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I shook my head. “No thanks, I’ll be fine. They should be here any minute.”
“Okay. Good luck.” He seemed relieved and practically jogged back to the car.
I looked back to the doorway, then turned on the flashlight app on my phone to see wide plank wood floors on the other side. With my heart in my throat, I stepped over the threshold and scanned the walls for a light switch. I found one a few steps inside and flipped it, sending a dim light over the room from an overhead fixture. But it did little to calm my nerves.
The large room with high ceilings appeared to be a sitting room. The furniture was covered with pale sheets, giving the space a ghostly feel. The air in the room was stagnant and muggy.
And The Whisper House was deathly quiet.
Shaking off the heebie jeebies, I backtracked to haul my suitcase inside, then closed the door and turned the deadbolt. The house extended beyond the light to other rooms, and I could make out a staircase. But I wasn’t about to explore tonight.
Exhaustion pulled at my limbs. I lifted a sheet from a sofa and decided it would make a passable bed for tonight, which seemed borne out by the presence of a folded quilt at one end. I turned off the overhead light, then toed off my sandals and climbed onto the sofa fully dressed. But in the cavernous blackness of the room, I could feel my heart trying to vacate my chest. I was terrified and I felt utterly exposed to the elements inside the house and out.
On the other side of a window, an animal hooted—or was it a growl?
And was it an animal?
I pulled the quilt up and over my head and blinked into the complete darkness. The quilt smelled faintly of a floral perfume and the heat was stifling, but at least I felt safe… er. Still, as my eyes grew heavier, one thought lapped itself in my brain.
What had I done?
July 2, Tuesday
I HAD nightmares. Filled with bogeymen and monsters hiding behind trees and under beds and scratching on windows to get into the room where I slept and loom over me. I bolted awake to a demon sitting on my chest and screaming in my face. Shot through with terror I screamed back, frightening the creature enough for it to fly off and land in a corner where it stared at me with yellow eyes.
A rooster?
It bobbed its head then unleashed another ear-splitting cock-a-doodle-doo, flapping its black wings.
I sat up and waved my arms. “Shoo! Get out!”
Instead, it strutted across the room, exploring and… pooping? Ugh.
In the dawning light, the room where I’d slept was still steeped in shadows from the shuttered windows. I threw back the quilt and gingerly swung my legs over the edge of the sofa, keeping one eye on the rooster while I pushed my feet into my sandals and stood. Every muscle ached, presumably from being clenched in terror for hours. My mouth tasted rancid, and my bladder was very, very full. I stumbled, then gave the rooster a wide berth while I ventured further into the house in search of a bathroom. My footsteps echoed off the walls, kicking up dust bunnies. It appeared the house had been empty for some time.
I flipped on lights along the way, but a couple of light bulbs were burnt out. I opened doors and found closets, a storage room, and a small den before locating a powder room. The commode bowl was stained from rusty water and the faucet sputtered when I washed my hands in the sink. I found a hand towel inside the tiny vanity and washed and dried my face, then stared at my reflection in the aged mirror that was losing its silvering.
My hazel eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with shadows. My skin was pale and lackluster. My light brown hair was limp and overgrown. My travel outfit of navy linen pants and top were as wrinkled as newspaper and bagged on my too-thin frame. And with apologies to Betty Friedan, the thought skittered through my brain that I was glad Curtis couldn’t see me now.
Not because he wouldn’t find me attractive—I no longer cared about that. But I’m human and I fantasized that if I ever saw him again, I’d be looking my best and oozing success. If he knew he’d driven me into hiding, he’d be congratulating himself.
A noise outside the door sent fear to my heart, until I heard clucking. I slowly opened the door to see the rooster marching by. I chased after it to herd it toward the front door, but it scrambled away, squawking. Then a thought slid into my brain that raised the hair on my arms—how had the bird gotten into the house?
I forced myself to keep exploring, peeking into room after room on the first level. I found a kitchen with fireplace and keeping room, a dining room, another more formal sitting room with a fireplace, a library, and another bathroom. I mentally catalogued the quality finishes—glass doorknobs, inlaid wood, porcelain tile, thick moldings. The furniture in every room was covered with sheets and the windows were shuttered tight. I made a full circle without finding an open window or door, then approached the wide staircase with trepidation.
The wood treads were carpeted with a footworn blue Persian runner. I climbed the steps, testing for weaknesses in the wood, but the stairs and the handrail appeared to be solid. The stairs turned at ninety degrees then continued to the next level. On the second floor even more light bulbs were burnt out. With the aid of my cell phone flashlight, I opened doors carefully to find four large bedrooms, two bathrooms, and another sitting room. But I found no broken windows or other openings where the bird might’ve gotten in.
The Whisper House was huge, I conceded as I descended the stairs. If it were located in Manhattan, it would consume a good portion of a city block. And would be worth a fortune.
I was feeling giddy at the thought of having so much space to myself… and a little overwhelmed. A big house needed a lot of maintenance.
But it would keep my body occupied until my mind was clear enough to write again.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, the rooster reappeared, then puffed out his chest and deposited more waste on the floor. I used my arm to cover my nose and unlocked the front door to shoo him out. At the sight of freedom, he half-ran and half flew out the door. I followed him out to stand on the porch and took in my first view of the grounds surrounding The Whisper House.
The landscaping was wild, consisting of tall spiky plants that looked like some kind of succulent, and tall, leggy orange lilies that had crowded out other plants. The grass around the house was thick and tall enough to conceal small children, so I suspected it was home to lots of varmints and—I swallowed hard—snakes. Beyond the grass in every direction was a treeline that led into dense forests.
The sun was barely above the horizon, and it was already hot. I walked the wraparound porch and spied two outbuildings some distance from the rear of the house. One was a chicken coop. The invading rooster sat on the roof, flapping its wings. On the ground several chickens pecked at grass and flowers.
