Rachel Gibson: True Confessions

She shoved her sunglasses into her bag, left the door open just in case, and made her way further inside the house. To her left, the dining room was filled with heavy sideboards and an ornate china hutch. Both could benefit from a dose of lemon oil and Windex. A long table took up most of the space, and an issue of Hunter’s Digest and a block of wood had been shoved under one leg. A fine layer of dust covered everything.

While the dining room gave off the impression of neglected elegance, the living room, to her right resembled a hunting lodge. Overstuffed leather and wood furnishings, a television with rabbit-ear antennae, a bearskin hanging over the rock fireplace. On the hearth stood a stuffed bobcat, teeth and claws bared. The coffee and end tables were constructed of antlers and topped with glass. And on the walls, more antlers, and dozens of impressive animal heads with huge racks were nailed above the wainscoting. Hemingway would have loved it, but Hope thought it looked like an accident waiting for a victim. She could imagine walking through this room at night and impaling herself.

Her bootheels echoed in the empty house as she made her way to the kitchen. Except for the past three years, Hope had always lived with someone. Her parents, college roommates, and then her ex-husband. Now she lived alone, and while she much preferred it, for the first time in a long time, she wished she had a big strapping man walking in front of her, shielding her from the unknown. A man she could curl into and hide behind. A man the size of the sheriff she’d met earlier. Hope was five-seven, and the sheriff had easily been half a foot taller-all broad shoulders, hard muscles, and zero body fat.

She stepped into the kitchen and turned on the light. Gold. The linoleum, the countertops, and the appliances-everything except the wrought-iron pots-and-pans rack hanging above the stove. She pulled open the oven door and discovered a dead mouse lying prostrate on the broiler pan. She let go, the door slammed shut, and she again thought of the sheriff and of how sometimes men did have their uses.

Before he’d reached for his sunglasses, Sheriff Taber’s deep green eyes had studied her from a face more suited for the silver screen than the wilderness of Idaho.

He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome. Pretty boys lost their looks in middle age, and there was no way anyone would ever mistake the sheriff for a boy. He was all man, a towering hunk with a smile that could easily turn a no into a yes, make a weak woman stand a bit straighter, stick her chest out a bit farther, and want to flip her hair. Hope didn’t consider herself a weak woman, but even she had to admit that she’d checked her posture several times during the course of their short conversation.

She didn’t know what she’d expected the law enforcement to look like in this part of the world. Maybe like the pencil-thin deputy, or maybe like Andy Griffith. A “gee, shucks” country bumpkin. But behind those green eyes and that easy smile was an obvious intelligence that could never be mistaken for a hayseed.

Hope made her way back through the living room to the stairs leading to the second floor. She flipped the switch at the bottom of the step, but nothing happened. Either the light didn’t work or the bulb was burned out. She stood for a moment gazing up into the deep shadows of the second floor; then she forced herself to walk up the darkened stairs, her heart pounding in her ears.

Sunlight spilled into the hall from four of the five open doors, and a faint smell of something slightly familiar from the edges of her childhood, like a long-forgotten memory, penetrated the hot air. Hope walked to the first room and peered inside. The heavy drapes were shut against the light from outside, but she could make out the shape of the bed and the dressers covered with drop cloths. She could see the outline of an old wardrobe, the doors thrown open. The smell intensified, bringing with it the recognition of ammonia and the faint memory of the summer of ‘75-the one and only time she’d attended Girl Scout camp.

Hope reached for the light switch next to the door. There were spots on the floors and drop cloths like dried mud, and she recognized them for what they were a split second before she heard the telling squeak, the sharp, scratchy nails, and the flutter of wings from within the wardrobe.

Two shadows swept toward her, and just like she was ten again, standing in the doorway of her cabin at Camp Piney Mountain, she opened her mouth and screamed. But unlike that time twenty-five years ago, she spun around on the heels of her boots and ran like hell. This time she didn’t wait for the slap of bat wings against her cheeks or the tangle of bat claws in her hair.

She flew down the stairs, past the wall of antlers, and out the front door. She was still screaming when she jumped off the porch, her feet in motion even before she landed. Her heart pounded faster than her boots, and she didn’t stop until she was safely hidden on the far side of her car. Her chest ached as she crouched on her knees in the dirt, sucking hot air into her lungs.

“OhmyGod-ohmyGod-ohmyGod,” she wheezed and placed her hand on her throat. She saw spots in front of her eyes, and beneath her fingers she felt her pulse pounding at warp speed. If she didn’t slow it down, she would pass out, or have a heart attack, or burst something vital in her head. She didn’t want to die. Not in the dirt. Not in the wilderness of Idaho.

Hope took a deep breath and stuck her head between her knees. She was going to kill that realtor. Just as soon as she caught her breath, she was going to jump in her car, drive to Sun Valley and mow him down. She thought of the realtor’s face, and she heard laughter-real laughter-for the first time.

Hope lifted her gaze and glanced to her left at two young boys doubled over. Both were shirtless. Both wore blue nylon shorts and brown cowboy boots. One pointed at her while the other held himself as if he were trying not to wet his pants. They were having a real good time at her expense. She didn’t care. She could practically feel an aneurism bursting in her head and was way beyond feeling remotely humiliated.

“You-you-you,” the one pointing at her stuttered before he collapsed in the road, laughing so hard his bony shoulders shook.

Hope raised herself enough to peer over the rear of her car toward the house. “Did you see bats fly out after me?” she asked above their high-pitched laughter.

The boy holding himself shook his head.

“Are you sure?” She stood, then dusted off the knees of her jeans.

“Yep.” He giggled and finally dropped his hands to his sides. “Just saw you fly out.”

She reached for her sunglasses in the purse that was no longer on her shoulder. She placed a hand on her brow to shield her eyes and looked across the dirt yard. No Bally bag. No sunglasses. No car keys. She’d obviously dropped the purse inside. Probably upstairs. By the bat room.

“Do you boys want to earn a few bucks?”

At the offer of money, the boy on the ground jumped to his feet, although he couldn’t quite control his laughter. “How much?” he managed.

“Five dollars.”

“Five dollars!” the boy who’d been holding himself gasped. “To share or apiece?”

“Apiece.”

“Wally, we could get a bunch more darts for our guns.”

For the first time, Hope noticed the neon-orange pistols and matching rubber darts stuck in the waistbands of both boys’ shorts.

“Yeah, and candy, too,” Wally added.

“What do we gotta do?”

“Go in that house and get my purse.”

Their smiles fell. “In the Donnelly house?”

“It’s haunted.”

Hope studied the faces before her. The boy named Wally had copper-red hair and was covered with freckles. The other kid looked at her from big green eyes and a face framed by short dark curls. He had a missing front tooth, and the new one was growing in a bit crooked. “Ghosts live in there,” he said.