The Abel House

Two

So here was something lame: Dad actually expected for me to help out around the house. I thought the pink bedroom stunt, combined with having to live in Oregon, was my punishment, but apparently now I had to provide unpaid labor.

I was one more, “Reagen, can you go lay down the tarp?” from calling Child Protective Services.

To my credit, I hadn’t actually complained out loud that much. I had mostly accepted my fate and done my chores, but I was starting to get pissed. Losing my friends and city and life had been bad enough, and now all of this… There was only so much I could take.

I’d been in this house for a week now, and it sucked. There wasn’t any Wi-Fi and hardly any service, so even if I wanted to call a social worker, I couldn’t; that was real tricky of my dad. There wasn’t anything to do in the place except walk around and explore, and I’d done all of that already.

So on that ripe Tuesday—I think it was the last day of June—I walked right up to my dad and demanded that I be allowed to go out and do something. He was a little shocked by my tone, but he didn’t argue with me.

“Well, there are some things in town that I need,” Dad said.

“Okay, excellent, let’s go!”

He frowned. “Well, I didn’t mean right now.”

I gave him a hard stare, dangerously close to throwing a tantrum. “Dad.” He didn’t seem to be giving in, so I begrudgingly added, “Please…”

And bam, just like that, he let out a long sigh, and I knew I had won. My grin fell, however, when he said, “But I’ll need you to help me get some things.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “What things?” I asked cautiously.

“I need paint,” he told me.

“For my room?” I asked hopefully.

“No.”

“Oh. Well, all right. Let’s go!”

Dad wasn’t used to me being in a good mood, so he had to blink a few times before responding. “I’ll go get my keys and meet you outside,” he managed.

I nodded and did as I was told, too excited to be free to mindlessly argue. I was sure to grab a coat, in case it got windy, before going outside and waiting dutifully by the car for my dad. He joined me soon enough, and moments later we were heading down the long driveway and onto the main road.

Luckily my dad wasn’t in a chatty mood, which was good for me since I’d forgotten to bring my headphones. So instead of talking or listening to the radio, we thought to ourselves. It was nice.

I spent the ride looking out the window and, almost as if for the first time, really seeing—seeing the immense amount of green everywhere, such lively growth, and the mountains, and the lake we’d just driven past. Even me, a born and bled city girl, had to admit that it was pretty.

For all of Oregon’s faults, it was not bad to look at.

Before I knew it, I saw approaching houses and buildings and knew that we were close to town. Eagerly, hungrily, I returned my eyes to the window to observe Cape Mary and its inhabitants.

The first thing we passed closely was a small, white chapel with a surrounding graveyard on the main road. I studied the final resting place for a little too long. Graveyards had always given me a bad feeling; it had nothing to do with the dead people there… rather… I just didn’t like the reminder that I was going to die, too. That we were all going to die.

So I turned away from my window and went to look out the windshield instead. In the corner of my eyes were houses far between, fences, and some kids running around with sticks, doing things that they probably shouldn’t be. And then, with a turn, I saw that we were approaching Main Street. It was labelled as such with a worn-down street sign, metal with peeling paint at the top.

The street itself had ten or so shops on each side of the road—as far as I could see. Each shop wasn’t very large, and most had a sign hanging out in front of it, indicating the name and the things that they sold in smaller letters. It all felt very… old-timey. There was a certain aesthetic to it all.

The car turned into an open parking space in front of what looked to be the largest building on the street—a grocery store. It seemed to be the busiest place as well.

“All right, I have to get some groceries,” Dad said suddenly, making me look at him, and while my gaze was on him he turned off the car and opened his door. I carefully followed the action, opening my own door, closing it with a thud, and stepping out onto the sidewalk.

The air was chilly, and I was glad I had brought my jacket, which I now put around me. I zipped it up tight, put my hands in the pockets.

Dad came up beside me moments later and continued, “The hardware store is right over there,” he pointed to a small brick building across the street, and I followed his finger with my eyes, “and that’s where you’ll get the paint. White.”

“Okay. So I’ll meet you at the car when I’m done?”

“Exactly,” he said and reached into his back pocket. He took out his wallet, searched through it, then handed me a twenty-dollar bill.

“For me?” I asked happily.

“For the paint.”

I frowned and grabbed the money, grasping it tightly in my hand. “Fine, fine,” I muttered.

Seeming that there was nothing else to say or do, I went to cross the street—of course, looking both ways beforehand. It was completely clear, but I still jogged across the road. It was never a good idea to take your time doing things like this.

When I made it to the other side, I let out an I-am-out-of-shape sigh, then turned when I heard someone call my name. It was my dad—and when he saw that he had my attention, he added, “Remember, white paint!”

I gave him a two-finger salute from across the street. This seemed to appease him; he went into his store, and, after a slight hesitation, I went into my own.

The store clerk—a middle aged man—looked up, and then back down disinterestedly as I entered. He was reading a book from some bogus author with completely boring cover art, and yet he seemed enthralled.

I looked away from him with an eye roll and focused on my mission. I started down the closest aisle to me, hands still tightly holding the money, part of me afraid I would lose it.

The aisle wasn’t long, and it was full of tools of all shapes and sizes and different uses that were lost to me. Quickly I realized that paint wouldn’t be here, and I went to the next aisle, eyes already searching. I was so involved in my task that I didn’t notice the other person on the aisle—that is, until she spoke.

“What are you looking for?” asked a girl. The voice came from my right, startling me, and I turned to face her. The girl looked to be maybe a year or two younger than me, but age was tricky to know with teenagers, so I peered closer.

Her hair was blonde, face deeply freckled, with eyes dark brown like my own. She was pretty and wore no make-up, which led me to think that she didn’t know how to apply it. She was probably younger than me, then.

“Paint,” I said.

“Oh, that’s two aisles over. This is the nail aisle. I need a bunch of nails for—you know, it isn’t really important.” She looked closer at me. “Hey, are you new here? I don’t recognize you, and I know pretty much everyone,” she said.

“I’m new.” I hesitated. “I guess. I mean, I’m just here for the summer, so…”

“Oh. Are you visiting or something?”

“Uh… yeah.”

She blinked, a little surprised that anyone would want to visit this town. I understood the sentiment. “Where are you staying?” she asked.

“With my dad. He’s renovating the big house up on Willow Road, turning it into a hotel.”

“Willard Road… Oh!” Her eyes got wide with excitement. “The Abel House, you mean?”

“The what?” I asked. It had a name?

“The Abel House,” she repeated in a slow way, like I was dumb. “It’s the place where…” She drifted off and studied me closer. “Oh, wow, you really don’t know?”

I gave the girl sort of a mean look. She was starting to tick me with her know-it-all attitude. She was younger than me, so obviously I knew more, and she ought to know that. “Know what?” I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest.

“About the murders,” she said, in the same duh way as before.

I would’ve been angry at her for not having picked up on my cues for her to quit acting smart, but that one word halted all emotions except for fear. My body froze. Murders?

What?

The girl blinked and offered an apologetic smile. “Are you freaked out? You look freaked out. Sorry. I didn’t mean to spring that on you. It’s just… everyone knows about what happened. I just figured…”

My surprise faded and annoyance reappeared. There she went again. I just figured. Was she trying to be rude, or was this kid just clueless? “It’s fine,” I said sharply, then warned myself to chill when I saw the hurt look on her face. I let out a small sigh. “Sorry. What murders?”

Her eyes brightened, which was weird. What kind of person got excited at the mention of senseless death? “The Abel House murders are real famous around here,” she started, excided and loud—and then, as if realizing she shouldn’t be so excited about this kind of stuff, she lowered her voice. “Ten years ago, this guy shot his wife and daughter in their new home, then he killed himself.”

Whoa. I blinked and shook my head. “Why?” I asked.

She shrugged. “He went crazy, I guess. No one really knows.”

I thought about it for a second, a sense of unease arising. “So they died in that house?”

“The very one you live in, yeah!” she confirmed.

Oh… God. I didn’t know what to feel exactly right then—disgust for stepping on wood floors that people had once died on, anger at my dad for having not told me, sad because two innocent people were killed, confusion over how someone could do such a thing to his family. I guess I felt all of it—all at once.

“That’s terrible,” I said with disdain.

“Yeah,” she agreed, but she didn’t have as much emotion in her voice. I guessed growing up with the story had desensitized her to it. “My dad—he’s a cop—he worked on the case. It was a pretty big deal.”

I sighed, thinking. “Why is it called the Abel House?” I asked her.

“That was their last name,” she replied. “The Abels.”

We stood in silence for a few seconds, the girl shifting and fidgeting awkwardly. She obviously had more to say, but I wasn’t sure I could take any more revelations. Normally, I could handle death. Living in New York City, there was a lot to go around. There was always someone dying from an overdose or a knife fight, and I was used to all of that, but this was different. These deaths felt… personal. Dying in a shootout or from heroin was different from getting killed by your father or husband.

And I’d never lived where those people had died either! Now I had a tie to these people.

“The legends of the Abel House are crazy,” the girl suddenly exploded, unable to control herself any longer. I wondered kind of meanly if she might have an impulse issue. “I just—I mean—have you seen any ghosts? Had any encounters?”

“Um, no,” I said. I didn’t believe in that sort of thing.

“Are you sure? Everyone says they hear voices at the Abel House,” she went on. “I heard that famous ghost show, you know, Seeking Answers, might go out there and try to contact the other side.”

I didn’t really know what to say, but she seemed to want an answer. “Uh… nope, I haven’t heard about Seeking Answers.”

Something in my tone must have told her that she was being a bit much because she blushed slightly. “Sorry if I seem overeager about all of this—see, I’m a writer, and I’m working on a horror story right now. I need all the material I can get. Here, have my card.”

The girl handed me a very finely printed business card with the following text:

SUNNY DAVIS

AUTHOR

(541) - 974 - 8337

SPECIAL SKILLS:

-INVESTIGATING

-CLARINET

-WRITING

I blinked for a few seconds before putting the card in my back pocket. I was a little surprised by her professionality. Was it high time for me to get a business card, too? “A writer—that’s cool. Can I find your work anywhere?” I asked her.

She hesitated at this. “Well… I’m not actually published. But that’s where you come in! If I can get some good ghost encounter stories from you, I’ll be sure to make it to the big league!” And then she started spouting off some names of what I assumed to be famous authors—all of which I’d never heard of.

“Yeah… sure,” I said, interrupting her. “If I see anything… spooky, I’ll, uh, tell you.”

“Thanks!” I think Sunny sensed that I was uncomfortable because her grin weakened. “All right, I should, uh, head out. It was nice to meet you, though…”

It took me a second to realize that she was fishing for my name. “Reagen,” I said.

“Reagen! It was nice to meet you, Reagen!” Her smile turned a bit more genuine as she suddenly backed up towards the doors to the store. She was about to leave when she called, “And, hey, don’t forget to call me if you find any ghosts!”

I saw the store owner give me a baffled look, which made my cheeks heat. “Yeah, will do,” I bit out, and Sunny grinned and left.

As soon as she was gone, my shoulders fell in relief, and it was as though I’d released something heavy I had been carrying. And then I very quickly remembered what she had told me, and a new weight—a real heavy one, too—landed right on my back. I thought I might collapse from the strain of it.

People had died where I now lived, and they hadn’t died that long ago either.

Suddenly filled with some sort of desperate energy, I left the store in a rush, without the paint. On the sidewalk, my eyes searched all over for my dad, and I found him across the street, packing bags into the car. My jaw set dangerously, and I gave him a hard stare, before I crossed the road.

He looked up as I approached, then back down as he continued to put his last few bags in the back seat. “Would you help me with this?” he spoke.

“No,” I said.

He sighed. “Where’s the paint?” he asked.

Excuse me, I would be asking the questions here. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded furiously with clenched fists.

“What?” he said, still not looking up.

I banged one of my hands on the closed car door of his stupid, killing-the-environment car, making him finally meet my eyes—so he could give me a confused and half-hearted glare. “What is going on with you?” he asked. “Why are you doing that?”

”I’m mad.”

“Why are you mad?” he said, a bit tiredly, closing the car door as he finished his task.

“I’m mad because you didn’t tell me that we were living in a crime scene,” I replied icily.

He paused in what he was doing—he had been just about to put the receipt in his back pocket, but his hand stayed frozen in the air. “How…” he began slowly. He blinked and looked at me. He didn’t seem very surprised that I’d found out, but he also didn’t appear to be pleased. “Reagen, it’s not a crime scene.”

“Dad,” I said, “people were murdered in that house. If it was a crime scene once, I’m considering it a crime scene now.”

He basically ignored what I said. “Who told you about what happened?” he asked.

“Why does it matter?” I replied. “You knew, didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He took a moment to think of something to say, and he decided to tell me, “People die all the time, Reagen.” And he was so carefree when he said that; he put the receipt in his pocket and stared evenly at me, like I was being very unreasonable.

I ignored his look and focused on his words. Even for him, this was a bizarre thing to say. “Yeah, people die,” I said stiffly, “but murder isn’t common.”

He went quiet. His lack of a response was starting to piss me off.

“It was a family, too!” I hissed, and here I raised my voice because I felt like he wasn’t hearing me. “They had a little girl. Okay, that’s messed up!”

“Yes, it was a terrible tragedy,” his voice was but a hissed whisper, which was his obvious attempt to tell me to match the volume, “but it happened a long time ago. It has nothing to do with us.”

“Nothing to…” I drifted off, absolutely dumbfounded. This went against everything I had been taught about compassion and empathy and decency. “Dad, we live there! It has everything to do with us!”

He glanced up at a passerby walking suspiciously close to us. Once this person was gone, Dad turned to me and said very sternly, “We will continue this talk at home.”

Home. That place was not my home.

I clutched my hands into fists, crunching the bill I’d been holding for all of this time. There was something sharp in my chest, pressing on my gut. I felt the cold, stinging cut of betrayal. He should have told me about this.

“I’m going to go get the paint,” Dad went on. “Stay here.”

My eyes followed his back as he crossed the street, and I wanted desperately to disobey his command. I wanted to not stay right there, but I didn’t know where to go, or what to do, and my legs felt weak. And so despite my overwhelming urge to rebel, I climbed inside of the open car and took a seat.

My hands felt cold, so I put the bill down in a cupholder and began to rub my fingers against one another for warmth. It didn’t help much, but it was something to do.

Pretty soon, Dad was back. He put the white paint in the back seat, and then climbed into the front and started the car. He didn’t say anything, even though I knew he felt my eyes on him. And I wondered—I had to wonder—how someone like him was capable of such deception.

We drove in silence, just like before, but this silence wasn’t at all comfortable. It was awkward, and it hurt me.

When we arrived at the house, the Abel House, Dad turned to me and asked if I wanted to talk about what had happened in town. I told him that I didn’t. I didn’t want to talk to him. I went and locked myself in my room.