It wasn’t just the study this time. The front hall was dark, clustered with shadows. I pulled my penlight again, hoping I’d remembered to pack fresh batteries, and reached for Rachel’s hand. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, you idiot.” She punched my arm in the darkness. “I don’t need a big strong handsome hero to hold my hand.”
“Handsome?” I smiled and flicked the light on. “Feeling anything? Not scared?”
“There’s something . . . it’s getting stronger. Out there.”
The front hall was dark as a cavern. A flashlight shined from Montague, with Kathryn behind her in the doorway to the dining room.
I took a breath and a cautious step forward. The air was cold, and I could see my breath in the glow of the flashlights. Craig and Brandy came up behind us. Montague and Kathryn joined us in the middle of the hall.
“What’s going on?” Montague flared her light around.
“Does the name Eleanor Hopewell mean anything to you?” I looked at Kathryn.
She shrugged. “Is she—”
“Hey!” It was Brandy. “What’s that?”
We turned our lights.
Marsha Heller stood at the second step of the stairs. Motionless.
Craig pushed past me. “Mom?”
Rachel held out an arm, blocking him. “No. Not her.”
Kathryn darted forward. “But it’s—mom?”
I pointed my light at her face. Her eyes didn’t flicker. They were cold, stony, unblinking. Lifeless.
Dead.
I tried to breathe deeply. “Mrs. Heller?”
Rachel clutched my arm. “It’s not her.”
“Yeah.” My throat was dry. “But who—”
A knock pounded at the front door behind us. Loud. Insistent.
Mrs. Heller’s mouth opened. “Let . . . us . . . in.”
Just like the writing next to the stairs—washed away now. She repeated. “Let us in.”
The knocking repeated. Louder.
“Let us in!” The words roared in our ears.
Then the knocking grew until it was rolling thunder all around, not just at the door but through the whole house—shaking the floor under our feet and the chandeliers high overhead and the paintings on the walls.
“LET . . . US . . . IN!”
I looked over my shoulder. The front door, thick and tall, was shuddering as if a Viking army was shoving a battering ram at it.
What now? Open the door and let in the snow and freezing wind—and possibly a monster or some malevolent spirit? Or keep it closed and stand around while Heller House tumbled down around us?
I looked at Rachel. What? I mouthed.
She pointed at the door. Her lips moved. I couldn’t read them, but I got the message. I pushed my flashlight into her hand and stumbled toward the door.
The bolt was heavy in my trembling fingers as I flipped it. I grabbed the knob with both hands and pulled. I expected it to fly open, but I had to strain, as if some other force was trying to hold it shut. After a moment Kathryn joined me, her fingers around mine as we heaved.
The door lurched open on us, and we staggered back as a blast of arctic air rushed in like a freezing wave. Swirling snow and ice dropped overt our feet. I grabbed Kathryn’s shoulder to keep her upright, hoping I didn’t slip myself.
The shock of frigid wind blinded me for a second. When I blinked my eyes into focus I stared at the doorway, trembling—not just from the cold—and waiting for whatever came next. A werewolf? A wooly mammoth? A horde of White Walkers from Game of Thrones?
A young boy and a girl in just T-shirts and jeans, stepped slowly inside in wet slippers, holding hands together. They sank down to their knees on the floor, wrapping their arms around each other, shivering violently.
Behind them, knee-deep in the snow in her white, high-necked dress, stood Eleanor Hopewell.
She stalked forward, kicking the snow from her shoes, and set her hands on their shaking shoulders, breathing deeply.
The pounding stopped like a plug had been yanked. The door swung shut with a bang in the sudden silence.
Now what? I held out my hand. “Mrs.—Mrs. Hopewell? Eleanor?”
She stared at me. She seemed to stare through me. I turned my head.
She was looking straight at Mrs. Heller, still standing on the second step. Montague had her phone up, taking video of Eleanor Hopewell and the children.
“Bitch,” Eleanor Hopewell whispered.
Mrs. Heller’s body collapsed. Craig and Brandy ran up the stairs.
The lights came back. Montague turned her phone to Mrs. Heller, sprawled on the floor.
“What the. . .” Kathryn took a step away from me.
I turned back to the door.
The woman and the two children were gone. Just a few mounds of snow, already melting, remained where they’d been standing. Not even any footprints were left behind.
I wasn’t sure whether I felt relieved or even more creeped out. So I looked at Rachel. “You okay?”
She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “It’s over.”
Rachel and I helped Craig and Charley pick Mrs. Heller up and carry her back to her room. I snagged my laptop from our bedroom and headed for the study. Kathryn checked on Mrs. Chambers and the maids.
I poured myself a hefty whiskey. At this rate I was going to tun into an alcoholic. Rachel had one too, though, and she hardly ever drinks liquor.
Dudley joined us. “I got everything on the video,” he said, tipping the tequila into a glass. “I think—who was that woman? She looked like—the woman I saw.”
“Well?” Craig had finished his first scotch. “What the hell was all that? I thought you were here to debunk all this.”
“My job is looking for clues and such. Take a look.” I turned my laptop around for anyone who wanted to see. “In 1990 a house two miles away burned down. It was in the middle of a snowstorm, like tonight. It was owned by a man named Oliver Hopewell. He died in the fire. His wife and two children were found frozen in the snow—Eleanor Hopewell. And her son and daughter, Jason and Clare.”
The archives on the computer had the story from the local news. Pictures, too. Undeniably Mrs. Hopewell. I hadn’t gotten a good look at the children.
“So, what?” Craig scratched his head. “She’s been haunting this house for years? Why?”
“They were found half a mile away. This is the closest house. The snow was too deep to track them, but they could have come here, looking for shelter. Maybe they did. And nobody let them in.”
The study was silent as everyone stared at me and Rachel. But mostly at me.
“What the hell?” This came from Charley. “You’re saying my mom—let them die?”
Kathryn started to cry. Craig just looked stunned.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. We may never know. Ghosts are—not rational.” I’d met a few over my curious, crazy career. “They don’t explain themselves. Unless Rachel managed to read her mind—” I tensed for an elbow jab.
“It’s true.” Mrs. Chambers stood in the doorway.
Kathryn wiped her nose with a tissue. “W-what?”
The cook walked in slowly and sat in Mrs. Heller’s chair. “She was all alone. Mr. Heller was on business. Me and the maids got out before the storm was bad. I offered to stay, but she said she’d be all right. The next morning . . .”
Mrs. Chambers rubbed her temples. “She told me she went down to check the furnace. It went out. She thought there was pounding on the door, but she . . . didn’t want to check. She was afraid, I guess. There used to be guns, a shotgun in the room down there. She couldn’t get the door open. She told me—she told me . . .” Mrs. Chambers paused. “She came back upstairs and there was still knocking, and she—she went to bed.”
Her head slumped. “I never told anyone.”
Charley glared at the floor. “I don’t believe it.” She looked at Craig. “You believe this? It’s crazy!”
“Have you been here today?” Craig snorted and sipped his scotch. “Everything that happened is crazy. I’ll believe anything right now.”
“Mrs. Chambers has been here with mom forever.” Kathryn patted her shoulder. “Do you want something?” She poured a glass of wine.
“I don’t know what to think.” Brandy held her husband’s shoulder. “What about—we saw her.”
I scratched my head. “Maybe Mrs. Hopewell possessed your mother’s body. Brought it down the stairs to tell us to open the door.” I’d seen stranger things with ghosts. “The snowstorm—just like that one 30 years ago? It might have pushed her into something more than being a poltergeist.”
Brandy shuddered. “I just hope it’s, it’s over.”
“What if it isn’t?” Charley started pacing. “What do we do now?”
“You all own the house now,” I said. “You can decide what to do with it.”
Charley stomped a foot. “We can’t—we’re not getting rid of it! This was mom’s home. This is—”
“Shh.” Kathryn walked over to take his arm. “We don’t have to decide anything right now. Tomorrow. Or the next day.”
“At least let’s wait until after the funeral.” Craig patted Brandy’s hand. “I think I’m going to bed.”
“Me too.” Craig nodded. “If I can get to sleep.” He picked up the scotch bottle. “This should help.”
Kathryn held a hand out to me, and then Rachel. “Thank you for coming.”
We shook. I smiled at Montague. “This should make for an interesting documentary.”
She rolled her eyes. “Once I get everything edited and put together. I’ll need you for some commentary.”
“Talk to my agent.” I patted Rachel’s arm.
The snow finally stopped sometime after midnight, and by noon the next morning the roads had been plowed out, along with the drive up to Heller House. An ambulance came from Mrs. Heller, and Craig and Charley followed her to the funeral home.
Montague and Dudley packed their equipment up into their van. “I’ll call you,” Montague promised. “Or your agent.” She grinned at Rachel.
We packed, and Kathryn met us at the front door. “I don’t know what to do now. Part of me wants to burn this place down, but Craig and Charley—” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t make any decisions yet,” Rachel said. “Give it time. For everyone.”
“Yeah.” She managed a smile as she shook our hands. “Thanks again, I guess—send the bill here. I’ll take care of it.”
I started the car. Rachel buckled up. We stopped at the bottom of the driveway for one last look at Heller House.
“Not exactly the romantic weekend you promised.” Rachel punched my arm.
I adjusted my sunglasses. The snow’s glare was blinding now that the sun was out. “I’ll come up with something better next weekend.”
“Don’t bother. I’d rather just stay home and play hide and seek.”
I grinned. “Deal.”
# # #
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