Chapter 20 - The Woman of the House

Brian is in the living room when I get home from Jonathan Walsh’s house.

“In here,” he yells over the TV as I take off my coat and shoes. I was hoping he’d be working out so I could process what Jonathan said, but Brian is on the couch watching football with the volume turned up so loud I can hear the announcers’ banter from the hallway.

“How was coffee with Frances?” he asks above the roar of the game.

“Good,” I say without raising my voice to meet his. One of the players makes a tackle, knocking the football from its cradled position in his opponent’s arms.

“Oh!” Brian yells, standing momentarily in an awkward squat before falling back down on the couch. He takes a swig of his New Glarus craft beer.

“Sorry, what did you say?” He keeps his eyes on the screen.

“It was good,” I say louder than I need to. He grabs the remote and turns down the volume, taking the hint. My face feels hot. I can’t think over the sound of the game. I go to the sink and pour myself a glass of water, though I’d prefer something stronger.

The cold water makes my throat tighten as I gulp it down. Reality sets in. According to Jonathan, Angela walked out the back door and was never seen again. The images I had of her being abducted, getting into a fight with Jonathan, or running away with a lover are replaced with a scene of her calmly walking out the back door, leaving her entire life behind.

“Hey,” Brian says as he comes up and wraps his arms around my waist. I jump at his touch. He kisses the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. “So, when am I going to meet this new friend of yours?”

“Frances? Whenever you want.” I try to push away the image of Angela walking out of this house. Her face is blank as she closes the door behind her. No keys. No wallet. No luggage. She doesn’t even look back as she walks away.

“Maybe once this Oak Street project is in a better place we can all get together?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

“Definitely,” I say.

Brian pulls away from me and I breathe a little easier.

“I heard there’s a farmer’s market on the Pearson Farm today,” Brian says. He thinks I love farmer’s markets. When we were dating, I told him I went to the Logan Square Farmer’s Market every weekend because I’d seen him with his own canvas bag full of fresh fruits and vegetables while I watched him from the stoop. The truth is, I hate farmer’s markets. I resent everyone who walks through them, buying a single package of strawberries for ten dollars, completely oblivious to people like me who grew up thinking canned corn and frozen carrots were fresh vegetables. Going to a farmer’s market is a pompous, self-indulgent act that the woman Brian married wouldn’t think twice about.

“Want to go?” he asks.

The kitchen feels smaller than it did a moment ago. I try to quiet my mind, but my ears are ringing with questions about Angela. Where did she go after she walked out of the house? Why did she leave? Maybe something made her. Or someone. My toes wiggle inside my shoes, itching to go for a run. The only thing that sounds worse than walking through a farmer’s market right now is staying inside this house.

“Let’s do it,” I say as I grab my purse and make my way toward the front door.

“Now?” Brian says behind me.

“Now!”

—

The Pearson Farm is about a ten-minute drive from the main strip of town. Cornfields line either side of the road as we pull up to the gravel parking lot, which is packed with SUVs and pickup trucks.

In front of us, a crowd of people funnel into the market like a parade of ants. Pumpkins line the perimeter of the property. There’s a sign for a corn maze to our right and a face-painting stand to our left. Bales of hay are piled on top of each other to make a mountain for kids to climb. Carts with fresh produce are lined up in rows.

“I thought this was a farmer’s market?” I ask as I glance around the fall-themed spectacle. Brian grabs my hand and leads me toward the unhusked corn.

There’s a faint smell of manure in the air, but it doesn’t seem to bother the families scattered around the property. Children run between the carts of produce before disappearing into the entrance of the corn maze. We pass by an older couple picking out tomatoes. The woman criticizes her husband’s choice before picking out another. To our left, two little kids try to convince their dad to buy them apple cider donuts. A pregnant woman turns toward me, and our eyes hang on to each other for a moment too long.

I wonder if Angela brought her kids here before she went missing. My cheeks get hot. Suddenly, I have the urge to flip over the table with apple cider donuts, decapitate the scarecrows, and smash the carved pumpkins. Everyone here seems blissfully unaware of the fact that a woman disappeared into thin air. Or worse, maybe they know and they just don’t care.

“Rose,” Brian says from a few steps ahead of me. “Come smell this basil.”

“I’m going to walk around a little,” I say. I flash a fake smile before turning away to cool off. I need some space to think.

I walk farther into the property until I’m at the entrance of the corn maze, where a life-size scarecrow is hoisted up on two pieces of wood. Its eyes are too close together, and its painted-on smile is crooked. One of its arms is nailed to the piece of wood behind it in an effort to welcome me inside.

The corn is high, close to seven feet tall. I’m only five or six steps in when I’m faced with a decision: right or left. Right. The clamor of the farmer’s market dies down as I walk farther into the maze. Occasionally, I hear a single, high-pitched shriek of either joy or despair from one of the many children running around nearby.

Before I know it, even the shrieking children have gone quiet. I stop to look around and realize I must be in the belly of the maze. I turn right and then left, hoping to find the edge of the puzzle, but all I see are the same stalks of golden corn.

Jonathan’s words replay in my head like a broken record: People around here have been saying that place is haunted for years. I consider the very real possibility that the woman I saw lurking in my reflection might not be alive. If Jonathan is lying and Angela never made it farther than the back steps of the house, maybe I saw her ghost. Or maybe it wasn’t a ghost at all. Maybe the woman was real. If that’s the case, then who is she? What does she want? Like the maze, my mind is full of meandering turns and dead ends.

Ten feet in front of me, a little boy turns the corner. I only see his profile for a moment, but it makes me do a double take. I pick up the pace and follow him so I can get another look. His shaggy blond hair dips behind a cornstalk, his laughter echoing above, and I know it’s him: Jonathan and Angela’s son, Teddy. He said the house was scary, and I need to know why. I follow him as he turns right, then left, then left again, but then I lose sight of him. I stop and listen, but his laughter seems to be coming from every direction, until suddenly it stops.

“Teddy?” I yell. Nothing. The rustling leaves beneath my feet are silent. I try to retrace my steps, but I can’t remember all the turns. Each row of cornstalks looks the same. I’m lost. A crow hovers to my right, as if stuck in the air mid-flight. I wipe the sweat from my brow, feeling like an ant underneath a microscope on a warm day. I pull out my phone. No service. Panic settles in my shoulders, working its way toward my neck. Despite the blood pumping in my ears, I hear footsteps nearby. When I turn around, I see Teddy running away from me once again. This time, I won’t let him out of my sight.

“Teddy, wait!” I yell. I just want to talk to him without Jonathan around. Teddy turns back and I see the white of his smile. He won’t stop running. Why won’t he stop? My sandals are rubbing the backs of my heels raw, but I keep running anyway.

He turns right and I do the same. Finally, I’m close enough that I can reach out and touch him. All I want to do is talk. The hood of his sweatshirt gets caught in my grasp. He recoils backward, like a fish caught on a line. A woman screams nearby. When I see his full face, I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake. I look up, my hand still full of the little boy’s sweatshirt, and see the rows of corn are gone.

“I said let him go!” A woman, red-faced and frantic, appears in front of me. She pulls the young boy toward her. One by one, people peel away from the blueberry stand and avocado booth. I can see their concern rising with each step they take. Soon, a small crowd forms. “Leave him alone,” the woman yells. Specks of her spit land on my upper lip.

“I—I’m so sorry.” It’s all I can manage to get out. The little boy’s sweatshirt is wrinkled where I had gripped it.

“What’s going on?” Brian asks, emerging from behind a man in a flannel shirt.

“I made a mistake,” I say. Tears are collecting at the corners of my eyes. “I thought I knew him.” The young boy clings to his mother in fear.

“She’s crazy,” the woman says to the people around her as she leads her son away, leaving Brian and me alone in the center.

The crowd collectively shifts its weight, as if deciding what to do next. Finally, after what feels like an hour, one woman steps back from the pack.

“Okay, folks, nothing to see here,” she yells over everyone. One by one, people break away from the group until everyone is gone and there’s nowhere to look except at Brian’s disappointed face.

“What was that?” Brian asks as he grabs my arm and leads me away from the market. His grasp is so tight that it makes me wince.

“I was in the corn maze and I thought I knew—”

“How would you know him? We don’t know any kids here.”

I try to catch my breath, but it’s caught somewhere in my throat. I bite my lower lip, afraid that I’ve taken this whole thing too far.

“Rose, why did you think you knew him?”

“I thought he was Teddy Walsh,” I blurt out.

“Teddy Walsh?” Brian’s brow is furrowed. “Walsh?”

“Angela Walsh’s son.” I close my eyes and wait. When I open them, Brian’s eyes are buzzing back and forth above my head like he’s trying to work out an imaginary math equation. “I went to see Jonathan, Angela’s husband, to find out more about how she disappeared, and Teddy Walsh was there.”

“When?” Brian asks.

“Earlier today.”

“Jesus, Rose. I thought you said you were going to drop it?” Brian clasps his hands behind his head and lets out a sigh of disbelief.

“Brian, something’s not right with the house.” My voice shakes, but I don’t try to hide it. “And I think Angela’s disappearance has something to do with it.”

“Rose, whatever it is you think you know, you don’t. You sleepwalk. That’s it, trust me. Whatever happened to Angela has nothing to do with us, okay? I promise you, there’s nothing wrong with the house.”

But there’s something wrong with you, I can almost hear him say.

“You can’t go around harassing these people.”

“I’m not harassing them.” I shrink under his gaze. He doesn’t know anything about harassment.

“Then what do you call this?” He waves his hand around the farmer’s market.

“Brian, please,” I say, but it’s too late.

He turns away from me and walks back toward the car.