Chapter 2: Grandville

After a night in a motel ridden with bedbugs, I was thoroughly exhausted when my mother announced we had finally arrived in Grandville.

But my weariness was forgotten as our new home came into view.

All the houses on the street were aesthetically pleasing with well-kept, manicured lawns, but the vast, yellow Victorian stood out like a beacon of class and style.

It had a wrap-around porch, a peaked roof, and a large stained-glass window at its highest peak, like a sparkling diamond.

The virtual tour hadn’t done the home justice; it dulled in comparison to the real thing.

“Oh my goodness,” I gushed as we pulled into the driveway.

“If you are impressed now, wait until we get inside,” my mother promised as I exited the car.

“Is it unlocked?” I asked.

“There is a key in the lockbox. I just have to text the realtor to let them know we have arrived, and they will send me the code,” she said as she began scrolling through her phone.

“We have a fenced backyard!” I exclaimed as I rushed to the gate, abandoning my mother, who had her phone pressed to her ear as she tapped her foot impatiently.

I slipped inside the gate and gasped at the crisp green lawn lined with various species of colorful flowers. A large, inviting deck sprawled across the backside of the house, and a garden shed sat at the foot of the garden.

Of course, we’d had a garden back home, but the residents there had been more fond of growing tomatoes and other edible vegetation they could hawk at the farmers’ market.

As I peeked in the shed, I realized it was more spacious internally than the exterior had suggested. There was a tiny greenhouse at the back too.

I bypassed some flower boxes with the intent of scrutinizing the greenhouse, but I was redirected when a tower of packing cartons caught my eye.

Abandoning my greenhouse adventure, I made a beeline for the boxes only to discover that they had all been taped closed.

Fishing out my keyring from my pocket, I used my former house key to break the seal on the flaps of the top box.

I hoped to unearth some of Virginia Cole’s personal items, or—even better—some of her scrapped manuscripts but found myself disappointed. The box contained, from what I deduced from the treasures inside, the discarded items of a teenage girl.

There was a cheap rhinestone crown—the type they pass out at prom or homecoming—and a sash that confirmed that the owner of the box had been crowned Miss American Pie. In addition, there were several yearbooks.

I lifted the rhinestone crown from the box. Though I had always claimed to think pageants were silly, every girl secretly wanted to feel like a princess, even if only for a day.

I raised the crown, posed to place it on my head, but before I could declare myself queen, my mother burst into the shed.

“There you are!” she exploded. “I was looking all over for you, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at her dramatics. “I was just doing a little exploring,” I said, gesturing to the boxes. “Do you know if Virginia Cole had any kids, maybe a teen girl?”

Her curiosity piqued, and she crossed the threshold to join me. “Children were never mentioned in her autobiography.”

“Well, this box is filled with teenage girl crap,” I said, gesturing to it. “If these belong to a family member, the estate may demand their return.”

“This box does not belong to a relative of Virginia Cole,” my mother stated, sounding certain now as she assessed the items.

“How can you be so sure?” I pressed, as I unearthed a diary that was only protected by a plastic lock.

“Because the girl in this photo is Rosie Johnson. Virginia included this exact image in her book.” She held up a photo of a rather attractive young girl with blonde hair and vibrant blue eyes.

I replaced the journal. “Rosie Johnson? Was she one of the kids that died here?”

Upon discovering the boxes, I had anticipated tearing them open like a kid on Christmas, but now I decided to reconsider. I believed in karma and didn’t want to invite any bad juju.

“No, she is a survivor. She was away the night of the massacre,” my mother informed me before returning the image to its rightful place. “I am intrigued by their story, but I don’t feel it is right to go rifling through their personal belongings.”

“Why? They’re not using it anymore.”

“Some cultures bury their dead with their earthly belongings because they believe people form attachments to their trophies and that the soul may return to reclaim what is theirs,” she lectured. “Though I don’t hold the same beliefs, I’m not anxious to test the theory.”

“Rosie survived,” I challenged her. “And even if she is dead now, I doubt she will depart from the comfort of her casket to reclaim her homecoming crown.”

“You never know,” my mother said tentatively.

At a buzz, we both looked at the phone in her hand. “Oh, that’s the realtor with the code. Come on.”

I followed my mother to the lockbox attached to the side of the house.

“I’m so excited!” she squealed as she punched in the code and took out the keys.

“I only expected two keys at most,” I said, gazing at the full ring in my mother’s hand.

She began sifting through the keys in search of the one that would gain us access. “At least someone had the good sense to label them, or we would have been out here all afternoon.”

She located the correct key and slipped it into the lock. “Open sesame!” she proclaimed as the latch released, and we gained entry.

“Oh my goodness…,” my mother breathed as we entered the foyer.

“Whoa!” I cried.

Our old house had been large but was a modern design that reflected every other home on the block. This house was not only unique but also special.

The chandelier that lit up the entryway looked antique and extremely expensive, and the vast staircase was adorned with ornamental spindles. An array of diamond windows lined the wall, lighting the ascension.

I followed my mother into the formal living room, which boasted original wood floors and a fireplace that was made of marble, jade, and wood.

“You don’t see craftsmanship like this anymore,” my mother commented as she tested out the pocket doors that divided the living room and guest bath from the other rooms.

“We will have to devise a way to prevent clients from wandering down the main hall or nipping up the stairs to snoop around,” I said.

“Oh, they wouldn’t do that.” She waved a hand.

“You give humanity way too much credit,” I told her as we parted so we could each explore the home on our own.

My mother retreated to the kitchen, anticipating the amenities she had been guaranteed, whereas I ascended the stairs, eager to choose my new bedroom.

It was obvious that some rooms had undergone remodeling. One room featured a prime rose-accent wall that coordinated well with the curtains and a massive circular rug that featured a rose similar in color.

The next room was painted bubblegum pink and featured cream trim. I could imagine the pageant crown that I had discovered in the garden shed, perched on the shelves here.

The room adjacent to the pink room boasted blue wallpaper featuring sports balls. This room must have belonged to Jacob, the only male among the Johnson siblings. I wondered if Jacob and Rosie visited the home on occasion to memorialize their family.

The room next door to the prime rose room had been converted into an office. Massive bookshelves and a spacious desk had been erected in front of the room’s bay window.

It was evident from the flaws on the desk’s surface that it had been in regular use. Had this been Virginia’s writing room? I began to rummage through the desk drawers, hoping to discover a trinket that may have been overlooked.

When I came up empty, I prepared to resume my search in the closets when a thump followed by a long squeal echoed throughout the second floor.

“Mom?” I cried as I shot out the door, fearing that something had collapsed on top of her, or worse, she had taken a tumble down the steps.

After a brief glance into the rooms I bypassed, I reached the stairwell and gazed over the banister. The first landing was empty.

“Mom?” I called out louder, prepared to dash down the stairs, but halted when I heard low muttering.

I paused at the head of the stairs and listened. After my mother broke into raucous laughter, I deduced that she was on the phone.

“Oh, thank god,” I breathed aloud and clutched my chest, which was pumping wildly. After a few deep breaths, I returned to the hallway and made my way to the upstairs bathroom.

I cringed when I saw my reflection in the mirror suspended above the sink. I must have given myself quite the fright, because my face was flushed, and my right eyelid was twitching.

Thankfully, Virginia Cole’s estate had left some of her toiletries behind, including some washcloths that were neatly folded on a rack by the sink.

The top towelette was dusty from months of neglect, but the other washcloths were still clean enough to deem usable. I plucked one from the pile and began to soak it in cold water so I could pamper my face.

I had just begun patting my face dry when a long, lingering creak rang out.

I poked my head out the door and detected movement from the corner of my eye. My first reaction was to recoil; a door at the end of the corridor had drifted open.

Though my logical reasoning told me my mother’s banging around downstairs must have disturbed the door, I still had to resist the urge to flee.

“It’s probably just a linen closet,” I reasoned with myself as I forced my feet to carry me down the hall. But when I opened the door the rest of the way, I was delighted to discover a set of stairs.

Though I wasn’t fond of attics, I began to ascend the stairs, which were thankfully wide and in good repair. I emerged, predicting what to expect, but once again the house caught me by surprise.

The attic had been constructed into a suite.

Colored light lit up the room from the vast stained-glass window that created a floral pattern across the floorboards. Through a partially open door was a luxury bathroom, complete with a massive shower.

I was about to test out the shower settings when a frantic voice carried up the stairwell, “Dharma! Dharma, where are you?”

I dashed out of the bathroom and carefully maneuvered down the stairs, which had a wicked twist on the first landing. “Up here, Mom,” I called as I finished my descent.

My mother stood in the center of the hall with her fists planted on her hips. “I have been calling you for at least ten minutes,” she complained. “What were you doing up there?”

“Oh, Mom, you won’t believe it,” I gushed. “You have got to check out the upstairs.”

“We will have plenty of time to explore later. We still need to run to the grocery store and get some cleaning done before the movers arrive tomorrow morning.”

Ignoring her protest, I began racing back up the stairs. “Come on, Mom,” I urged her. “You won’t regret it.”

She sighed reluctantly and began to follow me up the steps. At the top, she appeared as astonished as I had been.

“I must have missed this in the virtual tour,” she breathed.

I concurred as I watched her gaze in awe at the massive stained-glass mural. “If you think that is impressive, wait until you see the bathroom,” I asserted, then threw the door open to make the big reveal.

“Holy moly!” my mother gasped. “One can poop like a king in here!”

“Gross!” I erupted, making a face as I joined her. “Go check out the shower.”

I watched as she gingerly slid the door aside and entered the shower stall. “Now ~this~ is what I call a shower!” she exclaimed, her voice echoing in the space. “There are so many bells and whistles that you almost need an owner’s manual to figure them all out.”

As she emerged, I couldn’t resist asking, “Can this be my room?”

My mother gave me a doubtful look.

“Why not?” I whined, stomping my foot and feeling petulant.

“If I were to allow you to live up here, I would never see you again. Besides—”

Suddenly my mother’s eyes widened, and her focus was no longer on me but on the space above my head.

“Mom?” I questioned when I waved my hand, and her eyes didn’t flicker in response. “Are you all right?” Before I could move to aid her, she raised a hand to stop me.

“Don’t move,” she warned me calmly, her gaze remaining raised. “Stay very still.”

My hands fluttered reflexively, and my arms moved to protect my head, but before I could, my mother snapped, “I told you not to move.”

Obediently, I went rigid and watched as my mother carefully reached down and began to take off her sandals. Frozen, all I could do was watch as she brought her shoes above my head and clapped them together.

The loud smack of the rubber outsole of her sandals broke my paralysis, and I brought my hands to my head. “What is it?” I squealed as I ran my fingers through my hair. “What was it?!”

Carefully, my mother parted her shoes to reveal a large black spider.

“Ugh, I hate spiders,” I complained, combing my hair with my fingers more rapidly.

“It wasn’t just any spider,” my mother informed me. “It was a black widow. It may be difficult to see, but if you look closely, you can make out her markings.”

“I don’t want to look at her,” I cried, turning my head away from the squished mess in my mother’s palm. “I just want to go back downstairs. You’re right. I don’t need to stay up here.”

“We will call an exterminator in the morning,” my mother promised as she walked over to the sink and began washing the remains of the pest off her shoe.

“Agreed,” I said. “Now, let’s get out of here.”

“Why?” my mother teased. “I thought we could stick around, maybe choose what type of furniture you would like for your new digs…”

“Not funny,” I huffed, storming from the room. My first instinct, as a spoiled only child, was to find a bedroom and slam the door. But since there was no bed to throw myself onto, I continued my descent to the first floor.

As soon as I reached the landing, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it!” I announced.

“Dharma, wait!” my mother called as she trailed behind me. “You have no idea who it could be.”

“Relax, Mom,” I said with an eyeroll. “I doubt anyone woke up at the crack of dawn to rob our empty house.”

I grabbed the door handle, expecting to find a well-meaning neighbor who had taken the initiative to welcome us, but when I threw open the door, I was taken aback.

The specimen that had appeared on our doorstep looked as if he had emerged from the pages of a magazine. He was tall, with sun-kissed skin layered over impressive muscles.

He had a strong jaw, but his most stunning feature was his deep-set sapphire-blue eyes, which sparkled as they caught the sunlight.

I must have been gawking, because the man blushed and averted his gaze as he nervously ran his fingers through his hair. “Ma’am?” he inquired.

Remembering myself, I attempted to speak, but suddenly discovered that my mouth was dry, and my lips refused to move. Mortified, I stepped aside so that my mother could intervene.

Ducking from behind the open door, she greeted the stranger. “Excuse my daughter,” she apologized. “We weren’t expecting guests this early.”

“Completely understandable,” the man replied. “I heard that Grandville had newcomers, and I thought I would stop by and introduce myself. I’m Justin Jones. I do a lot of landscaping in this area and thought I would offer my services.”

From my limited view through the distorted glass in the door, I watched as the landscaper produced a card, which he offered to my mother.

“The grass ~is~ overgrown,” she said as she accepted it. “Does your company also offer tree trimming services?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Justin replied. “If you visit the link on the card, there is a full list of our services, as well as our prices.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” my mother said. “Thank you for coming by and introducing yourself.”

“The pleasure has been all mine,” Justin responded smoothly. “I’ll let you and your daughter get back to settling in.”

“Thank you, you will surely be hearing from me soon,” my mother said, offering him a little wave before she closed the door. Then she turned to me. “I guess next time I need some peace and quiet, I will invite a handsome guy over.”

“That was so humiliating,” I cried, pressing my palm against my forehead.

My mother laughed and wrapped her arms around me, giving me a tight squeeze. “You are exhausted,” she declared. “Now, why don’t we go into town and explore a little? Perhaps you will feel better after you get some food in your stomach.”

I nodded at her suggestion and hoped the distraction would help me get over my embarrassment.