Hate You

By William Thrash

Young Sarah Jane Anderson can't believe the house she was hired to clean was… that one. Old, overgrown, and shunned, the interior of the house is another world.

Inside she meets the ailing lady Bethany Van Doren who is suffering from Parkinson's Disease. Sarah is given strict instructions to completely ignore the man upstairs. The house must be cleaned in preparation for sale before her death.

Upstairs, Sarah encounters Sebastian Van Doren, the well-dressed young man who does nothing but read books in the house's library. Bitter and accusatory, Sebastian forces her to respond to him.

Drawn to the man's presence, Sarah faces his hatred in a quest to discover the mystery behind the strange pair.

Abused by her step-father and step-brother, she is desperate for the money the job offers.

She has always been a doubter, and now she faces the consequences in a struggle against the truth.

She finds ignoring Sebastian not as easy as her simple instructions demand.

Why is he following her?

A gothic romance novella, 164 Standard Paperback pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Thrash
• Release date: Jan 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393734857

Book preview

––––––––CHAPTER 1

Sarah Jane Anderson screamed, What are you doing?

The kitchen was small, filthy, the sink piled with dishes no one wanted to wash except for Sarah, and bright with the late morning sunshine. Her step-brother stood with his back to her, head leaned back as he gulped down a 40 ounce beer. From between his legs under his stained boxers, a strong stream of urine coursed down, spattering the cabinets, his legs, and puddling on the floor around his bare feet.

The rank waft of marijuana stink assaulted her nose.

Luke Callens dropped the empty bottle into the sink with a crash and shattering clatter. He leaned forward, still urinating strongly, and let out a bestial belch of satisfaction. He turned his head, eyes bloodshot with pot and beer, and said, Fuck off.

You're pissing on the floor! Outrage and disgust made her want to vomit. She would have to clean it up and stand there, later...

Maybe much later.

He turned, swinging his still streaming dick towards her. His leer and sneer were dismissive. You were hogging the bathroom. Wanna help me drain it?

She spun, not wanting to see his private parts. At twenty-three, she was a good girl – still a virgin. She avoided the alcohol and pot that drew crowds of people to the house of her step-father. Her locked room was her sanctuary – the only safe space in the house.

She fled the kitchen, heading outside towards the shop and her step-father. The property was old and decrepit, storefront shop up front and tiny house in the back lot.

Sounds of grinding emanated from the open rear bay doors.

Misha, the German Shepherd, nudged her hand as she passed. Her tail wagged desultorily, the canine hoping for the kind of interaction her owners never gave her. She scratched behind her ears, pepping the neglected dog momentarily.

She stepped into the darkness of the shop and saw her step-father, Donny, grinding away on a fender.

He noticed her, stopped, and shifted back his goggles. Are you going to get food?

She had come out to complain about his son. Food? Again?

The refrigerator's empty. His tone was sharp and accusing.

I bought groceries two days ago—

Yeah, well, they're all gone now.

Why do I have to pay for all the people who come over to hang out and party?

He leaned towards her, face melting into a scowl. We all do our part, Sarah Jane. He said her name with a healthy dose of disdain and challenge; he knew she didn't want to sound like some backwoods girl and didn't like her second name thrown in with her first.

Well, your productive son is in the house, peeing all over the kitchen floor.

He grimaced at her with disgust. He wouldn't do that.

And standing in it. It's all over the cabinets—

He raised his voice in exasperation. Then clean it up.

Why don't you make him clean it up? He's the one doing it. She doubted he would ever make his precious son do anything of value.

Rage flooded his face. Don't give me lip, young woman. I'm doing you a favor letting you stay here. Fix that attitude real fast, understand me?

She twisted about and walked as steadily as she could out of the shop. Her fingers were curled into fists and held out away from her body, bent at the wrists. She thought glumly, Some favor you're doing me...

She stalked back into the house. Luke was in the bathroom, belching out great gusts of stale, steamy halitosis. She went straight to the couch he slept on and grabbed the dingy cushions. With a thrust of disgust, she tossed them down onto the kitchen floor to soak up his urine.

Let him sleep on that!

Grabbing her phone and locking her bedroom door, she left the house to go to work.

Work.

Her employment was nothing more than scullery at the Pizza Palace – washing dishes and mopping floors. She couldn't afford college and didn't qualify for scholarships. More and more of her income went to food as her step-family shifted their money to buying more and more pot and beer. It didn't help that all her step-family's friends knew it and mooched, either.

Sarah had made a vow long before that she would never touch marijuana, despite all the lofty promises and proverbs about its beneficial uses: her mother had died of brain cancer toking herself into a stupor every day and it hadn't helped.

No, drugs and alcohol were not for her. But her plans to save money beyond buying her used Volkswagen Jetta built years before she was even born had fizzled away with the ongoing parties. Her step-brother refused to get a steady job and the household had to be shouldered by her and her step-father.

God forbid he would ever demand his son start contributing.

Her dream of moving out onto her own was hampered by low income jobs that couldn't even begin to pay her way on her own.

She strapped on her smock and set her phone down as near as she could to the washing basin. The aroma of cooking crusts and spices made her stomach growl. She tapped into the Facebook Classifieds and scanned the recent postings. Sometimes, people needed things done. She could drive, clean, pull weeds, or any number of similar menial tasks for cash – the one thing she needed so desperately to break free of the Callens family.

The spray of hot water flashed hot across her hands as she rinsed utensils before putting them in the commercial dishwasher. The steam was soothing on her face, taking away the disappointment of finding nothing in the classifieds.

In truth, she doubted that she would ever find a job from which she could make a life. Doubt was a strong and durable friend to Sarah, and never failed her.

She was handling an aluminum tub used for chopped onions when she saw a notification bubble on Facebook. She leaned over, holding the basin, and scanned the popup.

Someone needed a maid for a couple of months with pay of $500 per week.

She dropped the bin from nerveless fingers as she frantically wiped at her smock to dry her fingers. The aluminum bin banged hollowly in the metal sink and bounced around in there with quite a racket. Using a wet, shaking hand, she tapped into the classifieds and found the ad. Stabbing down on the Reply button, she typed a mangled, misspelled reply: MMe

Then again, another attempt, this time more careful: I'm interested please pm me.

She picked up the bin under the scowl of her boss and finished rinsing it. She mumbled, Sorry.

He said, We pay you to wash dishes, not play on your phone all day. I don't see a phone, do I?

She swiped it into the pocket of her smock and said, No. Sorry.

He fumed and went back to the prep area.

She took out her phone as soon as his back was turned and checked for messages.

Nothing.

But she was the first one who had responded and just in those few seconds with her boss, three other people had piled into the ad. She tapped in and made another reply to her own post, Please. I'm a wonderful cleaner.

With nothing on her PM list, she went back to work. It wasn't until near the end of her shift that she checked again having already lost hope. This time, there was an exclamation point on her PM icon.

Excitedly, she set the mop against the wall and tapped in. The message was from the seller, directing her to appear in person... a half hour ago!

No! she wailed. She tapped frantically, Sorry, I was at work. I'm on my way, okay? She grabbed the mop and swung it at the floor in a burst of adrenaline. She finished before her evening shift replacement arrived. She punched out before her boss could tell her to wait for her relief. She'd get chewed out for it only if Bernie failed to show for work. He was usually on time. Flying out the back door, she stumbled into a light drizzle. Sometime during her shift, the sun had faded away behind dull gray clouds. Fumbling with the keys in her Jetta, she saw him arrive in the rear parking lot and stand in the drizzle puffing on the last of a cigarette.

Whew.

The address she had been given was on the far edge of town in the older district. Many of the houses here were too old to maintain and had been torn down for newer duplexes or converted to apartments. Light, silent splats of drizzle widened on her windshield evenly. Her windshield wipers sluiced them away easily, although the wipers scudded in protest at the end of each wipe. She drove slowly, recognizing the area and watching the addresses. However, she grew confused until the numbers finally got close. Number 412 didn't exist, unless...

She gaped in alarm and thought, No, not that house. No way.

But there was a house that showed 408, and then one without an address, and the next one was 416. On the curb in front of the house in between them was the remains of faded numbering, of which the only number visible was 2.

The four story house topped by a fifth story attic was a well talked about monument of neglect. Completely overgrown on the outside, the only path into the house was through a small tunnel of foliage. Dead branches and live vines consumed the fence and she briefly thanked God that she wasn't a postal delivery person who had to go in there every day to the mailbox.

Except that she had to go in there now.

Suddenly not wanting to take the job, she clutched at her phone and checked her PMs. Unfortunately, there was a message from the seller, a Bethany something-or-other, assenting to her delay.

Sarah groaned, hoping that possibly she wouldn't get hired anyway.  Nothing at this house could be worth $500 per week. Not the laugh of the town. Not this place.

She walked through the drizzle to the entry certain that she would simply turn heel and leave before entering the open gate. She stood there for a few seconds, staring at the front door just visible up on the porch. It was thick and heavy, the varnish having long ago peeled away and exposing the wood underneath.

At least the drizzle had lightened somewhat.

The door opened and Sarah felt her knees buckle in surprise. Should she run?

An older lady poked her head out, moving oddly, and fixed her with a steady eye. She gave a herky-jerky nod and beckoned to her. Caught at that point, she had no choice but to forge ahead. Already, she didn't want the job.

She passed through the tunnel of doom.

––––––––CHAPTER 2

Sarah took the damp stone steps with dismay. The house was too big, too old, too—

She caught a glimpse of the inside.

The old woman motioned again. Her voice wasn't frail, but it didn't carry much volume. Come.

Sarah entered into the cool interior of the decrepit house. Except it wasn't decrepit on the