So Fell The Sparrow

by Katie Jennings

  The second there was enough coffee to fill the mug, she poured it, not even bothering with sugar or creamer. She sipped at the piping hot liquid and left the kitchen, heading for the living room windows that faced the harbor. The fog hindered her visibility, but she found its presence soothing. It was dark and dreary, which suited her mood perfectly. Blue skies and sunshine were for happy people. She wasn’t a happy person.

  On impulse, she stepped out the French doors onto the back porch and breathed in the cool scent of the sea. Through the haze, she watched a pair of small boats coast by through the water, too far away to notice her but close enough that she could hear their engines groaning and the men talking.

  Except for the boats and the birds flitting in the large, leafless elms scattered on the property, the world around her was jarringly quiet. The wind whistled in from the ocean and shivered along her skin.

  Her eyes wandered to the lonely dock hovering in the water down the embankment about twenty yards from the house. She lost herself in thought as she stared at it, unable to look away.

  Something about it disturbed her, though she wasn’t sure why. More than likely it was the hangover.

  Rolling her shoulders to shake off the bad vibe, she wandered back inside. She polished off her first mug of coffee and went to the kitchen to pour another, taking it with her as she began to explore the rest of the house, starting with the upstairs. There hadn’t been time to do so the night before, not with all the locals dropping by the house.

  She found four bedrooms upstairs, one of them slightly larger than the rest. That was where they had put the bed, so it would be her room for the time being. It wasn’t as if she could move it by herself even if she wanted to.

  The other three rooms were hollow and vacant; lifeless without even curtains or wallpaper. Part of her wondered if children had once lived in the house, but she shrugged off the thought. What difference did it make?

  The bathroom upstairs was small but practical with a clawfoot tub fitted with a shower head on the wall and surrounded by a gauzy curtain. A toilet and pedestal sink flanked the opposite wall, with a mirrored medicine cabinet built in over the sink. She eyed the tub wistfully before making her way back downstairs, pausing as she stepped into the entryway.

  On the wall below the stairwell was a small door she hadn’t noticed before. She approached it with both curiosity and confusion. Before her hand could grasp the door knob, she froze. A wave of nausea swept over her. Her heart began to pound and her palms suddenly felt clammy. Grace frowned and shook her head to clear the unusual sensation from her system.

  She blamed it on the wine and grabbed the knob to pull the door open. She stared into a darkened stairwell that led down to the basement, irritated that her hands were still shaking.

  God, she hadn’t had that much to drink. More than likely she was just dehydrated and worn out from the drive. She knew that kind of combination could illicit such symptoms in a person.

  Ignoring the feelings, she began to climb down the steps, her hand trailing along the wall searching for a light switch. She found one at the bottom attached to an electrical box that was probably installed long after the house had been built. She flipped it on and a single incandescent bulb hanging by a wire from the ceiling burst to life.

  What she saw made her eyes widen.

  The room was spacious but musty, with concrete block walls and a hard-packed dirt floor. Sheets white as snow covered large mounds stacked together in the center of the room. Along the far wall were cardboard boxes and a trunk.

  Grace didn’t hesitate as she rushed forward and slid the sheet off the closest mound, revealing a beautiful, handcrafted wood loveseat with royal blue upholstery.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She reached for the next sheet and snatched it away to reveal a glossy mahogany coffee table with inlaid floral designs. A few more sheets revealed an end table, a few lamps, and a stunning matching mahogany grandfather clock.

  She stared at the towering clock in bewilderment. “And here I thought they’d just left me an empty house.” Her hands trailed over the carved wood, admiring the precision and care the creator must have taken to make such a masterpiece. The face of the clock was inlaid with gold, the dials ornate with intricate floral patterns. It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen.

  “I don’t even like antiques,” she muttered, surprised by her reaction to the clock. Something about it charmed her in a way that her absurdly overpriced designer furniture back home never had.

  A smile spread over her face as she stepped back and admired her discovery. She didn’t know why her father had left these things in the basement, but she had every intention of bringing them to the surface. They were beautiful; amazingly preserved despite their age.

  “And now they’re mine.” Excited for the first time in weeks, she hurried upstairs to get her phone. She had a favor to call in.

  Within the hour, Johnny Hayes and two of his men arrived at her house, ready to hoist the furniture up from the basement. Grace talked with him as he carried one of the lamps down the hallway. “I appreciate this. Let me know how much I owe you. I have cash.” She carried the other lamp in her arms as they walked.

  “I’ll let you know after we bring that clock up,” Johnny replied easily. “Gotta be careful with antiques like that.”

  “I understand. Whatever it takes, just get it up here.” Grace set the lamp on the dining table, admiring the loveseat that had already been brought up. Johnny set the lamp he carried beside hers and wiped his forehead with the back of his gloved hand. He was a young man, early-thirties with chestnut hair and kind blue eyes. He was exactly what she imagined most small-town men were like—faithful, well-mannered, simple-minded.

  And, naturally, a wealth of information.

  “The whole town’s talking about you,” he told her with a toothy smile. “The newest Sullivan to come to Mad Rock Harbor.”

  Her left eyebrow shot up. “I’ve barely been here a day.”

  “Word spreads fast around here.” He leaned against the kitchen island, lifting his ball cap and running a hand through his hair. “Everyone’s curious if you’re gonna be a permanent fixture or not.”

  “Well, I’m not. You can tell that to all your bar buddies so they can tell their wives, and then you can all get over your little fascination with me.” Grace crossed her arms. “Now, go get my clock.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Johnny tipped the bill of his baseball cap and grinned, leaving her to brood in silence. She was irritated at having her privacy shattered. All she wanted was peace and quiet, and as generous as the townspeople were, she still wasn’t ready to make that trade just yet.

  Perhaps it was best if she kept to herself from now on.

  * * *

  Hours later, Grace stood before the grandfather clock in the living room, wine glass in hand. She had just finished setting the time, and was busy watching the minute hand tick closer and closer to the twelve. If it still worked and she’d set it right, the hour strike should chime at six o’clock. She mentally crossed her fingers as the minute hand inched closer. Enraptured, she awaited the telltale gong as the hand slowly but surely met its fate.

  The doorbell rang as the hour struck, causing Grace to nearly jump out of her skin. She gripped her wine glass to keep from spilling red liquid everywhere, cursing under her breath as her heart galloped from the shock. Annoyed at both herself and the intruder, she stalked into the entryway. The sound of the gong quieted as she opened the door.

  Nellie stood on the other side, a large, round dish in her hands and her smile bright. “I brought you some dinner.”

  “I can see that.” Grace sighed, eyeing the dish. “What is it?”

  “Beef stew.” Nellie lifted the dish to show it off. “You’re too skinny, child. You could use some meat on those bones of yours.”

  Grace snorted. “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “Not tonight.” Nellie pushed past Grace and made her way into the k
itchen, cheerfully setting the dish down and grabbing two bowls from one of the cabinets. When Grace followed her, Nellie nodded at the dining table. “You sit down. I’ll bring it to you.”

  “What service,” Grace grumbled sarcastically. She tossed herself into one of the dining chairs and watched Nellie dish out the food and bring it over.

  “Be careful, it’s hot,” Nellie warned. She handed Grace a fork before taking a seat across from her. Grace only stared at the bowl with a questionable look on her face. Nellie sighed. “It’s not poisoned.”

  “It’s red meat.”

  “So what? You’re a carnivore, aren’t you?” Nellie snapped, though there was humor in her tone. “Now eat it and be grateful.”

  Grace sniffed at the bowl of stew. It’d been years since she’d eaten beef, but it did smell incredible. Her stomach rumbled, low and hollow. She shoved aside her uncertainty and dug in.

  The first bite actually made her groan. All thoughts of slaughter house animals, injected hormones, and coppery blood disappeared the instant she savored the incredible flavor.

  Across the table, Nellie looked pleased with herself. “Not so bad, is it?”

  Grace groaned again and scooped up another bite. Her mouth full, she met her neighbor’s eyes and shook her head. “I don’t eat meat.”

  “So you said.”

  She swallowed. “Why am I still eating this? I can feel my arteries clogging.”

  “Shut up and stop being so dramatic.” Nellie chuckled and took a bite of her own stew. She wagged her fork at Grace. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll polish off that bowl and let me serve you seconds. Then you’ll enjoy a nice glass of wine before turning in for the evening. No wonder you’re so famished. You’ve been eating nothing but carrots and that tofu crap. That’s no way to live.”

  Grace laughed despite herself. “I eat more than carrots and tofu.”

  “Oh sure, and I’m a belly dancer from India. Keep eating, I’ll get you some more wine.”

  Grace scooped up the last of the stew before shoving it across the table. Her hands fell to her stomach, satisfied yet hating herself. “I’m so full. I’m never going to eat again.”

  “Yes, you will.” Nellie poured more wine into Grace’s glass then corked the bottle and took her seat again. “So, tell me about your life in Chicago. Do you enjoy being a doctor?”

  Grace toyed with her wine glass as she gave it some thought. “It’s in my blood. My grandfather and my father were both in the medical field.”

  “Yes, but do you like it?”

  “I guess. It’s rewarding.”

  “So they say. What about a boyfriend?”

  Grace grimaced. “Not anymore.”

  Nellie’s face fell. “Oh. What happened?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Grace met eyes with the older woman, her temper smoldering just beneath the surface. “Why did my father buy this house? He must have told you.”

  Nellie blinked in confusion. “Buy the house?”

  “Yes.” Grace leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. “What was the point of this place? My parents had a townhouse in Manhattan and they never mentioned vacationing here. So why did he buy it?”

  “He never told you about the Sparrow House?”

  “No,” Grace snapped. The wound of knowing her father had kept something like this from her was still fresh.

  Nellie sighed. “Well, that explains why you’re so confused.” She reached across the table to grasp Grace’s hand firmly. “Your father didn’t buy this house—he inherited it. It has been in the Sullivan family for over a hundred years, since 1865.”

  Hearing that only made Grace angrier. “Then why is this the first time I’ve heard of it? That doesn’t make any goddamn sense.”

  “I don’t know.” Nellie shook her head sadly. “It’s been many years since any member of your family lived here permanently. They all seem to prefer to keep a distance.”

  “Then why not just sell it? Why hold onto it?”

  “It’s been rumored that the house is an addiction your family can never shake. They try to run from it, but they always come back, generation after generation. And now you’re here.” Nellie tried to smile, though her expression was oddly haunted.

  Grace’s eyes narrowed. “You want me to believe that my father was addicted to this house, and that’s why he didn’t sell it?”

  Nellie nodded. “It’s not unheard of. Many people become attached to places and things in ways they can’t explain.”

  “That’s stupid,” Grace retorted, more than a little frustrated. “That still doesn’t explain why he kept this place a secret.”

  “Maybe he wanted to save you from the same addiction he had.” Nellie shrugged, rising to her feet to clean up the dishes. “Either way, you ended up here, didn’t you? I’d say that’s fate.”

  Grace paused, absorbing the woman’s words carefully. She realized then that she had barely even hesitated before making the trip to Mad Rock Harbor. The old version of herself would have gone overseas to Paris or to the hills of Tuscany. But instead, she’d come to some inconsequential town in Massachusetts. Why? What had pulled her there?

  Absolutely nothing, except a desire to know the truth, Grace decided, feeling foolish. She was letting the old woman’s superstitions cloud her judgment. She’d come to Mad Rock Harbor to feel closer to her dead parents, and there was nothing odd about that at all.

  But something still prickled at the back of her neck, causing her skin to crawl with uncertainty.

  “I’ll be going now. You enjoy the rest of that wine,” Nellie said suddenly, appearing beside Grace with her coat over one arm and the empty pot in the other.

  Grace looked up at her, blinking. “Oh, okay. Thank you for the red meat.”

  Nellie smiled. “You’re welcome.” She glanced around the room, taking in the antique furniture. “These old things really look lovely in here, don’t they?”

  “Didn’t you know that furniture was down in the basement?” Grace asked, turning in her chair to stare at Nellie. “Seems odd that you didn’t mention it.”

  Nellie hesitated. “I don’t go down in the basement. Fear of the dark.”

  Grace sensed the older woman’s discomfort. “Right. Well—”

  The gong resounded from the grandfather clock as it struck seven, the noise startling them both. After the seventh gong, Grace sighed. When she noticed that Nellie’s face was white as a sheet, she got immediately to her feet.

  “Are you okay?”

  Nellie’s eyes shot from the clock back to Grace, her hand fluttering over her heart. “That startled me, is all.” She tried to laugh, though she looked around the room nervously.

  Grace folded her arms and gave the clock a cross look. “I may have to disconnect the gong. It’s too loud.”

  “Don’t you feel that?” Nellie asked in a murmured whisper, rubbing her free hand over her arm as if to ward off a chill.

  Grace frowned. “Feel what?”

  Nellie said nothing for a moment, then shook her head. “Nothing, child. Goodnight.”

  She left before Grace could respond. Grace stared after her, more than a little confused, then turned to the clock again. “Stupid clock,” she muttered, though part of her oddly missed the sound of the gong now that it was gone.

  * * *

  Grace decided not to disable the hour strike on the old grandfather clock. Part of her hoped she would get used to the sound in time.

  She regretted that decision when the clock struck three a.m., and violently shook her out of a deep sleep.

  Gong. Gong. Gong.

  Each slam of the pendulum was a fist pounding viciously into her chest, square over her heart, knocking the wind from her lungs. Her eyes flew open from the horrid pain, wide with terror and wet with unshed tears. Sweat beaded on her face, cold and slick, matting strands of her dark bangs to her forehead.

  She fought to catch her breath as the echoing of the final gong drifted into
oblivion. The sheets were tangled up with her legs, constricting her as she fought to free herself.

  What the hell was that? A dream? A nightmare?

  Her head began to pulse with a dull pain. The pressure in her chest faded as her senses came back to her.

  She stared around the quiet bedroom, lit only by thin streaks of moonlight that came through the window. The branches of a nearby tree left twisted, spindly shadows along the wooden floor. They looked like crooked, deformed arms, stretching and reaching out to grab at her like some malevolent monster. When the breeze outside shifted them, it broke her trance and jolted her back into awareness.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” Grace whispered, rubbing her face and exhaling a heavy, burdened sigh. She fought to convince herself that nothing was out to get her, that the nightmare had simply been a result of too much stress and a little too much wine.

  Her depression wasn’t helping either. The black cloud followed her wherever she went, hanging over her head like a bad omen. A scar. A blemish on the beautiful person she once was.

  Grace knew she would never be that person again.

  A soft sound permeated the darkened house, alarming her. Her ears perked as she strained to listen, hoping to hear it again. When she did, her hands tightened on the sheet she held.

  It sounded like…crying?

  Unable to resist, she slipped from her bed quietly, reaching for the pepper spray she carried with her everywhere. She tiptoed over the floor, wincing each time it creaked and groaned beneath her.

  When she reached her doorway, she stared into the darkness of the hallway. Ahead was the banister and the stairwell, open to the moonlit entryway. Her eyes strained to see in the pale blue light but caught no movement.

  Grace loosened her death grip on her pepper spray, realizing how stupid she was being. There wasn’t anyone in the house. How could there be? And if there were, what reason did they have to be there? She had nothing worth stealing. No flat screen television, no valuable jewelry. Unless they were there to hurt her. But if they were, why were they crying?