The House of Dreams

By Shawna J Moore

Fifteen year old Jesse Fuller is forced to move from the big city into an old, abandoned house in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. To top it off, she is forced to share a room with her little brother! The first night, Jesse finds her sleep disturbed by strange and vivid dreams. She soon learns from the other kids in her class that the house she now lives in has a mysterious past.

First driven by curiosity, Jesse starts to dig deeper into its history, to understand why she is plagued by these dreams, and learns that her own family story may be tied up in it. Before long she finds herself on a desperate quest for a talisman that she believes will help her escape the dreams and forget what she knows about the house.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781462024209

Shawna J Moore

Shawna spent her childhood years on Vancouver Island, riding horses and picking blackberries. She taught high school Mathematics & Sciences throughout British Columbia and Alberta, reading and writing fiction in her spare time. Her experiences teaching inspired the setting and some character development for this book (although the story line is entirely fictional). Currently Shawna lives in central Alberta, working as a Registered Nurse. She spends her free time enjoying creative writing, live music, the outdoors, and time with her two sons & the man of her dreams.

Book preview

Prologue

July 1970

Liz Paterson shifted her weight from one foot to the other, brushing her bare arms with her hands. She was battling the mosquitoes as they repeatedly attempted to find a spot to feast. Even under the shade of the ancient oak tree, the heat was almost unbearable. The humidity made the air feel thick, and Liz seemed to struggle for every breath.

Her hazel eyes scanned the gravel road in both directions for any sign of Adrian. She wondered if he might have lost track of time, as unlikely as that would be for him. Maybe he was still helping his parents with feeding the cattle or baling hay in their nearby fields. She strained to listen for the deep, steady drone of a nearby tractor. Silence. No evidence to support her theory. She let out a disappointed sigh. But of course, nobody would be out in the fields today. No one else in their right mind would subject themselves to this heat.

Adrian had said it was important that she meet him east of town, at the oak tree behind the McNeal property, along Castor Road. He had said to be there at 2:00 p.m. sharp. She couldn’t come by his house, and he wouldn’t come to her house. He had said he had a special surprise for her and had teased her about being punctual too, since she was in the habit of entering a room a few minutes late. It was seldom anything drastic—she was usually only five or ten minutes late. Most events never started right on schedule anyway, she had always reasoned. Besides, she had heard it referred to as fashionably late, and nobody could discount her eye for fashion.

Adrian had always said that she could steal the attention of almost any crowd when she put on her patent leather shoes and a crinoline skirt. But on this occasion she had chosen khaki riding pants, black boots, and a short-sleeved beige blouse. Comfort beat out style when you were standing in the ditch of a dusty road.

Elizabeth slapped her forearm, and the remains of a thirsty mosquito fell to the ground. Next time, remember long sleeves, she mentally reprimanded herself.

Ginger, her horse, swished her cream-colored tail from one side to the other and then lifted her head and let out a whinny.

Yes, I know he’s late. This is very unlike him, leaving us stranded here, Liz responded, patting Ginger’s neck and then running her hand down the silky golden coat. I certainly hope this isn’t his idea of getting even for making him wait for me at the community dance last month. Liz stroked Ginger’s muzzle. The young Palomino mare tossed her head up a couple of times as if to agree with the woman, although her true motive was more likely to swish away the flies that were dancing around her temples.

Liz tried to imagine what big secret or surprise awaited her. What was it that Adrian had to see her about, today of all days? Why did they have to meet away from town? She knew what she was hoping for—a ring, his promise of wedding vows and of a life together. It seemed almost to be fate that just yesterday she too had been given wonderful news. It was news that she wanted to share right away with Adrian. And so she had a very special surprise for him too. She ran her hand across her belly and smiled, hoping he would be as excited as she was.

A rumbling sound caught her attention. A cloud of dust rose along the horizon, and moments later, a black Cadillac advanced over the hill. She knew it wasn’t Adrian. Turning to her horse, she shaded her face from the plume of dust that bellowed as the car passed. A moment later, the brakes gave a soft squeal. A man emerged from the car and began walking back, toward Liz. She suddenly felt her face flush and her heart rate increase. Somebody was coming toward her. Quickly she untied Ginger from the fencepost, and was about to leap into the saddle when she heard a familiar voice call her name.

Miss Paterson? His pace quickened. I am sorry to startle you.

She turned to find Dr. McDougall, the town’s physician.

Doctor. Oh gosh, I’m sorry, Elizabeth said with a sheepish smile. I didn’t really look to see who it was. You startled me!

George McDougall smoothed out the sides of his neatly groomed auburn hair. He was a tall, lean, handsome man. If Liz were to guess, she’d say he was in his early thirties. Wearing dark suit pants, a white shirt and tie, and a white smock with a stethoscope poking out of the pocket, he was evidently on his way to town for a house call.

Ma’am, I … uh. He seemed to be struggling to find the right words. There has been an accident in town, and well, I know you will hear about it soon enough, but when I saw you out here, I thought you should know …

An accident? What kind of accident? Was anybody hurt?

Well, a construction site … and I’m afraid it is very serious.

Then shouldn’t you be hurrying off? Why are you wasting time here? Her tone was almost annoyed.

Ma’am, there is nothing I can do. It’s more of a courtesy that I be there before the coroner, to pronounce him … His voice trailed off.

Look, you can call me Elizabeth, or Liz. Then she had a flicker of concern. Why would the doctor feel compelled to stop and tell her? Doctor?

Ma’am, he replied.

Do I know the man involved? The worst possible images were fighting their way into her mind. Adrian was never late for anything. Never. Her lip began to quiver, and her nose and eyes burned before the doctor even began to speak.

I’m sorry, ma’am … Miss Pater … um, Elizabeth. I’m afraid you do. A moment of silence passed before he continued. It was Mr. Striker. Adrian Striker. I’m sorry. I know you two were really close.

Elizabeth shook her head violently. "No! Her knees buckled, and she grabbed for the doctor’s shoulders for support. No … no …" She clung to him and soaked his collar with tears.

Dr. McDougall placed his hands gently on the small of her back.

Elizabeth slowly pulled away, tossing her long, wavy strands of dirty blonde hair back behind her shoulders and wiping her cheeks. Her eyelids were swollen and red.

Can I give you a ride home? the doctor suggested as he offered her a handkerchief.

No, she declined. I have to get my horse back to the ranch somehow, so I will just ride back. She dabbed the corners of her eyes and passed the handkerchief back to the man. I will be okay. Thank you for the offer. And thanks for stopping.

To be honest, she wasn’t sure if she would be okay. And she wasn’t totally thankful that he had stopped. She really could have gone without the news for the time being. But then again, what if Dr. McDougall hadn’t come down this road? If he had not stopped and told her, she might have sat there waiting by the side of the road for hours before she headed home. And she would have been enraged at Adrian for standing her up. She would not have wanted that to be her last emotion toward him.

But she would have endured hours of heat and insect bites if it would have ended in Adrian’s safe arrival. His death had not sunk in yet. It seemed like something from a dream. She could not yet fathom that every day of her life, from that day forward, would be void of him.

Ginger stood patiently as Liz placed one foot in the stirrup. She grabbed the reins and saddle horn with one hand and the back of the seat with the other, pulling herself wearily up and into the saddle. Her head throbbed. She felt faint. It would take all of her energy to hold herself in place. Making a clicking sound with her tongue, Liz tapped Ginger’s belly gently with her heels and began the journey home.

Chapter 1

September 2009

The U-Haul truck’s brakes made a screech, and the hydraulics let out a sigh as Jesse’s dad stopped before the family’s new home. Okay, kids. Here we are, he called out with excitement.

Jesse poked her nose out from behind a CSI novel, turned nonchalantly toward their new house, and then did a double-take. She sprang forward, pasting her face against the truck window with her mouth agape. It had to be a horrible dream, a scene from some cheesy Goosebumps rerun. Dad had mentioned that Dewberry would be a small town. He had failed to mention the population was about two dozen, give or take. And he had said the house was a little older, but he had insisted it was very cozy. A little older? she thought. He must have deliberately kept his descriptions vague! Otherwise, he never would have succeeded in dragging her or her mother from the clean, manicured neighborhoods of the big city!

This house must have been built in the previous century, she decided. It was two stories high and looked like a gingerbread house with its gabled windows and dark-stained shutters and trim. The large front lawn had been taken over by dandelions and crabgrass. You could barely make out a cobblestone walkway that meandered up to the front porch, which was in desperate need of paint and sagging in the middle. On one side was a weeping birch tree whose long thin branches dangled to the ground. She could imagine what a perfect setting this would be for a horror film. All they needed was the low light of late evening and a subtle fog hanging in the air.

Jesse lowered her eyes, running her fingers through her thick, tangled mess of shoulder-length chestnut hair. She firmly nudged her ten-year-old baby brother, her junior by five years, who was comfortably snoozing in the seat next to her. Wake up, Jacob Two Two. This had become her nickname for him years before, when his annoying habit of repeating himself had conjured up the image of one of Jesse’s favorite childhood story characters. But Jake had grown out of whining, "Please, Mom. Oh Mom, please!" every time they passed a coin-operated airplane or horse ride in the middle of the mall. Despite this fact, and perhaps partly because Jake hated it and Mom disapproved of it, Jesse still used the nickname.

Jake mumbled and rubbed his eyes. As Jesse suspected, her brother didn’t even react to the mortifying sight before them. She was convinced that he was totally oblivious to the world around him. Jake would probably be happy living on a dirt pile! And, Jesse thought with a smirk, she would be happy if he would go live on a dirt pile.

Jesse opened the door. Tugging Jake’s sleeve as he stumbled out of the truck, she allowed him to lead the way, taking exaggerated steps so that her toes clipped the heel of his shoes.

Buzz off! Jake shouted as he turned and scowled. Mommm! He ran to catch up with their parents.

When her mom turned to look back, Jesse shrugged her shoulders in feigned disbelief. What? I don’t know what he’s crying about. She continued up the walk and then up the creaky steps to the front door. The front door was adorned with an oval stained glass window that could have been beautiful if only there hadn’t been a tattered gray rag stuffed into a gaping hole in the center. She was pleased to see the front door was modern enough that it didn’t require the use of a skeleton key.

Once they entered, Jesse decided that the inside was a bit more bearable. The front entrance ceiling was open right to the second floor of the house. A low-hanging, elaborate chandelier tossed splashes of light across the walls. Large arched entranceways opened into what seemed like two living rooms, one on either side. A banistered staircase stretched out before her. All the floors were hardwood.

The air was stale, with the faint odor of mold or something unpleasant. Like the yard, this house had probably been unkept for months. Jesse’s mother headed toward the windows in the living room to let some fresh air through the house. The windows were made up of two panes of glass, and she opened them by sliding the lower pane upward. They didn’t seem to stay open by themselves; her mom had to prop each one open with a stick that she found resting on the window ledge.

The family followed single file, through the living room and into the kitchen, which spanned the full width of the house. A big bay window looked out onto the backyard. It was much larger than their yard in Calgary, Jesse noticed, but it was outlined by a ragged, once-white picket fence. And the lawn was consumed by thistles, some of which were as tall as the fence which contained them.

Jesse’s mom seemed pleased with all the cupboard and counter space. Jesse’s attention had been caught instead by the bright turquoise fridge that periodically let out clanking and squealing noises.

Ah, Mom, I don’t think this thing’s gonna last too long, she commented.

Oh, Jesse, her mother replied, forget about that. Let’s finish the tour. She led them through another arched entranceway and into the other big room, with a small, tacky chandelier hanging dead-center. It had six narrow cylinders that were supposed to look like candle sticks. Six teardrop-shaped light bulbs sat on top, as if they were the candles’ flames. Two flames were burnt out.

Why do we need two living rooms? Jesse asked, in a slightly sarcastic tone.

Honey, this isn’t a living room. This is a dining room, her father responded.

Are you kidding? How would anyone fill this room with a kitchen table?

We probably wouldn’t. There’s room for our table in the kitchen, he said. For now, though, this is the perfect place to unload all the boxes. We can unpack and sort, without having to trip over everything. Jesse’s mom nodded in agreement.

They had done the complete loop, and now they were back by the front entrance. The family worked their way up the stairs toward