She tilted her head as if she were confused by his answer, but he knew she was too shrewd to actually be confused. Didn’t they both work at the same coffee shop?

Yes, but at different times, Sage said. My sister was no longer working there when Sidney started working there.

At this Arielle turned to the jury and explained, By Sidney he means Steph North. Sidney, Steph—it was as if she had a different name for each day of the week.

Sage saw a few of the jurors actually smile at this. She really had them in the palm of her hand, didn’t she? Arielle pretended to consult her notes before returning her attention to the witness stand.

Yes, isn’t it correct that the reason your sister stopped working at the coffee shop was because she was murdered? Arielle asked.

Sage heard a few gasps from the audience as a ripple of surprise and discomfort spread through the people there.

Objection! the prosecutor tried again, but the judge still wasn’t having any of it.

Yes, Sage said. That’s correct.

His dream came back to him, and he saw his sister sitting there with her bucket of fried chicken. It’s not fair. It definitely wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he had done his part to help bring a murderer to justice, and yet here he was on the witness stand being grilled like some sort of criminal.

Her murder remains unsolved, is that correct? Arielle asked.

Sage blinked, and his sister was gone. He was back in the courtroom.

Yes. He heard the tremor in his voice, which meant everyone else must have as well.

That’s ironic, isn’t it? Arielle asked. The murder of a police detective’s sister remains unsolved. I mean, when I see something like that, it makes me think you must not be all that good at your job.

Sage thought he heard a snicker or two from the jury box before the prosecutor again shouted, Objection! This time the judge relented, but Arielle had already made her point.

Now, as has already been established, Steph—or Sidney, as you referred to her, Mr. Dorian—murdered four of her coworkers when she worked at the Everluster paint factory. Well, even a detective like you must have wondered, with that MO, if she had maybe murdered folks at any other place she worked, like say the coffee shop where his murdered sister worked.

Speculation! the prosecutor shouted.

Ms. Phillips, did you have a question for the witness? the judge asked.

The lawyer nodded, briefly