Dead Reflections
Authors: Carol Weekes
Copyright ©2013 by Carol Weekes
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
ISBN:
978-1-936564-70-5
(sc)
ISBN:
978-1-936564-71-2
(ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012953063
Printed in the United States of America
JournalStone rev. date: February 8, 2013
Cover Design: Denis Daniel
Cover Art: M. Wayne Miller
Edited By: Norman L. Rubenstein
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I'd like to acknowledge the help and expertise of Norman L. Rubenstein in proofing and polishing the final manuscript, and thanks as well to publisher Chris Payne for making this book a reality. Thanks also to artist M. Wayne Miller for his talent in bringing together a superb cover, the talents and insights of all of these people bringing about the final products you hold in your hands.
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By
Carol Weekes
Old Superstitious Belief
It is thought when a death occurs within a house, that all mirrors must be covered, lest they capture the souls of the living. To look into such a mirror is to become as one with the dead.
His boys were with his parents. He’d told them he was going out to talk to his real estate agent, promising them that he wouldn’t go back to the house. Sometimes promises needed to be broken. They’d look after the boys if anything should happen to him. He needed answers; he wanted to find his wife.
Robbie Parker stood on the front porch of the house he and Tanya just bought, now for sale barely a week later. He let himself inside, unsure of what he would do once he got to the room in question. He had to see the mirror and look into it. He wanted only to find her. Then he’d deal with the house.
It is ubiquitous. It walks naked through sunlight and dances through the nocturne. It sings quiet tunes that fade in and out with the melancholy discord of broken chimes. It keeps rooms and it takes in guests on a regular basis. Some chambers are darker than others, temporal scorpions hiding within the folds of time and space. Death is a dark flower, its perfume heady and dangerous as it pulls you into its bosom. It maintains many levels within the bloom of its existence, some of them pockets of toxic waste.
The house had waited for its new owners with the patient tenacity of something that knows it has time on its side – it had eternity. A house is a layer of skin over its guts; two-by-fours, plaster, copper wiring, PVC piping, carpeting, lamps, furniture, décor, all part of the elaborate costume that covers a monster hiding within. Monsters do live in closets, beneath beds, within the tenuous web of shadows. They lurk inside refrigerators, behind innocent, shining, clean coffee mugs, in a handful of sea salts you’re about to drop into your bath. That bottle of Aspirin in the medicine cabinet can become lethal, when you open it and stick your unsuspecting finger inside that smooth, plastic vial, feeling for something that’s supposed to help you…until you sense something
in
there move back; so can the hand-held blender, or the plastic disposable razor. Anything in a house like this poses a risk. Even your kid’s favorite teddy-bear. The monster will be wherever it wants or needs to be in order to sustain itself.
Like the bathroom mirror.
Call it what you will – ghoul, entity, demon, spirit, bogey, phantom, ghost.
The entity of darkness knew it had them from the moment they pulled up beside its ‘House For Sale’ sign to take that first, tentative look. Its ‘Sucker’ sign.
Their worries with an old place had been structural, such as the condition of the foundation, insulation, roof trusses, wiring, and plumbing. They’d checked out other houses in their area of interest, a small rural town outside of Massena, New York and close to the Canadian border. The town was Amberstead and the bulk of its homes were turn-of-the-century fare. Some were simple frame farmhouses made of red brick, field stone, or wooden siding. Others closer to the core of the town, which boasted a healthy population of almost eight thousand, were of the more elaborate Victorian design complete with wraparound porches, turret rooms, and gingerbread work. What homebuyers would call ‘nice digs.’
They’d taken a look at half a dozen in the downtown core, as he’d had a preference to be located closer to amenities, but each of the homes had presented their own unique problems. One needed a proper slab foundation as its basement consisted of nothing more than dirt and standing water; another had no insulation other than thin plaster walls against brick – not something that would provide much comfort during typical northern winters. Some others were filled with the delights of formaldehyde insulation.
They were about to give up and he’d suggested that they purchase one of the nice, single story dwellings in a new sub-development when Tanya had noticed the sign in front of an old place near the edge of Amberstead. They’d turned up this road by accident in an attempt to find their way out of the district. Fate happens like that. It is not chance or coincidence. It plots.
The house stood off from the road, a quarter-mile long dirt drive leading to its entrance and bordered on all sides by excessive foliage, as well as decades-old maples and centurion oaks. It was three stories high, the top floor encompassing a full walk-around attic. It had a small red barn behind it and enough land that it may have qualified as a hobby farm.
“Robbie, look!” Tanya tugged his arm as they approached the sign. He slowed the car and they peered at the massive structure. Its exterior was grey fieldstone. It had a wrap-around porch; one of those sides enclosed in glass for all-season living, and two upper verandahs with railings and gingerbread work. It looked to be in good shape, but was far larger than what he’d wanted to consider, even if they
did
have two teenagers and a pre-teen who would be moving in with them.
“It’s huge,” he said. “It must have at least fifteen or more rooms. What would we do with it all?”
She laughed. “We could do all the things we’ve talked about for years. The kids would each have their own room and a shared study area. You and I could have our offices. We could do up a den, a library, a formal living room…”
He smiled a little. “It’s probably way beyond our budget.” He noted the realtor company and sighed.
“It doesn’t hurt to look it up and see how much it is.” She looked at him, hopeful.
“I suppose not.” He stared at the place. It was early spring, the ground damp from the last of the winter snow melts, and tiny buds had already formed a verdant haze on the surrounding trees. He saw one vehicle parked near the house at the end of that long driveway (his mind had already begun to calculate that he’d need to attach a plough shovel to the front of his truck in order to clear the thing from snow); the vehicle was a fairly new SUV, a bright shiny red. Expensive enough.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he told her. “I think it’ll be beyond our means, but we can keep looking for an older place if you really want one.”
“I
really
want one,” she said.
“Okay. Well, try contacting the agent. Price will decide for us right away.”
They parked while Tanya made the call. He glanced around the area. The end of the road led to a cul-de-sac that terminated in field grass, then thick woods. The vicinity had an isolated feel to it. This was one of the first developed areas a century ago as wealthy farmers and industrialists created towns along the St. Lawrence River with its shipping bounty.
“Yes, hello,” Tanya said, pulling her hair out from inside her coat collar so that she could better hold the cell phone to her ear. “My name is Tanya Parker. My husband and I have been looking for older homes in the Amberstead area and we just noticed a sign in front of a place on Ash Street.” She strained to see the address number on the mailbox at the end of the drive. “23175 Ash Street. It’s a big Victorian.”
He heard a man’s voice say ‘ah, yes’ on the other end of the phone.
“Could you tell me the price? That’ll determine our ability to say ‘yes or no.’”
He waited for what he thought would be a response in the $275,000 to $350,000 range, given the vast amount of property that came with the house.
“Really?” Tanya’s face lit up. Robbie stared at her, curious. “Yes – we’d love to arrange for a showing. By all means.” She nodded while he raised his eyebrows at her. “Tomorrow at ten? That sounds wonderful. Thank you so much. We’ll be here.” She hung up.
He gripped the steering wheel and looked at her before laughing out loud. “So what’s the shocking news? It’s falling apart inside and they’re letting it go for a dime?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “He says it’s going for $175,000; that the family is eager to move – the husband has taken a job over an hour away, and they’re selling for what they bought it for a year ago. They just want to break even. Apparently, it’s beautiful inside.”
“That sucks for them, but if it’s as nice as he says it is, it might be okay for us. Strange that they’d let it go that cheap, though.”
“I’ll live with their price,” she said. “Smaller places are going for more.”
“I wonder how they heat it.” He bent to peer closer and saw several wood stove and brick chimneys sprouting from various parts of the roof. “I suppose wood stoves, but lumber’s gotten expensive too.”
“Well, let’s not jump to conclusions before we even see it,” Tanya countered.
“I suppose,” he said. “I always get this feeling that something might be wrong when you hear ‘cheap price’; hidden black mold or urethaformaldehyde inside walls. Something they won’t admit to because they want to get rid of the place, but that they found out about after
they
moved in and began to come down with illnesses.”
