Someone Died in My House

By Meg Howald

There were sudden appearances at first that gnawed at the soul of Ben’s home, like sickening blood splatter and chards of mirrors, seductive shadows, and wounded cries. Something invaded his finely balanced lifestyle and threatened his emotional equilibrium. He knew he was at war.
Graphic novelist, Ben Needham wakes up every day braced against something in his house, something that won’t leave. He works hard to create a near-perfect life for the three of them – himself, his daughter, Annie, and their dog, da Vinci. But when these disturbances blow out of control, Ben finds a team of forensic paranormalists who perform an autopsy on Ben’s house. Together they wade into its soulless history of murder and a cataclysmic haunting that redefines where life ends, and death begins. Ben surrenders what’s left of his fragile will to free his home from its terrifying anarchist and courageously opens a door he never knew existed, always asking himself what price he'd pay for truth, justice, and unforgettable love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Jan 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891261037

Meg Howald

As a novelist and scriptwriter, Meg balances two careers – writing and teaching creative writing at Fanshawe College in London, Ontario. A rich genealogy of Scottish, Slavic, and Indian roots inspires Meg to infuse diversity in her psychological thrillers. No less inspiring is her passion for travel where she has lived by the hemlines of the Aegean, the Atlantic, and the Great Lakes. Meg says, “I am passionately committed to developing works with characters who become part of you and are not soon forgotten.”

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Thanks to archivists who keep history’s raw materials and residual memories alive. Special praise to the team at World Castle Publishing for its ongoing support through the submission process. To author and editor Karen Fuller, whose professional guidance made it a pleasure.

Chapter 1

Someone died in my house. Ben Needham finally admitted it to himself as he stood on his sidewalk, looking up at the third story of his house. Someone not ready to leave this world died in my house. The November drizzle shivered into him, and tiny micro-spasms took hold of his nerves. Someone unwilling to pass stayed in my house. He felt thin-souled and shivered again. And stayed, he repeated in bewilderment.

On the covered front porch, he stared at the lock on his front door but didn’t want to enter. His lungs constricted as a sweet fragrance suddenly passed by him. His thumb and forefinger pressed against the key, but he was immobile. He knew shortly after he and his daughter moved into the new reno that it was being invaded and wondered what new and disturbing evidence he’d find this time in his studio on the third floor.

He couldn’t deal with it.

Dad, I have to pee. What are you staring at? Give me the key. Annie reached for the key chain but stopped as a small bubble of blood oozed from a cut on her dad’s thumb, a cut that had healed a week ago. Hey, you need a bandage. Yuk! She started to squirm in pain. I can’t hold it!

Was Annie supposed to see the blood? Shit! Why is this happening to me? He drew his thumb to his mouth to taste, but the bubble disappeared. He fumbled with the key, then steadied his hand; the key shot into the lock, and Annie bolted for the bathroom, discarding furry mitts and scarf on the way.

Da Vinci whined. Ben held the door open for him. ‘Here, boy, come. The Italian mastiff was edgy, resistant. Ben studied him. You feel it too, don’t you, boy." The dog found some comfort in Ben’s voice and reluctantly entered, not going beyond the front hall.

Dad, Annie called, I’m going to get ready. Mom will be here soon, and I want to practice my new song for her.

Okay. He felt numb and alone, like he was the last man on earth and was slowly giving up. He thought Annie was being spared, but she saw the blood on his thumb, too. The cut had healed completely and suddenly appeared. He wanted to tell her what was happening to him. He knew she would listen, but he couldn’t bring this ten-year-old survivor into his nightmare. He wanted to sit her down and go over the details of the past two weeks: water splashing, waves turning red, perfume, air draining out of his lungs, phantom lacerations on his back, and fear of sleeping every night. And the bubble of blood at the front door. Over and over, he rehearsed what he wanted to tell Annie about his nightmares, but he was a good dad and wouldn’t download his shit into her manic, free-fall life. So, at that moment, he decided to hold it together, to get angry, to get answers. Stay away from her! I’ll come for you if you don’t.

***

It was a perfect Roncesvalles home in Toronto’s west end—offering a one-bedroom studio on the third floor for Ben’s work and proximity to Annie’s school for gifted outliers with a ten-minute walk to her mom’s. Ben spent the first week soundproofing the rooms so Annie’s acute sensitivity to sounds would be manageable. Creaking timbers, water pressure, strong winds, and birds drove her into closets with double-padded muffs over her ears. As a kid with miswired ears, among other misfirings, she knew tears more often than laughter. But it seemed her system was self-modifying as the years evolved and life was becoming easier—though not fast enough for Annie’s mom, Wendy, to want to be with her daughter for more than two hours of bonding every Saturday morning.

Wendy decided that raising a not-quite-labeled child wasn’t career friendly in her life of comings and goings and multiple comings with her new guy, so she passed up motherhood. Ben became the only functional parent and could steal away every Saturday morning while Wendy conducted her two-hour family workshop with puppets, a story, and a movie. For Annie’s sake, the adults never showed their contempt for each other. Ben controlled his disdain for Wendy’s rejection of them, for her new home and new housemate, Ace, who was both a lover and only child in Wendy’s busy life.

It was Saturday, November 1, 2008. The ritual had begun with walking da Vinci, Annie tidying her room, taking a shower, putting on clothes her mom bought for her, and bracing for Wendy’s visitation. This was the time Ben could slip out, do breakfast at Victoria’s Bakery with his best friends Mark and the gang, but not today. He phoned and canceled. He needed to get out of the house, but not too far away, to deal with these other-worldly sensations invading his life, which at first he thought were feelings about moving, or Annie starting her new school, or living insanely close to Wendy. But he woke up and confronted the truth—life in this house was parasitic, like an earwig inching into his brain, paralyzing him. He kept it away from Annie.

When the doorbell rang, Ben headed out the back door. Wendy let herself in, and Annie found her.

Ben sat in the old wooden gazebo in the backyard for two hours, staring at the house until Wendy called from the backdoor, Ben, I’m packed. Can you come in? Annie has a song she wants to play.

Ben was surprised to see Wendy seated next to Annie on the piano bench, her arm around Annie’s shoulder. Not once during the song did she check her watch or cell and looked like she actually was enjoying herself, which caught him off guard.

When Annie finished, Wendy applauded and commented on the piece. Amazing. But what girl of ten plays blues? I know I’ve heard it in a movie, but I don’t know what it’s called. What is it, Ben? You’re the jazz aficionado.

‘Harlem Nocturne.’ How come you practiced that song, kiddo? You don’t even have the music for it.

I heard it from your studio. You know that famous jazz singer you love, Bobby Holiday?

Billy Holiday.

That would be her.

You heard her singing from my studio?

Yup, in this very house.

Well, my system isn’t hooked up yet, so, kiddo, you couldn’t have heard her.

I did hear it, then played it by ear. How else could I play it by ear?

Wendy smiled and grabbed her bag. I’ll leave you two to sort out who sang what, when, and where. I have to run. And Annie, don’t forget to tell your dad about the weekend and about the fundraiser. Kisses. She blew Annie a kiss, then turned to look at Ben. What have you been doing to yourself? she whispered. You look like shit.

Well, Wendy, I’m not getting a lot of what you’re getting.

I’ve seen monks who look a whole lot better than you do. You need to find someone. If you keep this up, I might have to worry about you, and I don’t have time for that, so get some sleep and the other stuff. You’re showing early signs of menopause. And surprisingly, she patted da Vinci’s head on her way out.

Wendy is right, dad. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were one of the undead.

Then I’m glad you know me better, and I’m going to take your mom’s advice for the first time in my life and take care of myself—not for her, but for you. Okay, so I don’t know what to say about the song. My system is still in storage. You’re brilliant, but…

But not psychic. I did hear it, and I’ve been practicing for a week.

Okay, I believe you, but it probably came from next door. It’s a possibility.

An unlikely one. I know I’m weird, but I’m not a magician. I know what I heard. I have homework.

Hey, did you and Mom have a good time?

Yeah, surprising, right? But it was a bit too long. She seems different, like being the head of a big charity to save kids in Africa means something to her. Oh, and Mom wants me to come for a weekend before Christmas. And she wants me to play the piano at her fundraiser and sit with her and Ace at the head table.

Wow! A fundraiser.

She’s going to call you.

"Okay, this is great. Yeah, let’s give Wendy a be-kind-to-mom-break. We can meet her halfway, right?’

I don’t know how you’ll do it, but I can.

***

Three strange phenomena happened that morning. First was the blood on his thumb, and the second was the song, Harlem Nocturne, that Annie played. She was a prodigy playing at two years old but couldn’t possibly have arranged the song without hearing it first. As far as he knew, Billie Holiday never recorded it. The third phenomenon was the self-contained pool of water in the middle of his studio floor by his easel. A pool of water that didn’t run with the natural slope of the floor but stayed contained.

He had seen this pool in dreams, but Saturday morning after Wendy left and Annie was busy with homework, Ben was working in his studio and heard a drop of water splash, so he turned away from his drafting table and saw the pool of water. He was transfixed as small tremors ran through the muscles on his face. He shivered as if showering in ice water. He froze. Something took hold of his body until he felt inanimate. Then, release came as he felt he was floating in weightless suspension. His arms moved upwards like they did when he was a boy, and his dad made him press his arms against the inside of a door frame for two minutes, then walk away. They floated upwards like particles of dust.

Shaken, excited, curious, he fell to the floor beside the water. He moved closer to the pool to smell it. There was lavender and ginger, like the fragrances on the porch. He reached out and gently touched the surface. From out of nowhere, a drop fell into its center. Drops collided and splashed him. Ben moved back as the pool reddened, and his hand dripped red. Suddenly, the splashing subsided, the pool disappeared, and his hand was clean.

What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you crazy? he asked himself. He thought of Annie and ran downstairs to her room. She was safe, but he remembered she did see the blood earlier on his thumb. He hadn’t imagined her saying that he needed a bandage. He didn’t imagine the blood. He returned to the studio to check the ceiling for leaks. There were none—why would there be? It hadn’t rained. He perched on the arm of the couch on the west wall and surveyed the space. His art studio occupied the center of the attic, lit by two skylights above. He loved the wide pine flooring preserved well for the past hundred and twenty years. His computer and drafting table found a home along the north wall. His bed and night table were on the south wall in a private alcove. His art studio in the center had a large art table, an easel with a new canvas on it, and a storage desk for art supplies. The entire third floor was uncluttered—he needed it that way. Except for a few favorite prints by Chagall, Escher, Ernst, and Hokusai that were mounted behind his computer desk and artifacts he had gathered on pre-marital trips scattered about the room, the attic was a spacious work/hobby/sleep space with minimal furniture and maximum reflective surfaces.

He loved the Gothic Revival lines of the house. It was a solid reno. He remembered the immediate chemistry and comfort he had felt as he set about sketching the marble foyer, the ornate butler’s pantry, the dilapidated gazebo in the backyard. It had been a great summer exploring the character of the house—its diverse, rich brickwork, its old vines and ivy, and the twisted, floral patterns in the under-attended gardens.

He tried to remember subtle changes in the house before the dreams started. There were some things—subtle things he dismissed as imaginative flights or underfed hormones. There was this fragrance like bath talcum. Lavender again. And spice. It was stronger in the attic than downstairs or outside. At one point, it was so strong while he worked that his nostrils burned. He remembered that now and cupped his hand over his nose, remembering how painful the sensation was.

And there was a shadow he had seen twice. Not anchored on the floor or wall like normal shadows were, but suspended in air. He had laughed and thought leaf patterns had been playing tricks on him. And the radiators banged—not on the first two floors. Just in the attic. Never where Annie was. He was grateful for that.

He remembered working late one night and falling asleep at this desk. When he woke up in the morning, he was naked on his bed and felt he had been seduced like a drunk in a harbor-whore’s arms. Ben decided that anyone else would have at first chalked it up to lack of sleep, loneliness, rebellious perceptions. But the dream, the music, and the water he had witnessed were not perceptual pathologies. It was some sort of invasion. He kept coming back to that word—invasion. He mused how all of these small details, beyond routine familiarity, got to him and made him wonder about his safety and if he’d live through another night or day in his house. Could a big guy—a six-foot-plus guy like himself be threatened by what others would think insignificant, self-directed incantations of an overdeveloped imagination? After all, his graphic novels were dark, over-the-rim trips that once you started into, there was no turning back.

Something had marked its territory in his space. Am I at war? I don’t want to fight you. I want to know who you are. Will you let me see you? What do you want? There’s an abandoned house down the street. Try it. Ben considered the good, the bad, and the barely acceptable. The good was that he and Annie were safe. The bad was the real possibility that an anomalous entity was invading his home, and the barely acceptable was he was slowly losing it from the pressure of deadlines, the pressure of needing perfection, the pressure of his commitment to Annie’s success, and the pressure of needing to love someone entirely different from Wendy. He didn’t see the signs at first. Knew about other people’s breakdowns—seeing snakes slithering out of their keyboards before they could log off. He needed to know if he was slipping into that place he knew about. At least he was aware he was slipping.

He never ignored the impact of his twin brother’s accidental death when they were twenty-one. Jamie was born first and was much stronger. Even though both boys were tall, Ben had been a weak kid who contracted every bug that blew off the St. Lawrence and into his Montreal home, into his lungs and stomach. His mom warned him from early childhood that if he didn’t take care of himself, no one would. Ben knew he was passive, cowardly, and ill-equipped to handle trauma. But it was Jamie who stopped breathing when his girlfriend’s tongue, laced with peanut butter residue, went deep into Jamie’s mouth until moments later, he went into shock and slumped dead on the shower tiles.

After the funeral, Ben took a semester off and vowed never to love or be loved. His art and writing became his lovers until he met Wendy, who was strong enough for the two of them. He felt safe with her because she was part iceberg and part wolverine. He tried to remember their intimacy but couldn’t remember kissing her eyes, her feet, or inside of her. Poor Wendy.

Ben shook his head. No...no...no...no. This nightmare isn’t about Jamie’s death. I handled that shit a long time ago. This isn’t about Jamie. I love my work. I’m fucking happy. I’m fucking funsational happy! Jumping up, he looked at the wall behind the sofa, along which a cubby (a deep compartment) had been built into the slope of the roof. There was a sliding door at the far end. Ben hadn’t thoroughly explored the space—didn’t have time to.

He got a flashlight, opened the sliding door, fell to his knees, and crawled inside. There was an old dresser in there, which he inspected. Empty. He moved to the open shelves at the far end that were bare except for a closed, antique tin box which rattled with unknown contents; he brought it out and set it down on the sofa. On the front of the box was an ad of a smiling, young woman in a strapless, red-striped bathing suit, sitting on a log at the beach. On the back was a printed label for Walters Palm Toffee, made in London, England, in 1948. It was a vintage toffee container now used to store trinkets.

He emptied the contents beside him and picked up what looked like a small, gold plate hand mirror that had been cracked. Shards of the mirror had fallen out and lay in the tin box. He took the largest shard and walked toward the south wall, his back to his art studio. He held the shard up and looked into the mirror at the space behind him. Okay, if you won’t appear in front of me, then do it behind me.

He waited. Suddenly, a splash of light shot across the space behind him and disappeared. He twisted around. Nothing. He waited. Nothing. Angry, he threw the shard on the sofa. I’m sick of this shit. Do you hear me? Get out of my house! He threw the items back into the box and replaced it in the cubby. He paced to calm himself, and then, remembering the song Annie played, he decided to check his playlists. He was certain he hadn’t downloaded it.

He was right. He didn’t have it. When he checked Holiday’s recording history, she had never recorded Harlem Nocturne. He decided Annie didn’t need to know she was arranging a song a ghost had given her in her sleep or while she was doing her art or science projects. Wow, Ben, you bought a fucking haunted house, complete with a jazz- loving-bleeder that bleeds all over the place. He needed fresh air and exercise.

He dragged Annie from her homework, got her buckled into her noise-sensitive helmet, and grabbed their coats and bikes. Before they set off for the lake, Ben looked up at the attic window and saw a figure looking down on them.

Did you hear that, dad? She looked back at the house.

What?

Like glass breaking two times in the house.

You heard that with your helmet on?

Yeah. How is that possible?

Probably da Vinci knocked something over.

She tightened her helmet and took the lead.

The shards in the tin box rattled, then the attic slept.

Chapter 2

The rest of Saturday played out calmly. Ben slept without nightmares, without feeling suffocated or weightless. There were no fragrances, no invisible arms pulling him into an impromptu rendezvous, and Sunday morning turned warm, a November day clinging to its summer romance. Ben performed his daily attic inspection. There was no water, no shimmering lights, no broken shards, no shadows. The radiators were politely quiet. There was no heat in the attic, but Annie’s room was warm. The ground floor was warm.

He loved Sunday. He let Annie sleep in until he got a call from Annie’s art teacher reminding Ben of their field trip to the Art Gallery of Ontario at noon for the new art show and a puppet performance. There were ten students and four parent volunteers. Ben had forgotten he had volunteered. He wanted to see the exhibit of celebrity portraits done by twenty lesser-known artists of the nineteenth century—portraits of J.F.K, Einstein, Elvis, Roy Rogers, Madonna, Babe, Trudeau, Norman Bethune, to name a few. He had just enough time to walk da Vinci, eat, dress, get the tangles out of Annie’s hair, and make it to the gallery entrance to wait for the others.

They arrived early. Ben watched Annie as she held her hand up and traced the curves and textures of Frank Gehry’s renovation of the gallery. She said her brain felt like the ascending, curved staircase, like a spiral of anti-gravitational knowledge. He knew she understood the architect’s vision and that she had been designing similar structures before she knew who he was.

I’d like to meet Frank Gehry, she announced.

Maybe one day.

Annie’s art teacher found them. Pretty awesome, isn’t it? She extended her hand to Ben. It’s good to see you again, Ben. She couldn’t help but notice how gaunt he looked. That in September, he seemed larger, healthier. Are you okay? You look a little tired.

Overworked. Not getting enough sleep. Trying to meet deadlines. They met in September at the open house at the school. Ben couldn’t remember her hair being that golden, shimmering with red strands in the morning light. Golden? Golden-red? Red? He couldn’t define the color and watched her bangs blow upward in the slight breeze. He thought how perfect a backdrop the AGO was for her statuesque form, straight without curves but not without padding. Small-breasted. As an artist, he mastered the art of a quick study. He liked her square jaw and high cheekbones, her watery, indigo eyes, and sallow skin. He usually didn’t wander away from a woman’s eyes, but her golden-red hair held him, along with the open blouse beneath the jacket, low cut and almost concealing a tattoo near her left breast above her heart. He lingered.

He was really stupid around women. He shook Vienna’s hand and forgot her name, and when he came to his senses, he heard Annie coaching him.

Dad, this isn’t Ms. Danner, the librarian with the unibrow. This is Ms. Navarre, my art teacher. She wants her hand back, Dad.

Just Vienna. She didn’t mind that Ben mindlessly held on to her hand and that he was thinking personal ‘Ben’ thoughts about her. Statistically, men thought she was too tall and her ass too skinny, her skin too pale, and her eyes too black, like shark eyes. But Ben was taller. She liked his large, thick hand warming hers, even though she preferred to hold paintbrushes and rags and palette knives.

How’s my artist? she asked Annie.

Annie smiled. Good. And bolted off to join a classmate and his grandfather.

And musician, Ben added. Do you think she’s too talented, too scattered?

No. She’s so lucky to be multi-gifted. I wish I could play like her. She accompanies the choir twice a week at rehearsals.

Annie says you show your art. She talks about you all the time.

I like to share with her. I just closed a show in Calgary—sold six works. I have a show at the Yorkville Studio before Christmas. You should come, bring Annie.

I’d like that. It felt comfortable making small talk and no talk with her. How they didn’t mind silence and staring at one another without blinking. At least he was the one staring.

I like your graphic novels. Maybe too dark for me, but funny too.

Annie collaborates with me. I run things by her first before my agents get a look.

Most parents aren’t as involved in their kids’ lives like you are. It helps that you’re creative. She told me about her mom. I hope you don’t mind. I would never say anything negative about the arrangement. I want you to know that.

If Annie likes talking to you about it, I’m okay with that. They actually had a great day yesterday. Her mom seemed different and wants to see her more.

Yeah, she told me. That’s good. So, you’re not sick, are you? Annie hasn’t said anything.

House issues. Not financial, but structural.

Oh. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked; it’s just you seemed different in September.

That noticeable, huh?

When the rest of the group convened, their tour guide led them to the exhibit, moving from one small gallery to the next. Ben fell behind, stopping at a particular portrait he couldn’t move away from. The painter was anonymous and captured the subject in a way no one had done before. Ben had seen all of the photos and portraits done of her, but this was exceptional, haunting. He stared and was convinced this was no coincidence.

Vienna circled back and found him staring at Billy Holiday. She’s so beautiful. Look at those eyes. So happy.

Ben stared at her lips, like Millay’s on the verge of a love poem. His eyes watered. Why am I crying? Why am I here? Did you bring me here? What’s with the tears? He looked into the portrait’s eyes as if she had been waiting for him.

I have her entire collection, Vienna said and drew closer to her, then looked at Ben. Are you crying?

"I’m trying really hard not to, but if you knew the reason, you’d walk away from me and never