There was something about the ringing of my mom's phone in the kitchen that made me just know who it was and why she was calling.
It was almost ten at night, and I was in the middle of a COD match with three friends. I tried to pretend I couldn't hear the conversation happening in the next room, but part of my brain had to listen because I knew it was going to involve me.
"This is Isabella," my mother said, answering the phone in her usual business-like tone as I listened to one side of the conversation.
"Oh, hi Delilah... yes, he's here... sure... he's in the middle of a game with some friends, but I can send him over when he's done, if you don't mind. It might be late since the university is on break, so he doesn't have to get up early... sure, no problem. Thanks."
I muted my headset and called out to my mom.
"What is it this time?" I asked.
"There's a leak in her basement, probably a pipe that needs to be replaced. If you can at least take a look at it tonight, that would be great. She said you could take your time, no rush. She'll be up until at least 1:00 AM if you can head over before then."
"Sure, no problem," I said, and returned to the game.
Ah, dear Delilah. Where to begin...
The house my mom and I lived in was, you could say, the proverbial 'last house on the left.' She and my father had bought it just over a year ago. The neighborhood had been built on what was once an old farm. The original family had sold most of the farmstead to a developer but kept several acres along with their farmhouse, barn, and a few outbuildings. There were rumors of Native American or Norse relics on the property, but they were just rumors. My street was once the long driveway up to the old farmhouse and it dead-ended in a dirt double track leading up to the old house.
The old farmhouse was a massive structure perched on a hilltop. It began as a ranch-style house back in the early 1800s, then they added a second story and a peaked roof with a full attic. Later, they bolted on a couple of additional wings, transforming the sprawling rambler into an imposing, gothic monster that dominated the view for miles around.
Delilah was the only descendant left from the original family who built the house. Everyone else had either died or moved far away—she had no family in the immediate area.
For a relatively young woman in her forties who lived alone in an old house, Delilah knew next to nothing about home repairs. So anytime something in the ancient mansion went wrong, she had to call someone. And ever since we moved in a little over a year ago, that someone had been us.
Actually, it had initially been my father and me together. We probably went over there at least once a week for something. But now my father was gone. One day, he simply didn't come home from work. Coincidentally, his administrative assistant also disappeared. It turned out there had been rumors of an affair swirling around the office for months. The police did a perfunctory check but didn't try very hard to find him. Wherever he went, he and his girlfriend didn't want to be found.
I had never been that close to my father; he was a workaholic with little time for his family. I was sad and still grieving his loss—just a month since his disappearance—but I was surprised (and a little disturbed) by how little it bothered me.
When he disappeared, we were a bit worried about whether we were going to lose the house. My folks had put down about half the cost as a down payment, but the mortgage was a bit tight on just my mom's and my income (I had a job at the university bookstore). Still, we were squeaking by, and Delilah occasionally tossed a little money our way when things got too close for comfort.
Really, Delilah was a comfortably well-off, nice but odd lady living alone in an old house. But underneath it all, she seemed genuinely kind, and my mom and I had grown fond of her during the month since my father had disappeared.
She was also very... well, let's not get ahead of ourselves...
Anyway, unfortunately, all this meant was that i was the person to call over and fix things when they broke—which they did, regularly.
Shortly after the phone call, my mom came into the room to say goodnight. Our games tended to slow down the moment she wandered into the camera view because she was either the lucky one or the unlucky one—depending on how you looked at it—to have an attractive mother. Like Delilah, she was in her forties. My mom still worked out and was fit, trim, and svelte.
Though she never said it outright, I think she liked the attention she always got from my buddies. It was never anything inappropriate, but everybody looked at her. Tonight, she was wearing her bedtime gear—yoga shorts and a cut-off T-shirt. I don't think she was wearing a bra, and when she bent over to kiss my forehead, she probably gave the guys on camera quite the view of her ass, and possibly a glimpse up her shirt.
I shrugged; by now, I was used to these shenanigans. Despite that, she was a good mother, a good provider, and someone I knew I could always talk to about anything. If she wanted to show the world her tits, that was her business.
Once she left, my game continued until around 11:30. Afterwards, I grabbed a flashlight and headed over to Delilah's.
The night was warm, and I enjoyed the short walk up the long driveway to the old mansion. The lone bulb by the front door barely illuminated the gloom in the shadow of the house.
There was a light on upstairs in Delilah's room and another in the front sitting room next to the front door. As soon as I pressed the doorbell, a shadow moved across the front window, and I heard Delilah's footsteps approaching the door.
The doorknob turned, and Delilah looked out and smiled.