Landlocked Lighthouse (Locked House Hauntings Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  One for Sorrow

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  Two for Joy

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Three for a Girl

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  A note from Mixi

  Landlocked Lighthouse

  Mixi J Applebottom

  Copyright © 2015 by Mixi J Applebottom

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2015

  ISBN 978-0-692-51228-9

  www.MixiJApplebottom.com

  This is for the pie shop.

  One for Sorrow

  1

  That wretched tree in the field. It was so damn pretty, full of hope and an honest day’s work. Now, every time I looked at that stupid tree, I wanted to cut it down. That liar. It had called to me, the first time I drove past the farm. That beautiful tree. It inspired me to sell our little house in our little neighborhood and become a farmer. That tree was the very reason why I talked my husband into buying that place.

  The farm brought two darling children, now three and four. Annabelle and Tony. We also had a collie mutt. She had a big white and light-brown body and four dotted black freckles on her nose. She had such a kind disposition with the children, our sweet little Zippy.

  That farm, though, had been a total wreck when we had bought it. We paid mostly for land, and barely a dime for the house. The house was worth nothing. Land in these parts cost a pretty penny, that’s for sure. Ten acres and a small nine-hundred-fifty-square-foot house collapsing around us. The rotted floorboards sometimes broke underfoot. I spent most of my time with a small child strapped to my back while I tore up boards with a crowbar, then nailed new ones back down. I learned so much about rotted floor beams.

  But it was never home. It might seem strange, but the farm was never our home. Nearly six years we spent at that farm and not at one moment did it feel like I belonged there, up to my knees in diapers, gardening and the housework no housewife does. I rode a tractor with a child on each hip, and deconstructed and reconstructed the house where we lived.

  One day, when I swung open the bathroom door, a hinge just snapped. It crushed my pinky toe as I floundered, trying to catch it before the heavy door fell on top of my sweet little Annabelle. I was unsuccessful and it clattered down on her tiny body. I thought that would be the end of me, right in that moment. That I would die of fright. My heart froze. She squeaked, her tiny little body underneath the door. I found I could move again and lifted the door off her body. She, barely a year old, had just learned to toddle about. Tony raced around from the kitchen and shouted “Mama! How could you?!” He grabbed his tiny sister’s hands and dragged her out while I lifted the door. His angry, accusing eyes confirmed I was the worst mother ever.

  But it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just that I was the worst human who had ever birthed another. It was this wretched house that was not my home. It was this farm in which I toiled and sowed my blood, sweat and tears. This ungrateful farm, decrepit and falling apart around me. My garden never grew here. Even the hay I had planted, intending to make money, never grew more than a few inches. Nothing to harvest.

  Husband went running off to work each morning and came back, disappointed in me every day. He never said it. He never told me how badly I had failed us. But I could see it in his weary shoulders as he trudged out to feed the hens. He’d come back and complain that they were broody (my fault) and that there was no feed left (my fault) and that the field looked terrible (my fault) and that this farm would break us.

  In a glorious moment of misery, I drove to town and wound down a road I hadn’t yet been on. We didn’t have the gas to burn, but I wanted to know what was behind this grove of trees. Up on top of a hill sat a huge fabulous mansion with a lighthouse peering out of the center. The house came alive like a stallion rearing in the woods. It stole my breath. What was a gem like this doing around here?

  I was instantly curious. We were in the middle of mountains, not a drop of water around. My heart skipped a beat, and I felt the invitation as I stared longingly at it. The house solicited my heart even more strongly than that wretched tree had six long, dreadful years ago. Nine-hundred-fifty-square-feet brought me to the realization that I would prefer indoors to outdoors. I did not want to play on the tractor in the field. I wanted to sit at my table and watch tv, I wanted playrooms for the children. I wanted to live a productive life where my labors brought value to my family. I didn’t want to till, plant, and water and end up with one-inch-tall hay.

  Wouldn’t it be nice if Husband could stop gloomily trudging back to the house (not home), deep in despair? The old red truck rattled and sputtered and a puff of black smoke poured out from under the hood. It just gave up. Instead of worrying about how I would walk two small children the five miles back home I stared at the house on the hill. I took my keys and put shoes back on Annabelle (Why must she always kick them off as soon as I start driving?) and then the three of us linked up and started walking to the house. With any luck, we could find a person and get a ride.

  I had never, in all my life, seen such a house. Magic hid behind that line of trees. My eyes begged for more details, but we had to get closer. The driveway was long and far, and lined with signs. “Auction today.” “House available.” “5 + bath.” Five? Five bathrooms? “Auction!” “Registered Checks required!”

  We walked about halfway up the driveway when three-year-old Annabelle complained. Her legs were tired, and she wanted a snack. Tony took her hand and told her they should run to the house. He was an excellent brother, always trying to make their miserable lives more pleasant. She tried to run but about five steps in she tripped on a pebble and fell. Her wailing stretched her three-year-old lungs to their max. I picked up the small yet heavy body and slung her on my back, and we continued. I feared the auction had ended and maybe nobody would give us a ride.

  Her tiny little knee dripped a little string of blood, crawling around her leg and across her ankle. Her wet eyes stared at the house with a whimper as we got closer.

  I know that five bathrooms should have been an indicator of how gigantic this building was but I had no idea. From the bottom of the hill, it just looked like a crazy house with a lighthouse sticking out the top. And frankly, when you have been crammed into nine-hundred-fifty-square-feet, everything looks big. But this house, this mansion, was big. It seemed to have dropped down from a beach because it was unlike any other home I had ever seen. It looked like part barn and part lighthouse. The lighthouse tower appeared to be the third story. There were no boats to navigate, a house surrounded by mountains. The house was in dire need of a new coat of white paint, but the front columns were magnificent. This was, according to the last sign next to the building,
a ten-thousand-square-foot home.

  The urge to explore had never in my life been that strong. I forgot for a moment, the heavy sleeping blonde three-year-old on my back, and the tired four-year-old standing next to me. I forgot the dying hay in the fields and the ruined truck at the bottom of the driveway. I stared at the building and walked up to the front porch. As we circled the building slowly, I tried to stare into the windows, but they were boarded shut. Finally, I found the front doors; they were tall and solid mahogany, and carved with giant lions on each door. Tony spoke up, “Why can’t our doors have lions?”

  I grinned at the boy and reached out to pull the handle. Annabelle shifted on my back and I found I couldn’t both carry her and open the door. “Tony, can you get that big door open?”

  Tony looked at me, then looked at the giant, towering door, and he said with great big eyes, “I’m no Superman, but I’ll sure try.” And he reached up and pushed with all his might, throwing his tiny body against the door.

  “Baby, it needs to be pulled.” Tony frowned at me as though I had pranked him. He reached up and pulled on the door, and it swung open like butter. Inside, large footprints dotted the dusty foyer. The floor was ornate wood with a medallion or some picture. Hard to see beneath the thick layers and layers of dust. Tony sneezed repeatedly.

  “Hello? Anyone here? Our truck broke down…” I tried to holler, but I began sneezing too. I slid Annabelle down my back to the floor and she slumped and slept as though I had set her on a pillow. She knew how to sleep like the dead, that one.

  I heard a muffled creak as I stretched my weary spine. Tony shouted, “Hello!” And a soft echo of his boyish voice bounced back to him. He frowned. “I know you heard me!” His voice grew angry as his echo bounced back.

  Suddenly, a small fellow with a large mustache walked out of a room to the right. “We are here in the kitchen! I am so glad you came down for the auction!” His little voice rang out full of smiles.

  “Our car broke down,” I said slowly, I wasn’t in a rush to leave; I was itching to explore.

  His bubbly smile faltered, “So you aren’t here for the auction?”

  “I don’t have money to buy this place, that’s for sure,” I replied although it hurt. I wanted to purchase a place like this for my kids. Something ridiculous, decadent, fantastic. The kind of place where dreams blossomed. Staring at something this beautiful was like looking into a ball of fire. It burned me. Things that could have or should have been. Instead I was a farming failure.

  “Well, come along.” I picked up my very dusty daughter from the floor where she continued to snore. Tony grabbed my hand and we followed the man with the mustache through the room he was in. The stale, dusty smell of this unkempt house burned my eyes. He pointed as we walked. “That is the catering kitchen; the main kitchen is where we are holding the auction.” We stepped through a doorway and to the large, fantastic kitchen. The kitchen could hold our entire nine-hundred-fifty-square-foot house.

  In the kitchen was a stack of fliers and a pile of auction paddles with numbers. A speaker stood near the counter and a microphone sat on the counter. The freshly swept kitchen smelled like Pine-Sol, and the counters had been wiped off. The cabinets were dusty, but this room was otherwise pretty tidy. Three rows of standard metal folding chairs sat neatly on the floor. I set Annabelle on one and she slumped deep into sleep. Mustache and another two men stood whispering.

  “When does the auction start? Any chance you’d give us a ride after it is over?”

  The man with the mustache turned and frowned. “It was supposed to start a half hour ago. You, are the only one who came.”

  I grinned and felt my pockets. A crumbled five with two one-dollar bills folded crisply around it, two quarters and two nickels. “Well, unless you’d take seven dollars and sixty cents, I guess I am out of the running.”

  The room grew quiet. It’s a joke; settle down people. Mr. Mustache was suddenly on the phone. Five minutes later, the joke was on me. I could purchase this… crazy landlocked lighthouse.

  I am still unclear why they said yes. He explained it in such a way that made perfect sense in that moment. The state owned this house; they purchased it at an estate sale fifteen years earlier because they wanted the land that went around it. They wanted the land for some reason I cannot recall, a pipeline perhaps or to preserve a wild rat that may or may not go extinct. The house itself had exactly 1.6 acres with it. The rest of the land the state owned. A tiny island with a lighthouse in a sea of state land. The driveway looped across this state land as an easement. And then, something about expenses. Maybe the upkeep was expensive, something… anything to get it off their hands. Something like that. Though, the upkeep cost made no sense as the house hadn’t been occupied, cleaned or maintained in a very long while. For all I knew maybe someone got fired for selling this crazy house at auction for less than a McDonald’s Big Mac meal.

  After we got a ride home, big Tony, Husband, trudged in with the weight of the world bearing down upon him. I explained that I had purchased a behemoth of a house and that I thought we would clean it up and sell it. Flip it, and come out ahead. Where the farm had kicked us down this house would bring us up. We would be stronger and brighter, and even more fantastic than ever.

  He sighed a heavy sigh and said the electric bill alone would be more than our current mortgage. And we went to bed without speaking to one another, our hearts heavy.

  2

  The week that followed was very confusing. I listed our farm with a real estate agent and set to packing up our stuff. I received paperwork and keys and documents for our new home, but I couldn’t bring myself to go back over there.

  Maybe I would have found a way if the truck was running, but it wasn’t, and I had no money with which to fix it. So instead, I packed. I packed and cleaned and wondered what the inside of my house looked like. No, my home. This was a flip, but still, it was home. I stared at my field with my tree and I wondered if I would miss it. Somehow, I doubted it. Nine--hundred-fifty-painful-square-feet. I wondered if that smell would be gone when we moved. That terrible smell of despair.

  I put the tractor up for sale and one of the neighbors paid me eight hundred dollars for it. I was grateful for the money and paid the overdue light bill. We were in trouble, and we both knew it. But Husband came home and his heart was not as heavy. In fact, his excitement had built through the day and he thought that yes, we were up for cleaning up a house. And yes, maybe there would be a lot of money at the end of this tunnel. He was happy about the lighthouse mansion.

  He loved the farm. He hated the farm. It was easier for me. I just hated it. It seemed to have eaten my soul. I had dragged small children on tractors and hammered for long hours at short nails. I had done more physical labor here than anywhere. And we never skipped one bill to pay another before the farm, but now we were dancing on a thin blade. Late bills, slow bills, would we ever make it?

  I did side work, hemming pants and fitting Suzie’s wedding dress. Her weight loss, she said, had gone better than expected. That was true, but also, her wedding took about a year longer to plan than expected. There had been a rumor they had called it off entirely, but planning picked back up. I had to take in about eight inches from the dress. First I removed all the tiny beads and pearls and sequins, then I removed the extra fabric and hand stitched the tiny beads back in place. It looked like I had never touched it; magic shrunk the dress to fit her flatter stomach.

  That job took me twenty long hours and I mistakenly charged her only seventy-five dollars. That time could have been better spent, should, it should have been better spent. Reading with my babies, tending to the weedy patch I hoped would give us enough food to make it to winter. I had never spent less on groceries and, for the first time in my life, the cupboards were bare. We literally had eaten everything we owned. We checked the chickens often, hoping for an egg. My own waistline, rather hefty when we had started this adventure, was now thin. I felt bony and I dearly missed my extra c
ushioning. I stopped in for dinner at my mother’s house at least once a week. Not because I liked her much, but because we were too hungry to skip. If she had known that was why we were around so much more she would have been revolted. Guilt racked me at every turn, but I told no one how bad it was. Husband and I never spoke of it lest our misery burst forth in a physical way.

  Eventually, I had to see those beautiful columns and that giant lion-carved front door. I loaded up several boxes in the little cart and filled the children full of snacks and made our big, dumb horse drag us over. The truck was still sitting where I had left it, at the bottom of my new driveway, its old rusty frame scarred with smoke from parts faltering. I passed it and wondered if I could even get it up the long driveway. I left the children and cart at the mansion and walked the horse back to the truck. She had pulled it many times before and snorted in disgust. I tied her to the tow bar on the front and shifted to neutral. She pulled and whinnied as the truck was a heavy old thing, but once she got it moving, it wasn’t too bad. Slowly, she drug it up the long driveway, and then I left it close to the house. I let her out of her harness and hobbled her legs so she could eat but not run off. She munched on the weedy grass while I unloaded the carts. Tony and Annabelle were still sitting as I had left them, Tony was reading his favorite memorized book about a cat with cookies. Annabelle was coloring a picture of a cat. Farm kids knew all about sitting quietly and entertaining themselves.

  I let them out of the cart and told them to stay close, but they went running off chasing each other. I didn’t know how safe it was here, but I didn’t bother worrying. They were tough kids. They’d come get me if they needed me. I unlocked the big lion door and I closed my eyes for a moment. This was surreal. I owned this. I pulled open both doors they were smooth and silent. I felt like the queen of the castle. Dust flew up in a spinning dance as a light breeze pushed into the house. I realized, at this moment, that I had forgotten any brooms, or anything really with which to clean. I had instead brought boxes. Boxes of clothes and toys and my saw and my hammer. I peeked inside and shook my head. The filth struck me this time. There had to be at least an inch if not two inches of actual dirt on every surface of this house. I immediately sneezed.