Inspiration
Aaron Theodore did not normally watch late-night talk shows. Indeed, he watched very little television at all. The middle-aged confirmed bachelor was one of a dying breed: a reader. And he was an old-fashioned one at that, preferring books printed on paper to electronic readers, smartphones or—shudder!—audio books. Normally, the only programs he watched on TV were movies adapted from his favorite novels, even though he invariably considered them nearly all adaptations inferior to their printed word counterparts.
Tonight was different, however. Promptly at 11:30 he put down the book he was currently reading and turned on the television. The talk show had yet to start. An ad for a law firm looking for clients eager to sue Monsanto in regards to Roundup weed killer was being aired. It was followed by a popular spokesman trying to convince senior citizens to buy final expense life insurance.
That's why I prefer reading, he thought. Books have no commercials.
After two more ads, one for Volkswagen and another for Pizza Hut, the talk show's theme song began to play. The announcer read the names of the night's guests over the jazzy instrumental tune: a country singer (there to plug his upcoming concert tour), an Oscar-nominated actress (there to plug her latest movie) and a celebrity chef (there to plug the opening of his new restaurant).
That's America! Everybody's a capitalist. People don't appear on these shows to talk; they're there to sell things.
Last, but not least, was the guest Aaron wanted to see, the only reason he had put down his book and turned on the television: Wyatt MacShane, the world's foremost horror writer, who recently surpassed Stephen King in book sales. MacShane was Aaron's hero, so much so that he waited patiently through interviews with the singer, actress and chef to see him.
"It's estimated you've sold close to five hundred million books," the show's host said.
"So far," Wyatt laughingly added.
"And you're still turning bestsellers out with assembly line regularity. Tell me, are you and James Patterson competing for a Guinness Book record?"
"No. If that were the case, I'd lose. You see, I write all my own novels whereas Patterson often collaborates with other authors."
"Before you tell us about your new book, The Bringer of Death, there's a question I've been dying to ask you—perhaps that's a bad choice of words to use when addressing the master of the macabre. Where do you come up with the ideas for your stories? You have to admit some of them are pretty far out there."
"I was dropped on my head at birth," the writer replied, eliciting laughter from the audience.
"Hold on," the host teased him. "I'm the comedian. Let me tell the jokes."
Aaron was not sure how he felt about the playful banter between the talk show host and his guest. This was a new side of Wyatt MacShane he was seeing, and he was not sure he liked it. Wyatt wrote some of the most terrifying stories in the English language, yet here he was cracking jokes with a former standup comic.
"Seriously," the host continued. "Where do you get your ideas?"
"I get inspiration from whatever environment I'm in."
"Does that mean your next novel is going to take place on the set of a late-night talk show? Please tell me some horrible monster isn't going to devour the host!"
"If I were to write that story, you'd be the monster and you'd devour your guests."
"Getting back to my question, what type of environment are you talking about?"
"Unlike most authors, I don't sit at a desk in front of a computer and devise my plots. For instance, I got the idea for my first book when I was walking home from work one night, back when I couldn't afford a car. I worked at an all-night convenience store, and my shift ended at two in the morning. My route took me past an old cemetery, and one night I decided to stroll through the graves. While I was reading the headstones, the idea for Eerie Epitaph came to me. Every night after work I returned to the cemetery with a flashlight, pencil and notebook. When I was done writing, my girlfriend typed the manuscript and mailed it to her uncle who worked for Burgess Press. I never dreamed it would be published, much less go on to become a bestseller."
"What about your other books? Were they all written in cemeteries?"
"No. The environment changed for each one. The second was written in an old amusement park that was slated to be torn down."
"Written at night, when you were alone?"
"Yes. When writing a book, there are three rules I follow. One, I must be in a frightening or foreboding setting. Two, I can only write during the hours from midnight to dawn. And, three, my only source of light has to be a flashlight, lantern or candles."
"And you always write out your stories in longhand?"
"No, that would take far too much time. For all books after the first, I brought along a laptop with a fully charged battery."
"I'm curious. You've written in a cemetery and an amusement park. What other creepy places have inspired you?"
"A former mental asylum, an abandoned prison, a city morgue, a funeral parlor ...."
"I've gotta say one thing: staying overnight in such places by yourself, you certainly deserve to sell nearly half a billion books. What about your new release, The Bringer of Death? Where did you write that?"
"A shopping mall."
"Really? Somehow, I don't see a mall in the same category as a mental asylum—except on Black Friday. All kidding aside, what's the worst thing you could encounter there: the ghost of defunct retailer S.S. Kresge, the spirit of J.J. Newberry, the phantom of W.T. Grant, the specter of F.W. Woolworth?"
"I don't suppose you've ever been in a mall alone at night. In the dark, it can be a pretty frightening place. The mannequins in the clothing store windows are enough to make your flesh crawl."
"I see your point. Tell me, you've spent the night in some pretty spooky places. Have you ever seen a ghost?"
"Not yet."
"Do you believe ghosts exist?"
Aaron listened closely, anticipating the author's reply. If Wyatt professed skepticism, his disbelief would cast a new light on his writings. They would become another product, and he would be no better than the singer, actress and chef—just some salesman hawking his wares.
"Honestly?" the writer answered. "I have no idea. If I ever did encounter one, I'm unaware of it. That doesn't mean they don't exist."
His response pleased Aaron. It proved he was not a fake trying to sell a line of bullshit to a gullible public. Although Wyatt MacShane's novels were works of fiction, Aaron always believed they were windows into the author's soul. His tales of horrific creatures and enigmatic phenomenon surely came from a true belief in the supernatural, one his loyal readers shared.
"And what would you do if you ever saw a ghost?"
"I'm not sure, but I'm not afraid of seeing one."
"You're not?" the host asked with surprise. "I know it would scare the hell out of me!"
"As my mother always told me," Wyatt explained. "It's the living we have to fear, not the dead."
We'll just see about that, Aaron Theodore thought.
* * *
Having spent the night in a rambling inn that had during its heyday in the 1920s hosted film stars, sports figures, politicians and gangsters but had long since closed and fallen into a state of disrepair, Wyatt MacShane slept well into the afternoon. He was awakened by his phone just past three o'clock.
"How's the new book coming?" Tyra Amis, his literary agent, asked after the usual pleasantries were dispensed with.
"I'm making great progress on it."
"That's splendid news. When do you think you'll be done with the first draft?"
"Attagirl!" the author laughed. "Crack that whip. Keep me on my toes."
"I have a good reason for asking."
"Yeah, you're a slave driver."
"Very funny. No, I got a call from a lawyer in Massachusetts, a man named Desmond Buffett. Remember the Brittany Duchesne murder?"
"How could I forget it? It was one of the so-called crimes of the century. Twenty-five years later, that poor little girl's picture still pops up on supermarket tabloids every now and then. Why do you ask?"
"The lawyer represents the current and sole owner of the Duchesne house."
"I thought that place was torn down."
"Apparently not. Mr. Buffett claims that story was a lie leaked to the papers to prevent people from trespassing on the property. Anyway, the lawyer said his client saw your televised interview and is offering to let you stay at the house for as long as you like. He's a fan of yours and hopes your being at the scene where the murder occurred will inspire you."
Wyatt's heart raced with excitement. Brittany Duchesne, the six-year-old daughter of one of New England's wealthiest couples—her father was a U.S. senator and her mother a former Hollywood actress—had been found dead in the home on November 1, the day after Halloween. Once the girl's body was discovered in the basement of the sprawling Georgian mansion, a media frenzy erupted. Despite a number of likely scenarios—the most popular and widely believed being that Sheldon Duchesne killed his daughter to cover up for allegedly sexually molesting her—no one was ever charged in connection with the murder. To this day, the tabloids occasionally name new suspects, but the finger of suspicion inevitably points back to the girl's father, who, along with his wife, committed suicide on the one-year anniversary of Brittany's murder, bringing the death toll for the Duchesne mansion to three.
"What does he want in return?" the writer asked, always suspicious of people's motives.
"Absolutely nothing. Like I said, he's a fan of yours. He's read everything you've ever written, or so his lawyer claims. Well, are you interested?"
"Are you kidding me? Of course, I'm interested. I've always wanted to write at the scene of a famous homicide. I tried like hell to get permission to camp out in the DeFeo house in Amityville, the LaLaurie house in New Orleans, the Villisca Axe Murder house in Iowa, Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin in Wisconsin and the Mercer Williams house in Savannah. I even tried to rent out the Lizzie Borden bed and breakfast but could not get exclusive use of any of these places for a length of time long enough for me to write a novel."
"That's settled then. I'll call Buffett back and have him tell his client you accept the offer."
"One thing, does the owner live in the mansion? Because I insist on having the place all to myself. I can't get inspired to write horror if there are other people around."
"I already asked the lawyer about that. There's a caretaker, but he has his own cottage on the grounds of the estate. The house itself is vacant and has been since Sheldon Duchesne and his wife hanged themselves there."
* * *
Despite having been abandoned for twenty-four years, the Duchesne mansion was in pristine condition, inside and out. The caretaker certainly did a commendable job.
"This is some place!" Wyatt declared after a quick examination of the first floor.
Had it not been for the tragedies that occurred under its roof, the mansion would surely have netted the owner at least ten million dollars in today's housing market. Even the furniture—classic eighteenth century antiques—was worth a not-so-small fortune. Had he not been by nature a thrifty man who paid alimony to three ex-wives, MacShane might consider buying the place himself.
"I hope the caretaker saw to the utilities," he said and checked to see that the power had been restored. "Heat, running water, electricity—perfect!"
Satisfied with the living conditions, he returned to his car and took out two large suitcases and a laptop bag, which he slung over his shoulder before rolling his luggage up the walkway and into the house.
Once he was settled in, he drove to the nearest town and had a late dinner at a diner that boasted it had once been featured on an episode of Guy Fieri's Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. The writer ordered a massive hamburger loaded with bacon, chunks of blue cheese, fried onion straws and jalapeño slices. After liberally dousing it with hot sauce, he took a bite.
Mmm! If anything is going to get my creative juices flowing, it's this burger!
Comfortably full, Wyatt drove back to the mansion, reaching his destination just before midnight. In preparation for writing, he dragged a small three-legged table next to a comfortable chair, put his laptop on it, lit his Coleman gas lantern and turned out the lights. The flame from the lantern cast eerie shadows upon the ceiling. What by daylight was a tastefully decorated, warm, comfortable living room had become the perfect setting for nightmares.
Fueled by his greasy, spicy burger, he completed the final preparations: he booted up his laptop and opened a new Word document. Fingertips hovering over the keyboard, he closed his eyes and waited for inspiration to flood his mind.
A noise like that of muffled footsteps distracted him.
"What was that?" he called out, his eyes opening to peer through the darkness. "Is someone there?"
There was no reply.
Although the only sound was a low hum of the lantern, Wyatt could not shake the feeling that he was not alone. Rather than let it frighten him, he decided to use the eerie sensation for inspiration. As the ideas came to him, his fingers danced upon the keys. Quick bursts of typing were interspersed with temporary lulls. Yet despite the steady progress he made, he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched. If someone was there, though, he or she made no attempt to come closer.
Dawn was drawing near, and the first rays of morning light penetrated the blackness of the room.
"That's it for now," the writer said, saving his file and shutting down his computer.
Tired, he made his way to the upstairs bedroom. Preferring not to sleep in the same bed where the late Duchesnes once slept, he bypassed the master suite and headed for the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. Moments after his head hit the pillow, the writer was sound asleep. As usual, no dreams—good or bad—disturbed his slumber. He had always been a heavy sleeper. His second wife claimed an atom bomb could not wake him. It was hunger, not the detonation of a nuclear weapon, that eventually woke him up.
Even though he had spent the night in the infamous Duchesne mansion, Wyatt had no thoughts of murder or suicide. All that was on his mind was food—that and an early morning fix of caffeine. As per the writer's agreement with the property owner's lawyer, the caretaker had put a Keurig coffeemaker on the kitchen counter and stocked some groceries in the refrigerator and cabinets. Breakfast was simple: a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios with skimmed milk followed by two cups of coffee.
Once properly fortified, he next wanted to know what was going on in the world around him. Since no television or radio was available, he would have to read his news online.
Where did my phone go? he wondered when he discovered it was no longer in his jacket pocket.
He searched the living room, the bedroom, the bathroom and the hallways, but there was no sign of his iPhone anywhere. Normally, he would simply use the landline to phone his number and follow the cell's distinctive ringtone. However, there was no phone in the old mansion.
Maybe I left it in my car or dropped it outside.
After searching his Land Rover, the walkway and the adjoining lawn for nearly an hour, he realized the phone was gone.
I had it when I got here yesterday afternoon, so I didn't leave it in my apartment, he reasoned. The only other place it can be is the diner. I suppose I'll have to take a ride over there and find out.
When he went back into the house to get his car keys, however, he saw the iPhone on the three-legged table beside his computer.
I could swear it wasn't there when I looked earlier.
* * *
For the next five days at Duchesne house, Wyatt followed his usual writing routine. He slept from sunup to late afternoon. Every evening he returned to the same diner for a burger and fries, always with jalapeños and hot sauce. At midnight, he lit the Coleman lantern, booted up his laptop and turned out the lights. On three of those five nights, he heard the same strange shuffling noise as on the first night. Footsteps or not, there was still the feeling of being watched. He decided it was not someone but something lurking in the dark room, possibly a rodent or a stray cat.
It was the only logical explanation. Sadly, logic failed to explain why his cell phone kept disappearing out of his pocket while he slept only to reappear beside his computer.
Maybe I don't sleep so soundly, after all. Maybe I walk in my sleep.
On the seventh night in the house, the pattern changed. Wyatt's night began as the previous six had: the greasy, spicy burger at the diner, the Coleman lantern, the laptop, the darkened room, the Word file. This time, while his fingers were performing their rhythmic dance over the keyboard, the shuffling sound—more pronounced than before—caught his attention.
Whatever that was, it sounded big. Maybe it was a raccoon.
Then a voice spoke aloud. Unless raccoons suddenly learned to talk, there was another human in the house.
"OMG!"
"What the devil?" Wyatt cried, startled by the intrusion.
A young man—little more than a boy—emerged from the shadows.
"Who are you?" the stranger asked.
"I'm Wyatt MacShane. Who are you?"
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm trying to write a book. I've got permission from the owner of this house to be here. What about you?"
"Hashtag, I live here."
"You're far too young to be a caretaker, so I assume you're his son."
"OMG! You're a real writer? Hashtag, that's exciting!"
"Yes, well. Aren't you supposed to be living in a cottage on the estate? Why are you in the mansion?"
"Hashtag, just curious."
"Well, I hope your curiosity has been satisfied because it's time for you to go now."
"Why? Hashtag, I'm not bothering you."
"Look, I can't write unless I'm alone."
"LOL!" the boy laughed. "I've been here every night this week, and it hasn't stopped you."
"You've been here every night? But you're a kid. You ought to be home in bed at this hour. Don't you have to get up for school in the morning?"
"Hashtag, I don't go to school."
"What do you—never mind. I don't really care."
"So, can I stay and watch you work? Hashtag, I promise to be quiet."
"No. Now that I know you're here, I won't be able to write."
"Hashtag, that's weird!"
"What's weird is your annoying overuse of the word hashtag."
"I picked it up from—what do you call it?—the Internet. Hashtag, I've learned a lot this past week."
"Wait a second! Have you been using my phone?"
"Yes, but I didn't hurt it. Hashtag, I was very careful with it."
"At least you're honest."
"Hashtag, I never lie."
"Good for you. Anyway ... what is your name?"
"Hashtag, Harry."
"It's been nice meeting you, Hashtag Harry. Now go home."
"Hashtag Harry. LOL. That's funny! LMAO. Hashtag, I'll be seeing you around, Mr. MacShane."
The young man turned and disappeared into the shadows. The writer did not need to hear the front door open and close. He could tell just by the "feel" of the room that Harry was gone. Alone again, he closed his eyes, cleared his mind and returned to his writing.
* * *
Wyatt woke in a good mood the following afternoon, pleased at the progress he was making with his manuscript. Six chapters in one week was quite an accomplishment. When he walked past the living room on his way to the kitchen and saw his cell phone on the three-legged table next to his laptop, a frown came to his face.
"That damned kid was here again, and he was using my phone."
Determined to put a stop to these unwanted infringements on his privacy, he decided to pay a visit to the caretaker and complain about his son's behavior. It was early evening—just before dinnertime for most people; shortly after breakfast for the writer—when he set out to find the caretaker's cottage. Unaware of how large the property was, Wyatt did not realize what a difficult task he was taking on.
Where is this place? he wondered as he drove along a series of dirt roads that wound through the estate.
Finally, with the darkness of a moonless night making it impossible to see beyond a short distance even with his high beams turned on, the writer gave up his quest.
I'll go see him tomorrow.
He then returned to the house and discovered that Harry had drained the battery in his phone. Annoyed, he plugged the iPhone into his charger and turned on his laptop. The browser was still open, a sure sign that Wyatt had not been the last one to use it.
He's been on my computer, too!
His phone was one thing; his computer was something else entirely. As a writer, the laptop was an essential tool of his trade, his place of employment. Over the years, he developed close attachments to his computers, much the same way as other men became enamored of their cars, motorcycles and pickup trucks. The thought of little Hashtag Harry tinkering with his "baby" made him furious.
It was only after his nightly trip to the diner, during which he ate his usual Guy Fieri-approved burger—ah, comfort food!—that he calmed down. In the absence of anger, his mind recalled the image of the browser screen. Harry had visited a website featuring various theories regarding the murder of Brittany Duchesne.
I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised at that. After all, she was killed in that house.
Surprised or not, he found the teenager's interest in the murder disturbing. In fact, he found a lot of things about Hashtag Harry disturbing. He frowned and strengthened his resolve to speak to the boy's father.
Later, after ascertaining that his cell phone was still plugged into the charger, he sat down in front of the three-legged table and began to write.
"Chapter Seven," Wyatt typed after opening a new Word file. He highlighted the two words, hit Ctrl + E to center them and Ctrl + B to put them in boldface type. He then pressed Enter and returned to normal paragraph formatting. The writer was only halfway through his first sentence, his right index finger just about to strike the "N" key, when he heard the footsteps in the corner of the room.
"Harry."
It was a statement of fact, not a question.
"Yes? Hashtag, it's me."
"I thought I told you I didn't like to be disturbed when I'm writing. What are you doing here?"
"OMG! You have a terrible memory. Hashtag, I already told you. I live here."
"No, you don't. You live in the caretaker's cottage with your father."
Did Harry have a mother, too? Perhaps a sister and/or brother as well?
"My father is gone. Hashtag, so is my mother."
"Gone? Gone where? When will they be home?"
"Not that gone. Hashtag, gone as in dead."
"Then who do you live with? An aunt or uncle? A legal guardian?"
"Hashtag, no one. I live by myself."
"Will you please stop prefacing nearly everything you say with the word hashtag as though you were writing a Tweet or an Instagram caption? It's annoying as hell!"
"Hasht—sorry. I'll try not to do it again."
"Who do you live with?"
"No one."
"That's absurd. You're not old enough to live alone. Is Youth Services aware of your situation?"
"You're right," Harry said, seemingly upset by the mention of the state's child protective services department. "I'd better go."
"Go? Go where?"
Wyatt suddenly realized he was talking to any empty room. Hashtag Harry had vanished!
The bestselling author was still sitting in front of the three-legged table when the first morning rays of sunlight filtered in through the living room's mullioned windows. His computer screen was dark, though; the energy saver had cut power to it hours early. It did not matter. The Word document consisted only of the chapter number and one incomplete sentence. Wyatt had not been able to write a word since his encounter with Harry.
While attempting to sort out his feelings, snippets of past conversations replayed over and over again in his mind.
The talk show host: "Have you ever seen a ghost? Do you believe ghosts exist?"
Wyatt: "If I ever did encounter one, I'm unaware of it. That doesn't mean they don't exist."
Host: "And what would you do if you ever saw a ghost?"
Wyatt: "I'm not sure, but I'm not afraid of seeing one."
Host: "You're not? I know it would scare the hell out of me!"
Wyatt's mother: "It's the living we have to fear, not the dead."
If his mother was right, as she usually was, then why was he so afraid?
* * *
After several hours of restless sleep, the flustered writer got out of bed much earlier than usual. He dressed quickly and downed a cup of coffee—no Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast this time. With a growing sense of urgency, he drove his Land Rover along the winding dirt roads of the estate. This time he had little difficulty finding the caretaker's cottage—or rather, what was left of it.
"What the ...?"
Through decades' worth of heavy undergrowth, he could see the house. All the windows had been smashed, the front door ripped from its hinges, the roof caved in and the walls covered with graffiti.
No one could live here.
Having believed there was a caretaker on the property, Wyatt was stunned to learn the truth. Surely, someone took care of the Duchesne mansion. After all, it was in immaculate condition.
Maybe this isn't the only cottage on the property, he considered optimistically. Even if there isn't another one, there still has to be a caretaker nearby. Someone maintains the house and supplied me with groceries and a coffeemaker.
Like many people in our hi-tech society, the first source of information he normally turned to was the Internet. However, much to his dismay, the batteries in both his laptop and cell phone were dead and his power cords were missing.
"Damn it! Hashtag Harry's been at it again!"
Wyatt recalled seeing a library in town, four doors down from the diner. He could use the computers there. When he entered the old building—built with federal funds during the Depression—he was amazed to see that it had only two desktop Dells—still running Windows 7—and both were in use by high school students who were studying for exams.
"Perhaps you can help me," he told the librarian, who looked as though she were around during the Depression, as well.
"I'd be glad to," she replied in a low library-acceptable volume. "If I can."
"I need some information on the Duchesne estate, particularly the caretaker's cottage."
The elderly woman was surprised. Most people had questions about the murder and suicides, not the property itself.
"I don't even know if it's still standing," she observed.
"Barely. One good wind and it will probably tumble over. What I need to know is where the caretaker lives now."
"Marley Grindlay was the Duchesnes' last caretaker, but that was almost twenty-five years ago. He's long since died."
"Who looks after the place now?"
"No one. There's not much left to look after."
"I don't mean the cottage. I'm talking about the main house."
"You are talking about the Duchesne place, aren't you? The one where that poor little girl was murdered?"
"Yes."
"Well, it was torn down years ago. There's nothing left of it. A bulldozer was even brought in to cover over the foundation."
"That's just a false story the owners told to the press to keep trespassers away."
"I don't know where you got your information, but my son worked on the demolition crew that tore the house down. If you don't believe me, take a drive out there and see for yourself. The only thing standing on that property is what's left of the caretaker's cottage."
The librarian then excused herself to wait on a young mother who wanted to check out a Dr. Seuss book for her four-year-old son. Since the teenagers showed no signs of abandoning the two desktop computers any time soon, Wyatt left the library.
Why did that woman deliberately lie to me? he wondered, as he drove along the same road Guy Fieri had once taken in his red Camaro convertible.
Not long after he turned onto the mile-long cobblestone driveway that led to the house, he hit the brake pedal, bringing the Land Rover to a jarring stop. Words failed him—a rare occurrence for a writer. He sat mutely in the passenger seat, his trembling hands gripping the steering wheel, shaking his head in denial. Once he got out of the car, he finally managed to speak.
"It can't be!"
But it was.
There was no sign of the sprawling Georgian mansion. The cobblestone driveway led to a field of tall grass and unruly weeds. Even the mailbox and lamppost had been taken down and the walkway covered over. The house he had been living in for the past week was gone. No, it was more than gone. It had never been, at least not for many years.
"I've always had a good imagination. It's what made me such a success at what I do. But this is ridiculous!"
After standing at the end of the cobblestone driveway for what seemed like hours, trying to make sense of an unfathomable situation, Wyatt turned and walked back to his car. There he received another surprise. In the cargo area were his two suitcases, his laptop and his iPhone, along with both their power cords.
Apparently, Hashtag Harry had not been a figment of his imagination!
* * *
"You don't have to keep going on and on," Tyra Amis told her client. "You've got me sold. It's bound to be another bestseller."
"No!" Wyatt cried in exasperation. "This isn't a plot for a book. It really happened to me. I spent a week in a house that wasn't there!"
"That's not possible."
"I know that. But it happened nonetheless."
Tyra did a mental tap dance before she spoke again.
"Maybe you should see a ... a ...."
"A doctor? I already have. I spoke to my second wife's psychiatrist the moment I got back from Massachusetts."
"And ...?"
"He thinks I've been working too hard, not getting enough sleep, etc., etc. He prescribed some pills and suggested I adhere to a more normal sleep schedule."
"You don't seem convinced he's right."
"I'm not. I want you to get in touch with that lawyer, the one who arranged for me to stay at the Duchesne house."
"You mean Desmond Buffett?"
"Yeah. I want to know if he or the owner of the property set me up in some way."
"You think this was an elaborate hoax? A mansion is there one day, and a few hours later—poof! It's gone in a cloud of smoke."
"That just about sums it up—minus the cloud of smoke."
Tyra did not bother pointing out all the obvious arguments that would make Wyatt's theory topple like the proverbial house of cards. Instead, she would let Desmond Buffett explain his actions himself.
* * *
Wyatt, who had not written a word since the day he discovered the Duchesnes' cobblestone driveway came to a dead end in front of an overgrown field, impatiently waited for his agent's phone call. It had been two days since he spoke to her about his bizarre experience, and she had yet to get back to him.
"Hello," he said, answering the phone after only one ring.
"To quote Lewis Carroll," Tyra said, not bothering with a greeting, "this is getting 'curiouser and curiouser'!"
"Why? What's happened?"
"Like the Duchesne mansion, Desmond Buffett seems to have disappeared—or he never existed. His name and number have vanished from my phone, and there's no listing for him in any online or paper phone directories. Hell, I even contacted the American Bar Association. They have no record of him."
"When he made the arrangements for me to visit the house, didn't he follow up with some form of written agreement?"
"Yes. But the paperwork is gone from the file. I can't explain it."
"You still think all this is because of my bad sleeping habits?" Wyatt asked.
"No. You were right. I checked out the Duchesne property on Google Earth. There's nothing there but a driveway."
"That's good to hear. At least I know I'm not losing my mind."
"Not so fast. The jury is still out on that one," Tyra laughed.
"Thanks. You really know how to make me feel better."
"Cheer up. I have some good news. I couldn't find the lawyer, but through one of my sources, I was able to track down the property owner."
"You're kidding!" Wyatt exclaimed with excitement. "You mean one actually exists?"
"Yes. The owner is a man by the name of Aaron Theodore, and—get this!—he lives in Jersey, less than an hour away."
"Let no one ever say you don't earn your steep commissions!"
"Wait. Here's the best part. He's agreed to see you."
"Great! When?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On how fast you can drive. He's waiting for you at his house right now."
The writer might have done Mario Andretti or Dale Earnhardt proud, had not the heavy traffic forced him to crawl along at a snail's pace. Upon leaving the city and entering the suburbs, conditions were not much better. It was more than two hours before he pulled up in front of Aaron Theodore's home.
The house was no sprawling Georgian mansion, but its size was impressive. Given that the place was located in an upscale Bergen County community, Wyatt assumed the owner was not hurting for money.
"Mr. Theodore is expecting you," the housekeeper informed him when she opened the door.
"Ah, Wyatt MacShane!" the middle-aged man exclaimed as he enthusiastically shook the writer's hand. "I'm sure you hear this all the time, but I'm a big fan of your work. I've read everything you've ever written."
Wyatt was in no mood for flattery. He wanted answers, and he believed Aaron Theodore had them.
"What's with the Duchesne house?" he demanded to know, wasting no time on idle conversation.
"Sit down, please. I'll explain everything as best I can. First, let me introduce myself. I'm not really Aaron Theodore. That's just a name I adopted to protect my privacy."
"So, who are you?"
"Xander Duchesne."
"I didn't know Brittany had an older brother."
"Not many people did. You see, I was Sheldon Duchesne's child by his first wife. The marriage was a short-lived one. My parents divorced after having been married less than a year. Besides, my stepmother, the actress, got all the attention."
"Do I detect some underlying bitterness there?"
"Perhaps a little, but considering how her life turned out ...."
"Now that I know who you are, tell me: why did you send me to a house that no longer exists? And how the hell did you ...?"
"Wait! Let me explain it in my own way."
"All right, but this had better be good."
"When Brittany was murdered, everyone assumed my father killed her," Xander began.
"Are you saying he didn't?"
"At the time I believed he had. Then three years after the murder, I turned eighteen and was able to claim my inheritance. As Sheldon Duchesne's sole surviving relative, I got everything: the money, the cars, the house. Being a stupid teenager, I thought it would be exciting to live in a place with a dark history. I'm sure you, of all people, understand that."
Wyatt nodded. He had experienced a surge of eager anticipation himself when presented with the opportunity to stay at the mansion.
"You lived there for a week, right?" Xander asked.
The writer nodded again.
"One night was enough for me, and I never returned. In fact, in all these years, I've never left New Jersey."
"What are you telling me?"
"No sooner did night fall than I met Harold Grindlay, the caretaker's son."
"Harold Grindlay? You mean Hashtag Harry?"
Xander stared at the writer with a look of confusion on his face.
"I'm sorry," Wyatt apologized. "That's just a nickname I use to refer to the teenage kid who kept sneaking into the house and 'borrowing' my phone."
"You met him, too?"
"Met him? I couldn't get rid of him. But if you were eighteen at the time, how old was he?"
"About my age, maybe a little younger."
"But he's still ...."
"I know, Mr. MacShane. He's still the same age as he was when he murdered my stepsister twenty-five years ago."
"Whoa! Wait a second. What are you saying? That Hashtag Harry ...?"
"... was the killer—although he swears it was an accident, that he never meant to hurt her. Regardless of his intentions, when my father and stepmother (both tortured with grief by the death of their little girl) found out, they took matters into their own hands. They killed Harold and buried him on the property, not far from where the house stood. Unable to live with what they had done, they later hanged themselves."
"I ... I ... can't believe it."
"I'm afraid it's true. Not only does Harold Grindlay's ghost haunt anyone who ventures onto the property, but he brings the whole damned house along with him."
"If you knew that, why did you suggest I go there?"
"I watched you on the late-night talk show. I heard you quote your mother as saying, 'It's the living we have to fear, not the dead.' I wanted to see if you would still believe that if you actually met a ghost."
"So, you used me like a lab rat, just to see my reaction? You bastard!"
* * *
Wyatt MacShane's final book, The House That Wasn't There, outsold all his previous novels. After it was released, he sold his Manhattan condo and purchased a terraced house in Bath, England. He spent the remainder of his life in seclusion, walking in the footsteps of long-dead Romans and studying the extensive history of his adopted country.
Like Xander Duchesne, he dealt with his temporary sojourn into the supernatural by turning his back on the rest of the world. He severed ties with Tyra Amis, no longer owned a cell phone and rarely used a computer. Despite repeated requests from reporters and television talk show hosts, he refused all interviews.
Furthermore, he never explained to anyone the strange dedication in his last book: #thanksharry.
For it had been the ghost of young Harry Grindlay that had been the true inspiration for the novel, not the phantom Duchesne mansion.
Here's Salem's latest social media post: #badhairday
