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Chapter One
Lacy
Iwastedaweektrying to write one stupid verse. Rhyming with cock? Easy. Rhyming with vagina? Not so much. It definitely doesn’t help that the last few poems I wrote are too racy to publish. What matters is that I’ve got a deadline to finish my book of poetry, and my publisher is breathing down my neck. It also doesn’t help that my ex reached out to me while I was trying to write, reminding me of old heartache and flooding my thoughts with past sexy flings. I need to focus on myrealpoetry, the serious stuff, and get this book done for my upcoming release. The launch date is already on the calendar, and then I’ve got a dreaded publicity tour to do.
Some people thrive under deadline pressure. But I’m not one of them.
I put thoughts of my book aside and squint as I drive the car up the long dirt road that leads into the woods. I had forgotten how far removed the old family home was from the main road. You’d think that at the end of this dumpy, unpaved road, the only thing you’d find is a ramshackle cabin. You’d be wrong. I smile as I coast my old VW station wagon along the last curve in the road, and the house comes into sight. In the light of the waning afternoon sun, it’s just as gorgeous as I remember.
The enormous three-level house has white paneled siding and blue shutters. Stairs out front lead up to an enormous porch that spans the entire front of the home. I used to sit out there as I read a book or scribbled in my notebook. I’d stay out there until it got dusky, and the fireflies dotted the evening sky. It was peaceful outside of the house. Inside, dad and his second wife, Nanette, were often arguing. I was always writing, even back then. Old rose bushes line the front of the house. They were once vibrant, lush, and blooming in the summer, their smell wafting through the yard. Now, they’re half dead, brown and decrepit.
In fact, as I park the car and take a closer look at the house, I notice just now run-down the whole place is. The once white siding is yellowed and peeling. The blue shutters are chipped and faded. The stairs leading up to the porch look uneven and unreliable, with one entire step missing. The railing is gone altogether. My heart contracts, looking at the old crumbling place. I knew it wasn’t going to be in great shape. But I didn’t expect it to bethisbad. I tap my hands on the steering wheel as I size the property up. A crumbling house is a great metaphor forsomething, I think to myself. I reach for the tiny notepad and pencil I always carry with me and start jotting down some thoughts.
I’m interrupted by a video call from my sister.
“Lacy! What’s up sis?” She greets me with her typical enthusiasm and her usual glass of wine, often in hand for these chats. Lillian lives overseas in Europe, so it’s already well into the evening where she is.
“Hey Lil, not much. Just got to Rose Manor.”
“I’m surprised you even get service out there.”
“Me too, to be honest.”
“Well, thank goodness, or I’d be worried about you. That old hunk of junk is creepy.”
“Hey, don’t diss my childhood home like that,” I reply with a grin. Lillian has never been one to shy away from sharing her real feelings.
“Childhood home? Come on, you only lived there for six months. And it’s been standing empty for years. That place is haunted, and you know it.”
“It is not! You’re so over-the-top.”
“It definitely is! It’s haunted by another failed family of our father’s.”
Lillian and I share a laugh. We have the same dad but have different moms. We also have another sister, Lyra. Again, Same dad, different moms. Our dad was a charmer back in his day. Well, maybe he still is.
“If the ghost of Nanette is rampaging around this place, then Iwillbe scared,” I acknowledge with a rueful laugh.
“Hoo boy, dad’s second wife… She really took the cake, huh?”
“She was a wild one. I think dad was the only guy she ever dated who wasn’t a musician. I never got why she even went for our dad, to be honest. He didn’t seem like her type.”
“Um, I believe it had something to do with the fact that he wasloaded,” Lillian says.
“Probably.” Elliot Kincaid, our father, and Nanette Colt were undeniably an odd couple. Against all odds, their marriage survived a full six months. Well, they onlystayedtogether for six months. It took a bit longer for the messy—and highly public—divorce to get settled.
“Plus, wasn’t she looking for some kind of happy home for her fucked-up kid?” Lillian muses. “What was his name again?”
“Benjamin,” I reply immediately. “He wasn’t fucked up. He’d just had a rough run of it. Nanette was always dragging him along with her on the road, following one rock star boyfriend after the next.”
“Not fucked up?! Didn’t he almost burn the house down once smoking cigarettes or something dumb like that?”
“Well, he didn’t,” I say defiantly. I’ve always had a soft spot for my troubled stepbrother. In fact, if I’m totally honest, I had an insane crush on him. Insane because he was my brother! Obviously, I never toldanyoneabout my little crush, not even my sisters, who knew pretty much everything about me. It’s the kind of harmless yet taboo little secret that I’m planning on taking to the grave.
“So, how is the place looking anyway?” Lillian calls me back to the moment.
“Here, I can show you. I just pulled up. Hang on.” I put the phone down for a moment as I clamber out of the car. “Check it out.” I scoop the phone back up and angle it so Lillian can see the property, slowly panning the phone over the entire house from top to bottom, side to side.
“Geez, what a mess,” Lillian says.
