Chapter 2: The House Next Door

4249 Words
The rest of the week wasn't quite as bad as Matt had feared. His coat turned up three days later in the lost and found, dirty but otherwise unharmed. Because Colin, Clayton, and Dylan had a large group of students they regularly picked on, Matt could often safely hide among the rest of the students. He also met a few students who were okay, although none of them seemed to have much in common with him other than a general dislike for the school and Colin's g**g. The one possible exception was Paul Stephens, a student in Matt's English class. Like Matt, Paul had lost his mother to a car accident, although it had happened eight years earlier when Paul was only in the second grade. With no mother and a father who drowned the pain of his wife's death in an endless river of beer, Paul had grown up to become a loner. Giving up on fitting in, he instead turned his interests to the occult. Although Matt didn't share Paul's obsession with vampires, ghosts, and other demons of the night, he could understand Paul's fascination with death. "Is it true?" Paul asked, when Matt mentioned that his house was on Hawthorne Drive. Matt nodded. "Whoa! You seen the old witch yet?" "You mean the old woman who lives in the Hawthorne House? No, not yet." "Of course, that's who I mean," Paul replied as though it were obvious. He glanced around to see if any teachers were near enough to overhear, then leaned forward and whispered, "Old Lady Hawthorne. She's an actual, honest-to-God witch." "Come on, Paul. This isn't one of your graphic novels, and Halloween's not 'til the end of next month. Besides, my American history teacher told us about the Hawthornes and Hawthorne House on the first day of school. She's only an old woman who has had shitty luck. She's probably just hiding from everyone because she doesn't trust people after her parents died and both her brother and her husband left her." "I'm not kidding, Matt. I don't care what your teacher said, 'cause everyone 'round here knows the real story. Fifty years ago, Old Lady Hawthorne found out her husband was having an affair with her best friend, the neighbor lady next-door. Old Lady Hawthorne was so pissed off, she poisoned him. Then she cut out his heart, cooked it up in a stew, and invited her former friend over for dinner. After her rival had eaten a piece of her husband's heart, Old Lady Hawthorne put a curse on her." Paul leaned even closer and continued. "She cast a spell that turned the woman into a dog. Sometimes people still see the phantom hound late at night, prowling around the graveyard looking for what's left of her lost lover." "You've been watching too many horror movies," Matt said, shaking his head in disbelief. "There's no such thing as witches. Besides, if she'd really done what you said, she'd still be in jail for murder instead of living next door to me." "Next door?" Paul asked, sounding really impressed. "Wicked! You actually live right next to the Hawthorne House? That means you live in the exact same house where her husband's mistress lived! They say Old Lady Hawthorne still holds a grudge against anyone who lives in that house. No one has ever stayed there for more than a few months before being forced to leave for one reason or another. You'll be gone before Christmas." Matt didn't buy a word of it. He wasn't na** enough to still believe in witches, spells, and spectral dogs haunting graveyards at midnight. Still, there was no denying that there was something strange about the old Victorian mansion next door. Later, when the school bus dropped the twins off in front of their home, Matt couldn't help walking over to the Hawthorne House's front gate and taking a good long look. At three and a half stories, the dilapidated old Victorian towered over the other houses in the neighborhood. Unlike the one and two-story wooden homes around it, the Hawthorne House was fashioned from large blocks of brownstone, making it appear more like a castle than a mere mansion. The house's most distinctive features were its three towers. The single circular window in the strangely-shaped roof of the square central tower gazed like a cycloptic eye over the neighborhood. On the left corner of the house stood an octagonal tower, while a round tower stood on the right. Both were topped with conical black slate roofs that looked remarkably like giant witches' hats. Although mostly hidden behind the corner towers, Matt could see the very tops of a pair of massive red-brick chimneys that ran up the center of both sides of the house. An ornamental iron grill stood atop the slate roof while ornate wrought-iron lightning rods topped the twin corner towers. Fancy gingerbread trim lined the slate roof of the ground floor's wrap-around porch. The final distinguishing feature of the house was the stained and cut-glass panels along the top of each window, above and on either side of the front door, and forming the ornate center windows of the second and third floors. In its prime, the Hawthorne House must have been truly magnificent. Now, the only evidence that the Hawthorne House had not been abandoned years ago were the thin streams of smoke rising from the row of narrow black chimney pots of the chimney facing Matt's home. Most of the paint on its porch and window frames had long since peeled off, and parts of its gingerbread trim hung loosely while several pieces were completely missing. The stained-glass panels were covered with so much grime that it was hard to tell their original colors. Finally, the yard looked like it hadn't been maintained since the house was built. An army of weeds had long ago conquered the flower beds, and in places, the grass would require a scythe instead of a lawnmower. Now that he thought about it, Matt realized that he'd never actually seen the old woman who supposedly lived there. He'd never seen a car parked in its driveway or on the street in front of the house. The only signs of the recluse were the occasional smoke from the chimneys, what appeared to be flickering candlelight coming through some of the windows in the evenings, and the man who delivered bags of groceries every Saturday. As the days passed, Matt became more and more curious about the old house. He asked Tina, but she'd only heard the same stories he'd heard from Paul. One night over dinner, Matt decided to ask his father about the house and its mysterious occupant. "Dad, was the house next door like it is now when you were growing up?" Sam Mitchell finished chewing and swallowing his roasted broccoli before saying, "Pretty much. It's looked more-or-less abandoned for as long as I can remember. Why'd you ask?" "Just curious, I guess. My American History teacher said the old woman who lives there is probably a recluse because she's lost her parents in a car wreck, her brother left town, and her husband ran away with her best friend. But the kids at school say she's a witch who murdered her husband." "That's what I heard, too," Tina added. "Kathy Perkins from Spanish class swears one of her brother's friends saw Old Lady Hawthorne flying on a broom over the lake a few years ago. "Now, kids, don't tell me you still believe in witches," Sam said, as he looked incredulously at the twins. "No, of course not," Matt replied somewhat indignantly. "But you got to admit the house is creepy, and just because she isn't a witch doesn't mean she didn't kill her husband." "Now, you can stop right there," Sam said with more than a little annoyance. "She was never charged with any crime, and you should assume people are innocent until proven guilty. I want the two of you to promise me you'll mind your own business and not spread cruel rumors about our next-door neighbor. If she wants to be left alone, then we need to leave her in peace." Matt didn't know it, but he was going to meet Old Lady Hawthorne very soon. The reason was money-he didn't have any. He and Tina hadn't been getting their weekly allowances in the three months since their mother died. One evening as Matt was finishing loading the dinner dishes into the dishwasher, Matt asked, "So Dad, how's work going?" Sam looked up from his laptop and the computer books covering the kitchen table. "Okay, I guess. I'm a little rusty, and I'm not up to speed yet on some of the newer technologies, but I'm getting there." "I don't suppose there's any chance you've been given a raise yet?" Sam shook his head. "Matt, I've only been working there a couple of months. People don't usually get raises until they've been working for at least a full year. What's this about?" "Well, it's been some time since you've been able to give Tina and me allowances. When do you think we might start getting them again? I can't buy any new CDs or video games, and I'm getting really bored with my old ones." "Matt, do you have any idea how incredibly expensive your mom's medical and funeral bills were? By the time they were paid, we barely had enough money left over to make it here and cover the first month's rent and the deposit on the house." "I know, Dad. I overheard you talking to Uncle James about it. I just hoped that maybe things weren't quite as bad as they sounded." "I wish they weren't, but without the money from your mom's pottery, we're basically living month to month. We just can't afford any unnecessary expenses right now, and I'm afraid that includes allowances. I'll have to get a raise first, and I'm not sure how I'm going to do that until I get a lot better at writing and debugging software. Creating real code is a lot harder than teaching intro to programming back at Port Orford High, and I'm competing against co-workers practically half my age who are twice as fast as I am." "That's okay, Dad. I understand. But I've got to get some money somehow. I'll go crazy if I don't get some new CDs and video games." "Well, son, how about getting yourself a job?" "But, Dad, no one's going to hire me. I'm only fifteen, and you have to be at least sixteen to work at a fast-food restaurant or grocery store. Besides, between my homework on weeknights and not being old enough to drive, who's going to give me a job?" "Matt, I'm sorry, but you're just making excuses. Tina has started babysitting, and you can mow lawns like I did when I was your age. You could help people with house and yard work. Maybe you can find something here in the neighborhood, and you can always ride your bike to jobs." "But..." "I know! Tomorrow's Saturday, and you can begin by going next door. Introduce yourself to Mrs. Hawthorne, and offer to help her with her yard. Given the nasty things that kids have been saying about her, I bet she'd appreciate some help." Matt gave his father a dubious look. "Just think about it, okay? If you want the money badly enough, you'll find a way to make it happen. In the meantime, do what I do and listen to music on YouTube. It's free, and you can find just about everything." "Okay, Dad. I'll think about it." Matt finished loading the dishwasher and went upstairs. He grudgingly started on his homework, but not before spending half an hour exploring YouTube's massive repository of music and discovering several new groups. The next morning after breakfast, Matt put on some old work clothes and walked next door to the Hawthorne House. Although he was curious to finally see what his next-door neighbor looked like, he also had to admit to himself that the house got creepier the closer he got to it. The weather-worn gate creaked loudly as he opened it, and a few enormous spiders wove webs in the weeds and dead rosebushes behind the fence. Several of the ornate spindles under the wrap-around porch railing were either missing or hanging loosely at an angle. Climbing up the front steps, he carefully stepped over a broken board and walked up to the front door. Matt looked for a button to ring the doorbell but couldn't find one. There was only a large ornate doorknocker in the shape of a laughing gargoyle on the old oak door. He lifted it and let it fall. The resulting thud was much louder than Matt expected, but nothing happened. He let the knocker fall again. After a few seconds, he heard footsteps and saw a shadow through one of the two narrow stained-glass windows that bordered each side of the door. An old woman's wavering voice demanded, "Who's there?" "Excuse me, Mrs. Hawthorne," Matt said, addressing the shadow through the glass. "My name is Matt Mitchell, and I live next door. I was wondering if you might have any jobs I could do for you. I could cut your lawn or work on your flower beds." "Just a second, young man," the shadow behind the glass said, speaking with an accent Matt didn't recognize. Then he heard the clicks of four separate locks and the scraping sound of a deadbolt sliding back. The big oak door slowly creaked open a few inches before being stopped by a thick safety chain. With the curtains closed, the room behind her was as dark as a long-abandoned crypt, but the cool air from inside smelled of lavender and candles. An old woman peered out at him from behind the chain that hung between the door and its frame. Her snow-white hair and pale complexion from decades hidden from the sun stood in stark contrast to the old-fashioned black dress that covered everything but her head and hands. Emerald eyes gazed out from skin that was heavily wrinkled with age and loneliness. "Let me take a look at you, young man," she said, gazing intently at him over her half-moon reading glasses. "Are you sure that you'ah not just heah tah play some sick joke on a helpless old woman? Did Colin O'Connell or Clayton Cartwright put you up tah this? Why are you really heah?" She glared over his shoulder for any sign of someone hiding behind the trunks of the old oak trees lining Hawthorne Drive. "No one has put me up to anything, Mrs. Hawthorne, except maybe my father," Matt replied, trying not to flinch under the powerful gaze of her deep-set eyes. He was definitely insulted at her suggestion that he would be swayed by the likes of bullies who delighted in making him miserable. "I'm Matt Mitchell, and I live next door. I really need to make some money, and my father suggested I might be able to earn some by helping you with your yard." "We'll see," Mrs. Hawthorne said skeptically, apparently satisfied for now that Matt was alone. "I'll tell you what. You work on my dooah yahd for an hour, and if you work hahd and do a good job, you're hired." The old woman spoke with a strange accent that stretched out some words and softened the letter 'R' to the point where it occasionally vanished. "If not, then you can just go back and tell your friends you've seen and talked with the infamous Old Lady Hawthorne, the murderer of wayward husbands and caster of wicked spells." With that, she chuckled and shut the door in Matt's face. "Well, I'll be," Matt muttered to himself, wondering what to do next as he listened to her relock each lock and slide the deadbolt back into place. And what did she mean by dooah yahd? Did she mean her front yard? He almost decided to go somewhere else, but then it dawned on him that this might just be her weird way of testing him. In the end, her remark about him being a member of Colin O'Connell's g**g decided the issue. He'd rather pass her test than live down to her poor expectations of him. Since she hadn't offered him the use of her lawnmower (if she even had one), he went back home, gassed up his father's lawnmower, and started cutting the grass in her front yard. It definitely wasn't easy work. The yard was so overgrown that every few feet, Matt had to push down on the handle to lift its front end to keep the blades from stalling. Later, he returned home to get his father's rake and lawn bags for the mowed grass. Before long, sweat was dripping onto his glasses and into his eyes. This is ridiculous, Matt thought. At this rate, I'll never get done. But then he remembered how she'd asked him if he was one of Colin's minions. That only made him even more determined not to quit. Thirsty, Matt was about to head back home for a drink when he heard Mrs. Hawthorne call. "Boy, come over heah," she said, her head framed behind the partially open door. Wiping the sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve, Matt walked up onto the porch. "Yes, Mrs. Hawthorne?" "I've been watchin' you, young man," she said, handing him a drink under the door's security chain. It was a tall, thin glass of homemade lemonade, cool and refreshing with just the right mix of fresh-squeezed lemons, sugar, and just a hint of honey. "It seems that I owe you an apology," she continued after he handed back the empty glass. "Apparently, you really ah interested in earnin' some spendin' money. You can work six hours each Saturday, and I'll pay you five dollars an hour, plus an extra dollar foah each hour that you work as hahd as you have so far this mornin'. Deal?" She extended a thin age-spotted hand through the narrow opening. "Deal!" Matt answered, shaking the extended hand. Her grip, though bony, was surprisingly firm. "Well, you can start weedin' the flowerbeds when you finish mowin' the dooah yahd, and I'll pay you when you'ah done for the day." With that, she calmly closed the door, and Matt could once again hear the turning of locks and the sliding of the deadbolt. During the remainder of the morning, Matt mowed the front lawn, raked until his arms ached, and dragged what seemed like an endless succession of overflowing lawn bags out to the road for the garbage men to pick up. Matt was starving by the time Tina called him home for lunch. "Well, I see you've followed my advice," Sam said, smiling approvingly as he watched his son wolf down a second sandwich. "I looked over a couple of times this morning, and it looks like you've been doing a great job so far. So, how much are you making?" "She's paying me five dollars an hour plus an extra dollar an hour as long as I keep working as hard as I have today," Matt replied between mouthfuls. "And she's letting me work six hours each weekend. At this rate, I'll have enough to buy one of the video games I've been wanting by the time I'm finished this afternoon." "So, Matt, what's Old Lady Hawthorne like?" Tina asked. "I don't know," Matt answered, stopping to think. "Old, I guess... old and strange." "Strange? How so?" she asked. "Well, she's kind of paranoid. She must have half a dozen locks on the door, and she only opens her door a couple inches to talk to me. And she stands right behind the opening like she's trying to keep me from seeing inside." "Sounds to me more like she was afraid of you," Matt's father countered. "An old lady living alone can't be too cautious around strangers." "Maybe," Matt replied. "Then, there's also her funny accent. "Her accent?" Tina asked, more curious about that than the multiple locks on their neighbor's door. "What's she sound like?" "The most obvious thing is she usually doesn't pronounce the letter r on the ends of words. She'll say things like fathah instead of father and youah instead of your. And she doesn't pronounce the g on words that end with ing. She'll say stuff like workin' instead of working." "You know," Sam said, "there are lots of people who don't say the g's on the ends of words." "Yeah, Dad. I know," Matt said. "But it's really obvious when she does it. And that's not all. She stretches out some of her vowels, so they sound like they're two syllables long." Matt paused to think of a good example. "For instance, she'll say doo-ah instead of door, fo-ah instead of for, and he-ah instead of here. I've never heard anyone do that before." "Strange," Tina observed. "And that's not the strangest thing. She calls her yard a door yahd." "That is weird," Tina said. "Me, neither." "I'm not sure," Sam said, "not having ever spoken to the lady myself, but it sounds to me like she could be from someplace in New England. Maybe Maine. Regardless, remember it's not polite to call someone's accent funny. After all, from her point of view, you might be the one with the funny accent." "Okay, Dad," Matt said. "I did hear in school that her mother was from Maine, but she was born right here in Hawthorne, right next door in fact. But if she grew up here, then why does she have a different accent?" "Well, you got me there, Matt," Sam said. "Once you get to know her better, why don't you ask her? I bet she'd appreciate someone showing a little interest in her after all these years living alone. Old folks usually like talking about their experiences when they were young. Just remember to be polite about it, and who knows what you might hear." Ten minutes later, Matt was back at the Hawthorne House mowing the backyard. There was far too much for him to do to get bored, and the rest of the afternoon passed surprisingly fast. A small ornately-carved table holding a glass and a cut-crystal pitcher of fresh lemonade had appeared on the porch, and Matt felt amazingly refreshed and invigorated after each time he paused to drink. Although he never saw Mrs. Hawthorne step outside of the house, the jug was always full and inviting. Matt was amazed at his progress. He completed the mowing and started on the front flowerbeds. He cut and pulled weeds until he had several more lawn bags standing out by the road. Although the yard still needed a lot of work before it would look as good as those of the other houses on the block, it no longer looked like it belonged on the set of a horror movie. Overall, Matt was pleased with himself, even if his hands and arms ached from all the work he'd done. When his six hours for the day were over, he stepped up on the porch, but before he could lift the doorknocker, the front door creaked opened a few inches to reveal Mrs. Hawthorne's smiling face behind the security chain. "I must admit that I'm impressed, young man, and that is not somethin' that happens very often when you're as old as I am," she said, glancing over his shoulders to her newly transformed front yard. "Next Saturday, I shall tell you which of the plants tah dig up and how tah trim the ones that are worth keepin'. If you continue workin' like this, then we may yet complete the flowerbeds before the first frost." With this, she held out three crisp ten-dollar bills and the additional six one-dollar bills she'd promised for his continued hard work. "Thank you, Mrs. Hawthorne," Matt said, taking the money and stuffing it into a pocket of his dirty jeans. "I'm glad I could prove to you I'm not one of Colin O'Connell's gang." "And thank you, Mr. Mitchell, for the good, honest work you did. And for lettin' me prove tah you that I'm not the wicked old witch they say I am," she said, with an odd little smile before she once more closed, locked, and bolted her front door. The next morning, Matt awoke with sore arms and back, but also with a sense of pride in the obvious difference he'd made in his neighbor's yard. As he lay in bed enjoying his feeling of accomplishment, two things dawned on him. He hadn't fallen asleep missing his mother, and his reoccurring nightmare hadn't terrorized his sleep. And so it continued each Saturday in September. Matt weeded and replanted the flowerbeds, trimmed dead branches from the trees, and scraped and repainted the picket fence in front of the old Hawthorne House. He even replaced the broken board on the front steps and fixed a couple of window shutters that needed new screws. Each Saturday morning, Mrs. Hawthorne gave him new chores, and rain or shine, he worked his six hours. Each Saturday afternoon, Matt returned home, exhausted but thirty-six dollars richer. But not once did she fully open her front door or invite him in.
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