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There’s a line I like to say to potential buyers before they tour a renovated property.Every house has a story to tell.Baneberry Hall is no different. Its story—the real one—might still be there. Why we left. Why my father felt compelled to lie about it. What I actually experienced there. All of it might be hiding within its walls, waiting for me to find it.
“I’m glad,” my mother says. “You’re so busy. The last thing I want is for you to be burdened with some old house you don’t want.”
“I won’t even think about that place until you and Carl get back,” I tell her. “I promise.”
I sip my gin and tonic and flash my mother a fake smile, realizing she gave me at least one snippet of truth during lunch.
Some promises do indeed need to be broken.
JUNE 25
The Closing
“I need you to make a promise,” Jess said as we drove to Baneberry Hall immediately after closing on the place.
“I promise you the moon,” I replied.
“I need more than that. This promise has to do with the house.”
Of course it did. We had ended up using the bulk of Jess’s inheritance to buy Baneberry Hall outright. That seemed more sensible than being saddled with a mortgage that, between Jess’s teaching salary and my meager freelance earnings, we might one day not be able to pay. And even though we got the house for dirt cheap, my hands shook as I wrote out a certified check for the full amount.
They were still shaking as I turned off the main road, on the way to our new home. Although we wouldn’t be moving in until the next day, Jess and I wanted to stop by the place, mostly just to let it sink in that it was now really ours.
“What about it?” I said.
“Now that we’re doing this—actually, truly, no-turning-backdoing this—I need you to promise that you’ll let the past stay in the past.”
Jess paused, waiting for me to acknowledge that I understood what she meant. As a journalist, it was in my nature to poke around, searching for the stories that surrounded us. And it had certainly crossed my mind that moving into a massive estate where a man had murdered his daughter was one hell of a story. But I could tell from the stone-serious look on Jess’s face it was a subject she didn’t want me to touch.
“I promise,” I said.
“I mean it, Ewan. That man—and what he did—is one story you don’t need to investigate. When we move into that house tomorrow, I want us to pretend its past doesn’t exist.”
“Otherwise it will always be hanging over us,” I agreed.
“Exactly,” Jess said with a firm nod. “Plus, there’s Maggie to consider.”
We had already agreed not to tell our daughter about the fates of Baneberry Hall’s previous residents. Although we knew there’d come a day when Maggie would need to know what happened, that could wait a few years. Jess and I avoided talking about the subject until Maggie was either sound asleep or, as was the case that afternoon, staying with Jess’s mother.
“I swear to you I’ll never utter the name Curtis Carver in her presence,” I said. “Just as I swear that I have no intention of trying to figure out what made him snap like that. I agree with you—the past is in the past.”
At that point, we were pulling up to Baneberry Hall’s front gate, which was already wide open. Waiting for us there was the caretaker, a scarecrow of a man wearing the state uniform of Vermont—corduroy pants and a flannel shirt.
“You must be the Holts,” he said as we got out of the car. “Janie June said you’d be stopping by today. The name’s Hibbets. Walt Hibbets. But you can call me Hibbs. Everybody else does.”
He grinned, exposing an honest-to-God gold tooth. Fit and flinty and pushing seventy, he reminded me of a character out of a Stephen King novel. Still, I found myself charmed by his breezy manner and outsize personality.
“I got the grounds all cleaned up for you,” he said. “And Elsa Ditmer gave the house itself a good scrubbing. So you should be all set. We know what we’re doing, Elsa and me. We grew up here, the both of us. Our families have worked Baneberry Hall for decades. I just wanted to make you aware in case you find yourself in need of full-time help.”
Honestly, we were. Baneberry Hall was too big for us to properly take care of on our own. But the purchase of the house meant there wasn’t much money left for anything else. That included hired help.
“About that,” I said. “From time to time, we might need the services of you or Mrs. Ditmer. But for right now—”
“You’re a hearty young man who can do things on your own,” Hibbs said with unexpected graciousness. “I respect and admire that. I envy it, as well. As you can see, I’m no spring chicken.”
“But I’ll be sure to call you if something comes up,” I said.
“Please do.” He jerked his head in the direction of the two cottages we had passed when we turned off the main road. “I live just over yonder. Give me a shout if you need help with anything. Even in the middle of the night.”