The dining room was at the back of the house. A long oak table surrounded by chairs sat in the centre, playing piggy-in-the-middle with a long serving hatch beside a swinging door into the kitchen, and a large dresser. The dresser stood alone, intricately carved and decorated with a series of collectors plates. “So … can you talk us through what’s been going on?” asked Scott as he sat down. Preston followed suit, pulling a notebook from his satchel and producing a fountain pen from his protected shirt pocket.

“Besides the wind and the pranks, I’ve forgotten,” said Kevin. He stood by the sliding glass doors that led out onto the spacious backyard. He peered out at his award-winning garden, concealed by the darkness.

“Kevin, please.” Mirah pulled a chair from under the table. “They’re here to help.” Kevin rolled his eyes. He pulled himself from the window reluctantly and sat down at the table. Mirah rested a hand on his shoulder as she explained. “It started with the occasional noise not long after we moved in. Creaks and bangs. We thought it was just normal … until it started getting worse.”

Scott itched his beard: time for a trim. “How?”

Mirah lowered into the chair beside her husband. “At first we’d see movement. We discovered that the creaking was the doors moving. Just a little at first, but gradually over about six months, they moved more and more. Then they started to slam. Then the furniture started moving.”

“Move? Like a few inches?”

“Move, like a few yards,” corrected Kevin, leaning forward over the table. “Damn near across the room.”

Preston raised an eyebrow, pausing from his note-taking to glance at Scott, who returned the look. “Mr Sandford, is there any way at all that someone could have moved your furniture without your knowledge?”

Kevin sat back, a bemused smile creeping across his face. “I knew it. All that crap about drafts and whatever. You think we’re lying.”

“I don’t think you’re lying, Mr Sandford. I think something is obviously going on here, which you’ve interpreted as paranormal. I’ve got a lot of experience investigating cases like this, and each and every time, we’ve always found a reasonable explanation. Not ghosts …”

“Not witches,” chimed in Preston. Scott closed his eyes.

“Nothing that can’t be explained. I can sympathize with your situation—”

“No, I don’t think you can, son. We’ve put up with this too long for some punk like you to tell us we’re making it up.” Kevin glared at Scott, his face trembling. “No one comes into our house and moves our goddamned furniture.”

Scott observed Kevin, contemplating. He looked at Mirah, who appeared worried by the exchange. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Have a pleasant evening.” He smiled at the couple and rose from his chair.

“What? Where—?” Mirah squirmed, panicking. She rose helplessly in unison, absently following Scott as he stepped away from the table. Preston hurriedly scooped up his satchel, stuffed the notebook inside and fell in line behind Scott with a practised precision.

Scott passed into the living room. “I’m sorry, but we’re not here to play games. We’re here to do a job. Obviously we’re not welcome, so we’ll leave you to it.”

The two small boys pulled their eyes from the television screen. Mirah—who stopped momentarily to stare a hole in Kevin, insisting telepathically that he do something—followed the investigators towards the front door. “But you can’t leave, you haven’t even looked around yet.” She pointed a finger at the television, her eyes darting to Billy. The boy’s head dropped.

Scott unhooked his coat from the rack beside the front door. “Your husband appears to already know what’s going on here, so there’s nothing for us to look into. Have a good night.”

Preston grabbed his coat and the umbrella and pulled open the front door, the warmth of the hallway rushing out into the night. He unfolded the umbrella, shielding himself against the heavy rain as the wind blew it onto the veranda.

Kevin ambled through from the living room. “You’re damn right I know whats going on. You’ve not had to live with it. You’ve not woken up to a house of screaming grandkids, or spent your weekend picking glass out of your rose bushes.”

“That’s not helpful,” scorned Mirah, “Talk to them, you know it’s not safe for the kids.”

“No, the guy thinks we’re liars, Mirah. Good riddance.” Kevin dismissed the investigators with a wave of his hand and turned to head back to the living room.

Mirah wouldn’t let him, positioning herself in the archway and jabbing a finger at her husband. “I don’t care what he thinks of us! No one else has helped and we’ve run out of options!”

“Well I’m not having some limey with a chip on his shoulder come into my home and call me a liar!” snarled Kevin, glaring down at his wife. She glared back, unwavering. Mirah was used to his temper and his stubbornness, but when it came down to the safety of her grandkids, he wouldn’t win.

Scott stood in the open doorway. “Mr Sandford, we’re not here to tell you you’re right. We’re not here to prove that what’s happening is paranormal or otherwise. We’re here to investigate, and to gather the facts.”

Kevin turned back to face Scott. “Yeah? Well I think—”

Scott raised a hand. “Quite frankly, I couldn’t care less what you think. I base my opinions on the evidence and nothing else. So far, everything I’ve heard points to hoax. If you can’t handle that, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Listen here, you little shit—”

“No, you listen!” insisted Scott, his eyes burning intensely. “I’m not here to believe whatever you say and run around with a torch oohing and aahing at all the creaks and shadows. We were invited here to investigate, not hold your hand and mollycoddle you.” He spun away from Kevin, stepping out on the veranda and took the umbrella from Preston. “I’ll send you a bill for the travel expenses.”
Kevin moved up into the doorway as the investigators stepped off the veranda. Mirah stood beside him, worried. “Kevin …”

“Alright, alright,” Kevin pleaded for his wife to drop it. To Scott: “Listen. I know you don’t believe us, but this thing, whatever it is … it needs to be sorted. Do your tests, whatever you have to do …” He rubbed the back of his neck, his pride a bitter pill to swallow. “Please.”

Scott turned back to the couple and watched Kevin. Mirah clutched onto his arm, on the verge of breaking into tears. Something was going on here that neither one of them knew anything about. “Okay. But I do this how I’ve always done it: my way. If you don’t like the questions, find someone who’ll ask nicer ones.” Scott handed the umbrella to Preston and moved back towards the front door, removing his coat. “Shall we go back through?”

---

Back in the dining room, Mirah had mentioned photographs that had been taken of the recurring damage throughout the house, and at Scott’s request had pulled them from a dresser drawer. The investigators spread the photographs across the oak table and studied them closely. 

“The problem with photographs of this nature, is how easy it is to say it’s been faked,” explained Scott, as he held up a photograph of the kitchen. All of the drawers and cupboards were open, boxes and tins strewn across the countertops and floor. A collection of knives were embedded—one above the other—beside the doorway. The long service hatch was half open, one of the panels appeared to have been punched through. “This wasn’t one action, but several. An earthquake could explain the drawers and cupboards. If there had been one. But that wouldn’t explain the knives in the wall, the damaged shutter … the chances of several events occurring in a short time frame, that would collectively produce this level of damage … it just wouldn’t happen.” He made eye contact with Kevin, lingering as he finished: “Which suggests it was staged.”

Kevin glared at Scott, a fraction away from baring his teeth like a rabid dog. He held his tongue as the investigator dropped the kitchen photo and raised another. The front door to the house was hanging from it’s last remaining intact hinge. The glass that encased the door in the arch was obliterated, shards strewn in all directions. “This to me shows a potential break-in or domestic dispute. You’ll see images similar to this in countless police reports.”

He moved on again, the next one also taken from the entryway. The couch appeared to have been thrown through the arch from the living room, and was leaning against the bannister. The matching sofa chair filled the remaining space in the opening to the living room. “Same here. And here …” He showed the couple a fourth photograph, this time of the master bedroom. The 4-poster bed had been forcefully jammed through the bay window. The curtain rail had been ripped from the wall on one end where the curtain had caught on the bed as it passed through the window. Chunks of plaster and dust were sprinkled over the scene. “None of these show me anything even remotely unexplainable. To say this is paranormal is to jump wildly to conclusions.” He flicked the photo, spinning it onto the small mound on the table. “With that being said, the only way to 100% confirm, would be to have actually been present when the damage was caused.”

“What does all of that mean?” asked Mirah, confused. 

Kevin had been quiet long enough. “It means he thinks we faked the photos.” 

“Not exactly. These are almost certainly faked, but not by you,” reassured Scott. He neatly collected the photographs into a pile. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but who else could have done it? Are you going to pick on the kids now? Little Jimmy doesn’t have an alibi, maybe it was him!”

“Your grandchildren are probably innocent too, Mr Sandford. As for who did it: I don’t know. That’s what I’d like to uncover with our investigation.”

Kevin sat back, folding his arms across his chest. “And what, exactly, will that involve?” He stared out at Scott from under his heavy eyebrows.

“Well, first of all I’d like to confirm that whatever’s happening isn’t a result of outside interference.” Scott mimicked Kevin, folding his arms. “I’d like to set up some cameras in and around the property, and keep an eye on things for a few days. If anything happens during that time, and we have no evidence of tampering, we’ll move onto a physical sweep of the house.”

Kevin leaned forward, resting on one elbow. He planted a hand on the table, as if he was about to climb on top and dive at Scott. He pushed his head towards the investigator, his eyes narrowing: “I told you already. No one comes into the house and trashes it.”

Scott craned forward slowly, his arms still folded. His elbows met the table as he tilted his head and spoke slowly and clearly: “And I’ve told you. I listen to the evidence, and nothing else.”

Kevin’s grip of the table loosened, his shoulders lowered, relaxing. “At what point are you going to start believing that this is exactly what we’ve told you it is?”

“When I see it with my own eyes,” returned Scott, straightening back up into his chair.

“You know, we’ve had a few teams of investigators come through here and try to uncover what’s happening. You’re the first to ignore where we are.”

“Like I said, we deal with fact. We form our opinions based off the evidence we find. We don’t dwell on history.” 

“Even the history of Youngstown, Maine?” queried Kevin, his head cocking to one side.

“What did I say?” muttered Preston.

Scott ignored him, remaining focused on Kevin. “I know where we are, sir.”

“When Dutch settlers founded the town in 1626 they simply called it … Vervloekt. Which translated, means—”

“Cursed. Yeah. I know,” said Scott. “I’ve done my research. Epidemics, murders, witch trials, a tonne of evil stuff. I’m fully aware of the town’s history. In the event that we find anything: we’ll look into it. In the meantime, our focus will be to eliminate the possibility of any external involvement.”

Kevin and Scott bickered back and forth for a few more minutes, then the conversation ended. Scott and Preston were politely shown to the door, and they returned to the Range Rover amidst the pouring rain.

Thanks for reading,

Chris