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A hot flush burned up my neck. True, all of it, painfully so. I’d gotten swept up in the fictional emotions I wrote about, had convinced myself that my hero and my happy ending had arrived. Instead I’d been brainwashed by lust and had given Curtis Raeburn free rein to empty my bank accounts and to leverage my credit to alarming sums.
It was the oldest con in the books, and I’d fallen for it. So I was dealing with it the best way I knew how—by hiding.
I doodled on a blank page in my notebook.
Since I was no longer able to afford my Manhattan apartment and I’d wanted to disappear, I’d spent hours on rental sites searching for an affordable place to escape to. The listing for a six-month housesitting stint in the small town of Irving, Alabama had seemed like the perfect solution. I reasoned I’d have privacy to write the manuscript I was behind on and by the time I re-emerged, hopefully the social media trolls would have moved on to someone else.
When I’d called about the listing for The Whisper House, I was informed by a bored agent that in return for staying at the property, I would be responsible for my own transportation, food and incidentals, and for maintaining the house and the grounds.
“And it says here,” the agent intoned, “that the house is located in a remote setting, with the nearest neighbor a half-mile away. Oh, and the cell phone and internet reception is quote, ‘spotty,’ unquote.”
“I’ll take it,” I’d said.
“Fyi, if you leave before the six-month stint is up, you’ll be charged a fee for the house to be relisted.”
I’d instructed the agent to email the contracts and I’d sent them back the same day. I’d sublet my apartment to my friend Frida who needed a place to stay while her building was being fumigated. She was appreciative, even though she thought I’d lost my mind—again.
“You’re moving to a freaking farm?”
“Temporarily. And it’s not a farm—it’s a farmhouse.”
“In the middle of freaking nowhere.”
“I need some peace and quiet.”
“Sounds like the freaking setup for a horror flick.”
I took in the landscape outside my window that seemed to grow more wild with every passing mile. Indeed, the sign announcing “Irving, population 995” was nearly obscured with some kind of green curly vine that appeared to be virulent here in the South. The car rolled through a tiny downtown area that consisted of three or four blocks of vintage buildings. Quaint, ornate streetlamps illuminated empty sidewalks and old-fashioned parking meters.
We stopped at a single redlight, then proceeded straight through town. Once the buildings were behind us, Bill made too many turns for me to follow onto increasingly narrow and harrowing roads. The app froze on my phone and Bill’s, indicating reception was indeed “spotty.”
“How much farther?” I asked, gripping the armrest as the car lurched over a pitted one-lane road poorly lit by the headlights. Tall trees encroached on either side of us, brushing against the windows. My pulse was thudding in my ears.
“Almost there,” he said. “Just at the end of this road.”
A few seconds later the landscape opened to reveal the house whose lines I’d memorized from the photos online. The Whisper House. With a crescent moon hanging in the background, the two-story gothic farmhouse did resemble something out of a movie. Two chimneys pushed through a many-angled roofline. The deep wraparound porch was hemmed with decorative railing. And most of the tall, narrow windows featured a Juliet balcony. The house sat in a clearing of tall grass, which made it seem more foreboding.
“Pretty spooky, huh?” Bill said.
His comment rankled me even as a shudder passed over my shoulders. The house was shrouded in darkness except for a flickering light next to the front door. I assumed it was left on as a welcoming gesture, but the strobe effect was unnerving.
“You staying here alone?” he pressed.
Fear seized my heart. I was staying here alone, which now seemed exceptionally foolish, but it occurred to me that I shouldn’t share that information with a relative stranger.
“No,” I lied. “My friend—I mean, friends—will be here soon.”
“That’s good. You sure wouldn’t want to be out here all by yourself.”
I swallowed. “Of course not.”
He pulled the car to the bottom of the steps leading to the front door, then jumped out and ran around to the trunk. While he grappled with my bag, I stepped out and stared up at the sprawling, sinister-looking structure. I made myself move forward and climb the wooden stairs. They creaked and groaned beneath my feet. My heart thrashed in my chest. Everything in me wanted to run.
Bill followed, staggering under the weight of my bag. “Where do you want this?”
But coming here was part of my way back. “Here is fine,” I said, pointing to the welcome mat that looked brand new in the blinking light. From a pocket in my purse, I retrieved the key I’d been sent through the mail and inserted it into the lock. I gave it a turn and the door swung open easily. Darkness yawned on the other side.
He parked my suitcase, then gave me a nervous look. “You want me to wait until your friends arrive?”
