A Darkness Lives There

Heath House

1998

The girl arrives right on time. Her breath visible in the air, it runs ahead of her on the path toward me. She has blond hair, emerald eyes that sparkle like the jewel itself, a smattering of freckles over creamy skin. She is younger than the last one; she is taller, shapelier. On her wrists are rows of beaded bracelets, gathering in a cluster of rainbow colors. Over her body is draped a brightly colored summer dress.

She is perfect.

She carries a small canvas bag; inside, I expect, is her camera. There is only one reason to sneak onto the property. Curiosity like a cat, a guarantee every few years just like clockwork. There is always a reason that, to them, coming to gape at me is warranted, legitimate—­for them, not anyone else. This is their right, somehow. They deserve a good look, a shot of this crumbling body with their pristine shape in the foreground.

They learn of me at the university nearby, where they come seeking education, and in this quest they are taught the legend of a crumbling manor on the bluffs overlooking the sea. They don’t know how many chances they’ll get to come sneak a peek before they move on from those hallowed halls. This may be it; they will not let the opportunity go to waste. Not when they have been given such a gift, not even though they have been told never to come near, not since they cannot possibly see a reason why they should heed those warnings.

They are wrong, of course.

The girl reaches the double front doors, tests the handle on one; she expects it will be locked. There is no reason for her to anticipate otherwise.

It is not.

It twists in her hand, unfastening one door from the other. She drops her palm to her side, where it trembles. A current of nerves, electric and potent, rushes through her body. This is the moment she’ll decide.

Whether all those warnings were true.

Whether it matters.

Whether she will let them stop her.

She takes her lip between her teeth, considering, though deep down there is no real deliberation. She opens her bag, reaching in with one of her hands, each fingernail painted a different bright color.

She pulls out the camera.

She runs from the door, finds a spot in the grass, and stacks a few stray flat rocks into a pile. She positions her camera, fiddles with the mechanism.

She is back at the threshold.

She raises both arms. Her fingers make peace signs.

Her mouth drops open in a smile, wide, showing off all her pretty, straight teeth.

She grabs her camera from the rocks and snaps pictures as she returns.

To the open door welcoming her inside, inviting her behind the windows she has yearned to peer through. She will walk up the staircase she has seen in old photos, in newspaper clippings, in the university library. She will see for herself what all the fuss is about.

It will be too late then to change her fate.

Then she will understand the fear in her teachers’ eyes, the quaver in the townsfolks’ voices.

She will know the truth they bury.

She will become

the

gruesome

rotting

thing

herself.

Chapter One

Olivia

November 3

Present day

They found her tangled in a ghost net.

The net had twisted itself around a rock’s point jutting up from the shoreline. Only her hair was visible. It looked like seaweed, they said. That’s why for days no one gave it a second thought or ventured closer to get eyes on the body trapped in the fibers.

It’s been days since they found her, but I’m still stuck in the memory. I watch the water through my fogged-­up windshield. The morning mist hasn’t lifted from the bay yet; it cloaks the masts of boats in the marina like an ethereal sail. My heart taps out a plea against my ribs. I wish I was anywhere else. I was almost somewhere else. I was so, so close I could taste it.

I had taken the spot at Edgewater—­our local university. A small campus without a journalism major but with a respectable reputation, right here in Foxglove, where I grew up. I saw it as a means to an end. Get some core credits out of the way, save up, and then transfer to NYU when I had enough money to supplement the financial aid I qualified for. My plan was going well. Too well.

She couldn’t just let me leave.

I scan the bay, looking at boats I’ve seen every day for as long as I can remember. I watch the water as it slaps the dock pilings, a rhythm I know almost as well as my own heartbeat. High Street buzzes with energy, the shops opening up for the day, the same people, the same wares, the same everything as every other day in this picture-­perfect college town I’ll never, ever escape.

And then there’s the house.

Always, Heath House looms high on the cliffside above the ocean. From here, I can see the shape of it through the bare oaks, the wispy evergreen firs. The gate stands, wrought iron and stone, sturdy despite the dilapidated state of the rest of the place.

It watches over the town. Over me.

I wonder for a split second, stupidly, if it saw what happened to her. Witnessed her end through the slats of the gate, over the craggy cliff’s edge. If it holds the truth of her death safe within its crumbling walls. It’s a superstitious thought.

The house is old, but it’s just a house.

The truth is, no one saw what happened to her.

Especially not Heath House.

A man in a fisherman’s slicker is on the sidewalk, momentarily obstructing my view of the house. He sees me, and even with the hat on I recognize him as Amos Turner. His son Josiah was in my freshman algebra class. Mean kid with a mullet. I think he dropped out junior year to work on his dad’s boat. Amos gives me that look. The same strained expression the rest of the town gives me. Narrow eyes pulsing with judgment. It’s always been that way—­my mom’s body in the bay won’t change it.

Ivy was adored.

Her every flaw overlooked or ignored because she was an adopted daughter of the town. Her family out of the picture for the most part, she chose Foxglove and Foxglove chose her. I can’t understand what happened to make them all fall for her without ever faltering, but I have my ideas. Ivy was fragile in a way that made people want to help her, but she was also talented and smart. A very specific kind of genius.

A food genius. The best kind you can be in a small tourist town like Foxglove.

She was meant to leave for culinary school in Paris and she had planned to come back with all kinds of knowledge to share. To them, I guess, her determination to always make this place her home meant something. Unlike me, who’s been planning to get out of here as long as I can remember. I’m not shy about it either.

To make matters worse for me, I’m the reason she didn’t go. And instead of blaming her for having a baby she didn’t want, they blamed me for my bad fucking timing.

My eyes drift to the dash, to the clock, to the number that still hasn’t changed.