Fixer-Upper
"Four years we've been married, and Ty and I are still living in that crummy little one-bedroom apartment!" Tabitha Darden complained to her best friend as the two women searched Kohl's clearance rack for bargains.
"At least you're not homeless," Persia Joyner laughed.
"Very funny. But at the rate we're going, we'll never be able to afford a house. And I don't see how we can raise a family in an apartment."
"Other people do it."
"I want my own house. I want my child to have his or her own bedroom and a backyard to play in."
"Maybe if you looked for a house further west of here."
"We have. We've seen places as far away as seventy-five miles, but they're not much cheaper than houses here. I tell you, Persia, it's a vicious cycle. We both get annual raises, but our rent goes up every year as well. And then there are the rising gas prices, the cost of food and the utility bills. I don't know how the average American can buy a home these days!"
"I know it isn't easy, but someday things will change, and you'll be a homeowner."
"When that day comes, I just hope I'll still be young enough to enjoy it."
The thought of her pitiful financial state made the forlorn second-grade teacher put the Simply Vera blouse she had been admiring back on the rack.
"You're not getting that?" Persia asked.
"I really shouldn't spend money on more clothes," Tabitha replied wistfully.
"But that blouse costs less than ten dollars."
"Every penny counts."
"You've got more willpower than I do."
"If only I'd been this frugal four years ago. Ty and I spent our entire savings on a wedding and honeymoon. We could have used it for a down payment on a house instead."
"Come on! Would you really deny yourself that beautiful wedding and the romantic honeymoon in Aruba?"
"In hindsight, yes. The wedding lasted one day; the honeymoon lasted seven. If we had spent our money wisely, we might be living in our own home by now. But I suppose the problem goes back further than that. Maybe I shouldn't have become a teacher. They don't get paid much."
Persia sighed. There is just no cheering some people up when they are down.
"I'm going to check out," she announced. "And then we'll go to Red Robin for lunch."
"But I ...," Tabitha began.
"My treat," Persia insisted, silencing her friend's objections.
As they walked across the parking lot from Kohl's to Red Robin, little did the two women know that the world as they knew it was about to change. COVID-19 would cross the Atlantic and strike America. Movie theaters, shopping malls, gyms, restaurants and other nonessential businesses would close, many never to reopen. People would be put out of work, some temporarily, others permanently.
Thankfully, Tabitha was able to conduct classes via the school's online learning program. Ty, who worked as a dairy manager for a large grocery store, was considered an essential employee. As such, not only did he work more hours every week, but he also received "hazard pay." So, while the number of COVID cases and deaths continued to rise, so, too, did the balance in the Dardens' savings account; and with the issuance of a second stimulus check, the couple had enough money for a down payment on an inexpensive house.
The problem now was where to find one.
* * *
Wearing protective masks, Tabitha and Ty Darden walked into the real estate office, pausing at the door to take advantage of the free hand sanitizer being offered. Ronaldo Serrano, the agent, welcomed them. In the pre-COVID days, he would have shaken their hands. Now, however, he observed the recommended six-foot distance.
"Please come in," he said, leading them to a conference room where the chairs were spaced widely apart around a long oblong table.
Although this was their first face-to-face meeting, Ty had previously spoken to Ronaldo on the phone. During their conversation, the couple's current financial situation was discussed. The dairy manager also gave the agent their list of "must-haves" as well as their "would like to haves."
"As I told you on the phone," Ronaldo began, "there aren't many houses currently on the market that will fit within your budget."
Fearing she was in for another disappointment, Tabitha frowned.
"I did, however, find three places that might interest you," the realtor continued as he opened a manila folder containing descriptions of the properties. "This is a one-bedroom A-frame located only seven miles from the grocery store where you work."
"One bedroom?" Ty echoed. "We were hoping for three. Two at the least."
"We want to start a family," his wife explained.
"The house does have a loft. And there's always the possibility of adding a room to the house somewhere down the line."
"We'll keep that option in mind," Ty said. "What are the other two?"
"This one is a three-bedroom house. Less than five years old. It sits on a quarter of an acre of property."
"What's the catch?" Tabitha asked.
"It's forty-three miles north of where you currently live, and it's nowhere near the interstate."
"That would mean a commute of at least an hour. Probably more during rush hours and in bad weather. What's the last one?" Ty asked, his optimism waning.
"It's the closest of the three," Ronaldo answered, stating the house's favorable points first. "It has a full acre of land on a corner lot. Three bedrooms, two baths."
The couple turned toward each other, their faces registering disbelief.
"And it's in our price range?" Tabitha inquired.
"Yes."
"Why is it so cheap?" Ty wondered.
"It's a fixer-upper."
"That's no problem!" Tabitha exclaimed, her face lighting up with a radiant smile. "My husband is quite handy. I always say he can fix anything!"
"Why don't we drive out there, and you can have a look at the place?"
When Ronaldo Serrano pulled up in front of the aging Victorian, the couple's eyes widened with surprise. To say the house lacked curb appeal was an understatement. What paint had not chipped off was faded. Three of the window shutters were askew; one was completely gone. Two of the panes in the attic's mullion window were shattered.
"It reminds me of the Addams Family house," Tabitha declared, her voice revealing her displeasure.
"I was thinking more along the lines of Psycho," her husband laughed. "We'd better watch out we don't run into Norman Bates or his mother."
"Let's hope the interior is in better shape than the exterior."
* * *
As Ty turned the key in the front door lock, Tabitha stood on the walkway, looking up at the house with mixed emotions. Mingled with the pride of homeownership was worry over the amount of work it would take to fix the place up, fear that it might turn out to be a money pit, joy that she was one step closer to starting a family, regret that they had not waited longer for a more appealing house to come on the market and, lastly, satisfaction that the couple's hard-earned money would no longer go into a landlord's bank account but would be an investment in their future.
"Would you like me to carry you over the threshold?" her husband teased.
"I'm not sure that threshold could stand the weight of two people at once."
"Come on, the place isn't that bad."
When they walked into the house, they saw their living room furniture surrounded by dozens of cardboard boxes. Ty, who had taken a week's vacation from work to devote time to the move, rolled up his sleeves and immediately commenced sorting through the cartons.
"What can I do to help?" Tabitha asked.
"I'll bring the boxes upstairs, and you can start unpacking our clothes."
Of all the rooms in the old house, the master bedroom was Tabitha's least favorite. Although it was spacious and had a bay window and hardwood floors, she detested the paper that covered the walls. It looked like a montage of women's faces, all of which seemed to be staring at her. The women were drawn in stark black and white, but the lips were a dark shade of red, a detail the new homeowner found disturbing.
"This wallpaper will be the first thing to go when we begin renovating," she declared as she followed her husband into the room.
"There are far more important things that need to be done first."
"Like what?"
"Like making sure all the electrical and plumbing work is up to code. Lucky for us, my Uncle Vinnie is an electrician, and my cousin, Mitch, is a plumber. That'll save us a lot of money on labor."
"When will you get to the bedroom?"
"Possibly not for several months. Maybe longer."
"Months! What if I were to paint over the wallpaper while you and your relatives take care of the rest of the house?"
"You can't paint over wallpaper. You have to remove it first."
"I ought to be able to do that."
"Don't be so sure. You have to peel or scrape off every inch of it. Sometimes, you need to use hot steam to loosen the paper first. And it's not uncommon to find older layers of paper underneath. However, if you're lucky enough to get to the wall, then you have to scrape off any dried paste with a putty knife.
"That doesn't sound too difficult."
"Wait. That's not all. Do you want to repaper the walls or paint them?"
"Paint them."
"Then you'll have to clean and prime them."
"How do I do that?"
"You need to wash the walls, repair any nicks or uneven surfaces and sand the excess filler so that the surface is smooth. Lastly, you need to put on a coat of primer before you can paint. And you mustn't forget about the trim. You have to remove the woodwork before you do anything else. And while you have it off, it's always good to refinish it. After all, you don't want to put the grimy, dusty molding back on a freshly painted wall."
Tabitha examined the room, taking note of all the floor and crown molding as well as the woodwork around the windows and doors that would need to be removed and refurbished. It was clearly no job for an amateur.
I suppose I'll just have to live with that wallpaper for the time being, she thought and began the task of folding clothes and putting them into the dresser drawers.
After an exhausting day of carrying, bending, stretching and stooping, Tabitha took a hot bath to soothe her aching muscles. Meanwhile, Ty put a DiGiorno frozen pizza in the oven and removed the cork from an inexpensive bottle of wine.
"A toast," he said, holding his glass in the air, "to our new home."
"Ugly wallpaper and all," his wife added as she touched her glass to his.
Once the pizza was gone and the celebratory bottle of wine was empty, the couple retired to the master bedroom. The cable company would not install their Internet service until the following day, so it was pointless to turn on the television in the living room.
"An evening without Netflix," Ty observed. "We haven't had one of those since before the pandemic. I suppose I ought to get some rest then. We have another busy day ahead of us tomorrow."
"I think I'll read awhile," Tabitha said, picking up the paperback novel she had purchased at a flea market. "Will the light bother you?"
There was no answer. Her husband was already asleep. Only seven pages into her book, her eyes fluttered and closed as well.
* * *
The sound of pots and pans being rattled in the kitchen woke Tabitha.
What time is it? she wondered and leaned over to get a look at the clock on the night table.
She had hoped to get an early start, but it was already after eight o'clock.
"Why did you let me sleep so late?" she asked her husband as she walked into the kitchen, heading straight for the coffeepot.
"Good morning to you, too," he laughed. "To answer your question, I tried waking you up, but you were out like a light."
"I had the weirdest dream," she said, stirring the sugar and milk into her coffee.
"About what?"
"The wallpaper in the bedroom."
"Let that be a lesson to you, sweetheart. Never mix wine with pepperoni pizza."
"Speaking of food, one of the things I want to do today is to go to the grocery store. Is there anything you want me to pick up while I'm there?"
"Some lightbulbs," Ty replied. "I noticed the one in the downstairs bathroom is out."
After finishing her coffee, Tabitha went up to the bedroom to get dressed. As she entered the room, she tried to avoid looking too closely at the wallpaper.
I can live with it, she told herself. I have no choice.
When she returned home from food shopping, her husband helped her bring the groceries inside.
"How much food did you buy?" he asked when he saw the number of bags in the back of the car. "Are we planning on feeding an army?"
"I figured I'd stock up on all the staples: sugar, flour, spices, oil and coffee. I also bought cleaning supplies, paper towels and toilet paper. Oh, and there's shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste and aspirin."
"And lightbulbs?" Ty asked.
"Both 60 and 100 watts. I even got a three-way in case we need it."
"You want any help putting this stuff away?"
"No. You can go back to whatever it was you were doing."
"I was just about to see if that old lawnmower in the garage still works."
Since Tabitha had packed the groceries herself, all the frozen foods were together, as were the items that needed to be refrigerated. Once the perishables were put away, she began stocking the cabinets. As she stood on a chair to place canned goods on the uppermost shelf, she found a glass jar in the far corner of the cabinet above the stove.
What in the world?
The jar that once held sixteen ounces of Heinz dill pickles now contained several pairs of earrings.
Why would anyone keep their jewelry in a pickle jar? she wondered.
She unscrewed the lid of the jar and examined the earrings. There was an assortment of styles: posts, hoops and even a pair of clip-ons. Some were silver; some were gold or gold-plated. All of them looked inexpensive, like the costume jewelry teenagers bought at Claire's.
"What's that you've got?" Ty asked as he opened the refrigerator door to get a cold drink.
"Earrings. Someone stored them in an old pickle jar in the cabinet."
"That looks like a pair my grandmother once had."
"That makes sense," his wife muttered.
"What does?"
"I thought the earrings might belong to a teenager, but an old woman would be more likely to do something odd like put them in a pickle jar."
"You could be right. We don't know who the last owners were."
The house had stood vacant for three years before being put on the market. Perhaps the owner was in a nursing home, or maybe she was dead and her heirs decided to sell it.
"It makes sense," she repeated. "That would explain the hideous wallpaper, too. Old ladies aren't necessarily known for tasteful interior design."
* * *
Four days after closing on their house, the Dardens were satisfied with the placement of their furniture and belongings. The last thing the couple did was hang their wedding portrait above the fireplace mantel.
"That's it!" Ty exclaimed. "We are officially moved in."
"Now that all our stuff is in place, I'm actually beginning to feel at home here," Tabitha declared.
"Enjoy it while you can. Uncle Vinnie is stopping by tomorrow to see what electrical work needs to be done. I hope we don't have to replace that much of the wiring. I'd hate to have to tear down any walls."
"If it should come to that, your uncle should start work in the bedroom. That would be one way of getting rid of that hideous wallpaper."
"Let's not start with that again. I already told you the cosmetic changes ...."
"I know. I know. They'll have to wait until the electrical and plumbing work is done. I get it."
"I don't see why it bothers you so much."
"It gives me nightmares—literally."
"Try to deal with it for now," Ty suggested, pulling his wife close to him. "I promise that once we know there'll be no risk of a fire if we plug in too many Christmas tree lights or that one of the pipes will burst and flood the basement, I'll remove the wallpaper and paint the walls any color your heart desires."
"How about a nice shade of blue?"
"Blue it is."
Since the sun had set, the couple decided to call it a day. After working nonstop for the past four days, they deserved an evening of rest. Chinese takeout and a movie on Prime Video seemed like a vacation to them.
The following morning, bright and early, they set out to tackle the attic. Armed with a vacuum cleaner and a box of trash bags, the couple began the arduous task of cleaning a room that was covered in grime and cobwebs.
"Why don't you start vacuuming while I see what's in these boxes?" Ty suggested.
After putting on one of her COVID masks to keep from breathing in dust, Tabitha turned on the Bissell. Using the long attachment, she cleaned the ceiling rafters first. Once all the cobwebs were removed, she attached the brush and vacuumed the dust from the walls. Meanwhile, her husband was sorting through a carton of old books left by the previous owner.
"Find anything good?" she shouted above the noise of the vacuum cleaner.
"Someone liked detective novels: Erle Stanley Gardner, John D. MacDonald, Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, Dashiell Hammett. I ...."
The cell phone in Ty's pocket rang, interrupting his train of thought.
"It's Mohammod," he announced.
"Doesn't he know you're on vacation?"
After a brief conversation with the store manager, Ty put the phone back in his pocket.
"I'm gonna have to go in for a few hours. Three people called off sick, and we just got in a large delivery. I've got to make sure we get all the stock put away before it goes bad. I'm sorry to leave you like this."
"Don't worry about it. You go to the store, and I'll go through the rest of these boxes when I'm done vacuuming."
"You're an angel."
With her husband out of the house, the room took on a sinister aspect.
It's just an attic, she told herself as she continued to suck up dust bunnies with the vacuum.
Tabitha made it to the far corner when the Bissell's powerhead hit a metal ring that was screwed into a floor joist. As she examined the strange hardware, wondering what purpose it served, she noticed someone had carved letters and numbers into the floorboards. By changing her position, she could read the writing: FRANCIE SHOTE. FEBRUARY 1947.
This must have been carved by a child.
It was a reasonable assumption. Some kids liked to write their names in wet cement, and others carved them in tree trunks. Parents often kept track of their children's heights by putting names, dates and notches on the walls. Yet reasonable though these explanations were, she could not shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Don't let your imagination run amok, she warned herself. It's bad enough that the bedroom wallpaper gives me nightmares. I don't need to dread coming up to the attic, too.
Once the last of the dust had been vacuumed away, she ripped the brittle, yellowed tape off an old cardboard carton. Inside were boxes of Christmas tree ornaments. They were not the cheap, plastic, unbreakable kind that people favored today. These were vintage Shiny Brite glass ornaments stored away in their original boxes.
I'll definitely keep these! But the books I'll donate to the library for its annual book sale.
She opened six more cartons, only one of which joined the Christmas tree ornaments as a "keeper." The contents of two others would be donated to Goodwill. The remaining three were consigned to the trash bags.
"This reminds me of Let's Make a Deal," she laughed. "I never know what's in the box: a prize or a zonk."
The next box she opened was most definitely not a prize!
* * *
Ty entered the house to find his wife in the kitchen, drinking coffee.
"Taking a break?" he laughed.
When Tabitha picked her head up, he could see that her eyes were red from crying.
"What's wrong?"
"I found a box of clothes up in the attic—women's clothes that looked like they dated back to the Forties."
"What's so upsetting about a box of old clothes?"
"They were stained with blood. Who keeps bloody clothing?"
"Just throw them out and forget about it," Ty advised.
"That's not all. There's a metal ring screwed into the floor, and someone carved the name FRANCIE SHOTE and FEBRUARY 1947 into the floor. And let's not forget the bedroom wallpaper."
"What has that got to do with anything in the attic?"
"I don't know, but I just know they're all connected in some way."
"Look, honey, you're tired. Moving into this house has been physically exhausting, and what with all this COVID mess we've all had to deal with, it's no wonder that your nerves are on edge."
"Moving and COVID have nothing to do with what I'm feeling. My intuition tells me something is not right about this house!"
"And what do you think is wrong with it?"
"Maybe it's haunted," Tabitha said, putting her fears into words for the first time.
"By whom?"
"It could be the former owner. All we know about her is that she liked detective novels, carved her name in the floor, put her earrings in a pickle jar and had terrible taste in wallpaper."
"Who cares what idiosyncrasies the former owner had? It's our house now. We're gonna fix it up, buy a dog, raise a few kids and grow old together beneath its roof. When our children bring the grandchildren to come visit us, we're not gonna think about blood-stained clothes, wallpaper or pickle jars."
The mention of children did the trick. Tabitha began to imagine the bedroom opposite the master as a nursery. It would be painted white with pastel accents and decorated with Beatrix Potter characters.
"You're right," she said, blowing her nose with a slightly damp Kleenex. "How did things go at the store?"
"I managed to get everything squared away. Did you finish going through the boxes in the attic?"
"No. There are still a few left. Why don't we go up and tackle them together?"
"I'll do it. Can you fix us something to eat?"
As Ty entered the attic, he saw the open carton of women's clothes. His wife had not put the box on either side but had left it where she found it.
I doubt Good Will would want clothes stained with blood, he thought and grabbed an empty garbage bag.
But as he began stuffing Forties-style skirts and blouses into the Hefty bag, he noticed that there were no blood stains of any kind on them.
* * *
Ty's Uncle Vinnie had welcome news for the homeowners. The electric wiring was in good shape. Furthermore, Mitch told them that only minor plumbing work would be needed.
"I'll put a new fill valve and flapper on the upstairs toilet. Then you won't have to keep jiggling the handle to stop it from running," the cousin announced. "In another year or two, you might need to replace the hot water heater, but for now, don't worry about it."
"While we're here, we can hook up the washer and dryer for you," Uncle Vinnie suggested.
"Thanks!" Tabitha exclaimed. "It'll be nice not having to go to the laundromat every week."
The following day, Monday, Ty went back to work.
"It wasn't much of a vacation for you," his wife said as he finished his bowl of cereal.
"Maybe I should have been a teacher like you. That way, we'd both get the whole summer off."
Once her husband was out the door, Tabitha began doing her morning chores. She straightened the kitchen, washed the breakfast dishes and made the bed. Then she emptied the clothes from the hamper into her laundry basket and headed toward the stairs. She flipped the light switch on, and the overhead bulb illuminated the washer and dryer but little else.
After putting the dirty clothes in the washer, she decided to explore the unfamiliar surroundings. There was a large utility sink, a hot water heater, a furnace and a breaker box—all things homeowners traditionally relegated to basements and cellars. There were also several metal shelves, perfect for storing cleaning supplies.
I wonder what's in there, she mused, seeing a door in the shadowy depths of the room. It must lead to the backyard. It's got a bolt latch.
Tabitha pulled back the bolt, expecting to see an outdoor staircase, but she was surprised to discover a darkened room. Without light, she could not tell its size or intended use. Curious, she reached into her pocket for her cell phone and told Siri to turn on the flashlight app. The frightened teacher stifled a scream when the light from the phone revealed what looked like a prison cell.
Long after the Whirlpool completed its spin cycle, the wet clothes were still inside the washer. She made no attempt to return to the basement to transfer them to the dryer. Instead, she sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee as questions raced through her mind. Had the previous homeowner at one point locked her child in that basement room? What other possible purpose would that lock serve?
She was still sitting at the kitchen table when her husband came home from work.
"What's for dinner?" he asked.
"I was going to cook a meatloaf, but I forgot all about it. I'll make some tuna and open up a can of tomato soup instead."
Ty would have preferred meatloaf, but soup and a sandwich would do in a pinch.
"Come downstairs with me. There's something I want to show you," Tabitha announced after the meal was over.
Only when she reached the bottom of the stairs did she remember that the clothes needed to be dried.
"Is something wrong with the washer or dryer?" her husband asked.
"No. I just forgot about the laundry. This is what I wanted to show you," she answered, pointing out the door with the bolt latch.
"It's a door. So?"
Tabitha pulled it open and turned on the flashlight app.
"Notice the cot against the wall? Someone was kept prisoner here. Why else would there be a lock on the other side of the door?"
"It was probably once used as a storage room."
"It's a simple bolt latch, not a lock with a key. Anyone can get inside it. The only conceivable purpose for such a device would be to keep someone on the inside from getting out."
* * *
After she discovered the basement room, Tabitha's nightmares became more terrifying. Numerous times over the next few weeks, she woke up screaming.
"Let me out!" she cried.
"What's wrong?" Ty asked sleepily.
"I was locked in that room," she said after her head cleared. "I pounded on the door for days, but no one would let me out."
"It was just a dream. Go back to sleep."
But as the nightmares continued, neither husband nor wife got much sleep.
"Maybe you should see a doctor," Ty suggested one morning after having gotten only three hours of sleep the previous night.
"I don't want to get started taking sleeping pills. You know how addictive they can be."
"I didn't mean a medical doctor."
"What then? A psychiatrist? Do you think I'm going crazy?"
"You've been under a lot of stress lately. It's taking its toll on you."
"I'm fine!" Tabitha insisted, slamming the sugar bowl down on the table.
"I didn't want to bring it up before, but you haven't been acting right since we moved in. Take, for instance, your reaction to the box of women's clothing in the attic."
"You can't deny that someone keeping blood-stained clothes is bizarre!"
"I examined every article of clothing in that box. I didn't see a single drop of blood on any of them."
"That's impossible! I know what I saw."
"Maybe it was a combination of poor lighting and your imagination."
"The blood was real; I didn't imagine it."
"Then there's the way you reacted when you found the earrings in a pickle jar. And the bedroom wallpaper has upset you to the point of giving you nightmares. The flowers are ugly, I'll grant you, but ...."
"Flowers? What flowers?"
"The flowers on the wallpaper."
"There are no flowers," the frazzled young woman insisted. "There are only faces."
Ty took his wife by the hand and led her upstairs to the master bedroom.
"Tell me exactly what you see," he said.
"White wallpaper with dozens of women's faces drawn in black except for the lips, which are red. What do you see?"
"Light green paper covered with hideous pink, yellow and orange flowers."
"But ...."
As Tabitha stared at faces that only she could see, the red lips on one of the women moved and spoke to her.
"Help us!"
* * *
Moments after Ty Darden's Subaru Forester backed down the driveway the following morning, his wife went upstairs to the master bedroom and put on a pair of torn jeans and an old T-shirt. Intent on the task at hand, she left the dirty breakfast dishes on the table and the bed unmade. Putty knife in hand, she searched for and found a seam in the wallpaper. Scraping it first with her fingernail and then with the putty knife, Tabitha managed to remove a piece that was roughly one square foot in size. Beneath it was another layer of paper: green in color with pink, yellow and orange flowers.
How could Ty have seen this wallpaper through the outer layer?
"Help us!"
I'm not hearing this! It's like my husband said, it's only my imagination.
Throughout the morning and afternoon, the determined homeowner wielded her putty knife with the skill of a surgeon, removing both large sheets and small fragments of paper. However, not even the music being piped into her brain through her earbuds drowned out the pleas of the black and white women with dark red lips.
The last remnant of the wallpaper came down late in the afternoon. Her mission completed, Tabitha quickly made the bed and then went to the kitchen, where she washed the dishes and started cooking dinner. Shortly after the pork chops came out of the oven, Ty's car pulled into the driveway.
"How was your day?" he asked.
"Oh, I managed to keep busy."
As his wife tossed a salad to serve with the pork chops, Ty went up to the bedroom to change out of his work clothes. Moments later, his raised voice could be heard down in the kitchen.
"You took down the wallpaper!" he cried in surprise.
"I wanted to help."
"I hate to say it, but I like the flowers better than these birds."
Birds? What birds? she thought and took the stairs two at a time.
"I wonder how many layers of wallpaper there are on these walls," Ty said as his wife entered the room.
However, moments after seeing the familiar black and white faces staring at her as she crossed the threshold and hearing their plaintive cries for help, Tabitha collapsed unconscious onto the floor.
* * *
"I'd like to keep her here overnight and run a few more tests on her," Dr. Ferdinand Valencia declared when Ty brought his wife to the hospital's emergency room.
"I can go back to the house and get you whatever you need," the worried husband offered when the doctor walked away. "A book to read? A magazine?"
"Could you bring me my laptop?" Tabitha asked.
"Sure."
A search of available records indicated that before the couple purchased the property, it had passed through more than a dozen owners, all of whom quickly sold it. Why? Did they experience bizarre events as she had?
I suppose I can contact Ronaldo Serrano tomorrow. He might be able to give me some answers. He was our realtor. And then there's the title search. It should be in the folder with the mortgage papers. That might help as well.
She was about to close her computer when she decided to do a Google search for the only name she could connect with the house.
It's a long shot, but what the hell! she thought as she typed FRANCIE SHOTE in the search field.
The long shot paid off. Reading through old newspaper articles printed in the late 1940s, Tabitha was able to form a plausible theory as to what happened in her house seven decades earlier. The first article reported the disappearance of seventeen-year-old Francie Shote. At first, it was assumed the young woman ran away from home. But when other teenage girls and young women from surrounding towns vanished, police feared the cases might be connected.
Tabitha read through article after article, becoming more certain that the missing girls had once been kept either chained in her attic or locked in the room in her basement. All this time, she believed the former homeowner was an old woman. Now, evidence pointed to it being a man.
Although she had no background in law enforcement, she had seen enough police dramas on TV to know that many serial killers kept trophies of their victims.
The earrings in the pickle jar and the blood-stained clothes must have belonged to those poor women.
As the mystery began to unravel, there was one question that remained: what had become of the bodies?
When his wife was released from the hospital the following day, Ty was delighted that she seemed to be suffering from no physical or mental ailments. Not only did the doctors give her a clean bill of health, but her mental state improved as well.
"You were right," she told him as they pulled into their driveway. "There's nothing wrong with this house. It was all in my imagination."
For the remainder of the day, she put up a good front. Ty cooked barbecued chicken and corn on the cob on the grill, and Tabitha made a quick fruit salad. Afterward, they cuddled together on the couch in front of the television.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked when they went upstairs to the bedroom.
"I'm fine!" she assured him.
For the first time since moving in, the faces on the wall did not disturb her.
* * *
"What have you got planned for today?" Ty asked as Tabitha flipped over pancakes with a spatula. "Nothing too strenuous, I hope. Dr. Valencia wants you to take it easy for a few days."
"I think I'll go food shopping. We're almost out of eggs. Do you need anything?"
"How about some boiled ham. I'm getting tired of bologna sandwiches."
After returning from the grocery store, Tabitha walked up the staircase and entered the bedroom.
"All right," she said aloud. "I'm here to help you. What do you want me to do?"
* * *
"What's all this?" Ty asked when he came home from work in the evening and saw an assortment of rings, bracelets, necklaces and earrings spread out on the kitchen table.
"You better sit down," Tabitha advised him and then spent the next two hours telling him about where and how she found the jewelry.
"So, let me get this straight. The imaginary faces on the wall told you where to find this stuff."
"I know it's hard to believe. Hell, you probably think I ought to be committed to a mental hospital. But I'm not crazy."
She took a file folder from off the kitchen counter and removed the computer printouts of various 1940s articles from her Google search.
"These young women all went missing around the same time as Francie Shote. I know she was here because she carved her name in the attic floor."
Ty nodded his head. That much of his wife's story was accurate. He had seen the metal ring and the carving with his own eyes. But all the rest?
"Don't you see?" Tabitha asked. "These women were kept prisoner here until they were killed. The faces I saw in the bedroom .... It wasn't wallpaper, after all. I was seeing the spirits of those poor girls. They not only led me to find their killer's trophies, but they also told me where their bodies are hidden."
"How did they do that?"
"I'm obviously psychic or sensitive—whatever you want to call it. But once I got over my fear and opened myself up to them, I could communicate with the dead girls."
"I want to believe you," Ty cried. "I really do, but this is just too much for me."
"I can prove it. Get the shovel out of the garage and come with me to the backyard."
Reluctant though he was to reinforce his wife's delusions by looking for graves that were not there, he did as she asked. He got the shovel and followed her outside. It was not until he unearthed the bones of a human hand that he stopped doubting her sanity.
* * *
It was like a scene right out of a true crime drama, reminiscent of John Wayne Gacy and Jeffrey Dahmer. One body bag after another was loaded into the coroner's vehicle and taken away. In all, police accounted for sixteen victims.
"Now those poor girls can be given a decent burial," Tabitha told her husband as they watched the last of the skeletons being exhumed.
"Thanks to you," Ty said.
After the gruesome discovery, the Dardens experienced their Warholian fifteen minutes of fame. Their names and photographs appeared in local and national newspapers. Network and cable TV news reporters flocked to the aptly named "House of Horrors."
Although initially fascinated by the serial murders, the public lost interest when they learned that the young women's killer, Warner Klingman, who owned the house in the Forties, had died in a traffic accident in 1951, thus depriving the world of a sensational televised trial.
As for Tabitha, although she had no further contact with the dead, she collaborated with a true crime author on a book about her experiences and made enough money to not only pay off the mortgage and completely renovate the old house but also hire a landscaper to repair the damaged lawn in the backyard.
People often asked her how she could sleep at night in a house with such a horrific history.
"It's easy," she would reply with a laugh and a wink at Ty. "I replaced the hideous flowered wallpaper in the bedroom with a coat of blue paint."
Salem once surprised me with a home makeover, but when I saw the wallpaper he put up in the library, I cast a spell to change everything back.
