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

“I’m not denying you heard something,” he says casually. “That house has history. Many people have met their maker inside those walls.”

“So it’s haunted.” I scoff. “Ridiculous.”

“I don’t know that it is. I’m merely stating a fact. But if that answer displeases you, then tell me what you’d like me to say, and I’ll say it.”

“What I want you to say is that my grandma was insane when she claimed there were men chained up inside that bedroom. I want you to say she was high on painkillers when she tried to convince me monsters are real. But what I need is the truth.” Because I did hear that voice. I know I did.

“The truth is I have work to do. And I am not here to tell you what to believe or think. Whatever relationship you have with that house is your business.”

“What the shit kind of answer is that?”

He sets his mug in the sink. “Thank you for the coffee. I’ll be outside plowing the rest of the driveway if you need anything else, Miss Norfolk.”

Oh, you sonofabitch. He only calls me that when he wants to shut me down and throw a wall between us. Classic Bard.

I smile tightly. “Don’t freeze your balls off. Not that you have any.”

He looks away and walks out, leaving me to stew in my own juices. Why can’t he just say the truth? If I’m going crazy, I’d want him to tell me. If something’s inside that house, the same.

I don’t understand what’s going on or why Bard is being so evasive. What’s he got to hide?

I usually enjoy taking Master on walks around the property, but the snow is still too thick for that today, so I settle for letting him bounce through the snow while I stand on my front porch.

I watch his long body spring into the air and disappear in a pile of white fluff. He looks like he’s having the time of his life. Meanwhile, I have the onset of cabin fever, something I haven’t experienced since before I went off to college. Back then, I’d sometimes spend months without leaving the estate, though I did have a few local friends. Grandma felt it was her responsibility to provide social interaction as part of my upbringing, but those friendships focused on specific activities, like the afternoon hiking club in the summertime or the community pool. It was just enough interaction to allow me to meet everyone in our local community, all four hundred of them, and to learn that the adults did not think highly of Grandma.

I got along with just about everyone. Probably because I was grateful for human interaction and believe in treating people with kindness. Still, winters were tough. Not many opportunities to be social, which is why I used to dream of traveling the world. Never happened.

After college, Grandma was having a tougher time getting around, so I came back to the manor to help out. When I was off work, I slept or caught up on laundry and did chores. I ran errands in town for Grandma Rain. No time to feel cooped up. Now that I’m not working and she’s gone, the solitude is getting to me.

I think I’ll treat myself to pancakes at the only restaurant for miles. Everyone calls the Copper Spoon “the Heart Attack Saloon.” The food is pretty greasy. But it’s where us locals go when we want to catch up on the latest gossip.

I bring Master back inside and dress for a snowmobile trip to the end of the driveway. Today it’s snow boots, jeans, my cream cable knit sweater, and my thick red coat.

“Master, I’m giving you a big bone to keep you busy while I run into town for a few hours. Okay? No eating my furniture.” I hand over the pacifier, and he trots happily to his bed near the fireplace, where he plops down and gets to chewing. I’m glad I have some money in the bank now because Master’s care and feeding are expensive.

I go outside to the blue snowmobile parked just beside my walkway. I slide off the tarp and fold it over before mounting my trusty steed. With one twist of the key, the engine roars to life, and I head for the forest through the slushy snow. There’s a path I use for hiking in the summer. It’s the shortest route to the mailbox, where I can grab Grandma’s old Bronco.

My snowmobile zips up a small slope. I hate winter, but I love this: snowmobiling under sleeping trees, their bare branches covered in clumps of pristine white snow. The sun is high in the sky, and when I pass, tiny flakes shower down on my face. It’s serene. It’s magical.

I pull through a stand of maple trees, and our old tin mailbox comes into view. Where the Bronco should be is a rectangular patch of bare ground.