Three

There was a ghost in the house. In that room. And Matt had to get his guts up to go in.

He stood in the house his father left him, holding a glass of rye and ginger in his hand. The kitchen bright and inviting behind him, tunes cranked on the stereo. Guitars wailing in the background, way too loud. And he was here, staring at a closed door.

The Viceroy home had seen better days — in the 1980s. The post and beam design originally picked from a catalogue. Most likely because of the window nooks and gallery loft. Sold as a kit, some assembly required. At least the wood frame of British Columbia lumber had withstood enough winters to prove its worth. And now it was his, along with everything in it.

There are no ghosts, Matt told himself. It’s an empty room, that’s all.

He hadn’t been in there since the funeral. Probably not before then either. Why bother? There was no one in there, after all. No reason to go in.

Not until now.

Just another mess to sort out. All part of the process of dying. Just go in. Do it.

He took a swig from his glass, then reached for the door handle. God only knew what he’d find in there. It could be teeming with ants. And paperwork.

The door swung inward on a creak of hinges that made his hairs stand on end. Like nails on a chalkboard. But nothing a little WD-40 couldn’t fix. He made a mental note to add it to his list of chores.

How the hell could his dad still intimidate him?

As soon as Matt stepped over the threshold, the familiar scent hit him full force and almost knocked the breath out of him. Pine sawdust and Old Spice cologne. The musty smell of paper and books.

The thick carpet muffled his footsteps. Even the sound of the music faded, as though turned down a notch. He stood in the centre of the room, feet planted, and took a good look around.

Once meant as a dining room, his dad had repurposed the space long ago, claimed it as his own and left them to eat at a table for two in the kitchen. Probably some nice hardwood flooring hidden beneath that carpet, though you’d never guess it by looking at it.

He could have sworn the office used to be bigger. Didn’t help that every square inch of usable space was filled with stuff. At least the window wall behind the desk opened the room up to the deck and yard. No lake view. The house was too close to town for that. If you wanted to see the water, you had to drive there. But, behind the branches of the old oak tree, the sky burned the same glorious red you’d see from the rocky vantage point at the boat launch.

Rustling leaves chased shadows through the room.

“The inner sanctum,” he said out loud, because he could. There’d always been something sacred about this room, but now it was like a mausoleum, frozen in time. All those who enter, beware. And wasn’t that just typical?

No ants in sight. That was a relief. Nick Thorn had a habit of taking food in with him when he wrote and then letting the plates stack up. Just a bowl on the desk now, some orange crumbs in the bottom. Probably the remains of Cheetos.

Matt set his glass down on the desk, ice cubes clinking. Not on the coaster, but beside it, moisture already beading in the heat.

The floor-to-ceiling maple bookshelves were crammed full, the contents haphazardly stacked, some spines bent. He picked up one of the more worn copies, and felt the dust coat his fingers. Woodworking. Mostly texts on carpentry, which made sense. As a professor of carpentry and renovation techniques at the local college, his dad had collected books on the subject for years. Depending on how out of date they were, he might be able to donate some. Matt flipped to the copyright page, before setting the book aside. He’d have to go through them all. Lots of sci-fi. No surprise there. Some pulp fiction, right down at the bottom. And of course, a copy of Hamadryads. The original print run, looked like. Though that didn’t mean he’d be saving it.

His dad’s armchair caught his eye. Like something straight off a Sherlock Holmes set. He ran his hand over the leather, tempted to keep it. Some cracks, some discolouration, but in pretty good condition. One button missing. Grooves worn into the shoulders of the chair.

Maybe it was that smell, or being in the room, but for one instant, he saw his father sitting there, flipping a book. Glancing up, his eyes taking a second to focus, and that frown that always made Matt feel about ten inches tall.

He blinked, rubbed his eyes. And looked back at an empty chair. Maybe he could just dump it on the curb.

Time to speed this up. Then he could get some food going — a quick crepe, maybe — and settle in to watch the game. The Blue Jays were playing tonight. Simple rules, and you knew if you won or lost.

The room needed to be vacuumed. Dirt on the floor, trekked through to the desk and back. Some wood shavings too, from the looks of it, like someone walked in straight from a workshop. Which was probably what happened.

When Matt sank into the swivel chair at the desk, he caught himself flicking a guilty glance over his shoulder. Then he laughed and ran a sheepish hand over the back of his neck. There was no reason why he shouldn’t be sitting here. Going through his father’s things. It was all his now. And yet, an uneasy feeling pricked at him.

“Doesn’t feel right yet, that’s all.” He reached for the padded envelope sitting on top of a stack of papers. Unopened. He turned it over in his hands. Postmarked not long before his father’s death. Return address — some company in Toronto. A film service?

Curious, Matt tore it open. A gust of cool air washed over him. Hopefully from the open window and not an angry spirit. “Sorry, Dad.” He shook the contents out onto the table.

A CD, a smaller envelope, and an invoice. He picked it up, skimmed it. Negatives enclosed. Scan to email transfer. CD included. So, his dad had gotten an old film cartridge developed. Maybe a month before things went downhill fast. Looking back to the past right at the end. Full of regret, he hoped.

He flicked on the desk lamp and held one of the negatives up to the light. And caught his breath. A woman, maybe early thirties, grinned at the camera, tossing long blond hair back. A close-up. He recognized her, more so from other photographs than from memory. The film must have been eighteen years old, or more. Just on that turning point, before everyone went digital.

Sorry for your loss, that’s what people had said. Like they had ‘lost her’. Like the accident was their fault.

Matt held up another negative. Outdoors, view of the lake. He tossed it aside, picked up another. Then paused. This one was different, the start of a series of similar images.

Hard to tell. He’d know for sure when he loaded the CD onto his computer, checked the scans. But if he had to guess, it looked like some sort of construction site. Not unusual in itself. Could have been either his mom or dad on site. Some old project? But why document it on a private camera?

One person would know, but the past was always a touchy subject.

He could let it go. Put the pictures aside, forget about it.

The hell with that. His father had kept too many secrets while alive. Matt wouldn’t pass up the chance to expose one of them now. They would all come to light soon anyway. The clock was ticking. Only one week to go.

He swiveled the chair around to look at the room again, tapping the envelope against his palm. His father’s study. Fine particles hung in the air, caught by the light.

He was wrong. There was a ghost in the room with him. But, separated by life and death, he finally had his father by the throat. Secrets were trapped inside that house and, one by one, he’d reveal them all.

“‘Things crack along the lines of a promise,’” Matt quoted. “Isn’t that what you wrote, Dad?” A visionary, the critics had called him. “Let’s see how right they were.”