Wendra Chambers
From the time he was born, James heard about The House. It was never the house on such-and-such street or the house with the big lawn. No, everyone just called it The House. Only one person ever lived here, people said. A woman without a face.
His mother told his friends the story on Halloween six years ago, when they were nine. She wore this big cloak and had darkened her face with her Army-issued camo-paint. His Dad put on some music that sounded like cackling mixed in with a broken organ and clanking chains, sometimes punctuated by groans. Holding the flashlight beneath her chin made eerie hollows under her eyes and she spoke in low, serious tones.
“Before she became the woman without a face, she’d been young and in love. Engaged, actually, right before World War I and her future husband, Billy, was shipped overseas,” his mom said into the flashlight. “He came from a wealthy family, so while he was deployed the mansion was being built as a wedding present to her.”
“Mansion?” exclaimed James.
“Back then it was,” she explained. “It was going to be the grandest house in the town. All she talked about were her plans for when Billy came home. She carried his letters with her, even after everyone heard the news.” She paused and looked at James and his friends.
“What news?” they asked, giggling.