Julia
The morning is blindingly bright and damp as hell.
“Shit!” I yelp as I jump up from the rocking chair I’ve just sat in. I should’ve realized that all of the furniture out here on the back porch would be soaking wet after last night’s rain. The sun has only been up for a few hours, and with the humidity churning the air into a soupy mess, nothing has even begun to dry out from the thunderstorm.
I really fucking hate it out here. Even the house’s redeeming qualities, like the luxurious deck, are rendered useless by the swamp and the unrelenting Louisiana weather.
“This is why we can’t have nice things,” I mutter grumpily as I raise my mug to my lips and take a sip. At least the coffee’s good. Thank God for small mercies.
My original plan had been to settle out here with my morning coffee in an attempt to make peace with the swamp. Obviously, nature isn’t too keen on this tentative truce, so I resign myself to leaning against the railing with the ceramic mug clasped between my hands. The rising steam blurs the air, and I squint through it at the lush greenery of the surrounding landscape.
Beyond the lawn, the ground softens into churning brown mud punctuated by pools of festering brackish water. The trunks of ancient cypress trees protrude from the depths like the prehistoric bones of some forgotten creature. Sunlight filters through the dense canopy of leaves, painting the air beneath with a hazy greenish glow. Insects whir and chirrup in the scraggly underbrush while birds wail to one another between the branches.
The cemetery is partially hidden by greenery, but its presence is inescapable. Yesterday, the workmen had removed two more gravestones and tiny coffins before leaving, and I had done my best not to look. There are still a lot left out there, however, and I know that the crew will be back in about an hour to pull yet more bodies from their watery crypts. I’ve already decided that I don’t want to be out here when they’re working. Some things are better left up to the imagination.
At the stark reminder of death’s proximity, I decide that I’ve had enough of the great outdoors for one day, and I retreat into the blissful chill of the air conditioned kitchen.
I only get a few minutes of peace before the doorbell rings, sending a harsh double chime echoing through the empty halls. Wincing at the unexpected noise, I leave my coffee on the kitchen island and bustle toward the front door. For a moment, I consider who might be visiting at such an early hour, but then I realize that it must be the workmen checking in before they get started for the day. After all, it’s not like I have any friends here who’d be swinging by.
But when I pull the door open, there’s nobody there.
“Hello?” I call, peering out into the sundrenched morning.
Only the insects answer, humming wildly, unseen in the cypress trees.
Nothing moves. There are no trucks in the driveway, no indication that the workmen have arrived, or of anybody else for that matter. Cold dread settles in the pit of my stomach as I freeze on the threshold.
Somebody had rung the doorbell. I know I hadn’t imagined it.
“It’s the wiring,” I whisper out loud, trying to convince myself. “It’s like Jake said. It’s a new house. Something weird just happened with the wiring.”
I know that’s not the truth, even if I can’t explain it. But there isn’t really anything I can do about it, is there? The only solution is to close the door, make sure it’s locked, and try to forget about it.
So I ignore the frantic pounding of my heart and do just that, slamming the door shut and turning the latch until the deadbolt slides home with a satisfying click.
I start back toward the safety of the kitchen but only make it a few steps before a new sound slices through the quiet.
Creak.
Freezing instantly, my eyes crawl up toward the ceiling where the noise came from.
There are a few seconds of tense silence, and then a quick pattering noise overhead followed by a high, child-like giggle turns my blood to ice in my veins.
Footsteps.
A child’s footsteps.
Without thinking, I fly to the stairs and barrel up them toward the second floor, determined to pinpoint the source of the noise.
But as soon as I burst onto the landing, the footsteps instantly cease, as though somebody had simply hit pause.
The hallway is empty.
“What the fuck?” I gasp.
Am I going crazy? Had I just imagined it?
The memory of the workmen loading those tiny coffins onto their trucks yesterday pops into the forefront of my mind. Maybe that’s what triggered this, I realize. I’d found the sight so jarring, and now my lonely, pre-coffee brain is interpreting totally normal noises as ghost children running through the corridors. The thing with the phantom visitor right before probably didn’t help, either.
But just when I think I have the whole thing rationalized, the familiar two notes of the doorbell filter up from the first floor.
Anger replaces the cold fear in my chest. Whether it’s spirits, my tired mind, or somebody just playing a stupid prank on me, I’m sick of it. In fact, I’m fucking done.
I stomp back downstairs, fuming. By the time I reach the front door, I’m in an absolute rage. I fling the door open and growl, “This isn’t fucking funny!”
To my utter shock, there’s actually somebody there.
An older lady with graying hair takes a step back, her eyes widening in surprise and concern at my uncouth greeting. She looks familiar, and it takes me a beat to realize that this is our closest neighbor, Helen.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” I babble, my face reddening with embarrassment as it sinks in that I’ve just yelled incoherently at an elderly woman. “I’ve had somebody ding-dong-ditching me all morning, and I just thought…. Well, I don’t know what I thought. I’m so sorry!”
Helen, recovering quickly from the misunderstanding, waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t you worry about it, honey. I just stopped over with some muffins,” she explains, holding out a basket covered with a pretty yellow cloth.
“That’s so kind of you,” I say. Normally, I’d just take the muffins and not bother fostering any social connections in this dump, but my loneliness and the hot dread I’d felt earlier urge me to ask, “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”
The older woman hesitates. Her eyes dart up to the house, stopping on each of the windows as though she expects to see somebody there. Finally, she replies, “Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.” But even as I hold the door open for her to step inside, I notice that the tension never quite leaves her shoulders.
“I don’t think you’ve been inside, have you?” I inquire politely as I lead her into the kitchen.
“No, I haven’t,” Helen confirms. “I haven’t even set foot on the property since Ms. Penny lived here. It was shortly before the fire, in fact. You’ve done a beautiful job, though. How do you like it here?”
“It’s a nice house,” I say carefully. “I’m still getting used to it.”
We reach the kitchen, and I offer Helen a stool at the island. She settles onto it as I go through the process of filling the kettle and placing it on the stove. We make small talk as the water boils and the tea brews, chatting about the life I’d left back in New York and Helen’s husband, who I have yet to meet.
“And what about your man? Is he at home?” Helen asks. It’s a casual enough question, but there’s something in her tone that makes me think that this is more than just simple curiosity.
“No,” I reply slowly. “He’s away on business.”
“So he doesn’t spend much time here?” she probes.
I shake my head. “Honestly, he’s gone more often than he’s not. So it’s mainly just us girls. And by us, I mean me.”
“You must be awfully lonely out here,” she observes keenly. “I bet your imagination runs wild in a big house like this, especially once the sun sets.”
A shiver slides down my spine as I once again have the uncanny feeling that Helen’s words hold a double meaning. Deciding to test that theory, I inquire, “Have you heard the stories about this place? About the ghosts in the swamp?”
Helen’s eyebrows shoot up at the directness of my question, and I realize that the elderly woman had, in fact, been fishing. “Everybody knows the legends,” she says after a moment.
“And are they true?”
“In a way.” Her eyes dart around the kitchen, as though she’s worried somebody might be listening. “Has anything weird happened since you moved in? Anything that would make you feel unsafe?”
I shrug. “Normal house stuff. Pipes and creaky floorboards and some bad wiring. No ghosts though, sorry.”
The older woman doesn’t look convinced, and when she speaks again, earnestness sparks like flint in her eyes. “If things ever get too strange, my door is always open.”
“Thank you,” I reply, thinking that this conversation was already far too strange for my tastes. At the same time, I have to admit that I’m grateful for her company, which lasts until the crunch of gravel outside indicates that the work crew has arrived.
Helen and I exchange our goodbyes, and I escort her to her car, greeting the workmen on the way. Before she drives off, she rolls her window down and catches my eye. “Remember what I said, Julia. You can always call me if you need help.”
And then she rolls away, waving brightly.
What an odd lady.
By the time her vehicle disappears around the cypress-lined bend, I’m already dripping with sweat. Did I mention I hate the humidity? All I want to do is take a cold shower and bask in the air conditioning.
I turn around to make my way back to the house and find myself face to face with a stranger. Surprised, I let out a yelp and stumble back. It only takes a moment for me to realize that the man must be part of the work crew, though I don’t recall having seen him the day before.
Eyes the color of molten honey meet mine. Sunlight filters through his fine blond hair. It gives an illusion of a golden halo spreading around his head, which compliments the strong lines of his jaw. He looks like the kind of guy you’d find playing baseball in the Midwest, not out here in the middle of a swamp.
My gaze trails down to his chest. He’s muscular, but it’s clear that he’s built his bulk through hard labor, not long hours at the gym and endless cans of protein powder. He’s wearing a white, buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and tan trousers held up with suspender. It’s a good look, I decide. In fact, the whole package nearly leaves me speechless.
“I… I’m sorry,” I stammer, apologizing for the second time that day. “I didn’t realize you were right there!”
He smiles warmly. “The apology is all mine, ma’am. I’m sorry to have startled you.”
“It’s fine,” I assure him. He seems sweet, even if he speaks a little formally, and I sure won’t be forgetting those glowing honey eyes anytime soon.
“You have a fine morning, ma’am.” He nods.
He turns and heads toward the swamp, leaving me standing in the driveway.
Melancholy overtakes me as I watch his retreating form. Maybe being haunted wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
At least I wouldn’t feel so alone.
I turn back toward the house and take a few steps, but then, I can’t help myself. I want to see him again.
When I turn back around, he’s gone.
Thinking he must’ve been walkin faster than I realized, I go inside to take that cold shower.