All That Lives in This Dark Corner

There was one thing Miller knew for sure after his first day in his new house; His house had a ghost. 

He had bought this house on Rural Road #5 two weeks prior. It was a plain house with an open floor plan and its wooden panels outside painted an abysmal gray. It was a Cape-style house, his realtor told him. “Built in 1905 by a man named Ernie Betts. He was a fisherman, you see, and needed his house close to the bay.” The house sat on fifty-five acres of land outside of Hamlet, Maine in a little township called Doe’s Head. Miller thought the house was a steal at its price and even when the realtor informed him that two women had died in this house, shot dead by Ernie Betts, back in the 1910s, Miller wasn’t concerned about it. 

The house had laid empty for nearly ten years. The last family who lived there had only survived fifty days within its walls. “It’s spooky there, that’s for damn sure,” Milo Thatcher had said when interviewed by the local news. Every citizen of Hamlet and Doe’s Head knew of the house and the spirits that supposedly lived there. It was a local legend. But Miller wasn’t dissuaded by this information. A bunch of hogsposh, he reckoned. But on his first night in the gray house, he heard a sing-songy voice that seemed to come from the attic. “It’s the wind,” he told himself. “It’s an old house, it’s drafty.” Miller wasn’t scared of ghosts-they didn’t exist. 

The next morning, he awoke to the blinds on his windows pulled all the way up when he could’ve sworn he closed them the prior evening. He shrugged, assumed he was wrong, and went downstairs to make himself a pot of coffee. The house was quiet and still. Eerily quiet and still. All his furniture was moved in but not placed in their proper positions, he’d get to that today. His brother, Michael, was coming up from Belfast to help him with that. He made his pot of coffee and he drank it black while standing on the back porch, looking out over the rolling field in back of his house. There was an old wooden swing set and a little wooden playhouse with the exact paneling and color of the house. A family lived here once, a long time ago in the late seventies. And then they moved without explanation and the house had barely been lived in since then. Miller didn’t know what to do about the swing set and playhouse; Maybe he’d tear them down and use it as firewood. After finishing his coffee and pondering the swing set and playhouse, he shrugged and returned into the house. And from the corner of his eye, he could’ve sworn he saw a woman in white. 

He turned and looked at the treeline. There was nothing there. No woman in white. He laughed at himself and returned inside. He opened the windows in the kitchen to let the cool early Autumn air into the house. Again, he swore he heard a sing-songy voice. He dismissed it. “Just the draft. Nothing more.”

Miller went about his day, rearranging furniture throughout the home, starting in the living room first. He placed one couch by the windows and the recliner next to the fireplace. He moved the TV stand to the far wall, kitty-cornered, and placed the TV atop of it. He unrolled a rug in the middle of the living room and moved the coffee table there atop it. He hung up picture frames on the walls. Slowly, the house was coming together. 

The house had three bedrooms. A master suite off the living room with a bathroom and then two bedrooms upstairs and a bathroom there, too. There was a mudroom off of the kitchen where the washer and dryer were. There was a dining room off of the kitchen with a door that led into the living room and the staircase to the upstairs was there by the door. Overall, the house was a little bigger than Miller needed; He had no children, no wife, but his brother Michael would visit often with his two children and he figured the upstairs bedrooms would suit them nicely when they did. 

Miller was sweeping the kitchen floor when, again from the corner of his eye, he saw a woman in white near the treeline outside. He quickly swung around to look but she was gone. He chuckled to himself. He opened the windows in the kitchen, letting the air in, and hearing the birds chirp outside brought him peace of mind. When he was done sweeping the kitchen, dumping the dust and dead bugs and such into a trash bag, he returned to the living room. All the pictures he had hung up earlier were now crooked on the nails. He furrowed his brows. “Huh,” he said to himself and then began to fix each one of them. 

A sudden chill swept over him, penetrating to his very core. Goosebumps erupted along his arms and spread up to his neck, prickling his skin with an unsettling sensation. The haunting, sing-song voice echoed in the air once more, wrapping around him like a shroud. Paralyzed by a mix of fear and curiosity, he stood motionless, every instinct urging him to flee yet his feet refusing to budge.

There was a knock at the side door in the mud room. At first Miller was unable to move to answer it but when there was another knock, the sing-songy voice stopped and the air felt less chilly. He slowly moved his feet as he made his way to the mud room. He opened the door and was greeted by a lovely woman, young maybe twenty years old, with a cherub face and bright blue eyes. She wore a flowy dark blue dress and a brown cardigan. Her hair was loosely held up and curly, the color of marigolds. “Hi there,” she said, her voice laced with the native accent of the people who lived in this little corner of Maine. 

“Hello,” Miller said, perplexed by the woman’s appearance. 

“I live next door in the green house,” she said. In her hands was a plate covered in tin foil. “This house has been empty for so long, it’s nice to see someone has finally moved in.” There was a pleasant, serene quality about her. She smiled and her head bobbed as she spoke. She tilted her head, waiting for him to respond. 

Miller cleared his throat. “Yes. So I’ve heard. It’s a nice house on a large plot of land, hard to think why it hasn’t been snapped up before now.”

The smile on the woman’s face faded a little but she nodded and held out the plate. “I made some banana bread. Figured you’d like some. Do you have a wife and kids joining you soon?”

“Oh, uh, no. Just me. But my brother is coming up soon to help me finish unpacking.” He took the plate from her hands. “Thank you for the nice treat.”

“No problem,” her hands fell to her side. She smiled brightly. “I’m Allegra, by the way,” she curled hair around her ear, seemingly embarrassed by her own name. It was an endearing quality. “Allegra Bowen.”

Miller extended one hand. “Miller McEwan,” he said. She took his hand in her own and then it retreated back to her side. 

She peered inside the mudroom. “You know what happened here then I suppose.” She said in a quiet voice as her eyes came back to him. 

Miller swallowed hard and nodded. “The realtor told me.”

“The people in town say that's why no one stays here for very long. I think all the house needs is a nice cleansing.”

“Cleansing?”

“Yes, cleansing. You know, burning sage, bells, a prayer or something. It’s a ritual used to dispel spirits.”

Miller could’ve laughed at her but didn’t have the heart to. Instead, he awkwardly chuckled. “You don’t really believe that do you?”

She shrugged, her eyes so bright and blue, it reminded him of the ocean he saw on his ride her the day prior. Her skin was pale and freckled across the bridge of her nose. She was a lovely sight. “Well, if you ever want it to happen, just let me know.” She moved off the steps and waved her hand. “Good-bye. Enjoy the banana bread.” 

Miller watched her as she walked down the long driveway to the road. Her body moved stealthy and her shoes made zero sound on the ground despite it being a rocky path. He moved back inside once she was out of sight and set the plate down on the counter. The air inside the house was still and unsettling. He chuckled to himself and checked his watch. Michael would be here in little less than an hour. 

Miller tore the tin foil off the plate and took a slice of banana bread, biting into it. It was sweet and moist, obviously fresh and still a little warm. He closed his eyes as he chewed. 

A little while later, Miller enjoyed a cigarette out on the back porch, watching the treeline. He was waiting for something but he didn’t know what. Maybe another appearance of that odd figure he could swear he saw earlier. He checked his watch again. Michael should be here by now. 

All that was left to move into the house was his bed, the extravagant bed frame left to him by his parents when they passed away, and a TV set to the master bedroom. He could remove his cot and store it in the attic. There were boxes that needed to be unloaded of books and trinkets, some bookshelves too. The idea of making this house his home excited him. And though he was far away from his surviving family, living in this little corner of Maine seemed to be tranquil, and he was excited to experience what the town had to offer him. He applied for a teaching position at the local high school as a civics teacher. The high school was small, with just over four hundred students in all. His class would be small and that was a relief compared to the school he taught in when he lived in New York City where his class size was between thirty and thirty-five. He hated New York and that’s why he decided to move back to Maine where he had spent many summers growing up. Michael moved to Maine four years prior, when their parents passed. “Come here to Maine, Ewan,” he begged when Miller told him he was leaving New York for good. And so he did, finding this house for sale in Doe’s Head at a lower price than it probably should’ve been and he couldn’t resist. 

He snuffed out the last of his cigarette and brought it back inside to throw in the trash can. He thought maybe he’d pick up some lawn furniture for the back porch, a few chairs and a table. It had a nice view of the large backyard and the treeline and in the distance, he could hear roaring ocean waves. So far, this place had been nice despite the eeriness of the house and the odd noises and strange sightings of a woman in white. He chalked that up to him being influenced by what the realtor told him. “Story goes,” the realtor had said. “Ernie Betts killed his wife and daughter because a voice in his head told him to.”

Miller had laughed. “Or maybe he just went mad.”

The realtor had pursed her lips and nodded. “Maybe so. But he was put in a sanitarium rather than jail and he died there in 1915. No known cause of death.”

Miller plugged in his TV and turned it on. It was nothing but static. He furrowed his brows. Everything was supposed to be ready to go. Though he was warned the internet was slow out here and cellular reception was less than desirable, he was assured his TV would work just fine. He turned the TV off and in the reflection of the TV, he saw a figure standing behind him. He swung his head around and nothing was there. Goosebumps once again rose on his skin. He brushed a hand through his hair and chuckled, standing up. He checked his watch. What was taking Michael so long?

Miller plopped down into his recliner with a frustrated sigh, the cushions embracing him as if they were trying to soothe his irritation. He rubbed his temples, attempting to shake off the weight of the day, when suddenly, a faint sound pierced through the silence of his living room. His ears perked up, and he froze. Footsteps echoing from upstairs. The rhythmic thud of each step sent a jolt of unease through him, and he found himself straining to listen, the irritation of the day replaced by a growing sense of apprehension.

He bolted up out of the recliner and went to the foot of the stairs. Sunlight shone down from the bathroom window at the very top of the staircase. The light dazzled and speaks of dust danced within the rays. “Hello?” He said, his voice echoing up the staircase. The footsteps ceased. Slowly, he began to ascend up the staircase. A door creaked. Once at the top of the stairs, he looked around the landing. The doors to the bedrooms were closed. He went to one door, opened it, and saw nothing but an empty room. He opened another and it was dark. An old sheet was over the window. There was a chill in the air. He peered inside the room and saw nothing. Then he felt a creeping sensation. He felt like he was being watched. He slammed the door shut and retreated quickly back downstairs. He laughed at himself once down there, dragging his hand through his hair. He shook his head. 

He checked his watch. Michael should’ve been here by now. 

And then there was the sing-songy voice again. Miller listened closely, trying to make out the words but it was indecipherable. He breathed in deeply as he walked through the house, looking for a source of the noise but there was nothing. And as he stepped into the kitchen, the voice got louder and louder. He covered his ears and clenched his eyes shut. Then he heard it-a loud gunshot. He opened his eyes and swung his head around. Another gunshot. Cries echoed through the house. Miller ran out of the house, tripping over a step and falling to the ground. 

“Dammit,” he cursed as he pulled himself up. He looked at the house, all the way up to the second floor window-the room where the old sheet hung over the window and he saw a man. A man with a mustache and short hair, holding a shotgun in his hands, staring directly back at Miller. Miller gasped. 

A car pulled into his driveway. He looked and felt relief wash over him. It was Michael. Miller pulled himself up from the ground, dusting off his pants as his brother parked his car next to the moving van. Michael popped out. “What were you doing on the ground, Miller?” He asked, amused. 

Miller looked back at the window. The man was gone. He swallowed hard, turning his head back to his brother. “Nothing. Thought I saw something.”