Chapter 1
Looks a lot less haunted now.
That’s Rick’s first thought as he drives up to the gray stone cottage in the middle of the dense woods. He’s proud of the restoration he pulled off, despite the quick timeline and tight funding.
Of course, most of the work he did was on the inside, but Lynette was right about putting that white trellis next to the new front porch. It added some welcome charm, even if the pink bougainvillea he snaked through the wood was going to be dead within a week from the bitter cold. She said it was all about first impressions, and Rick understands that now as he pulls his truck around to the back of the house.
He’s been a handyman for years, but he’s never spearheaded his own renovation project, handling every little detail himself. If Lynette had paid him enough, he probably would’ve hired a team, done things a bit more up-to-code. The most he could afford to outsource on this job was getting his pal Ned to help with the plumbing in exchange for a case of beer. Other than that, it was Rick who took that heap of a Thornton place and turned it into a rentable property from the abandoned shell it once was.
Not just abandoned. Haunted.
Rick puts the brakes on the H-word again, throwing the shifter into Park beside the basement bulkhead. No way he had the scratch to replace those rusty storm doors, but Lynette said the back of the house wasn’t a priority. Fixing up the cellar on the other side of those doors was more important, and that’s where Rick’s work would finally come to an end.
He needs the strength of both arms just to pull one of those heavy suckers open on its creaky hinges. When he does, a stench comes rolling out to greet him, and he nearly coughs up his morning coffee. More than likely a critter snuck in and died down there in the earthy tomb of the root cellar.
Rick drags his toolbox from the truck bed, clicks his flashlight on, and takes the stony steps
one at a time. The ceiling must be just under six feet high because at six one, he has to keep his shoulders hunched and his head down as he navigates the space.
He shines his light through the blackness of the cellar, which runs the entirety of the floor space above with a handful of stone support beams keeping the place from falling in on itself. It still feels like that could happen at a moment’s notice, and Rick really wishes he didn’t have to spend three days working in this death trap.
But Lynette has been very clear. Because the cottage is so “cozy” (real estate talk for “cramped”), she wants this basement to be finished and converted into a storage space for any potential long-term renters. Rick figures at the very least he can lay down some loose boards over the dirt and make it feel a little less like a grave. He doesn’t have time for much else, but he can see some storage shelves already lining the far wall, packed with boxes and cans and Mason jars. Maybe it’s the grub gone bad giving off that rotten smell. If he clears the shelves and tosses the food, that’s two birds with one stone: making some space and killing the stink.
He lowers his metal toolbox to the floor and starts toward the rickety wooden staircase that leads back up into the house. A quick inspection of the steps shows the wood is rotting to hell, but there’s no sign of termites. He should be able to get away with not replacing the whole damn thing, which is great, because he definitely doesn’t have time for that. Then again, if some renter’s rug rat comes running down the steps and breaks their leg through a busted board, Lynette will have Rick’s ass. He tests his full weight on each step until he arrives safely at the top, deciding it’s probably safe to leave them be.
The basement door opens out into the living room, which feels bright and airy now with white walls and exposed beams in the ceiling above. This had definitely been the hardest space to renovate.
This is where the fire happened.
Rick was expecting more structural damage when he first started the job, but these old stone houses were built tough. He did have to pry up all those blackened floorboards, and it was hard not to notice the spots where the bodies
had left behind a sticky tar-like residue. But after he replaced those hardwoods and fixed up the scorched walls and ceiling, you’d never know what happened here ten years ago.
Rick grew up thirty miles east of Nodland, but he remembers hearing the legend as a teenager.
The story of a family who died on Christmas morning, leaving this burned-out heap in their wake. But if the tales were true, it wasn’t the tree fire that killed them. They were stone-cold murdered by. . .
Rick shivers, not letting the name light up his brain for fear of summoning a ghost.
He’d spent the last few months keeping the gruesome legend at bay, ...
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