Rhayven House (3 page)

     Once upon a time, the house had been surrounded by a beautiful landscape. It had to have been; the remains were in evidence: the remaining flowers the wild foliage had not choked out. A weeping willow nearly as tall as the house stood a solitary sentinel, draping its leaves and forming a huge canopy in the front yard. Wild ivy—the name of which he could never correctly remember and always confused with the name of a venereal disease, and would blossom with small white flowers later in the summer—spiraled up the trunk and around the limbs of the willow. The bottom boughs of the willow hung so low they brushed the ground. He reached out and grasped one, and then lifted his head to look at the mountains.

     Watching the leaves turn in the autumn would be incredible; a blaze of red, yellow, and orange as they metaphorically burned the mountainsides. The gardens would thrive again, and he’d be able to look down upon them from his writing perch. The patterns not obvious from the ground would jump out at him, his own private view of the gardens.

     Winter snow storms raging around him while he wrote in the tower were something to which he looked forward. All that snow, blinding blizzards, swirling around him as he wrote in the glowing warmth of all those candles. Staying up there in the midst of a thunderstorm felt more suicidal than eccentric and he didn’t think he had to worry about that one.

     As far out in the woods as the property was, in the valley between the mountains, he shivered a little when he realized no one would hear his screams should he suddenly come under attack, in the dark, from a cadre of evil clown- ventriloquist doll-zombie topiaries.

     The possibility of it actually happening was very slim, Ian told himself.

      Still, maybe he’d have to invest in a flamethrower just in case that slim possibility became a reality and the topiaries crept out of the woods in a covert attack. The damned things would face the flames and what could be more horrifying to a tree, especially a demonic topiary, than being burned to ash?

     Soon he found himself laughing at the sheer hysterical suggestion of the attacking topiaries. He wondered if his sister would find it equally as funny, since the concept of an evil clown/ventriloquist doll/zombie topiary contained the four basic elements that freaked her out the most. Somehow, he didn’t think she’d appreciate the thought as much as he did, and he took great delight in squirreling the concept away in his mental file so he could use it an torment her at some later time. Like perhaps her birthday.

     Maybe he’d find a florist out there in Oregon or somewhere close from whom he could order a topiary and have it delivered to her front door.

     The look on her face when she received it would be priceless, and he wished he’d be there to see it. Of course, sending her the evil topiary would be seen as an act of aggression. She would then be forced to return a salvo of her own, which in turn would force him to declare war. He figured her response would include cornstalks and corncobs in some form or another.

     Ian wiped the laughing tears from his eyes and took another long look at it. With his hands on his hips, he stood and stared, his eyes moving slowly over the decrepit house; he tried to memorize every inch, every broken window, each crack as best as he could. The he promised he would do what he could to save it.

     Yes, the topiary would definitely ignite another war, but it was all in good fun and they both enjoyed it in the past.

~ ~ ~

     Ian utilized a handful of search engines in an attempt to find information on the property, but amazingly enough, it didn’t appear to have any web presence at all. Damn near everything had some sort of web presence. People can trace genealogy, find obscure knickknacks, and discover the history and pictures of houses that had been razed a hundred years ago. How could he not find a solitary entry for his house?

     No arguing needed; it met all the criteria to be historical, and in an area such as Coventon, full of history going all the way back to George Washington, how could there be nothing? Not possible. He just wasn’t looking in the right places.

     A map of Coventon didn’t even have the road listed. Even if it was a private road, it should have been listed for emergency safety purposes like police and fire department. But the map showed only the valley between the two mountains. The old Gold Church and its cemetery were listed, more than likely because they were a tourist sight for the paranormal crowd and people from the film industry.

     He reached over and popped a CD into the stereo. “Voodoo” by Godsmack filled the air around him. Seductive and sinister at the same time, Ian loved the song. Sitting back, he stared at the computer monitor, fingers thumping on the desk in time with the drum beats in the song. He acknowledged the strange attachment he felt for the house, but refused to give any credence to the fleeting thought he was utterly insane for wanting the house for himself. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he admitted to himself it would be a task to rehabilitate the house. But in his defense, it would be like building a house—except he would be working to beautify an old building someone had left to rot.

     Of course, Ian wasn’t completely enthralled to the point where stupidity would get the better of him and he’d stumble blindly into bankrupting himself over a decaying corpse of a former beauty. No, he’d get reliable contractors and electricians and plumbers to come in and give their opinions before he made any major decisions. Getting himself in a hole he couldn’t dig out of wasn’t in the plan.

     Something in his gut told him this wasn’t a wrong decision; something he had no explanation for kept telling him this was definitely doable and he was to be the one who did it. So much to do before he could even begin to plot a course of action. Nevertheless, a plan had to be formulated.

     Nothing could be accomplished until he figured out his next step; that step was finding out more info on the house, but he kept running into a whole lot of nothing at all. Ian cracked his knuckles and reached for his drink. What next? He was exhausting his less than computer genius researching skills.

     Somebody somewhere had to know something. A paragraph in an obscure book he could use as a springboard for more research. If he had the time.

     In that infinite space known as the Internet, there existed a website or an article some devoted—or demented, depending on how you chose to view it—disciple to history or old houses or whatever posted. There always was, just took patience and time to find.

     At least that was Ian’s experience whenever he’d researched anything for one of his books—never stop until you uncover the treasure you’re after. No matter how tired you are, never give up because you could be close—perhaps only a click or a turn of a page away.

     The old platitude “If it’s good, it don’t come easy” crossed his mind. “
Fiat.
”
So be it.

     Then the idea struck from nowhere, and he actually laughed out loud because he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. The courthouse downtown had to have something on file. The house was on the edge of town, but still within town limits and therefore under the jurisdiction of Coventon. No way would the city, much less the county, pass up the chance to collect taxes.

     A trip to the courthouse and the records department was in order because that was most likely going to be the simplest route to get started. It may have been abandoned and possibly forgotten but it was still there. The house existed. The property had been no fanciful figment of his imagination. There was a deed or tax records in existence somewhere down deep in a dusty drawer and if he had to do so, he would dig until he exhumed his prize. Nobody could buy something that didn’t exist, but this house did exist. He’d seen it with his own eyes, touched it with his own hands. No phantom image, but a concrete reality he wanted for his own.

Two

     Like it would be a piece of cake.

     The city tax office was oh so helpful when Ian called. Of course it was. He shook his head. Should he have expected anything different? The lady on the phone was brusk, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, made him feel like a complete moron when she kept saying the city didn’t have the house on record. Therefore he must be mistaken. He was to check his information again and call back when he had the info correct. She then said she would do her best to assist him.

     Did she think he used his imagination to dream it all up and got fun out of wasting her time?

     Ian felt confused.

     He knew they had a map and computers and it should have been a simple task to look up the information. He felt as if he’d hallucinated the house, maybe his whole schlep out to the valley was a figment of his imagination. Perhaps it was all a vibrant figment of his fractured mind.

     When he asked if anyone else could help him, Mrs. Reams said she could transfer him to the head of the tax record office. However, he’d only be told the same thing: They did not have a record of a house in that location.

     Disgusted, Ian hung up the phone. Would it even be worth the effort to go down there in person? He wouldn’t be able to hold his temper if they started telling him again he had his information wrong. Most likely he’d be arrested after telling her she was stupid; he never could tolerate stupid for very long before erupting like a volcano.

     There had to be a solution. One so obvious he just wasn't seeing it.

     He had an epiphany. He’d go back and take some shots of the house and show them to Mrs. Reams or her supervisor. They sure as hell couldn’t accuse him of having his information wrong if he came with photos of the house that allegedly didn’t exist.

     Grabbing his cell phone, he could use the camera on it to take a few shots. The quality wouldn’t be the best, but at least he’d have evidence he wasn’t dreaming the whole thing up. The drive wouldn’t take but an hour or so and he could be back in time to make the spaghetti he’d been craving for the better part of the week.

     And then, first thing in the morning, or around eleven when he actually got out of bed, he’d go down to the tax office himself and show the illustrious and fun-sounding Mrs. Reams the pictures of house and dare her to tell him he had incorrect information this time.

     Maybe he could take her a shot of vodka. That might help loosen the stick she had stuck up her ass.

~ ~ ~

     By the time Ian got to the house, it was late afternoon; between the sun going down and the shade the mountains cast upon the valley, he had limited time to snap some pictures with his less-than-stellar cell phone camera. Shadows crawled across the ground and the whole area had a creepy feel to it.

     Ian looked for signs anyone had been around the house since the last time he’d been there, but he couldn’t tell for sure. Already he had a sense the house was his territory and he didn’t want anybody else skulking around on his property. Just the thought felt like a violation.

     When he held the phone up to take a picture, he swore he saw somebody staring out of one of the broken windows on the second floor. A big shock. He lowered the phone. Shielding his eyes with his hand, Ian looked.

     Nobody there.

     A reflection of sunlight off the glass would have been the most appropriate explanation—had there been any sunlight or glass in the window. It had to be nothing more than his imagination; he was just thinking about somebody trespassing. His mind ran away with it and made him think someone had been staring down at him from the second floor window.              

     Nothing more.

     He wanted to go home, kick his feet up and eat. In addition to the anniversary of his dog’s death coming up, so was his birthday, which was the day before his mother’s birthday. He wondered if this would be the year he’d get an invitation from his family to join the celebration of his mom's birthday. Like there was a hope in hell of it ever happening; it never had before. He resigned himself to the fact he'd be holding the celebration for one again this year

     Sure, he was close with his family. He was the darling of the bunch. Especially when someone needed something like money to pay a bill. Of course then they’d call and make nicey-nice with the chitchat before coming to the point.

     The rest of the time? They didn’t recognize he still breathed. No, they weren’t mean to him; they just mostly forgot about with him unless they wanted something.

     It didn’t make him bitter. Instead, he just felt sad. It was their loss.

     Admittedly, he wasn’t a social butterfly by any means. If anything, he was a social dragonfly, stopping to hover for a second or two before zipping off back home.

     Home.

     Staring up at the house, transfixed by the shadows and light, Ian wanted it more than he’d wanted anything. As if it was subliminally calling to him.

     The damned place was here. He was staring at it. A personal visit to the courthouse would have to prove more fruitful than a telephone call.

     He would enjoy living in the little valley, in the shadows of the mountains. It was serene.

     And maybe, if he managed to buy the place and it wasn’t nearly as rotted away as it appeared, it could be restored in only a few months. He’d have to rely on the opinions of the contractors.

     If he could ever get someone to recognize the fact the place existed.

     First thing in the morning, he would make a special trip to the courthouse and find out about the house. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, raised it, and took a few pictures of the house. Just in case he had to prove it wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

     After he squeezed back out through the gate, Ian turned back for one last look before walking the path back to his car.

~ ~ ~

     Due to a night spent night tossing and turning, Ian yawned time and again in the shower. He fought the urge to crawl back under the blankets and their inviting comfort and warmth, telling himself he had to get down to the courthouse or forget the whole deal.

     Once he arrived at the courthouse, he went through several people, but at last it was suggested he try city hall. Off he went across the street to city hall. The white stone building with its steps running nearly the width of the building seemed to mock him. He took a deep breath and started to climb, counting each step until he’d counted seventeen and stood at the top.

     Inside, the referring game began again until the sixth person he spoke with told him he needed to check the hall of records.

     “What’s that and where is it located?” Ian pressed, trying not to lose his patience. He didn’t think it would be so damned difficult to find out some basic info on a piece of real estate. And he didn’t want to lose his cool and tell her she was one dirty bitch because that might be taken the wrong way. Frustrated, he took a calming breath.

     “It’s actually the county records department,” Ian was told. “Take the elevator to the basement. Once you’re in the basement, you’ll want to walk straight ahead, then take the first right, then a left, and keep walking until you reach the hall of records. You can’t miss it.”

     “Can’t miss it,” he mumbled. Louder, Ian said, “Thank you. I appreciate the assist.”

     In the elevator, he told himself to be prepared to be sent somewhere else, to see somebody else. Most likely back to the courthouse where he’d started over an hour before. If the idea wasn’t so crazy, he’d think it was some strange conspiracy to keep him from finding out anything. As it was, he had a feeling the whole goddamned thing was turning into a wild goose chase. No, worse. A snipe hunt. Rationalization kicked in. Maybe they all weren’t cogs in an insidious conspiracy to keep him from finding out anything about the house, but they weren’t burning with the desire to help, either.

     The elevator descended, stopped, and bounced into place; the door opened. Ian stepped out and followed the directions the lady gave him. He was just about to swear he’d been sent into the labyrinth, when suddenly the dim hallway ended at one of those doors divided horizontally so the top could open separately from the bottom; it finally came to him, these were Dutch doors. The top half of the door was an arch and it was open; there was a countertop attached to the bottom half.

     At first Ian thought there was just a birdcage-type of scrollwork, but as he came closer, he saw the glass partition behind the scrollwork and briefly wondered if it was bulletproof and why they would have it all the way down here in the basement.

     The metal nameplate sitting on the countertop was engraved with a simple
R. Kane.
Ian peered behind the counter in attempt to catch a glimpse of said person.

     He cleared his throat and waited.

     “Hello?” Ian said hesitantly. He felt like he should be shouting Ahoy-ahoy or something.

     The man stood up from behind the counter in a fluid motion, rested his hands on it, and said, “Good morning. How may I help you?”

     “Dude, were you just hiding in wait back there?” Ian blurted.

     The man shook his head and again asked, “How may I help you?”

     “Look, Mr. Kane, I’m trying to gather some information on a particular house and piece of property and I’ve spoken to six people so far about it; the last one directed me to the county records office. That’s you?”

     “That’s me.” He pushed his glasses further up onto the bridge of his nose.

     Ian introduced himself as he sized the man up, saying “At least you’re not the Minotaur.”

     Mr. Kane didn’t get it. It seemed like he’d stepped into the wrong era.  It was not merely the way he looked, but it was also the way he dressed and his mannerisms and demeanor. Mr. Kane appeared to be somewhat twitchy, like a rabbit ready to take off at any given moment.

     Swallowing the desire to ask the man what century he thought he was in, Ian instead told the man about the property.

     Nodding, Mr. Kane pronounced, “I know it well. Give me a minute to pull up those records and we will see if we can find answers to your questions.”

     Hopefully he wouldn’t have to call in Mulder and Scully to get to the bottom of the case after all. He waited while Kane went in search of the paper file. Apparently they only had the records computerized for the last thirty years, the rest were in metal file cabinets.

     Finally, Kane came back, a grin on his face, holding a manila folder. “Not much in here.” He placed it on the countertop. “But, fortunately, it does have the information you require.”

     “Okay,” Ian said, wanting to cross his fingers as well as his legs. He hoped for good news. “So, it says who owns it?”

     “Yes, sir. In a way. The property was taken against taxes due some years ago.” Kane looked up and pushed his glasses back up his nose again with his forefinger. He filled Ian in on some of the information from the file. “Seems no one ever came forward to lay claim or pay the taxes. As a result, the property fell into a bureaucratic crack and was never sold.”

     Ian’s heart thumped. If he understood correctly, he stood a very good chance of buying the house and land for what was owed in back taxes.

     As if reading Ian’s thoughts, Kane said, “I can add it up and give you a nice, round total. Then you’ll need to take the address upstairs to the tax office so they can fill out the required forms for you.”

     “That easy?” he questioned, not sure if it was going to be as simple as that.

     “If that’s what you want to do. It’s not rocket science, you know. I’ll send up this file; it’ll most likely be there before you are. They’ll let you know right away if there’s any issues, but I don’t see how there could be. The place has been in the hands of the county for a number of decades, five or six or so. You might be getting into a mess if you’re thinking about taking on a renovation.”

     “I’ll see what the contractors have to say about it before I make up my mind.”

     “Uh huh. It might be less costly to tear it down and start from scratch. That's only my opinion, mind you. You never know. The bones might still be sturdy because those old houses were built to stand the test of time.”

     After agreeing and thanking the man, Ian headed back into the labyrinth to the find the elevator. Upstairs, the woman in the tax office kept her plastic smile on her face the entire time as she assisted him. The process was just as easy as Kane had said it would be and Ian couldn’t help but grin as he exited the building.

     The waiting began. He’d either be getting the house or a refund on the taxes he’d just paid. She said he’d most likely know within ten business days.

     Seeing as he could do nothing at the moment, he decided to go home and work on a manuscript and try not to think about it