Twelve Nights at Rotter House by J.W. Ocker

Author:J.W. Ocker [Ocker, J.W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3, pdf
Publisher: Turner Publishing Company
Published: 2019-10-29T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

“Oh, that one is a great trope,” I said, although my enthusiasm was less due to the trope itself and more to the relief I felt in avoiding the unspoken topic. “We should solve it right now.” It took me two times, but I finally pulled myself out of the depths of the chair and walked over to him with my hand raised in the air, “High-five, man!”

“Stop being cheesy.”

“What? You’re embarrassed to give me a high five? Nobody’s watching. Let’s pretend it’s 1985 and you just saw me jump out of a candy-apple-red Camaro in a Members Only jacket.” He still didn’t raise his hand. “Or are you a ghost?”

“Can I punch you in the nuts? That would prove it, right?”

“High-five me, man.” I suddenly felt tension between us. Thomas didn’t raise his hand. He snorted and looked over at the opposite side of the room. I repeated myself. “High-five me, man.”

Thomas snorted again, but then he raised his hand just enough for me to hit it. I made contact extra hard, and the slap of flesh on flesh reverberated about the room. “There, neither of us is a ghost,” I said.

“Yay,” said Thomas. “You know, there’s nothing wrong with doing all the smart things while staying in a haunted house—not leaving your room, not chasing mysterious sounds.” He was still worried about splitting up.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

We went up to the tower room and started carefully arranging lights to illuminate the staircase without blasting light out the window. Outside, the fog still lingered, although it was thinner now. More lights and shapes shined through. Maybe the rainstorm from the night before had cleared some of it. Maybe the picture window needed rebooting. I should try to come up here during the day, maybe the next time a ghostly hand drives me from my room. My boots crunched on tiny splinters of glow-in-the-dark plastic planchette that we had missed. I took the shot, but the staircase came out boring and flat in the photo. I promised myself for the tenth time in my life that before my next book I’d take a photography class and pick up a decent camera.

“Man, I wish we could get up to that widow’s walk. That’d be a cool photo,” I said.

“Let’s get it done.”

“You think we can?”

“Sure. Do we have anything we can use for a crowbar?”

I thought about it a bit. “How about a crowbar?”

“Might work.”

“I saw one down in the library.”

“That’s … a long way away.”

He was right. Sure, it was only two floors, but crossing this house was crossing a chasm. Not that it was so big, although it was, but because there was something about the way it was laid out that made traversing it exhausting, especially between floors. Time seemed to slow, darkness seemed to thicken. You almost had to take a moment to decompress yourself at the stairs, like a diver returning from the depths. But I really wanted to get up to that widow’s walk.

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