WALL MEN: A Haunted House (The Wall Men 1)

I exhale slowly, pushing my free hand through my hair. No. If that were true, I would’ve heard him plowing. He uses the big tractor, so the engine is hard to miss. Also, if he needed to grab something from inside the main house, he’d use the front door—it’s closer to the driveway.

“Shit, Lake. Stop trying to convince yourself the bogeyman is real.” Because that’s what it boils down to, right? I know there are no evil men or monsters in that room. “I’m done with this.”

I reach to close the back door. The last thing I need is some wild animal looking for a winter hideaway.

Just as I’m jerking the door shut, the smell of smoke hits my nose.

Shit! I run inside, past the storeroom, and flip on the kitchen lights.

Water. Water. I set my flashlight down on the counter, find a bucket under the kitchen sink, and place it under the tap. The well water comes out in its usual pathetic trickle.

“Jesus.” Why didn’t Grandma Rain listen when I told her to put a fire extinguisher in every room? Her response was always that if God wanted to burn the house down, He’d burn it. A little can of foam wasn’t going to stop Him.

“Great, Grandma. I guess He decided.”

I leave the water running and bolt into the hallway, which offshoots to almost every area on the first floor. If you follow it all the way down, you’ll get to the foyer, but along the way are doorways leading to the dining room, Grandma’s study, the parlor, the ballroom, servants’ quarters and the servants’ kitchen—defunct now.

I walk slowly, sniffing down the hallway. This is some weird shit because I don’t see smoke, and the smell is coming from the direction of the study.

My mind flashes to all the things inside I’m not ready to confront, including her journals. Seeing her big oak desk will only make her death feel too real. If the house burns, though, I’ll have nothing left.

I run to the closed door and press my hands to it. Cold. Also, there’s no smoke coming from under the door.

I don’t get it. I smell smoke. I’m coughing because the smell is so strong.

I twist the handle and push on the door. Inside is a cluttered wall of books, her lumpy gray couch, and her desk. Her old brass desk lamp has been left on, which is not a great thing, but nothing’s burning.

Where’s the smell coming from?

I step back out into the middle of the hall, sniffing for the danger.

Nothing. The odor is completely gone.

This is really freaking me out. I check the rest of the rooms, including the dining room and parlor. There’s no sign of fire.

What is going on?

Maybe the back door wasn’t closed all the way, and while I was busy at Bard’s, the wind blew it open. Smoke from my and Bard’s chimneys probably drifted into the house. On nights like these, when the air is cold and the wind is almost nothing, smoke from our fireplaces lingers on the ground, hovering like a mist.

Back in the hallway, I scrub my face with one hand and exhale. I feel like I’m being haunted by my own mind. “This has to stop.”

I shut off the water in the kitchen and return to Grandma’s study. I can’t believe her lamp’s been left on all these months. Given the outdated wiring, I’m grateful the house didn’t burn down for real.

I walk to her desk, seeing a storybook of memories in my thoughts. This room is where Grandma read to me. She hugged me on that gray couch by the window after my parents disappeared. She and I had breakfast almost every morning at her desk before our days started.

“These memories are the real monsters,” I tell myself. Because they’re bringing me torment instead of joy.

I reach under the green lampshade and am about to turn the knob when I notice a pile of thick black notebooks sitting on her desk chair.

I walk around and pick up the one on top. I immediately know what they are. Her journals.

I set the book down, shut off the light, and leave the room.

I know what she said on her deathbed, but that’s why I don’t want to read them. I want to remember the person I loved, not the incoherent stranger I said goodbye to in the hospital. I want to preserve the memory of the woman who took me on walks and taught me about plants, trees, and the animals in our forest. She told me stories about our ancestors. She pushed me to be a strong woman and to educate myself. If I read those journals, they will poison those memories.

I leave the main house, my heart tugging between fulfilling her final wish and my own selfish needs.