The Ghost of Ellwood Read online

  Even with areas of the dark green paint having faded and the yard in need of work, no other place in my life had ever given me such a sense of peace. Of home.

  And I hadn’t even stepped a foot inside yet.

  “Excited?” Caroline Humphries asked after she got out of her car and joined me by mine.

  She came to give me the keys, show me around, and answer any questions. The owner hadn’t wanted anything to do with the house and had refused to come onto the property after we signed the papers.

  Strange, but whatever.

  “A little bit,” I answered, scanning the tall trees in the front yard, the many windows of the manor, and the curving architecture. The leaves rustled as the wind blew. “It’s so quiet.”

  “Yes. It is.” Caroline adjusted her round-framed glasses, seeming unsettled for some reason. Her eyes darted to the house before she turned to me with a smile. “But the quiet is perfect for your work, right? I must say, Mr. Cross, I’m a big fan. I’m eager for your next book. No one writes horror and suspense quite like you.”

  I almost asked her what she thought of my last two books but decided against it. No reason to ruin my good mood.

  “Thank you for your support, Ms. Humphries. I—”

  “Caroline, please,” she said, tucking her dark hair behind her ear.

  “Well, I appreciate you reading, Caroline.” My attention shifted to the house. “Is there anything else I should know about the place?”

  “Nope.” The unease returned to her eyes. “It’s your pretty standard historical home. There’s a decent sized shed that you can use for storage, and you even have your own pond on the property. Come. I’ll walk with you around back.”

  We advanced closer to the house, and I peered up at the windows, wondering what waited on the inside. I’d seen pictures of the interior, so I had a gist of what to expect, but I was eager to walk through and see it with my own eyes.

  Once in the back yard, Caroline led me over to the shed and unlocked it. The wooden door creaked as she swung it open. A few pieces of equipment left over from the previous owner had been included with the sale; a riding lawn mower, a rake, and various tools like a handsaw and a rusty hammer.

  Next, she showed me the pond then we walked back to the house.

  “That’s the greenhouse there,” Caroline said, motioning to a smaller building attached to the side of the manor.

  The wrought iron structure was dark gray in color and stood at half the height of the manor. As I looked inside, I had trouble seeing through the clouded glass. It would have to be cleaned from the inside. I stepped back and shielded my eyes from the sun to peer up at it. Stained glass bordered the greenhouse, and the domed top allowed in natural light.

  “Wow,” I said. “I’ve never had a greenhouse.”

  “Now you do.” Caroline backed away from it and cleared her throat. “Although, I should tell you the previous owner had issues getting into the building.”

  “Issues?”

  “The door wouldn’t open. From either side. None of the keys worked.”

  A chill spread down my spine.

  “Speaking of the keys. Here they are.” She handed them over. “This one goes to the front and back doors, this is for the shed, and this one—” She pointed to a larger one with a fancy design on the grip “—is the skeleton key. It’ll open any door in the house.”

  “Except for the greenhouse.”

  “You can always try it just in case,” she suggested. “But I dread to think about what is in there. No one has stepped foot inside for years. Could be snakes.”

  “Awesome. I’ll keep that in mind.” I studied the keys, finding them heavier than expected.

  “If that’s all, Mr. Cross, I should be on my way.”

  “Of course. Don’t let me keep you. Thank you for showing me around.”

  She moved toward her car, perhaps faster than what was normal. Before she got in, she looked back at me. “Mr. Cross? If you need anything or if something happens, don’t hesitate to ask for help. People in Ivy Grove are a tight-knit bunch, and we take care of our own. That includes you now.”

  “What do you expect to happen?” I asked. “Is the house haunted or something?”

  The question had been a joke. I didn’t believe in ghosts.

  Her mouth opened before snapping shut again, and she flashed a smile. “No! Of course it isn’t haunted. I just know how these old homes can…play tricks on the mind, is all. It’s an old house and some things are to be expected.”

  Huh. Interesting.

  I didn’t let myself think too much into it. Caroline had probably watched too many scary movies—or read one too many of my books. Old homes tended to unsettle a lot of people due to overactive imaginations. There were chemicals involved too, if I remembered correctly, caused from old structures that gave one an unnerving sensation.

  I watched her leave, the tires throwing rocks as she sped off.

  When I turned back to the house, that peaceful feeling returned. The house looked like it hadn’t been touched in months—longer than that—and as I walked up the cracked sidewalk to the front porch, my excitement built.

  I slid the key into the lock, turned it with a click, and pushed the door open. The groaning as it opened sounded like the ones heard in scary movies, that ominous creeeeeaak that caused the pulse to race.

  As I stood in the doorway, I saw cobwebs in some of the corners and got a whiff of the stale air. The house must not have been aired out since the previous owner left. With no lights on, the dark paneling on the walls made the inside even darker. Two tall windows stood on each side of the door, but not even the light shining in could brighten the place by much.

  A slight chill lingered in the air, causing the hairs on my nape to stand on end.

  Stepping across the threshold, the chill intensified, as did my goosebumps. I had never felt anything quite like it before. The hardwood floor groaned as I walked farther inside, and the circular foyer made me dizzy as I glanced upward. My leg bumped into something, and I spotted an antique chair against the wall. The owner had left that too?

  I craned my neck to look at the staircase not far from the entryway. It curved up to the second floor, and remembering the description on the site, I knew it went to a third floor as well.

  A room set to the left of the entrance. Looked like a parlor.

  A thud came from upstairs.

  “Someone there?” I asked, snapping my attention upward.

  Probably just the house settling.

  My phone rang, and I jumped like five feet high. I chuckled at myself and retrieved it from my pocket, seeing it was the moving company.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Cross? We just got into town,” Frank, the driver, said. I’d met him early that morning when they came to pack my things into the truck. “What’s the street name again?”

  “Ellwood,” I answered. “Go straight down the road and it’s the house at the end.”

  ***

  The first night in my new house was uneventful. For the most part.

  Staying in a new place always came with a few odd occurrences. All of which could be explained. The manor was old, for one, and old homes tended to creak and groan. With the cold front coming in, some of the noises came from the wind blowing against the outside. Tree branches had scraped against the siding.

  In the city, I had heard so much; cars, sirens, and other people. So, of course, being somewhere secluded and quiet would make the smaller noises more noticeable.

  Even though I had woken up several times during the night, I opened my eyes refreshed and ready to start the day the next morning. After the movers arrived yesterday and unpacked the truck, I had been able to sort through some of the boxes but had stopped when exhaustion won over. I wasn’t able to fully explore the manor, either, and planned to do so that day.

  First things first? I needed coffee.

  I pulled myself out of bed, stretching as I did. Two five foot windows were in the room, and the sun streamed in, adding life to the place. A new day. A new adventure.

  I still couldn’t believe I uprooted my life on a whim and moved over two hours away from the city. I didn’t know anyone in Ivy Grove. A gut feeling told me I had made the right decision, though.

  The floor was cool beneath my feet as I padded across the room and pulled on pants and a long-sleeved shirt. While I was at it, I slipped on socks too.

  Boxes holding movies, books, and more clothes were stacked against the far wall. All things I’d get to at some point. I baffled once again at the size of the room. I had my queen-sized bed, a dresser, TV and entertainment center, plus a bedside table, and there was still space for more.

  It would also take a while to get used to the constant chill in the air. Seeing as to how a majority of the house had hardwood floors, it made sense for it to be on the cooler side.

  After making a quick stop to the bathroom, I walked down the stairs to the kitchen. The dark gray cabinets were broken up by a red countertop, and a red curtain was draped in the oval window above the stainless steel sink. One wall had rose-printed wallpaper that would definitely need to be replaced at some point, but the other walls were painted cream and weren’t so bad.

  More boxes littered the floor, and I stepped around them on the way to the coffee pot. It took a bit of searching to find my can of coffee, but once I did, I added water to the pot and clicked start. The hissing of the machine as it started to brew added noise to the otherwise quiet morning.

  I slid onto the barstool and checked emails on my phone before browsing social media. Readers had tagged me in posts, some asking about the new book and others posting about reading my older ones.

  And then I came across a post with several hundred comments.
r />   Ben Cross has lost his touch! Murder in Scottsville was the worst book I’ve ever read. Predictable and boring. Used to be my fav author.

  A reply to the post: OMFG I agree! What happened to him?

  Another response: I hate when authors get too successful and start crapping out on the quality of their books. They write shit and expect us to spend our hard-earned cash on it.

  I stopped reading the comments. Nothing like a nice sprinkle of self-deprecation to jumpstart my morning. That was a hard dose of reality. I never intentionally wrote a shitty book. Shit just happened sometimes. And no one was more disappointed about it than me.

  As I ripped open several boxes, searching for a coffee cup, a thump sounded from behind me.

  I jumped around, looking at the open archway leading out of kitchen. The noise had come from the hall. I waited with bated breath for some explanation for the thump.

  Had a stray animal gotten inside? Or maybe it was a mouse?

  It’d have to be a damn big mouse to cause such a loud thump, though.

  When nothing else happened, I shook my head and continued my hunt for a cup. I was turning into one of those paranoid people from the movies who jumped at every noise. Once found, I rinsed out the cup in the sink before pouring my coffee. I needed to go into town later for groceries, but I had brought sugar from my old place and stirred some into the cup.

  The morning was then spent unpacking more boxes, starting with the kitchen. I then tackled the ones in my bedroom, hanging up clothes in the closet and tossing folded ones into drawers. I hadn’t chosen a room for my office yet, and so I took a break from organizing to look into the other rooms.

  The manor had six bedrooms, and there was also a larger room on the first floor that had clearly been used as a library in the past. Built-in shelves lined the walls and the massive windows on one side of the room lit the place up. I glided my fingers over the empty shelves, imagining them overflowing with all types of books.

  One day I’d fill the entire library.

  I hadn’t been too impressed by the selection of upstairs bedrooms—at least not for my office. Outside of the library, I followed a narrow corridor. I could reach out both arms and easily touch the walls. At the end of the hall, I turned into the last room and stopped in the doorway. It was perfect. There were four windows total, and the view of the back yard was spectacular. Hills rolled in the distance, and I could see the pond.

  With a decision made, I tracked down the boxes for my office and brought them into the room. The harder part would be my desk, but I could manage if I took my time. Once getting the bulky thing into the room, I plopped down in the chair in the corner.

  That’s when my eyes zeroed in on a small table beside the window.

  A lot of furniture had been left in the house. I’d probably sell most of it, but there were some pieces I’d keep. The antique table was about three feet high and had a single drawer, which I opened. I found nothing but a thick coating of dust and what felt like a dead beetle.

  But then my fingers touched something.

  A small space was between the bottom of the drawer and the inside wall. I’d read about false drawers before and proceeded to add a slight pressure. There was a soft click before the drawer lifted.

  Inside was a leather-bound book. Dust covered it from top to bottom, and the spine was old and worn. I picked it up and blew on the front, coughing as the dust flew into my face. The cover had no text, and I opened to the front page.

  A name was written in black ink: Theo.

  The discolored pages had that old smell to them, and as I turned the page, my heart gave an excited jolt. It was a journal.

  August 2nd, 1912

  The day is sweltering. Father says that means we’ll have a cold winter. I can only hope this is true. I find a certain peace in the winter, when snow falls from the heavens. However, that is for another day. For now, we must endure another month of heat.

  Harvey should be here soon. He wants me to go with him to the woods. He likes to pretend he’s on an adventure. We are men of sixteen, yet he hasn’t outgrown his boyish whims.

  Secretly, I enjoy it.

  He’s so carefree as he speaks of finding hidden treasure and tells stories of great explorers. There’s a place where we like to pick berries too. They grow on the bushes near the stream and make for a fine snack when we’ve been running through the trees, pretending to be knights on a noble quest. I can still taste the juice of the blackberries as Harvey and I sat by the water and ate them.

  I can still taste his kiss too.

  “Oh my god,” I said as my hands started shaking. “No way.”

  Just as I was about to continue reading, the doorbell rang.

  I placed the journal on the table and left the office, going back down the winding corridor. Through the stained glass of the front door, I caught glimpses of someone standing on the other side. I hadn’t the slightest clue as to who it could be.

  When I opened the door, the guy on my doorstep smiled.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, flashing the dimple in his cheek. His strawberry blond hair was buzzed on the sides but was longer on top and swooped across his forehead. Dark green eyes were framed by pale lashes. “My name’s Carter. I live down the street. Your only neighbor, really.”

  “Oh.” I cleared my throat. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Ben.”

  “Sorry if I’m bothering you.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. He didn’t look a day over twenty-five. “I saw you moving in yesterday and wanted to give you a day to settle in before introducing myself.”

  “You’re not bothering me.” I hesitated in the doorway. “I’d, uh, invite you in, but it’s kind of a madhouse right now. Mountains and mountains of boxes.”

  “I don’t envy you,” Carter said, chuckling. “After moving this last time, I swore to myself I’d never move again.”

  “Yeah? Where’d you move from?”

  “I came from Cali.”

  “Wow. Long way from home.”

  “Eh.” He shrugged. “This is home now. There’s not anywhere else like Ivy Grove.”

  “What made you move all the way across the country?”

  “Got sick of Cali,” he answered. An end-of-summer breeze swept around us. “My granny lived here her whole life, and I’ve visited a few times over the years. Thought it’d be a cool place to start over, you know?”

  “Starting over,” I repeated, nodding. “Must be a theme around here.”

  Carter grinned, and his nose crinkled with the action. “I take it you came here for the same reason?”

  “Something like that.”

  He looked past me into the house and stepped back a little. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Maybe we can get together for a drink sometime? I’d like to get to know my new neighbor.”

  “Likewise.”

  After he left, I returned to my soon-to-be office. The house wasn’t fully unpacked yet, but I needed to try and get some writing done. One box was filled with notebooks that I used to jot down story notes for each book, and many of them had loose pages jutting out. I placed them on a shelf in the corner before sitting in my desk chair.

  That’s when I remembered the journal and shot back up like my ass was on fire. My curiosity was piqued. I’d only read a few paragraphs of the first entry, and I was already sucked in.

  Who was Theo? Who was the Harvey kid he’d mentioned?

  However, when I approached the antique table I’d placed it on, the journal was gone.

  Chapter Three

  Ivy Grove could best be described as a quaint town in semi-rural Connecticut with a lot of charm. Rolling hills on the outskirts provided a beautiful landscape, and the town had a history that ran deep. There were plenty of stores, bars, parks, and places for teens to hang out and cause trouble—much like me back in the day.

  Mostly everyone I met greeted me with a smile, even though they were complete strangers. The barista at the local coffee shop knew me by name and people I had only met once or twice chatted with me like we were old pals. It was the kind of hospitality I’d really only heard about in the south, but maybe all small towns were like that.