A sound caught her attention and she turned her head toward the wall where she thought it was coming from, listening intently. It sounded like . . . faraway screaming, the rising wail of human misery. Scarlett stilled, goosebumps rising on her skin. The noise subsided, but another one picked up. This time it sounded like crying—the very distant sobs of an infant.
“What in the world?” she whispered. “Haddie, do you hear that?”
Haddie looked up from her drawing. “What, Mommy?”
“It sounded like crying. It must have been the wind, but . . .” She shook her head, mustering a smile for her daughter. “Wow, kind of spooky the way a breeze sounds coming through these old walls, huh?”
“It’s just a memory, Mommy.”
Scarlett frowned. “What do you mean, Haddie? My memory?” Did Haddie think she was hearing things coming from her own mind?
“Lilith House’s memory.”
Those goosebumps rose higher. “What do you mean, baby?”
Haddie shrugged, focusing back on her drawing, humming softly.
Scarlett stared at her daughter for a moment, opening her mouth to demand that she explain her comment further, but Haddie seemed perfectly content and Scarlett didn’t want to push her child and potentially alarm her when there was really nothing to be alarmed about. Add that comment to the list of hundreds like it she’d heard from her over the years. She turned her head, staring out the window, mostly unseeing for another few minutes, attempting to warm from the chill that had settled under her skin as Haddie continued to draw. No more sounds came from the walls. Trees shifted outside, swaying gently. There was definitely a strong breeze. Finally, convinced she’d heard nothing more than wind rattling the rafters, she looked at her computer screen, rubbing at her eye as she tried to find the motivation to do some more work on the remodeling plans. She drummed her fingers on the table for a moment, instead opening a browser window and typing in the name of their new house. Several links popped up immediately. Thank you, Louis, for bringing Lilith House into the modern century.
She’d looked Lilith House up once before from their apartment in LA, but more so to view as many pictures of the interior as possible . . . to determine if it was right for what she had planned. In all honesty, part of her had been hoping it wouldn’t be. She’d come upon the sale so unexpectedly, and the idea that had almost immediately planted itself in her head felt far too ambitious . . . ill-advised . . . crazy, even. But also . . . right. She’d never been particularly impulsive, and when she had been, she’d usually ended up regretting it in at least some way or another. But the more she’d clicked through the available pictures, traveling remotely from room to room then each outdoor space, the more her excitement level doubled, tripled, soared. It was as though someone was quietly, but urgently, nudging her along.
At the time it was the physical attributes of the house and property she’d been most interested in, so she hadn’t taken much time to find out more about the history. She did that now, perusing slowly through the websites that mentioned the house, gathering its history.
Before the California Gold Rush in 1849, hunters had flocked to the state to take advantage of its enormous wealth of resources. One such man, Hubert Bancroft, made his fortune as a fur trader and in 1876, then built what was later named Lilith House. Though the family—who only grew wealthier as trade increased and they delved into other business ventures—would eventually build on and expand the dwelling, it was considered one of the finest mansions of its time, especially in a part of California that remained relatively poor.
When more recent generations, apparently lacking the same ingenuity and grit as their forefathers, all but squandered the family fortune, Black Monday was the final nail in the coffin of their wealth, and in 1987, Wendell Bancroft, now penniless, walked into the forest and hung himself from the branch of an ancient ponderosa pine. The bank took possession of the house.
In 1988, the leader of the Women’s Ministry in Farrow reported receiving a directive from God that they purchase the Bancroft house and turn it into a Christian girl’s school to house troubled young women. The Women’s Ministry members pooled all of their resources, and with the townspeople’s help, they raised the money for the purchase of the property.