eyes widened.
I mean…an actual key? I was pretty sure I’d never seen one. Not even in Europe. If that wasn’t a sign, I didn’t know what was. I needed to get the fuck out of this town as quickly as possible.
The first of Scott’s texts came in a little after four the next morning and kept coming, and coming, and coming every half hour until I replied. Didn’t matter. I hadn’t slept a wink all night anyway. The bed lumpy, the smell of mold, the sheets scratchy. Too many ghosts hanging around.
* * *
Scott: Where are you?
Scott: You left without a word. I’m getting worried.
Scott: Sydney. Call me now.
Scott: Can you please call me? This isn’t like you.
Me: I’m in Philly. Taking care of some family business.
I typed…I’m fine. And erased it.
Typed…I’m sorry. And erased it.
I meant the second not the first.
I took a shower with nonexistent water pressure, got dressed, and drove over to the farmhouse with bile churning in my gut. My head scrambling for a foothold on composure. My heart searching for bravery. I found neither.
My grandparent’s house was exactly as I remembered it. Standing on the curb, looking up at it, my heart thumped double time, my palms sweat even though there was a chill in the air. It was a little more weathered––the white clapboard siding in need of a fresh coat of paint, the black shutters missing a few slats, some cobblestones of the circular driveway missing––but essentially the same. An idyllic farmhouse by all outward appearances. House of horrors if you knew what had happened on the inside.
My grandmother’s lawyer had mentioned that a family had bought the place. Two dentists with three young kids. I could only hope they would replace those old ugly footprints with new happy ones as soon as possible.
“Mrs. Blackstone?”
The moniker still threw me off. I turned to watch a man, around late sixties, exit a silver Honda Pilot and approach with a manila envelope in his hand. He wore a green Philadelphia Eagles knitted hat, an almost completely white beard, and a tweed blazer.
“Tom Linklater.” He extended a hand and I shook it. “I’m sorry about your loss.”
“I’m not in mourning, Mr. Linklater. I haven’t spoken to my grandparents in decades.”
“I have no pleasure in the death of anyone, declares the Lord God: so turn and live.”
My grandparents had never repented. I’d never really lived. So there you have it.
Linklater nodded, lips pressed together in discomfort.
“Which is why I’m confused about this stipulation to the will,” I continued. “As I’ve told you already, I don’t want anything from them and anything they did leave me should be donated to a local women’s shelter.”
Linklater exhaled. “I’ve made arrangements for the proceeds of the sale of this house and the car dealership to go to two separate shelters. Needless to say, they are extremely grateful for your generosity. Unfortunately, I can’t close escrow until you remove your grandmother’s belongings from the attic.” He shrugged. “She was adamant about that. I’m merely carrying out her wishes.”
I almost couldn’t believe the depth of my grandmother’s depravity. I say almost because she was pretty terrible––even worse than my grandfather in some ways. To be forced to come back here and clean out the personal belongings of a woman who used to take pleasure in physically abusing a five-year-old was some sick shit. Especially since whatever stuff she did leave was destined for the trash anyway. Then again, it seemed in character.
“So here I am,” I stated, my throat dry, mouth parched. My tongue felt thick and useless.
Linklater smiled awkwardly, searched my blank expression, as the two of us engaged in a staring contest. I was getting the notion that Linklater knew more about my family history than he was letting on.
“Here you are,” he echoed, then opened the envelope and produced a key.
* * *
The house was warm. Somebody had left the heat on. Linklater, I figured. I removed my cashmere scarf and gloves and draped them on the finial at the bottom of the staircase banister. The furniture had been removed. The entire house was empty. Other than that, nothing much had changed on the inside either. Same yellow paint on the walls and white eyelet curtains, though weathered by time and dusty from disuse. A heaviness sat on my chest as I looked around. The furniture was gone, but the ghosts remained.
Blades of sunlight crisscrossed the weathered oak stairs leading to the second floor. My gaze followed them up. I’d