Orison

Chapter Two: Branson

Something about being back in this room stripped away the shell I'd developed over the years, leaving me feeling naked and cheap. Cheap. That word gouged down inside of me. It was the worst thing Granddaddy could call someone.

"Trashy people do cheap things," he'd say with a frown. "A hound dog in a ball gown is still gonna scratch for fleas."

That seemed funny as a kid. Now, not so much. Because I had a whole lot of fleas. The thought of Granddaddy always brought crushing guilt and—

Stop!

I closed my eyes and shoved everything down deep inside me: the memories, the ache, the guilt. Everything. I'd gotten good at this over the years, shoving more and more down. That part of me was like a suitcase crammed so full it could barely close.

The storm got louder, shaking the house.

The moans came back, loud enough to make me jump. I reached down and grabbed some sweats from my athletic bag. I staggered into the sweats—why was I so sore? And why did I have on different underwear than yesterday? That suggested some intriguing possibilities, hopefully with someone hot. I liked physical nakedness a lot better than the emotional kind.

The moans kept going. I stumbled to the door.

"Hello?"

No answer, of course, but the moans got stronger and more regular. Creepy, but not ugly, almost like a song that had been broken then put back together and sung by ghosts.

I checked the room next to mine. Nothing there, so I walked down to the study at the end of the hall and opened the door. A warm, musty smell hit me. Years of memories rushed back even before I turned the light on. I flicked the light switch, and my breath caught in my chest. I'd forgotten about the walls.

The whole study had been paneled in solid oak, almost every inch carved with detailed scenes of strange creatures. I used to spend hours making up stories to go with the carvings, especially when it rained. I'd stay in here all day, or at least until Aunt Judith kicked me out so she could work in her ledger.

It was the desk that really caught my attention, though. When I was a kid, it had seemed massive, big enough to be whatever I imagined: a pirate ship, a castle, a treasure cave, a jungle fortress—anything. It looked smaller now, but still had the same smooth feel, the same oily furniture polish and chemical-lemon smell.

Lots of memories here, but nothing that was moaning. I left and walked to the big staircase. The floorboards squeaked under the thin, ratty carpet. The squeaking sounded like the music from Psycho right before the chick gets stabbed. That felt appropriate somehow. I grabbed the banister, but it wobbled, and I was afraid I'd tear it off.

When I was a kid, Hilltop Farm had been nice. Not comfortable or homey, but fancy. Intimidating. It was the King family's way of telling the whole county to suck it since we were richer than all of them put together.

Now everything looked worn-out and ragged, like the whole place had a terminal illness. Slightly creepy and seriously shabby. If that Downton Abbey show had been a horror movie, it would look like Hilltop Farm.

I came to the second floor landing—a long, dark hallway with lots of doors and a big grandfather clock that swore it was five in the morning. The moans definitely got louder here. I closed my eyes and listened, following the sound to the first door. Aunt Judith's door.

"Look, girls! Jack's back!"

I jumped as a thin, shaky voice fluttered from the darkness at the end of the hall. An old woman with wild eyes and dirty white hair came next, sort of flitting out of the shadows. She pushed her face right into mine. Her smile got so big I worried it might split her pale, wrinkled skin. "Everything will be just fine now." She looked down at three old dolls she carried in a headlock in her right arm. "He'll fix everything!" Even with a smile, she seemed haunted.