The Haunted

The lamp on the end table flew toward him, its cord pulling out of the wall socket and throwing the room into darkness. He lurched to the right and felt the object whiz past, heard it smash into the coffee table. All around was the sound of movement—squeaks, scrapes, creaks, crashes, thumps, thuds, knocks, bangs—and Julian dropped to the floor and began crawling toward the area where he thought the front door should be. He ran into something heavy and immobile—the Southwestern pot containing Claire’s ficus tree—hitting the vessel with his head, pausing for a second to get his bearings, relieved not to feel the wetness of blood on his face.

This is what it’s like to be blind, he thought, and scurried as fast as he could across the floor, angling left.

He hadn’t realized until this moment how powerful a being this was, hadn’t known it could wield physical objects against him, although, in a weird way, such a real-world concern took some of the edge off the fear he felt, giving a tangible specificity to the more primal terror he’d experienced until now.

Something brushed past him, something hairy, and in an instant that primal fear was back. He let out an involuntary cry of horror and revulsion, and then he was kicked in the side, the air knocked out of him as he was sent flying. But he was kicked in the right direction, and he rolled over, gasping for breath, discovering that he was lying against the front door. Forcing himself to ignore the pain, even as a sharp blow was delivered to the small of his back, he found the door handle, pulled himself to his feet and flung open the door, staggering forward.

He made it out of the house, slammed the door behind him.

And collapsed.

He awoke half on the front lawn, his head resting on the cement of the driveway, one arm twisted under and used as a pillow. He knew where he was and what had happened, was not groggy at all, although his back, neck, side and shoulders all hurt, and immediately upon wakening, he got in the van and drove to Claire’s parents’ house. Her dad, Roger, answered the door, greeting him with a frown, but over the old man’s shoulder, Julian saw Claire, Megan and James eating breakfast in the kitchen, and with only the most perfunctory of greetings, he pushed his way past Roger into the house and hurried over to his family, filled with gratitude that they were all here and all right.

James looked up as he entered, and the expression of joy and relief on his son’s face—joy that he was here, relief that nothing had happened to him—made Julian rush over and give his son a big hug. The strong hug he was given in return almost made him feel like crying. “I love you,” Julian said.

“I love you, too,” James said instantly.

It was something they had always said to each other, but its usage had fallen off in the past year, and Julian vowed to himself that he would never stop saying it to his son.

Or his daughter.

He let go of James and grabbed Megan, holding her close. “Love you,” he said.

“Love you, too, Dad.” Megan was crying, and he pulled back and used his index finger to wipe the tears from her cheeks, the way he’d done since she was a baby.

Claire was looking at him over Megan’s shoulder, and her eyes were tearing up as well. He pulled out a chair and sat down next to her. “You were right,” he said. “I’m not staying there anymore, either. We’ll sell the house, take the loss if we have to, and find someplace else to live.”

“Hold on a sec. Did I hear what I think I heard?” Claire’s dad stood in the kitchen doorway, glaring at him disapprovingly. “Are you actually going to sell your house because you think it’s haunted?”

Julian faced him. “Yes,” he said calmly.

“Well, I’ll be—”

“Dad,” Claire warned.

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

“You read the article in the paper. And I told you what else happened there.”

He waved her away, still glaring at Julian.

“Roger …” Claire’s mother said warningly.

Julian ignored them both. “I’ll work there in the daytime,” he told Claire. “Like a regular office. But I’ll sleep here at night. With you.”

“Why do you have to go there at all?”

“Yeah, Dad,” Megan chimed in.

“Because my computer and all my work’s there.”

“You have a laptop,” Claire said.

“I need all my stuff. I’m down to the wire and have to get this done. Afterward, I’ll quit.”

She looked at him. “The house is still manipulating you. You think you’re thinking for yourself, but you’re not.”

“I’m not being manipulated. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“You’re not thinking of keeping the house?”

“No,” he assured her. “Of course not.”

“Because it sounds like—”