The Old House A Haunted Series Novel by Alexie Aaron This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright 2015 –Diane L. Fitch writing as Alexie Aaron Cover by Kelly Noelle Fitch ALSO BY ALEXIE AARON HAUNTED SERIES in order The Hauntings of Cold Creek Hollow Ghostly Attachments Sand Trap PEEPs Lite Eternal Maze 3.1 PEEPs Lite Homecoming 3.2 Darker than Dark The Garden Puzzle Old Bones Things that Go Bump in the Night Something Old PEEPs Lite Checking Out 9.1 PEEPs Lite Ice and Steel 9.2 The Middle House: Return to Cold Creek Hollow Renovation Mind Fray The Siege NOLA Never Forget The Old House CIN FIN-LATHEN MYSTERIES In order Decomposing Death by Saxophone Discord The Wages of Cin Coming Soon: Unforgiveable Cin: An Opera in Three Acts To my family, friends and readers. I have gone through quite a journey these last few years, and I could only do so because of your support and encouragement. Take a bow and bravo! Table of Contents The Old House Mark Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-one Chapter Twenty-two Chapter Twenty-three Chapter Twenty-four Chapter Twenty-five Chapter Twenty-six Chapter Twenty-seven Chapter Twenty-eight Chapter Twenty-nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-one Chapter Thirty-two Chapter Thirty-three Chapter Thirty-four Glossary Alexie Aaron Mark Mark walked quickly past the old house. He held tight to his fishing equipment and averted his eyes. He directed his flashlight beam ahead on the footpath that had been worn into the field from countless foot travelers seeking out the fishing hole on the east side of Buckley Pond. It was a favorite spot for the weekend fishing crowd. The old house was just an old, empty ruin to them. In the predawn hours though, the house was hardly empty. He could smell the pipe tobacco as it wafted over from the back porch. Mark could hear the footfalls on the old rotted wood. Upstairs, he sensed children playing with a ball and jacks, hearing the drop of a ball and the swipe of the metal knucklebones. The jingle of the jacks signaled to Mark that the player had worked up to almost clearing the floor. He resisted the urge to slow his steps to see if the player ever won the game. Mark was spending his summer with his grandparents at Wolf’s Head Lake. His mother was attending a course in New York City, and his father was no longer able to care for his son. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his grandparents; he did. He found the couple to be entertaining and nurturing. The problem was that they lived in a cell phone and Wi-Fi black hole. If he wanted to use a computer, he had to ride an old rusty bike five miles to the library, and there, he was not allowed to play computer games. The librarian made that abundantly clear the first time he was there. When he complained about not being able to play his beloved WoW, his grandfather handed him a fishing rod and reel. He encouraged the boy to learn how to dig out his own worms and fasten the wriggling lumbricus terrestris to the hook, making sure to pierce it several times so the worm could not ease itself off the hook into the water of the lake. They worked together at the end of the dock at first, Mark learning how to cast the wiggling mass far into the lake. Mark watched as the red and white bobber kept the hooked worm from settling on the lake bottom. Instead it floated, tempting bluegills, crappies and bass. His grandfather promised that if Mark did his chores, he would spring for a bucket of minnows. They would then venture out in the boat and see if they could land a pike or two. Grandpa Sam had an easy manner with Mark. Grandma Edie was nurturing but firm when it came to Mark keeping his room clean. Mark figured out early that if he spent less time in his room and more time outside, he had little to do to keep his grandmother happy. This morning, he had tucked in the sheet at the bottom of the twin bed and flipped the blue and white quilt over it, making sure to smooth the wrinkles, before sliding his feet into his shoes and tiptoeing down the stairs and out the door. Grandpa Sam had taken him to Buckley Pond a few times. It was only a ten minute walk from their Wolf’s Head lakeside cottage. He cautioned Mark to stay away from the old house. “That place will fall down one of these days. Make sure you’re not inside it when it does.” Mark, now, turned and looked back at the house one more time before entering the silent woods. The roof had no sag to it, and even though the vicious north winds had peeled the tin back from the edges, Mark suspected that the roof had no leaks. The only weather that had entered the place came through the broken-out windows and sagging doors. The house had “good bones” as his father would have said, had he been able to speak to his son. His dad had tried to interest the boy in his job as a builder long before the explosion had claimed his voice, but at eight years old, Mark was already seduced by the call of video games and hanging out with his friends. Parents’ voices were deflected by the strategy planning for the next level of whatever game was new. Mark had regretted those four years of ignoring his dad. And now Mark’s father would never be able to speak to his son again. Mark saw the intermittent red glow of the pipe as the smoker drew in the fragrant nicotine, but whomever was smoking stayed on the porch, as if waiting for something or someone. Mark turned around and entered the woods. Immediately his ears popped as if he had changed altitudes or water had drained from his ears. He moved on, used
