 The house on Cranberry Lane breathed and had a soul. Black shutters glared ominously down at Anna, watching her like fresh prey as she regarded it from the front yard with a mixture of fear and fascination. It was a white two-story monstrosity with plantation-style columns and rocking chairs that beckoned from the expansive front porch. She imagined the porch had hosted many a lemonade drinker as they’d fanned themselves, praying for relief from the sweltering Georgia sun. The generous lawn was shaded by peach trees that lined the drive like sentinels. A realtor stood before Anna, her hand outstretched, a vision of professionalism in a powder blue suit and gray pumps. She smiled broadly as if she hadn’t kept Anna waiting for the past twenty minutes. “Ms. Worthington. Hi, I’m Cathy Lindley.” “Please, call me Anna,” she said, her eyes never leaving the house. She hadn’t been back to Golatha Falls in years. Her father had been so cold when she’d left. He’s much colder now. She shook that morbid cobweb from her mind. Her mother had passed when she was still very young, and Quinton Worthington had left her everything. His business, his money, and a house she couldn’t live in and equally couldn’t bear to part with. The plan had been to leave immediately after the funeral. She’d been almost free of the cloying southern town until she made the mistake of detouring down Cranberry Lane. The For Sale sign had teased her from the edge of the lawn. And although she would happily ignore her father’s house; this house she couldn’t ignore. It had been as if an unseen force had guided her hands to turn the wheel and pull into the driveway. Anna took a deep breath and followed Cathy inside. She’d expected a hollowed-out cavern, but the place was filled with priceless antiques as if it were still inhabited. Her black heels click-clacked over the hardwood floors as she shadowed the realtor. The hair on her arms rose with each echoing step. They were alone in the house. Of course they were, but she still had to turn around to make sure. No one. As she stood in the foyer trying to look like she wasn’t having a mental breakdown, she realized the house felt sad. No, she was sad. There was no sense projecting buried emotions onto an inanimate object, imposing though it was. A house couldn’t emote. “These are the original fireplaces . . . ” Cathy’s voice droned on, blending in with the buzz of a bumblebee that had slipped inside the open front door. The entryway flowed into the living area, one unbroken room with a door leading off to the kitchen. Rich drapes framed the windows, while lace curtains dripped down to end in a puddle of fabric on the floor. An antique burgundy sofa and chairs sat comfortably around a cherry coffee table. The kitchen smelled of freshly baked bread. No doubt a ploy by Mrs. Lindley to make the house more inviting to prospective buyers. It had been touted as industrial-sized. Anna didn’t have the heart to tell Cathy that her version of cooking was reheating take-out. “Do the furnishings come with the house?” “Oh, yes. No one ever seems to want the furniture. It’s been here from the beginning.” She lapsed back into her sales pitch then. “It’s believed a relative of Margaret Mitchell once lived here, and this staircase was the inspiration for the house at Twelve Oaks.” “Mrs. Lindley, not to be rude, but somehow I really doubt Margaret Mitchell was ever inside this house.” Cathy’s cheeks flushed a shade of pink that would have been adorable on anyone but a real estate agent. “Um, well, that’s what they told me. Shall we move on to the library?” Yes, please. Maybe if she could distract herself with books, she wouldn’t feel so watched. The library was a dark cave of a room, a place for drinking brandy and having philosophical conversations into the wee hours of the night. There were high ceilings and shelves with books that stretched to the top and a rolling ladder attached to a railing that went the full circumference of the room. Anna’s inner voice wouldn’t shut up. What are you going to do with this house? Throw parties? Or maybe you can be the pathetic cat lady. Yes, get a hundred cats to fill up the place. She’d loved the house as a child, but she was twenty-nine now. And no matter how much money they had, twenty-nine year old women didn’t go around buying real estate based on a prepubescent fantasy life. “The master bath has been updated,” Cathy said when they reached the second floor. “You could fit five people in this tub.” “I’ll be sure to do that when I have my orgies,” Anna deadpanned. “What?” “Nothing.” Now that the image of several brawny men in a tub filled with bubbles had entered her mind, she couldn’t seem to shake it free. Bad Anna. “Well, what do you think?” She hadn’t heard half the presentation as Cathy pranced around, lovingly stroking each piece of furniture like a game show hostess. She’d instead been trapped in the internal fight not to buy the house. What harm could looking do? Clearly a lot if she was considering moving into a throwback from Gone With the Wind. Buy the house. The thought flowed through her mind like a whisper, and she turned once again to see if someone had spoken. “I’ll pay the asking price,” she heard herself say. “Wonderful! I know you won’t regret it.” Cathy pumped her hand with all the vigor of a slick, used car salesman, and Anna wondered if she was buying a lemon. *** Anna placed a half-eaten carton of Chinese food on the coffee table. Scarlett looked up from the nearby chair with interest, a happy little purr interrupting her previous activity: upholstery clawing. Sweet and sour sauce trickled down the side of the carton and onto the cherry surface. The cat hopped onto the table and sniffed at the contents as if it might be a biohazard. Satisfied it was safe, she began to lick up the sticky sauce. “That’s fantastic,” Anna said. “You decide to broaden your horizons after I buy a fortune of that gourmet cat crap.” “Mrarrrr.” Scarlett blinked innocently. Anna was going insane. Talking to your house cat was the first step. She was pretty sure it was in a warning signs pamphlet somewhere. Probably right above hearing voices and below swatting at imaginary flying insects. She peered out the front window. A couple of elderly ladies stood on the sidewalk, whispering and pointing. Knowing Golatha Falls as she did, Anna thought it best to face the firing squad before it got any bigger and uglier. She slipped into a pair of daisy-covered flip flops. Scarlett meowed again, drawing Anna’s attention from her mission. The food carton sat on the floor several feet away, while the cat perched on the tabletop complaining loudly. A frisson of fear crept up the back of Anna’s neck. Scarlett couldn’t have moved the food that far on her own. Not without making a mess. And yet the white box sat upright, and was even closed, the cardboard tab neatly curved into the slot. A childhood memory bubbled to the surface without warning. She was ten, sitting on the back terrace at Cecelia Townsend’s house, drinking lemonade. Cece was the only old person she was friends with. She was something like fifty. Anna always came to her house after school. This afternoon Cece was teaching her how to cheat at poker. Occasionally, Anna looked out through the sparse grouping of trees to see the empty house on Cranberry Lane. There had been stories. “Do you really think she’s in there?” Anna whispered, afraid the house might hear her if she talked too loud. It was up for sale. “Again” Cece had said, though Anna wasn’t old enough to remember the last time. “I don’t know, I’ve never been inside.” Cecelia shuffled and cut the deck before dealing five cards to Anna. A bit of long black hair had come loose from her bun, and she swept it back behind her ear. “Not even when she was alive?” She thought Cece had been friends with the woman who’d lived there, and found it weird Cece had never gone over to her house to play. “Beatrice’s father didn’t approve of me. I acquired my money later when I married.” Anna didn’t understand that, but didn’t ask more questions, her thoughts too focused on the fact that the house was finally empty. She jumped up from the chair, tossing her cards onto the table. “Let’s go over there and check it out.” If there was a ghost, maybe they could see something. Cece stared at the house, her eyes going distant as if she were remembering something sad. “Maybe some other time.” Anna turned from the window to look again at the food carton. Little old ladies or potential ghost? When framed that way, it was a tough call, but she chose to go outside and brave the elderly. She’d barely reached the sidewalk when one of the women squealed. “Anna Worthington, my dear child. I thought that was you. We’re so happy to see you back in Golatha Falls. We just knew you couldn’t stay away forever.” “And we were so sorry to hear about your father. He was a good man. I’m glad you finally got over your pride and decided to live like he would’ve wanted you to.” Anna gritted her teeth. Perhaps she should have taken her chances with the ghost. Bitsy and Mimi Baker were two of the most trying old women she’d ever come in contact with. If her driveway wasn’t so damned long, she would have recognized them and stayed inside where it was safe. The twins were dressed in matching dark raspberry suits, their knee highs rolled all the way down to the ankles, ending in orthopedic shoes. Bitsy wore a hat with a feather in it. Mimi also wore a hat, but instead of a feather, she’d opted for a matching berry-colored veil that went over her face. Probably for the best. Both hid their wrinkled hands inside pale pink gloves and carried an overstuffed handbag looped over one wrist. Mimi’s little black poodle yapped at their heels. Anna took a whiff of the air, at first thinking she was smelling Bitsy and Mimi’s perfume. If only that were the case. It was the dog. They’d smothered him in White Diamonds. The sisters themselves had opted to slather on a too-sweet vanilla lotion. Bitsy snaked an arm through one of Anna’s, while Mimi flanked her other side. “Tell us, dear, what made you buy the Johnson house? Why, the house has been on the market forever and a day. Surely you heard about all the troubles they had.” “Um . . . no?” It wasn’t as if the goings on of a small southern town routinely made their way to Atlanta. Bitsy got a rabid gleam to her eyes, looking like some rogue squirrel had gotten hold of her. “You haven’t heard?” She lowered her voice as if the house itself might overhear. “They say it’s been haunted for fifty years now. But it’s just gotten more angry recently.” She shivered. Anna thought there should be a wolf howling in the distance, but the only ambiance was the Baker sisters’ poodle, still on high alert. “Poor Caroline,” Mimi said, in reference to the previous owner. Her sister nodded. “Yes, poor Caroline. You’re a very brave girl living here. But then, you’re a Worthington.” She clapped Anna on the back with more vigor than a woman her age should have been capable of. Anna changed the subject. She wasn’t about to let Bitsy and Mimi scare the crap out of her with embellished bedtime stories. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Well, not since she was ten, anyway. “So, what has the town been up to while I’ve been away?” The sisters exchanged a glance, conveying an entire telepathic conversation in mere seconds. “All right dear,” Bitsy said. “We’ll leave you alone about the house . . . for now. But when you need answers, you know who to come to.” Anna smiled weakly as they guided her down the sidewalk, intent on involving her in their ritual morning walk. They chattered on for the next seven blocks about Old Widow Saunders’ unfortunate tooth incident, and a series of house toilet paperings that the Sheriff was taking very seriously. They didn’t stop talking until they’d herded her into the Java Junkie. The coffee shop sported a tattered Grand Opening banner over the doorway. It was a big step up from the diner on State Street which had always smelled of tuna fish and day-old grease. In contrast, the Java Junkie smelled of cinnamon rolls and mocha. After Bitsy and Mimi had placed their orders, they maneuvered Anna to a corner booth, fully intent on getting every last detail of her life in the big bad city of Atlanta. “Caroline!” Mimi’s arm shot up in a sudden wave as a leggy brunette with a mane of dark curls entered the coffee shop. Caroline Johnson wasn’t the same person Anna had met years before. Her eyes looked drawn, worn around the edges, as if the life had been sucked out of her. “You’ve met Anna, I’m sure,” Bitsy said when the woman reached their table. Caroline’s eyes shifted nervously as she turned to Anna. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you. Your number isn’t listed yet, and I couldn’t come by the house.” The Baker twins exchanged another of their cryptic glances. “Of course you could have come by,” Anna said. “Would you mind if we spoke privately?” When they’d moved outside, Anna gestured toward the window. “They don’t mind being obvious about it, do they?” Bitsy and Mimi were staring directly at them, trying to learn the fine art of lip-reading on the fly. But Caroline wasn’t listening. She was busy self-consciously twirling a strand of hair. “I feel just awful. I never would have done it. We knew your father and we would never intentionally . . . I’m sure you’ll be able to find a buyer as long as you don’t make the mistake I did and talk too much about the occurrences.” Anna gaped, trying to figure out what Caroline was babbling about, when it hit her. “I’m not selling the house.” “Oh, but you have to! You can’t live there.” “Caroline, traditionally people buy houses to live in them.” “But you just can’t.” Her eyes were wide and just a tinge too caffeine-addled. “It started out little things, but the longer we lived there, the more apparent it became, like something was feeding off us. I had dreams . . . ” Anna noted the redness that came to Caroline’s face as she trailed off, but chose not to comment. “You see, we’re very religious people, and I don’t want to say . . . demon . . .but . . . Well, anyway, my daughter, Sara, was only seventeen. She’s in an institution now. I’m telling you the house is possessed. I should have burned the vile thing to the ground rather than let someone else buy it. But we needed the money.” Anna shivered, but then quickly got herself together. She’d gone her whole adult life without believing in the supernatural. Why ruin that track record now? She smiled kindly at Caroline to diffuse the situation. “I’m sure you believe something happened in the house, but I’m not superstitious. And I’m not willing to part with it now that I have it.” The horn of a red sports car blared impatiently. “I have to go. Please consider what I’ve said. If something were to happen to you, I’d never forgive myself.” When the car rolled up to the curb, Caroline slid into the passenger side and was gone in a gust of hysteria. Anna sipped her rapidly cooling coffee and stared after the car. She tried to remember if Caroline had been that high strung the last time they’d met. Definitely a woman who should prayerfully consider switching to decaf. Anna’s mind wandered back to the Chinese food. There was no way in hell she was getting freaked by misplaced takeout. If Cece’s ghost stories were true, Beatrice was going to have to do a lot better than that. Maybe float the box around like it was being operated by a pulley system. Back inside, there was a new addition to their table. Sandwiched between Bitsy and Mimi with a trapped expression on his face, was Marshal Crust. He smiled up at Anna with genuine relief. She’d once had a crush on Marshal when she was a teenager, but she’d gotten over it. Now, it appeared he was finally noticing her existence. If his eyes’ refusal to wander far from her cleavage was any indication. “Anna.” His voice was a little more breathy than was attractive for the average male. “Marsh.” Well, this was getting off to a great start. If they’d hooked up at sixteen they surely would have set the world ablaze with their clever banter. “Marshal is recently divorced.” Mimi couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d said hint, hint, wink, wink. Anna smiled politely, wondering if Marshal had been more attractive in high school or if she’d been less discriminating. She remembered herself in high school, so she suspected the latter. “We were thinking you two should go together to the Peach Festival this weekend,” Bitsy said, ever the little matchmaker. The Peach Festival was the event of the year in Golatha Falls. Tragic, but true. It was a quaint little festival where everybody knew everybody. Anna was beginning to miss Atlanta, where nobody knew anybody and she could sit for five minutes without hearing: ‘Anna, my, how delightful it is to see you!’ Three faces turned expectantly toward hers as her inner monologue ran out of steam. “I hadn’t really planned on going.” “But you have to.” Mimi’s lip jutted out into a pout that must have driven the men wild in her younger days. “Everybody’s dying to see you again.” Anna could see she was going to lose the battle. Her powers of resistance failed her in the face of pouting old people. They were her kryptonite. She might be able to buy herself some peace until the weekend if she just caved now. “I suppose I could find a few hours in my schedule.” As if my schedule isn’t TV, Chinese food, argue with the cat, surf the net, she thought. “Splendid!” Bitsy said. “I could meet you by the courthouse.” Marshal looked up at her from underneath thick, blond lashes, working the shy guy angle. Anna hated when men did that. “That’d be great. Listen, I’d love to stay, but I’m not finished unpacking.” She took the Baker sisters’ smug smiles and nods as her cue to flee. The moment she got home she set the security code, sank to the floor, and peered out the window. The sidewalk was empty of threats. Scarlett approached her, meowing and bitching and rubbing up against her legs. The cat’s nose turned up at the lingering smell of White Diamonds. Great. In the space of two short weeks, Anna had managed to elevate old people and blind dates to exciting life events. Vince hadn’t been her long haul guy, but it didn’t mean it hadn’t been fun while it lasted. At least until he couldn’t commit and she was sharing him with half of Atlanta. She’d been his casual every other Friday girl. It hadn’t been all bad. He’d included her in his social circle. She’d had a job. Maybe working in the mail room of the Journal-Constitution wasn’t the height of glamor, but it was something. She had no idea what she was going to do with herself now. Get a job? Join committees? Her brow scrunched at the idea of being one of those bored town committee women arguing over floats for the annual Christmas parade. Then a part of Anna’s ten-year-old self came through as she imagined finding prince charming, having a whole passel of kids, and throwing fabulous parties. Snap out of it. Don’t go there. The town might be having an odd effect on her, but she wasn’t about to go all damsel-y. She wasn’t waiting for a man to come along and make her life complete. Gag me. It was the house. It was possessed with Margaret Mitchell’s ghost. Anna picked herself up off the floor and settled onto the sofa with her laptop. Within moments she was inside the archives of the Golatha Falls Gazette. She wondered if they ever just printed an edition that said, “Sorry kids, no news today . . . check back tomorrow.” The Gazette sported a general archive, as well as archives for categories of special interest. The sun was dipping behind the peach trees when she found a web of interconnected links on her house. Leave it to the fine journalists of Golatha Falls to think ghost stories were newsworthy. The paper seemed to have a sort of obsession with the house, archiving articles on it far past what they’d saved and uploaded to the Internet for any other topic. The oldest article was dated August 18th, 1959. A beautiful fair-haired girl with bright eyes stared back at her from a black and white photograph. The caption read: “Beatrice Stone found dead in her home the morning of August 17th, circumstances unknown. Foul play suspected.” Anna felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Beatrice had been found in the parlor, which Anna suspected was the room now known as the living room. Where she was sitting. Lovely. She clicked to the next link. September 26th, 1969. The article rambled on about how the Stone Estate had sat empty for several years. A few neighbors reported hearing female screams at night. Blah blah blah. Weird occurrences, blah blah. For a ghost, Beatrice was boring. No wonder Anna hadn’t remembered the stories. Clicking through several links brought more of the same until she got to the Johnsons. After trying unsuccessfully to exorcise what they believed to be a demon, they’d moved. A link to an interview transcript showed Caroline Johnson using the phrase just awful to an extent that should have been punishable by law. Anna closed the browser window. Pretty wimpy for a ghost story. She flipped on the television and heard a crash in the kitchen. “Damn cat.” “Mrarrrr?” Anna’s eyes shot to the overstuffed armchair where the cat was regally sprawled. She got up and edged toward the kitchen, her heart hammering in her chest so fast she couldn’t count the beats. I’m not superstitious. I don’t believe in ghosts. As she inched forward, her skin crawled, and it occurred to her that not only was she being silly thinking something supernatural was at work, but she hadn’t considered the very real danger of a possible flesh and blood intruder. Her gaze darted around the room until she spotted her keys and pepper spray in the candy dish on the table. She held her breath while she tiptoed over and snatched them, then returned, holding the spray at the ready as she entered the kitchen. Shards of blue glass from her favorite cereal bowl were scattered across the tile. She distinctly remembered placing that bowl in the back of the cabinet. Her last logical explanation was ripped to shreds when she looked up to see the panel by the back doo Continues... | 
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