Don't Look Back Agnes & In This House Read online

  Don’t Look

  Back, Agnes

  With bonus ghostly short story:

  In This House

  By Kathryn Meyer Griffith

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Don't Look Back, Agnes & In This House

  In This House

  Most of Kathryn’s novels are also now in audio books. | Novels and short stories from Kathryn Meyer Griffith:

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  For Mom and Dad...

  I love and miss you both...always.

  You were my greatest fans.

  It’s never been the same without you.

  Other books by Kathryn Meyer Griffith:

  Evil Stalks the Night

  The Heart of the Rose

  Blood Forge

  Vampire Blood

  The Last Vampire (2012 Epic EBook Awards Finalist)

  Witches

  The Calling

  Scraps of Paper-

  The First Spookie Town Murder Mystery

  All Things Slip Away-

  The Second Spookie Town Murder Mystery

  Ghosts Beneath Us-

  The Third Spookie Town Murder Mystery

  Egyptian Heart

  Winter’s Journey

  The Ice Bridge

  Don’t Look Back, Agnes

  A Time of Demons and Angels

  The Woman in Crimson

  Four Spooky Short Stories

  Human No Longer

  Night Carnival

  Forever and Always Novella

  The Nameless One erotic horror short story

  Dinosaur Lake (2014 Epic EBook Awards Finalist)

  Dinosaur Lake II: Dinosaurs Arising

  Dinosaur Lake III: Infestation

  She dashed from her car to the door and kept her eyes off the woods behind the house, a wall of blackness that made her stomach queasy. If she didn’t look, she wouldn’t be frozen with the old terror. If she didn’t look, it wouldn’t work its evil on her, or so she told herself. But the night trees whispered and taunted her anyway. You frightened child...you coward. You’re still trying to run away, huh? But you can’t. Not now. Not any longer.

  The house smelled musty as Agnes entered by the side entrance. It’d been empty and closed up for weeks since her mother had gone by ambulance to the nursing home—and the place was a mess. There were newspapers and magazines scattered over the tables and floors. Dust was an inch thick. It was a shame, because the two-story house was truly a lovely home, filled with the woodworking touches her father had lovingly built in. He’d been a master carpenter and it showed in the hand-carved banisters and trim, doorframes and furniture he’d made himself. The stained glass in some of the windows exquisitely rain-bowed the sunlight onto the floors at certain times of the day.

  The first thing she did was to turn off the air-conditioning, clean out the cat box and open some windows. Someone had put the AC on seventy-eight, a good thing. The cat wouldn’t die of a heat stroke yet it’d still conserve energy because her mother lived on a tight budget.

  It was late August at the end of a scorching summer, but tonight a storm was coming and though the earth shimmered hot, the swirling air was cooled. The breeze feathered her warm skin.

  It looked as if someone, probably one of the neighbors, had been coming in periodically to take care of Patches, her mother’s old calico cat. The windows had been locked and the house was dim. A small-screened television murmured softly on the kitchen counter, company for Patches, and Agnes switched it off and snapped on the lights.

  Why the cat needed the noise of a television was beyond her. The creature was half-deaf and almost as blind.

  It felt strange being back in the small town of Fairfield where she’d grown up and even stranger being in her childhood home after so many years. For two decades Agnes had refused to return; as much as she’d always loved the house and the town, she coaxed her mother into traveling to visit her instead whenever she’d wanted to see her. Until now.

  Her mother, who’d had her, Agnes, her third child, late in life, was sick and could no longer travel. Since Agnes’s older brothers lived much farther away than she did and claimed to have too many pressing responsibilities at the moment, Agnes had to return to her childhood home. There’d been no way out of it.

  Sighing, she closed the door behind her and locked it. Nothing less than a tragedy and a crisis could have brought her back here. Her husband, Gregory, had passed away six months before, she had no children, and her mother was slipping into a twilight world where no one else could follow. A few weeks ago her mother had fallen in her bedroom; unable to get up, she’d been too confused to make a telephone call for help or to remember where she’d left her Life-Alert necklace. She spent two days on the floor before a friend had found her. Learning about the incident when the hospital had called her late one night had made Agnes feel horrible, as if she didn’t have enough guilt anyway over being so far away at this frail time of her mother’s life.

  ****

  She should have been there for her. Her mother had continually resisted selling the house, though. She refused to give up the twenty acres of wooded land and her huge garden in the back yard or to leave the home where she’d raised her family and had known love as well as heartache. Now she’d have to sell. There was no way her mother could keep the place and Agnes would not consent to live in it, to live in Fairfield, unless it was temporary. The house stood too close to the woods.

  So after Agnes quit her job working in the ad department at the newspaper, she put her own home on the market, leaving it in the hands of a local realtor, and had returned to tend to her mother, if she could. She’d move in and prepare the house to sell and then, when her mother was feeling better, they’d both move into a smaller place in another town, far away; she’d get another job. Simple.

  She should have known that being forced to return to a place she feared and dealing with her mother’s illness would be far from simple. Well, Agnes’s life had never been easy so why should it be any different now? She’d get through it somehow, she always did.

  Her mother had been taken to Restful Oaks, a convalescent home, and her health looked worse than when she’d went in, or so the home’s social worker had informed Agnes by phone a few days ago. Now she wasn’t sure if her mother would ever come home, but she’d know more once she visited her, first thing tomorrow morning.

  But tonight, after being on the road all day, towing a U-Haul behind her car, she craved only rest. Everything would be clearer, and safer, in the sunlight of a new day.

  “Patches,” she called out in a cajoling voice. “Come here kitty, kitty. Where are you?” Going from one room to another, she searched for the cat—peeking under the sofa, beds and behind the dressers and in the closets. No feline. “Patches!”

  She was just about to give up when a ball of scratching, spitting fur hit her on the side of her head and slid down her body, claws digging in the whole way. Agnes yelped, pried the cat off her and gently sent it across the room on its furry butt.

  “Darn, cuckoo cat,” she grumbled, assessing the damage to her clothes and her skin. She was bleeding in three places from long scratches. “Patches, why did you do that?”

  Because the cat didn’t know her.

  Upon a second examination, the wounds didn’t appear to be serious and that’s when the guilt caught up with her. She fell to her hands and knees on the floor and crawled around, looking for the critter. She loved animals and normally would never hurt them. So she felt bad. The cat had been abandoned and left alone for weeks. The poor thing was probably lonely and freaked out because it missed its mistress and didn’t know what was going on. Agnes hadn’t meant to throw it like that and hoped it was okay.

  “Patches, I’m sorry. Come out from wherever you are. I didn’t mean to do that. But, bad kitty, don’t attack your rescuer. I’ll give you some of that delicious canned cat food Mom says you like so much if you come out. Please, Patches?”

  Oh, great. Now she was talking to an empty house. The demon cat wouldn’t show itself and she’d have to tiptoe around the rest of the night waiting for its next assault. Getting up from the floor, she moved into the bathroom and shed her T-shirt and blue-jean shorts. The shirt was ripped from the cat’s claws and would need to be thrown away but the shorts were okay. Washing off the bloody scratches, she slipped back into her clothes.

  She turned on the outside lights, and then retrieved her suitcases from the car. The rest of the stuff could be unloaded tomorrow. After dragging them into the spare bedroom, she took clean clothes out and headed to the bathroom to take a shower, opening more windows along the way.

  Afterwards, she sat in the front room, drinking a cup of tea and trying to keep the panic away. It wasn’t working. She knew she should have stayed in a motel but the only motel in town, the Trail Way, was a roach-infested dump...and then there was Patches. It’d seemed unfair to leave the poor animal alone any longer. She’d seen it slinking around the sofa earlier and figured it’d come out again sooner or later. In time, they might even be friends. Fat chance. The cat was out to get her.

  Agnes padded into the kitchen and opened a can of cat food she’d picked up at the corner grocery store on her way into town. She set it on the floor with fresh water and left the kitchen without gazing toward the windows once.

  She finished her tea and bec
ause she couldn’t stand the mess a second more, even as tired as she was, she straightened the living room and kitchen a little. Her mother must have been sick for a long time to let the house fall into such disarray. As a child, Agnes remembered how much of a neat freak her mother had been. The house had always looked perfect. Not anymore.

  Again she felt remorse. So many years she’d been gone, so many years she’d neglected her mother. These last few, since her father had died, being the worst. Her mother had been lonely and though she’d never said so, she wasn’t one to complain, Agnes had known. There’d been an increase in the number of phone calls and e-mails and very few actual visits as her mother’s health had deteriorated.

  Oh, she hadn’t been a good daughter, and she had to make up for that now. No matter what.

  Agnes had straightened the living room and was outside emptying a bag of trash when she glanced up and saw a man in the shadows at the edge of the porch light watching her.

  “Who’s there?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice calm as her body edged towards the door and her hand clutched for the doorknob.

  The man stepped forward, into the weaker gloom and offered her a sheepish smile. Just a little taller than her, he was dressed in some sort of uniform, which was comforting.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He spread his hands out towards her. “I’m Herb. I know your mother, Bernice. A few times I’ve picked her up in the ambulance and took her to the hospital and this last time to the nursing home. She used to tell me such amazing stories about her family and this house. We became friends. I was only stopping by to check on and feed the cat. I’ve been doing that these last couple of weeks because Bernice asked me to. You’re her daughter, Agnes, right?”

  “I am.” Relieved, Agnes relaxed. He knew her mother’s name, her name, so he couldn’t be a threat. “So, you drive an ambulance?”

  “I’m a paramedic, actually. I work for St. Anthony’s hospital.” It sounded sort of rehearsed.

  “Oh, well, it’s been kind of you to take care of Patches for her...for us. Thank you. But I’m here now and you don’t need to keep stopping by. I’ll take care of her from now on.”

  “It wasn’t any problem. I like doing things for people. It’s my reason for being here.” Herb continued to stare at her. She still couldn’t see him well for his face was partially hidden. He had long dark hair. “How’s your mom doing?”

  “As well as can be expected. I’ll know more when I actually see her tomorrow. I just arrived tonight.”

  The man continued to observe her, as if he were waiting for something. She shivered and had the weirdest feeling that she knew him from somewhere or sometime. There was a compelling familiarity about her mother’s friend but she was too exhausted and uneasy with the woods behind her to explore the odd sensations she felt, or the urge to reach out and take his arm and draw him to her. She shook her head and snapped herself out of her trance. She must be awfully tired.

  She really wasn’t in the mood for visitors. The wind had picked up and the smell of rain was strong. The storm had arrived. Raindrops hit her face and all she wanted to do was to get inside, finish her work and go to bed.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Herb, but I’m worn-out. I’m going in now.”

  “Sorry. I won’t keep you any longer, then. Tell Bernice hello for me, would you?”

  “I will.” Poised by the door, Agnes turned to go in.

  “Goodnight, Agnes. I’ll be seeing you.”

  Not likely. “Goodnight, Herb.”

  Only after she’d gone inside, turned off the outside light and closed the door did she realize she’d never gotten his last name and he hadn’t told her how it was that he had entry to her mother’s home. If he had a key, she should get it back from him. She didn’t like the idea that someone she barely knew had access to the house. Her mother had become too trusting. She’d never been that way before.

  Agnes tugged the curtains aside and looked through the rain-spotted glass into the driveway. No ambulance or car was parked there or along the street. How had Herb gotten to the house and where had he gone? Thunder shrieked and lightning brightened the world outside and there wasn’t a sign of him or a vehicle anywhere. Could be he’d been on foot. Well, he was gone now and that was all Agnes cared about.

  She shrugged, was getting ready to close some of the windows, but hadn’t moved from the door when a loud knocking nearly gave her a heart attack.

  She answered it and flicked on the porch light, surprised to find a Fairfield Sheriff’s deputy standing there, rain dripping off his cap. Darn, more uninvited company. Just her luck. She felt like a damp mop and probably looked like one, too. No way to meet the townsfolk.

  “Can I help you, Officer?”

  “Just checking, ma’am. I saw lights; saw you outside and I know whose house this is. I know Beatrice is in Restful Oaks recovering from a fall and I promised to keep an eye on the house for her.”

  “So you think I’m a burglar or something?” She was amused but that was quickly replaced with embarrassment. The man was good-looking in that rugged way she was so attracted to. Men in uniforms did that to her, though all in all, she liked cops the least. So bossy. Usually arrogant. This man had the look of a young Tom Selleck and a body to match. He was tall, athletically graceful and his eyes, blue as a spring sky, were sharply perceptive.

  Her face was already red and she was too tired, too bedraggled, to be talking to such a handsome stranger.

  “No. You wouldn’t have answered the door if you were.”

  That made her laugh. “I’m Beatrice’s daughter, Agnes Michaels. I’ve come to take care of my mother.”

  “I figured that.” He was staring at her. She thought he might actually smile, but he didn’t. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but no further words came.

  “Well, Officer—”

  “Ben Peterson. Sorry to have disturbed you so late. I just had to be sure someone hadn’t broken into the house or something.”

  “I and my mother thank you for it, Officer Peterson. Is there anything else?”

  “No, ma’am. Good night. Keep your doors locked. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to such a pretty lady.”

  She thought she caught a slight smile before he turned and walked through the rain to his squad car and drove off into the night. Not even a wave. Cops. They could never help you when you really needed it. Their nightsticks and bullets were no real defense against true evil.

  Agnes had nearly finished her tidying when she saw the metal box that her mother kept her important documents in, sitting beside the coffee table. It was open and had a stack of papers strewn around it. She knelt down, scooped them up and began to stuff them back in the box when a headline caught her eye.

  Oh, no.

  Her mother had saved the newspaper clippings from the murders. They were neatly cut and clipped together. Why in God’s name had her mother kept them?

  Agnes didn’t want to look at them, much less read them but some macabre fascination made her take the clippings into the kitchen where she spread them out on the table.

  Her eyes took in the grisly headlines from twenty summers ago: Teenager Missing. Four weeks later: Second Child Vanishes. Parents Plead For Any Information On Disappearances. A month after that: Third Victim Missing. Worst Feared. Then the last scrap of newspaper: Fourth Victim Taken. Escapes. Bodies Found.

  There were other articles on the kidnappings, including ones with the poignant photographs of the three young fatalities from that awful summer. She barely glanced at them because she remembered the three children as if it were yesterday. Sophie Cunningham, 15 years old, Lawrence Nilson, 15 years old, and Tyler Summers, 16 years old. She’d known them all, and one...Tyler...had been her first love.

  Seeing his young, sweet face looking up at her after all these years brought back the whole horror and grief of that long ago summer.

  Oh, Tyler. They’d known each other since childhood, had lived next door to each other all their lives and that spring he’d given her a promise ring. They’d talked of getting married when they turned eighteen though they were barely sixteen. Puppy love, her mother and father had called it, but she and Tyler had known it was real. They’d been so lucky to find each other at the beginning of their lives and said it all the time. So lucky.

  All the long repressed Tyler memories suddenly surged through her mind and heart and without knowing it, the sorrow returned like an old friend she hadn’t seen for a while but it knew the way all too well.