Dweller on the Threshold

By Skyla Dawn Cameron

Amidst the 2020 pandemic, Norah Sloane has been sheltering in place with her ex-boyfriend—the equivalent of three toddlers in a trench coat pretending to be an adult—who abruptly informs her he thinks she needs to move out. Coincidentally, her estranged father has just died and left his family's home to her, and in a fit of defiant frustration, she packs her bags, her cats, and all the toilet paper, and drives five hours north to the tiny village of Hope Falls to claim her inheritance.

 

Selling the big old house during a global pandemic is out of the question, but the bills are paid for a few months to give her time to get on her feet. It's the best solution, all things considered.

 

So what if it's haunted?

 

(Nothing bad happens to the cats.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skyla Dawn Cameron
• Release date: Apr 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781927966488

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Dweller on the Threshold

A Novel

Skyla Dawn Cameron

Dweller on the Threshold

Copyright © 2022 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Cover Art © 2022 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

First Edition April 2022

D2D Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-927966-48-8

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-927966-49-5

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-927966-50-1

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

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

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Dweller on the Threshold

A Novel

Skyla Dawn Cameron

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Amidst the 2020 pandemic, Norah Sloane has been sheltering in place with her ex-boyfriend—the equivalent of three toddlers in a trench coat pretending to be an adult—who abruptly informs her he thinks she needs to move out. Coincidentally, her estranged father has just died and left his family’s home to her, and in a fit of defiant frustration, she packs her bags, her cats, and all the toilet paper, and drives five hours north to the tiny village of Hope Falls to claim her inheritance.

Selling the big, partially renovated old house during a global pandemic is out of the question, but the bills are paid for a few months to give her time to get on her feet. It’s the best solution, all things considered.

So what if it’s haunted?

For a list of content/trigger warnings if needed, head here.

For the real Spencer and Burton.

Everyone misses you, Gus, but no one more than your mum and Shawnie.

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"We ask only to be reassured

About the noises in the cellar

And the window that should not have been open."

—T.S. Eliot

I. Fuck You, Greg

June 2020

It’s In My Name

I found out my father died the day I also discovered I had nowhere to live.

During a global pandemic.

It’s just not working, you still living here.

I stared at Greg—at his dark eyes blinking dully at me, his nonchalant expression to match the relaxed tone he used to deliver that tidbit, the smoothness of his posture that never betrayed anything but a cool carelessness. I’d been attracted to that at first; it had been a sharp contrast to my earlier, year-long marriage back when I was nineteen, a tumultuous experience that had taught me escaping my father’s orbit was only half the battle towards being safe and had left me scarred for a few years before dating seriously again. When I was in my late twenties, Greg had seemed easier by comparison, that calm coolness secure and reassuring.

Seven years together and I’d eventually put together the fact that this whole persona of indifference and calmness was a coping mechanism. It let him avoid arguments. It let him off the hook for seeming like the bad guy. It left most people doubting their own feelings because why were they so angry when things clearly weren’t a big deal? Greg was cool! Everything’s cool! Just gonna stuff those feelings under the rug now.

Greg was not cool. Greg was an asshole.

Domestic violence is a bad thing, but I still wanted to punch him.

I sat at my desk, which was shoved in the corner of the dining room because it was the least obtrusive workspace since he’d taken over the real office in our townhouse at the start of the pandemic.

Which was three weeks after we’d decided we needed to split up—amicably, mostly, though I wondered about that now given I’d realized how fucking not cool Greg actually is and thought his calm demeanor and seeming agreeableness submerged my own hurt and frustrations. Then, surprise, there was a deadly virus killing everyone and we had to shelter in place. Bad time to move out. Surely we could get along for a few more months, though, right?

No, we apparently couldn’t.

Seriously, fuck Greg.

I hated that I was sitting because he stood by the desk and therefore towered over me; normally our heights were pretty close.

This meant punching his face was out of the question, but I could still hit his balls.

A stack of mail was sprawled across the edge of the old oak desk—neither of us had picked it up in a couple of weeks—and I still held the letter from the lawyer in my right hand. I lifted it. My father died.

Greg’s thick dark brows pulled tight over his eyes, a rare expression of confusion from Mr. Cool. Huh?

My father died, I repeated.

I didn’t know you had a father.

Which was the stupidest fucking thing to say, but then my dad was an abusive asshole who I hadn’t seen in at least fifteen years, so it wasn’t like I advertised him. Well, I did, and he’s dead now.

Greg didn’t scan the rest of the mail sitting there, or the chunk of papers that came with the lawyer’s letter—the scans of Dad’s will pertaining to me and my inheritance. Which was not a huge sum of cash, hence me sitting there frowning at the letter for several minutes instead of celebrating before Greg strolled over and interrupted my thoughts with his announcement.

Speaking of, since I apparently wasn’t getting any sympathy over being an orphan: What are you talking about ‘it’s not working’? I mean, obviously, if it were ‘working’, we wouldn’t be separating, but we’re civil. Considering Greg never argued, I mean, we managed to be pleasant enough with one another. Sleeping arrangements were awkward with only one bed but I stayed up late while he got up early, so we were rarely in it for long at the same time.

"I mean we’re still living together like we’re together, he said, explaining it with a little smile and gentle voice like he was letting a child down easy. But we’re not. I think we have to start separating our lives."

I blinked at him. There’s a pandemic. We’re supposed to be sheltering in place.

"I think that’s making it even harder? Because we can’t leave, we can’t hang out with other people, it’s just...it’s just us."

I set down the lawyer’s letter. Really, the fact that I couldn’t even mourn my father, like if I wanted to—which I didn’t, but Greg didn’t know that—and had to have this conversation right fucking now was absolutely surreal, left my brain a little spinny.

I gaped at him.

He did that annoying nonchalant blinking thing again.

I deposited all of my last royalties cheque in our joint account. I don’t get another one until October. And those had been depressingly little. And freelancing is sparse right now. Where the hell would I get first and last month’s rent when I’ve been putting everything toward paying bills here?

You’ve got savings.

Savings that went into the goddamn townhouse. He knew that—we’d had a whole conversation about it just as lockdown started. Not anymore, as you are well aware. You want me gone? Fine. Buy out my equity in the house if you want to remain here and have me leave.

His face scrunched up again. Confusion on him looked like he was smelling something bad. Or constipated. The house is in my name.

A fact which I had never stopped regretting. The idea was that his steady salaried position looked better for getting a mortgage than my unpredictable freelance one; I’d still invested every penny I had in monthly bills, however.

And it’s not like we’re married, he continued.

We’ve lived here for three years. Cohabitated two years before that. In the eyes of the law, that’s married. We split fifty-fifty.

That’s silly when the house is in my name. Besides, that means I get half your royalties going forward.

"That is not what it means."

He shrugged, that placating smile returning to his smug face. I invested in your career and supported you.

Uh, no, I wrote those books while we were still dating.

But they came out when we were living together.

Of course his eyes used to glaze over many moons ago when I’d tried to explain publishing to him—he was one of those people who thought a novel sprang fully formed on the shelves at a bookstore like Venus in a hardback clamshell.

Housewives get compensation like that all the time, for supporting their husbands, he continued.

My fingers coiled and I realized I was, most certainly, going to punch him in the balls, even though I knew he’d get some kind of restraining order and somehow become friends with all the cops he encountered in the process (because he was Cool Greg, after all).

I’m going back to try to work, he announced, taking a few steps backward as if his testicles knew the inherent danger of being in melee range right now. It’s been hard. If you could keep it down.

Off he trundled for the stairs to the upper floor while I stared. His plaid pajama bottoms dragged under his heels as he went; atop them he sported a crisp white button-down and tie, so he must’ve had a meeting on Zoom. I didn’t know why he bothered even with that attempt at being businessy; everyone at work would just laugh if he showed up in a ratty terrycloth robe. That’s so Greg! OMG what a guy!

There was...something brewing in me. Anger, probably. Or closer to rage. A fury of hot sharp tears behind my eyes. A scream building and bubbling in my throat, digging in with claws.

But shock from the letter in the mail—and that conversation—seemed to dull it, to wrap me in a layer of cotton that softened the anger into something out there that I didn’t have to deal with right now.

I leaned back and my office chair creaked, spun a little. My gaze settled on the lawyer’s hastily scrawled signature.

My dad left me a house.

Not our family home—we’d rented for as long as I could remember—but his family home, where his parents had lived. I had vague flashes of memory of visiting them when I was very, very young, but I didn’t know how much of that was filled in with books and movies about children visiting grandparents in old century homes. I supposed Dad had inherited the house at some point.

Now it was mine.

And I needed a place to live, apparently. Or that I could sell.

This is bullshit. Greg should give you half the fucking house.

Did that mean lawyers? Could I...sell Dad’s house to then afford some family law specialist? If that would work, I’d do it, too. Spend a small fortune to get my fucking equity in our house. Just to be spiteful.

The sheer fact that he’d seemed to already have an argument prepared against it, however, had me wondering if he could be just as spiteful as well. Could Greg pull some bullshit about my inheritance being half his too? The letter was dated over a month ago. We were broken up by then but we cohabitated all this time. Not like I’d documented on a calendar somewhere the precise date we decided to end it, but he could easily argue we’d been together all this time. And everyone would believe him because he was so fucking calm and I’d fly off the handle in frustration by comparison because I felt crazy (that, folks, is what we call gaslighting—or would if he did it intentionally, which he very well might).

At least with the shock keeping everything else at bay, a cool calmness enveloped me. It settled in my veins. It eased my swirling thoughts. It was simple and logical and that in itself was very seductive in that moment.

It said to me: Okay.

Okay. This is how it is. And here is the solution in your lap.

Let’s try being Cool Norah for a little while. Wrap this Cool Norah persona around you like a sweater in the storm and see how it fits. See if it keeps you dry and warm.

If it doesn’t work, you can pull it off and strangle Greg with it.

First, I pulled out my cell phone, logged into banking, and checked our accounts.

The last few freelance copywriting jobs I’d taken dried up two months into lockdown, so my royalty cheque went into our joint account instead of my own. I had a little less than two hundred in my personal account that I’d been hoarding because we were both buying our own groceries. I hadn’t been able to save any more because everything else went into the joint one for household bills while I was still living here. That last royalty cheque I got in April was for a little less than three hundred dollars—two medical thrillers from five years ago that didn’t do well to start with, took forever to earn out, and were not enough to warrant me any new contracts unless I rebranded—and that money was technically gone, though the hydro and cable bills hadn’t come out this month. Greg would be paid next week, which would cover the rest of the mortgage; at present, there was eight hundred and fifty dollar in the joint account. Even combined with my meager savings, it wasn’t enough for first and last months’ rent somewhere—in this area, that would run me twenty-five hundred at least—but it could get me to my newly inherited house to check it out. Payments would bounce when the bills were auto-drawn, but guess what? Those were in his name, too.

So I transferred the joint account money into my personal one.

I mean, I left the change. I like nice round numbers.

There remained a chance that some of the inquiries I’d sent for copywriting jobs would come through, but I needed money now to move out. (Am I really doing this? Yes, yes, Norah, you’re doing this—because fuck Greg, that’s why.) The transfer done, I tucked the phone in the back pocket of my jeans again and calmly rose. Gathered the papers on the desk pertaining to my inheritance and tucked them back into the envelope, stacked the notebook I’d been using atop it. Took both upstairs with me, my steps light and even, the narrow carpeted stairs barely creaking beneath them. The upper hall was dark; the day outside, grim but not yet rainy, and the only light came from the office where Greg sat at the laptop playing League of Legends instead of, y’know, working which was why he claimed he needed the office.

Wacky Greg! So, so, wacky! Bet he was failing upward like a champ at work.

I turned left into the bedroom, still channelling that calmness though I was making noise now. Let the door screech open and thump against the wall, fumbled a little as I dragged out my suitcases from the closet. We’d bought nice luggage for ourselves a couple of years ago for Christmas with the intent to go on a vacation. Which we never did. Working from home, and most of our friends being casual as well, I hadn’t accumulated a lot of clothing and just about everything should fit in what luggage I had. I could box up some of my books—we had a great box collection in the office closet. You know, when you get a package, sometimes it’s a flimsy crappy box but other times it’s crisp and solid construction from the best cardboard, you can’t help but admire it and think, That’s a good box. That’s a box I can send a gift in—if I ever know anyone I want to ship stuff to. That box is even too good for the cats—let’s keep that box.

He wanted the house? Fine. I was taking the motherfucking box collection.

First I’d have to get rid of him, though, which was why I was making so much noise.

I tossed the first suitcase—the big one—on the dove grey comforter, hauled the heavy hard lid open, and paused a moment. I liked that comforter. He wanted the house in cooler neutrals, lots of grey tones. I compromised by picking out what I liked, and I liked that comforter. Thick, soft, alternative-down stuffing which just meant cheap synthetic but it was warm in the winter and cool in the summer.

I’d take that too. Fuck you, Greg.

I rattled the drawers. I grumbled. I clomped around the bathroom to collect my toiletries and medications, slamming cabinet doors shut as I went. When that didn’t work, I pulled out my phone, cycled to a jogging playlist I never used (because fuck jogging, amiright?) and blared it as loud as the tiny speakers could manage from the dresser in the bedroom. Lots of songs on there about being a tough new woman after a breakup, as if my subconscious had known. If that didn’t annoy him enough to leave, I’d switch to Fetch the Boltcutters and sing with Fiona.

Eventually, predictably, he dragged his ass into the bedroom. "You’re packing now?"

I gave him a glittering smile full of teeth he was too dumb to realize was a threatening gesture. Why wait when it’s not working, right?

A loose shrug and he pulled out a pair of jeans from the hamper, stripping down right there to change—and look, if he wanted to pull the we’re just supposed to be roommates card, I’d like to point out that he was the worst one for boundary crossing. It was a wonder he hadn’t followed up telling me to move out with trying to fuck me.

I’m going out for a bit, then, he said.

Make sure you walk—I’m taking the car.

That stopped him in the doorway with a frown. But I need that for work.

You’re working from home, I pointed out as I hauled my underwear out of the top drawer.

But I’ll go back to work eventually.

I batted my eyelashes at him in return. It’s in my name. Motherfucker.

That got me another constipated frown and he left with another loose shrug. A few minutes later I heard the front door open and close, and I peered out the bedroom window to ensure he was, indeed, leaving the car.

He did. Going for a walk. Looking like an unkept street urchin. The way his luck ran, some billionaire would drop fifty grand in his lap because he looked homeless (but not real homeless—cool homeless like from a movie, the guy who just needs a little polish and suddenly he’s fallen into a cushy Wallstreet job).

I think I hate Greg.

Back to packing, I returned my attention to my open suitcase to find a pair of cats nestled in my tangle of bras.

Both boys, long-haired, and eighteen months old. Brothers at that. Grey-coated and nimble, Burton was smart as a whip; black-coated and round, Spencer was...not as smart as a whip. He was presently chewing on his brother’s tail, while Burton fussed with the suitcase’s zipper pocket. Given enough time he might get it open, too. Their eyes, bright green ringed in yellow, slow-blinked at me as they realized I’d caught their shenanigans.

And I was taking the cats, too. Because I oversaw their care, I took them to the vet, and my name was on the adoption certificate. It might be three days before Greg even noticed.

He was probably strolling up to the corner store on his walk and he might hit the park. I’d have to be quick and be gone before he left. Mentally I added the carriers and food to the list; I’d drop by a dollar store and get some litterboxes, litter, and toys on the way to the house. Whatever I didn’t get packed within the next half hour—forty minutes, max—I’d leave here.

Before I forgot, I ran into the office, closed and unplugged the laptop, and dropped it in my suitcase. Then I gathered the huge bulk pack of toilet paper—so rare still in these pandemic times—and took every roll including the one hanging by the toilet, and set it in the pile of stuff I was taking with me.

Enjoy the house in your name, asshole.

On Hazel Street

Google Maps put Dad’s family home outside a little town called Hope Falls, about four and a half hours north. I called the lawyer as I pulled out of the driveway at home—his office was in said little town—and asked if he could meet me there tonight, since it would be about five or six before I rolled in, depending on traffic. Guess he wasn’t super busy with the pandemic because he agreed, after going over safety protocols.

Greg called. Twice, back to back, after I’d been on the road for an hour. I declined both calls. One text came through, connecting with the car’s Bluetooth, and a robot voice read aloud to me his question about whether I’d seen the toilet paper. The third call was about a half hour after that, and I declined it too. He left a voicemail.

Yeah, I also declined to listen.

The car, a small silver Toyota, was packed to the brim with everything I had time to grab; I’d arranged it all just so on the first attempt, all the suitcases and boxes and the cat carriers snapping into place like a perfect Tetris level, and it seemed to give me a little game achievement dopamine hit as well.

Burton and Spencer were not super pleased about this development and yowled back and forth at one another from where they were strapped like kids in carseats behind the driver and passenger seats. Of course they went silent when I left the car idling and a/c on to mask up and hit the dollar store for extra supplies—another ping of dopamine as the boxes and bags fit in perfect little cracks—and then promptly yowled again upon my return.

Sun remained elusive as I travelled, tucking itself deep behind clouds the farther north I went. The cool slate grey of the freeway and smog-soaked cities and suburbs gave way to more greenery and pastures a couple hours from home, and when I took the turn onto a narrow old highway—still paved, but dips and cracks of many years of use—that would take me to Hope Falls, woods took up the place of farms. My cell signal went spotty but retained at least one bar if not two.

Honestly, it was just as well, because who the fuck was going to call me? Greg, and he could fuck off. Our friends? They were mostly his friends and half of them were from work. My agent and I had parted ways after the last book tanked and I was not interested in rebranding or trying a new genre, and she was more likely to email anyway. A few friends online, though everyone had their own shit with the pandemic raging. And I had no family left.

I’d be depressed if I wasn’t still wrapped up in shock.

A county road (listed as both Rural Route 10-90 and Hazel Street, depending on how close to town it was) led me past the street that would take me into Hope Falls. An old-fashioned sign advertising its population of twelve hundred hung askew on a wooden frame that had seen better days. About half a mile down from there, and past two other houses, GPS told me I’d arrived.

I waited for some long-buried memory to rear up, but nothing came as I turned into the gravel driveway and faced the century home that had belonged to my grandparents. At least, the lawyer had said on the phone that it was a century home, and I’d been expecting some Victorian gingerbread number. Instead I found walls of dark wide stone, rising three stories with a black gable roof. It sat on a slight incline with evergreen trees rising behind it, like a large boulder or small mountain. A wrap-around, roofed porch disappeared around either side of the house, and even the railing was thick and heavy, a freshly painted white that still looked dark in the shadows.

There was no attached garage, and the gravel driveway spread from a single lane to a small lot in front of the house. A dark-red sports car was parked to the right; I pulled up to the left so it would have room to leave after the exchange and left my car idling with the a/c on for the cats, though there was little sun and the outside temperature had dropped to 17C.

I’d expected a small-town lawyer to be some older gentleman, but this guy was maybe mid-thirties like me, short but slender in a way that was all legs and made him look taller. He spent more money on the car than his charcoal suit, but I could hardly blame him for that because every article of clothing I owned came from the clearance rack at Old Navy. A mask covered the lower part of his face, and I slipped mine on as well as my hip nudged my car door shut.

Ms. Pattson? he asked as he approached.

Normally we’d shake hands at this point, but he and I stood a little more than six feet apart awkwardly. Sloane. It’s Norah Sloane now. I had my ID in my purse, including my birth certificate with my father’s surname, but he didn’t ask for it. I wasn’t sure if that was protocol or not but didn’t bring it up.

I’m Chris Monahan. I was your father’s attorney. I’m glad my letter found you.

It wouldn’t have if the pandemic hadn’t hit and I’d moved out sooner; I wasn’t sure Greg would’ve thought to pass my mail along.

A thick manilla envelope waited on the hood of his car, which he lifted and leaned over to offer me. This is everything related to the house, along with the keys. There’s a letter from your father in there as well.

Great, maybe there’d be a fireplace for me to burn it in.

You haven’t had contact with him recently?

I shook my head as I peered in the envelope. The ring of keys—two of them—was a lump at the bottom, wrinkling the paper, and the sheath of documents was already making my eyes glaze over.

He was attempting to make the house into a bed and breakfast by fall, though a lot of plans were halted due to the pandemic.

I shifted my gaze to the house. I mean...it looked okay from the front, but Dad had died a couple of months ago and if the pandemic had already delayed things...

It’s a money pit. He left you a fucking money pit.

I turned back to the lawyer. Did he leave me any cash? Any other assets? That I can quickly liquidate?

He shook his head. Everything was in the copy I sent you—the house, the land, and everything contained therein.

Great. And this place is...safe to live in?

Hard to tell much about his expression with the mask but his eyes seemed to widen a little. Oh, I’m sure. Your father lived in it the last year of his life.

When I left this afternoon, I had not put all the pieces together. Uh...did he die in there? I gestured with the envelope, a quick jerky movement.

No, no. Actually, he passed away in town, in the grocery store parking lot. Aneurysm. He took a few steps, hands on his hips, and tipped his head back to look up at the house. The roof is new and water damage was taken care of, I know that much. You’ll find more information with his files but I think electrical was up to date as well.

A deep heavy pit rolled around my stomach and I didn’t think it was hunger. Bile crept up my throat as my brain finally seemed to connect with what I’d done and oh fuck what had I gotten into.

Goddamn it, Greg.

Electricity is still on, he continued. He had assigned me executor of his will and to deal with the bills per his limited savings. Heat and hydro is paid for until November. Water and sewage, the same. There is no phone or internet, however.

Well...there was that. So...what are the odds of selling it? Like right now? In the middle of a pandemic?

Monahan squinted at me. There’s a realtor in town. I can get you her number or have her touch base with you. I’m...a little doubtful about the housing market around here right now. Under better circumstances, you could probably sell as-is to the right buyer and make a bundle, particularly city folk looking for real estate out here. Florence would know better than I, but with lockdown and travel restrictions...

So I was stuck here for a few months, assuming lockdown would lift at some point this year. Christ, would it be possible to winter here since the pandemic would probably be still raging by then? I didn’t have money to pay the heating bills unless October’s royalty cheque really surprised me or I suddenly found more freelance work.

Despite the thick cotton mask (quadruple layers, bitches) covering much of my face, there must’ve been enough of a look of horror in my eyes that Monahan followed some of my thoughts. I’ve got your number—how about I ask Florence to give you a call ASAP with any advice, after you’ve had a chance to see the house. Have you been to Hope Falls before?

Technically I probably had, but being three years old likely didn’t count. Not in my recollection.

He pointed toward the road I’d taken. Back that way, turn when you see the town sign. We don’t have a lot but there are all the basics. Town’s pretty quiet because we usually get a lot of campers and vacationers this time of year, but not with lockdown.

Can I get takeout anywhere?

He checked his watch. Jo’s Pizza and The Bridge Bar & Grill are open for another couple of hours but don’t take long—everything closes up early around here. Monahan nodded at the envelope in a death grip in my hands. My card is in there as well, in case you need anything.

Probably for a fee, but good to know.

Monahan climbed back in his car then, the engine barely a purr it was so quiet, and pulled out swiftly with gravel crunching under the tires. Silence descended, the vast woods before me and empty road at my back void of anyone else and highlighting precisely how isolated the area was. The townhouse Greg and I had shared was one of many, each brimming with young families and an ambient noise I’d never really noticed until now when I was faced with the total absence of it. Monahan’s departure, though welcome, drove home the sudden sense of being alone I hadn’t really felt before.

I fished the key from the envelope and looked at the big boulder monstrosity