DREAMSCAPE
ROSE ANDERSON
Copyright © 2011

Prologue
Lanie walked up just as the freckle-faced twelve-year-old boy picked a plum-sized rock from the crumbling fence line and told his companions, “Okay, top left.” His taller fifteen-year-old friend scoffed sarcastically. “No way are you gonna hit that. It‟s too high.”
Carl, another boy in the throng, agreed. “Max‟s right. It‟s too high, Paulie. You‟re gonna miss it.”
“No I won‟t. Watch.” He drew his arm back and let the missile fly. They were right. It missed the upstairs window by several feet.
The group of boys howled.
“Try again, Paulie.”
“Hey, it‟s my turn now,” another boy told the throng.
Determined to save face, Paulie told them, “No wait…one more, I‟m gonna do this.” Putting everything he had behind it, he quickly let another stone fly. This one hit the mark, cracking, but not breaking, a portion of the leaded fan window over the front door.
Amid the congratulatory hoots, another voice was heard. “Stop that!”
“Get lost, stupid bitch,” Max told the younger girl who dared interrupt their fun. “Go look in the garbage cans for your stupid bitch mother. Maybe your dinner‟s ready.”
The mob laughed. Another boy chortled. “Yeah, go find your drunken mom.”
Another jeer followed from somewhere behind him. “Yeah, your dinner‟s ready in the dumpster behind McDonalds.”
Those words stung Lanie, but she didn‟t let it show. The whole town knew her mother drank too much. They knew too that the judge said she couldn‟t live with her anymore. She hadn‟t seen her mother in four months and didn‟t even know where she was. She lived with a foster family now. “Stop it, or I‟m going to tell Officer Bob you‟re breaking all the windows in the Bowen Mansion.”
“Oooh I‟m gon-na tell Of-fi-cer Bob…” Another boy mimicked in a sing-song baby voice. Amid cruel sneers and jeers, other painful words echoed.
Ignoring her now, the boys waiting their turn to throw let loose in a salvo. Their rocks hit the windows on the first floor, shattering two and breaking one of the slatted shutters that now swung by a single hinge.
“Please stop it!”
“Whoa, nice shot!” Max bent to find another rock. “Watch this one…”
“Stop it!” Seeing the boy poised to throw, Lanie ran up and shoved Max. Her slight form was just enough to make him miss, and his rock landed in the front yard. Spitting angrily, he turned and pushed her hard into the fence where she scraped her arms and palms on the jagged stone wall. A tear in her sleeve showed a cut and bloody elbow. Max, outraged that a stupid fourth-grade bitch interrupted their fun, did what his father always did to teach his stupid stepmother a lesson. He kicked her hard in the leg. He wished he wore a belt.
Crying out in pain, Lanie tumbled over the sharp stones. The sound was like blood in the water. They set on her like sharks in a feeding frenzy. Grabbing handfuls of dirt and damp slimy leaves they rubbed them on her clothes and face, and, still not satisfied, they spit in her hair.
Bloody and crying she covered her head with her hands while they dumped other slime from the curb over her head. Max drew his leg back to kick her again but Paulie grabbed him away. His finger pointing toward the top of the house, he asked in a frightened tone, “What the hell is that?”
“What…?”
The rattling window glowed in blue light. Anyone looking up could clearly see the man standing in it. They ran shrieking down the street leaving the sobbing girl behind. Who cared about her? They‟d seen the ghost of Jason Bowen, and everyone knew he killed kids every time he appeared.
* * * *
Jason Bowen stood in the window looking on. For years now, every once in a while, a pack of little bastards would break his windows and the bank would come and board them up the next day. His house had sat vacant a long while with its broken windows and weeds gone wild. He could only imagine the look of it from the street. On one hand he didn‟t mind really, for the sorry state of his property meant one thing—the last of that family had finally left his home. And it had only taken a hundred and twenty-three years.
These packs of hyenas came and went over the years. Even when Margaret was alive, the occasional rabble desiring to scare the reclusive old woman would throw a rock at the house. But this latest mob was well over the top of boyish pranks. In his opinion, that was due to the taller, obviously older boy who egged the younger ones on —a bad seed if ever he did see one.
There was nothing to be done about the window breaking. Had he flesh and bone, he‟d catch them and demand they work off their vandalism. He‟d demand, too, their parents keep a tighter rein on their brats. He‟d been watching as the little black-haired girl tried to stop their destruction and it filled him with rage when he saw the young savages abusing her. That was more than
enough. He rattled the windows and showed himself, and predictably the little bullies ran. Watching her now as she staggered to her feet, he felt his heart ache for her. Poor little sweetheart, I’m sorry I couldn’t help more than I did.
* * * *
Wiping her dirt- and tear-streaked eyes, Lanie attempted to brush the grime from her clothes and long wavy hair. Her leg and scrapes were hurting and she was dirty and her new shirt was torn. Her foster parents wouldn‟t be happy when they saw her. Though she didn‟t want to lie, she‟d tell them she just fell. It was better that way because she was afraid. She didn‟t want the Berglunds to send her away. Living with them was the first nice home she ever had, and she loved them. Just last week they asked her to call them Mom and Pop. Little hands closing on the bars of the wrought iron gate, she stared up at the top window. She dreamt she lived here with a brown-haired boy. He couldn‟t see her or talk to her, but she could see him.
Though he knew he could only be seen when he wanted it so, Jason retreated to the shadows anyway. He didn‟t want to scare her, too. She said loudly in his direction, “Thank you for chasing them away. When I grow up I‟m going to live here, too.” With that she turned and limped away.
For some reason the words of a child brought him an odd comfort.

Chapter 1
“I‟m so excited, Ben, look!” Lanie held out her trembling hand. “I‟m shaking all over. I‟ve never been inside the gate before.”
Looking up at the massive house with its several boarded windows and shutters barely attached, Ben Danowski turned to her in surprise. “Lanie, are you sayin‟ you bought this place without looking inside?”
She laughed lightly. “Pretty reckless, huh?” She went on to explain how she‟d loved the old place ever since she was a little girl. While other children called it haunted and broke windows, she‟d dreamt it was her house, and now it was. She had yet to go inside but knew by the realtor‟s paperwork the house was filled with whatever furnishings Margaret Mason, the last of her family, had left when she died.
What she didn‟t mention was she felt she already knew every inch of the place because her dreams often took her here. She‟d seen enough in those dreams that she didn‟t need to see the inside before she signed the contract. As both tried to unload the property for nearly twenty-four years, her sight-unseen purchase had surprised and delighted the realtor and the bank president. It didn‟t matter if the antiques of her dreams filled the house or if the rooms were empty. All that mattered was the house was hers.
Ben knew while old lady Mason lived, the house had been in pretty good condition and was closed up tight after she died. He told her, “I think you‟re going to find the Bowen house is basically sound. Had it been any other house you were buying sight unseen, I‟d say you‟d bought a Pandora‟s Box of trouble.” His father‟s good friend Frank Wurley kept an eye on the house through all the years it had sat vacant. Living across the street like he did, Frank made a daily check for broken windows and most often was able to get them replaced within twenty-four hours. He gave up trying to keep up with the regularly vandalized atrium. But more than Lanie‟s neighbor, Frank was the president at the First National Bank, which held the Bowen title in trust. They‟d discussed the three unusual stipulations in Margaret Mason‟s will. The house was never to be rented, and the bank was to use whatever monies necessary from the estate to keep it in livable condition for the next owner, whoever that turned out to be, and for however long it took to sell. The most unusual stipulation had only been revealed after the deed was signed over to Lanie. The remaining estate, everything left of the original Bowen and Mason holdings, would go to the new owner. But only after they restored the house to its former glory and resided in it themselves for no less than an entire year and a day.
Ben had to wonder about that unusual stipulation. As sizable as that estate might have been twenty years ago, few people today had the financial resources to invest in such a huge undertaking. That Lanie did was due entirely to her coming into an inheritance recently. From
the local gossip, Margaret Mason made three odd additions to her will in her last month. Initially she was going to leave her estate to the church as she had no surviving relatives, but she‟d called a meeting with Mr. Wurley and her lawyer.
“Both Mr. Wurley and the lawyer tried talking her out of her refusal to rent until the property sold. In the end though, her lawyer wrote the codicil exactly so.” She looked at him, “The „live in the house for a year and a day‟ thing is odd though, don‟t you think?”
“It is.” Ben chuckled. “Especially since the locals say it‟s haunted.”
Looking up at the sorry looking structure, Lanie laughed. “It does look the part, doesn‟t it? So the deal is, if I can rustle up enough backbone to stay here that long, I guess I‟ll be worthy to inherit the mysterious Bowen-Mason estate.”
“It could be sizable…”
“Or it could be nothing after this much time. The stock market hasn‟t been doing too good for a while. But I‟m not counting on there being anything anyway. If there is money coming after a year then great, it‟ll go right into the clinic. If not…” She shrugged.
Lanie explained how she‟d had several in-depth conversations with Mr. Wurley before she signed the contract. From all he‟d said, she was sure any issues she‟d find would be cosmetic. In the end she could repair or replace those things as needed. “He didn‟t want me here until the end of the week, but the deed has been signed over and I‟ve waited so long, I see no reason to wait another four days. He told me once he got the cleaning company in here it would be „turnkey ready‟.”
I don’t know about that, Ben said to himself eyeing the house. There might be unforeseen issues with the plumbing, the roof, or anything else after twenty-plus years. In its heyday it was a grand old Victorian painted lady. In its present vandalized condition, it was the haunted Bowen Mansion. He thought he might as well toss the idea out there just in case. “You know, Lanie, you can always rebuild if you have to. A twelve-acre lot has loads of potential.”
She shook her head. “It would literally have to be condemned before I‟d do that.”
He lifted an eyebrow at the structure. At least it wasn‟t that bad.
Because the main gate at the front had an old iron lock whose keyhole was rusted over with no chance of opening, they walked along the stone wall until they came to the second gate that led to the long-forgotten walled garden tucked behind the dilapidated mansion. Knowing the iron gate at the far end of the stone wall had two halves chained together, Lanie had asked Ben to bring bolt cutters to make short work of getting inside. It was quite rusty and surprisingly noisy when she shoved it open. Unseen under the pile of debris a bloated raccoon carcass dragged along with the sweep of the gate, sending a sweet stench of rot into the air and leaving a swath of wriggling maggots in its wake.
Gagging, Lanie covered her mouth and nose with her hand and spoke through her fingers, “Oh yuck.”
“Whew, that‟s nasty. We‟ll clean that up right away.”
Predictably the side of the house was in better condition than the façade which proved just too irresistible to rock-throwing vandals. To the side of the house sat a sorry-looking gazebo and
the remains of what must have been an impressive Victorian clock garden with remnant spindly flowers waiting in turn for their hour to open. Having personal experience with clock gardens, Ben decided he‟d take care of that project himself. The geometric-shaped hedge had overgrown but looked otherwise healthy and would benefit from careful pruning. The lilacs had dead sections, but new suckers had come up with the drenching rain the week before. Assessing, he knew his landscaping crew would make short work of the dozen or so acres surrounding the house, no more than five days for the work up front, seven at the most. The back yard and the gazebo would take longer, and he told her so.
She nodded. “I figured it would take time, it does look pretty bad.”
To Ben‟s trained eye, the grounds looked far worse than they were. “I think you‟ll be surprised when we‟re done. It actually looks worse than it is.”
Directly behind the house they trudged through years of brush trying to get to the fountain. Lanie stood with her hands on her hips and shook her head in wonder. “I had no idea there were this many statues back here.” There had to be at least a dozen. Most were moss-covered marble, but several were bronzes with green patina.
Ben was surprised to see that many, surprised, too, they weren‟t headless. “All this growth must have saved them from the vandals.” Holding a prickly raspberry cane out of Lanie‟s way, he mentioned offhandedly, “I don‟t think you‟ll get fruit this year after we prune, but next year watch out, you‟ll be up to your chin in berries.” Then, noticing the apple, plum and pear trees flowering at the far edge of the yard, he made a mental note to check their condition before he left.
So happy she could burst, Lanie smiled inside, She‟d make jelly and jam and pie just like Mom and Pop taught her. After many pricks and jabs from thorny brush, they came at last to the once-stately fountain. Lanie peered into the circular moat around it. Figuring it would be harder to get bluegills like the fountain of her dreams had, she decided goldfish were a reasonable alternative. She gazed up at the ornate stonework with the rusty stains, recalling the sound it made when she‟d dreamt about it. She was still smiling when she asked Ben, “Do you think it still works?”
The smile caught Ben by surprise, and he lost his tongue for a moment as any man with a pulse might. She was a very pretty young woman with her long black hair and bright blue eyes, but the smile was the icing on the cake. He eyed the debris-filled fountain. The rust streaks lent proof that it had worked once, and that meant it could again. He assured her, “Oh, sure, we can fix this. Kenny, my sister Bonnie‟s husband, is a pro at fixing Victorian gadgets like this.” He pointed to the atrium. “And when that other stuff‟s done, I‟ll put him on the atrium plumbing too. You‟ll need those pipes working in there.”
He made a mental note to wear steel-toed boots tomorrow. From what he saw on the outside, he could tell he was going to have to bite the bullet and remove as much of the atrium‟s soil as possible. That needed to be done before his people got in there to see what plantings were salvageable and what needed to be replaced. It was just too dangerous to be working in soil filled with glass shards.
Silently counting to himself, Ben found at least two dozen broken panes from this vantage point alone. A thought came to him then. There was a plus side to all this destruction.
“Hmm. You know, kiddo, with all those broken panes to let the rain in, the hardier stuff could have survived. We might find some sizable trees in there.” Indeed, seeing it up close like he was, the greenery looked healthy and reached all the way to the top louvers.
“Wouldn‟t that be nice?” She headed toward the door.
Pointing to several panes near the top that weren‟t broken all the way through, Ben cautioned, “Hey, I‟d feel a lot better if you waited until the cleanup is done. It‟s too dangerous with all that glass ready to fall.” He made another mental note regarding hardhats from his brother Zack and wondered if a long length of PVC pipe could knock the top panes down.
Seeing the dagger-like panes herself, Lanie agreed.
Behind the atrium, she stepped onto the small wooden porch and dug for the key in her pocket. This moment was the realization of a dream. “Let‟s hope for the best. Here‟s goes…” Heart beating fast, she inserted the key into the deadbolt lock and opened the squeaky-hinged door.
The house gave off a faint, dry dusty musty smell often experienced in antique shops. Blown in through the years‟ worth of hastily boarded up broken windows, the occasional dried leaf crunched under their feet as they went from room to room opening windows to air the place.
The parlor instantly brightened when Ben ran his hand down the wall, found the light switch, and turned on the art deco ceiling fixture and one of its matching wall sconces on either side of the mantel. Like the others, this room boasted complicated gingerbread ornamentation indicative of the overly decorated Victorian era, too. “Oh this is a nice place, Lanie. Needs lots of cleaning to be sure, but the features are intact. It‟ll be a showcase again with a little TLC.”
“It will.” She had a lot of tender loving care to give it. It doesn’t look that bad. To him she added, “To be honest, I expected worse…”
“Well, they made things to last back then.” He peered into the drawing room. This room, as the others they‟d passed, had shrouds and sheets covering the furniture, but the floor‟s border of ebony and maple parquet was visible just around the edges of the old oriental carpet, and the beveled glass top panels on the long narrow windows were still intact. Pointing up, he said, “Now that should clean up nice.”
Her gaze followed. A hand-painted floral scene ran the entire span of all four walls and included one roosting bird, a peacock by the look of it, with a wall switch carefully set into its tail.
Running her hand over the painted tail feathers, she asked, “How can I clean this without ruining it, with the TSP Zack told me about?”
“You don‟t want to use trisodium phosphate on that. That‟s mainly used in kitchens where you have food oils adding to the grime or in heavily smoked in rooms. This really isn‟t that bad, a little dull but not bad. Those colors should brighten up with a mild detergent, dish soap even. I wouldn‟t use anything harsher than that.”
Room by room, they talked about what needed to be done inside and out for a time. Ben was a landscaper himself, but he had an entire family steeped in the trades from electrical to plumbing and everything in between. Ben‟s father had been good friends with her Pop, so as far as Lanie was concerned the entire Danowski family came with the highest recommendation. With Ben and his whole clan working on it, her house would be as good as new.
She wished the Berglunds had lived to see her dream come true . It was her pop who‟d told her anything was possible, and if this house was what she wanted, then they‟d see her get a good start in life so she could realize that dream. And they did. With no children of their own, the elderly couple cared for her as if she were their own flesh and blood. They sent her to college and med school, and she lived by the values they instilled. She missed them terribly, and the carriage house would become the Berglund Free Clinic in their honor. She knew they‟d be proud.
All arrangements had been made. The clinic would officially open its doors in September. Fortunately for her, three people, one doctor, two nurses, and one technician from the last clinic she worked at would be following her. The hours would be long at first, but they‟d hire more people eventually.
Drawing her from her reverie, Ben repeated, “So how‟s the roof? It looks like the second floor gables might need a few shingles.”
“Mr. Wurley told me the roof needed only minor repairs—some new flashing on the copper cupola and shingles in a few spots where that oak limb in the yard fell and tore them loose. The bank is taking care of those as one of the conditions of sale.” So far, the foundation was sound, as was the plumbing. After Ben‟s brother took a look at the wiring, she‟d have a better idea if the bank would be seeing to that, too. “I told him not to bother with the carriage house roof because we‟re replacing it anyway.”
She was glad the bank was covering those repairs as part of Margaret Mason‟s conditions of sale. After buying the house, she had enough money left in the bank to do the basics and get the clinic open. Anything else would have to wait until she sold stocks. The thought passed her mind briefly. She always had her birth father‟s company to sell if she had to, but she didn‟t want to do that. It was a connection to the man she wished she‟d known.
James O‟Keefe was her birth father, though she‟d never known him. He‟d recently passed away, leaving her his entire estate, including a textile business that had been in his family for several generations. He‟d also left her a letter where she learned how he‟d only recently discovered her existence. Her mother never told him she was pregnant, never told him he had a daughter. Rather she‟d left in the middle of the night to run off with his best friend. That relationship didn‟t work out, however, and her mother had a string of men in the first nine years of Lanie‟s life.
They lived with various boyfriends in trailer homes, slept on mattresses in basements and one-room flophouses. After living in a car one summer, they eventually lived in the homeless shelter at night and spent their days at the McDonald‟s asking people for money for food. Those were horrible days. Many of the same kids she attended school with saw her there, and kids
could be so mean at times. By then drugs and alcohol had become an issue for her mother, and Family Services stepped in and found her a foster home with the Berglunds—a home she loved with all her heart. She‟d never seen her birth mother again.
Her overjoyed father‟s letter explained how, through a conversation with his onetime best friend‟s sister, he discovered he had a daughter. But by then it was too late. His pancreatic cancer had moved too quickly. By the time they‟d found her and arrangements could be made to meet, her father had died. She was his sole heir.
At the door Ben said, “Are you sure you want to stay here tonight? You can come home with me. Jilli‟s away at scout camp, you know. You can sleep in her room, and I know Janice would love to see you.”
“Thanks, but no. I‟ve waited half my life for this day.” She smiled brightly. “I‟m going to sleep in my haunted house tonight!”