CHAPTER 1
Eric
The Masson House of Degener, Texas, was like the corpse of an old monster, too strange and feared for most to approach it, much less attempt to bury it. After all, it might be feigning death or dormant.
In the primary photograph of the full-page ad, the house’s rectangular windows reflected the sun. Behind the house, the treetops looked close enough to brush the walls of the second floor when the wind blew. It was gaunt and gray, old and sickly. Four stories tall and narrow enough to be mistaken for an optical illusion, like the photographer was one step to the left or right away from revealing the other half or two-thirds of the house they had skillfully hidden.
Another picture showed the house overlooking a shallow valley and three buildings that, according to the description beneath the photo, once comprised an orphanage, and before that a family estate.
Eric Ross could not find much more about the house online. A wiki of “The Most Haunted Places in Texas” stated, “If the Masson House came to life one night and climbed down the hill to destroy that old orphanage, no one in Degener would be quite as shocked as you’d think.” Eric wondered whether he should share this part with his older daughter, Dess, or just show her the ad, keeping to himself the quick research he was doing in the motel’s “complimentary office”—a small, doorless closet with a sluggish computer. He valued Dess’s input—had she objected to them leaving home and pursuing a fugitive path, they might still be in Maryland—but he felt the need to steer her in a certain direction. Not manipulate or misinform her, but guide her, as a father should. In this case, that guidance would come by way of what he withheld.
The daily effort of finding a semblance of “real work” was exhausting him. Eight months of driving from one new place to another, from one new job to another, starting over again and again, it was unsustainable. There were only so many cash-payment construction, security, or dubious sales jobs to be found, and they all came with significant risk. More than once he’d been asked to do something of questionable legality. One of his supervisors had told him to dump trash in an unspoiled wooded area where no one needed a sign saying NO DUMPING ALLOWED to know that there was probably no dumping allowed. At one “security” job he discovered too late that he and his six coworkers had been hired to look intimidating while their boss negotiated with a prospective partner, who at one point threatened to call the cops, saying, “I don’t feel safe here.”
In other instances, the person who hired him took advantage of his situation and tried to stiff Eric when it came time to pay up. In both of those cases Eric had to make a decision—live with wasted efforts and a shorted budget, or do what would have made his grandfather Frederick smile and say, “That’s my boy’s boy.” Twice he chose to ignore the examples his father had set for him, to be the figurative bigger man and walk away, and instead mimicked what he’d once seen his grandfather do when he was a boy—take advantage of being the literal bigger man. Each time, he squared up and stepped closer to the men trying to cheat him, saying, “It’ll cost you a lot more not to pay me.” It always felt like the right thing to do, and filled him with a fire that burned out too fast. It also felt like a trick he couldn’t keep getting away with. He was a few inches shorter than his grandfather, at least fifty pounds lighter, and far less comfortable wielding a size advantage when he had it.
Frederick Emerson was six foot two and built like God considered making him a wall before making him a man. His hands were so large and heavy they seemed the sole reason his shoulders rounded slightly. As imposing as his frame was, his reputation is what really made people think twice about crossing him. People knew not to get on “Ol’ Fred’s” bad side. “He could just look at you the wrong way and buzzards would start following you,” Eric once heard his grandfather’s barber say of him, and everyone at the shop had laughed, including Ol’ Fred himself. It hadn’t quite sounded like a joke to Eric, though. He repeated it to his father later on, hoping to make him laugh, which would reassure him that it wasn’t serious, but his father just shook his head. “Bet your grandpa thought it was funny, huh?” he said. “You shouldn’t be hearing stuff like that.”
Eric didn’t have his grandfather’s reputation or imposing stature, but he had an unwavering obligation to his daughters, and a desperate desire to right his upturned life. That must have put something in his eyes—some of his grandfather’s spirit—because on the occasions he made a veiled threat in order to get paid, the men who owed him gave him what he’d earned. After the last time, about five months ago, he started budgeting to account for the possibility that he might be tricked or coerced into working for free. Just in case. It hadn’t happened again, which, to Eric, just meant that when it happened next, it would happen two or three times in a row.
The offer in the ad for the Masson House promised “high six figures at minimum upon completion of the assignment, with a much larger upside for the qualifying candidate.” Even if the true payout ended up being half that—a quarter of it—it was far better than anything he could get anywhere else. Enough money to set them up for at least a year, more if they stayed frugal. All for staying rent-free in a place that was—again, according to the ad—“the site of pronounced paranormal activity.”
The pictures of the spite house certainly made it look uninviting. One taken from a low angle emphasized how tall and thin it was, and captured a dark sea of clouds above it. Eric could not tell whether this was intended to attract or dissuade the curious. Widen or shrink the applicant pool. Its appearance might entice those earnestly interested in experiencing the unusual, or intimidate those who might otherwise be casually interested. He could not know what it would mean for his competition and therefore his chances, but he couldn’t concern himself with that. The only way to win the job was to apply.
The newspaper rested beside the keyboard on the narrow desk. Eric took out his prepaid phone and called the number on the ad. He would ask for Dess’s thoughts and permission later, and if she didn’t grant the latter he’d just ask her forgiveness. But he couldn’t wait.
The call went to voicemail, a professional-sounding woman saying, “Thank you for your call. I must stress that we are interested in serious candidates only. Please leave your name, contact information, and an explanation as to why we should consider you. If we intend to follow up, we will reach out to you. Thank you.”
“Thank you for taking my call,” he said right away, as though speaking to an actual person. A little decorum could still be effective, couldn’t it? Especially here in Texas. His grandparents and even great-grandparents—all Texas natives—had told him this years ago, when he used to visit them. “A simple thank-you goes a long way. Even when you don’t want to say it, find a way to say it.” He had encountered enough bigots in Maryland and elsewhere in the Northeast, to say nothing of a few rancorous idiots in West Texas in his early teens, to disabuse him of this. Nonetheless, he was in no position to be anything but presumptively grateful now.
“I’m no ghost hunter or anything,” he went on. “I’m a father of two looking for work and a place to stay. Me and my daughters have been on the go for a while and work isn’t easy for me to come by in my situation. I can explain further if you like, but right now I just want to say how much I would appreciate this chance. I can promise you that whatever you need done, I’ll find a way to do it.” He gave his name and number, said “Thank you” again before hanging up. Afterward he held his head low for just long enough to remember the house back home.
Two stories and in a wonderful neighborhood. Not exactly “Black Beverly Hills” but as close to it as he cared to get. A few of his neighbors were even parents of journeymen professional athletes. Given his humbler roots, there was something immensely satisfying about taking the trash down the driveway to wave at the mother of a onetime NBA All-Star who was out for a morning stroll. Now he was pleading his case to stay in a house that—despite being twice as tall—might have half the living space of what he and his wife had worked so hard to obtain in Maryland. Possibly less than that. A house that must have something terribly wrong with it for its owners to offer so much money for a temporary resident.
He logged off the computer and left the office, waving to the clerk, who barely nodded his way. Eric would call the number in the ad again if he didn’t hear back by noon tomorrow. He believed in persistence. That was how he’d gotten his foot in the door with the cybersecurity firm he had built his career with back in Maryland. That was how he would win this job, too. He would show them that he would work the hardest, that he would be the most dedicated. And if they still passed on him, he’d give it another week here before moving on.
With continued luck and care they could avoid getting pulled over, avoid anyone who might be searching for them, and make it to his grandparents’ old house in West Texas, which, based on a quick check of online listings, was still as it had been when he’d looked it up before they left Maryland. More than a bit the worse for wear, though not uninhabitable, still unable to find a buyer despite being on the market for close to a year. While he had nowhere near enough money to buy it now, maybe its owners would agree to an “off-the-books” deal. Some work and payment arrangement that would be unfavorable to him but would at least give him a chance. There were a lot of “ifs” that needed to go his way for that to work: if he could find a steadier job locally, if he could convince the sellers, if the house didn’t require too many repairs to be livable, if the neighbors didn’t become suspicious or even hostile toward him and his daughters. If all of those things worked out, then it could be a viable, if difficult, solution, a better prospect than being on the run forever.
Considering all those “ifs,” the Degener spite house offer was much more appealing. It had only two significant “what-ifs,” as far as he could tell. First: “What if it’s a bogus offer?” What if this was yet another person looking to get a week or two of free work from someone too desperate to turn it down? He had tried to account for that in his recent spending, and had his guard up about such a thing, but even if he fell for it this time, he would at least get some free lodging for himself and his girls out of the deal. That wasn’t payment, but it was more than nothing.
The second question was “What if the house really is haunted?” He was in no position to discount this but didn’t see it as a threat sufficient to make him think twice. What harm could a ghost do?
He took one more look over his shoulder as he walked down the hall, checking to see if the clerk had her phone to her ear, or was eyeing him in a way that should make him wary. He knew that her lack of response to his wave likely didn’t mean she was hiding anything, or was suspicious of him, or recognized him from some article he didn’t even know about out there on the internet. Nothing unexpected or alarming about him had come up when he’d searched on the computer. Some dead links to his deactivated social media profiles. An old picture showing him as employee of the month at a sales job he’d left years ago, which barely looked like him since he’d shaved his beard and head. Likewise, his daughters’ names didn’t bring up any concerning search results. Still, he had cause to believe they might be followed, and he knew enough about the web to know that the obvious and well-known sites and search engines weren’t necessarily the ones with the information that should worry you. For all he knew his disappearing act—despite not being newsworthy—could have gone viral and the clerk was just waiting for him to get out of earshot before calling someone to report that she’d seen him. He knew how unlikely that was, but it couldn’t hurt to be a bit paranoid. It kept him alert.
Behind her counter, the clerk slouched in her chair and stared at her phone, the light of its screen reflected in her glasses. He could turn back around and talk to her now and she might greet him like it was her first time seeing him today.
He entered his motel room expecting to see his daughters but found it empty. There was a note on his pillow.
STACY WANTED PANCAKES. TOOK HER DOWN THE STREET. IF YOU DON’T SHOW, I’LL BRING BACK SOME CHICKEN STRIPS.—DESS.
He took out his phone to call her, to ask her how she had enough money to dine out, and it vibrated in his hand before he could dial. He knew the number on the screen; he had read it several times today and had just called it a few minutes ago.
“Hello,” he said, conscious of not wanting to sound surprised to have been called back so soon.
“May I speak to Eric Ross,” a woman said.
“Speaking.” He sat on the bed. He’d known many people who could stand or even pace a room and still sound composed when talking business, but he’d never even liked calling customer service to dispute a charge without sitting down first, much less discuss something this important.
“Mr. Ross, my name is Dana Cantu. I just listened to the message you left expressing interest in the house. I’d like to talk to you about scheduling a face-to-face and some other prescreening items if you have a moment.”
“I do,” he said, and pressed the speaker button on his phone. There was a pen on the nightstand, beside his bed. He flipped Dess’s note over to take notes of his own, starting with the name “Dana Cantu” written at the top of the page. Most of what he wrote during the call, however, did not pertain to what she told him, but to what he told her. He had a strong memory when it came to the things people said to him but struggled to keep up with his lies if he didn’t put them to paper.
CHAPTER 2
Dess
Two hundred miles to the west was the birthplace of her great-grandparents.
Her father held a fondness for Odessa, Texas, that she found strange. He’d been there fairly often as a boy, to visit his grandparents, but from what Dess knew of her father, she didn’t think the city as a whole appealed to him. It certainly wasn’t attractive to her, not the parts of it she remembered from the few trips she’d taken with him and Mom to see her great-grandparents. She was much happier when Pa-Pa Fred and Ma-Ma Nelle came up to see them in Maryland, and was sure that Dad felt the same. Nonetheless, since his grandparents had passed, Dad had often spoken of his dream to buy their former home in Odessa from the people his father sold it to.
“Your pa-pa Fred basically built that house,” he had told her. “It should have stayed with the family.”
Now they were closer to Odessa, Texas, than they’d ever been in her life, and her father’s dream had never been more futile. Dess thought she ought to feel something about that but couldn’t muster a meaningful emotion.
For the third time that day, she turned the television on and skipped through channels too quickly to see if anything might hold her attention. She didn’t dare hope to be entertained, merely occupied. She used to have a taste for television, but spending so much time staring at the same shows over and over for the past eight months had soured her on it. She had four paperbacks in her backpack, and had read through three of them more than once, but hadn’t been able to muscle past chapter three of the remaining novel. It was written well enough but opened with and lingered on the disappearance of a young girl, something the blurb on the back had not hinted at, and that Dess found too difficult to read about.
She glanced to her left, where Stacy sat at the motel room’s small desk, her legs swinging above the floor. Her doll, Miss Happy, a cotton-stuffed rag with no mouth, black ink dots for eyes, and glued-on straw for hair, sat on the table. Stacy had assisted her mother in making the doll a few years ago, and she took great care of it. Its fabric was marginally frayed, but none of the seams had come loose enough for it to be in danger of spilling its insides. Stacy’s box of colored pencils rested against Miss Happy, and once in a while she would thank her doll for helping her.
Having filled up the latest coloring books Dad bought for her at a dollar store, Stacy had decided to create her own coloring book using stapled sheets of printing paper donated by the motel’s clerk. She was on her third page of outlines, waiting to fill in her drawings later. Dess had looked over the first page of drawings when Stacy had finished them. It wasn’t the work of an artistic prodigy, but smiling bears looked like smiling cartoon bears, dogs like friendly dogs. Houses didn’t lean, and trees weren’t misshapen. For an untrained seven-year-old, it was solid work.
“How did you get so good at drawing?” Dess had asked her, more a statement of encouragement than a genuine question.
Stacy had shrugged. “Pa-Pa Fred always said we could do whatever we wanted, we just have to make it happen, remember? I just kept trying because I wanted to get better.”
As a big sister, Dess knew she’d had it easy when it came to helping Stacy learn her arts and crafts, the alphabet, her numbers, and anything else. She used to joke with her parents that her brilliant teaching was responsible for Stacy being ahead of most kids her age, but the truth was that Stacy was a fast and determined learner. Gifted, even. She had uncanny patience for someone her age and didn’t get discouraged by failure. Any mistake was just something to learn from, and she didn’t repeat most of them.
Dess glanced at the clock. Six thirty. Dad hadn’t called the room to check in on them in close to two hours. Whatever he was looking into today, he was lost in it. She had the feeling it was something major, some big, wild idea, and the more she sat around thinking about it the more restless she became. She turned the television off, got up from the bed, and walked to where Stacy sat drawing and humming to herself.
“Hey Staze,” Dess said, “let’s get some pancakes. That little diner down the street has a sign that says, ‘Breakfast All Day.’”
Stacy turned to her sister so fast she almost fell from the chair. “Really? I thought we didn’t have money.”
Copyright © 2023 by Johnny Compton
