Turpentine Tea

“The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. In the sixteenth cent-” Myla jammed her finger into the button on the dash to silence the melodic podcast. The last thing she wanted to hear was another story about some witch's haunted house.

The couple had been driving for hours, and the sky was black as tar. Eli’s rhythmic breathing and the tires turning on the pavement made Myla’s eyelids sluggish.

She nudged his chest. “Hey, wake up.”

“Huh? Do you need me to drive?” His voice was hoarse with sleep.

When he turned to look at her, she couldn’t help but giggle. His right eye drooped significantly. He crinkled his nose as he shot her a playful glare, and he rubbed his eye open.

She responded, “No, I’m good, sleeping beauty. I’m just bored.”

He huffed and laid his head back against the window.

She poked his arm. “No sir! You’re the one dragging me to Timbuktu to check out some ancient house! The least you can do is entertain me.”

“Oh, yeah?” A lazy grin spread across his face as he leaned over and started kissing her neck. His breath was hot against her skin.

“That is not what I meant!” She said as she brought her ear to her shoulder with a laugh.

“Just doing as I’m told,” he winked, “Plus, it’s not just some ancient house.”

Silence, as thick as a seaweed bloom, filled the car. Over the past few months, Eli had become fascinated with learning about his family tree. He discovered that his great-great-grandfather had lived in a beautiful Victorian manor in Connecticut. It had been vacant since his death, and Eli's great aunt recently decided to put it on the market. Eli reached out to the realtor to schedule a tour before she sold it.

“Where are we anyway?” Eli asked.

“Somewhere in New Jersey. We have about two and a half hours left.”

It was a little after midnight when they pulled up to the dinky hotel in Branford. A light by the front door flickered insistently. The man at the reception desk smelt of stale cigarette smoke. His stained uniform had dandruff adorning each shoulder.

With their room key in hand, the couple dragged their bags up the worn carpeted stairs and past the yellowed walls. Despite the subpar quarters, Myla fell asleep to the sound of Elijah typing and the whine of the air conditioner.

The next morning, Myla awoke to the warm fragrance of coffee. Eli was dressed, sipping out of a white styrofoam cup, and writing in his leather-bound journal. A small knot formed in her throat as she watched him — lost in the pages.

Elijah’s obsession started after his father died. They diagnosed him with cancer at the start of their senior year of college and he passed away in December. By January, Eli had already traced his lineage to the sixteen-hundreds. One day, she confronted him about the sleepless nights, the hoard of newspaper clippings, and the incessant research. He snipped, “This is all I know, Myla.”

He cleared his throat, breaking Myla from her thoughts. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” He smiled over the rim of his cup. “The realtor called a while ago to confirm we’re still coming by, so whenever you’re ready, we can head over.”

After throwing on her clothes and inhaling breakfast, they headed to Johnson Point. Eli picked at a stray thread on his flannel cuff the whole way. It wasn’t until they drove through the iron gate that his mannerisms changed from a nervous boy to a stoic academic. Pine needles and bare maple trees lined the paver mosaic driveway. Gray bricks and steely blue shingles peeked through the branches.

A woman in black, lanky heels, and a pencil skirt paced in front of the elevated porch with her phone pressed against her ear. Copious amounts of hairspray slicked her hair into a low ponytail and her drawn-on eyebrows made her expressions seem cartoon-like. Oblivious to their presence, she continued to exchange platitudes with her conversation counterpart. After a moment, she dropped the phone, and she pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Mrs. Allen?” Eli asked with a feathery voice as they walked up behind her.

Despite his attempt to not frighten her, she whipped around and dramatically placed her hand on her chest, “Oh my word!” She huffed.

The two exchanged affable apologies, and introductions before she checked her phone once again. “I apologize,” she said. “I’m waiting to hear from another potential buyer. Thank goodness. I’ve already had three back out.” She pinched her nose once again before she grumbled under her breath.

Before Myla could ask the woman to reiterate, the hair stood up on the back of her neck as she looked up at the vine-covered bricks. Windows caked with decades of dust were framed by what was once white wood. Movement from the first floor caught her eye. A single curtain fluttered.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Allen tucked a stray hair behind her ear, “Shall we get started?”

Eli rushed to the French doors, throwing a yes-please over his shoulder, and leaving Myla and the perturbed realtor to make awkward small talk as they walked toward the entrance.

“So are you and your, um, boyfriend in school?” she asked.

Myla nodded with a polite grin.

“What are you two studying?”

“My degree is in psychology. He’s studying history.”

“Oh,” her eyebrows arched a little too high, “That would explain his interest in all of this, I suppose.”

“I suppose so.” A sad smile painted Myla’s face.

As they walked inside, the bouquet of dust and aged linen became overwhelming. Myla watched as Eli’s gaze bounced from one end of the living room to the next. A grin lit up his face as he traced the edge of the antique sofa that was half-covered with a white sheet. His eyes were bright, as if he could see the home for what it once was. He could see past the grime and faded colors. Myla could not. Her stomach churned as she walked over the creaking floorboards and past the curtains spotted with the scars of ravenous moths.

Mrs. Allen droned about the turret and intricate hand-carved archways as if they were at an open house, but a painting over the fireplace demanded Myla’s attention. Warm colors decorated the living room, making the winterscape an odd choice. A small frozen lake filled the foreground and a bright red barn with a snow-covered roof lay to the right. An ice skater wrapped in a crimson shawl stood in the heart of the pond.

“What’s going to happen to all this stuff?” Eli’s mellifluous voice carried from down the corridor, ending her hyper-fixation.

“Per your great aunt, there is going to be an auction. After that, a curator from the local museum is going to come by, and then anything left will be thrown away or given to the new owners.”

Myla went to join them in the book-filled office, but the aroma of a woman’s perfume caused her to stop at the doorway. It wasn’t floral like the realtor’s but smelt of something fruity. Raspberry, maybe. There was another scent that Myla couldn’t place. She physically shook the distraction from her mind. When she walked in, Eli was leaning on the desk in the middle of the room and looking up at a portrait of a middle-aged man on the wall. Goosebumps covered Myla as she looked into the dead eyes of the painting. The man’s flat lip and lifeless expression complemented the dismal color pallet.

They continued to peruse the two-story home, peaking their heads into bedroom after bedroom. Tucked behind the kitchen, hid a tiny room. It was just big enough to fit the small cot and single nightstand. Perched on the bedside table was a porcelain cup.

“This is the, um, servant’s quarters.” Mrs. Allen hurried them past the depressing space. “I think that’s it. Is there anything else you want to see, Eli?”

Myla expected him to ask to examine the whole place again. Instead, he gave the woman his most courteous grin. “No, I think that’s everything. Thank you so much.”

He took Myla’s hand, and they rushed to their car. Before Myla could buckle her seat belt, he exclaimed, “We have to come back.”

“What?” Myla searched his face. His eyes were wild with excitement.

“We have to come back tonight and break in.” His voice was breathy.

“Uh, why?”

“His office was full of journals and there was a family Bible that must have been from the seventeenth century. Do you know how helpful all that information would be?” He fished his notebook out from under the seat and fidgeted with one corner.

“You’re not joking?” She looked for a shred of sanity, but only found boy-like passion.

He whispered, “It’s all going to be thrown away, Myla.”

She sighed before she said, “And how are we going to go about this?”

A devilish grin contorted the corner of his mouth. “I watched her type in the code on the key box.”

----

They spent the rest of the day checking out local shops, the museum, and walking along the beach to waste time. Despite the winter air and the looming clouds that brought the threat of snow, Myla’s nervousness kept her skin flushed.

Once the sun had set, and the last stripes of color faded from the sky, the pair made their way back to the bay. Returning to the house caused Myla’s legs to tremble. The moonlight played tricks with the tree branches above them, throwing shadows resembling boney fingers across the front windshield.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked.

Without a sliver of hesitation, he said, “I’m positive.”

The air was still as they walked up the steps. Even the crickets didn’t dare to sing. As soon as they stepped into the house, the door slammed behind them. A yelp fell out of Myla’s mouth.

Eli chuckled. “It’s just a breeze. Are you going to be jumpy this whole time?”

She nudged her elbow into his rib cage, and he responded with a dirty look. Eli bolted toward the study, leaving Myla in the living room surrounded by furniture covered in ghostly sheets. Dust danced in the moonbeams that filtered through the paned windows, and the house groaned in protest of the wind.

Something moved in Myla’s peripheral vision. The ray of her flashlight landed on the painting of the ice skater. The woman was gliding around and around in a circle like a stop-motion movie. Myla’s knees locked, and her wide eyes followed the woman as she pushed herself back and forth across the water’s surface. The rhythmic sound of metal cutting and scraping the ice sent pinpricks across Myla’s skin. This isn’t possible. The figure stopped, turned toward Myla, and slowly shook her head.

Myla’s heart battered against her ribs and the room felt as if it was tipping to one side. “Eli?” her voice quivered as she stumbled backward. “Elijah!”

She ran down the hallway, but as she approached the office door, it swung close, nearly busting her nose in the process.

“Myla? What’s going on?” His voice was a whisper through the thick door.

A cacophony of ear-splitting screams and hysterical sobbing echoed throughout the corridor.

Myla banged on the door at a tempo that matched her racing heart. “Elijah! Open the door!”

“I can’t! It’s stuck!” The doorknob twitched but wouldn’t give.

The fruity fragrance surrounded Myla once more, as a hazy figure rushed past her. Translucent fingers gripped Myla’s hair and pulled her to the ground and down the hallway. The phantom picked up Myla by the neck, shoved her into the wall, and dug her nails into the soft tissue. She met the young woman’s gaze. Despite the fog of her being, Myla could see the rage in her puffy, bloodshot eyes. Her onyx, coiled hair fell out of a white bonnet, glistening blisters framed her mouth. As the spirit pressed into Myla’s airway, she materialized, revealing the woman’s adolescence. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen.

Myla attempted to claw at the hands that threatened to kill her. Panic and disbelief caused hot tears to flood her cheeks. In the struggle, she noticed the girl’s swollen abdomen. Blood oozed down her legs, creating a currant-colored pool around their feet. Myla turned her head and swallowed as the warm, viscous fluid seeped into her shoes. Volatile, metallic fumes from the clot-filled liquid invaded her senses.

The apparition tried to speak through purple lips. Her voice was brittle and her words incoherent, as if she was unable to command her vocal cords after death. A wave of her breath washed over Myla as the specter growled, revealing a row of raw and inflamed gums. Myla was overpowered by the tang of raspberry tea and… turpentine?

Myla’s hands shook as the edges of her vision darkened. The girl’s grasp on her throat was unwavering. Myla’s lungs burned and her eyes stung as she peeled off the calloused hand from her neck. With blurred vision, she scurried down the hallway in time to hear the thud of Elijah’s weight against the study door. The crack of the door frame preceded the sight of his body tumbling into Myla’s, creating a morass of limbs and sweat.

In an instant, the apparition stood over them, her lip curled with disgust and her eyes wild with agony. The two crawled into the office, desperately groping the space around them for anything that could provide protection. As the spirit turned to fill the threshold, her head snapped upward. She stared at the portrait of Elijah’s ancestor with abhorrent-filled eyes. Her arms instinctively created a cocoon around her belly before she vanished with a blood-curdling wail. Eli gaped at the empty doorway — lips parted, eyes unblinking. Myla slammed the door, nearly knocking it off its already weakened hinges.

“Was that… was that a…” He shook his head back and forth as he searched for a reasonable explanation.

“Yes.”

The two sat in shell-shocked silence. As Myla took inventory of her injuries, she noticed the blood on her shoes had disappeared. “We need to get out of here.” Myla looked around with adrenaline-induced clarity.

Eli held his knees on the floor like a statue of a small child.

“Elijah.”

After a moment, he whispered, “Ghosts aren’t real.”

“Eli,” she dropped to meet his eye. It was then he noticed the bruises on her neck, but as he went to speak, Myla stopped him and his trembling hand from touching her injury. “Come help me open the window.”

Tears swelled in his lash line as he nodded and pulled himself off the floor. The pair pried at the window’s lift with no success. As Eli fiddled with the sash lock, Myla scanned the room. Her eyes landed on an ornate brass lamp on the desk. The weight felt promising in her hand as she grabbed it by its neck and flung its body into the glass. Instead of shattering or even cracking, the window shook and continued to shake. Then every window in the room convulsed. The floor and the rafters followed suit, rattling as if a train was plowing through the second story. The house howled as dust fell like snow around them.

Myla shouted over the earthquake, “Alright. New plan!” She began shuffling through the journals scattered about the desk, chucking the finance ledgers and unrelated material to the ground.

“What are you looking for?” Eli called out.

“Something to explain what’s going on. Ghosts don’t appear for no reason.” She hoped there was some truth to the scary movies she had seen before.

Begrudgingly, he joined her pursuit, mumbling under his breath about the impossibility of their situation. When he tried to pull the thin drawer under the desktop, the resistance from a lock blocked his attempt. With the help of a sturdy letter opener, Eli jimmied open the compartment. A single blank envelope rested on top of the preserved mauve velvet lining. Eli motioned for Myla to join him as he deciphered the letter. The script was shaky, and the cursive letters mushed together in a way that almost created an optical illusion. As Elijah read the letter out loud, the room settled and an eerie stillness surrounded them.

Dear Heavenly Father,

As I lay waiting for death to take me, I fear my time to confess is waning. I have committed an egregious act. I have committed a sin I no longer have the strength to bear. Many years ago, I forced myself upon my servant. Oh Lord, forgive me, for the memory of her screams has made my life a living hell. Have I not suffered enough? Can you find the passion to forgive a weak man?

And the child… I did not know that the child she carried was my own. After the incident, I offered her financial compensation if she agreed to ignore my indiscretions. I also swore to seek sobriety, for it was the liquor that drove me to temptation. Many months later, when her pregnancy became apparent, I inquired about the child's paternity, and she informed me it was another man. I ensured her that her employment was secured and that she was welcome to return after the birth of the baby. Does that not make me a just man? Doesn’t a just man attempt to right his wrongs in any way he knows how?

But I did not have the foresight to see my wife’s transgressions. I should have known when she started painting again. She only paints when she’s dismayed. And I should have found it suspicious when I saw her deliver tea to Ida. She was not exactly kind to our staff. I think I chose to ignore the signs, for I did not want to believe my darling, Margie, could be so wicked. I had no choice but to see her as such when I found her standing over Ida’s body with a satisfied smile.

But our transgressions did not end there… we did not bury her in hallowed ground, and I know this is why she haunts me still. Why we chose to bury her under the house, still confounds me. Perhaps this was my form of self-flagellation…

Is a lifetime of torture not enough to be absolved, my Lord? Father, please forgive me for I have sinned.

Charles Moore

Salt water stung the crevices of Myla’s skin. An audible creak radiated from Elijah’s cheek as his jaw clenched. He folded the confession and returned it to the envelope. With a trembling hand, he rubbed his chin until the blood returned to his face.

Once the weight of the silence became too much to tolerate, Myla asked, “Now what?”

He shook his head with closed eyes, hand still covering his mouth. Fragments of thoughts and emotions darted through his mind. A rattled breath pushed past his chapped lips before he said, “I think we should burn it down.”

Myla responded with a raised eyebrow, and irises ignited by shock.

He continued. “I think we should burn the house down. She can’t haunt a place that isn’t here.” The strain in his voice caused a shiver to slither down Myla’s arms. “Earlier I saw a kerosene lamp in the kitchen. I remember thinking it was strange that the reservoir was full.” He added.

Myla recalled the baroque silver lighter on the mantle and the array of sheets in the living room. If they could douse the couch, maybe that would be enough. It would have to be.

“How are we going to get past Ida?” A knot solidified her vocal cords as she said the poor girl’s name.

Eli rolled the conundrum on his tongue. “I’ll distract her while you run to the kitchen.” His tone was gallant as he placed the letter and the family Bible into the drawer and slammed it shut.

“No, you go get the lamp since you already know where it is. Plus, I saw a lighter in the living room.” Elijah went to argue, but Myla raised her hand in protest and made her way to the door.

With a sad smile, he kissed her softly on the forehead before he said, “Alright. You ready?”

Myla’s hand hovered over the glass doorknob while the couple took a collective deep breath. She cracked the door open wide enough to peek down the hallway. A swift figure flashed at the end of the corridor. Myla swore under her breath.

As their footsteps pounded down the narrow hallway, a disembodied scream caused the light from their flashlights to flicker into darkness. The corridor seemed never-ending as their eyes adjusted to the abyss. Elijah grasped Myla’s hand as the two felt their way toward the living room. The walls became sticky and reeked of iron and mildew. Their flashlights reignited, revealing the blood-soaked wallpaper. Eli blinked away the dizziness and Myla swallowed the desire to vomit. As quick as their light returned, it disappeared, once again leaving them in the unknown. Eli continued to drag his hand across the sludge until his fingers met the end of the hallway. He squeezed Myla’s hand as they prepared to separate.

Eli tore to the right towards the kitchen. Myla continued straight toward the fireplace. She was blindly searching for obstacles when every light in the room began flashing as if they were in the center of an electric storm. From the blinding display, a teacup was hurled from across the room and smashed into the apex of Myla’s cheekbone. Dazed, she fell into the mantel. She steadied herself against the brick fireplace. As she reached for the silver lighter, darkness engulfed the room.

Myla’s fingers trembled as she tried to maneuver the intricate pieces of the lighter. The ridges of the flint wheel abraded her thumb as she forced it to move despite its rust. “Please work. Please work.” She said to herself as insignificant sparks flashed for a millisecond.

The repeated crisp scratching of flint became frantic as she willed a flame to appear. With each flicker of miniature fireworks, Myla could see Ida creep closer and closer. But something was different. Rot deformed her body. Decay blued her eyes and hollowed out her cheeks, and her skin hung loosely off her bones. Myla’s mind tried to justify her eyes but then the smell of decomposition stained the air. The pungent rot reminded Myla of the time she stumbled upon the half-eaten corpse of a calf at her grandparent’s ranch.

The apparition extended a discolored, knobby hand just as the lighter spewed golden fire. Ida dissipated and reappeared on the other side of the room, seemingly whole and annoyed by the light. The room quaked, causing decor to fall, and a mirror to shatter.

Eli rushed into the living room, lamp in hand. For a moment, the taste of hope lifted the corners of Myla’s mouth. A triumphant smile filled Elijah’s face as he held the lamp over his head and smashed it onto the floor. The fumes of oil and gasoline stung their eyes and noses. As Eli went to throw a sheet into the ever-growing puddle, Ida materialized behind him. With unfathomable speed, she grasped his chin and the top of his head and yanked.

The crack of his spine severing from the force would echo in Myla’s memory for the rest of her life. Despite the fact his head had been thrust past his shoulder, his body continued to stand up-right for a moment. It was as if his legs needed to process the death of their master before he crumbled into a lifeless heap.

Time slowed as Myla mournfully screeched. She threw her body onto his and attempted to right his head like a child fixing a doll. The grinding and popping of his damaged tissue caused scorching vomit to fill her esophagus and mouth. Gravity yanked on the front of her skull as she purged the contents of her stomach.

An evil laugh erupted from Ida as she appeared behind Myla. Myla whipped around with eyes rabid like a wounded animal. The spirit wore a taunting smirk as she stood over Myla, dripping putrid blood onto her jeans.

“Get the hell away from me!” Myla cried as she thrusted the lighter toward Ida as if it were a knife.

The spirit not only understood Myla’s threat, but she found it comical. A raspy chuckle permeated from her crooked mouth.

“I’m serious. I’ll burn this whole place to the ground!” Myla’s whole body shook like a tree fighting the wind as she placed her thumb on the flint wheel. Her tears filled the corners of her mouth as she imagined her next move. It played in her head like a movie. She would ignite the kerosine and curl up next to Elijah. The smoke would fill her lungs and lull her to sleep as held the boy she didn’t want to live without.

Her fantasy was interrupted by the memory of Elijah’s mom, the woman who had been like a second mother to her. A knot filled Myla’s throat as she imagined Maria losing her only son four months after losing her husband. Myla imagined the closed casket that would hide her baby boy’s body that had been burnt beyond recognition. She knew Maria would never recover with so many unknowns, so many questions.

Ida went to grab Myla, but she knocked her hand away with newfound courage. Myla ignited the lighter and threw it toward the pool of fuel. The warmth was immediate as the flames lapped at the cotton sheets and crawled up the furniture. Ida vanished with a howl as the glow of the fire grew into that of a summer sunset.

While holding her breath, Myla grabbed Elijah’s collar and dragged him toward the front door. The flames grew quicker than she expected and before she made it a few feet; they engulfed half the room in radiating gold. Perspiration covered every inch of her skin as she rushed to beat the fire to the door.

Myla’s fingers cramped as she tried to respectfully pull Elijah into the foyer. The roaring blaze was deafening by the time she reached the entrance.

The winter air felt like a slap as Myla swung open the mahogany door. Ice crystals dug into her cheeks as the wind whistled around her. With her remaining strength, she laid Elijah in the dead grass of the front lawn and collapsed by his side.

Myla coddled Elijah’s head in her lap while snowflakes found refuge in his eyelashes and hairline. Her fingers traced the structure of his cheeks and the roundness of his lips. He looked as if he was sleeping. It was only the paleness of his face and the disfigurement of his throat that thwarted Myla’s attempt at pretending. Tears and snot blanketed her face. She swallowed bitter bile as she pressed her lips against his clammy skin, secretly wishing to feel a flicker of warmth.

Sweat and sleet chilled her bones as Myla watched the house become a collage of ash, flames, and crashing wooden frames. Distant fire engines whined between the symphony of crackling and hissing.

An inferno backdrop illuminated the silhouette of the young pregnant girl in the doorway before she disappeared behind a plume of smoke and debris.