Stillwell: A Haunting on Long Island (11 page)

It was a note from Craig’
s father. Paul scanned the letter. He addressed it to his children apologizing for what he was about to do. It wasn’t right, he knew, but life had left him no choice. He loved their mother, he wrote, but she had Alzheimer’s, and they had been able to hide it for only so long. Craig’s father was not feeling so well either, but his wife was in the home stretch. It was undignified, ugly, and the medicines were not working. If something happened to him, she would have no one to take care of her. She was afraid to be alone, and so it seemed was he. She had asked him, insisted that he help her. She didn’t want to live anymore. Well, it seemed Craig Andrews’s father didn’t want to live without her either. All his life he worried about scandal and had punished anyone in the family when he or she brought unwanted attention. He was very sorry, but there was no easy way out for them. He would try to be as neat as he could. To shoot his wife, it took some guts. Taking his own life would be easy. He was sorry, he loved them all, but life just wasn’t worth it without their mother to share it with him.

Paul fell into the chair, his heart heavy for the older man
. He knew exactly how he felt. Man, he was lucky; he went with her. He pulled out his chain and rolled the band between his fingers. It was warm and comforting, like holding onto his wife’s hand.

He took out his phone to call Craig but found his voice wouldn’t work
. He folded the letter and placed it in his shirt pocket and sat in stunned silence.

Was that love
, he pondered. Killing his wife so that she wouldn’t suffer then choosing to join her rather than stay alone. How often in the darkest hours of Allison’s illness, did he find himself thinking the same thing. Only the kids kept him here. His kids.

He got up and approached the staircase
. Carefully he climbed the steps, keeping close to the wall. The house had a presence; he knew it, felt it deep in his bones, but he refused to admit it to himself. He went straight for Hannah’s room. It was cold, so cold. He swore he saw his breath in the air. The door opened more easily, its hinges screaming in the silence. If this wasn’t spooky, he didn’t know what was. He walked to the center of the room and turned around.

“I know you’re here,” he heard himself say
. It felt surreal; he didn’t believe in ghosts.

“Did he?” he asked himself.

There was nothing, just the aching cold of loneliness. He missed Allison with his heart and soul. He walked over to the window and leaned his head against the glass, watching the wishing well in the garden. Sighing, he looked up at his reflection. A gentle breeze drifted down his neck, making goose bumps ripple his flesh. The curtains were moving gently, swaying as if disturbed. He refocused and saw behind him, a ghostly reflection. He stood frozen. It was Hannah.

He spun
and turned only to find an empty room. Chills ran up his spine. “Where are you? Come out,” he shouted to the bare room. “I’m losing my mind.”

====

He raced out of the house, slamming the door so that it locked behind him. Driving faster than he usually did, his mind replaying the ghostly specter. He couldn’t get a grip. Was it Allison, or was it Hannah? Was it real? He couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

He punched in Molly’s number on his cell
and her voice filled the car. “Where are you? I have to get ready for an agent’s open house. You’re supposed to be there with me. I don’t like the house; she has a big dog.”

“I just left Stillwell
. Where’s the listing?”

“Ryan Court
. Follow the signs,” she added. “You know the blue-and-white ones.”

“I said I’d be there, Mol
. Don’t nag,” he snapped.

“Whoa
. Welcome back. I was wondering where that guy was.” He was known for his temper. He was easygoing and charming until his buttons were pushed and then he had the potential to boil over. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, he could become volcanic.

“Sorry
. I didn’t mean to yell. I’m not having the easiest day.”

“Talk to me, Paulie.
”

“I’ll take you up on that
. I’ll be there in seven minutes.”

“Hurry
. I’m freezing my ass off. You gotta put that dog in the basement.”

====

It was a farm ranch, run down, near bankruptcy. If he wasn’t so scattered, Paul might have bought it and fixed it up for resale. He and Allison had talked about doing that, but her illness sucked up everything this past year. Now he didn’t have time to take a crap, let alone invest and try to get a rental business going.

Molly paced the long driveway, her strawberry curls cascading down her back
. She was older than him, her late forties she said, but she hung out with a young crowd. She loved Van Halen and made it to every local concert, dragging her friend Fiona, everywhere. She was hard drinking, hard loving but kindhearted, and he adored her.

“Frickin’ dog
. He jumped on me when I opened the door. I’m a mess.” She pointed to a rip in the fabric of her flowing skirt. “I love this skirt. That beast ruined it.”

“I’ll gi
ve you half of my commission,” he joked, took the key, opened the door, and commanded the dog to sit. He did obediently, and he turned to Molly with a smirk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look at this guy. Docile as a dove.”

“More like a vulture
.” She shuddered. “I just don’t like animals, unless they’re two legged.” She smiled widely.

“Forget it
, Molly. I’m still taken.” It was an old joke between them.

“Shucks
!” She snapped her fingers, following him into the house. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What happened at Stillwell?”

“Hah!” he roared
. She smiled. It was the first laugh she had heard out of him for almost a year. The humor chased the lines from his face, and he looked younger, more carefree. He was gorgeous. Allison and he had made a beautiful couple, like the ones in magazines. He was tall, with rich brown hair. Swarthy skin and soft chocolate eyes, he was a thirty-six-year-old hunk, Molly thought. “Such a waste.” She sighed, lamenting to herself that though she adored him, he only had eyes for Allison. She was always in the wrong place at the wrong time. If he were only ten years older, or she ten years younger.

“Hungry?”
She redirected her thoughts. “I have a tray of muffins in the car.”

Paul ran out
then carried in both the cellophane tray of gourmet muffins and the jug of expensive joe. “Let’s put it on the island.”

She
was digging through her purse. “Got it!” she exclaimed, pulling out a small bottle of vanilla extract. “The house stinks of wet dog.”

“It is pretty bad.”

She started rooting around for a tray. “I know she keeps aluminum pans in here. Aha.”

She p
ulled out a tray and filled it with tap water and poured half of the vanilla in the liquid.

“Open the oven,” she ordered.

He opened the oven door and turned the dial. “Three fifty?”

“We’ll be smelling like we’re baking cookies in no time.”

He corrected her. “Muffins.”

“What?”
she asked, puzzled.

“Baking muffins.”

“You are such a purist, Paul. So…” She pulled out a sheaf of sign-in papers, busying herself with setting up her station. “Tell me about your morning.”

“I met Melissa at the house
. I think she came on to me,” he said then paused. “I know she came on to me.”

“Never good to mix business and pleasure
.”

“Agreed
. I don’t like her. There’s something cold about her. She’s so bitter.”

“I rented out the cottage on their estate for them a few years back
. You were handling a commercial job for the firm. She was a bitch then, so I wouldn’t be surprised that she is a bitch now.”

“Look what I found in the library
.” He unfolded the letter and they read it together.

She
sniffed. “You know I never liked Richard. He was a nasty bastard. He wasn’t happy when I dated Charles. He had problems with my age and oh yes,” she said, her eyes light with amusement, “he hated that I was a Buddhist back then.”

“You were a Buddhist?”
He broke off a piece of muffin and offered it to her.

“Yes, for a while.” She took the muffin and continued
. “That was my Asian phase. All the Andrewses are snobs. Even your friend Craig. They think they’re better than anyone else. Wouldn’t let the kids play with anyone who he didn’t feel was proper.”

“Well, Craig hung out with me
.” He shrugged.

“Never understood that, you know
. It must have been the mother’s influence. It is kind of sweet that he loved her so much,” she added wistfully.

“I wonder if I could have done that.”

She stared back at him, her face a mask of horror. “You have young kids. It was out of the question.”

“It’s hard
, Molly.”

“Let’s eat
another muffin. Don’t you love lemon poppy?” She stole another off the tray, and they shared it.

“Do you believe in an afterlife?”

“Yup. Always have. Do you?”

He
shrugged. “Never thought about it. I hadn’t been to a funeral since my grandparents died twenty years ago. I haven’t thought about mortality. It was so far off.”

“I hear you
. I was on the fence for a long time. I was born Catholic then I lapsed. In college I flirted with Buddhism. It lasted a long time, freaked my parents out. Now I’m kind of universal. I am at peace with all religions. I take a bit from here and a bit...Oh hello…” She welcomed an agent to the house and her professional side took over. He let her show the house, and for a while, they had no time to talk. He glanced at his watch; it was coming on two and he’d have to leave.

They cleaned up once the last of the realtors
had left. He let the dog out and then helped Molly put the heavy aluminum sign in the back of her car.

“You never answered my question
. Do you believe in ghosts?” he persisted.

She
looked him in the eye, her face serious. “I have a friend. Her name is Georgia Oaken. Oh, I see you’ve heard of her. Don’t make faces, Paul.” She put her hand over his. “See her first then take her to Stillwell.”

“That’s unethical.”

“Tell Melissa and Craig you have to do a psychic cleansing.” He reeled away, and she grabbed his arm. “No, stop. Listen to me. Maybe you need the psychic cleansing. If you don’t believe, it’s an evening of entertainment. If you connect—” She stopped to make sure he was listening, really listening. “—you hit pay dirt.”

“She’s a whacko.”

“That’s her stage personality. Do I look like I would hang out with a wacko? No, don’t answer that.” She kissed his cheek and told him. “That’s it. I’m calling her for you. You can meet her at my place on Friday. Will your sister watch the kids?”

“My
mom, my sister, someone will watch them.”

“Good.” She peeled out in her red
Mustang convertible.

====

He made it home two minutes before Stella. He stared at the raw chicken he had defrosted in the fridge this morning. It was disgusting; he wished he could just feed them hamburgers every day. Slap them on the grill, put in a bun, and done. What could be easier. Picking up the poultry with his thumb and forefinger, he grimaced at the texture. Slimy, who wants to eat this, he wondered. The phone was cradled against his ear, as he set up dance lessons for the girls for Friday after school. Stella slid a filthy hand onto the counter to steal from the open bag of cookies.

“Go wash, first
,” he ordered with a stern glance. Her hands were a mess. What did Allison do with her nails? He hadn’t touched them since she was a baby. By the time they had a third child, Allison pretty much did everything with ease and confidence. Both their mothers were nearby and helped all the time. But her illness had aged them all. Maybe, he’d ask his sister to take the girls for manicures this weekend. He had to get Jesse’s hair cut. It was too long. How was he going to fit everything in a twenty-four-hour day?

He roasted the chicken,
cooked rice pilaf, Veronica’s favorite, made frozen peas, though nobody would care for that, and tore up a rudimentary salad. He perused his feast with pride and wondered for a second if Allison knew how hard he was working.

Eating was
subdued but not oppressive. Jesse had dark circles under his eyes. Clearly exhausted by his night terror, he was complacent, easy to handle. Homework was tackled, baths, and rather than let them disappear to their rooms, he invited them to sit like a pack of wolves, entwined on the couch, their body heat keeping each other’s feet warm.
Man v. Food
was blaring from the television. Nothing was more comforting, and it distracted them, seeing a dude scarf down huge chunks of food to the chagrin of his fans. All four of them fit together, chocolate chip cookies and milk and a weird feeling of peace.