Haunted

By Reggie Lutz

Gwendolyn McTutcheon can’t move on even though she’s been dead for a year. Having left behind a grieving husband, Evan; and three sisters, Trudy, Bethany, and Sarah; she knows there is work yet to do.

Sarah, Gwen’s youngest sister, is back in town to help her two remaining sisters confront a depressed Evan about settling Gwen's will. Still grieving—and raw from wrongful accusations made by Trudy and Bethany that he’d murdered his wife—Evan must set to the task of putting the past, and Gwen, to rest. But not all of the past stays in the past when Sarah offers her help and a romance between her and Evan begins. After all, it was that inappropriate kiss years ago that sparked the notion he might have harmed his wife in the first place.

As Gwen watches, unable to intervene, Trudy and Bethany keep secrets of their own, secrets that level the field and make Sarah consider coming home to stay again. But when an arsonist sets his sights on Evan’s bar, Duard’s, and Sarah’s life is threatened, Gwen knows she must find a way to intervene, for her family and for her own peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Reggie Lutz
• Release date: May 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9780692205792

Reggie Lutz

Reggie Lutz lives on top of a mountain with a parrot who assists her in editing and a dog who provides comic relief when needed. She writes fiction in speculative and mainstream genres as well as the occasional play. Summers she can be heard on the air in a volunteer capacity at WRKC.

Book preview

Haunted

Reggie Lutz

Copyright 2014 Reggie Lutz

Published at Smashwords

Edited by Marie Jaskulka

Cover Art by Josh Troup

Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Acknowledgements: When I was a kid, if someone had told me that a book is born with the assistance of many helping hands I would have thought that was crazy talk. I am grateful, in adulthood, to discover that it is not crazy talk. Without the generosity and support of peers, friends, and family this could not have happened. I owe thanks to my family for supporting this endeavor and believing in the work. Jen and Kent Rauch, aka, Rune Skelley, have been invaluable as an ass-kicking critique team. (I wear bruises in their honor.) The insights of the Claw Critique group have helped guide my work in multiple ways. For this piece, I have to thank particularly the insights and encouragement of writer Megan Gregor. Devon Miller’s and Kristen J. Tsetsi’s questions and feedback have helped immeasurably. I’d also like to thank Juliette Wade for being there when I needed a sounding board about Those Issues Which Circle The Writer’s Life. The hawk-like precision of Marie Jaskulka’s editing cannot be overstated. Josh Troup’s artwork offers gorgeous visual representation to the story in a way nothing else could. I’d also like to thank Ian T. Healy for his help in navigating the digital publishing world, Emily for conversations and resources about publishing, and Dario Ciriello for advice. I’d also like to thank everyone at the day job who has been gracious enough to listen to me talk about this stuff. The Categories Players deserve a shout out for the hilarity and necessary distraction. (You know who you are.)

Table of Contents

Contents

Chapter 1

Evan pursed his lips and stirred sugar into his black coffee. The thick, glazed mug held at least four cups of the strong, bitter brew, three times as much as the mugs he offered his guests. It was not miserliness, but kindness. He was aware that to most people his coffee tasted like mud, whereas his description was hearty, flavorful and necessarily over-caffeinated. Neither did he skimp on the whiskey, at least not in his own serving.

The first sip brought a slight flush to his furry, pale cheeks, which faded as quickly as a single beat of a hummingbird wing. The brown glass serving tray was now artfully arranged with cups, saucers, cream, sugar and brittle shortbread cookies. Evan picked it up carefully and carried it into his living room.

Anyone care for whiskey? Evan asked the three women seated on his leather couch.

Bethany and Trudy leaned over Sarah, who sat in the middle, and gave each other significant looks, while Sarah rolled her eyes and offered Evan an apologetic smile.

More for me, then, Evan muttered as he placed the tray on the low oblong coffee table.

Evan’s wife had made the table a few years ago. It managed to be hideous and gorgeous at once. The dull metal frame had clearly been wrought by an amateur welder. The top of the table appeared as though it was about to come apart. Most of the brightly colored pieces of stained glass were dulled by dust. Cleaner squares showed a contrast too stark to ignore.

Trudy leaned forward and made a track in the dust with her index finger.

Evan pretended not to notice and headed back through the arched doorway into his cramped galley kitchen. His mug waited for him on top of the scratched orange countertop. Evan sighed heavily and added another finger of whiskey and some sugar.

The sisters were already whispering to each other about him. He could hear them commenting on the mess, his appearance. There was no door between the sitting room and the kitchen, and the cottage was not that big.

He cleared his throat and turned back to them. There was a recliner opposite the couch, but it was still covered in boxes, so he improvised a seat on top of an upside-down wooden crate. It was an awkward perch because of his height, but he wasn’t worried at all about his own comfort and only marginally concerned with that of his guests. He suffered their presence only out of respect for the dead.

The three women stopped whispering and looked at him.

Evan raised his mug. Cheers.

He took a healthy gulp and watched over the rim of his mug as each sister took a polite sip. Trudy grimaced and Bethany winced. Sarah had no reaction. She was the smart one. The last time they dropped by unannounced, he offered them coffee. When they complained of its strength and bitterness, he used it as an excuse to throw them out. They seemed determined not to get thrown out today, although if he had been thinking clearly, he could have yelled about Trudy disturbing the dust on the stained-glass table. That might have scared them off. Too late now.

Trudy leaned forward. Well, Evan. I wish I could say you were looking well.

Don’t start like that, Sarah whispered.

Trudy’s gaze raked Evan’s body. Disapproval turned the corners of her mouth down.

I wish I could say the same for you, Trudy. You shouldn’t frown like that. It makes your wrinkles stand out and your makeup flake, Evan answered.

So rude! Bethany gasped.

Sarah hazarded a smile and looked into her lap.

Trudy’s green eyes brightened unnaturally under the dim light of the lamp behind the couch. The pink rouge on her cheeks was joined by reddish-purple splotches. The tightly curled perm of her fading blond hair made her look slightly like a deranged clown. The polka-dot blouse didn’t help much, either. She looked and acted far too old for a thirty-four year old.

Here we go, Evan muttered. He knocked back another gulp of fortified coffee as Trudy began to cry.

You bastard! Bethany hissed. Bethany unclasped her purse and retrieved a large handkerchief monogrammed in pink. Sarah, move out of the way.

Bethany edged closer to Trudy, forcing Sarah to stand up while she attended to the blubbering Trudy.

The wood crate scraped across the slate floor as Evan stood up and marched through the living room, past unpacked boxes to the door leading to the back patio. Either Trudy would compose herself or leave. Evan didn’t really care which option she took.

He ran a hand over the three days’ beard growth on his face, then brushed his too-long, unkempt hair out of his eyes. Brown shot through with gray. It seemed grayer with each passing day, which only reminded him of his wife. They used to joke together about watching each other get grayer and increasingly saggy as they grew old together, jokes that would seem morbid or cruel to anyone else. Pending decrepitude had seemed like an adventure when Gwen was with him. Now aging was merely a sad inevitability.

Evan reached into the left back pocket of his tattered jeans. He got out his cigarettes and lighter, but not before letting his fingers caress a poorly made patch. Gwen had made the patch by hand and sewn it on. It read, Property of Gwendolyn the Gourmand. Evan belonged to Gwen, and she to him. The patch was both a loving gesture and the remnants of another inside joke about one of her failed hobbies. Gwen had taken a cooking class, but managed to burn everything, even pasta.

A bittersweet smile still played on his face when he heard the back door open and then click shut behind him. He lit his cigarette and inhaled, then exhaled smoke as he uttered, Hello, Sarah.

She stood next to him, but he did not turn to face her. He preferred to stare at the tangle of overgrown lawn and remember the plans Gwen once had for it. A bucket filled with rancid rainwater still stood at the edge of the patio with a dirt-caked trowel beside it, both untouched since Gwen had left them.

Rain started to fall. Plink. Plink. Plink Gwen’s bucket sang. Between drops, Evan could hear Sarah breathing.

Evan. Sarah’s voice was calm and even. It was an acknowledgement, a greeting. Nothing more.

Plonk.

Evan took another drag from his cigarette and closed his eyes, silently willing the sisters away. They were Gwen’s sisters. Not his. As far as Evan was concerned there was no reason for them to call on him. Not after what they had done. Looking at Sarah, so young at 21, so like Gwen, was painful.

Evan, I’m sorry, but we really do have a reason to be here this time, Sarah started.

The door behind them swung open.

Trudy and I are leaving, Bethany’s harsh voice announced. Are you coming?

In his peripheral vision, Evan saw Sarah shake her head. Silver blond hair caught the light coming from within the cottage. Gwen’s hair had been like that.

Fine, Bethany said. Her voice cracked. You make sure you call us if you get uncomfortable. I don’t like leaving you alone with him, but Trudy’s feeling fragile.

Sarah sighed. Yes.

Evan could feel Bethany’s bovine eyes burning holes in the back of his neck. He snorted. Trudy was not fragile. Brittle was more like it.

The sound of the door slamming shut brought coolness, or it might have been the rain.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

The rain poured down harder, rushing against the leaves of the trees and drowning out the song of Gwen’s abandoned bucket.

Why didn’t you go with them?

There are things that need to be said.

What things? Evan spat.

It’s the will, Sarah said. Everything has been sorted.

Evan threw the unfinished cigarette into a cluster of wet weeds. He looked at Sarah full in the face for the first time, and through clenched teeth he said, You couldn’t send a lawyer?

He pulled the door open so hard that it crashed into the outer wall as he stomped back through the living room. Bits of dust swirled in his wake as he went to the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of whiskey then went to the living room again, landing on the leather couch with a muffled thud. Evan took a swig straight from the bottle.

Sarah came in and closed the door softly. She treaded so lightly as she approached that Evan wondered if she was gliding. He glanced at her feet. She had taken off her shoes. She wore black socks with the toes individually sewn like fingers for gloves. A banded rainbow circled the big toe of each foot. Evan blinked and took another swig. He and Gwen had bought those socks for Sarah one Christmas as a stocking stuffer.

Sarah’s placid brown eyes revealed nothing of her thoughts as she stood safely on the other side of the coffee table. He took another swig from the whiskey bottle and stared back at her, feeling some of his anger melt. Maybe Sarah had taken Trudy and Bethany’s side once, but at least she didn’t come over to hurl insults at him.

Well, then, Sarah said, extending her arm toward him. She opened her hand, palm up and nodded. Give.

Evan raised an eyebrow. No coffee?

You know I like my whiskey straight.

Evan shrugged and handed her the bottle. Sarah tipped it toward him. Cheers.

Sarah took a large swallow and passed the bottle back.

Might as well have a seat, Evan said.

Sarah smiled grimly and turned toward the wooden crate. She bent over and pulled it away from the wall, drawing it closer to the table, closer to Evan, but not too close.

You know she left you nearly everything, Sarah said.

I hear a but in there somewhere, Evan answered.

Sarah cleared her throat. I think I need another sip.

Evan passed the bottle back to her. She drank then returned it to him.

There were some small things, just stupid trinkets that she left to Trudy and Bethany and me.

Evan frowned. What difference does it make?

Sarah gestured around the room. Well, the thing is that you have them.

Evan drank from the bottle and passed it back to Sarah.

You have to unpack. It’s been a year, you know, she explained.

Evan frowned more deeply. I don’t want to unpack. Give me that bottle.

Sarah shrugged. Well, I guess that’s okay. As long as you don’t mind Trudy marching over here and tearing the place apart.

No. Not acceptable. No. Evan shook his head long after he had ceased to speak. He felt hot all over. The idea of Trudy in his home, in Gwen’s home, going through their things, sullying the space with her stiff presence and stinking it up with her sickly sweet perfume was as much a violation to him as the idea of someone vandalizing Gwen’s grave.

That’s what I thought. So if you want to keep her away, you need to unpack. You need to do it. I’ll help if you want, but you have to do it.

Evan growled, I’ll think about it.

Okay, Sarah said.

Evan already knew he would do what Sarah asked. She was different from the others. He barely knew her, but there was something about her, a kindness that he hadn’t been expecting.

Evan, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a very long time.

He took a swig from the bottle. Half-heartedly he said, What’s that?

I need you to look at me, Sarah said. Her voice was shaking.

Evan leaned forward to give her his full attention.

I never thought you did it. I never believed for one second that you pushed her.

All of his blood felt as though it was rushing to his brain, and he stopped breathing. His hands shook, and his eyes prickled like they were about to spill tears, though they remained dry. He’d already cried buckets that day and every day since Gwen had died. He waited, and the tears did not come. The feeling passed. He inhaled deeply and let out a long slow breath.

Sarah sat on the edge of her crate. She looked nervous, as if prepared to flee.

Oh. Right, Evan said. There was no more hostility left in him. He stood up with the bottle and walked unsteadily around the coffee table toward the kitchen. Sarah craned her neck to follow his wobbly movement. He paused at the archway between the living room and kitchen and turned his head slightly toward Sarah. Now that that’s out of the way, I think we should get properly pissed.

*****

When I woke up the day after Sarah’s birthday feast, it was in that hour just before dawn. The sun was not quite out, but there was already a cool blue-gray light in my and Evan’s borrowed bedroom. Blue-gray like film noir. It was Trudy’s house, which is to say it was our childhood home redecorated to her rigid specifications. All family photos tastefully framed and on display in the sitting room, but nowhere else. The décor was color coordinated down to the last tchotchke, as if to squash all signs of personality. We lived in the same town, close enough to walk, but this was a family gathering where everyone except Trudy and Sarah were planning to drink heavily, so we stayed even though it wasn’t necessary.

We were in the master bedroom, and it was like sleeping in a hotel room. Not warm and comfy, it felt transient and slightly used. Everything was a variation of beige. Of course, Evan and I made sure that the bed was properly rumpled. I had spilled coffee on it at the start of our visit, and then later, Evan and I left what the Marquis de Sade once so aptly called puddles of love. Our foreplay had consisted of Evan’s drunken confession that my younger sister Sarah had shoved her tongue down his throat when everyone else had already gone to bed. He said he felt guilty because he wasn’t sure he put up enough of a fight. I laughed. What else could I do? I knew my younger sister better than she thought I did. We were very much alike in some ways. I told my husband that I could not argue with her taste and convinced him that he should relieve himself of his pants.

I was full of energy and laughter and could not let Evan fall asleep after sex. No matter that he was fifteen years my senior and had too much to drink, I had to make him entertain me.

No rest for the wicked! I shouted in his ear.

He sat up so fast that we bumped heads. I laughed, and he groaned. Maybe I wanted him to suffer just a little for leaving himself wide open for my little sister to make her move. She’d been in love with him since the day I introduced him to the family. I knew it was just a matter of time.

Evan opened one eye and rubbed his forehead where we’d made contact. Seriously?

He sounded grumpy, but I know there was a smile hidden just behind that.

I want to go hiking.

He opened the other eye. Now? At this hour? There will be bears.

Bears are more afraid of us than we are of them. Up!

He muttered a swear word under his breath, and I smiled sweetly.

All right then, just let me brush my teeth.

I kissed him where his head seemed to hurt and whispered, I’ll make coffee the way you like it.

He smiled then and nuzzled my neck. Black and sweet?

Just like your heart, my love.

You’ve taken another bite, then? I wondered why my chest felt funny.

I ruffled his hair and crept downstairs, expecting to be alone.

Bethany stood near the coffee pot, frowning, her thick brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her sensible robe hung open to reveal her sensible nightgown. I knew she was not a morning person and considered that I was encountering my first bear.

Did you make coffee yet? I asked.

Bethany scowled. No.

I’ll do it, I said, reaching for the canister. She tried to beat me to it, but bears are slow when they first wake up. I won.

I hate the way you make it, she complained. So does Trudy.

I shrugged. So don’t drink it.

She shuffled to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water while I stared at the percolator, waiting, and she stared at me.

What? I said.

Evan kissed Sarah last night.

I sighed. Bethany, just because you have no sex life doesn’t mean—

They were slobbering all over each other! It was disgusting! He could be her father! He could be yours, too for that matter.

Don’t start with that again, Bethany. We’ve been married a year already.

We both heard footsteps on the stairs. Evan was on his way.

What about Sarah? Bethany hissed.

What about Sarah? Evan already told me.

Bethany looked surprised, and then suspicious, but thankfully she had no time to share any further thoughts on the subject. Evan had arrived.

Told you what, darling? he said, kissing me on the cheek.

About your torrid affair with Sarah, of course, I answered.

Oh, that, Evan said. Well, that’s old news. I’ve decided to move on to Lady Ferguson if my nymphomaniac of a wife doesn’t leave me too exhausted.

I love it when you talk British, I said, batting my eyelashes.

I always talk British, he answered. I had no comeback for that because it was true. His accent was one of the first things I noticed about him.

Bethany shook her head. I will never understand the two of you.

She retreated from the kitchen. Under my breath, I said, Good thing it isn’t your marriage, then.

Amen, said Evan. Come here, you insatiable yank, and give us a snog.

Of course I obliged. Had I known then it would be our last kiss, I might have lingered a bit longer.

We hastily filled our travel mugs and went out to experience the dawn. I was eager to stretch my legs. Something about the day made me feel like a kid who wants to run and laugh for no reason. I rushed Evan along the trail, though he complained of his hangover, of a sore back. He humored me when I ran ahead and then ran back to him, and then ran ahead again.

There was a bend in the trail near the top of a waterfall. I loved the sound of water rushing over the rocks. The birds were just waking up, full of life and songs both beautiful and irritating. A tree lay across the stream, just above the falls. It connected the path we were on to the other side. It looked sturdy to me. I crawled across it, looking for the centermost point above the waterfall, where I could sit and dangle my legs in the spray. I sat astride the tree at first, and then slowly maneuvered my way around to face the side where the water fell. I let my feet dangle, and the water sprinkled my legs. It was glorious, made more perfect only by the sight of Evan approaching me on the path. He grinned and shook his head. I waved. One of my shoes fell off, and I looked down, then the tree slipped an inch. I looked again, for Evan. His face was pale. He shouted something I couldn’t hear over the rushing water. Then I fell to the bottom of the falls and was gone.

Chapter 2

Sarah lay on the dusty, unfinished floor of her dead sister’s cottage talking to Gwen’s husband, who was very much alive. Evan’s position was the same, except that he faced her, so that his head was near her feet and vice-versa. Between them stood an ugly, oval coffee table with the stained-glass pieces welded together in no particular pattern. Gwen had made it in one of her extracurricular art classes. There were so many hobbies that Gwen had started and then abandoned that Sarah lost track of them all.

Classes were free for Gwen because of her position as an adjunct at the community college. She taught creative writing and tutored students in remedial English.

Sarah remembered asking Gwen if it had bothered her to teach when she had wanted to be a writer herself. Gwen had smiled in an enigmatic way and said, Ah, youth. You get older and you change your definition of success. Besides, I’m still in my twenties. Most of the great novelists are older than that. I make a decent living, and I have love.

Oooh! You have la-hove! Sarah replied. She had already decided that she loved what her older sister loved: Evan. She didn’t want to admit it, not even to herself. It all seemed so abstract. Love. The only response that felt safe was to poke fun.

Gwen sat up and looked at Sarah. I’m serious, Sarah. I’m going to marry that man. I used to think all that stuff about finding the love of your life was bullshit. It isn’t.

Sarah shifted her position on the floor, clinging to memories of Gwen and feeling guilty for so many things she should have and should not have done. The whiskey warmed her belly. She felt groggy, but did not want to sleep. Not yet. The air was too thick with memory.

Sarah reached toward Evan’s head with her foot, wiggling her toes. The friction of the toe-clinging sock fabric felt weird, on the verge of tickling.

Hey, she said. Her tongue felt swollen with liquor. You know if this table weren’t here it would be like we were about to sixty-nine.

Evan slapped her foot. Don’t be crass.

I’m twenty-one. I’m supposed to be crass, Sarah said, kicking again.

Evan grabbed her foot. His voice was soft when he spoke. You know I picked out these socks? Gwen had a pair, and I thought you’d fancy them.

He ran his thumb along Sarah’s instep. It felt warm and soothing. She didn’t want him to stop, so she didn’t say anything until he drew his hand away and placed it under his head.

I didn’t know that.

No. I suppose you wouldn’t.

He stared up at the ceiling, or at least, that’s what it seemed he was doing. It was hard to tell from her vantage point under the table. There was a hole in the bottom of Evan’s left sock. The skin looked vulnerable, exposed by the frayed black fabric. The edges of his jeans were torn and dirty like they’d been dragged through dirt.

We all have been dragged through the dirt this past year, Sarah thought.

Did you say something? Evan asked.

What? No. Did I?

Guess not.

Evan sat up. It seemed to take a long time, but then whiskey did things to Sarah’s powers of perception. Time moved differently. He sat cross-legged on the floor, forcing the heavy table toward her. The metal legs shook and bent slightly before it succumbed to force and jerked forward. The table approached, and Sarah had a vision of the metal twisting on its own, warping and bending into a set of snapping jaws.

She sat up then and shook her head.

Think I’m drunk, she said.

Evan was pouring another glass of whiskey. That was kind of the point. You want some more?

Sarah chewed on her lower lip, trying to reason her drunken self into getting a glass of water or drinking the cold coffee that waited on top of the table. Some if it had splashed on the serving tray and made weird brown puddles. The creamer didn’t smell right.

Yeah.

Evan poured. Amber fluid splashed over the rim of the shot glass. More puddles were added to the table. Sarah wondered if he was drunk enough for her to mention something else that had been gnawing at her. She felt drunk enough to mention it. She slammed the shot.

Evan nodded at the empty glass. Okay, you need to slow down.

Sarah reached for the bottle, poured herself a shot and slammed that one as well.

You are just as drunk as I am, Evan. She realized she sounded like a whiny child and immediately regretted saying it.

"I have