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  RED HEATHER

  Aly Noble

  Copyright © 2018 by Aly Noble

  Cover art & design © 2018 by Aly Noble

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

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  First Printing: 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear.

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  Part One

  “I was just there visiting—nothing weird. I don’t get weird vibes in haunted places, never have. Was picking up (resident name omitted by request) for the first day of our carpool and her roommate walked by without a word my way. Said something to her later because I thought it was rude. I wouldn’t room with him, I told her.

  She looked at me like I was nuts. Wouldn’t you know she didn’t have a roommate?”

  —from recorded firsthand 1RH activity accounts, Willow Press archives

  Chapter 1

  “I’ve decided that I’m suspicious of moving trucks.”

  A light, but derisive snort came through my phone. “What brought that on?”

  “Well, they’re sketchy, right? Trucks specifically used for the sole purpose of moving stuff to new places? Residentially speaking. Cargo’s a separate issue,” I elaborated in a lowered voice as I regarded the white monstrosity in my Jeep’s driver’s side mirror. “Like, they’re obligated to give me my stuff back, but will they? Should I have taken inventory before sending my life’s hoard of somewhat purposeful crap off with some stranger? With Simmons, if that’s his real name?”

  “Okay, now you’re just playing it up,” Graham confidently accused.

  I smiled. It was a game by this point to work off the real, reasonable level of nerves I was feeling with the move. “What if there’s a movers’ strike?”

  “Within the four hours or so that you’ll be driving? Unlikely.”

  “What if he gets lost?”

  “They have policies for that. Besides, I really doubt he’s interested in your collection of mismatched coffee mugs and IKEA chairs.”

  “Okay, but what if I get lost?”

  Graham laughed. “That’ll be a first, and it’ll also be your fault. Guess you’d just have to cave and move down here after all instead of the lavish landscapes of Groundling, Michigan…”

  “It’s Grendling,” I supplied.

  “Isn’t that the troll Beowulf fought?”

  “You’re the troll Beowulf fought,” I said. “Close though. I think his name was Grendel.”

  “So you’re moving to the miniature version of that. Fantastic.” Graham then pointed out, “Anyway, don’t you have a GPS?”

  “Which are also suspicious, by the way,” I declared. Before Graham could become aghast at my persistent complaints—as tended to be a routine of our years-long friendship—the metal door of the moving truck was rolled shut, and the sudden clatter of sound made me jolt just the slightest bit.

  Simmons turned around after locking the hatch and gave me a big, gap-toothed grin. “Ready to roll out, ma’am?”

  I felt my features twitch toward rueful. Ma’am? The mental voice that surfaced in that instant sounded disturbingly like my mother’s. I just smiled back and nodded, hoping he didn’t see the existential fear in my eyes. If he did, he didn’t show it. He pulled on the bill of his Yankees ball cap and circled the truck, climbing into the cab. As I fired up my car’s engine, I thought that maybe I shouldn’t be so wary of Simmons. To Graham, I said, “I’ll call you when I’m settled. Cool?”

  “Cool. Drive safe and all that. Don’t get lost.”

  “Will do. Bye,” I said, ending the call and setting my phone in an empty cupholder. I maneuvered my vehicle around the truck and led the way toward the main road, away from the costly rental I had adopted almost exactly one year ago. It had been nice while it lasted, chipping antacid-pink siding and all. Its proximity to the city had been its largest draw for me—which was ironic because now I couldn’t get away from it soon enough.

  A wary meow issued from the small carrier strapped into the passenger seat. I reached over to press my fingertips against the grate as I slowed for a stop sign. “We’re okay, Ed,” I reassured the normally happy, rotund feline inside who was simultaneously the biggest, hungriest coward I’d ever beheld.

  A sandpapery tongue tip touched my index finger and I smiled, driving with one hand where I could, and talking about nothing when I needed both hands on the wheel, just to soothe him. I’m the one who needs a pep talk, I noted as we hit the highway and blended into traffic, heading north.

  Very north.

  I found myself growing increasingly grumpier as I watched the temperature gauge tick lower with every mile I put between myself and my old home. Despite the bubblegum rental feeling increasingly less like a home, I still had an uncomfortable attachment to it that felt like a retracting fish hook in my ribs.

  Ed meowed in sync with the onset of my anxiety and I gently shushed him. “Still a little while yet, buddy. We’re not going to the vet, I promise.”

  Instead of the intended, soothing effect I’d hoped to have on him, the V-word instantly had him yowling with reckless abandon. “No, listen, we’re not going to… Oh, dammit.”

  • • •

  Two months prior, I’d made this same drive to see what would become my new rental house in Grendling, Michigan.

  It was a bit of a Podunk town, three hours shy of the coast and about an hour’s drive from Traverse City. It was quiet and woodsy for the most part and, where there were shops, there were the necessities and they were almost all small, local businesses. My first impression of Grendling was that it was the type of small town every state had some form of in the Midwest—lots of trees, one legitimate street (usually called Main Street), and at least a quarter of it would remain under construction at all times. Still, I was drawn to this large step away from the city limits I’d been living on. And, hell, in the right light this place seemed charming enough.

  While I’d followed the directions the property’s real estate agent, Trevor Bryant had given me that first time out to see the house, I’d been concerned that I’d somehow gotten lost despite following the GPS route to a ‘T.’ Just as I’d started to get nervous, I’d spotted the last turn, taken it, and parked near his Prius down the street.

  “Ms. James,” he’d greeted me immediately after I opened my door. Trevor had stationed himself so close to my car in coming to greet me, I’d had to herd him away with the door just to exit the vehicle. “Pleasure to finally meet you in person!”

  I’d shaken his offered hand, and his bleached smile grew slightly forced as I startled him with the force of my grip. When I dropped my hand, I was mildly surprised some of his tan didn’t come with it. “Once again, Miri is fine. It’s nice to meet you, too.”

  “Oh, right, sorry! I default to formal,” Trevor had chuckled charismatically. “Are you ready for a tour? By the way, I appreciate you coming out all this way—I hope it wasn’
t any trouble.”

  “Nope, I live about five hours away. Easier drive than it would be from my other hometown.”

  “Oh, really? Where’s the other hometown?” he’d wondered with interest as we walked up the driveway.

  “Corolla, North Carolina,” I’d replied. “My family spent every summer there. My parents live there year-round now.”

  Graham’s family had gone there often, too, which was how we’d established best friendship by the time we’d both entered seventh grade. It was also how he’d met his now long-term girlfriend, Daphne, who had been a year-round resident of Corolla from birth. She’d always looked the part, too—the glow of a coastal tan, all gauzy, flowing skirts and a smile to rival the sunshine she thrived beneath. I couldn’t imagine her living where we had grown up. She would have wilted.

  “As many times as I’ve been to North Carolina, I’ve never been to Corolla,” Trevor had noted with a thoughtful tone as he dug out the house keys.

  By that moment, I’d withdrawn from my thoughts long enough to glance over the residence I’d seen only in pictures up until that point. I had read the listing so many times that it almost came back to me almost verbatim as I took in the sight of the house in question:

  “Enjoy the quiet life on your own patch of Grendling, Michigan. Property is 3100 square feet. 2-car detached garage and newly updated and refurbished interior. Spacious master bedroom with walk-in closet. 2 guest rooms. Each bedroom has its own attached bath. Front and back porches, backyard garden. Attic and basement. This home is move-in ready. For more information, contact Trevor Bryant.”

  Or something like that. The picture had been small and looked like it had been taken by an older phone—it had shown a two-level house with the border of the photo cropped close to exclude the grounds around it. It had been far from the antacid-pink house in aesthetic and rent. Even in low-resolution, it had looked perfect.

  Now it looked—

  “Holy shit.”

  I had only mumbled, but it had been enough to alarm Trevor and cause him to drop the keys he was fumbling with. “What? Don’t you like it?”

  “Sorry, it’s just way bigger than the listing made it look,” I explained as he sheepishly scooped up the keys. When he continued to stare at me, I added, “It’s a good thing.”

  “Oh, good,” he said with blatant relief. “I would hate for you to have come all this way for nothing.”

  The standalone garage in the listing was the only part of the exterior I hadn’t seen in the picture, but that seemed to be because it was the more neglected portion of the property—the outside was beautiful, but there were weeds for days.

  Trevor noticed my stare. “Sorry about the state of the yard. Maintenance just quit without notice a couple of days ago and we’ve been trying to find a replacement ever since.”

  I didn’t really mind, but I didn’t say so. “Well, the outside is nice. Is the inside why it’s so cheap?”

  “I’ll let you be the judge of that,” he laughed, opening the door and holding it for me to step through. “Though it should be just fine—like the listing said, it’s all updated and new except for perhaps the basement and the attic. Let’s start with the living room.”

  I set foot upon the threshold, and a chill that was likely a draft from an open window skittered down my spine and caused me to shiver. I walked into a spacious living room with a large fireplace, over which hung a rectangular mirror that was the exact width of the mantel. The walls were crisp with new paint and the hardwood floors stretched through most of the rooms without a scratch.

  Distantly, I heard Trevor giving me some background about the house as a structure, but I could see for myself what it was. It was old and yet new. By all appearances, unlived-in. Remote and vast and utterly empty.

  It was, in fact, perfect.

  “Heading back into the hall,” Trevor was saying as he led me back toward the doorway, “down this way is the kitchen and a small adjoining dining room. Also off this hall is one of the two guest bedrooms and the basement.”

  I leaned in to check out the guest room, which was not unreasonably small. “Is the other guest bed upstairs?”

  “It is, down the hall from the master,” Trevor had replied, seeming glad that I was asking questions instead of just bebopping around behind him. “We’ll go up there after we’re done with the kitchen. Do you want to see the basement?”

  “Sure,” I’d said as we entered the kitchen, which was characterized by more traditional fixtures and the standard appliances, all relatively new-looking. Even the linoleum tiling looked newish, replaced within the last few years most likely.

  Initially, the bareness of the interior had unnerved me. Nothing in here was familiar and “nothing” was something I’d dealt with before, but this was different. I had to keep reminding myself that this lack of familiarity was expected. It was also arguably a good thing. These changes were good, and the spacious, unassuming design of the interior meant I could make it what I wanted.

  As we roamed through the rest of the house, it started to look like what it actually was—a blank canvas, a clean slate. A new life. I began to visualize my old, Ed-clawed couch in front of the fireplace, my well-loved coffee table sitting before it. I could see my decrepit coffeepot in the kitchen at the corner of the wraparound countertop. I could envision my bed in the master bedroom upstairs, my bookshelf by the window that poured light over the glossy hardwood floor and up the pale paint strokes on the walls. If I inhaled deeply enough, the conglomerate of sawdusty “new house” scents mixing with the olfactory sting that came with recently dried paint almost smelled like “home.”

  We didn’t look at the attic initially, but I ultimately decided I needed to see it if I was going to feel comfortable signing any paperwork on the place. We also took a turn around the back “garden,” which was actually a plant graveyard.

  I was heading back down the drive when Trevor caught up with me and said, “I like your hair color by the way. It’s unusual around here.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment and I could feel the blank expression smooth out my features, which seemed to send him into an unwarranted bout of anxiety. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I hope I didn’t offend you. I’m very sorry if I did!”

  “No, I’m just trying to remember what color it is,” I admitted lamely, causing his features to go blank as well, but in bewilderment. “I dye it a lot. A lot.” Pulling a piece from the ill-constructed bun at the back of my head, I used it for reference. “Right, teal. Cool. Thanks.”

  Still bemused, Trevor shook his head. I got the impression that he wanted to say something but decided against it. “So!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands once with that movie star smile. “Thoughts? Can you see yourself living here? Would you like to see the contract?”

  The contract was the ugliest part of the agreement. First of all, the owners were offering a fixed-term lease, which didn’t leave a lot of wiggle room if I needed to make other arrangements for freelancing. The part I couldn’t deal with was that they wanted me to sign for three years. I sent Trevor off with a rebuttal of one year’s lease, a slightly haggled rent price, and a new maintenance hire for the yard, which was the one part of the property in serious need of TLC.

  One week later, Trevor had called me to report that the rent would stay where it was, but the shortened lease and maintenance request were granted. We’d decided to meet halfway in a Grand Rapids diner so I could review and sign the updated documents.

  “I didn’t know naming houses was popular up north,” I pointed out as I reread the contract to make sure everything was in order.

  “It’s not really. Just that one.”

  “Why is that?”

  Trevor sipped his coffee. “I don’t know for sure. People just started to call it that in passing. It’s the only house on that strip, so everyone knew where someone meant if they mentioned Red Heather House.”

  I glanced at the address, thinking I should update my website
immediately when I got home with the change of information. 1 Red Heather Road. It had a strange ring to it that I liked. Easy to remember, too.

  “Why would people talk about it?” I asked after the moment I took to type the address and zip into my phone’s notes app. “Did something happen there?”

  I thought he sounded a little nervous as he said, “No, not that I’m aware of. Kids like to make up stories about it. You know, when they’re not throwing rocks.”

  “That kind of explains the state of the yard,” I remarked. I stared at the printed address before flipping a few pages and signing my name. “Why ‘Red Heather’?”

  Trevor gave an incremental lift of his shoulders as he watched my pen scrawl across the dotted line. “Why not?”

  • • •

  “That was the smoothest drive I’ve ever taken through these parts!” Simmons remarked after we’d both shut off our vehicles in Red Heather’s drive, scratching his head under his cap. “They must’ve paved the roads in the last few months.”

  “Are you from around here?” I asked, carefully picking up Ed’s carrier and letting him nibble my finger through the door.

  “Yes, ma’am! Well, I’m from Pentwater. But I’ve been through these parts enough that it feels like I might as well have been, you know?”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I said emphatically, thinking of Corolla. “I’m going to set him inside and then I’ll come back to help you unload.”

  “I got a couple of the boys coming to help, too, so don’t worry,” Simmons assured me as he unlocked the hatch and slid the door up. I thanked the universe for all my stuff inside looking relatively as we’d left it.

  Walking to the door, I dug the key Trevor had mailed me out of my purse and unlocked the dark burgundy door, pushing it in with an elbow.