The Haunting of Hill House
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“I’m not crazy,” said Hugh Crain. “Not entirely, anyway.” He glanced at his watch for the third time since the phone rang and turned down the volume on the TV he had left on. He was waiting to hear from someone named Dr. Montague.
His voice sounded calm when he spoke again: “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crain.” Hugh took another breath. “My name is Doctor William Montague. I am the chief psychiatrist for the Boston Medical Center.”
A pause in which Hugh could picture the young doctor smiling into his cell phone while sitting behind the wheel of some kind of expensive hybrid vehicle with solar panels covering its roof.
Then a laugh and a smile that would probably be accompanied by a slight raising of one eyebrow as he continued speaking, “I have read your file on your son and I understand what a remarkable recovery is being made under my guidance. I can’t thank you enough.” Another chuckle.
The line crackled. It occurred to Hugh that this wasn’t going well. This whole charade might turn out to be more trouble than it was worth.
As far as Hugh knew, the only people who knew about his connection to Dr. Montague were the members of his book club and those few acquaintances of his wife who happened to run in similar circles.
A couple of them did know him personally, but only because they’d met at one of their book group meetings or social events in town—he and Claire had been married twenty years now. If word ever got around town that Hugh was actually talking to an actual doctor instead of a self-proclaimed psychic, there would be hell to pay.
He wondered if anyone would notice if he just disappeared without explanation.
“I’ve always believed in ghosts,” said Hugh. It was hard to think straight after all he had been through. His mind had become too muddled for him to focus on one thing and concentrate on it for a long. “When it comes down to it, I can’t really explain how I do any of the things I claim. There’s no science behind anything I do.
That’s why I like to say I’m the only one doing real paranormal research.” Hugh tried to remember everything he’d ever read or heard about ghosts and psychics—the kind that wasn’t strictly paranormal research. When people claimed to talk to dead loved ones, they were often told it was the result of grief or mental illness. They were called insane.
Hugh didn’t want to tell this young doctor any of that—he needed his help so badly. “But I’ve never seen anything supernatural.”
Dr. Montague sighed loudly before continuing, “Well, let me assure you of something else then. You are not crazy.”
He couldn’t believe he was hearing this from someone who hadn’t even met him yet. Hugh felt relieved and also confused, trying to figure out whether it was a good sign or a bad sign that Dr. Montague was so confident his own sanity could be questioned. But his answer was clear once the doctor spoke again: “Your situation isn’t unique.
Your wife has suffered severe trauma—we all know that. She needs help coping with her loss. It’s clear to me that she hasn’t completely recovered from the tragedy that befell her family.”
Hugh wanted to speak up, but thought better of it. He remembered Claire telling him the same thing. She was a strong woman and had been doing remarkably well for three months now. Her attitude had grown less bitter every day, though the scars on her face and chest remained, still healing.
“We need to get you both into counseling,” said Dr. Montague. “There is plenty of evidence to suggest that a supportive environment will greatly reduce her stress and anxiety, as well as provide support for both of you in dealing with her trauma.”
Hugh nodded, unsure what he should say or do next. He had already decided he was going to take Dr. Montague’s advice. After the call ended, he went back to watching the muted TV screen. It was the news—a story about the recent spate of break-ins in the area that he had somehow managed to miss despite living in such close proximity.
The burglars were caught last week—three teens from nearby towns had admitted to the crimes and confessed to police. A lot of jewelry had been stolen and a car had been set ablaze. It looked like his neighborhood had finally been hit. Hugh didn’t care—he was just happy he hadn’t been there during the break-in or that they hadn’t found evidence that linked him directly to anything.
He had spent most of his time alone in the house since his wife’s attack and the first signs of recovery were becoming evident.
The phone rang again. “Hello?”
“This is Doctor Montague again,” came the familiar voice over the line. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”
“No. No, nothing at all.” Hugh cleared his throat. “Doctor, I’ve decided to go ahead with your recommendations. Can we meet tomorrow? I don’t know if you saw my earlier message—”
“You sound much more relaxed today than when I called yesterday,” Dr. Montague interrupted him. “That’s great news. Let’s set it up for the morning.”
“Tomorrow would be better,” said Hugh, trying to recall what time she had mentioned on the phone. “I’m free from ten till noon, then I have another appointment that afternoon.” He didn’t want to mention that he might be meeting Claire at some point during the day, though he hoped it would happen.
Hugh was beginning to realize that it wasn’t going to be easy being home alone for long periods of time while his wife recuperated. He missed seeing her every day, especially during the nights and early mornings—when everyone in town was asleep but himself and her, he felt as if something was missing as if she had left him behind.
“Ten o’clock sounds fine. Where shall we meet?” Dr. Montague asked.
“Can I ask you to pick a place that’s near where you live—near Central Park? It’s about twenty minutes from here and I’ll be coming by train.”
Dr. Montague chuckled. “Central Park—you mean the one in New York City? Well, I haven’t lived there in decades, so we’ll just have to make sure it doesn’t conflict with anything else I’m scheduled for. We can go somewhere closer to your place instead. How does the library sound?”
“Fine with me.”
The two spoke for another few minutes, agreeing to exchange numbers so Hugh could call her after their session. Then, he hung up the phone and stood up. His thoughts were already turning to the library. Hugh had never been inside, having moved to Larchmont a month ago. Now was the perfect time to find out if this was the right move for him.
***
On Monday morning, Hugh got up earlier than usual and prepared for work, knowing he’d have an extra hour or so before he needed to leave home. He showered in silence and put on a pair of black trousers with a white shirt—one of those he wore only occasionally.
He liked to wear suits when working at the firm because they gave him a professional appearance, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be appropriate to dress so formally around people who knew him. Hugh also took his laptop, figuring he might be able to catch up on some work while he waited at the station.
He arrived in plenty of time but had trouble finding a parking space on the road that led to the town center. The street was busy with cars and buses, and he was forced to park further down the road. He had forgotten how difficult it was to drive in this town.
It reminded him of small villages in England, but even there were always traffic lights and stop signs at intersections, not to mention the constant stream of other vehicles and pedestrians crossing the roads.
He walked the rest of the way in silence through the streets that were filled with old brick buildings and quaint shops. Some of the businesses were boarded up, their windows covered in plywood or metal sheets to protect them from the winter cold and rain, and others were closed due to the holiday season.
The whole thing was strangely peaceful—not at all like London or Manhattan. He had heard there were many small towns in America that had retained their charm and sense of community, which he appreciated.
When he reached the central square, he saw that a huge Christmas tree had been set up on a grassy lawn beside the town hall. Above the entrance of the building was a large banner reading: LARCHMONT TOWN COUNCIL MEMBER DORIS HENDERSON AND FRIENDS CELEBRATING 25 YEARS OF SERVICE TO THE LOCAL COMMUNITY.
Hugh glanced over his shoulder at the empty store windows on Main Street and then at the sign. He turned back around, looking forward again.
After parking his car and paying for parking, he crossed the road toward the library, walking quickly so he could get there in time for Dr. Montague’s appointment. As he stepped into the building, a young girl in her teens approached him, her hand extended and her lips smiling.
“Merry Christmas!”
Hugh smiled and shook her hand, saying, “Merry Christmas to you too.”
“I’m Emily, by the way. I’ve worked here for eight months now.” She pointed across the foyer toward a staircase and said, “This is where the adult reading room and art gallery are, if you’re interested. You know, you can check out books, use the computer terminals to search for research materials—”
“Thank you, but I don’t need anything,” said Hugh.
Emily seemed disappointed and looked away as she walked toward the stairs. Her face brightened again once she reached the landing above the foyer and disappeared into the first floor. Hugh didn’t think much more about it until a moment later when he heard a familiar voice behind him say, “You must be Mr. Rafferty! Welcome to the Larchmont Library.”
Turning around, he saw the woman standing in front of him. Even though he recognized the face, he still couldn’t quite believe it.
“Yes, you are.” Hugh nodded, feeling awkward suddenly. “Sorry—it’s just that you look so familiar.”
She laughed gently. “Well, I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Emily, by the way. And my friends call me Emmie. But everyone calls me Miss Henderson because I run the library.”
Hugh felt slightly better about this encounter. “Miss Henderson—do you live around here?”
“No. I’ve lived in this town all my life—since I was born really.” She stopped talking briefly, as though she wanted to make sure he understood that she was telling the truth. “I grew up on one side of the town square and went to the local high school. This used to be a very nice place until recently when things started going downhill.”
The two of them walked past rows of tables lined with bookshelves on the ground floor of the library. In the next room were several glass display cases holding old paintings, sculptures, and photographs. One of these featured a painting called ‘Dancing Ladies’ that Hugh had seen in an online news article years ago.
He followed Emily into another room, which was filled with shelves and bookcases containing thousands of books. The room also had several large wooden tables and chairs, where people were reading quietly, chatting, and using computers. They passed a group of four women who greeted Miss Henderson.
Hugh found himself drawn to a table where a man was sitting alone. The man was a few years older than his mid-thirties, with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He wore a navy blue sweater over a white shirt and jeans, along with a pair of leather shoes.
There was something unusual about the man, though he didn’t seem threatening. Something strange. It wasn’t anything obvious—just that his presence made the hairs on the back of Hugh’s neck stand on end. He felt like he’d never met the guy before.
As he walked toward him, Hugh noticed that he was staring at a book lying on the tabletop. It was open to a page and was printed in red lettering on the page below the title, in the center of the photograph: The Last Man Standing: A Collection of Short Stories by Charles Dickens.
Hugh sat down next to the man. “Can I join you?” asked the man, not even glancing at him. He turned the book toward Hugh. “You know this book, don’t you?”
Hugh picked it up. The title of the story, which appeared on the cover, read The Mystery of Edwin Drood. “Yes, I do.”
“What did you think of the ending?” asked the man without pausing from the pages he was reading.
Hugh glanced at the book. There weren’t any words under the title, so he took a quick glance to see what kind of story it was. The opening paragraph of the story told how the character Edwin Drood had gone missing after a performance at Covent Garden. As soon as he finished reading, he put the book back on the table.
“How do you know this book? Are you some kind of writer?” asked the man. His eyes narrowed.
“No.” Hugh shook his head. “It’s just that I saw it in an online news article.”
“Then maybe you saw that there are three copies of The Mystery of Edwin Drood at the Larchmont Public Library. Two are downstairs and one upstairs, if you care to look. We get lots of requests to buy it every year.”
“Really?”
“Yep—but I have to admit you beat us to it.”
Hugh stared at the man in disbelief for a moment. Then he remembered he’d seen Drood’s face among the pictures of men with guns at the crime scene, as well as in the newspaper articles about John Doe’s death.
But why would Drood come here in person, dressed all in black?
Hugh cleared his throat. “Maybe we should talk somewhere else,” he said. “This isn’t exactly private.”
“No, I suppose not.” Turning away from the book, the man got up from the table and stood in the center of the room, looking around at all of the people who were browsing in the library. “Why don’t we go into one of these meeting rooms instead?” he suggested, pointing to several doors that were closed off with signs on the outside.
Hugh hesitated, then nodded. The man opened a door with a sign on it saying ‘Quiet Meeting Room 1.’ When they walked inside, the man closed the door behind them.
“I’m Harry.”
“Hugh.” He looked around at the other tables but none of the occupants seemed to pay attention to their conversation.
Harry continued. “We need to talk.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“You understand that your involvement is strictly confidential?”
Hugh shrugged.
“If you’re worried about being recognized, just say so.”
“I don’t think it’s my picture I need to worry about.”
“That may be true, Hugh, but I’ll tell you something: If I ever find out you’ve leaked information or spoken about me or my associates—”
“You’d kill someone?”
“Exactly. Do you understand what I mean?”
Hugh thought carefully before answering.
“Do you mean you and your associates work together to kill people?”
“In certain circumstances. But it doesn’t necessarily always end that way.”
“And when it ends badly, then you don’t mind if everyone thinks it’s a murder.”
“Not really, no. And that’s the only reason you should keep our secret. Because we don’t want any more deaths on our hands. Not anymore. We lost three guys yesterday.”
Hugh felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room. His head started to spin.
The man reached across and held Hugh’s hand.
“Come on, Hugh—it’s okay.”
He didn’t feel like anything was okay. He looked around to make sure nobody was watching. “Okay, but I won’t betray you.”
Harry nodded. “Good enough. Now, what did you think of Drood’s ending?”
The End