Chapter Two: Midnight at Ashmoor House
1162 Words
Rowan hadn’t picked the flower.
She stared at the white camellia perched atop the piano bench keys. The petals seemed almost too perfect to match the yellowed ivory.
“Okay…” She whispered. “That is officially creepy.”
Glancing around the music room one last time before grabbing the flower, Rowan frowned when she realized how cool to the touch it was. Dew drops dotted each petal where they’d been freshly picked only moments ago.
Except every flower bed outdoors was littered with weeds.
There shouldn’t have been any flowers blooming on the property at all.
Slipping it into her jacket pocket, Rowan turned back toward the foyer just as dusk began to settle over Ashmoor House. Long shadows stretched across hardwood floorsboards, and the grandfather clock had resumed ticking.
She jumped when a voice spoke from behind her.
“You must be Rowan.”
Poking her head into the foyer was an older woman clutching a lantern.
Mrs. Holloway wore a dark green cardigan shirt with a long skirt. Wisps of silver hair escaped loose from the braid tied over her shoulder.
“I’ve kept house for your grandmother since she could hardly see over the kitchen table.” She said with a kind smile.
“You work here?” Rowan asked, startled.
The woman chuckled softly. “I suppose you could say the house pays me.”
There was too much emphasis on those last two words.
Affectionate. Too affectionate.
Mrs. Holloway led Rowan toward the kitchen where a pot of vegetable soup simmered on the stove.
“I wasn’t sure when you’d be getting back in.”
“You knew I was coming?” Rowan asked, doubtful.
“Your grandmother always knew someone would.” She stated flatly.
The sentence felt rehearsed.
Eyebrows knitting together in confusion, Rowan remained silent.
Mrs. Holloway spent the remainder of the evening schooling Rowan as they ate dinner. The electricity was unreliable, doors were off limits, and for whatever reason they were never to enter the west wing of Ashmoor House.
“No one’s entered the west wing in decades,” she clarified when Rowan asked why.
“What happened in the west wing?” Rowan pressed further.
The older woman hesitated, spoonful of food dangling from her hand.
“It doesn’t like to be forgotten.” She said simply.
Rowan sat in silence for a moment processing her words. Glancing up at Mrs. Holloway expecting more, Rowan found the elderly woman staring out the window pensively.
Something felt off about her.
“What do you mean it doesn’t like to be forgotten?”
Mrs. Holloway sighed, setting her utensils down with a clatter. “Come’ sit with me for a moment, dear.”
Stepping into Mrs. Holloway’s office, Rowan found a comfortable chair across from the elderly woman. Pushing her wheelchair aside, Mrs. Holloway took a seat beside Rowan.
Leaning closer, she took Rowan’s hands in her own. Her fingers were unnaturally cold.
“I should warn you, Rowan.”
Mrs. Holloway’s tone was sudden and grave. It hung in the air before she continued.
“Your grandmother keeps secrets.”
“What do you mean?” Rowan urged.
Mrs. Holloway sighed, leaning back into her seat. “There are things your grandmother won’t tell you. If you trust her, wonderful. But should she speak of certain things…”
She let the sentence trail off, eyes boring into Rowan’s.
“I should hope you’d question her.”
With that, Mrs. Holloway went quiet and Rowan grew uncomfortable underneath her gaze.
After a moment, Rowan nodded, taking her hand’s back. She thanked the old woman for dinner and excused herself for the night.
As Rowan ascended the grand staircase, she marveled at how huge Ashmoor House truly was. Downsizing had been her grandmother’s idea, not hers. Rowan preferred the idea of living somewhere compact; where she could look out every room if need be.
It was easier that way.
Still, she supposed visiting would be nice.
Once she reached her room upstairs, Rowan kicked her shoes off and crawled into bed. Curled into fetal position, she flipped through television channels until the screen grew too dim to make out colors.
That was when the storm hit.
Torrential downpour drummed against the windows as wind howled through trees surrounding Ashmoor House. Rowan tossed and turned in her grandmother’s oversized bed. Unable to sleep, she stared up at the ceiling.
It just felt…
Wrong.
The house whined and moaned endlessly.
Plumbing screeched.
Floorboards cried.
And then…
Music.
Someone was playing the piano downstairs.
Melodious notes trickled down the grand staircase, and Rowan scrambled for a hoodie before stepping into the hallway.
From downstairs, she could hear the tune.
Barefoot, Rowan followed the sound of music down the grand staircase. The music halted abruptly.
Silence.
Followed by laughter.
Dark. Soft. Playful.
Tickling down Rowan’s spine.
“Who’s there?” She called cautiously into the darkness.
No answer.
Creeping into the music room, Rowan paused. The piano was where she left it exactly.
Nothing else was in the room.
Yet one key depresses slowly, by itself.
A low note sounded hesitantly throughout the room.
Her heart stopped.
Rowan jumped back.
“Nope.”
Swinging around to leave– Rowan bumped into someone.
A boy stood only a few feet away from her.
He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen.
Dark hair tickled his forehead while eyes the color of storm clouds regarded Rowan curiously. He wore vintage clothing; a black vest over a crisp white button up with sleeves rolled to his elbows.
The boy looked human.
Too human.
Except…Rowan could see the moonlight reflecting off the wall through him.
The air stood still for several seconds between them.
“You stayed,” he stated, smile twitching at the corner of his lips.
His voice was soft and relieved.
Rowan’s heart began pounding in her chest.
“I… I can see you,” Rowan said simply.
The boy nodded once, dragging his finger across his own eye.
“I know.”
“You’re…?” Rowan questioned.
“A ghost?” He replied with a crooked smirk.
“I guess that’s one way to look at it.”
Rowan wanted to scream.
Leave.
Just run far away from here.
Instead she leaned in closer, curiosity getting the best of her.
“What’s your name?” Rowan whispered.
Elias stared into her eyes one last moment as rain poured down the windows beside him.
“Elias.”
Thunder loudly boomled from upstairs.
Both Elias and Rowan jumped, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling.
For what felt like the first time since noticing him…Elias frowned.
“You shouldn’t have come here tonight.”
Rowan gulped down a breath of air. “What do you mean?”
He stepped backward slowly, pause. Moonlight weaved through his body like mist.
“Because…” Elias paused, eyes widening in terror.
“…someone else in this house knows you’re here.”
- Writer
