Chapter Six
The Plea
Rachel dashed for the stairs. A brass lamp flung passed her head at scary speed. She ducked behind a couch, ruffling the white sheet cover it and taking a face full of dust. A 2x4 zipped by. It crashed a few yards behind her, knocking into the rocking chair with a loud bang.
“Brett! Someone!” Rachel shouted. Her voice bounced in the corners of the room as more trash and small dangerous things flew at her. Staying low, she scurried behind the mannequins. They crumbled like bowling pins as the chair crashed into them. Rachel hid behind a neglected nightstand and held her breath. She covered the flashlight beam in the palm of her hand, allowing darkness to quickly envelop her. Her heart thumped powerfully. What was happening? Soft feet pattered the concrete floor. Pat-pat-pat.
The footsteps moved closer.
Rachel pulled her knees up to her chest, making herself as small as she could behind the nightstand. Her eyes trailed to the red circle where the flashlight drilled into her palm. Clicking the mag light’s button seemed too risky. She wanted dreadfully to steal a peek at the person in the basement with her but he could be watching her right now, waiting for her to move.
The pitter-patter walked by her. Something tickled her spine. The hairs on her neck stood in attention. She didn’t move. Her lung fought for release. She won’t to do it. One breath could be the death of her. Over the thumping in her chest, she listened for the stranger. Only the patter of feet. Was he holding his breath, too? For a long moment, the basement was quieter than death. Rachel couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She peaked part of her head out from behind the nightstand. She could scarcely make out shapes in the few feet behind her. The journey to the stairs would require an exercise in memory.
Rachel’s lungs gave way and she gasped, drinking up the dusty basement air. Using the noisy opportunity, she clicked off the mag light and held the cold metal with her teeth. Coarse concrete bit into her hands and knees as she crawled from cover to cover, allowing instinct to guide her. She groped aimlessly at chair legs and old boxes. At one point, her finger tips broke through a web and multiple somethings crawled up her arm. She swatted them away, not even wanting to imagine their size.
With no other noise but the soft jets of her own uneasy breath, she almost believed she was alone. That lasted about a second before an unfamiliar sinking feeling pitted in her stomach almost as if her dread and fear were as tangible as the two inch something she felt crawl down the back of her shirt. It crawled down her ribs and toward the lip her pants before she was able squash it with her hands, feeling the burst of the egg sack and hundreds of tiny spiders scattered all over her body.
Rachel’s shirt was off in an instant. She scuttled across the floor, wiping her side and feeling the hatchings escape in between her fingers and up the top of her hand. Her shoulder hit the shaft of a tall lamp. It wobbled. Rachel froze in place for a moment. She was done with this basement. Staying low to the ground, Rachel beelined for the where she believed the stairs to be. She wasn’t going to fall down them again. Rachel clicked on the mag light. It illuminated a stranger’s face. Screaming, Rachel scrambled in the opposite direction. Her back thumped against a metal bedframe, bringing a sudden halt to her escape.
With fierce eyes, the strange nine-year-old girl glared at Rachel. Her copper-colored hair was brushed and combed. She wore a cobalt suspended skirt and a white button-up that held snuggling to her neck. Massive crimson holes burrowed into her collarbone, the bottom left of her ribs, and near her belly button. Rachel had research many wounds to authentic her art. These were the work of a high caliber bullet.
Rachel couldn’t pull the mag light away from the wounded girl standing before her. A second child stood a few feet behind her. He was younger and fatter, dressed like a little business man with horribly drawn whiskers on his cheeks and multiple wet bullet holes throughout his plump frame.
“What do you want from me?” Rachel said, surprised she could even say speak.
The little girl locked eyes with Rachel, staring directly into the deepest part of her soul and utterly unaffected by the flashlight pointed at her pupils. Rachel felt completely violated as if someone had forced themselves into her mind and intruded on every thought, feeling and emotion. Bile rose. That same tugging feeling pulled at her bare skin, though her flesh didn’t stretch. Like lightening to a rod, it wanted Rachel get closer. Fear kept her from submitting. Her mag-light beam wobbled in Rachel’s trembling hand.
Cloaked in shadow, the girl watched her with hollow eyes. Half of Rachel wanted to run. The other half wanted to fight. She found that she could do nothing. Her mind, her senses, everything she was and is felt trespassed upon in a way that felt like she’d never be alone again.
“Answer me!” Rachel shouted, her voice cracking.
The girl spoke. “Help us.”
All blood left Rachel’s face. I’ve lost my mind.
“Find the bad men.”
“Rachel!” A muffled shout bled through the basement door.
“Brett! I’m down here!” Rachel kept the light on the girl and boy.
The little girl put her finger over her mouth, gesturing Rachel to be quiet. She whispered, “Don’t tell.”
“Rachel!”
Rachel shifted her attention to the old steps. When she turned back, the children had vanished. All that remained before her was covered furniture and the laundry area. Rachel stood slowly, her knees buckling together. She shined the beam of light across the vast basement. The 2x4, picture frame and all the rest of the objects that had been hurled at her were back in their original position like nothing ever happened. Even the teddy bear was gone.
The stairs creaked beneath Rachel’s hurried steps. She burst through the door. Brett and Officer Lynchfield stood in the living room with worried expressions. The officer stared at Rachel’s brassier. She quickly covered herself.
“Geez, Rachel, where were you?” Brett asked.
“Basement,” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Laundry.”
Lynchfield looked her up and down in a way that was far too personal. “You’re bruised head to heel.”
Rachel studied the purple spots on her shoulder, hip and knees. “I fell down the stairs.”
“Oh, babe.” Brett hugged her and pulled her tightly. She didn’t realize how cold she was until she felt his warmth.
“We need to talk,” Rachel whispered.
“We’re good, man,” Brett said to Lynchfield.
The officer nodded skeptically, and exited out front door. An icy breeze marked his departure. Rachel fold her arms around Brett--her life raft--and sniffled.
“What happened?” Brett asked. “Where’s your shirt?”
Rachel opened her mouth but no words came out. She changed her chain of thought. “Let’s go away.”
“What?” Brett pulled away. Behind his glasses, confusion could be seen in his eyes.
“We can move or go on vacation or something. I don’t know, Brett. I can’t think straight in this place,” Rachel regretted saying it immediately.
“Are you feeling alright, Rach?” He put his hand on her forehead. “You’re freezing! Do you want to go to hospital?”
“No!” Rachel shouted. “I sorry, no. I’m… fine. I just need a few days to clear my head.”
“Okay,” Brett said cautiously. “We’ll call Liam.”
“I was thinking the Bahamas,” Rachel said to lighten the mood.
Brett brushed his hand down the side her cheek. Rachel winced. “I’ll get some ice and a clean shirt for you. Lie down.”
Rachel wandered to the couch. She closed her eyes and saw the children and their bullet ridden bodies. No sleep would come to her tonight. She feared sleep would never come again. Brett pamper her, asked all sorts of questions about the basement, the evening, the location of easel, etc. Rachel replied to him with half-truths and vague responses.
The next morning, they packed up
small suitcases and toiletries. Brett’s hurried pace alluded to his displeasure, but he didn’t voice his complaints. He had three camera bags slung over his shoulder and picked up Rachel’s easel.
“You can leave it,” Rachel said, hauling her duffle down the stairs.
“It will help you relax.”
“I don’t want it,” Rachel said. Her sleeplessness was making her sassy.
Brett looked at her like she had blasphemed and then put down the easel. He fixed the strap of one of his camera bags. Together, they headed out the door.
They told their goodbyes to Officer Lynchfield.
“I’m surprised you stayed this long.” There was some truth in Brett’s joke.
Lynchfield’s face stayed neutral. “Welcome to Highlands. Nothing happens.”
Rachel cracked a smile at the irony.
“Y’all be safe now,” the officer said, not entirely sincere.
Rachel and Brett climbed into the Escalade. The Hadley House vanished in their wake. Rachel couldn’t take her mind off the little girl and her plea. It’s all fake. You’re only tired. She wasn’t lying to Brett anymore. She was lying to herself.
Rachel’s father welcomed them with open arms, and kept repeating. “This is great.” He lived in a two-bedroom house only two miles away from Main Street. The place was spotless and modern with nice countertops and hand painted Christian artwork/biblical quotes on the walls.
“We’re sorry about the short notice, dad.” Rachel said. “We thought it would be more relaxing to get out of the house.”
“There’s no need to apologize for anything,” Liam replied with a soft smile. “Quite honestly, I get lonely sometimes when here all by myself.”
He removed the house key from his key ring and handed it off to Rachel. She surrendered it to Brett. Rachel had few plans to leave the house. After they settled in, Brett hunched over his laptop and photoshopped the rest of the day away. Liam came and went, either attending Alcoholics Anonymous or a bowling practice, another vice he picked up after Rachel’s mother went off her rocker.
Rachel stayed in bed for the most part of day. It felt “safer” here. The Hadley House had made all sorts of weird noises throughout the day, like the sound of branches scratching a window, the rattling of a shutter or the wooden moans that echoed through the halls on windy nights. At her father’s abode, it was quiet and sincere. He had a bible in every room and a tiny fountain for his cat that’s easing trickle overcame the deafening silence. Outside the windows, cars drove to-and-fro, filled with hikers, locals and parents driving their children to the one school in Highlands. It was a sight Rachel hadn’t enjoyed since she had arrived into the Hadley House seven and half miles from civilization. The creepy aesthetic sold the house, now Rachel reminisced about her New York flat that was crowded, loud and altogether uninspiring.
While reading one of her father’s theological books, Rachel dozed off. An amalgamation of disturbing sights and sounds bombarded sleep. Everything she saw and witnessed turned to blur the moment she jolted from the covers. Cold sweat soaked her clothes. Asleep, Brett rolled over, pulling the covers over his shaggy chest. Panting, Rachel slung her feet over the side of the bed and rubbed her eyes. She felt worse than she did before she rested.
“Help us.”
Rachel went still. Her eyes scanned the dark room. Two shapes watched Rachel through the cracked opened hallway door. The standoff lasted a long moment. Eventually the shapes vanished. Rachel pressed her hand over her racing heart. I can’t live like this.
The next day was far worse than any other. Even when Rachel shared the same room as Brett or Liam, she felt the presence of another, watching her, waiting on her to do something. She went on a jog through the town. In the reflections of a pastry shop, the children were there. She saw them again in the bathroom mirrors. The next night, at 3:00am, the hallway door slowly opened and Rachel stared into its blankness for an hour, knowing looked back but unable to see them.
“How are you doing?” Brett asked one morning.
Rachel shrugged.
Brett took her hand. “We don’t have the money right now, but once National Geographic cuts me a check, we’ll go somewhere nice. Would you like that?”
Rachel nodded. She found it a chore to speak without her morning coffee, as black and bitter as can be. Throughout the long and unfruitful days, her thoughts couldn’t stay away from the children. The more she thought about it, the more real it felt.. The children, the flying objects, the voices, and the writing on the sketch pad. If they were solitary instances, questioning her sanity made sense. But the unexplainable encounters were sequential and stimulated all the senses. She couldn’t be crazy. What are you thinking?! Her internal critic yelled. Rest, Rachel replied. I just want rest.
It was late one evening. Brett had fallen asleep. Rachel rested her back on the bed’s backboard and opened her laptop on her covered thighs. Feeling it’s searing effects on her bloodshot eyes, she dimmed the screen. Her fingers dances across the keyboard. The search results popped up. Hadley House, built in 1892 by Roy Hadley--Highlands only physician and pastor at the time. There was little about him on the web, barring the fact that he worked his practice from inside his home. That explained the inside upstairs loft next to the stairs. Roy wanted to watch visitors walk in and out. Rachel found no records of any deaths in his house. Besides, the children she encountered were not dressed appropriately with the timeline. If there’s anything learned from drawing different people all day. It’s fashion.
Thanks to the historical significance of the house in Highlands history, Rachel learned about its next three owners though the information was dismal. A local elderly couples owned the house after Roy Hadley’s death in 1923. A decade later, another couple owned the house until the late 50s. They were bought up by an outsider. The historical records ceased after that sale.
Rachel changed her tactics. She searched for murders in Highlands, North Carolina. After sifting through dozens of websites, she landed the name Reginald Barnes, a local lumber tycoon in the 70s and 80s. His name was mentioned in a forum discussing murders in the Appalachian. There was little detail about his death, only that the police believe it to be a robbery gone wrong. The participants in the forum made it clear that the murderer was never found.
The next morning, Rachel dressed, took a shower and told Brett she was going out to run some errands.
Brett looked up from the camera he was formatting. “You sure you don’t want your easel?”
“Positive,” Rachel said opening the front door.
Brett sat up. His concerned look made Rachel pause. He spoke, struggling to find the words for moment. “It’s not my place to tell you how to run your business, but, um, I’ve seen some emails from your clientele asking about a few portraits that were never delivered.”
Internally, Rachel groaned. He wanted the best of her, Rachel knew, but she had bigger fish to fry. “They’ll get what they purchased. I’m in rush right now. We’ll talk later.”
Highlands’ Main Street had many dips, slopes, and hills though it was built on top of the mountain’s plateau. The Hudson Library resided near the farther out of the main road and across the street from a strip mall that was two stories and made of lumber. It only took a few moments for the crone at the front desk to point Rachel to the preserved newspaper slides. The librarian lead Rachel to quant microfilm room, mumbled something polite and shut the door. Shelves of boxes filled three fourths of the room. Rachel hadn’t been in place like this since high school and that was only for a brief assignment.
She typed in the 1983, Murder, and Reginald Barnes into the database and was directed to box near the back of the room. She found the proper paper, pulled it up on the outdated microfilm kiosk and started reading.
July 17, 1983. Headline: Murder at the Hadley House. Four Dead.
Rachel jaw went agape at the sight of the family picture. Staring back at her were four familiar faces, the two children, Ama
nda and Benny Barnes, standing in the middle of Reginald, a man with sideburns and icy eyes, and Lilith, a woman with short haircut and well-structured face. The man and woman Rachel had drawn in her portrait of Brett. But this time they didn’t have bullet holes.
Rachel rubbed her hand over mouth, trying to process of the revelation. How does one process that you’ve seen the dead, standing before you, looking at you, talking to you? Rachel chuckled to herself. She wasn’t crazy, but everything in her world flipped. She was a pastor’s daughter. Her whole life she struggled with the idea of higher power and now she dealing with ghosts, spirits, or whatever the hell she saw in the basement or drew on her canvas. Why can she see them and not Brett or her father? Rachel racked her brain. She had no answers. Only more questions that spurred even deeper questions about life, the afterlife, evolution and intelligent design. Who do you seek these answers from? The internet, books, movies, or so-called psychic?
She buried her face in her hands and let her thoughts dissipate. Maybe the big questions didn’t matter. What she needed to focus on was her torment. The children want her to find the “bad men.” Rachel would do it. She had no clue how and the entire idea seemed horrible, but if it could return an ounce of normalcy to her life… Rachel sighed and sat up. She cursed under breath and continued reading the article.
The article discussed Reginald and his lumber yards, the business he brought to Highlands and the so-called spontaneity of his murder. Though the article alluded to this being a robbery gone horribly wrong, the journalist’s skeptical writing led Rachel to believing otherwise.
One portion stood out in the article. “Only a few small knickknacks were taken from the Barnes’ Residence. The robbery was overtly brutal as forensics believe that Reginald and Lilith were killed almost immediately, and the gunman marched upstairs where he gunned down nine-year-old Amanda Barnes and seven-year-old Benny Barnes hiding inside the bedroom wardrobe. Apart from shell cases from a .45 pistol and handful of jewelry taken from master bedroom, the police have found no trace of the killer.”
Rachel sought out newspapers from later years, in search of any development. She found nothing. Even stranger, the journalist, Hilda Kilgore, near stopped writing articles about two weeks later the murder report. Rachel jotted down some notes.
A quick web search and Rachel had the number to the local paper. She called them. After the greetings, Rachel told them what the needed. “I’m writing a research paper about Reginald Barnes and was hoping you would have Hilda Kilgore contact info. If that’s available.”
The woman on the other end of the line put Rachel on hold. A few moments later, the woman told Rachel Hilda’s address and phone number, making it very clear that this information is from the 1980s and most likely won’t lead anywhere.
She tried out the phone number first, of course. And it led nowhere. The address was only forty minutes away. Rachel sped over there, realizing she’d already burned a large part of her day in the library on a lot of research that didn’t progress her search for the “bad men.” She drove down the topsy turvy mountain road, worry punched her in the gut. These men killed children. Shot them three or four times apiece while practically mercy killing the adult. It was 1983 as well, these guys could be in Timbuktu for all Rachel know and how would she separate herself from the children then? She could burn down the Hadley House, but Brett would divorce her at that point. Besides, they’d both invested a lot money into Highlands. Moving away, the more Rachel thought about it, wasn’t a viable option. She could try to convince Shaw to buy it, but he dresses like he’s dirt poor and his money is probably funny.
Hilda Kilgore was not a ditsy twenty-year-old living with her parents. Rachel double checked the address she had jotted down.
“This is the place,” Rachel said with discouragement.
The girl leaned in the door frame. She wore a fashionable sweater and skinny jeans.
“Do your parents have the information from the previous owner?” Rachel asked.
“I could look, I guess,” The girl replied and meandered back inside. A good fifteen minutes later and Rachel was ready to leave. Finally front the door opened. The girl handed Rachel a phone number jutted down a sticky note with a cat on it.
Rachel climbed back into her car, and dialed the number. It wasn’t disconnected. That was a good thing.
A gravelly man’s voice answered. “Ello?”
“Hi, is Hilda there? Hilda Kilgore?”
There was silence on the other end of the line. “No.”
“Ah, well, do you know where I may find her? It’s urgent.”
There was some shuffling on the end of the line. “What do you want from Hilda?” It sounded like the man was yelling across the room to his phone.
“I read article she published in the Highlands Tribune. The one about the Barnes family murder twenty years ago. I want to talk to her about it.”
The shuffling stopped. Glass clinked together. The man returned to the phone, taking a breath after a long swing of something. “What do you know ‘bout dem murders?”
“Only what I’ve read from Hilda. I’m on her side.”
The line went silent.
“Hello?” Rachel asked.
“... I’ll give you her address. She don’t like to use the phone no more.”
Rachel jotted it down. Before she could ask any more questions, the mysterious man hung up. Rachel scratched her head and re-read the address. Aiken, South Carolina. A three-hour drive from here. Rachel sent Brett a text, telling him she’ll be home late tonight. She tossed her phone on the front seat and set off, hoping that this would be the first step to ending her sleepless nights.
Rachel learned really quick that driving after a week of dismal sleep is no fun. She made multiple pit stops, to refill her coffee, stretch her legs and question her decision. The doubt hit her about halfway through the trip. There’s a good chance that this address could be fake. Worse, some sort of trap. That was highly unlikely, she knew, but her disturbed mind defaulted to the worst-case scenario. If it is and Rachel survives, at least she have new influences for her artwork.
The drab 1970s single story house came into view. Branches from massive tree drooped onto the gable trussed roof. Ankle high grass blanketed the front yard. Rachel parked next to the only car there--A dented minivan with a handicap tag hanging from the rearview mirror.
Rachel grabbed her phone from the front seat. One missed call. Brett. Rachel slipped into her back pocket and jogged to the house’s front door. Behind her, the sun set. Two locks unlocked behind the door and a sixty-year-old woman rolls out to face Rachel. Her body was short, pudgy and slumped in a wheelchair that had seen better days. Thick glasses that made the woman’s brown eyes comically large.
“Who are you?” The woman asked. Her hand held something beneath the quilt over her lap.
“Rachel Presley. Are you Hilda?”
The woman nodded. “I am.”
“Can we talk?”
Rachel fidgeted on the woman’s couch. The springs could be felt under the fabric. There was unfinished laundry and a pile books on the couch beside her. Ammonia assaulted Rachel’s nose yet she saw no animals. Nearby, a news anchor chatters inside the thirty-two-inch box television.
Hilda rolled herself into living room. She winced with every rotation of the wheels, almost as if existence itself was pain.
“The Barnes. It’s been long time since I heard about them,” The woman said, parking a few feet in front Rachel and then backing beside the couch so they could both watch the TV. “Why do you care about them?”
“I bought their house,” Rachel admitted. “Needless to say, I’ve taken an interest in the history. The realtor left out the family slaughter in the sales pitch.”
“She probably didn’t know much about it,” Hilda said with cold seriousness.
“Children were murdered. That seems like headline news. Did they catch the killers?”
Hilda large eyes stayed te
levision set. Her lip quivered slightly. After a moment, she shook her head.
They listened to anchor chat about the upcoming weather. Storms mostly.
“In your article, you seemed convinced that this wasn’t a robbery.” Rachel refocused the conversation.
Hilda’s hands tightened on her arm rests. “The Barnes had serious money. Reginald bought out nearly every lumberyard in and around Highlands. One-by-one, he strong armed the owners by cutting the cost of his lumber to a stupidly low sum. So much so that Regi lost money. Most of the yard owners couldn’t afford such drastic cuts. When they were weak, Reginald offered to buy them out. They accepted, begrudgingly. The first thing he did at his newly acquired yard was replaced nearly have of the workers with his own people from the north east. Friends he owed favors to, workers he trusted, someone’s nephew. When he owned the majority of the lumber yards, he was already in major debt. But then his monopoly skyrocketed. He boosted the prices up two hundred percent. It angered a lot of people but made Regi a very rich man.”
“The man had enemies,” Rachel said, disappointed that her job just got a lot harder.
“More than you would think,” Hilda swiveled the chair to Rachel. “If he was killed by robbers, they wouldn’t have murdered those children.”
“It’s horrible,” Rachel felt sick, remembering their bullet wounds.
Hilda nodded a few times. She fixed her glasses with her finger. “They shot those kids up as warning… Such a waste of life.”
Rachel pondered for a moment. “With Reginald and Barnes dead, what happened to the lumber yard?”
Hilda grinned. Her teeth were yellow. “Now you’re asking the right questions. Most were bought back by the state and then by their original owners. They fired all of Regi’s people and brought back the locals.”
“Everyone wins,” Rachel said, understanding. “Could this be… ah, never mind.”
Hilda looked at her seriously. “Say it.”
“A hit?” Rachel replied, shakily.
“Now don’t go telling the world.” Hilda rubbed the thighs of her dead legs. “Else, you might end up like me.”
The old woman chuckle twisted into a wail.