The Haunting of Sam Cabot

Prologue

Daddy . . . Daddy . . . won’t you come down here and play with me? Please, Daddy, it’s so lonely here.

The voice echoes up through the passages of time, and along with it, another voice.

Yes, son, I hear myself say, nearly stumbling in my haste to locate the source of the voice. I’m coming. But, where are you?

Down here in the dark.

I stop and close my burning eyes, my body trembling. I know it isn’t him. How can it be?

I’ve been here before, of course, many times, but only in dreams. Coming back for real was not an easy decision. All roads may lead to Rome—as the saying goes. All roads do not, however, lead to the town of Davenport, Maine. After ten years, I had come to the realization that, as a road can carry one away, so again it can carry one back.

I stand on the rim of the ancient cellar hole and stare down into the water-filled pit trying to see into its murky depths. Something shifts down there causing a ripple on the surface, like a large fish coming up for bait. I flinch, frightened that what I am seeing might actually be real. Then the surface calms, and I cannot say with any certainty that I’d seen anything at all.

I back away from the rim and let my breathing settle down.

A lot has happened in those years since leaving this place; success beyond my wildest expectations; a host of best-selling novels; admiration from legions of fans. Isn’t that what every writer wants? Of course it is, but . . . at what cost?

Suddenly the same old doubts and fears, the same horrors I thought I had become immune to cling to me just as surely as tendrils of morning fog cling like silken ghosts to the ruins of this place I had once called home.

Traffic murmurs in the distance. A new highway was recently built across town, and its incessant whisperings are like voices from the past, succeeding only in unnerving me.

On trembling legs, I advance a few yards along the wet walkway. Toward the back of the foundation, a child’s shoe, blackened by fire, and twisted like seared flesh, lies half in and half out of a murky puddle. A gold-plated picture frame that once held a long-lost photograph—perhaps her photograph—lies burnt and misshapen in a thicket of tangled weeds.

Someone once wrote that terror is most probably life’s purest emotion. If that is so, then grief is certainly its most debilitating. I can no longer deny its hold on me. I wipe the tears from my eyes with the sleeve of my overcoat, not wanting to accept their intimations.

The distant highway’s whispering ceases momentarily only to be followed by a silence so profound it is almost supernatural. I hold my breath and the silence is complete.

This old granite-lined hole in the ground does not, in itself, seem like such a terrifying place. A curious pedestrian might be intrigued by remnants of ruin, as people in all their incomprehensible complexity sometimes are. I suppose that over the years a host of errant curiosity seekers must have visited this site. It is easy to imagine children playing here, tossing stones into the water-filled pit, innocently unaware of the malevolence that must surely still be lurking somewhere beneath that gloomy surface.

I continue along the path and stop at a place where the trail clings much closer to the rim of the cellar hole. Again, I peer down into its dark heart, both hoping and terrified that I will see something tangible in its depths. Perhaps they are still down there, floating in that pool of impenetrable gloom, unseen but seeing. The thought paralyzes me, and I am powerless to look away. The ghost of Farnham House rises suddenly up out of the dark, watery depths and becomes whole and substantive before me, and along with its reconstruction comes the flood of memories that I am powerless to stem.

Chapter 1

We bought the old house in Davenport, Maine simply because it was cheap. Not that architecture didn’t play a role in our decision. It did. We found the best of both worlds. We were lucky. Or so we thought at the time.

I was still trying to hammer out my first novel, an epic work of fiction, based in part on a bizarre incident that occurred when I was a teenager. It wasn’t working. Writers block had set in like constipation. I was frustrated, and several times even flirted with the idea of setting a torch to the manuscript. Linda, however, had come to the rescue with cool practicality.

Don’t be ridiculous, she told me. Why waste two years of hard work? You and I both know that once we’re settled in everything will come together for you. What you need is a break, a time for introspection.

She was right, of course, and I knew it. But I also knew that in the immediate future at least, there wouldn’t be much time for introspection. We were faced with the prospect of living with Linda’s parents during the repair and restoration processes, and I was not looking forward to it. Not that I didn’t like Meg and John. I did; I was just afraid that everyone’s style would get a little cramped. I knew that writing would become a virtual impossibility, and in some small way, I suppose I was grateful.

Linda and I shared the same romantic notion of what a house should be. Our house anyway. So, after the stark sterility of most of the architecture we’d encountered in Florida (where we had lived for seven years) the old Carlisle place was like a breath of fresh air.

We arrived there at nine o’clock on an early May morning. The house did not set directly on Farnham Road as I had first imagined. Instead it had its own convoluted driveway—with a tall and somewhat ornate wrought-iron gate at the road. There was an old, rusted metal sign attached to the gate that said simply ‘Farnham House’. The gate stood open and so I drove through. For nearly half a mile, I wound our minivan through a forest of deep, dark hardwood trees. Toward the end of the drive, the woods gave way to openness as the terrain gradually rose to a grass covered hill. And there atop that hill overlooking the countryside sat the most splendid house I had ever set eyes on. I was speechless and so was Linda. I parked the minivan and we got out, gazing up at it in awe.

We’d answered an ad in a local paper:

FOR SALE, BY OWNER.

OLD HOUSE. CHEAP!

A GREAT FIXER-UPPER.

The advertisement hadn’t contained a picture, so I was totally shocked at what stood before us. The place was splendid, amazing, magnificent, all those adjectives, yes, and more, but it was also in the most horrific condition imaginable.

Oh . . . my . . . God, Linda said, taking my hand and giving it a healthy squeeze. I think we just found the house of our dreams.

I looked at Linda askance. You’re kidding, right? This place is too far gone.

No, Sam, look at it. Just step back and see it objectively. See the lines and curves? Think of it as a beautiful woman who just needs a little makeover. Look at the amazing stature of it. See it with your inner architect’s eye.

I gave up architecture a long time ago.

"You gave up studying architecture, she reminded me. You didn’t give up your appreciation of beautiful and interesting buildings."

No, I confessed, You’re right, I didn’t. In that moment I felt a small pang of regret that I’d left Linda in the lurch. True, I wasn’t a great architect. I never would be. I’d discovered early on that it wasn’t my calling. But Linda was right, I certainly did appreciate the artistry of great buildings. And this one was a masterpiece. Or at least it had been at one time in history. But it wasn’t now and it would take a massive amount of work to bring it back. Linda’s enthusiasm was contagious, however, and before long I was thinking about how we could turn this sow’s ear into a silk purse.

LINDA AND I MET AT Columbia University. She was studying interior design and I was majoring in architecture. We were both idealists, very much interested in the romanticism of classic buildings. It wasn’t long, however, before my interest in becoming an architect had been supplanted by another far greater interest. I had always been a voracious reader, and I had begun flirting with the idea of writing a novel. A friend of mine had recently sold a book to one of the top New York houses and I was jealous. It was easy to imagine myself spending my days hunched over a computer making my living conjuring eloquent sentences. I’d written poetry and short stories in high school but had never attempted anything as grand as an entire book. I told Linda my plans and dropped out of the architectural program with my sights set on creative writing courses.

Unfortunately I ran out of money. Unlike Linda, who had parents with the means to see her through to graduation, both my parents were gone and I had no fallback plan. So I decided to join the army and continue my education through the G.I. Bill.

I discussed my plans with Linda, who at that time was just a close friend. Or so I thought. My decision to join the army at the onset of the war on terror worried her, however, and it was then that I began to realize there was something more than friendship brewing in our relationship.

The night before I left for basic training Linda and I spent the night together walking the cold, nearly deserted streets of Manhattan. It was during that week between Christmas and New Years and it felt like we were the only two people left in the world. With a sense of urgency, as though we might never see each other again, we each told the other the entire story of our lives.

We ended the night back at her apartment where we made love until dawn.

It was six months before we saw each other again and by then I was on my way to Afghanistan. It was then that Linda and I made an informed decision to spend the rest of our lives together. We were in love and at the time that was all that mattered.

OH, SAM, LINDA GASPED, gazing up at the house. I don’t care what the inside looks like. I want it. I just love it. Please, can’t we buy it? Her question, spoken almost in a whisper begged for a reply in the positive.

I loved it too, almost immediately, despite my initial reservations. Although I knew that Linda would have no problem tackling the interior, no matter the condition, everything about the place screamed for me to walk away and pretend I’d never laid eyes on it. It looked like more work than any one family could possibly wish for. It was a rambling structure that hadn’t seen a coat of paint in probably a hundred years. In a multitude of places, old clapboard siding hung loose, flapping in the breeze like so many disembodied pigeon wings. Porches and steps were rotted and falling away. Windows were broken, roofing tiles were missing. A closer inspection proved the problems to be mostly superficial, however; items which could be repaired without affecting the house’s character and solid construction. As we found out on that day, the underpinnings were sturdy and free of rot. The foundation was of granite and sound as the Rock of Gibraltar.

Are we gonna buy it? Sean asked, looking up at me with big blue eyes. Sean was six at the time, a rambunctious little blond-haired fellow with a wide smile and an innately curious nature.

I don’t know, I told him. The place sure does need a lot of work.

We can do it, Linda said. I know we can. It’s just the challenge we’ve been dreaming about.

The challenge you’ve been dreaming about, I thought but did not voice. Although we had been talking about the possibility of finding a reasonably priced fixer upper, I was more anxious to finish my first novel than to immerse myself in a project that could take the better part of a year to complete.

Sean was staring fixedly toward the house’s canted front porch. I looked too, and started when I saw the white-haired man who occupied the shadows there. He was sitting in an old rocking chair staring back at us. I don’t know how I’d missed him. I was nearly certain he hadn’t been there the moment before. There was no car in view, just a shiny red and chrome fat-wheeled bicycle that looked to be nineteen-fifties vintage leaning against one of the skewed