1
the summer of 1981
It was July 14th, 1981, two years after the death of Grace Baxter, when Jonathon and Carlie Summers pulled into the drive of the silent and foreboding two-story house.
Carlie had inherited the house from her late aunt, and it had been more than twenty years since she had last set foot on the property. Carlie was amazed to find that, after so many years, not a lot about the old house had changed.
Jon, on the other hand, felt there was something very eerie about it. The old house appeared to be permanently under a deep shadow. The sun was out and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, yet the vacant house remained dark and ominous. He also couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside was watching him.
The second-floor window stood in stark relief to the rest of the house. Scorched black and hastily boarded after the fire that had taken the life of Carlie’s aunt, the window drew Jon’s attention. He couldn’t take his eyes off it.
The thought of what had happened behind that boarded-up window chilled his spine.
The fact that the house had been on the market for two years without a single interested party wasn’t lost on Jon either.
Carlie didn’t seem to notice any of this, not even the window. Something else about the house captivated her. It wasn’t something tangible; it was more a feeling. To her, the house emanated a sense of desolation and abandonment, as if it were lonely—as if it were waiting for her.
When Carlie opened the front door and stepped inside, the passage of time simply melted away, leaving her with the feeling of returning home—to where she belonged.
Walking from room to room, she tenderly caressed every hand-sculpted, wood-and-stone-inlaid surface that the original owner had created nearly a century and a half earlier.
Walking through the enormous kitchen into the eat-in breakfast area, she remembered Grace telling her the story of the original owners designing and building each room—how every board, nail, rock, stone, and ounce of mortar had gone into fulfilling their lifelong dream. As she stood in the center of the room, Carlie was reassured to find that, even after sitting vacant for two years, the house still carried the fragrant aroma of freshly baked bread and Aunt Grace’s sugar cookies.
Jon wandered three paces behind Carlie as she explored each room, describing not only its history but also the legends behind every little detail. As hard as he tried, Jon still could not summon the same euphoric feeling for the old house as Carlie had.
To him, the interior was dark and oppressive; the air was stagnant and heavy and reeked of burnt wood and electrical wiring. In the kitchen, a hole in the roof had allowed access for a family of raccoons or some other creatures into the rest of the house. Their musky urine scent permeated the raw wood surfaces of the floors, countertops, and cabinets.
The combination of these odors was so prevalent and overpowering, it made Jon’s eyes water.
Jon followed Carlie down the central hallway until she abruptly stopped at the end. She tenderly ran her fingertips over the brass trim on the heavy oak door. Turning the handle, she pushed the door open and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
As the door swung inward, Jon recoiled from a rush of frigid air and the putrid smell of death and decay.
The icy touch of an unseen hand—something invisible yet all too real and physical—grabbed him by the front of his shirt, held him at arm’s length, and threw him, flailing, into the far wall. Sliding to the floor, Jon involuntarily gagged at the overpowering stench as it settled into the confined space of the narrow hallway.
Jon felt the need to find a reasonable explanation for what had caused the putrid smell before abject terror overrode his ability to reason.
Possibly a diseased animal had found its way inside the sealed room, where it had died and decomposed.
Whatever it was that had thrown him against the wall, however, was an entirely different story; everything about it was incomprehensible.
Looking up at Carlie, he realized that she hadn’t noticed the smell or any of what had happened to him.
After their tour, Jon wanted to run, to get Carlie as far away from the house, as fast as humanly possible.
Taking one last look at the house, Jon could feel the icy glare of someone or something watching him; whatever it was, it had given him a warning that he would never forget.
During their drive back into town, Jon kept his eye on Carlie. She sat in her seat perfectly still, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed. She was lost in her own world—a world that excluded everyone and everything else. Something was horribly wrong with her, and he was positive it had everything to do with Grace’s house.
They were just outside of town when she finally began to shift in her seat; she looked over at him and smiled. Carlie was back.
In town, they met with Dexter Simmons, Grace’s attorney. Handing Carlie a document from the state titled “Execution of Eminent Domain,” Dexter explained that substantial repairs needed to be made to the house immediately, or the state would confiscate and demolish it.
It was Dexter’s responsibility to sell the house and give the proceeds to Carlie. However, the time to do that had run out.
Without giving it a second thought, Carlie told Dexter that she would take the house; she would make the necessary repairs and some improvements of her own, and then move in.
Jon’s jaw dropped. He waited for the punch line—but one never came. Carlie was dead serious.
At that moment, it really didn’t matter what Dexter or Jon thought. The house needed her.
When Dexter reached across the desk, taking Carlie’s hands in his, he told her that what she was proposing was a bad idea and he hoped she would reconsider.
Carlie couldn’t. Her decision was far too important. When he told her that he would rather see the house demolished than have her live in it, she became livid.
Jon couldn’t believe what he was hearing, nor could he understand Carlie’s unshakable determination. After witnessing Dexter’s efforts to dissuade her, Jon was sure that the old man knew something was wrong with the old house, and hoped that maybe his insistence would persuade her to change her mind. Jon knew it was useless for him to try to change her mind.
Over the next two hours, the couple listened as Dexter explained what a huge decision it was to even consider moving into the house. Carlie appeared to be completely aware of the pitfalls she and Jon would face. The more they talked, the more animated Carlie became. She described the feelings and impressions she had gotten while in the house. She conceded that these were not the same feelings Jon had experienced. She addressed Jon’s concerns by admitting that he was right: they hadn’t experienced the same things, but quite possibly she had experienced what the house used to be—what it was supposed to be and would be again—and not necessarily what it was at that moment.
Carlie had been considering the idea of moving away from Chicago for some time. She felt that a complete change was something both of them needed. Their life had become little more than an endless circle of days.
Maybe new scenery, new people, and a slower pace were what they needed.
Not at all sold on the idea of moving into the house, Jon did, however, understand that time was of the essence in starting the repairs. Dexter had already taken the liberty of hiring a local contractor.
After Carlie signed all the required documents and construction agreements, Dexter said he would set up an appointment for them to meet with Paul Jacobson, the contractor.
It had been a long, trying day, and Jon faced a minimum eight-hour drive back to Chicago. Checking his watch, he saw that they had only an hour or so of daylight left, so after saying goodbye to the attorney, he asked Carlie if she wanted to stop at the edge of town and get a motel room rather than drive through the night.
Checking into the tiny motel, they dropped off their few travel items. After settling in, Jon suggested that they go into town and eat before the county rolled up the streets for the night.
The town consisted of one main east-west highway, which offered very little in the way of restaurants. After dismissing the two fast food places at the west end of town, Carlie suggested they go back to the café with the semis and pickup trucks parked in front.
“If it’s good enough for truck drivers and the locals, it should be good enough for us,” she told him.
As the tinkling little bell over the door announced Carlie and Jon’s arrival, the clanking of glasses and loud, boisterous conversation immediately stopped. All eyes shifted toward the front door and the newcomers. Even dressed in their most casual clothes, the two of them looked completely out of place.
When the silence became almost palpable, a raspy female voice—attached to a waving, disembodied arm—chimed in from the back of the room, “Y’all just sit down anywhere you like. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Choosing an empty booth at the front of the room, Carlie slid in and Jon followed across from her. Before they could even adjust their clothing, the waitress was dropping two menus and two glasses of water in front of them. “Take your time, folks. When you’re ready, just holler.”
“Hey, Loretta,” a booming voice came from the far corner of the room, “you got any more pie back there?”
Without even turning around, she yelled back, “Yeah, Cecil, I got pie. Just hold your horses, old man! You ain’t wasting away.”
When the room erupted in laughter, the waitress made an apologetic gesture. “I’m Loretta, folks, and I apologize—some of these old farts think they own the damn place,” she said. “Don’t pay them no mind. Y’all just relax and take your time. I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”
Smiling, Jon looked across the table at his wife. “Well, Dorothy, we made it—welcome to Oz.”
Carlie looked briefly over her shoulder. The animated crowd behind her had already returned to their normal conversations.
It took fifteen minutes or so for their meals to arrive. Neither of them had eaten a thing since breakfast, and Carlie ate as if she hadn’t eaten in a week. Jon couldn’t believe his eyes. Carlie was always an incredibly fussy eater.
Tonight she ate like a farmhand.
Her platter-size dinner plate was piled high with a piece of deep-fried meat the size of a small frying pan, green beans, mashed potatoes, and enough gravy to classify the meal as an inland sea, and she wolfed down every last bite. She then proceeded to soak up every drop of the remaining gravy with a basket of homemade bread.
After Carlie was finished splashing around in her gravy, the two returned to their motel room. Jon was at a complete loss for words. He pulled out a clean pair of underwear and his pajama bottoms from Carlie’s overnight bag and headed for the shower. As the steam and hot water beat down on the tight muscles in his neck and shoulders, he replayed how strange Carlie had acted while they were in the old house.
Even as he silently hoped he had seen the worst, his evening—and hers—was about to get much stranger.
Jon lay in bed for hours watching Carlie sleep. There had been far too many firsts that day, and Jon wasn’t comfortable with any of them.
That night Carlie dreamed that she could see the old house off in the distance and she desperately needed to get there. Running toward it, Carlie felt very real pain. The sharp rocks of the gravel road poked deep holes and cut ragged gashes in her bare feet.
In the looming darkness, the vacant house stood silent—alone—a silhouette set against a sea of weathered husks and barren trees. It felt so real. She could literally see and smell the white billows of her hot breath as they evaporated into the night air.
Standing on the cold wooden porch, she slowly turned the handle and opened the front door. Stepping inside, she heard a baby crying in the dark. She recognized the cry immediately as that of her own child.
Standing alone in the pitch black, she turned toward where the sound seemed to be coming from. Every step felt as if she were walking in molasses.
A sense of desperation took hold of her as she tried to make her way down the hall. Struggling with each step, she couldn’t manage to reach the source of the crying. The closer she seemed to get, the farther away the baby’s cries moved—compelling her to follow.
At the end of the corridor was a massive oak door. She knew that her baby was just on the other side, and time was running out.
Expecting to find the door locked, she was surprised at how easily the brass handle turned. She pulled open the heavy door and stepped out of the darkness into a brilliant moonlit night; at her feet, she felt a tiny mound of dirt. Running her hands across the loose dirt, she found a simple polished granite stone.
Carlie knew that the crying was coming from the grave directly beneath her. Dropping to her knees, she felt the cold, damp earth against her exposed skin. As she twisted and turned in her sleep in an attempt to unbury her sobbing infant, a strong, gentle hand caressed her face and hair.
The foreignness of the touch and the unfamiliarity of the cool hand against her warm skin brought her fully awake and straight up in bed. Confused and disoriented, Carlie swung her arms through the darkness in search of the source of the touch.
All she found was her husband sleeping soundly in the bed next to her in the empty room.