Chapter 32

^JUNE 22, 1951^

CLEMENTINE

A young boy stands at the foot of the stairs. “Who are you?” I ask, puzzled.

“You don’t remember me?” he replies, a hint of surprise in his voice.

“I’m sorry, but the hospital ward is closed. Orphans should head to St. Elizabeth Church. It’s about ten miles down the road.”

He just stands there, staring at me. “You really don’t recognize me?”

“Should I? You don’t ring any bells,” I respond, my brows furrowing.

“I should,” he insists, gripping the railing. “Exactly forty years ago, you took the life of an innocent boy accused of rape.”

My eyes widen in shock. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I retort, my voice rising.

“You do know me,” he insists, pointing a finger at me. “I know a lot about you. I know you have trouble sleeping. I know you live in a world of make-believe. I know you killed your uncle.”

“You need to leave now, or I’ll have Mr. Stiles escort you off my property.”

“You could try, but your dear Willie won’t interfere with me.”

“I don’t understand. You still haven’t told me who you are,” I say, my voice trembling.

“Clayton Tucker,” he announces, a wide grin spreading across his face.

I stare at him, the name not ringing any bells. Then, realization hits me like a ton of bricks.

“No. It can’t be you. I killed you forty years ago. You’re dead,” I stammer, my voice shaky as I try to regain my composure.

“You’re right about one thing. I am dead,” he confirms, then vanishes.

Moments later, he reappears behind me. “Do you believe me now?”

He shoves me down the stairs.

***

I come to at the bottom of the stairs, unsure of how long I was unconscious. I attempt to move, but pain shoots through my body. “Nothing broken,” I whisper to myself. I glance around the room, and there he is, standing behind me.

“I’ve waited a long time for this. My only goal in this life is to make yours a living nightmare.”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Because I was innocent. You took my life without knowing the truth. You played judge, jury, and executioner.

“I was terrified of the electric chair, and you never gave me a chance to tell my side of the story. The girl’s father was the one who raped her, not me.

“I was their next-door neighbor and an easy scapegoat because my father was the mayor. He didn’t agree with my father’s politics,” he explains, pacing around me.

I try to stand, but my right leg throbs with pain, refusing to bear my weight.

“Now, let me tell you a story about the young girl who was raped by her own father. After my death, he left her alone for a couple of years.

“But on her fifteenth birthday, he raped her again and didn’t stop until she got pregnant. She was only seventeen.

“She couldn’t bear the thought of carrying her father’s child. So, she killed herself and the unborn baby. And for that, I blame you.

“You didn’t just murder me, you also killed her, her baby, and many other innocents.

“So, now I’m going to make the rest of your life a living hell until you die,” he declares, then disappears.

“This can’t be happening. I need to wake up from this nightmare.”

I slowly pull myself up, gripping the railing for support while slapping my face with my free hand, hoping to wake up.

“Oh, sweetheart. This isn’t a dream,” he calls out from another room.

^LATER THAT DAY^

The reality that my house is haunted is still sinking in. Exhausted and sore, I decide to take a bath.

I step into the bathroom, scanning the room for anything out of place. Everything seems normal. I start filling the tub with water.

~A hot bath should soothe my aching muscles.~

I test the water, and it’s just right. I slowly lower myself into the tub until I’m fully submerged. The steam from the hot water has fogged up the mirrors.

I place a washcloth over my eyes and start to relax.

After a few minutes, I hear the sound of bubbles. I remove the washcloth from my eyes and see a single bubble at my feet. I replace the washcloth and try to relax again.

Suddenly, I feel something between my legs. I jump up, but there’s nothing there.

“Clayton!” I scream.

I look around the room, but there’s no sign of him. However, there’s writing on the mirror.

~That wasn’t me.~

I quickly get out of the tub and wrap myself in my robe. I turn around to find Clayton standing there.

“Jesus!” I exclaim, hastily covering myself.

“I don’t know why you’re covering up. I’ve seen every inch of you. If I were still alive, I’d be fifty-eight,” he says.

The most unsettling part is that I know he’s fifty-eight, but all I see is a young man staring back at me.

“I’ll have you know, it wasn’t me in your tub, but another ghost. He was a rapist and a murderer. He enjoyed torturing women while raping them.

“When he was done, he would slit their throats and watch them bleed out. So, in a way, when you killed a bunch of us, you got one right,” he says, then disappears.

I find my old journals and decide to start writing in them again.

***

~August 12, 1959: It’s been a while since I last wrote. Willie, my gardener and caretaker, and I have been managing the extra disturbances.~

~It’s been tough, but at seventy-three, dealing with unruly ghosts is becoming increasingly difficult. They don’t seem to be going anywhere. You’d think they’d get bored and leave.~

~I once read in a magazine that when someone dies, their spirit ascends and moves on to another realm. But if the soul is lost, with nowhere to go, it lingers near the place of their death.~

~That must be why my ghosts haven’t left. I don’t think they ever will.~

~May 14, 1961: I need to sort out my affairs. At seventy-five, I can’t manage the stairs anymore. I’ve been confined to my bedroom for the most part.~

~I’m also trying to find someone to inherit the estate. The only person that comes to mind is my niece, Dorothy. But she’s just thirteen. I don’t think I have another five years in me to wait for her to grow up in this house.~

~I’ve made arrangements with Mr. Stiles to stay and maintain the property until Dorothy is old enough to live here by herself.~

~I’ll leave a will and testament, but I won’t tell her about the house being haunted. Maybe she’ll get lucky, and they’ll leave her alone or simply vanish.~

^MAY 16, 1961^

WILLIE

I haven’t seen Ms. Headley for two days. I checked on her yesterday, but she wasn’t in her room. I assumed she might have gone to the store, but her car is still parked in the driveway.

I search the house for her, but she’s nowhere to be found. When I enter her room, I notice her closet door is ajar. The ladder to the attic is pulled down.

I grab my flashlight and ascend the ladder. At first, I don’t see anything until I hear the sound of creaking wood.

I direct my light towards the noise and find Clementine hanging from the rafters.

I look for a chair or something she might have used to reach up there, but the attic is empty. There’s nothing I can stand on.

I reach up and touch her hand. It’s cold—she’s dead. I shine my light around and see stacks of boxes and a chest.

On top of the chest is a note. I unfold the note, and it reads, ~Sorry.~

The note was resting on top of David Headley’s belongings.