Willow House Chapter 4

If you're just getting started click here for chapter one

Kind of Like Cinderella

      The three of us return the way we came, through the shrubs, and around the fountain. 

     “What is a carriage house anyway?” I ask.

     “It’s rather like a garage,” she says. “But fancier. It’s where we park our carriage.”

     “You have a carriage?” The only carriage I know of is the one that took Cinderella to the ball, so this is incredibly interesting.

     “Why, of course I do, Dear. Why else would I have a carriage house?”

      We’re almost where we started at the back steps, when she points slightly to the right. I can barely make out the shape of a door. I didn’t notice it the first time because of all the ivy and shrubbery hiding it. 

     She pushes some of the green stuff aside and gives the door a shove with her shoulder . . . and there it is, folks! Cinderella’s carriage! Only it’s black, and not shaped like a pumpkin. But, it’s the first real carriage I’ve ever seen.

     “Can we ride in it?! Can we?!”

     Tommy tries to climb up its step to peek in the windows, but the step is too tall, and he’s too short. 

     “We can sit in it,” she says. “To ride, there must be horses, and the horses have other things to do today.” 

     Mrs. Hallovich picks Tommy up, opens the carriage door, and deposits him inside. “Up you go,” she says, gesturing for me to follow him. 

     Even though I’m in shorts and a t-shirt, and my baby brother sits beside me with slobber shining all over his belly, I have to say, I’m feeing pretty Cinderella-ish.

     “This is awesome!”

     She smiles at me. “Maybe sometime, when the horses are here, they can take the three of us for a ride.”

     I nod to be polite but I’m pretty sure she’s joking. She talks like the horses are people who might stop by someday for a visit. Not likely.

     Tommy is trying to crawl out the open, front window and into the driver’s seat. He makes car noises, “vroom, vroom!”

     Mrs. Hallovich hops up to the front seat, pulls him on through the window, plunks him in her lap, and begins explaining about horses. 

     I step back down to check out the rest of the place.

     With the exception of all the torture devices, it looks a lot like our garage at home. There are some tools here that I’ve never seen before, with wicked looking blades and heavy chains and pinchers. A thick layer of dust and cobwebs cover garden tools that have fallen over and piled up on top of each other. Some of the tools on the shelves are not as dusty, like maybe they’ve been used in the last 10 years.

    Across the back wall is a large workbench. Here, the tools are no less evil looking, but they’re neatly arranged, and I recognize what most of them are. On a shelf above is an old lantern, and a beautiful, broken clock that is stopped forever at 3:17.

     I continue on around to the other side of the carriage. Tommy is now making the appropriate giddy-up, and clippety-clop noises that Mrs. Hallovich just taught him. She’s following me with her eyes. 

     This side of the carriage house is way more interesting. There’s an old sewing machine, a butter churn, an old bike, ice skates, a wash board, wooden barrels, and (oh my gosh!) could it be? It’s half covered up with a tarp but the end is sticking out.

     “Go ahead and pull the tarp off,” Mrs. Hallovich says from the carriage seat.

     I do as she says, and once the dust settles, and I stop sneezing, I see before me . . . a sleigh! Not exactly one like I imagine Santa has, but a real sleigh. 

     “When I was a very young girl, my mother and I would warm bricks to place at our feet, then snuggle under layer after layer of blankets while Daddy drove us through the snow. That was before anyone had cars.”

     “Before cars?” I ask. I don’t think I know anyone else who lived before cars.

     “Cars were just beginning to come into the world, but not many people had them yet.”

     I’m taking this in stride when I think . . . wait a minute. My dad’s mom looks older than Mrs. Hallovich and I’m pretty sure she grew up with cars. Then, I remember what Mrs. Hallovich said about her parents not being able to smile in their photos. I’ll have to ask Mom and Dad, but I think Mrs. Hallovich is losing it.

     “That must have been pretty neat,” I tell her.

     “Maybe, if there’s a large snow this winter, we can get it out for a ride.”

     Whether she’s off her rocker or not, that sounds amazing. I nod my head.

     She points to something behind the sleigh: a croquet set covered with dust. “Do you play croquet?” she asks.

     “No, I never have.”

     “I’ll teach you this week, while you’re here.”

     I nod and continue around to the front of the carriage. This wall is taken up almost entirely by a door large enough for the carriage to pass through. In the corner is a set of stairs. 

     “Where do those go?”

     “Up to the guest’s quarters. No one has been up there for years.”

     When she says this, I notice that the stairs have no dust on them. Someone has been using those quarters. I’d make a great detective. Maybe the police could even use me now. I nod politely. I’ll have a look for myself later this week.

     As I complete my circle around the room, I notice something I didn’t see before. On the wall behind all the old, rusty tools is a fireplace. Its heavy mantle has so much junk piled on top, that it was hard to see at first. 

    “Was the fireplace to keep the horses warm?”

     “No, the horses stay in a barn across the pond. This bottom floor was originally someone’s home. The top floor was added in 1893 when my father built the main house.”

     I’m trying not to be annoyed and I’m also starting to feel sorry for Mrs. Hallovich. I’m not a math genius, but there’s no way her father could have built this house. I’m dying to ask if she’s immortal, but that would cross into the territory of not respecting my elders - a sin worse than murder at my house. So again, I smile and nod my head.

     I think I’ll tell my parents tonight how crazy she is. Then, I think, if I tell them that, they won’t want to bring us here tomorrow, and I won’t be able to see what’s up those stairs in the corner, or have a look at the rest of the house. Then, I think, wait . . . do I actually want to come back here tomorrow?  Am I losing my mind?

     “Penny for your thoughts,” Mrs. Hallovich says.

     Why offer to pay for them when she gets them for free?

     “I’m still thinking about that sleigh ride,” I say. 

     “Sure you are,” she says.

     I turn my head sharply toward her, but she is helping Tommy down from the carriage. When she turns back toward me she is wearing a regular expression, not an expression like someone who just made a wisecrack. 

     “Ready to go back inside?” she asks.

     “Sure I am.”

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Here's a couple of my illustrations of Ella and Tommy

And here's Mrs. Hallovich

Willow House Chapter 3

For chapter one click here

For previous chapter click here

     The Most Beautiful Place on the Planet

     My first thought, as we step down from the back door, is that this is exactly what I had expected. Bushes are crowding in from the sides, and tree branches are blocking the daylight overhead. I keep my eyes on my feet, moving carefully and following Mrs. Hallovich’s footsteps along a narrow path of flat stones. I’m hoping I don’t see a snake slither across the top of my sandal, when all of a sudden, everything brightens. Ahead is a big yard that looks and smells like it has just been mowed. There are still a lot of overgrown bushes, but only around the outside of the yard. They make a kind of privacy fence.

     Tommy lets go of my hand and takes off toward the center, to a crumbling, water fountain. It is three tiers tall, taller than my dad. On top is a swan made of stone. The swan is trumpeting to the sky, its wings stretched out like it’s about to fly away. I wouldn’t blame him if he did. The fountain is dry except for a dirty brown puddle in the bottom pool. The sides are cracked and weeds are taking over.

     Mrs. Hallovich hands me a penny.  “Throw it up to the swan,” she says. “Then make a wish.”

     “There’s no water,” I state the obvious.

     “Then wish for water,” she says.

     Everyone’s a comedian today. 

     I throw the penny to the top layer, and it lands with a small clink at the swan’s feet. I close my eyes to make a wish, but my thoughts are too jumbled right now, so I wish for water. 

     “My mother loved to garden, and she spent as much of her time as she could outside when I was a child. This fountain was a gift from my father.”

     First of all, the fountain looks about 500 years old. Second of all, it’s hard to imagine Mrs. Hallovich as a child, and third of all . . . that’s a pretty cool gift.

     “Neat,” I say.

     Tommy has climbed into the bottom pool, and has managed to splash the dirty, brown puddle-water all over his front.

     “Come here, young man,” Mrs. Hallovich says. She gathers Tommy up into a hug, then unties his bib, and lifts the wet shirt over his head. “Better?”

     Tommy squeals and takes off running, like he’s been released from the Prison of Clothes. His arms flap up and down when he runs. We laugh.

     A weeping willow takes up a corner of the back yard. It’s the tallest weeping willow I’ve ever seen. A giant! I love weeping willows. They are my most-absolute-favorite tree. A rusty table and chairs are set up underneath. Just like the fountain, these are also being taken over by weeds.

     Mrs. Hallovich sees where I’m looking. “That tree is over 130 years old. I used to like having my afternoon tea beneath it, at that table,” she says. “Weeping willows are my favorite tree.”

      I’m growing more sure she’s a mind reader. I’ll have to be careful. My mind never shuts up. I nod and try to think of nothing, but that’s impossible. 

      A stone path circles the fountain and disappears again into the wall of bushes on the other side.

     “Where does that go?” I ask, pointing to it.

     “Let’s go find out,” she says, as if she doesn’t already know. “Come with us, Tommy! There’s more to see!”

     Tommy runs over in his half-nakedness, and I grab his hand. We cross to the other side of the fountain and duck through a small break in the bushes. Mrs. Hallovich and I push the branches carefully aside to keep Tommy from being scratched.

     We pass into a clearing full of tall grass that looks like it hasn’t seen a lawnmower in years. Rising up through it is the most beautiful building on the planet.

     “Is that the carriage house?”

     “No, Ella. That’s my mother’s greenhouse.”

     It’s made of glass. It’s full of green. It looks like something from our Greek mythology book in Mrs. Post’s fourth grade classroom. It sparkles. It shines. It’s . . . magical. 

     “Can we see inside?” I ask.

     “Of course we can.” Mrs. Hallovich leads Tommy and me up to the entrance and steps aside, so I can open the door. 

     I grab the iron, curlicue handle, and twist.

     A black chandelier hangs down from the middle of the two-story ceiling. This is what the one in the house would look like if it were sandblasted. It hangs like the boughs of a weeping willow tree, with electric candles placed throughout the dripping leaves.

      The greenhouse bursts with plants, but it’s not overgrown. Someone is obviously taking care of it. Some plants have leaves in colors as pretty as flowers. Some hang in baskets from poles, some sit on pedestals that look like Greek columns, some cover the floor, some climb the glass walls. It all smells like when I stick my nose in a carnation. 

    “Are those real?” I ask, pointing to a cluster of small trees in the corner.

     Mrs. Hallovich walks over and plucks a lemon off of one of them. “These make the best lemonade in the world.”

     My dad would go crazy in this place. He’s a landscape designer. We moved here to Saint Clair last summer. People in town say he has the greenest thumb they’ve seen in a hundred years. That makes me kind of proud. 

    Mrs. Hallovich is real nice about letting Tommy explore. He pulls a leaf off of one of the plants to examine it more closely. I expect her to be angry, but she shrugs her shoulders at me, and says, “it’ll grow back.”

     There’s an empty birdcage hanging in the corner. It’s black and fancy and kind of matches the chandelier. It’s filled with yellow roses.

     “Is that a real birdcage?” I ask.

     “A bird used to live in it, yes. But when my mother passed, I set it free. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have the good fortune of being born with wings, and then never be able to use them.”

     “Did it fly away?”

     Mrs. Hallovich smiles. “No. Hubert’s around here somewhere. He’s a bit shy of strangers.”

     “How old is he?” I don’t know how long birds live, but I figure that Mrs. Hallovich’s mother has probably been gone for a long time.

     “He’s old.” She nods her head but doesn’t say anything else.

     For a second, I think we’ve lost Tommy, but Mrs. Hallovich lays her hand on my shoulder. “He’s around here,” she says, and guides me past a statue of a boy carrying a basket of grapes on his head. I notice a trickling sound as we walk down a flight of five marble steps. It’s even more beautiful back here. A stream of water runs from the outside, passes under one of the glass, exterior walls, runs through the center of the greenhouse, then winds around until it passes back outside, somewhere under the thick leaves. Colorful fish flit through it. We cross over a small bridge toward Tommy, who’s hunkered down on the opposite bank talking up a storm. It’s still hard to understand anything he says, but it looks like he’s communicating well enough with the fish. 

     “Who are you talking to?” I call to him.

     “Today.” he says.

     “Yes. Who are you talking to today?”

     Tommy giggles.

     “Come on, Bubby.” I hold out my hand to him and he climbs back up from the water’s edge.

     Mrs. Hallovich leads us down another stone path, and around a curve, to the very back of the greenhouse. A small area has been arranged with a sofa and two chairs that make you want to curl up and take a nap. I can’t believe I just thought that. I haven’t

taken a nap in forever. 

     “I come out here often to read or sew,” she says. Then she looks directly at me and says, “or take a nap.”

     There she goes again. 

     “Maybe we can spend time out here later this week, but for now, there’s still more to see!” She ushers us back the way we came and as we’re leaving, we pass below the chandelier in the entry. I look up and catch a glimpse of color shooting across the glass roof.

     “See you later, Hubert!” Mrs. Hallovich calls.

     Hubert tweets back.

     Before we return to the yard with the fountain, I have a last look over my shoulder to the spectacular greenhouse. Behind the clearing the ground dips down a hill to a row of weeping willows.

     “Wow!” I say. “What’s over there?”

     Mrs. Hallovich sighs. “That’s Willow Pond,” she says. 

     “Can we see?” I ask.

     Mrs. Hallovich gives a tiny smile that looks like it hurts, and shakes her head. “Not today, Dear.”

Here are 2 photos of an absolutely, breathtaking greenhouse 

that my step-daughter had sent me from her travels. 

These were the inspiration for the Hallovich greenhouse.

To read chapter 4 click here

Willow House Chapter 2

If you haven't yet read the first chapter, click here

A Real Life Haunted Kitchen

     This, Ladies and Gentlemen, is what a haunted kitchen looks like. It’s huge, but somehow cozy, with low ceilings that have dried plants hanging from dark beams. The biggest fireplace I’ve ever seen takes up about half of a wall! You can actually walk into it. Not just if you’re a kid. Even if you’re a grown up, you can walk into it. All the walls are brick, and the ones over the fireplace are black from smoke or demons or something. There’s a gigantic picnic table over in the corner, and a large cupboard made of thick wood, with shelves full of books, and jars full of witch ingredients.

     “You can sit right over there.” Mrs. Hallovich points to the picnic table. 

     I slide onto the bench, and my eyes are immediately drawn back to the cupboard. At the very top, pushed back against the wall, and almost out of sight, is a cauldron!  Ah- hah! 

     Mrs. Hallovich is disappearing into a closet with Tommy. 

     “Hey! Where are you going?” I shout.

     “Nowhere, Dear. I’m just grabbing a seat for your brother.”

     With Tommy on her left hip, she maneuvers a highchair from around the door. I would help her, but if she really needed help she could probably use a magic wand. She drags it across the floor and places it next to me, at the end of the table. She settles him into the fancy, wooden chair and slides a tray into place. I point to the suspicious cauldron, and in my most so-how-do-you-explain-this voice I say, “What’s that?”

     Her eyes follow my pointing finger then dart quickly back to my face. I can tell she’s trying to figure out if I’ve figured her out. “Well, I would call that a large black pot.” She pauses. “Would you call it something else?”

     “No. It looks like a large black pot.”

     She’s still looking closely at me.

     “What do you use it for?” I ask.

     Her eyes narrow. She’s studying me. I’m smarter than she gave me credit for. She eventually plays it cool. “Well, I haven’t used it in years,” she says. “When I was a child, my mother prepared stew in it.

     Good answer, I think to myself. I’m wondering, though, what kind of stew it was exactly. “You could practically cook a whole kid in that pot.”

     Mrs. Hallovich gives me a strange look. We just stare at each other for what seems like at least 10 minutes, and I’m kind of wishing I hadn’t said that. Then she laughs. 

     “I suppose you could,” she says.

     The next thing I know she’s putting two plates on the table in front of me. One is small, with pats of butter, and a dainty, silver, butter knife. The other is large and covered with a clean, white dish towel. She sweeps the towel away, and the sight and smell that hits my face is . . . oh my! Incredible.

    “Blueberry scones!” she announces. “Would you like some milk?”

     My friends, we have a situation. These scones could be poisoned. The milk could be poisoned. But, 4:30 is a million miles from now, and those scones are less than two feet away. I don’t want to starve. I don’t want Tommy to starve. (We had cold cereal this morning, but that was practically yesterday).

     “Yes, please.” I say. I’m kind of mad at myself for giving in so quickly, but what-do-ya- do?

     The scones are delicious. Like a sweet biscuit or maybe a less than sweet cookie. With butter spread thickly over the top and melting down the sides, and blueberries seeping out a little here and there, they are a warm piece of heaven. Since I don’t taste poison, I go ahead and eat three. 

     Tommy has a few blueberry stains on his face and a hundred on his bib. He grins and holds out his little fist toward Mrs. Hallovich, trying to share a soggy, disgusting piece of scone. I can’t believe it when she takes it and eats it. Yuck!

     “Thank you, Tommy,” she says. “You are very nice to share.”

     She’s obviously willing to do anything to impress me and get past my defenses. 

     While she helps Tommy with the last of his milk, I check her out more closely. Her gray hair is piled up on her head in a messy bun. She’s wearing normal looking clothes: capri pants, like my mom always wears in the summer, a white t-shirt with a pink, short-sleeved sweater, and simple, white tennis shoes that cost $6.00 a pair at the Family Dollar. Her only piece of jewelry is a silver locket around her neck. I love lockets, and imagine all kinds of secrets and special photos that you can put inside and keep close to your heart. I had a locket once, but it was tiny, and I never got around to putting anything inside. 

     “Do you have a photo in your locket?” I ask.

     I’ve caught her off guard because she stutters a little. “Uh. . . yes. Yes, I do. Would you like to see?”

     I nod. Would I ever! I lean over the table, as she leans over toward me. She opens the tiny silver catch and there, on each side, is an old-fashioned, brown photo. The one on the right is of two children with dark hair, a boy and a girl. On the left is an older couple that look like they’ve never smiled a day in their life. 

    “Those are my children, Gertrude and Henry.” She points. “And the one on the left is my parents.”

    “They look unhappy,” I say. I tend to say whatever pops into my head. I really need to work on that.

    Mrs. Hallovich doesn’t seem offended though. “Back then, people didn’t smile much for photos. We had to hold perfectly still for so long that smiles became awkward.”

     I know a thing or two about freeze-face. My mom complains about it all the time when I try to take her picture. “Just shoot, Ella, for crying out loud,” she always says. Can I help that I try to get the perfect shot?

    It’s hard to imagine Mrs. Hallovich with kids and parents of her own. It makes her seem more real somehow.

     “Where are your kids now?” I ask.

     “Oh, they’ve been gone for many years now,” she says, and then sighs.

     She makes it sound like they died. 

     “Sorry,” I say.

     She changes the subject. “What would you like to do today?” She snaps her locket closed. “We can go out to the backyard and play.”

     I think of the overgrown bushes around the front porch, and I imagine a jungle in the backyard, where we could be lost or eaten by tigers. I must look like I need convincing because she goes on. 

     “There’s a carriage house that has all kinds of interesting things. We can go exploring.”

     Funny how she used the word ‘exploring’ like there really is a jungle back there. Like she’s reading my mind.

     “Okay,” I say.

     As Mrs. Hallovich cleans off the table, I lift Tommy from the high chair, and pull him onto my lap. I’m continuing my visual investigation when I hear the ceiling above my head creaking.

     “Is someone else here?” I ask.

     “No. It’s just us three. Why do you ask?”

     “I thought I heard someone walking upstairs.”

     She looks to the ceiling. “It’s just the house settling,” she replies.

     “Does the house settle one footstep at a time across the ceiling?” Once again, I wish words didn’t just tumble out of my mouth of their own free will.

     “I think your imagination is getting the best of you, Dear. Come along now. Time for some fresh air.”

     I set Tommy down and we follow Mrs. Hallovich out of the kitchen, and into a little back room, where sweaters, rain jackets, and umbrellas hang on hooks. Muddy footprints cross from the back door, over to a pile of boots and old shoes. I see a strange look on her face, like she’s confused. Then, she gives the same impatient huff of breath that my mom gives every time she walks into my room. Is she annoyed at herself for leaving muddy prints? I open my mouth to ask her that very thing, but she is ready for me.

     “I was going to clean up this mess . . . that I made . . . before you two got here this morning. I forgot.” 

     Fair enough. I take Tommy’s hand because he’s probably getting nervous about the backyard. On to our next adventure.  

  

To read chapter 3 click here

28 Chapters 28 Days

     I've decided to share Willow House here on my blog! February is my birth month and it conveniently has 28 days. Willow House has 28 chapters.

     I didn't do many illustrations, but you'll find a few pop up here and there.

Front Cover

Back Cover

Description on Back Cover:

  It’s the first Monday of summer vacation. Ella’s mom loads her and her baby brother into the car to take them to a new babysitter. She pulls up in front of the town’s most haunted house, turns, and says, “we’re here!” 

     WHAT?!

     Not only does 10-year-old Ella think she’s way too old for a babysitter, but this one could potentially eat them for lunch! Ella has to survive! She has to protect her brother! But mostly, she has to tell her friends about this!

     In the words of Mrs. Hallovich, the new babysitter, “Welcome to Willow House!” A place where things are not always what they seem; a place where, if you open your heart, magic truly does exist.

     I posted Chapter One in May of 2022. Click below to link to it. Thanks for stopping by. I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter One

The Candy Dish

We're not sure how old this beautiful, glass dish is, but it's been in the family for over a hundred years.

My grandfather and his siblings filled it with candy on Christmas Eve. He inherited, and passed the tradition on to his children, and then grandchildren, and my mother passed it on to her grandchildren.

That's me, waving in the background with my mouth full of chocolate, many years ago,

and the guy in the red Christmas shirt is my dad.

Now, her grandchildren are grown, some having kids of their own, and this will be the first year that my sister and I are starting our own traditions. It's a bittersweet time. I did the painting and had Christmas ornaments of it made for all of the kids (and my mom of course).  

Families grow and change, but my goodness! The memories! I am very blessed.

My favorite photos are the goofy ones!

Christmas pajama party! 2013

I love these people!

Wishing everyone a Very Merry Christmas!