The Girl In The Locked Room

Jules

It was August, hot and humid. The air conditioner in the truck wasn't working. My T-shirt stuck to my back, and Mom's hair had changed from smooth and sleek in the morning to frizzy and curly in the afternoon. The three of us sat elbow to elbow in the front bench seat, Dad driving, Mom beside him, and me next to the open window.

After spending most of the day on the Interstate, we were now on a narrow country road that twisted and turned, uphill and down, passing house trailers tucked away in the woods, tumbledown barns in weedy fields, cows grazing in pastures, and farmhouses at the end of long lanes.

I'd gotten tired of asking if we were almost there, so I closed my eyes and concentrated on not getting carsick. The bumping and swaying were definitely affecting my stomach. Why had I drunk that disgusting milk shake?

At last Dad said, "We're here."

I opened my eyes and saw a sign welcoming us to Oak Hill—​"A future community of luxury homes designed and built by Stonybrook."

Ahead of us, a bumpy dirt road looped around the foundations of future luxury homes. On top of a hill above the construction site stood an old stone house.

The land around it had been scraped down to raw red clay, rutted with tire tracks filled with muddy water. Waist-high weeds had sprung up everywhere. Piles of uprooted stumps, tree trunks, branches, and rocks waited to be hauled away.

I stared at the old house in dismay. Three stories tall and built of stone, it loomed above us, dark and empty against a cloudy sky. Sheets of weathered plywood hid its windows. A blue plastic tarp covered the roof. Its edges lifted when the wind blew, making an eerie flapping sound.

Dad specialized in restoring historic houses like this one, so for as long as I could remember, we'd lived like nomads, moving from place to place, staying in each one long enough for him to complete the job. Some of them had been scary.

Their steps creaked at night, footsteps crossed their floors, their doors opened and shut without cause, but not one of them had been as frightening as Oak Hill.

Even from a distance, I knew something bad had happened in that house. Maybe it was the crows perched in a line on the roof, maybe it was the utter desolation of the scene, but the word foreboding came to mind, along with haunted, misery, and sorrow. It was the perfect setting for a ghost story.

"You weren't exaggerating," Mom said to Dad. "The house is practically in ruins. Are you sure it's worth fixing up?"

"Stonybrook has big plans for it," Dad said. "When the restoration's done, the house will be an inn. I'm told it's to be the jewel in the crown of the Oak Hill community. The perfect place for guests and potential buyers to stay."

I looked at Dad. "Please tell me we are not living in that house."

Dad laughed. "Of course not, Jules. The corporation built an addition on the back of the house for us. Modern kitchen, family room, two bedrooms, two bathrooms. New heating system, air conditioning, Internet, satellite TV—​all the necessities."

"Oh, Ron," Mom said. "I thought we were staying in Oak Hill. I've always wanted to live in a haunted house."

I didn't know whether she was serious or joking. With Mom, it was hard to tell, but if she meant what she'd said, I had even more reason to be scared. I shuddered. "Do you really think it's haunted?" I asked her.

"No, of course not." She laughed. "I was just being silly."

"Ha-hah, some joke," I said, only slightly relieved.

Dad patted my shoulder as we got out of the truck. "Don't worry, Jules. The only thing wrong with Oak Hill is dry rot, termite damage, leaks in the roof, mold, and mildew—​the plagues of every old building I've ever worked on. No ghosts, I promise."