Letters Home, Section 3, May, 2000, part 1 of 2

May, 2000

“I read the letters,” Henry paused, the voice on the other end of the phone responding. “Yes, seriously, I read every last one of those stupid things. Worthless use of paper, really.” He paused, putting his feet on the desk and pretending to shoot at the birds sitting on the ledge of the birdhouse outside his office window. “Well, what is that they say about making certain to know everything about the enemy.” Another pause occurred. “Well, whatever. I did learn quite a bit in those letters about this house. For instance, the old broad hid money in the walls,” he laughed. “And, I’ve found some of it. Unfortunately, it’s an early version of money and completely worthless. Oh, well. And, she also wrote a letter about a box in the middle of the house, had a bunch of trinkets in there. The State never found it, but I did.” And, another pause. “Yeah, it was just behind a wall. It was easy to get to when the place was closed. So, I took it out and then put the board back. Nothing to it.” And, another. “Some old pictures and stuff,” Henry said as he sifted his hand through the oak box with a silver clasp and red lining, “a necklace that looks like it’s probably worth less than the box, a bible,” he laughed again, “and some notes. Nothing really here.” And, another. “I’ll tell you what I plan to do with it,” Henry said as he began putting the photos and the papers through a shredder, then dumping the box and the rest of the contents in the trash, covering the items with various papers from his desk, “nothing.”

Hanging up the phone, Henry pulled a file out from the drawer, studying the contents, the wills of the Allgoods and the contracts with the State. “There’s got to be something here,” he thought to himself, “there’s got to be a way.”

“Thomas,” a voice seemed to whisper, though there was no one around.

“Hum,” Henry uttered to himself. “Must be one of the tours getting too loud.”

The tours continued through the house and over the grounds, strangers coming to hear the story of the Allgood family, to walk along the same corridors where people of wealth and prestige had walked, to stand in the same room where historical events had occurred, secretly wishing that they had been there to see it all happen. From time to time, furniture and objects would be rotated out of storage in the attic to be put on display while others items were packed away for safekeeping or taken to a new building on the property for delicate cleaning or restoration. And, also on display, were a few of the items Christina mentioned in her letters that the State had actually found here and there, bits of the money, the rag dolls, and the items within the time capsule buried on the east side of the house.

The Oak was changing. The trees, still tall and proud, hung their branches a bit lower, grieving for the loss of their sisters and brothers, acres of trees near the gate that had been plowed down and turned into a concrete field, acres near the lake that had been cut down to build the restaurant, and single trees here and there that had been cut down for one reason or another. The grass, though still green and lush, still waved to the morning sun, but often turned its head away from the visitors, looking instead towards the lake for guidance, for light, as the lake pooled the tears of the living things on the property. And, the wind took every opportunity to voice the cries of the land, carrying messages about the property, and knocking at the doors and windows of the Oak demanding an explanation of the horror.

But, no answer was received.

The deer that had once come to drink from the lake, the small woodland creatures that would run about the property, climbing trees, playing hide-and-seek in the flowers, or simply frolicking in the sunshine, were no longer seen about the grounds. The workers no longer saw or heard the animals playing about the fields or wooded areas, though an occasional creature would be seen on the farthest side of the property, usually running as if frightened by something of harm. Many of the trees became silent of birds when many of the winged messengers left The Oak, leaving only a few to remain. The birds that remained did not often fly about the property anymore, choosing instead to remain close to the safety of their abode. Yet, even the songs of the birds, songs that had been cheerful in the past, carried a tune of sorrow and warning, a song of danger.

The gentle horses remained in the fields, offering to the visitors hour-long guided rides through the property. The horses that were not deemed appropriate for the riding business were used to lead carriage rides or in various demonstrations of early twentieth century farm work. Many of the cows were slaughtered, the restaurant proudly stating that the beef in the restaurant was home-grown, although some were maintained for future restaurant need, for display of prize-winning cattle, for demonstrations, for milk, and as a petting zoo. And, the chickens continued to lay the eggs for the restaurant as well as becoming part of the Tuesday night special.

Visitors of all sorts came through the gates to The Oak in droves, men proposing on sunset carriage rides and new couples marrying in the pavilion built by the State, children being taught to milk a cow and mothers enjoying the beauty of the house flower garden, taking gardening tips from Mr. Gates. The visitors would tour the house and walk the paths across the property, lay flowers on the grave sites of the Allgood family, and talk about all they had to do when they returned home.

And, the house grew darker, the angels guarding the windows developing what appeared to be tear-stained faces and the angel in the attic gazing upward for direction, for hope. The drive that had once been a cheerful invitation to the house now had a menacing indifference about it, people drawn to it in the same way people are drawn to a mystery or a haunted house, questioning what’s inside, curious. The walls, outside and in, darkened, losing their luster, their heart missing, their light dimming.

The workers had become more distant from their home, leaving The Oak much more often than before, trying to get away from the confusion, hoping that they would return to find that it had all been a nightmare that was suddenly over and that they would find that hope had been restored to their home. Mr. Gates tended his garden daily, silently watching the changes about the house and grounds like a shepherd waiting for the appropriate moment for action. Lisa went about her daily activities of house cleaning, moving between house tours like a dancer who had learned timing, becoming more distraught with the changes at The Oak and trying to deal with Henry Stevenson who was gaining more control with each passing day.

Lisa approached the office door with Henry’s coffee, as he had requested, but stopped short of opening the door when she overheard his voice inside.

“Yep, that’s right.” There was a pause. “That’s right, we’re talking millions a year if I owned this property privately.” And, another pause. “Well, that’s to be determined.” And, another. “Are you kidding,” he laughed, not realizing Lisa was listening, “it’s a loophole in the will and in the contract they signed, a big loophole. The State has the right to operate the Oak as they see fit as long as certain conditions are met. But, nobody ever said anything about the State not being able to sell it, especially if they weren’t making money. And nobody said that any conditions had to be met by any owner other than the State.” And, another. “What do you mean?” And, yet another. “If I can get this land from the State, tear all this down, and sell the land in that development deal, I’ll be set for several lifetimes.” And, another. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it. I’ll find a way. I’ll call in a few more favors and, if I have to, I’ll remind a few people of a few secrets. Just be prepared to handle all of that money, old man.”

Hearing the phone land hard against the receiver, Lisa entered the office, placing Henry’s coffee on the oak desk. “Busy day,” she asked.

“Well, of course. Got to take care of this place, don’t I,” he said, placing his feet back on the desk.

A hummingbird steadied itself in front of the large window, looking directly into Lisa’s eyes as if trying to send a message before fluttering off.

“By the end of the season,” Henry said, making certain Lisa had turned her gaze to his intimidating stare, “those birdhouses will be gone.”

Lisa turned to look behind her, somehow thinking she caught a glimpse of a dark shadow behind her as she began to take a chill. But, there was nothing there, and she was still getting used to the air conditioning unit being on all the time.

Walking out through the gardens to get some fresh air, Lisa began to feel a bit more at ease. “Hello, Mr. Gates,” Lisa smiled as she passed.

“Well, good morning,” he responded as he looked up from sitting upon the ground, gently tucking plants in to their new home.

Though only mid-morning, the tours had already begun and people were walking about the property. Lisa visited the gravesites at the base of the mountain. “What would you think of all this, Ms. Abigail?” But, hearing a tour coming, she walked beside the trees until making her way to the old oak tree by the lake. Leaning down, brushing the stones with her hands, Lisa began to cry. “What do I do? How do I protect this place?” Her gaze was then drawn to the head of Christina’s grave where, suddenly, a snow white rabbit with crystal blue eyes sat, staring at Lisa, trying to communicate. Yet, after being distracted by people nearing, she looked back to the top of the stone and found the rabbit gone, and when she looked about she could not see any creature running nearby.

“Thomas,” she thought. “Thomas may be able to help.”

Returning to the kitchen, Lisa looked through the kitchen phone list, hoping that there was someone named Thomas on the list and hoping that it was the same banker. When finding a Thomas listed with an office number scratched out, she dialed the remaining number immediately. “Thomas Alexander, please,” she said into the phone.”

“That would be my grandfather,” a male responded. “One moment, please.” His voice could be heard turned away from the phone, “Grandpa.”

“Yes,” Thomas answered in to the receiver.

“Thomas, sir, this is Lisa Michaels from The Oak. Am I speaking with the former banker of Christina?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I just wanted to make sure. As I said, I’m Lisa, the housekeeper at the Oak and I was hoping I might be able to talk to you.”

“Yes, I’d like to speak with you too, I’ve heard discouraging things about the Oak lately, but I haven’t seen it since the tours began again.”

“Things have greatly changed,” Lisa said, looking about the walls of The Oak that now seemed older, dingy, dying, as opposed to the bright walls that used to support the house, the bright walls that would embrace the sun and warm the heart. “And, not for the better,” she added, muttering as if the walls could hear. “Could I meet with you, sir?”

“Of course. I shall come to you. I’d like to see The Oak for myself.”

Arrangements were made and, on the following day, Thomas was wheeled into the house by his grandson.

“It’s okay,” Lisa told Mary Alice as Thomas came through the front doors. “He’s with me; he’s not on the tour.”

Lisa took the handles of the wheelchair from Thomas’ grandson and pushed Thomas about the house, pointing out the differences in the amount of light that shown in, the appearance of the walls and the furniture, and how even the former smiles of the Allgoods in their family portrait seemed to be fading into frowns.

“And, that,” Thomas said, seeing the shadowed black torso appear before quickly vanishing in the dining room mirror as he passed. “Did you see it?”

“No, sir, but I believe you. Strange things have started happening around here. Nothing specific, really. Nothing that I have proof of. Just things that don’t seem normal.”

He pointed towards some picnic tables at the edge of the trees. “Take me out there, will you, Lisa? I’d rather not talk in the house if we don’t have to. My grandson will be okay walking around the Oak for a few more minutes.”

“Now, tell me more,” he said once they reached the picnic table.

“It’s hard to know where to start.”

“In times like that,” Thomas advised, “it’s best to start anywhere, otherwise you’ll never begin at all.”

“Well, the dark shadow that you saw in the mirror. He’s being seen in the house quite a bit, but only by me and Mary Alice. No one else has seemed to notice it, or at least they’ve never said anything. When the State started taking over, it was like the Oak began to wither away, like it lost its hope, its reason for being. But, what I called you about, what I’m really worried about is something I overheard yesterday.”

“Okay.”

“I think Henry is planning on taking over the Oak from the State. I don’t know how. Then, he wants to destroy the house and sell the land for development, some big money deal. And, I don’t know how to stop him.”

“You actually overheard him say this.”

“His part of a phone conversation, yes, sir.” Thomas leaned back in his wheelchair, contemplating the options for a moment, and Lisa continued. “And, well,” Lisa seemed hesitant to say it, “it seems like anyone who tries the protect the old Oak, the way The Oak used to be, well, strange things are happening around here.” Lisa swallowed hard, wondering if the old man would even believe her. “One of the field workers came into the house one day and we were talking about how the Oak used to be farmed. He doesn’t like the changes happening at The Oak, and I think he was frustrated because he just kept going on and on about them. Then, out of nowhere, a coffee cup that was sitting on the counter just flew across the room toward his head. He just happened to move before he even realized what was happening, and the cup broke against the wall. It could have killed him.”

Thomas’ expression left no secret of his curiosity.

“Then, there’s the times when I go down to the laundry room or especially if I go down the hallway on the second floor, I feel like someone is watching me and following right behind me, but there’s never anyone there. And, whatever it is, always makes me feel frightened, like I’m in danger. Sometimes, I turn around and I catch a glimpse of that shadow.

“Then, there’s the problems with the plants inside the house.”

“Can’t Mr. Gates help, dear?”

“We’ve tried that. He can’t figure out what’s happening either. We’ve always had living plants in the house. Now, we bring a healthy plant inside and within two days, it’s completely dead. It’s strange. We experimented once, brought in a healthy plant. Within hours, it had faded. By the end of the day, it looked like a goner for sure. So, instead of letting it die overnight, we took it back outside into the house garden. And, it was blooming the next morning just as bright as ever. It’s like the house is dying and can’t stand for anything inside to be happy or living.

“I know houses settle, but the Oak is making noises I’ve never heard before. One night I laid in bed thinking that the house sounded like it was breaking in certain places, like it was sinking slowly into a well and the whole thing wouldn’t fit inside at one time.”

Thomas motioned to Lisa that that was enough, though it wasn’t nearly everything. Barely getting started, she hadn’t even mentioned the door that shut on its own and refused to open, locking one tourist guide in Abigail’s bedroom until the field workers could pry it open, or the chandelier that fell, nearly hitting a security guard who was closing up for the night. Nor had she mentioned that breads baked in the oven as they had been for decades would no longer rise or the unidentified soft roaring noises that would occur from time to time, noises that were becoming louder and more frequent, and were beginning to sound as though syllables were within.

A quiet spring breeze began to blow through the property, gently rustling the leaves of the trees, their branches reaching up high to the Heavens.

“I believe you,” Thomas said, repeating himself, “I believe you.” Leaning forward in his chair, Thomas continued. “We must do something or, at the rate it’s going, The Oak will destroy itself by the end of the year.”

“But, what, how?”

A wren landed on the picnic table, looking back and forth between Lisa and Thomas, singing a quiet, sad refrain.

“I’ll have to think on that a bit, Lisa,” Thomas said, looking towards the bird. “Oddly, I think the bird knows and is trying to tell us. Hum. I never really believed in things like that before. But, then, I’ve never seen any place like the Oak before.”

Days later, Lisa received the call that had been promised. “I think I may have an answer for you, Lisa,” Thomas said. “I’ll be there this afternoon to explain it all.”

“Is it complicated,” Lisa asked, uncertain of the plan. “I don’t know if I have what it takes to fight city hall, so to speak.”

“Well, there are some important people who will have to be involved, but, together, I think we can tackle it. It’s worth a try, at least, to save the Oak. I’ve read the letters Christina wrote over the last ten years, and I think they actually hold a few clues. And, I know a few people that can help, people with some power.”

Lisa hung up the phone with a cold feeling over her shoulder, turning to find nothing there but a vanishing sign of darkness, and, immediately thereafter, Henry entered the kitchen.

“In-between tours are we,” he gloated.

“Something like that,” she said, turning to retrieve her coffee from the counter and nervously playing with the cinnamon stick.

“Yep, the only certainty is change and I think we’ll be seeing more of that here at the Oak.” And, with those words, Henry poured a cup of coffee, let out a self-righteous sigh, and turned to leave. “Yep, many changes and it’d just be a waste of time for anyone to try to get in the way.”

“What does that mean,” Lisa asked in anger.

Henry held one hand on the door as he said his final words before returning to the office. “I simply mean that change is inevitable and everyone knows that the player with the best cards doesn’t always win. Sometimes, it’s the player with the best gamble, the best poker-face, that takes the pot.” He winked as he left, and Lisa shuddered.

In the early afternoon, when clouds were hiding the sun from the Oak and threatening storms and rain, Lisa saw Thomas being wheeled up to The Oak by his grandson, an umbrella overhead in case of a downpour. Lisa went down the drive a ways, explaining that the tours weren’t near the back of the house at the moment and it would be easier to get the wheelchair around the crowds if coming through the back.

Going through the house to unlock the private entrance in the rear, Lisa began to notice how odd The Oak suddenly felt, vacant, hollow, feeling as though she was making it around the crowds too easily, as if the crowds had been diverted like a stream around a dam. Traveling through the laundry room, she felt the cold, harsh stare of no one behind her.

Thomas and his grandson made their way to the rear of the house, noticing how quiet it seemed and how the crowds didn’t seem to walk about this part of the house. Up the ramp, they went, until sitting on the rear porch and waiting for Lisa to unlock the door.

Lisa, breathlessly ran from the laundry room to the back porch, unlocking the door as quickly as possible, wanting to leave the Oak, frightened of the nothing following her.

“What is it dear,” Thomas asked with great concern as Lisa ran out the door, grabbing the porch railing and looking back towards the house with an expression of terror.

“I don’t know,” Lisa cried, trying to calm her breathing.

“It’s okay,” Thomas said. “Why don’t you go down to the rose garden and walk around a bit. It’s very relaxing there and you’ll be able to calm yourself. I can find my way to the kitchen, and I’ll meet you there in a bit. Don’t you worry. We’re gonna beat this thing.”

Lisa jumped from the porch to the ground, and then slowly began to walk towards the house garden.

“Are you alright,” Mr. Gates asked, dropping his water hose and running to Lisa. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Ooh, I probably shouldn’t say that too loudly,” he said, helping Lisa to an oak bench to sit down for a while, “that’s just what these visitors want to hear.”

Lisa exhaled. “I’m okay. I’m just being paranoid. That’s all. It’s nothing.”

“Hum,” Mr. Gates mumbled, not actually believing her.

“Really, Mr. Gates…”

“Why don’t you call me Christopher? Everyone does.”

“But, I’ve always called you Mr. Gates.”

“Yeah, well, things change,” he said as he sat beside her. “We’re kind of getting to know each other a little better. Kind of like these flowers. The more I get to know them, the more I see each one as an individual. You see that yellow rose there on the end? Well, that one lowers her blooms when the sun gets too hot, but the red one three bushes down lifts her blooms in the middle of the day like she’s trying to get a tan.” He laughed, hoping it would help to soothe Lisa. “Call me whatever you’re comfortable with, Lisa. I’ve known you since you were a little girl and, like these flowers, I can tell when you’re troubled.”

“I just had a fright. Nothing actually happened. I’m fine now. Thank you,” she said, her breathing back under control and the color returning to her face.

“Let’s just sit here for a moment,” Thomas explained to his grandson when Lisa was out of sight. “I feel a bit out of breath myself. Just give me a minute before we go any further.”

Thomas sat on the back porch, the quiet making him uncomfortable and giving him a tight feeling around his heart, as his grandson sat on the railing. The air didn’t seem to move, stale, and carried upon it the strangest sense of unease. Nothing creaked. Nothing moved, until the roof over the porch suddenly caved in. A beam hit Thomas’ grandson in the head, killing him instantly, and the boards of the roof fell with such force that they pushed Thomas and his wheelchair over the side of the railing. And the Heavens began to cry.

Mr. Gates and Lisa, having heard the commotion, ran to the back porch. Only one section of the roof had fallen, that single section where Thomas had been waiting.

“He’s dead,” Mr. Gates said after trying to find the pulse of Thomas’ grandson. Respectfully, Christopher took his own windbreaker and placed it over the head.

“Thomas,” Lisa asked. “Can you hear me?”

The old man was bleeding profusely from the ears and nose. Lisa took the handkerchief from the old man’s pocket and held it against the head wound, knowing not what else to do while Christopher called for emergency.

“Can you hear me?”

Thomas could barely open his eyes, mumbling only one word before his life ended. “Hope.”


The tours were stopped. And, almost as quickly, the lawsuits began, visitors suing the State for possibly having been in life-threatening danger when touring the house, for their children enduring emotional distress as the ambulance rushed across the property, sirens blaring, to reach the victims, and for having to be on the property when two people lost their lives.

Rumors began, leaving with the visitors that exited the gates and traveling until reaching all four corners of the country. Christina, they said, had returned from the grave, angry at how The Oak was being used, angry at an old colleague who would dare to encourage such a venture. Others simply said that it was an old house that the State did not inspect properly, weakened timbers taking two innocent lives because of neglect. Still, other rumors began that other people had died at the Oak, deaths not revealed to the visitors by the State, deaths caused by dark apparitions seeking energy, by sagging, unsupported beams that would fall upon the heads of the unexpecting, and by murderers who would hide in the fields waiting to prey.

The State closed the gates as they, along with the sheriff, investigated the cause of the scene and construction workers repaired damage to the structure, everyone hoping for some sort of explanation. The State employees were placed on leave and told not to return to The Oak until requested, uncertain if their future held a job at the Oak, uncertain if they wanted it to. And, for some of the workers who had been with the Oak for years, some of them belonging to families that had worked at The Oak for decades, calling it home, sharing its hope, the two deaths were a warning solidifying the unease they had been feeling, convincing them to exit the gates with the visitors, never to return.

And, The Oak became quiet, the property free of people, save a worker here and there who felt a loyalty to their home to remain, though it no longer looked or felt like the home that they had known. And, the house became darker, the walls breathing heavily at times as if thinking, planning.

Lisa sat in bed looking at the book, but not opening it. The front cover was a copy of the painting, The Oak at sunrise, the gentle hues raining over the house with a quiet happiness, while the back cover was a copy of the Allgood family portrait. The Deathbed Letters of Abigail Smith Allgood was written in bold lettering at the top of the cover. Lisa tossed the book across the bed to the nightstand, the book landing on a corner and balancing so as not to fall off. Exhaling and picking up the other book beside her, she looked at its title, The Oak: The Letters of Christina Allgood, written in bold letters at the top while in smaller letters just below the title were written the words, Heiress to the Allgood Fortune. The front cover carried photographs of Christina as a baby as well as in her coffin, while the back cover carried a copy of the professional sketch of the Oak. Lisa let out a grunt of disgust, throwing the book over to the nightstand, knocking the first book off onto the floor.

“Hope,” she whispered to herself. “What was Thomas trying to say? What did he plan to tell me,” she wondered. She looked toward the nightstand, remembering what Thomas had said about the books but finding herself unable to open them, seeing only attempts at profit and disrespect of the dead on their covers. “Hope,” she mumbled as she laid down to rest, “hope?”

Into dreams she fell, sleep easing her discomfort, her sorrow, as it showed to her images and colors and gently whispered words she could not understand. Swirling tunnels of blue and white, she saw, peaceful colors meant to soothe that melted into flight through mountains and over The Oak as it used to be, a soul carried upon the wind through beautiful valleys of greens and browns and blues, fading into the quiet sound of the sun upon the ripples of the water. At the edge of the water sat a white rabbit with crystal blue eyes looking towards Lisa, explaining in words with no form. And, in her dream, her attention was drawn to the Oak in the current form, a darkness engulfing the house with violent, crushing hands, the windows becoming angry eyes and the front door a voice for blood-curdling screams that tore through the soul and wrecked havoc on the heart.

The sound of hammers and gasoline-powered blades awoke her, her eyes opening in noisy confusion and, through a blurry haze, she saw the two books of letters stacked one atop another, neatly positioned at the corner of the nightstand.

“Sleeping late,” Henry asked in that familiar tone as Lisa made her way to the kitchen.

Lisa saw Mary Alice sitting at the table. “Now, before you say anything, I know I was sent home, but I just felt the need to come for a visit. I’m just not sure why.”

Lisa patted Mary Alice on the shoulder as she headed for the coffee. “It’s good to see you back here. I thought you may have been like the others, scared off forever.”

“Ain’t nothing to be scared of,” Henry said. “Just some stupid beam. Nothing else.”

“I wonder if The Oak will ever reopen?”

Henry laughed, and the two women looked to him for explanation.

Henry cleared his throat and began after taking a sip of his coffee, “I have it on good authority that the State doesn’t feel they’ll be able to recover from this little situation.”

“So,” Mary Alice’s tone asked for elaboration.

“Well, now I could tell you the rest of it,” Henry began, “but then I’d have to kill you.” He laughed again and left the kitchen, taking a cookie with him on the way. “You’ll see.”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Lisa said, staring at the door Henry had walked through. Lisa sat at the prep table with Mary Alice, stirring her coffee with the cinnamon stick.

In a serious tone, Mary Alice began, “The house is even worse now, isn’t it? I can feel the difference.”

“Yes. I can’t decide if I think the house is feeding off of something negative or if something is feeding off of the house.” She paused, looking up from her coffee. “I’m sorry, Mary Alice. That sounded insane.”

“Not really.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, think about all the houses you’ve ever visited. They reflect the personality of the people who live there, right?”

“Usually.”

“So, houses with people who are typically happy are houses that seem bright and cheery, open, welcoming,” Mary Alice said, talking with one hand while the other held her coffee. “Whereas, houses where people who are depressed or angry live, well the house takes on a closed feeling, the light doesn’t come in well, there’s something about it, even the outside of it so that even before you get out of your car and go knock on the door you just get that feeling that something is a little off.”

“Yes. I know what you mean. Mary Alice, I don’t mean to be mean, but why are you wearing your tour jacket when you’re not going to give a tour?”

Mary Alice smiled. “I guess I just like this jacket and, when I’m in this house, I feel like wearing it is a sign of respect to the Oak. It’s always felt like an honor to be able to come in here and tell people about this old house.” After drinking of her coffee, Mary Alice continued, “And, speaking of the house, how are you and Henry getting along?”

Lisa’s eyes grew angry. “That, he, I, ugh,” she struggled before calming herself. “I’ve had more than I can stand of him,” she whispered. “He is an obstacle, a problem to this house. I blame him for part of the trouble The Oak is having.”

“Hum,” Mary Alice delicately began. “And, you’ve told him this?”

“No. It’s bad enough around here without me telling him what I really think of him.”

“Remember, Lisa,” Mary Alice said calmly, “your anger, spoken or not, if he senses it, could be driving him on, encouraging him, adding to the darkness of the Oak.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Lisa, what you say is only part of the equation. Words have power. But, the house, people, will also sense what is unspoken, what is in your heart. And, anger will only feed the darkness, lessen hope.”

“What am I supposed to do? He’s destroying my home!”

“You’re helping him destroy it,” Mary Alice continued, her voice calm and soothing, steady. “Whatever made him into what he is today, it wasn’t you, but you will have an effect on what he is now and what he continues to be, and you’ll effect yourself as well.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“If you can sincerely feel it in your heart, send him messages of hope, of forgiveness.”

Lisa laughed, lost somewhere between confusion and humor and anger at the sound of the conversation.

“If you can do that, Lisa,” Mary Alice said, “you’ll find greater peace within yourself and you may even sense a greater peace within him.”

Lisa thought for a moment, still uncertain if she understood the meaning behind the words. Lisa’s eyes were drawn to the silver hanging beneath Mary Alice’s neck, the only item in the kitchen that seemed to attract and reflect the light through the window. “What a beautiful crucifix, Mary Alice. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it before.”

“I usually wear it close to my heart, under my blouse. I figure my private thoughts are mine alone.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lisa said urgently. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” Mary Alice smiled as she interrupted. “I know you didn’t.” Lifting up the necklace to show Lisa, Mary Alice continued. “I received this necklace from my grandmother when I was just a little girl and I’ve worn it nearly ever day since then. It’s my greatest source of hope, Lisa.”

“Well, it certainly is very pretty.”

“Do you know what hope is, Lisa?”

Lisa stuttered, a bit confused by the question. “Well, I thought I did.”

“Hope is the strength it takes to take a single, tiny, little step forward into the next moment of life. That’s why people who commit suicide are said to be filled with hopelessness; they’ve lost the strength to take even one more step.”

“Do you think The Oak has lost hope?”

“I think the people who pass through these walls with hope have become much fewer in number than those who pass through without it. It’s like the houses, dear. An angry person cannot survive in a happy home. They will either leave or, unknowingly, will find themselves becoming less angry, more happy, more hopeful. And, a happy soul will not remain happy in an angry house. It’s too uncomfortable, and, if they do, they will find themselves becoming more angry. If hope built this house and hope lived here for a century, then what is occupying the house now that has caused it to darken, even to kill?”

“But, how do you fight darkness?”

“With happiness, with light, with hope.”

Mary Alice hugged Lisa goodbye at the front oak doors, whispering in her ear before leaving the embrace, “Hope, Lisa, hope.”

“Where is your car? You could have driven it up to the door now,” Lisa said, noticing the drive empty of a vehicle.

“It’s a pretty walk on a pretty day,” Mary Alice said, her eyes sparkling. “Goodbye, Lisa.”

And, Lisa, stood in the doorway, watching Mary Alice walk down the drive. Looking to a somewhat cloudy sky above, then looking about a mysteriously vacant property, a property no longer holding brilliance about it, Lisa wondered what Mary Alice could possibly be looking at.

“Is she gone,” Henry came up from behind and asked.

“Do you ever do anything,” Lisa, unlike her usual self, angrily said, turning to face Henry with a look of disgust.

“Oh, I’m always up to something,” he said with a smile, slowly turning to head back upstairs, adding, “I’m glad she’s gone. I didn’t like her either.”

Lisa leaned her shoulder against the door, turning her attention back to the drive, but Mary Alice was out of sight. “How did she make it down the drive so quickly,” Lisa thought. “There’s no way,” she said to herself, stepping out and walking down the drive, thinking that Mary Alice must have tired and sat hidden behind an old oak or something.

All the way to the parking lot, Lisa walked, looking behind trees and looking out towards the wooden areas. Reaching the guardhouse, Lisa asked if Mary Alice had made it out alright, but the guard knew not what she was talking of. “Mary Alice,” Lisa asked the guard, “older lady, green jacket, would have come through here just a few minutes ago.”

The guard checked his books and shook his head. “No one has been in or out of these gates except for Henry Stevenson since the day before yesterday when the accident happened.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I was on duty all day yesterday and this morning since six. And, there’s no other names on the sign-in log except his.”

“I really don’t understand,” Lisa muttered, mostly to herself.

“That really was a bad accident,” the guard commented. “Made the front page of the State paper again today.”

Lisa took the paper and began looking over the photographs on the front page There was one of The Oak, another of the public relations person giving a speech about the accident, and a picture of Thomas sitting at the bank desk where he worked for so many decades before retiring.

And, in the lower left hand corner was a picture of Mary Alice. Oak Claims Third Victim the headline read above an article that explained that Mary Alice, driving to her home after the closing of the Oak, had had a single-car accident when she lost control of her vehicle, colliding with a pole on the highway, losing the battle for her life in the middle of the last night.

Lisa handed the paper back to the guard, saying nothing.

“You know people are saying that The Oak is evil now,” the guard began, but Lisa was not listening, walking back towards The Oak with tears in her eyes, her head spinning, her thoughts unclear.

“Hope,” Thomas’ voice kept repeating in her mind.

“Hope,” she continued to hear Mary Alice whisper.

Lisa walked toward the garden, seeing Mr. Gates bending down, tending to the plants.
“Hello,” she said more like a question.

“Well, good morning,” Christopher said as cheerfully as ever. “How are you this morning?”

Lisa sat on the bench, looking at the dying house and then to the beautiful garden, alive and thriving. “How do you keep these flowers looking so good?”

“Well,” Christopher began, looking up towards Lisa, “I keep them watered and give them a little fertilizer now and then. And, I talk to them,” he laughed, “and play them a little music from time to time. Classical,” he said, “they like the classical music.”

Lisa smiled. “Really,” she said, almost laughing.

Mr. Gates, comfortably, sat on the bench beside Lisa and continued. “I like it out here in my garden. I give the plants some of my time, attention, a little TLC, and,” he motioned to the garden, “look at what they give me in return, beauty, wonderful smells, joy. Now, it is kind of funny, but there really is something to be said for a few kind words or some inspirational sounds.”

“Do you really think it works?"

“Yes, I do,” he said, removing his hat only to brush his hands through his gray hair and put it on again. “Plants are living things and all living things need some kind words, some tender gestures to keep up their strength and stand tall, face each day, keep their hope up.”

“Hope,” Lisa asked.

“Well, sure,” Christopher continued. “What else do we have to get us through the hard times but hope? If I didn’t have hope that these flowers could grow, probably never would have planted them. If I didn’t have hope that watering them would help, probably wouldn’t bother with that either. And, then, without a doubt, they would die. Hope matters. Hope can be the difference between life and death.”

Lisa sat quietly, studying the flowers and contemplating the word she had heard so much lately, hope, and wondering if she truly believed in it.


“Hello,” Lisa answered while drying her hands when the kitchen home phone rang.

“Lisa,” the familiar voice asked.

“Monica?”

“Yes,” Monica laughed. “It’s me. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately and thought I’d call and see how you were.”

“I’m fine,” Lisa said, still a bit shocked at the call and sitting down on a stool near the prep table. “How are you?”

“Things are going well for me here. I’ve made the move to Massachusetts now so I can be near my sister. We talk on the phone a couple of times a week and every Tuesday night we get together on her deck and watch the sunset while we eat desert. It’s really nice getting to know her again. I’d forgotten some of the things I’d always admired about her.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“And, we’ve actually begun writing down our memories so our family history, our lessons learned, can be handed down to her kids and mine if I ever have any. Yeah, and I’m taking care of another elderly woman, but the woman I take care of now gets around pretty well on her own. Like Christina, though, she can be quite independent,” Monica laughed, “but she has some wonderful stories to share and it seems like I learn something every day.”

“Wow,” Lisa said, her voice dimming as she listened to an excited Monica while looking around a dying kitchen. “I really am happy for you,” Lisa uttered, meaning it somewhere deep inside but unable to make it sound that way.

“How is everything at The Oak? I’ve been hearing some really unbelievable stuff on the news and the papers are writing something about the Oak every day, even way up here.”

“Well,” Lisa’s voice quieted, “things are certainly not what they used to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Um, well,” Lisa tried to find the words. “I’m not sure you would recognize The Oak anymore, Monica. It’s not the same place anymore. It’s, It’s, just,” she stuttered, “It’s just not the same place. As crazy as this sounds, try to imagine the evil parallel of The Oak and that is what this place seems like now, like we’ve all been cast into some parallel universe where The Oak is downright creepy.”

Monica paused, uncertain what, if anything, to say.

“There aren’t many people here anymore. The changes in this place have scared them off. It’s just, I don’t know. It’s just not the same.”

“Are you alright,” Monica gently asked. “You don’t seem yourself.”

“I’m okay. The Oak is just not a very happy place to be right now. It’s just getting to me, I guess. Did you hear about Thomas Alexander, his grandson, and Mary Alice?”

“Yes, I heard. The newspapers up here are making fun of it, blaming it on ghosts and such.” Monica’s disapproval of the disrespect could be heard in her voice.

“They don’t know the half of it,” Lisa mumbled.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. I, I was just, uh, thinking out loud. So, what have you been doing for fun these days,” Lisa said, trying to sound happy but not able to summon the energy.

“The country is beautiful up here. So, when I’m able, I try to see what’s around here. I make the time. I’m learning to enjoy life, each day. And, when she’s able, I try to take Ms. Deidre out for a drive through the countryside.”

“Who,” Lisa quickly asked.

“Oh, Deidre, that’s her name, the lady I take care of now.”

“Oh.”

“May be you’d like to come for a visit, get away from The Oak for a bit? It sounds like you could use it.”

“No, I’ll just stay here. I just can’t leave The Oak.”

“Or, you won’t,” Monica asked. “If it’s making you so unhappy, why not get out for a while, get a new perspective, and then, if you still want to, go back to The Oak. Think about it Lisa, okay? Besides, to quote the old familiar, if you had only six months left to live would you really want to continue living the way you are now?”

Lisa thought for a moment, not finding enough energy within to become angry or to brainstorm ideas of what she might do with that time.

“You don’t sound yourself, Lisa. You don’t have that energy in your spirit anymore. I’m worried about you.”

Lisa’s tears began to swell. “I don’t even know the difference anymore between what’s real and what’s not. I’m even wondering if you’re real, if there is actually a living, breathing being on the other end of the phone.” Lisa inhaled to calm herself. “I’m just really tired. That’s all.”

“I’m not convinced that that’s all,” a concerned voice commented.

“Well, you know, may be I’m being punished or something for things I’ve done or said or thought. Get what you give, I guess,” she mumbled.

“No,” Monica said, “you give what you’re given.” Monica repeated herself, “You give what you’re given, Lisa. Think that over. It’s the reason how people effect each other, effect our environment. We give what we’re given. It doesn’t explain everything in life, but it explains quite a bit.”

Lisa drug her hands across her face to dry her tears, prepared to tell Monica that her words were ridiculous when Lisa found her eyes drawn toward the window, looking out into the garden and seeing Christopher tend to his roses.

“Lisa,” Monica asked after a lengthy pause. “Are you okay? Are you still there?”

Lisa walked to the window, the phone in her hand falling to her side as a breeze brushed her face and she heard recent words repeated as if a nearby ghost was whispering in her ear.

“Hope. Hope. Hope,” the words seemed to overlap each other in a chorus as Lisa heard the whispers. “You get what you give. You give what you’re given. Speak up,” the words floated through her mind.

“Lisa,” Monica cried a bit louder. “Are you okay? Are you there?”

Lisa pulled the phone back up to her ear. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m sorry,” Lisa rushed to get the words out. “I thought I heard something,” and Lisa looked again to the decaying walls, darkened and avoiding the light, “but it must have been my imagination,” Lisa quietly said, her eyes dimming a bit.


Shortly after hanging up the phone, again it rang.

“Hello,” Lisa said, trying to sound cheerful.

“Lisa?”

Lisa cleared her throat. “Yes, this is Lisa.”

“You may not remember me. It’s been a while since we’ve visited. This is Hope.”

Chills ran down Lisa’s spine and arms. “Hope,” she asked for clarity.

“Yes. I really wish I hadn’t waited so long to call or write or visit or something. I heard about Christina,” Hope said. “You do remember who this is, don’t you? I call every fall. You and Christina helped me about fifteen years ago when I walked up to the Oak after I had been raped.”

Lisa remembered well. “Yes, yes I remember you,” she said, still struggling from the surprise and taking a seat again at the prep table to steady herself. “How are you.”




This work is completely fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and completely coincidental.