Free Dark Corners READY FOR PRC by Liz Schulte

everything, Detective Troy.”
    “Call me Gabriel—and I'll be by later to do another walk through.”
    “Okay, see you. . . .”After Detective Troy left I felt much better. I actually felt like writing. I sat down at my desk and turned on the computer for the first time in almost a year. Staring at the screen I had no idea where to start my story. When in doubt, I thought, research! I didn't need to wait for Detective Troy to look into the house. I could go to the library and do it myself. I called a cab and got ready to go. I was motivated, which was more than I’d been in ages.
    The building looked like a large old house. Inside it had a musty book smell and a crowded feel. I half expected the librarian to be a tiny, bespectacled old woman with her hair in a bun, shushing people, but instead a twenty-something man in khakis stood behind the counter. He stared at me as I walked through the door, his mouth slightly agape. I stopped by the desk and asked, “Where are your records and archives?”
    “I know who you are,” he said with wonder in his voice.
    “Yes, well, it is nice to meet you. Records and archives?”
    “Did you really kill your husband?”
    “What?”
    “Did you . . .”
    “No, no, that was rhetorical, as in I can’t believe you would ask me that, you asshole.” I turned and headed back towards the door.
    “Upstairs and to the left,” he called behind me.
    “Too late.”
    I left the library, all my fragile good intentions crushed like a bug on a window. I decided to pick up groceries, then head home. My self-inflicted seclusion was much better than being judged by everyone around me. Walking through the grocery store was terrible. People watched every step I took, noted every item I put in my cart. I knew what a caged animal must feel like. I went through the store as quickly as possible, avoiding eye contact and unwanted conversation with anyone there.
    After I made it home, I put my groceries away and lounged on my couch. I was sad that my good mood and attempt at being productive failed miserably. I was about to take a nap when it occurred to me that I was living in the past. I had a computer.  I had the Internet.  What the hell did I need a library with snotty employees for? I had Google! I searched the official name of the house, Magnolia Hill, with the name of the state and town and was surprised to find several hits. The house had a much more sordid past than Danny had led me to believe.
    During the Civil War, it had been used as a hospital. Danny’s great, great, great, great grandfather, Jonah Reynolds, had built the house about twenty years before the war for his young bride. After the war started, both of their sons went into the military. It was the same old story; one fought for the North and the other for the South.  It tore the family apart. Mr. Reynolds died a few years after the war of unknown causes. One of the sons died during the war, but the other one came back to Magnolia Hill. It was said that he was a bit strange and addled always talking to his dead brother, though he did go on to marry the daughter of a neighboring farmer. Tragically, she died after giving birth to a son.
    This third Mr. Reynolds also grew up to be reclusive and only came out of the house on rare occasions. However, he managed to marry and father his own son, Justin Reynolds—a child who, by all accounts, was personable and friendly. The members of the town adopted him as their golden child. He was bright and charismatic with a wonderful future ahead of him. He studied at Harvard, but he still came back to Montgomery. He became the longest running mayor in the history of the city. He had six children and raised them in a house closer to town, visiting Magnolia Hill only periodically.
    However, after his wife passed and he retired, he moved back to Magnolia Hill and followed in his ancestors’ footsteps, becoming reclusive.  He left the house to his oldest son, Danny’s grandfather, Arthur