May I Go Play?
An Old Houses Prequel
Heather Marie Adkins
Copyright © 2014 by Heather Marie Adkins
Published by CyberWitch Press, LLC
Louisville, KY
cyberwitchpress.com
[email protected] First edition, published January 2014
All rights reserved.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
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Disclaimer: The persons, places, things, and otherwise animate or inanimate objects mentioned in this novel are figments of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anything or anyone living (or dead) is unintentional. The author humbly begs your pardon. This is fiction, people.
Edited by M. Edward McNally, Alan Nayes, and Emma Jameson
Cover Art by the author. She’s broke.
Stock Photo: © 2012 FullFrame
Interior book design by CyberWitch Press, LLC
Author Photograph © 2011 Meagan White|White Photography
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May I Go Play?
by Heather Marie Adkins
A young woman inherits a southern mansion from her grandmother only to find the original owners want company.
May I Go Play? is a ten-thousand word novelette that originally appeared in the Eclective’s Haunted Collection. The story was inspired by a real house in Savannah, Georgia.
Praise for books by Heather Marie Adkins:
Heather Marie Adkins writes beautiful, poetic prose which effortlessly blends romance, fantasy, and the darker shades of the supernatural.
—Greg James
Author of Under A Colder Sun
All of Ms. Adkins stories are entertaining with creative prose and character dialogue that is sharp, real and witty…once you start reading you won’t stop until the story’s final resolution is revealed.
—Alan Nayes
Author of Gargoyles
Adkins has admirably distinguished herself as an author to watch out for. Her prose is crisp and interesting, and her credible, multidimensional characters weave both darkness and light into a realistic, poignant work about struggling with honor, loyalty, rage, love and death.
—Karin Cox
Author of Cruxim
The author’s imagination and ability to write wonderful descriptions combine to produce a story that, while there is romance, there is also adventure, a dose of fantasy and a splash of humor.
—Larry Marshall
Author of Her Book of Shadows
Heather brings metaphysical mythical into the realm of totally plausible, and does so with romance, intrigue, and exceptional good taste.
—P.J. Port
Author of To Touch Ice
Dedication
For those who believe in ghosts.
May I Go Play?
The hulking structure sat at an intersection in Savannah: empty, abandoned, shadowed. It was the kind of place that exuded despair and neglect. An unwanted orphan or a forgotten time capsule of an age past. The hot Georgia sun couldn’t penetrate the thick gloom that blanketed the property, just as the natives didn’t penetrate the thick, barred wall that surrounded it.
Heart fluttering wildly, Micah Noble shifted on her feet, staring at the key ring in her hand.
“It’s just a house,” her husband said softly. Garrett was always the optimist, and the skeptic—a psychology professor with five degrees on the wall and an ever-present five o’clock shadow. Stick thin, tall as a bean pole, and handsome; but not in any traditional sense. His glasses always seemed to be falling down his nose, and there was a gap between his front teeth that he whistled through even though it drove her nuts.
Micah shook her head, her thick blonde hair moving over her shoulders like a caress of fingers. She shuddered. “It isn’t just a house.”
Garrett glanced over his shoulder. Elliott sat in the backseat of the SUV with Sticks on her lap, his black-and-white snout panting through the open window. Assured that their daughter wasn’t listening, Garrett murmured, “Micah, this house did not kill your great aunt. It belongs to you now. Push away your family’s silly legends, and let’s go see what condition it’s in.”
She wanted to argue. She wanted to snap that he hadn’t heard the fear in her mother’s voice two months earlier when Micah called to tell her.
*
“What? My mother left you Bowridge?” Momma Jean gasped.
“Yeah.” Micah flipped a page in the packet her lawyer had given her. “The house, property, and any possessions inside. According to Skinner & Fulsom’s appraisal, the contents of Bowridge are worth a lot of money. This could be the answer to all our prayers.”
Micah glanced around the tiny apartment. The kitchen bled into the living room, which bled into two bedrooms. A family couldn’t make a home in a place like this; Elliott needed better.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Micah could hear the faint sound of a television in the background. She glanced at the clock—three in the afternoon. She’d interrupted her mother’s soaps.
“Honey pie, you don’t want that house,” Jean finally murmured. “That house is evil.”
“It’s gorgeous, Mom.” Micah flipped to the full-color picture in the back of the packet. An off-white Greek revival with a bit of weather damage.
“Why on earth would Momma leave you that house?” Jean murmured, and Micah had a feeling the question wasn’t truly directed at her.
“Because neither you nor your sisters wanted it.”
“She should have burned it to the ground,” Jean said sharply.
“Mother.”
Jean lowered her voice. “You know what happened to your great aunt, Millie.”
Sighing, Micah sat the packet aside. “I know, Mom. But Aunt Millie killed herself. How long are you and your sisters going to blame Bowridge for Millie’s actions?”
“We blame Bowridge because it was the direct source of all of Millie’s problems,” her mother snapped. “Micah Louise, if you move my granddaughter into that hell house, I will sue you for custody.”
“Oh, Mother.” Micah sighed again. “No, you won’t.”
But the seed was planted. Micah began to remember her mother’s tales, and the way ‘the aunts’ spoke of Bowridge in hushed tones. And in the months leading up to their move, Micah became a believer.
*
A stairway led from the cracked sidewalk to a door of heavy wood and stained glass. Beneath the regal, swirling staircase, a gated door—closed and padlocked—hid the servant’s entrance on the lower floor. The circular gate gaped like the house’s jaws, eternally screaming.
Micah stared up at three stories, the stucco exterior, and a gabled roof. Bowridge sat on a stately square with heavy traffic in downtown Savannah, surrounded by other equally magnificent southern mansions. Fifty years ago, it was probably one of the most beautiful homes in the neighborhood. Now…
Now it watched her.
When she didn’t acknowledge his assurance that Bowridge was “just a house,” Garrett swiped the key
from her open palm—“Now or never, love.”—and swept up the crumbling stairs.
Micah waited a moment as a shiver ran up her spine. Then she followed her husband to the front door.
*
The mail slot set into one of the ebony doors was broken. The golden lip that should have hung over it was gone, leaving a rectangular hole through which Micah could see a stairwell. She could feel cool air escaping through the bronze slot, a kind of reverse vacuum.
“Why is it cold?” she asked, placing a palm in the rushing wind. It flowed through her fingers: an icy flash that raised the hair on the back of her neck. “It’s ninety degrees outside. It should be hot as hell in there.”
Garrett shrugged as he shoved the key in the scratched brass lock. “Maybe the lawyer had the electricity turned on for us.”
“In a house this big?” Micah scoffed. “You’re loony.”
The door opened with ease, the hinges barely squeaking. There was a whooshing sound, and musty, disused air filtered out, giving Micah pause.
“Momma?” Elliott’s voice drifted up to them from the street.
Micah turned her back on the open door and walked to the railing of the balcony as her husband disappeared inside. Elliott was hanging out of the back window of the car, her small palms pressed to the door as she gazed at the house.
“Come on up, baby,” Micah called down to her daughter. “Bring Sticks.”
It wasn’t that she wanted her little girl inside the house. Ideally, Micah wanted Elliott far away from Bowridge with neither knowledge nor memories of the place to tarnish her innocent outlook on life. But that wasn’t an option. Not since the fire…
Elliott just didn’t like to be left alone. So there was no way Micah could go inside without her. Bowridge was their new home. A new start.
Girl and dog jumped from the car. Using all fifty pounds of her body weight, Elliott slammed the heavy truck door and raced for the steps, Sticks only a few steps ahead of her on his hot-pink leash.
Micah took her daughter’s hand with a smile. White blonde hair, sun-tanned skin, and skinny legs just like her father’s that jutted from beneath her blue jean skirt. She was the most beautiful child in the world.
Micah couldn’t even see the scar anymore. Hooray for modern medicine, she thought, brushing her fingertips across the soft skin of Elliott’s bare arm.
“Watch where you step and stay close,” Micah warned, giving Sticks a playful nudge with her toes. He nipped at her flip-flop playfully.
Elliott nodded succinctly. “Yes, Momma.”
The foyer was fairly small for such a large home. Straight ahead, a worn wooden staircase climbed the pale yellow wall before making a hasty ninety-degree turn up to the second floor. An ancient chandelier clung to the ten-foot ceiling above their heads. Beneath the second set of stairs, another archway revealed a staircase that led down to the ground floor.
It was cool a full ten degrees cooler inside, as if the AC were running. Micah raised an eyebrow, holding firmly to Elliott’s hand as she reached to flick the light switch next to the door.
Nothing happened.
She flicked the second switch and stepped outside to make sure it didn’t control the porch light. The shattered globes on either side of the door weren’t any help.
“How can that be?” she asked her husband as he appeared in the archway to the living room. She shut the door, cutting off the ambient street noise. The house fell into eerie silence.
Garrett shrugged. His shaggy black hair was sticking straight up as if he’d stuck his finger in a socket. “Lights in there don’t work, either. Electricity must not be on.”
“But the air pressure?” Micah gestured to the mail slot. They would have to get that fixed stat. She imagined all manner of city vermin climbing through the slot alongside bills and bank statements.
“I’m sure it’s just some kind of negative flow. There are broken windows upstairs.”
Micah felt a rush of relief. “Oh, that’s true.”
Garrett leaned over to kiss her gently on the forehead while he ruffled Elliott’s hair, making the little girl giggle. “Hey,” he said softly against Micah’s temple. “Quit worrying. Let’s bring our stuff in, and I’ll pull out the laptop and get the electric hooked up, ‘kay?” He grinned. “This will be fun.”
Micah exchanged glances with her daughter—even their young child knew a hopeless case when she saw it.
“Famous last words,” Micah said, rolling her eyes.
*
“They’ll be out in less than an hour.”
Micah turned around from gazing into the jungle of a backyard. Or side yard, rather, seeing as the house was long rather than wide, and the teeny quadrangle of yard was situated just outside a side door. Elliott stood in the fenced enclosure with Sticks, throwing a Nerf ball for him to fetch. His floppy red ears bounced with every sprint.
“That’s fantastic. How did you manage that?” Micah asked, uncapping her bottled water for a drink. The liquid was refreshing; the energy she had expended carrying luggage inside had made her thirsty.
Garrett rubbed his hands together, a gleam in his eyes. “I have my ways,” he intoned, swooping forward to encircle her waist with his arms.
He swung her around so that her flip-flops left the floor and she felt weightless. Micah squealed. “Put me down!”
He did, but instead of pulling away, his lips caught hers: soft, sweet. They tasted like Carmex, his drug of choice. She relented beneath his touch, pressing her body into his—the perfect fit. Ten-year-long puzzle pieces that still clicked together with a perfection borne of friendship.
The kiss grew heated. Micah wanted to shove away her fears about the house, her worries about the cost of restoration, and take her husband right there on the living room floor between the aged, plastic-covered sofa and the coffee table. Judging by his reaction to the kiss, he agreed.
A low giggle brought Micah back from the brink, and she broke the kiss with an audible smack. She glanced over her shoulder to find Elliott in the open doorway, the concrete patio and ivy-trimmed verandah visible behind her.
“You were kissing,” she accused.
Garrett slapped Micah on the rump and pulled away. “I’m going to run to the drugstore. We need a couple of necessities. Like toilet paper.”
“We’ll go with you,” Micah said quickly, striding across the floor to get her purse.
“No, you guys need to stay here just in case the lawyer beats me back.” He slipped his wallet into the back pocket of his cargo shorts. “No use making him wait outside.”
“I’d rather wait outside,” Micah grumbled.
Elliott launched the Nerf ball into the foyer, and Sticks’s claws scrabbled for purchase as he took off after it. Micah couldn’t even force herself to get on Elliott for throwing balls in the house. She met Garrett at the front door.
“Don’t leave us alone here,” she said softly, shooting a glance at her daughter. The girl wasn’t paying them any mind.
“Micah.” Garrett smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear gently. “Love, it is just a house. Now.” He pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Then he was gone.
*
“This place is so big,” Elliott said, her voice awed.
“Six bedrooms,” Micah agreed as she led her daughter down the upstairs hallway. At the apex of the staircase, they could walk left, passing closed doorways—presumably to bedrooms—to the back of the house and a giant bathroom equipped with tub, shower stall, toilet, and a double sink. They were now walking towards the front of the house, where the hallway ended at a gorgeous bay window seat that looked out over the street below.
Sticks’s claws clicked along the hardwood floor, the sound much louder in the abnormal silence than it should have been. Micah rolled her eyes at a pile of timber on the floor—that would be a pain to get down to the basement. Or the half-basement, half-ground floor, whatever the heck these southerners called those
weird in-between floors underneath the main level.
“Big enough to get lost in, so stay close,” Micah went on.
Elliott rolled her eyes. “I know, Mom.”
Micah peeked into the first open bedroom door. The room was spacious, with tall ceilings and windows. A four-poster bed dominated the middle of the floor, and a matching antique dresser graced one wall. It was simple and opulent all at once—a throwback to nineteenth century wealth.
Elliott poked her head around Micah’s waist to appraise the room. “There are leaves on the floor,” she observed with the acuity of a seven-year-old.
Micah laughed and turned to face her daughter. “Keen senses of observation, daughter-mine. There are quite a few broken windows on this floor. Remind me to Google window replacement companies.”
Elliott’s brilliant blue eyes crinkled when she smiled. She clicked her heels together and saluted. “Copy that.”
They moved on to the next room—similar to the first but with an en suite bathroom. As Micah stepped into the small, porcelain space to coo over the pedestal sink and claw-foot bathtub, Elliott wandered away with Sticks in hot pursuit.
Micah turned the four-armed faucet. It moved, but the pipes just groaned. “Water company,” she told herself. “Call the water company.”
“Look, Momma!”
Elliott’s excited yell spurred Micah into motion. She hurried through the bedroom, passing through warm shafts of afternoon sunlight, and entered the hall. “Where are you?”
“In here!”
Whatever it was had excited her daughter. Micah followed the sound of Elliott’s voice into the front bedroom. This room was the biggest, fully equipped with a bed, a dresser, a vanity, and an open door that revealed a huge walk-in closet. The walls were a rich, deep mahogany that contrasted beautifully with the red oak floors.
Micah glanced around for her daughter, noting a fancy archway that led to a third bathroom. Elliott was nowhere in sight.
“Ellie?”
The blonde-haired fae child appeared through an open doorway in the far wall near the front of the house; Micah hadn’t even noticed it. “Look! It’s a porch, Momma.”
Micah followed her through the opening and gasped. The covered porch stretched the length of the house, a wall of windows that overlooked the postage stamp yard and beyond. The half-walls beneath the window were white, as was the porch floor. Micah assumed the concrete façade, a pale egg cream color, was the house’s original exterior minus a century-and-a-half of weathering.