Hell to pay, p.1
Hell to Pay, page 1
HELL TO PAY
A House in the Woods
&
A House in the Woods 2
M.A. McNEASE
A HOUSE IN THE WOODS
Country Living is Hell
Copyright © 2019/2023 MadeMark Publishing
Stockton, New Jersey
www.MadeMarkPublishing.com
Cover design by MadeMark Media
Cover images licensed from Depositphotos
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, situations and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Writing as M.A. McNease
A House in the Woods
A House in the Woods 2
I, Warlock: The Warlock Wars Book I
Writing as Mark McNease
Mysteries
Open Secrets
Reservation for Murder
Black Cat White Paws
Murder at Pride Lodge
Pride and Perilous
Death in the Headlights
Death by Pride
Kill Switch
Last Room at the Cliff’s Edge
Murder at the Paisley Parrot
Beautiful Corpse
Audiobooks
A House in the Woods
Reservation for Murder
Black Cat White Paws
Murder at Pride Lodge
Pride and Perilous
Death by Pride
Death in the Headlights
Last Room at the Cliff’s Edge
Murder at the Paisley Parrot
Stop the Car
Other Books & Writing
Stop the Car: A Short Story and Kindle Single
The Seer: A Short Story
Rough & Tumble: A Dystopian Love Tragedy
An Unobstructed View: Short Fiction
5 of a Kind: More Short Fiction
Outer Voices Inner Lives: LGBTQ Writers Over 50
View all books on my Amazon author’s page
Visit Mark McNease.com
Join the author’s mailing list for updates
Praise for Last Room at the Cliff’s Edge
“Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote that “easy reading is damn hard writing.” McNease writes in this ostensibly effortless way, employing all the elements of a true story teller: intrigue, tension, memorable characters and perfect pacing. I also admire the ease with which he captures a woman’s point of view. Linda is heroic and flawed and utterly believable.”
- Jean Ryan, author of Survival Skills and Lost Sister
“This suspenseful series launch from McNease (the Kyle Callahan Mysteries) introduces retired homicide detective Linda Sikorsky … Plausible sleuthing and smart characterizations combine for a winner.
- Publishers Weekly
Praise for The Cat in the Window
“... truly excellent – New Yorker-worthy, one might say. It was a perfect little Sunday-morning read.”
- Michael Craft, author of FlabberGassed: A Mister Puss Mystery, Inside Dumont and The Mark Manning Mysteries
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Acknowledgements
Thanks are due to my lifetime first responder, Frank Murray, whose reactions to my books often tell me what I need to rework—things I won’t share with readers but that they’ll experience nonetheless.
Thank you to Charlie and Grace for proofreading the final manuscript. And thank you to Amanda McBride for those mysteriously delicious eggs. I should also acknowledge what I fondly call ‘the country life.’ After many years in the big city, we’ve settled nicely into a happy existence living among the creatures, sounds and sights of rural New Jersey. They call it the Garden State for a reason: it’s breathtakingly beautiful. And sometimes, especially at night, it can be creepy.
Lastly, to the Spooky House down the road that inspired the story. We finally met the owner, and when I told him the house made me think of the story I was writing, he informed us it was haunted. But we knew that, didn’t we?
For Frank Murray and our own little house in the woods,
where the living’s easy and things go bump in the night.
“… the loveliest trick of the Devil is to persuade you that he does not exist.”
- Charles Baudelaire
I.
Paradise Found
ONE
LAUREL AND JEREMY CALLOWAY HAD to have the house. They’d first seen it by accident after taking a wrong turn on one of the back roads that ran like veins throughout Hunterdon County, New Jersey. Their realtor, Scott Dunlop, was in the backseat directing them toward a home for sale on Lancaster Road, which required taking a left turn off 651, then going a mile or so along Conley Road, a major artery that stretched from one end of the county to the other. Then a left turn here, a right turn there, and finally they would be on—should be on—Lancaster. It would have been easy using the car’s GPS, but Scott had insisted he knew where the home was. He’d said it was perfect for the young couple and that he could get them there from memory, even though he’d been there only once with another realtor showing the property.
Scott was not senior in the office; he was barely junior, having pursued his realtor’s license after failing at a previous career in car sales. A friend had told him real estate was easy money. It wasn’t.
“I think it’s up about a half mile,” Scott had said, leaning between the seats and peering through the windshield.
“You think?” said Jeremy. He hadn’t yet reached the point of being annoyed with Scott, but he was getting there.
“I know it is,” Scott corrected. “It’s just easy to get disoriented on the roads here.”
“You mean lost,” Laurel said.
“Lost is okay,” Jeremy added, “as long as this house is as great as you say it is.”
“For you two it’s perfect. And there’s room to grow if you want a family.”
Laurel suddenly liked the man even less. They’d agreed to put off having children, if they ever did, and Laurel resented the cultural assumption that no family was complete without them.
“I say we pull over and put the address into the GPS,” Laurel had said.
“No, no, we’re good,” Scott insisted. “I know it’s coming up.”
She’d sighed. Why did men refuse to ask for directions? Why did they insist they knew better than a GPS system, if they even consented to using it? She couldn’t count the times Jeremy had overruled the “GPS lady,” as they called the benign, robotic female voice, and instead had gotten them lost.
She was about to insist they stop and enter the address when they saw the house. Had she not been looking out the side window at that very moment, they would have driven past it and never discovered their little slice of heaven in the woods.
“What’s that?” Laurel had asked.
Jeremy would have missed it if he hadn’t looked over when she spoke. Something unusual happened that day: he listened to his wife. He lowered his head, peered out the window, and stopped the car.
The house was obscured by a row of fir trees along Jupiter Road. Somehow they’d twisted and turned themselves into an area that was more woods than residential homes. In summer the houses would be invisible, concealed from view by the vast greenery of the trees, but it was late April and leaves had just begun to spread.
“We can keep going,” Scott said. “You don’t need to stop here.”
Enchanted by the little house, Laurel hadn’t noticed the unease in his tone.
“Let’s keep moving, please,” said Scott. “I know we’re near the place on Lancaster. It’s perfect for you.”
“I think this one might be,” Laurel said. “And it’s for sale.”
She pointed at a handmade “For Sale” sign planted between the fir trees and the road.
“You’re not interested,” Scott said. “Not at all.”
Jeremy put the car in park and turned around in his seat, facing the young realtor in the back.
“Excuse me, Scott, but we can decide what we’re interested in. Is this a competition thing?”
“No. There’s no realtor on this house.”
Jeremy looked at the sign. Sure enough, beneath the words “For Sale,” it said, in big black marker, “By Owner,” with a phone number listed. Jeremy recognized the area code as Philadelphia. He’d been looking for work there; it was only an hour’s drive from where they were and he was hoping for a new professional start in the City of Brotherly Love.
Laurel said over her shoulder, “I thought you didn’t know where we were.”
Barely audible, Scott replied, “I do now.”
Jeremy: “Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Just take my word on this. You don’t want to live here.”
“You’re worried about your commission, that’s what I think,” Laurel said, as she reached over and opened the car door. “Let’s have a look around.”
Smiling at Scott, Jeremy said, “Yes, let’s.”
Scott leaned back in the seat. “I’ll wait here. Nobody’s home anyway.”
Laurel thought it was a strange thing to say but she wasn’t going to be dissuaded by a young realtor whose only concern was making a sale. They weren’t looking for a house for Scott Dunlop to live in. They were looking for a house for themselves. A house they could afford. A house not far from the Delaware River. A house in the woods … just like this one.
“I might have a talk about him with Evelyn,” Laurel said as they walked toward the front door, leaving a sulking Scott slumped in the back seat. Evelyn was the senior real estate agent at the firm they’d used, Powers and Gatlin, headquartered across the river in New Hope, Pennsylvania. They had several satellite offices dotted around the Delaware River Valley, including one in tiny Strickland, New Jersey, where Scott worked with two other people. The agency had been a referral from Laurel’s uncle, Martin Reerdon, who lived in Lambertville, a half hour or so from where they were—or where they thought they were. They both felt disoriented this deep into unfamiliar countryside.
“Do you really want to get him in trouble?” asked Jeremy. “I think he just got his license.”
“He acts like it,” she replied. “Maybe I won’t say anything. But if he’s trying to please a customer, he’s going about it in a strange way.”
“It won’t be a sale for him.”
“Yeah, well, if he keeps pouting there definitely won’t be one, at least not from us.”
They’d approached the front of the house, its door protected beneath a wooden carport that looked like it might fall down in a strong gust of wind. The entire house, as viewed from the front, appeared to have been built many years ago and slapped together in pieces: the main portion wasn’t much bigger than a cottage, but a side addition had been added, along with a garage. It all matched well enough, but it felt cobbled together as time and money allowed—a mishmash feel Laurel liked very much.
“It’s not a tract house, that’s for sure,” Laurel said.
“It’s either bigger than it looks,” said Jeremy, “or smaller than it looks. Weird.”
“Weird and adorable.”
They were standing at the front door. A window was to its left, looking into a small, tidy, kitchen. Jeremy leaned up to the glass, cupped a hand over his eyes and peered in.
“Stop it,” Laurel said. “What if somebody sees you?”
“There’s nobody home.” It was Scott’s voice.
The realtor had come up behind them, making so little sound he could have walked to them on air. Laurel swiveled around to him and glanced at his shoes. Too soft-soled for her taste. She didn’t like creepy people sneaking up on her, and the young agent was getting creepier by the minute.
“You seem familiar with this house,” Jeremy said.
“It’s been empty for a long time,” Scott replied.
“And how do you know this?” asked Laurel.
Laurel had opened the screen door and was about to knock when Scott surprised them.
“Because I’ve tried contacting the owner myself. I’m not the only one in the office who’s made the attempt, either. We’d all like to sell this place.”
Laurel detected a certain distaste in the way he’d said it, as if they wanted to be rid of the house as much as they wanted to sell it.
“So you know the owners?” she asked.
“I know of them. But I’ve only met them in passing and I’ve never spoken to them. An elderly couple who’d lived here forever.”
Laurel noticed his use of the past tense.
Jeremy asked, “And you never talked to them?”
“They stopped coming into town years ago, who knows why? Too old to drive, maybe. They’re not friendly people, from what I’m told.”
The more Scott talked, the more he revealed what he’d known before they found themselves lost on Jupiter Road.
She turned back to the door and knocked several times.
“I told you, no one’s home.”
Jeremy said, “How can you be so sure, when you didn’t know where we were ten minutes ago?”
Scott blushed. “I was lost … until we saw the house. I told you, the owners are reclusive and moved away from the area. The agency has had clients before who wanted this house. None of them ever got a reply. And that’s all I know. Can we go now?”
As Scott had predicted, no one came to the door. Laurel leaned to the side and peered through the kitchen window. Strange, she thought. It looks clean. She made a mental note of it. For a house no one lived in, someone took care of it. The lawn was mowed, and the kitchen was well-kept. She decided the owners must want it in good shape, just in case they decided to respond to one of those prospective buyers. Would it be Laurel and Jeremy Calloway? She intended to find out.
“Let’s look around,” Laurel said, stepping back and closing the screen door.
She could hear Scott sigh, as if he’d been through this before and was resigned to it.
“You can wait in the car if you’d like,” Laurel said to him.
“No, that’s okay, I’ll come with you. But I’m telling you, this house isn’t for you.”
“How can you be so sure of that, Scott?” asked Jeremy.
“Because it’s not for anyone.”
Laurel chalked up his tone to sour grapes. It’s okay, she told herself. He’d get used to lost sales and people who knew what they wanted. Or he’d give up and find something else to do for a living.
“Let’s have a look in back,” Laurel said. She walked toward the right side of the house, with Jeremy following close behind. She’d expected another protest from Scott, but instead he said, “Suit yourself,” and tagged along.
TWO
IT WAS A SMALL HOUSE on a piece of land much larger than they’d guessed. Laurel led them around the corner of the house and was surprised by what appeared to be a half-acre of mowed lawn, beyond which lay dense woods. A single, large, tree towered over the center of the back yard, and an old well pump sprouted from the ground several yards from it.
“Who takes care of this place?” Jeremy asked. He was suddenly as intrigued as his wife.
“I have no idea,” Scott said. He remained behind the Calloways, as if shielding himself with them.
“Any idea how much land there is?” asked Laurel. “You said your agency tried to get the listing.”
“I don’t know exactly. Ten, maybe fifteen acres.”
“It must be expensive,” said Jeremy.
“You’d be surprised. The land in this area isn’t worth much—it’s too rocky.”
Jeremy asked, “Do people hunt here? I keep hearing gunshots. I think they’re gunshots.”
“Oh, they’re gunshots,” Scott said. “There’s a gun club up the road.”
“Not so lost now?” Laurel asked.
“I’m getting my bearings. I told you, I’ve been here before, once or twice. We have other properties around here … speaking of which, we’ll be late for the house I’m showing you.”
“They can wait,” said Laurel. She was not about to have her interest, or her curiosity, derailed by an impatient real estate agent still wet behind the ears.
