No one knows what happened to Imogene Caldwell

No one knows what happened to Imogene Caldwell. She had been the family’s matriarch. She bought the hut and land that would become Caldwell Place. She was born in low poverty but raised five sons (to as many different fathers) to become millionaires in their own right.

Imogene Caldwell had been old at the time of her disappearance. And there was never a body found out at the Caldwell Place.

Everyone is familiar with the farmhouse because everyone knows the legends. It was a right of passage for generations of kids. They camp overnight on the dirt floor, light a fire in the cracked stone hearth, and tell ghost stories.

It was scary for kids to try sleeping without a warm nightlight. With a damned owl flying in and out all night through an empty window. All they had was a dying fire, making shadows flicker against the dilapidated walls. In a building that would not protect them if a wraith came out of the pitch-black forest. And decided to murder them all in their sleep.

Roy was the youngest Caldwell descendant when he found out he was heir to the farmhouse and the surrounding lands. He never knew his unforgiving father had owned it. Roy’s uncle claimed that the Caldwell Place could not sell to any superstitious local. And the family had refused to sell it to any foreigner. So, it is bequeathed to Roy.

He tore the old house down, except for the hearth. Roy cleared the forest, and established his own hobby homestead with chooks, goats, and a few cows. He built a new Caldwell Place around the fireplace that was his fondest childhood memory.

That is when I met Roy. I was serving at Queen’s Head on Main Road when Roy came in for a meal. The electricity had not yet been installed at the new property. The first meeting felt like I had met someone famous. He stood tall and lean in flannel and blue jeans. My smiles came effortless when he returned every week. It was six long months before I worked up the courage to invite myself over to his place for drinks.

“Sure,” he had said, like it was no big deal, “if you’re not scared?”

I asked, “why would I be scared? Are you dangerous?”

He asks, “you’re not from around here? I’ve got witches. Demons. Ghosts.”

“All in one place, huh?” I laughed, but I felt deflated because I thought he was saying these things to get rid of me. Especially when he said, “well, I also got to warn you I don’t live close.” When I said I did not mind a drive he took me home that night.

And Roy did not live close to town at all. I did get a little scared, not of the supernatural but because I let him take me somewhere unforgivably dark. But when we arrived I fell in love with Caldwell Place as deeply as I fell in love with Roy.

There was a full moon to ease the darkness. I saw the outline of a futurist house with a pioneer’s stone chimney jutting out the side. The not-so-distant forest looked peaceful against the starry night. There was a hooting owl, croaking frogs from the lake, and the singing katydids from the fields. And I cannot describe my feelings other than: I’m home.

Convincing Roy I was home took ages. His family had denounced me as a gold-digger. But we later married in his family’s Catholic church, of the Blessed Virgin Mother. We baptised our firstborn daughter, Amanda, there, with the same Father David who married us. Who also presided over the funeral service for our still-born son, Adam.

After Adam’s funeral, Roy changed for the worse.

One day, I heard the crack of the rifle echo from the fields. I froze and held my breath until I heard the second shot. I’m bathing Amanda so I cannot run out and see what is going on. I felt relieved Roy was not shooting himself, but I got scared thinking about what he was doing. So I waited all afternoon within the house with the rifle going off outside.

When Roy returned to the house I screamed at him, “what are you doing?”

“I can’t be bothered to look after them, Regan.” He had killed all the livestock.

“Bothered? This is grief! You won’t feel the same by the end of the year!”

“I don’t think so,” he told me.

Roy left the bodies of the animals in the summer sun to rot. He threatened to drown me with the salmon in the lake when I wanted to dispose of the carcasses. Amanda and I seemed to be the only ones upset by the stench.

Roy quit his job but told me they fired him. He had nothing to do around the house until he became obsessed with an owl. A flower-faced, tawny and cream coloured barn owl. He bought mice from the pet store to entice the company of that bird.

I found him one night, sitting in the shadows at the far end of the porch, picking up a white mouse by the tail. He placed it on the porch banister and watched the owl dissect the poor thing.

I asked, “what are you doing?”

“What am I doing? What am I doing? That’s all you ever say,” he said to me.

We watched the owl shred the intestines of the mouse with its beak. Then it stopped eating and swivelled its head towards the pitch-black forest. It hooted and startled me. Roy chuckled. Then the owl flew off towards the trees.

He told me, “you know, hearing the sound of an owl means someone’s going to die,”

I asked, “in each other’s arms?”

“Maybe sitting side by side -” he started, then thought about it. And I thought he was about to say something romantic despite all the contempt he has shown. But he continued, “- in the front seat of the Toyota, with Amanda in the back, when I drive it in the lake,” he waited and watched me. But I had no emotion to give.

Now, I will tell you what happened last year.

After putting Amanda to bed, Roy and I retired to our favourite rustic armchairs. He had lit a small fire. I stuck my feet out to warm them and thought about Imogene Caldwell. Tonight I cannot help but wonder if Roy’s illness extended all the way back to the founding mother.

Nothing but the spit of the fire disturbed our peace. Until Roy spoke, “why not divorce me and go home?” I looked over at him, he is passive with a thousand-yard stare. He looked up to hear what I had to say.

I say, “I’m home. You’re my home.”

“Something has stolen my soul,” he told me.

I asked, “why do you think that?”

He replies, “I’m soulless.” There is a heartbeat of silence. Then he explains to me, “maybe I forgot to put a horseshoe up, or do something we’ve all forgotten to do from the olden days. Maybe it’s something living here that came with the pioneers. Or, I’ve upset something the tribes would’ve believed in.”

“You can’t have your soul stolen,” I started to reason with him, then thought of a different tactic. “But, did you sell it?” I challenged him.

That stopped his morbid thoughts. His eyes refocused on the past. “I don’t remember,” he finally admits.

“This is just grief,” I said, gently. Realising I sounded like a broken record.

We both hear the flurry of the wings of Roy’s owl. I notice for the first time that the lounge room curtains are open and the window ajar. I never felt a draft. I craned my neck to see the owl perched on the porch banister. I note that it is a full moon. I remember Roy telling me the owl is a harbinger of death and right then I believed him.

I announced I was going to bed, got up and left Roy with his owl.

I was at the bedroom door when I heard two voices. Roy and another woman. I did not hear visitors drive up but knew I had to be the one to deal with them, so I turned back. But I caught sight of our visitor before I re-entered the lounge. I stood behind the doorway, shocked because it was a naked woman.

An ancient, gnarled woman with wisps of silver hair. Who had never been tall but now stooped low, holding out a hand that looked like a clawed talon. I watched as Roy took her hand. He said something inaudible and followed her out of our house through the front door. I tried to interrupt them but my voice felt lodged in the base of my throat.

I could follow them and watch them walk to the lake. Side by side and holding hands all the way. She moved easily to Roy’s usual pace. I hung back – for the life of me I do not know why I did not rush forward to break them apart – it was like my voice. I could not act like I wanted to.

I saw them go into the lake. Slowly walking into it until the water covered their heads. I walked up to the shore and saw the full moon’s reflection, but nothing of Roy and his mysterious woman.

Then I heard the flap of wings and I look up to catch the shape of two owls flying towards the forest.

I swear with my hand over my heart that is everything that has happened here at the Caldwell Place. That is why I can never leave. I cannot sell it. My husband is here and still visits his daughter who feeds him white mice.