The Space Between (9 page)

"
Obediah
got money from his brother, like I told you. He also worked his own farm and ministered for a good while at the primitive church down near Prays Mill Road. But he had some differences with the elders of the church. After that, he mostly stayed at home working the farm. He was a zealous Christian, no doubt about that.

"He had taken a wife before all that trouble with the church. Met her out in Manchester and they were married not six months later. He built that house just for her. Got the land from his daddy. They had a little girl a few years after marrying, right around the time he left the church."

"Elizabeth?" The name slipped from Isaac's lips, and he could see the reaction in Harold's eyes. The poor old guy looked scared half to death for a moment, and Isaac was relieved when he continued his story.

"That's right. They were a nice looking family, the envy of any man, I suppose. When I went to work for Mr. Willoughby, Elizabeth was about seventeen, I guess. Prettiest girl I think I've ever seen. She woke up whole new feelings in my young mind, that's for sure."

Harold's mood had lightened as he spoke of Elizabeth. His eyes grew softer, and his voice lost that hint of fear and anger. If Elizabeth Willoughby and the young woman Isaac had met earlier that day were one and the same, he could easily understand Harold's change in demeanor. She must have appeared as a goddess to a young boy of ten.

"Anyway," Harold continued, shaking the memory off with a little nod of his head, "Mrs. Willoughby never did get out much, so when she went missing, nobody really noticed. I never asked, but about a week after I hadn't seen her, Mr. Willoughby said she'd gone to visit her family in Manchester. Just like that, without me even asking."

Isaac noticed Harold was looking at him again. The despair blooming across the old man's visage was heartbreaking. He looked as if he were pleading for a pardon for something he'd done. His words came again, this time spilling from his lips in quick succession.

"I was too young to know any better, to think anything of it. Even after she was gone for a few months I remember thinking that didn't seem strange. Manchester was a world away for a boy my age. But when he started in on Elizabeth the way he did, screaming all the time about Hell and such, I started to worry."

Isaac took advantage of the break in Harold's narrative.

"Was he violent with her? Did he ever hit her?"

Harold gave him a reproachful look. Isaac leaned back and let him continue.

"I never did see anything like that," Harold said, answering the question anyway. "But I did hear him yell an awful lot, telling her what an evil girl she was becoming, saying she was going to end up like her mother if she didn't repent. That right there gave me a start. Mary Jane Willoughby had been gone for a few months when I'd heard that, and it gave me a chill like someone had just walked across my grave.

"I wanted to talk to my folks about it, but I knew if I did they'd either whop me upside the head for making up stories, or they'd tell Mr. Willoughby and get me fired. I'd see Elizabeth every now and then, and she always seemed happy. I figured I was making more out of it than it was." Harold looked Isaac straight in the eye, a few tears rolling down the side of his nose. "I was only ten."

Isaac didn't know what to say. Harold looked crushed, broken. All the younger man could do was place a hand upon the elder's, and offer a generic comment.

"It's okay, Harold. You were just a kid."

Exactly
what
was okay, Isaac didn't know. But by putting all the pieces together in slipshod fashion while sitting there on the diner stool, he'd hope to gain some insight. Mary Jane Willoughby — obviously the same Mary Jane who wrote the journal — had gone missing. Her daughter, Elizabeth, and the man sitting next to Isaac now both suspected the father's involvement. And even though Harold hadn't said as much, it seemed that
Obediah
Willoughby might have done the same to his daughter, whatever horrible thing that might be.

Harold had pulled his hand back as Isaac sat there piecing things together. He now had his old look back: a wary, fearful anger that rolled off of him like pulsing waves of heat.

"I may be old, but I got a damn good memory. There're a lot of things I've tried to forget about that place and the people who lived there. Things that are best left forgotten. I don't know who you are for sure, but I know what I remember. You'd do best to let old memories alone."

With that, Harold walked away and out the diner door. Isaac watched as Albert stood and Harold ignored him, walking down the sidewalk and out of view. Isaac was still staring at the spot where he'd lost sight of Harold when Albert sat down on the stool the absent man had vacated.

"Looks like he didn't do much cheering up."

"No, not quite," Isaac sighed. He felt stunned, as if a linebacker had just trampled over him. Yet at the same time, he felt fresh frustration building in his chest. He'd almost gotten through to Harold. The old man had shown something, some kind of feeling or remorse, and Isaac felt he'd been very close to getting the truth out of him. But then that familiar antagonism had reared its head in Harold once again, shutting down any chance Isaac had of breaking through. He was no closer to discovering why he was in Holden.

"You don't look so perky yourself, Ike. Did he at least tell you why you're the latest thing to be stuck in his craw?"

Isaac looked at the man sitting next to him. He had a face that was welcoming, easy to trust, like a favorite uncle that never gave you a hard time about anything stupid you may have done and was always there to cheer you up. Still, it wasn't enough to coax the tale from Isaac.

"It's a wild story, I'll say that much."

Albert took the hint and said nothing more on that particular subject. Once the waitress brought their coffee, Isaac decided to probe Albert for what he could.

"So what's the deal with Harold anyway? Has he always been this friendly?"

Albert laughed and shook his head.

"Boy, if I had a nickel for every time someone has asked me that," he answered between sips. "Like I said, there are folks around here that have known him longer. Maybe that's why I'm just about his only friend. I haven't had my fill of him yet."

Isaac smiled and nodded, letting Albert continue.

"I guess we get along because I don't let someone of his disposition get to me. I've been around some pretty rough folks. I used to work in the state prison down in Macon for a spell, so I know a little about how to handle angry folks. Still, I'd say whatever crawled up Harold's butt has more to do with just being an angry old man. Did he talk much about his time out at the Willoughby place?"

"A little," Isaac said, hoping Albert wouldn't want him to go into detail. "Seems he doesn't have too many fond memories of his time there."

"Doesn't surprise me. I've never been able to drag much out of him about it, either. We've talked about all the usual things: family, work, sports. He's got a daughter and grandkids in Newnan, ex-wife in Atlanta. Never had anything bad to say about any of '
em
. But try to get him to talk about being a kid in Holden and he clams up, gets all ornery and...well, you obviously know about that."

Isaac nodded and let the conversation die.

After the two men enjoyed some coffee and discussed the best barbeques they'd had in their lifetimes, Isaac wandered off to his car, anxious to get back to the house and hopefully get some perspective on things.

The drive back to the house seemed a lot shorter this time. He made a quick stop at the local grocer where he picked up some coffee and filters, eggs, bacon, and a loaf of bread. Before Isaac realized it, he was bearing down upon Mt. Zion again, braking hard to make the turn. The sun was just touching the trees along the western ridgeline, and the temperature had begun to drop. He stepped out of the Mustang and noticed how his back had stiffened a bit more, but not enough to worry him. After another full night's sleep, he was sure to feel better. For now, he wanted to get the house warmed up, ease into a comfortable chair (hopefully, he'd find one hiding under one of those dusty tarps in the living area), and think about the day, as well as plan his imminent departure.

Isaac cranked the thermostat in the foyer up to seventy. Somewhere high above him in the attic the furnace came to life after a few thumps and a muffled whoosh of air and flame. In the kitchen, he found what he would need to make breakfast: a brand new frying pan. There were also a few plates, glasses, mugs, and saucers; enough for four people and, of course, all seemingly unused. He filled the carafe from the tap and placed it back on the coffeemaker, placing a filter in the top and guessing at the right amount of coffee to add. He put the eggs, bacon and bread in the refrigerator, which was not very cold and required a thermostat adjustment as well.

With nothing to do until the coffee was ready, Isaac walked to the living area, flipping the switch just inside the doorway. A light centered above the room came on, illuminating a couch and two chairs, each covered with a drop cloth. He pulled on the one closest to him and found a recliner, which looked to be quite comfortable. He circled around and sat down, trying it out. Isaac sighed involuntarily as his wearied body sank down into the cushions. He leaned back and flipped the lever, letting the footrest swing up to support his feet.

"That's what I'm talking about," he sighed, satisfaction evident in his voice.

Isaac turned his head to the side, enjoying the comfort. He noticed a lack of the stale, musty odor he might have expected from furniture covered in the way it was. Instead, there was the distinct smell of newness. No surprise. He wasn't sure how long he sat there, his eyes closed and mind purposefully blank for the moment. Eventually the coffeemaker began gurgling and hissing, letting him know it was ready.

He moaned and heaved himself out of the chair to go back into the kitchen. Just as he reached for the coffee, the phone on the wall rang.

It was lucky for Isaac he hadn't picked up the carafe just yet, knowing he would have dropped it. Instead, his arm jerked, smacking the coffeemaker. He cursed under his breath and set the mug upright, dropping the spoon inside before turning toward the phone. It was on its third ring: a sound that filled the large empty house like a banshee's wail. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to overcome the adrenaline now flooding his bloodstream. By the sixth ring, the sound had grown to be extremely annoying, if not downright intrusive, and he stomped across the kitchen floor and grabbed the phone from its cradle.

"Hello?"

"Isaac?"

"Yeah." His response was sharp.

"I'm not interrupting anything, I hope."

It sounded like it could be Albert, but Isaac wasn't sure so he tried to curb his annoyance before speaking again. "Who's calling?" Still curt, but better.

"It's Walter, your neighbor."

Isaac felt the tension slide from his shoulders, now a little embarrassed about how he'd answered the phone.

"Hi, Walter. What can I do for you?"

"I think the better question is what can I do for you? And the answer is chili. I just started up a big pot and in another hour it'll be ready. I thought I'd offer you a bowl. I have a cold six-pack to go with it."

Isaac wasn't sure, but he thought he could detect the slightest bit of anxiety in Walter's voice, the kind that stemmed from the fear of unabated boredom or loneliness. It stoked his guilt for having been so rude upon answering the phone, but he was glad to oblige.

"That sounds great. You need me to bring anything? I don't mind making a run back to town."

"Nope. Just bring yourself and enough patience to listen to me jabber."

"Not a problem," Isaac laughed. "Let me take care of a few things here and I'll be right over."

"Great. I'll see you when you get here."

Isaac hung up the phone, shaking his head at how perturbed he'd gotten and how quickly it had passed. Holden had some good people here. Not that Nashville didn't, but a big city was a big city. Nothing came close to the hospitality one found in the Deep South.

He went back to the counter and finished preparing his cup of coffee. When he sat down at the small table in the kitchen, his back began to sing a higher note of discomfort. Isaac decided it would be best if he rested for half an hour and then just take the car up to Walt's place. He had no idea how steep the climb would be, and coming back in the dark was just asking for trouble.

Taking his cup with him, he entered the den and settled into the recliner, easing back slowly to prevent any spills. After draining half of the warm, bold drink, he placed it on the floor next to him and let his head fall back against the chair. He kept his eyes open, knowing if he didn't he was bound to fall asleep. He didn't want to be rude or worry his neighbor. So he sat there, thinking about his conversation with Harold, the trip to the barn, and the encounter with Elizabeth.

As outlandish and unbelievable as Harold's story sounded, it gave Isaac a small bit of comfort. If he was truly insane and his subconscious was jerking him around, then chances were the similarities between his meeting with Elizabeth and Harold's story should not exist. He learned the girl's name
before
hearing it from Harold. Much of what the older man told him seemed to corroborate the sketchy comments from Elizabeth, as well as the presence of the journal. And it was not lost on Isaac that the discovery of Mary Jane Willoughby's journal in a hidden, underground room sat eerily well alongside the alleged disappearance and accusatory (though vague) comments from Elizabeth about her parents.

Isaac found himself only slightly aggravated that he would not have time to read the journal before sitting down with Walt for chili and beer. He could always take it with him. In fact, Walt might prove to be an excellent source of information, living just across the road as he did. He might even have known the
Willoughbys
or the people who owned the property just before it was bestowed upon Isaac. If Harold was right, and the place had been unoccupied for forty or more years, it could be that the
Willoughbys
were the last to reside here. But what connection could Isaac possibly have with that family?

You're going to start chasing your tail soon
, he thought.

He decided to take the journal with him. Maybe Walter could shed some light on things. If Harold had secrets to keep, there was a good chance Walter or someone else in town had some of their own regarding the Willoughby family. Someone had to know
something
, and Isaac was working himself up to sticking around until he either satisfied his need to know or exhausted all possibilities and gave up.

As the Mustang growled up the steep, gravel driveway to the small house on the hill, Isaac considered the best way to approach the subject. Harold had been obviously upset and hard-pressed to divulge anything. Hopefully, it would be easier with Walter. He seemed friendly enough, and there was no indication he had some grudge against this young man he'd never met. Isaac hoped Walter would be receptive to questions, starting with just how the old guy had gotten the number to his house phone.

§

Walter's house was built against the hill, part of which had been excavated to accommodate the structure. The trees closed in around it, crowding out the night sky and leaning in as if to smell the thin stream of smoke coming from a chimney poking up from the right side of the roof. It looked to be a two-story home, but Isaac discovered it had a loft instead, where Walter slept. There was a screened-in porch running along the front. In the dim light from a single bulb just outside the front door, he could see it was a newer construction in the style of a log cabin. The wood was a light color, hardly weathered at all.

The windows up front emitted a warm, amber light, and two dormers built out from the roof overflowed with the same illumination, though not as brightly. The flicker of firelight was barely perceptible, and Isaac imagined he was walking into a fairy tale where something evil waited in the warmth and comfort of the house before him. He shook off his paranoia as he opened the screen door leading to the porch. When he stepped through, the door swung back, smacking against the heel of his boot. He wheeled around, ready to defend his life.

After realizing what had happened, Isaac took a few deep breaths and laughed. An owl mocked him in the distance, and he hurried forward to announce his presence with a knock. Through the small window set in the door at eye-level, he could see Walter in the kitchen off to the left, stirring the chili on the stove. The old man set the spoon on the counter and placed a lid on the pot. When he spotted Isaac through the window, he smiled and Isaac suddenly felt more welcome there than anywhere he could ever remember.

"Come on in, neighbor," Walter greeted, stepping aside to let his guest pass.

The cabin was definitely warm, and Isaac felt the tiny shivers he'd caught from the short drive up the hill melt away. The inside of the structure was even cozier than he'd imagined. There was a small dining area next to the kitchen, separated by counter space. A narrow spiral staircase leading to the loft stood on the right. Directly under the loft was a door that Isaac guessed led to a bathroom. The rest of the main floor served as a living area, complete with a couch, a recliner, and a television sitting upon a small cart.

"
Whaddya
think? Not bad for a bachelor pad, huh?" Walter held out one hand. "Let me get your jacket. You'll be sweating before you know it. At my age I tend to keep it a bit toasty in here."

Isaac slipped out of his denim jacket and handed it over to Walter, who hung it on one of the dinette chairs, then waved him over to the kitchen. Walter reached in the refrigerator and pulled out two longnecks. After handing one to Isaac, he fished around in one of the kitchen drawers until he found an opener. The two men took a pull from their drinks and settled across from each other at the table.

"Chili should be just about ready," Walter said, leaning back in his chair and taking another long pull from his bottle.

"If it tastes half as good as it smells, you'll have a hard time getting rid of me."

Walter laughed. "I think you'll enjoy it. Though, you might not be so grateful in the morning."

Isaac read the sly grin on the old man's face and couldn't help but laugh.

"Well, maybe I better make sure I don't stick around that long," he said, and they shared a laugh.

Isaac had almost forgotten he had the journal in his other hand when Walter pointed at it. "What kind of book you got there?" It was resting against his thigh and he looked down, remembering why he'd brought it.

"It's an old journal I found out in the barn," he answered, sliding the book across the table. "Says it belonged to Mary Jane
Crosson
."

He watched Walter's face when he mentioned the name, but the old man kept his eyes on the book and showed no change in demeanor, even as he reached for it.

"Funny thing is," Isaac continued, still watching Walter closely, "I found it in a room
under
the barn. And the entrance was blocked, hidden."

Walter looked up and Isaac couldn't tell if the old man's eyes shone with surprise or curiosity, but there was definitely a change. They held each other's gaze for a moment. It was then that Isaac sensed something else in the man sitting there, something familiar and akin to déjà vu. The feeling dissipated when Walter dropped his eyes back to the journal and picked it up, slowly flipping through the pages as he spoke.

"In a hidden room, you say?"

"Yep."

"Hmm..." and he continued to flip through the pages, occasionally pausing to read an entry that must have captured his interest. This went on for a few minutes before Isaac decided to probe him for some information.

"You don't know anything about the people that used to live there before me, do you? This older gentleman I met in town, Harold, mentioned that a family by the name of Willoughby owned the place a while back, but that he didn't think anyone had lived there for quite a while."

Walter looked up from the book, his eyes dreamy and not really focused upon his guest. He opened his mouth as if to answer, then stopped, looking back down at the journal briefly before closing it and sliding it back across the table to Isaac.

"No one has been there since I've been here. Then again, I've only lived here for a little under a year. I was in Riverdale before I retired."

Isaac couldn't help but be disappointed. He took the book and felt its weight in his hand before setting it off to the side. He'd hoped Walter would know
something
about the property and previous owners. Now it seemed he'd have to go digging around town or try his luck with Harold again.

Walter coughed. "This Harold fellow knew the previous owners?"