Chapter Four
Lens
Officer Matthew Lynchfield brushed aside the broken glass with the side of his boot and jiggled the doorknob. He bent down and checked the locking mechanism. After a moment of fiddling with the lock, he twisted back to Rachel and Brett with an emotionless face and signature drooping eyes.
“And you’re one hundred percent positive that all the windows were locked and the doors had safety bars?”
Rachel took a break from squeezing herself to bush a strand of hair behind her ear. “We’re positive.”
Brett stared at the chucks of shatter China that turned the kitchen floor into a deathtrap. “After the first invasion, we’ve been extra cautious. The only time we remove the safety bars is during the daytime when no one is home.”
Brett wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling Rachel close to his side. He wore a hoodie without a shirt, shorts, and slippers. After they called the police, Rachel slipped on a wrinkled white-tee and sweatpants. Office Lynchfield walked back towards them. A fragment crunched beneath the weight of his foot.
“Watch it,” Brett said.
The officer eyed him but didn’t respond.
“We might be able to save some glassware,” Brett elaborated.
The mess looked back at Rachel. It didn’t inspire confidence.
Officer Lynchfield rubbed the sides of his mouth with two fingers. “Sound travels in this house, yeah? What I’m trying to understand is how every one of your plates gets smashed on the ground you didn’t wake up.”
Rachel glared at him. “We didn’t sabotage ourselves.”
“Never said you did, but there are lot variables that don’t add up.”
They stood in silence for a moment. The sounds of woods and wind seeped through the walls. Rachel kept her eyes on her bare feet. She imagined her soles and toes slashed open and bleeding red amidst shards of milk-colored glass. She chuckled internally. Brett and her moved here for inspiration, and Rachel was fully confident that she’ll never have artist block again. She felt Lynchfield’s eyes on her. Something about them made her want to avoid contact. The stolen photo stayed in the forefront of her mind.
“This is what I’ll do for y'all,” the officer began. “I’ll keep my cruiser parked outside. If anything happens, I’ll be within shouting distance.”
Brett inhaled and nodded. “We appreciate that.”
“Let me get the boss’s okay. I’ll be back shortly.” Lynchfield walked passed them and out to the porch. He withdrew his phone and leaned out the railing. His sad dog eyes glanced out into the abyssal blackness of night.
“I don’t like this guy,” Rachel whispered to Brett.
“At this point, we take what we can get.”
They grabbed the brooms and swept mother’s China along with every other glass dish or bowl into dustpan. Reluctantly, they tossed them out, remembering all the meals they shared. At least they got a final supper in before calamity. They’d dine on plastic and paper towels henceforth.
Brett tied off the trash bag. Together, they walked outside and heaved the bag into the trashcan.
“Maybe it’s time for a vacation,” Rachel suggested.
Brett groaned. “I don’t think it's smart for us to leave house and all our stuff until this prankster is caught. And when he is, we sue the living hell out of him. Tomorrow, I’m going to have a long chat with realtor about who has any spare key house.”
“Good idea.” Rachel said as they walked back. “This whole situation is driving nuts.”
For the rest of that night, Rachel lay awake. Her body told her to sleep. She shut her eyes but didn’t drift away. A fear pressed at her side like the point of a spear. What if the perpetrator is watching her right now? Moonlight poured through the window. A spider dangled outside the glass. Its legs worked at spinning a web; a home of its own where it trapped unexpecting guests.
Rachel watched the sky turn from black to indigo to crimson and then to gold before she sat up. Brett drooled on his pillow. His nose twitched. Rachel admired his ability to sleep. Envied it, almost.
The shower spat cold water at her. She leapt, goose skinned. Steady stream of scalding water struck her next and shrouded the bathroom in mist. Swaddled in a towel, she spit toothpaste into the sink and cupped her hands under the faucet. By the time she swooshed the mint taste from her gums, the mist had faded and she saw the stranger in the mirror. Herself but with hollow eyes and a constant frown. She rubbed her hand down her cheek. What once was soft felt coarse and bumpy. The silver strand of hair grabbed the light above the sink. Rachel twirl it around her finger and yanked it from her scalp. She discarded her first grey hair into the sink and watched the faucet water send it spiraling down the drain. She understood a new fear. One that seemed much farther from the mutilation of her body. Her own age. Her own mortality.
She spent the first hour of the day dolling herself up for her own peace of mind.
The smell of egg and cheese leaked from the kitchen. Brett set out a plastic plate for Rachel with scrambled eggs topped with melting shredded cheese. “Tea or coffee?” Brett asked.
“Coffee,” Rachel replied, yawning.
The two of them ate without saying a word. After, Brett dialed the realtor, having a long talk that required a lot of pacing.
“Well?” Rachel turn away from her easel, swiveling on her stool top.
Brett adjust his glasses and put his camera back on the dining table. “She says that she’s very sorry.” He withdrew his camera from the bag and popped out the SD card.
“And?”
Brett slipped the card into its reader and booted up his laptop. “She doesn’t know anything. The bank confiscated it in 1983 after the last owner’s passed away, and the only keys that she knows of are the two she gave us. I’m just glad we have that officer out there.”
Rachel looked out the window and to the squad car parked on the front lawn. Lynchfield stood outside of it, dragging on cigarette and puffing rings of smoke into the air. He turned Rachel. She remained still. Can he see me in here? Lynchfield took another drag.
Rachel left her canvas blank and marked upstairs. She returned, hugging a dirty clothes hamper. After struggling to open the old door, she bounced down the basement stair. Her mouth twitched at musty aroma. She fought a sneeze and dropped the basket in front the washer and drier. After filling them up with nasty clothes, she scanned lamps, chairs, couches and more covered by dusty white sheets. Her skin crawled for no reason. She felt eyes on her.
“Hello?” Rachel called out. After a moment, she chuckled at her own ridiculousness.
A child’s laughter mimicked her own.
Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. Eyes wide, she stepped toward the antique furniture. The pipes in the wall rumbled as the washer took effect. She jogged upstairs. What are you doing? She asked herself. You’re just tired. Rachel slump down at her stool while Brett plucked away at his keyboard.
“Everything alright?” He asked.
“I just need to relax,” Rachel replied. She looked at the blank page for a moment. Across the room, her husband edited yesterday’s photos. His brow deep. His eyes focused. One hand gently pulled at his beard while he thought. Rachel smiled to herself, she maneuvered her easel so she could see the hunch of Brett’s back in the chair, looking like a twenty-first century rendition of Auguste Rodin’s Thinker. Rachel’s pencil captured Brett’s pensive expression, groomed beard, his glasses and dark brown eyes. A few black bangs strung down the front of his forehead. He brushed them aside. The rest of his hair was expertly cropped and layered.
Rachel allowed creativity to rule over her. She blocked out the soft hum of the water pipes and the clacking of her husband’s keyboard. Her hand took her beyond his image and two something in the background. Rachel didn’t know where the drawing was leading. It was almost as if her hand moved on its own.
After some undisclosed amount of time, Brett noticed his wife bouncing her e
yes from the easel to him. Rachel nipped at the end of her pencil, studying the work. Brett stood up and walked over. He leaned behind her, studying the canvas. “That’s some spooky shuff.” He squeezed her shoulder proudly. “Good job, babe.”
Rachel heard his footsteps in the kitchen as he refilled his coffee mug. Tasting the wood her pencil, eyes studied her sketch of her husband, a black and white version of his real-life counterpart. Behind him but standing before the fireplace stood a man with greying hair swooshed to the side and thick sideburns. He wore an unbuttoned businessman's suit. The chunky bullet hole at the center of his forehead trickled blood down the bridge of his nose, over his tight lips and down to the bottom of his square jaw. Beside him stood a woman, both beautiful and intimidating, who had short puffy hair, long legs and a side button dress from a bygone era. An exit wound blew out just below her breast.
Rachel studied the artwork. It was one of her best pieces, and she complete it in half the time.
A phone rang. Brett answered from the kitchen. “Uh huh… yeah… I can make that. Thank you. Be there soon.”
“Work?” Rachel asked when he stepped out back into view.
“Yes. There’s a few waterfalls National Geographic wants for their website, believe it or not. The Secrets of the Appalachia is what they are calling the segment,” He grinned widely.
“Sounds intriguing,” Rachel replied.
Brett’s excitement faded. “I don’t have to go if you don’t want me to.”
“Are you crazy?” Rachel exclaimed. “We moved here for these opportunities. A few breaking and entries aren’t going to change that.”
“I don’t know,” Brett replied. “They’ve changed a lot, actually.”
“I’m joking,” Rachel clarified. “Enjoy yourself and pick up some sleeping medication on your way home.”
Brett kissed her on the forehead. “Will do. Thanks, Rach.”
Hastily, he packed his camera and laptop and hurried out the door. “I left the phone number of the cab company on the countertop. Don’t worry about the price.”
He waved to goodbye to Lynchfield and sped away. Rachel was alone in the big four beds, three bath house. Well, not entirely alone. She looked at the squad car, shuttered and placed the safety bar beneath the doorknob.
The rest of the afternoon dragged. Her artistic rush waned after the first sketch, and she returned to cliché, women and their demises. Nonetheless, her thoughts hung on the couple in the previous drawing of her husband. Something about them felt so… powerful, like her creation wasn’t just marks on a page, but a font of, albeit sinister, inspiration.
She finished folding the laundry and marched upstairs, killing her boredom by washing dishes, sweeping and mopping the dark wood floors, and dusting the face grandfather clock. She moved to the guest bedroom upstairs and approached the wardrobe. It stood a head taller than her and half as wide. She stood on a chair and swept her yellow feather duster across the top.
Click.
She stepped down from the chairs, noticing that the one of the wardrobe’s double doors had tapped against the back of her chair. She moved aside the chair, allowing the door to swing the rest of the way. She peered into the wooden box. A dark stain smeared the bottom back corner. Rachel leaned down farther and brushed her thumb across it. It was dry and old, forever set into the wood. After shutting the door, Rachel finished her dusty, grabbed the chair and exited the bedroom.
Rachel stepped into the hall. She eyed the other bedroom across the way. She was torn between which one would make a better studio. There was office downstairs as well that they weren’t utilizing. The decision probably would have no bearing on her life, but Rachel stressed thinking about. Her father’s nagging about having a baby bubbled up, as well. She understood his concerns. Aside from her mother, she was the last of the Harroways. And it wasn’t like she didn’t like children but...
Click.
A tingling danced up Rachel’s spine. She put down the chair and quietly peered into the bedroom. The wardrobe door had creaked open. Rachel stared at it with concern, swearing she shut it. As she strutted towards it, the room twist and the floor inclined to side.
“What the…” She felt the blood rush to her head and her peripherals darken. Her palm smacked against the wallpaper, preventing her from falling. She clenched her eyes shut and took deep breathes. She opened her eyes, her sight clearing up and room returned to its original state. The wardrobe doors were firmly shut. The knobs didn’t budge, and Rachel noticed a keyhole she didn’t see before. Her stomach churned. She felt like she was going to vomit.
Rachel hurried downstairs and out the backdoor. A chilling breeze splashed over Rachel. Dry leaves danced by her feet. Rachel quickly shut the door and stepped away from the house. Her feet crunched through the blanket of fall leaves on in her backyard. All the surround trees were completely barren, and it was still two months out from winter.
She felt like she stood in the crosshair of some unseen force. The feeling in her gut was horrid. In the house, it was no better. What she would trade to get five minutes of sleep? Rachel plopped down on the old rubber tireswing. The ancient rope pulled taunts. The tire swing swayed under Rachel’s weight. She closed her eyes and saw her mother. She was tall and beautiful with the same nose and eye color. Rachel’s father Liam approached her, his arms out in a non-threatening manner.
“Honey, put down it down,” Liam said carefully.
Mother smashed the plate on the counter and held up a jagged shard.
Reality returned. Rachel tucked her hair behind her ear and turned her eyes away from the brown leaves. Laughter. A girl and boy peered out from behind a skeletal tree. They scattered, running in the opposite direction.
“Hey!” Rachel shouted. “Stay right there!”
She jumped out the tire swing and chased after the strangers. She ran through trees, hurdled over dips in the earth and ducked low hanging branches. Rachel slowed to a staggering, stop between four towering oaks. Birds took flight above leaves the color of fire. Mountains and trees dipped up and down, to the north, south, east and west stood hundreds of trees.
“Come out here!” Rachel’s shouted. “No more games!”
Her echo replied. “Games, games, games, games.”
Rachel rested her palms on her knees, awaiting a response.
Rachel hiked back to the tire swing, boiling with frustration.
Hand on his pistol holster, Officer Lynchfield lingered in the backyard. “See something out there?”
“Yeah. Two kids. One is wearing a blue skirt. I didn’t see other.”
“There’s no houses ‘round these parts for miles,” Officer Lynchfield pointed out almost as if was a good thing. “Lead me to where you saw them.”
“This way.” Rachel marched ahead to the tree where she saw the intruders. Keeping his hand on his pistol holster, Lynchfield studied the surroundings. “They ran..?”
Rachel pointed farther into the woods.
“Lead on,” Lynchfield said.
Hesitantly, Rachel retraced her path. She felt the officer’s eyes on her. Glancing back, the officer scanned the nearby trees. She told herself she was being paranoid, but the farther she went into the woods, the more control Officer Lynchfield had. There were miles of uninhabited land all around between her and another human. Rachel walked into an area unfamiliar to her.
“Stop,” the officer said behind her.
He groaned and knelt by a pile of leaves. He swiped away the leaves with his hand. Below were dozens of dolls, stuffed animals and other child’s toys. Most were rotted and discolored from prolonged exposure to the elements. Some of the dolls were missing one or both eyes. A teddy bear had fuzz poking out it’s right arm and left leg hole. Creepy stuff, through and through.
They spent the next twenty-five mutes shouting in the woods like idiots, calling the kids out, and telling them the consequences of avoiding a law enforcement officer. Echoes responded many times. The children, no
t at all. Rachel thanked officer Lynchfield and returned to her home with a new idea. She rummaged through the basement, kicking up dust and lint as she searched the far corners and near the furnace. There were no secret entrances or trapdoors to be found but that didn’t disprove Rachel’s theory. These kids were getting in somehow and if she couldn’t find the breach, she’d catch them in the act. A half hour of research, a forty-five-minute cab ridem and a long chat with the clerk, and Rachel purchased the cameras she needed. She hooked one up in the kitchen facing the door, one in the living room and one in the upstairs hallway. She bought cheaper models to hand in each of the bedroom and in the basement.
By eleven o'clock, Brett walked through the front door. “Hey, babe. I got the Nyquil.”
On her tippy-toes, Rachel stood on a chair’s cushion. She hooked in the final cable into the back of the security camera. “Tada!” She leapt down and hug her husband.
“Um, what’s this?” Brett stared at the small camera tucked in the upper corner of the room.
“Well, I thought that with breaks in, we’ll be able to see the person or persons in action,” Rachel looked at her creation, the long wire stapled into the around the top corner of the wall, above the doorway and upstairs. More cables joined this track from the study, kitchen, and basement. Brett gawk at it.
Rachel smiled, hands proudly on her hips. “Impressive, huh? I have more upstairs. One in every room and hall, but the bathrooms. I thought we’d keep that private. All of their footage is input into my laptop in the bedroom. I bought some extra terabyte drives so the computer's memory wouldn’t crap out on us..”
Brett lowered her camera and laptop bags to the floor. “When were you going to tell me about this?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise. And you won’t believe how much safer I feel.”
Brett rub his hand up his hair. “Rachel. Look at me.”
Rachel did so.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Rachel stepped back at the comment. “Brett, I thought…”
“I don’t know what you thought,” Her husband said. “We have a police officer outside, a safety bar at every door, how much more do you want?”
“Nothing,” Rachel replied looking at the camera. “The camera should do it.”
“How much did this cost?” Brett demanded an answer.
“I bought it on bulk. Got a great deal.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Rachel bit her tongue for a moment before speaking. “Three.”
“Three, what?”
“Thousand.”
Brett’s face turned blood red and he shouted the F word. Rachel stayed back from him. In the eight years they’d known each, she’d never seen Brett get this angry.
“Fhree thousand!” Brett shouted and cursed again. “That’s half our savings. This guy gypped you, Rachel. Can’t you see that? These cameras. They are worth half that amount.”
Rachel nodded. “If we order them online, sure. But, we need them now, Brett. Not in two weeks with chance of them being damaged during shipping.”
Brett gnashed his teeth and lowered himself to couch. He buried his face in his hands.
Rachel stepped toward him. “I know you’re mad--”
Brett’s brooding cut her off.
Rachel sat down next him. “After we catch this guy, we can return the cameras and get the money back. Besides, I took it out of my half of the savings so I don’t see what the problem.”
Brett turned to her. His eyes bloodshot. “There’s no such thing as your half of the savings and there’s no such thing as my half of the savings. It is our savings. We, together, decide what we spend it on.”
“You buy your cameras all the time,” Rachel counter argued. “That’s five or six grand each, plus your lenses.”
“Because they’re tax deductible!” Brett shouted.
“So are the security cameras,” Rachel replied back. “We have our house labeled as our business center with IRS. It all works out. I did my research.”
Brett refused eye contact. “That’s not the point, Rach. You went behind my back. First with the police officer and now with this.”
“You didn’t answer your phone when I called yesterday. Why wouldn’t I call the police?”
“Please, Rachel,” He said, standing from couch. “I checked my call logs. You never even tried.”
Brett vanished up the stairs. A moment later, the piping in the walls hummed. Rachel stared at nothing in particular on the floor for a long moment. She sighed and pulled out her phone. She scrolled through recent outgoing calls from yesterday afternoon. None to Brett. Only the police.
“There’s no way.” Rachel mumbled to herself, brain crippling.
Around midnight, Rachel turned off the TV and crept to the master bedroom. The red lights on the cameras watched her like monster eyes. She opened the door slowly to find Brett curled up under the covers and snoring lightly. She climbed in next to him, hoping that the pressure on the bed won’t wake him. It didn’t, thank God.
Her body. Her mind. Her eyes. All of it long for sleep, yet she could scarcely close her eyes. Millions of thoughts and fears ate her, and when she killed one the train would only pick up speed.
The next morning, she pretended to be asleep when Brett got out of bed. He kissed her like he usually did but there was no love in it. When he was out of the room and cooking in the kitchen, Rachel opened her eyes and pulled out her laptop. She opened the various camera feeds on a dozen different tabs and went through them one-by-one in fast forward mode. Even so, it took her hours to get through of the nothingness. She’d hit pause occasionally, rewind and play a segment. That “something” which quickly caught her eye at random times turn out to be the heater shaking up a curtain or a moth landing on the lens. When she sifted through the living room footage, something caught her eye at exactly 3:00am. She replied that five second segment a half dozen times. The living room in night vision. The grandfather clock ticks steadily. All is calm. Then, just for a moment, the front page of her canvas rippled.
Rachel saved a separate file with just that clip, got dressed and headed downstairs. Brett plucked away at his computer. His camera equipment sprawled out across the table. At Rachel’s seat sat some cold scrambled eggs and toast. Rachel grabbed her plate and headed to the canvas.
“Morning,” Brett said, only looking up from his screen for a second.
“Morning,” Rachel replied and sat down on her bench. She bit into her dry toast and looked at the canvas front page. It was blank. She flipped to the next page. Blank. She flipped to the next one.
Her toast fell from her teeth and onto the floor.
Brett turned to her with a cornered brow. “Rach?”
On the canvas before her was the phrase “TRUTH OR DARE” scribbled and dark sit nearly slashed through the sheet of paper.
Rachel could barely breathe. Her world started to spin. She was going to collapse. She could feel it. Brett put his hand on her shoulder, reassuring her, straightening out the world for an instant.
Rachel’s eyes watered. She pointed at the phrase with a shaking finger. “I didn’t write that…”
Brett studied the canvas, glancing over the words.
“Write what?” He asked honestly. “I don’t see anything, Rachel.”