The House, Part Three

Rebecca was trying to work on an advertising layout when she heard a soft giggle behind her. "Is someone there?" she called, so wrapped up in her work that for a moment it didn't really register that she was supposed to be the only one in the house. Chris had gone into town to run some errands, leaving her free to focus on the project. 

A child's voice said, "Mama said we shouldn't talk to you, but I think it'll be okay as long as you don't look at us."

Rebecca's concentration suddenly broke, and she sat back in her chair. "What happens if I look at you?" she asked warily.

"Maybe nothing,  said the child's voice. "Or maybe you'll get very, very scared. So scared that you die."

"Ah," said Rebecca, and shivered. "Well, we don't want that."

"No, we certainly don't," said a new voice, and Rebecca startled but managed not to turn around. This voice was older, a woman's voice. "Do we, Rachel?"

The child's voice sounded abashed: "No, Mama."

"Run along then," said the woman's voice, "and leave the owners be." There was a brief pause, a shift of attention, and the the woman's voice added: "Please forgive us. I tell her not to disturb you, but Rachel is young and she doesn't listen. And we so seldom have new people here; she's very curious."

"It's okay," said Rebecca, though every hair on her body was standing on end. 

A moment later the room was empty except for herself, but it was nearly an hour before Rebecca could bring herself to start working again. It had taken a cup of chamomile, a walk around the outside of the house, and finally some meditation and deep breathing to get her settled back down. She kept worrying that she'd look around at the wrong moment, and see a child who might scare her all the way to death.

And she'd have to warn Chris, so it didn't happen to him either.

* * *

"Rachel?" Chris asked, frowning. 

"The ghosts have names," Rebecca said, and took a sip of her whiskey. A bowl of niku udon sat on the table in front of her, almost untouched. She stirred it absently, then sipped more whiskey. 

The dining room table had come with the house, and it was large enough to make eating awkward; the two of them were crowded down at one end, leaving the rest of it empty. It was made of some heavy, dark wood, and something about its weight and age suggested that it might predate the United States as a country. Despite that, it had taken only a little polish to restore. The chairs were a matched set with the table, elaborately carved and every bit as imposing.

"What if they aren't ghosts?" asked Chris. "What if there are people living in some hidden part of the house, and they're just fucking with us?" The image of a man turning to smoke and drifting away rose up behind his eyes, but he angrily shook it off. 

Rebecca shrugged. "Even if they're not ghosts, I don't think they're people."

Chris considered that as he ate. He'd gone with the tonkotsu ramen, spicy, to help help clear sinuses that were itching with late-autumn allergies. He turned to smoke and blew away... "Maybe," he grudged. 

After dinner he stalked back into the depths of the house, leaving Rebecca to finish her udon and clean the table. It wouldn't take her long, he reasoned, not for a takeout meal, and he wanted to find where these intruders were coming from, if he could.

He tried the two secret doors first. One was in the library, and opened by swinging out an entire section of shelves -- smoothly enough that none of the ancient books fell from their places. It was a ridiculously theatrical effect, one Chris had yet to tire of. The room beyond was a sort of enclosed study, with bookshelves of its own. He checked around the walls, looking for seams and tugging randomly at books, but no further doors opened. 

The second secret door was an antique mirror at the back of a long hall; he felt for the catch behind the ornate iron frame, and it swung out from its place on the wall. The staircase beyond led up to the room he'd taken for his office, a tower room with three small, stained-glass windows and another set of stairs leading up to a turret. The trap-door to the turret could be closed with a metal latch, and Chris did so; if anyone was coming across the roof, they wouldn't be able to enter here.

He continued his search, tugging at sconces and lifting paintings to look behind them, but found nothing. When he finally climbed into bed at midnight, he was frustrated to the point of foolishness.

Part Four