Chapter 6: Chapter 6

CHELSEA

When I wake up the next morning, the sun is already filling my room with light. I glance at the clock—it’s 7 a.m. I hear sounds from the kitchen, so I decide to get up.

I find the bags Lynn brought over from the apartment. Dumping them on the bed, I start to sift through them. I find an old pair of shorts and an oversized T-shirt. I quickly put them on and head downstairs to the kitchen.

Detrick is there, showing Zoey how to make coffee.

“Good morning,” I greet them, and they both turn to look at me.

Zoey gives me a half-hearted wave. “Hey.”

“What’s up, Zoey?” I ask, moving to stand next to her.

“I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept hearing noises, like kids running around in the attic, doors slamming.”

I wrap my arm around her. “No more wine for you,” I tease, giggling.

“I’m serious. Look!” she insists, showing me her arms. “Did I dream this?”

She points to her arms, but I don’t see anything. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“The bruises on my arms. They’re shaped like fingers, like someone was holding me down in the tub,” she says, her voice rising.

“I don’t see anything.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mutters. Detrick places a cup of coffee in front of her. “I’m not losing my mind.” She grabs her coffee and storms out onto the front porch.

“Did you see anything?” I ask Detrick.

“No, ma’am,” he replies, shaking his head. He pours me a cup of coffee.

“Please, call me Chelsea.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, grinning.

I watch him as he pours himself a cup. His hands are shaking slightly, but not enough to be really noticeable.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

He looks out the window, coffee in hand. “I think since the early seventies, ma—” He stops himself and takes a sip.

“She was already living here when you arrived?”

“Yes, as far as I know. This place was given to her in the mid-sixties by another writer.”

“You’re saying that someone gave her this house, just like she did with me?”

He nods. “It seems the house has a thing for writers. You take care of the house, the house takes care of you,” he says, taking another sip of his coffee.

My mind races, thinking about the fact that another writer gave her this house, just like she did for me.

“Did my great-aunt have a boyfriend or maybe a husband? Friends?” I ask.

“She did before I started,” he replies.

“You said ‘did.’ Did something happen?”

He takes a sip of his coffee and looks at me.

“I don’t really know much about that. It was a long time ago,” he says, placing his dirty mug in the sink and walking out the back door.

***

I’m still sitting in the kitchen when I hear someone crying outside. I walk out the front door to find Zoey curled up, sobbing into her hands.

“What’s wrong, Zoey?”

“I don’t feel good.”

“I’ll change my clothes, and then I’ll take you home.”

***

I’m almost home when I notice a car parked next to a large oak tree. I pull into my driveway and stop.

I watch as he places flowers by the tree. He stands there, waving his arms as if he’s talking to someone. Then I see him wipe his face with his arm. ~He must be crying.~

After about ten minutes, he gets back in his car and drives away. I back up and drive over to the tree, parking my car. I get out and look at the massive oak tree.

The trunk must be six feet wide and the tree itself must be over two hundred years old. I get closer and see that it’s been hit several times over the years.

I run my hand over the trunk, feeling the rough patches where bark is missing. I step back and notice two crosses. One by the tree and the other about thirty feet away. That’s where the man placed the fresh flowers.

I bend down to read the inscription on the cross, but it’s blank. So I walk over to the other one, where the flowers are. There’s something written on this cross.

~Rest in peace Frank and Maggie Stallworth 1975~.

A chill runs down my spine as I read the words.

***

When I get back to the house, Detrick is watering the flowers on the front porch. He tips his sun hat and nods as I walk into the house.

Back in the kitchen, I make myself a sandwich and another cup of coffee. Then I consider where I want to eat my lunch.

“My office,” I decide, smiling.

I head up to my office and sit at my desk. I take a bite of my sandwich and gaze at the books in the corner.

There’s a section I missed the other day. I get up from my desk and walk over. They’re old hardcover books. I carefully pull one out.

The cover is light green, and the title is ~The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn~ by Mark Twain. I slowly open the book and, to my surprise, it’s a first edition, printed in 1885.

“Holy shit!” I exclaim.

I carefully close it and put it back where it was. Right next to that book is ~Tom Sawyer~, also a first edition. I lightly run my fingers over all the hardcovers, feeling the texture of each book.

“Hello!” I hear from downstairs, followed by a knock. I slowly walk down the stairs but don’t see anyone at the front door.

“Hello!”

I hear the voice again. I turn around and see a man standing at the back door.

“Can I help you?” I ask, picking up a knife from the kitchen counter.

“Hi, I’m Christopher Miller. I was a friend of Dorothy’s. I heard someone moved into the house, and I wanted to welcome them to the neighborhood,” he says, gesturing to the handle of the screen door. “May I?”

“Sure,” I respond, setting the knife aside but keeping it within reach. He steps through the door, extending his hand. I take it, and he waits for me to introduce myself.

“Apologies. I’m Chelsea.”

“You’re Dorothy’s niece?” he inquires.

“Great-niece,” I correct him. He stops shaking my hand but doesn’t let go.

“You’re even more stunning in person,” he compliments, his gaze lingering on me.

~That’s the second time I’ve heard that in just a few days~, I think to myself.

“Thanks!” I reply, raising my eyebrows in surprise. “How did you recognize me?”

“Your great-aunt had a photo of you at her old desk,” he explains.

This is getting strange. I knew I had a great-aunt, but I knew nothing about her. Yet, she had a picture of me.

I never included a photo or a profile with my first book. I can’t figure out how my great-aunt got a hold of one.

“Is the picture she had still in the house?” I ask.

“After she passed, most of her personal items were boxed up and stored in the attic,” he explains, gesturing towards the ceiling.

“How did she pass?”

“She died peacefully in her sleep,” he answers.

“Oh, okay,” I respond, pouring myself another cup of coffee. I hold up an empty mug, offering him some.

“No, thank you. Coffee doesn’t sit well with me,” he declines, placing a hand on his stomach.

I return to the breakfast bar where the knife still lies. He watches me, glances at the knife, then back at me.

“So, how did you know Dorothy?” I ask.

“I grew up around here. My place is just through the woods, out back,” he explains. I notice his eyes wandering over me as he speaks.

“I’ve lived here my whole life. Dorothy used to let me swim in her pond when I’d visit,” he shares, pointing towards the back door.

I make a mental note of the pond’s location.

“Actually, I helped her write her last two books.”

“Really? Which ones?”

“~The Damned~ and ~Ghosts in the Woods~,” he rattles off quickly.

I nod, recognizing the titles. They were the last two she wrote under her pen name. But I don’t recall ever seeing the name Christopher Miller as a coauthor on those books.

Feeling a bit more at ease, I put the knife away. Christopher stands before me, and I take a moment to study him. There’s something familiar about him.

He’s in his early thirties, with a youthful face, a square jawline, and short brown hair. He appears to be in good shape, his biceps straining against his shirt.

His jeans fit him perfectly, hugging his legs and… ~Oh, that ass.~ I bite my lower lip as I give him a once-over, then catch myself. I glance up at him and find him smiling.

I look away, taking a sip of my coffee, and start to move towards the back door.

“Where’s this pond you mentioned?” I ask as he holds the door open for me.

“I’ll show you,” he offers, leading the way.

We walk side by side until we reach a stone pathway. It leads us down a small hill, and just beyond a cluster of bushes, we find the pond.

“Wow,” I breathe.

This is no ordinary pond. It’s picture-perfect, like something out of a movie. It’s much larger than I had imagined.

Two swans glide gracefully in circles. A duck leads a trail of ducklings. A small deck extends ten feet out into the water.

To the right of the pond, two Adirondack chairs sit with a small table between them. Over on the left, there’s a picnic table. I walk over and run my fingers over its surface.

It appears brand new, but I can tell it’s been sanded and varnished, smooth to the touch.

“Dorothy used to come out here and write whenever the sun was shining,” Chris shares.

I give him a puzzled look, and somehow, he understands my confusion.

“She was old school. She’d come out here with a couple of legal pads and a handful of pencils and just write. Sometimes, she’d sit there for hours.”

Once I grasp what he’s saying, it all clicks into place.

“I wish I’d gotten to know her. I’d love to know what inspired her to write horror,” I muse, looking at Chris. He shrugs, meeting my gaze. Suddenly, it dawns on me where I recognize him from.

“Holy shit!”

“What?” he asks, startled.

“Nothing. Just a thought,” I dismiss.

He’s the spitting image of one of the main characters in my last book. The face, the jawline, the muscles, everything, even the eye color matches.

I stare at him, my eyebrows furrowed. How is this possible? I created this character in my mind, and now he’s standing right in front of me.

I blush as I recall the explicit scenes I wrote about him. A smile tugs at my lips.

“What?” he asks again.

“Nothing,” I dismiss, turning to head back up the hill towards the house. I glance back to see Chris following me. I stop at the screen door.

“Thanks for showing me the pond,” I say as he steps onto the porch. “Um, this might sound strange, but would you like to come over for dinner tonight?”

“I’d love to. What time?”

“Eight?”

“I’ll see you at eight,” he confirms, stepping off the porch and heading towards the woods. I watch as he disappears into a cut path.

“Oh my god!” I exclaim, laughing to myself.