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Wiley House

An adventure of a lifetime

By Davia BuchacherPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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Two walls were shelves, full of books. A giant fireplace enunciated the third wall, a plush purple-ish chair covered in dust facing the ashes. An enormous window on the last wall stood guard over a desk, bathing it in blue moonlight. A single, small book sat in the center of the otherwise empty desk, a thick layer of dust blanketing the cover. I sat in the creaky wooden chair in front of the desk and took a breath to blow on the book. Coughing through the flying dust, I opened the black leather cover. A small slip of paper fell out, a warning scrawled in fading ink:

The ghost who haunts these pages can either harm or help you. Help it, and it may help you. Ignore it at your peril.

I grinned, delighted. This was turning out to be an adventure.

“Why’re you smiling like that?”

She looked like a typical girl, wearing modern clothes: a worn band tee, jeans, and sneakers. The only hint she wasn’t alive was she had appeared in a blink of an eye.

I studied her awhile as I said, slowly, still smiling, “I’ve never met a ghost before.” I paused, then added, “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” She frowned, turning this way and that, looking down at her outfit. “What’s wrong with what I look like?”

“You look like you just graduated from my high school. Why don’t you look … old?”

“I’m not old, thank you very much.” Her frown deepened and her brow furrowed. “Just because I died a hundred years ago doesn’t mean I have to look like I’m from a hundred years ago. I’m only 19, really.” She twirled her shoulder-length brown hair with her fingers. “Who are you and what are you doing with my diary?” she asked, almost bored, as if she were just following a work policy.

“I’m Noah. And I just found it, I didn’t know it was your diary.”

“You didn’t?” She stopped twirling. “Everyone who comes in here knows that’s my diary. Why did you open it if you didn’t know what it was?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Curiosity?” I shrugged, then laughed nervously. “I got dared to come in here. I thought I could take this as proof,” I admitted. “The hardest part was climbing the fence. I nearly fell face-first into the bushes.”

“Fence?” She walked toward the window, using her legs as if she were placing one foot in front of the other on the ground when she was, in fact, floating a couple inches above it. “Why is there a fence around this house? What year is it?”

“2021,” I replied.

“Bother. It’s been two decades already. Every time I come back, this place changes in some way.” She cocked her head and turned back to me. “Do you know about this house, or me?”

“Nope.” I shrugged again, guilty.

“Jenny the Rich? The Widow of Wiley House? The Wiley Murderess? Anything ring a bell?” the girl asked, annoyed.

I shook my head.

She stared at me in disbelief, then anger, then something else – was she relieved?

“That means I can tell the story how it actually happened.” She smiled sharply. “Want to hear the truth?”

“Yes, please!” I said, fascinated. I knew the guys would never believe me, but I was going to milk this for all it was worth. I sat back in the chair and looked at her expectantly.

“Okay,” she said, and began.

“The year was 1922. Flapper dresses, speakeasies, crooked cops, and gangsters were all over this town. The town was booming, and the Wiley family was the center of it all. I was lucky enough to be courted by Elliot Wiley, the first son of the Wiley family, and he was the love of my life.”

I sat forward. She shimmered in front of me, and I blinked. She was arm in arm with a tall, handsome, dark-haired man with a thin black mustache, a pinstripe suit, and a watch chain hanging from his waistcoat pocket. Her clothes had transformed into a dress dripping with beads and fringe, with pearls around her neck, dark lipstick on her lips, and Mary Jane shoes on her feet. They looked at each other lovingly. It was like watching a black-and-white movie – no color was shown while she told her story. The two started dancing close together, and she continued.

“The way we met isn’t important. What was important was our love for each other. We were head over heels. His da liked me well enough and his ma adored me. It was perfect in every way. We married soon after we met.”

Rice flew over their heads. They had changed again – he into a sharp tuxedo, her in a lacy veil and beautiful gown. They were beaming. He swooped her up in his arms, carrying her over the threshold of this very house.

“The days passed in a blur. We were ridiculously happy. One night, about six months in, someone came for the Wiley family. They were after the fortune Elliot kept in this house, too suspicious of the crooked bankers in this town to get a bank account.

It was the middle of the night. The men – there were two of them – had broken the glass on the front door to open it. I woke up to the shattering sound. I tried to wake Elliot up, but he was like the dead. I reached over for the vest pocket pistol always on his nightstand, and with trembling hands, I tiptoed down the hallway and stairs to find the intruders.”

She was wearing an ankle-length nightgown, dark eyes wide, gun shaking in her hands as she pointed it forward, her hair mussed and her feet bare.

“I must’ve just missed them, going to the right as they came from the left, going up the stairs when I was in another room. The next thing I knew, I heard shouting upstairs. They ran downstairs, shouting, “He’s dead!”

I saw them, trying to steady the gun in both my hands, trying not to think about what they said, about Elliot being dead. I hadn’t heard a gunshot; how could he be dead? They stood in front of the stairs, arguing with each other. There was no way I could sneak by to check on my husband. I tiptoed a few steps forward to see if there was any way I could get by, but the floor creaked under me and I froze. They silenced, turning towards me.”

She showed me the two dark figures wearing long jackets and hats, their faces deeply shadowed, unrecognizable.

““Go away!” I shouted, with as much strength as I could muster.

“It’s the wife,” one said. I couldn’t tell which, and the voice was unfamiliar.

They took a couple steps toward me, the one on the right raising his hands into the air in surrender.

“We won’t hurt you. We just want to know where the money is.”

The other lowered his gun.

“Just tell us, and no one will get hurt.”

“Where’s Elliot?” I was surprised at how high my voice was.

They looked at each other. “Listen Jenny…”

“How do you know my name? Where’s Elliot?”

“He’s dead,” the one who hadn’t spoken yet said, shortly.

“How? What did you do?”

“He was dead when we got up there.”

“Tell us where the money is!” he said, getting impatient. I was in shock.

The other, kinder one, stepped forward. “Jenny…”

“No!” I squeezed my eyes shut and squeezed the trigger. He went down. The other yelled, furious, and rushed me.”

Jenny showed me the struggle. His hands over her wrists, rocking back and forth, side to side. He overpowered her in mere moments, grabbing the gun from her hands. He had both guns in both hands now, and he was off balance for just a second. She took advantage and tried to tackle him, throwing the entirety of her weight in his direction. A shot rang out. She slowly dropped to the floor.

“I woke up the next day, dead,” she finished. “The morning papers said it was a murder-suicide. They said I’d killed my husband and shot myself. But that’s not what happened. He died, somehow, without me knowing. Maybe he was poisoned. I never found out.” She wiped away the tears rolling down her face.

I was mesmerized. The story, the history, the romance, drama, intrigue. It was the best thing I’d ever heard, and to think it was real, not some show on Netflix.

“I can do some research and see if I can find out how he died,” I said, after a few minutes of silence.

She looked up at me from staring at the wooden floor, her eyes glistening.

“You’d do that for me?”

“Yes,” I said reassuringly. “It’s such an amazing mystery. It’ll take some time, but I’m on spring break. I don’t have a lot to do.”

Jenny looked at me, long and hard.

“You’d just do that, for nothing? You don’t want anything in return?”

“No,” I started, then I remembered the fortune. “Well, I wouldn’t be opposed to being thanked. But it’s up to you. I don’t mind looking into it, just for the hell of it.”

She nodded, looking down at the dusty floor again. She fiddled with the ends of her hair, then nodded again, determined.

“Follow me.”

She drifted through the study door and I got up, scrambling to follow her. She waved at me from atop the stairwell as I rounded the hallway.

I launched myself up the stairs, my flashlight leading the way, my mind racing: what would it be? How much would it be worth? What would I do with it?

She went into a bedroom down the hall, the last on the right. I joined her there, finally slowing down when I saw the iron bed, the chest at the end, the dresser, the vanity in the corner, cobwebs in corners and dust heavy in the air.

“It’s right there,” she whispered. “Move the bed. Under the rug. You’re welcome to all of it, under one condition.” I moved toward the bed, ready to pull it away from the wall, then turned toward her. “Let me know how he died.”

I nodded and said, with strength, “You have my word.”

I pulled the bed away, rolled the rug, and found a small handle on the floor. Tugging at the handle, it opened to a little cavern in the floor, holding a suitcase. I pulled it out and opened it, feasting my eyes at what must’ve been at least $20,000 in bills.

I lost my breath. I clawed at my throat, desperate to take another breath. My vision went dim, and I felt myself falling, further and further, until finally, vaguely, feeling my head hit something hard. All I saw was black.

When I woke up, I was standing, looking down at myself: the cold, white body of a 16-year-old kid whose glassy eyes were wide open in shock. I gasped, putting my hand to my chest, hoping to find a heartbeat. Nothing. I looked around and saw hundreds of unfamiliar faces, all wearing different fashion styles, high class and low, from the last hundred years.

“She steals your soul when you take her money,” a voice said in the crowd.

Elliot whispered, “Welcome to the watchers of Wiley House.”

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About the Creator

Davia Buchacher

I was raised in an ever-growing town in southwest Montana. My heart belongs to this town, Bozeman, my dog, Poppy, and the feeling of furiously writing in a G2 0.38 pen on paper, time flying by as I tell a story. Instagram is @freelikeasong

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