The Road Between

By Stacy Keenan

Abby is excited to spend fall in her favorite New England town. What could be better than glowing jack o’ lanterns, warm apple cider and the upcoming Halloween Carnival weekend? Why, meeting Nathan, of course. Abby is soon enchanted by her mysterious neighbor. Even more so, when Nathan embraces her passion for all things scary. Witches, zombies. . . and especially, vampires. Can Abby’s love lure Nathan out of the shadows, back into the realm of the living?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9780359119523

Book preview

The Road Between

The Road Between

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by Stacy Keenan

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2018

ISBN 978-0-359-11952-3

Published by:

Stacy Keenan

www.greyghostnh.com

Distributed by:

Lulu Press, Inc.

627 Davis Drive, Suite 300,

Morrisville, NC 27560

Dedication

To those who love Halloween and all things scary.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my editor, Nancy Grossman, and my cousin,

Kelly Boland. Without your help and support, this book would not be a reality.

Contents

Arrival

I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like, had I not accepted my Aunt Sarah’s offer. At the time, the thought never crossed my mind. I get to trade my tiny city apartment for a huge, beautiful home? And spend fall and winter in one of my favorite places? It was a no-brainer.

My Aunt Sarah’s a historian. She’s written several books about local New England history and was currently working on another. She was traveling down south for the winter to conduct some of her research and asked me if I could house-sit until she returned. I’m the only family member who knows how to care for horses.

So, in the weary heat of a late September afternoon, I finished packing my Volkswagen to the roof with the contents of my studio space. Mallory, my scruffy dog, crumpled herself into the front seat and sighed.

I pulled away from the curb and headed north, out of Boston. Our destination: Chestnut Hill, Vermont, the small New England town where I’d spent most of my summer school vacations. I couldn’t wait to visit my aunt and stay in that magical old house again.

~~~

We traveled west on Route 2, to Interstate 91 north. Along the way, the highway narrowed from three lanes to two. Trees replaced the urban sprawl, and traffic thinned. I soon exited the familiar off-ramp in Vermont. Mallory poked her head up to look around, then sighed and went back to sleep. I patted her soft ears, then turned left at the stop sign.

The fall-tinged trees stood close to the road’s edge. Houses and cars appeared less frequently. Old stone walls still divided much of the open landscape, between the stretches of woods. Little had changed.

A few more miles and a few more turns, I finally spotted the house.

Its peaked roofs and tall windows were stark, outlined against the dull gold field behind it. It was painted in earthy colors, ecru complimented by a sepia tone that accented all of the ornate Victorian woodwork. A low walkway and porch connected the living space to the garage-converted carriage house. Underneath the carriage house, the basement barn housed Castor and Pollux: Aunt Sarah’s mammoth, jet-black Percheron horses.

I pulled into the driveway and parked, glad to get out and stretch. Mallory jumped across my seat, eager to be out of the car. She shook her scruffy, sooty fur and ran over to sniff the massive maple tree in the front yard.

My aunt came outside to greet us. You’re early! It’s so great to see you, Abby, she said. She hugged me tightly; I caught a slight hint of wood smoke and apples. Her graying auburn hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. She wore her usual plaid work shirt and khaki pants. Her green eyes were bright, happy to see us.

The traffic wasn’t bad at all. We made good time, I said, ruffling Mallory’s ears.

"Oh, and who is this?" my aunt exclaimed. She bent down to formally greet Mallory, who was circling around in excitement.

This is Mallory. She’s the rescue dog I told you about, I said.

Mallory was a wiry-haired, mid-sized, non-descript mix with bright eyes and a happy-go-lucky personality. A real gem. With her plain exterior, she’d been overlooked at the shelter. Thankfully, I adopted her just in time. Or she adopted me, as I liked to say.

She’s lovely. What a good girl, Aunt Sarah said. Mallory enthusiastically agreed, her shaggy tail whipping side to side. Why don’t you both come in? We can eat now and tackle unloading your car afterward.

Mallory ran up the wide granite stairs and waited for us at the door. We entered the low-ceilinged walkway that served as a porch, mudroom and work area. The smells were just as I remembered: lumber, wood smoke, the earthy smell of dirt from my aunt’s potting bench. It already felt good to be back.

Inside, hung on the walls, were framed prints of what the town looked like back in the mid-1800s, when the house was built. Aunt Sarah could tell you the name of every family member who’d ever occupied the home, what they did for a living, how many children they’d had.

As a young girl, I remember staring at the unsmiling faces and wondering aloud if anyone was happy then. Aunt Sarah had laughed and explained that old photographs took a long time to expose. Holding a smile for that long was hard to do. I always hated the posed, fake-smile annual school photo sessions so I could relate.

We walked past a few of the old stoic portraits into the spacious, homey kitchen. Aunt Sarah had restored it based on original photos: tall glass-fronted cabinet doors, a beadboard chair rail, a soapstone sink. The small pantry off to the side always smelled of spices and held rows of canned goods, flour, and other staples.

The stove was an ornately scrolled, modernized Victorian replica, still warm from baking fresh anadama bread.

~~~

Aunt Sarah had made a hearty beef stew for dinner. Mallory visibly appreciated the few spoonfuls of gravy dolloped on her dry food. She licked her bowl halfway across the kitchen.

I’m so glad you’re able to do this, Abby, Aunt Sarah said between bites. I feel so much more comfortable leaving, knowing you’ll be here looking after the horses.

No problem, Aunt Sarah. You know I love it here! Definitely beats spending another winter cooped up in my tiny apartment. How’s the research project going? I asked. I crammed a hot, buttery piece of bread in my hungry mouth. Mmmm.

Great, Aunt Sarah said. Once I trace the detailed history of the shipwrights that moved to South Carolina, I’ll be finished with the research portion. She sighed. When I’m back next spring, I’ll start writing. That part of the process is more tedious than the research. I’m glad, however, that I’ll be getting out of here before winter sets in. She winked at me. The older I get, the less tolerance I have for the cold. The snow’s pretty to look at, but I dread going out in it unless I’m bundled to the gills.

Aunt Sarah also knitted; I’d never known her to be without a collection of winter hats, mittens, scarves and sweaters. I was often the recipient of a new matching set at Christmastime. Her tasteful ensembles were usually earth-toned, which either downplayed or accented my dark auburn hair and hazel eyes.

After we finished dinner and cleaned up in the kitchen, Aunt Sarah and I started unloading boxes from my car into the walkway.

Do you want to set up your computer and drafting table in the study? she shouted around the tower of boxes she was carrying onto the porch.

If I could, that’d be great, I yelled back. I was trying to wrangle the table out of the back of my car. Once I heaved it onto the porch, I grabbed my suitcases and headed in the direction of the front stairs.

My room was on the second floor. I ran my hand along the top of the broad, sweeping handrail leading to the open upper hallway, as I had hundreds of times before. Following it to the landing, I walked down the hall to the first door on the right. It was a corner room, rounding out into a turret; the study contained the bottom half, below. In both places, bench seats ran below the curved windows.

I smiled; it was like walking into a time capsule. My bed was underneath an angled ceiling, the stairwell that led to the attic. A collection of vintage horror movie posters lined the walls of the room. The bookshelf still contained my favorite classic tales, like Dracula, Frankenstein, the works of Edgar Allen Poe. Detailed monster models decorated the antique maple bureau.

~~~

When I was young, I wasn’t into playing princess, having tea parties or dressing Barbie dolls. I loved monsters. I’d imagine being Frankenstein’s monster, locked in the tower, as the angry torch-carrying villagers stormed the gate. Or, I’d pretend to be the evil witch from The Wizard of Oz, releasing my flying monkey servants to do my bidding. When I was a teen, I had a slight crush on Christopher Lee as Count Dracula.

My aunt humored my horror obsession by participating in the town’s annual three-day Halloween carnival. It was my most favorite time of year to visit. My father wrote a note to school, excusing me a day early.

We decorated the porch with homemade scarecrows and set up a cemetery on the front lawn. The downstairs of the house was also fully adorned. Jack-o’-lanterns, prepared in the kitchen, lined the walkway. Aunt Sarah always roasted the pumpkin seeds in the oven, as a snack for me to take back home.

There was an open house event on Friday night. Parents and children alike were invited inside for Aunt Sarah’s cupcakes and punch. Aunt Sarah always dressed as a witch. I’d sit in costume on the porch, or hide under a pile of leaves, waiting to scare the unsuspecting trick-or-treaters. The town council would tour the homes and give an award to the best one. There were more than a few trophies on the shelf in my room.

~~~

Looking around my room, I realized how much I looked forward to the carnival and sweater weather. Being here full time, I could thoroughly enjoy the season with its fall foliage, apple picking, hot cider and jack-o’-lantern carving.

It wouldn’t be the same without Aunt Sarah—aka, The Witch of East Wickes—not being here for Halloween. But, considering my line of work, I felt more than qualified to carry on the Wickes Halloween tradition.

Departure

The next morning, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and cinnamon rolls lured me downstairs, Mallory in tow. Not a morning person, I made an exception. Aunt Sarah, knowing this, handed me a cup of coffee as I crossed into the kitchen.

I’m packed and ready to go, Aunt Sarah said, also handing me a hot, sticky roll on a plate. I’ll need to head out by 11:00 AM to make my flight. We can go over the small details after you’ve had a chance to wake up. She winked at me.

Mmmm . . . so yummy! I said, between gooey bites. I let Mallory out the back walkway door. There was a small, fenced-in yard behind the house. I usually eat yogurt. That’s about it.

Well, at least it’s good for you. I usually have granola for breakfast, but with you here, that just wouldn’t do. Aunt Sarah smiled, wearing big oven mitts. She pulled out a second hot tray from the large oven.

My next bite was interrupted by a commotion in the backyard. Mallory was yelping and crying, as if something were wrong. I ran to let her in, a dark grey streak who hid under the kitchen table. On the threshold appeared a large black cat, looking quite satisfied.

Oh, that’s Salem. He usually stays out in the barn. Salem, that wasn’t very nice, she scolded. Salem, a large tom, glanced sideways at my aunt and began licking a front paw. Mallory came out from under the table but kept her distance.

It’s okay, girl, it’s just a cat, I said, picking him up. His yellow eyes slanted in annoyance, but he was soon purring in my lap. Mallory cautiously sniffed the non-pointy end and decided he wasn’t so scary, up close.

Wow. I’m surprised Salem let you pick him up. You must be the cat whisperer, my aunt said.

"He’s a black cat. How could he not love me?" I replied.

For me, it was Halloween every day.

I had a dream career, as a graphic designer in the horror industry.

~~~

My college freshman roommate, Julia, majored in filmmaking. Whether by fate or happenstance, she was also into horror movies. We instantly hit it off and became the best of friends. I often helped her with her film work, doing makeup or cast as an extra.

Her senior project was a remake of Night of the Living Dead, one of my all-time classic favorites. She won a few awards the following year at several independent film festivals. Thus, her career as an up-and-coming director took off. She looked to me to help design movie posters, DVD packaging, masks, and toys.

Other movie colleagues of hers hired me to do the same. Next thing I know, I’m working full-time. I couldn’t imagine doing anything I loved more. All I needed was my drawing table, art supplies, and my Mac.

~~~

After picking up the breakfast dishes, we went over the details: a list of neighbors’ names and numbers, the name, address, and number of the friend my aunt would be staying with, the location of fuse boxes, well pump switches, etc. And, where the Halloween supplies were (which, in my opinion, was the most important detail). After many hugs and numerous thank-you’s, Aunt Sarah started her ancient Volvo wagon.

I’ll call you when I get there, Aunt Sarah hollered out her car window, before pulling out of the driveway. Should be around suppertime. Love you, Abby. And you too, Mallory. Mallory wagged her tail.

Sounds great! Have a safe flight. Love you, too, I hollered back. I waved goodbye to my aunt, watching her drive out the way I had come.

~~~

What now, Mallory? I questioned down to her. It was Sunday, and I wasn’t eager to dive into unpacking boxes quite yet. Want to go for a walk? She looked at me for a second before bouncing around the yard in excitement. Okay, okay, let me go change, and we can go, I said, laughing.

The house seemed so still, now that Aunt Sarah was gone. I could hear every floorboard settling as I walked back upstairs. Mallory beat me to the landing, tongue hanging out. In the city, she could only run around free at the dog park, so for her, this was a big treat.

I changed out of my robe and pajamas and pulled on some old jeans, a tee, and a flannel shirt. I splashed water on my face and pulled my unruly hair into a messy ponytail. We went out the back door towards the barn gate. I wanted to visit Castor and Pollux, before heading out across the pasture.

Mallory nearly backpedaled when she spied the massive horses. It’s okay, girl, they won’t hurt you. She crouched and tentatively sniffed when Pollux dropped his huge head to examine her. Castor nickered at me from behind Pollux. Hi, boys . . . long time, no see, I greeted them.

They hadn’t forgotten that I usually brought them treats; Pollux was actively frisking my pockets. I pulled out a couple of carrots and held them out. Their velvety noses brushed my fingers as they gently took them from my hands.

I patted both horses farewell and trekked across the field. Mallory zigzagged around me, taking in all the new smells. It was still seasonably warm. The clean air was spiced with fall aromas: downed leaves, dry grass, and wood smoke. We headed to the back corner of the field and ducked under the fence. I stood, and we started down the old road that led into the woods.

Mallory bounded ahead. She looked back occasionally, to check on me. The road was one lane wide and crowned in the center. It was also littered with the bald heads of rocks that poked to the surface of the well-worn path.

In New England, there’s no shortage of rocks and boulders. The harsh winters continually work them up to the surface. My aunt and I would spend a day or two picking them out of the field each summer.

I watched my footing, admiring the fiery fall coloring that stained the trees around us. Mallory paused, where the road entered a clearing.

This was a forgotten cemetery; the woods had grown up around it, over the years. Old slate headstones poked out of the ground like crooked teeth. A low stonewall meandered around the perimeter, sections of the broken iron fencing jutting out. Aunt Sarah knew the history of many of the families buried here. The most recent headstones dated from the late 1800s.

What always impressed me was the large crypt in the center. Its stout granite corner pillars cradled the blocks together to form a squat rectangle. A slate roof capped the structure, and a weathered stone gargoyle sat watch over the iron door entrance.

I’m sure these families never imagined their final resting place would be lost in time. In