by Carrie King
Diane, startled, turned toward it; her hand on her chest to still her pounding heart, as if that would calm it. The slightest breeze coming through the house triggered slamming doors. With one glance over her shoulder to make sure that Grant still played nearby, she moved down the hallway. Without bothering to open the now closed kitchen door, she also closed the door to the study and the dining room. Maybe she could find some stones outside to serve as doorstops. The weather was pleasant, so much so that it would be nice to have the doors and windows open during their stay, but not if that caused the damned things to slam so often.
Reaching for Grant's backpack and her overnight bag she turned to go upstairs. Her footsteps echoed dully on the wooden steps which creaked softly beneath her weight. Other than the sound of Grant out in the front yard, all was quiet, unlike their flat in the city. There was no sound of cars or traffic, no ringing telephones, no blaring televisions leaching through the neighbor's walls. It hadn't seemed so noisy or annoying before, but now, surrounded by peaceful tranquility and solitude … the ocean, the open land, and all that surrounded them, it seemed deafeningly quiet.
"Mummy!"
Small footsteps raced up the stairs behind her.
"Look what I found!"
At the top of the stairs, Diane turned to gaze down at her son as he raced upward, hand extended. To her dismay, she saw a small butterfly resting on his open palm. It was small, and its orange wings were ringed with black edging. It sat on his hand, calmly and slowly flapping its wings.
"It's beautiful, honey," she said, crouching down to get a better look. She glanced at her son's face and saw the wonder in his features.
"It's sitting in your hand as if you were his best friend. You’ll be gentle with it now, won't you?"
"Aye, Mummy,” he said softly. "I'm going to take him back outside so he can be free. All souls deserve to be free."
Before she could utter a word at such strange words, he turned and descended the stairs and disappeared out the front door. With a slight chuckle, she carried Grant's backpack into the room immediately to the left at the top of the stairs, pondering her son's comment. She'd never heard him speak like that before, but then again… maybe it was just the death, or maybe he’d heard someone talking about souls… one of the other children perhaps.
It couldn’t mean anything else… could it?
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. Grant explored his bedroom with the wood-paneled walls and the brown bedspread, while Diane placed her overnight bag in hers, directly across from his at the top of the stairs.
With a sigh, she sat down on the four-poster bed, staring at the plum-colored walls, wood-paneled from the middle down and the wooden floor. It was a dark room, somber. The bedspread was a deep plum, the lamps, intricate cut glass tiffany, cast colored shadows across the room. In some ways it was beautiful, even romantic, but she felt it was too much, depressing almost. Turning, she looked over her shoulder out the window. Twilight was falling.
In the distance, she heard a cricket chirp. She should start supper. Instead she remained still on the bed. Her thoughts wavering between Jeremy, his untimely and tragic death, and the man who had built this place. Had Lord Angus Greyfield, sat in this very room, staring at these same walls? If he did, what was he thinking?
“Mum, I’m hungry.”
That was her prompt, she finally made herself move.
In the kitchen with Grant sitting at the small table, watching her like a hawk, she prepared a light supper of soup and sandwiches. The owner kept the cupboard stocked with canned and boxed basics, and she had pre-paid for a small delivery of groceries, enough to last the few days they would be here.
She poured Grant a small glass of milk, then one for herself, before sitting across from him at the small table. Even though the dining room was just over the hall, it was just the two of them, and this small table and two wood chairs would suit them just fine. The kitchen was cozy, if exposing somewhat of an identity crisis with its mishmash of décor and appliances that seemed to span the generations.
Diane had just bitten into her cheese sandwich when a wash of emotions struck her. It happened like this sometimes, grief snuck up on her unawares, slamming into her heart, causing it to catch. A heavy lump settled in her throat and she barely managed to swallow, quickly washing down the lump of bread with a sip of milk. Placing the glass down on the table, she saw Grant watching her, an odd expression on his face. He looked angry, his eyebrows drawn, his mouth downturned in a familiar pout.
"What is it, honey?"
"I don't like her."
"Like who?"
"The lady. She's not nice."
Diane tried to catch up. Was he talking about someone they had ridden up north with on the train? Someone walking by on the street before the taxi had picked them up?
"I'm not sure I understand, honey. What lady are you talking about?"
"The one that told me to push you down the stairs."
Chapter 59
As she lay in bed that night, Diane wasn't sure what to make of Grant's comment earlier.
He'd never exhibited any type of violence whatsoever. So why would he say such a thing? In some ways the trip seemed to be helping, he'd been more talkative since they'd arrived at the Greyfield estate. Maybe it was because they were away from so many memories of his father. Which begged the question; when she returned home, should she pack up Jeremy's clothes and put photographs of him away? Would it make it easier for Grant to move on, or should she keep things as they were? She wanted to keep his clothes in the closet, his shoes at the foot of the bed, the memories of him alive and real. Yet, was this just torturing herself? Was it best to put them away and try to let go?
Grant was so young that Diane was afraid that if she packed those items away, that he would eventually forget everything about his father. She had lost her own father when she was almost eight years old and had very few memories that she could latch onto. A brief burst of laughter, an image of his smile, an old jacket of his still hanging in the back of her closet. That's all she had of her father. She didn't want that to be all that Grant had of his.
The following day passed without much ado. Holding Grant's hand firmly in hers, Diane ventured closer to the edge of the cliff to get a better view of the ocean below. She explained to Grant that the Solway Firth formed a portion of the border between northern England and Scotland. The locale was very rural, inhabited by farmers and fishermen, surrounded by low-lying hills and small mountains in the far distance. Out toward the sea, she pointed out barely seen shadows demarcating the location of several outlying islands.
They had wandered a short distance down the cliffside, but the trail was steep and somewhat treacherous. They had to walk single file, but Diane felt hesitant to allow Grant to walk behind her. She allowed him to walk ahead, but in his excitement to explore, he got further ahead than she liked. She called him back, and though he grumbled with disappointment, he obeyed. He was such a good boy.
As they regained the top of the cliffside, he gazed down at the beach below.
"It would hurt if you fell and landed down there, wouldn't it?"
Startled, she pulled her gaze from the water and glanced down at her son with a frown. "Why would you ask something like that, Grant?"
"Because he fell, and it had to hurt."
"Who fell?"
"The man in the house."
She smiled uneasily, unsure how to answer. "Yes," she finally said. "It would probably hurt." She didn't like these darker thoughts that Grant was having. Still, she decided to be honest no matter what he asked. Maybe it was just his way of coping with the loss. Perhaps in this way she could gain a greater understanding of his mental state. "Grant, have you seen this man?"
Grant nodded.
"What does he look like?" If he described Jeremy, she would know where his dark thoughts came from.
Grant shrugged. "He's a tall man with long black hair. He never smiles."
Diane fel
t her heart sink as she looked from her son toward the house. "And the woman?"
"She's pretty, like you, Mummy, but she isn't nice like you are. I don't think she likes me, and I know she doesn't like you."
Diane sighed. She didn't know what to make of this. Make-believe? Was her son experiencing some sort of mental break? She decided that when they returned to their home, she would take him to visit a child therapist. Not hers, who was more used to treating adults. Maybe she should have done that at the very beginning, but at his young age she had hoped that he wouldn’t need it.
"I'm hungry! Is it dinnertime yet?"
The look on his face prompted Diane to smile, nod, and extend her hand toward him. He took it and anxiously tugged her toward the house. Diane shrugged away her concerns for the moment, along with her confusion. Maybe Grant was just confused too, and because of his age, was unable to express his emotions, his fears, or his uncertainty. Creating make-believe people might just be his way of coming to terms with his father's death.
A short while later, Diane stood at the kitchen counter, preparing supper. She had decided on a small pot roast and had potatoes, carrots, and mushrooms at the ready. She started to chop the carrots. Grant was coloring, sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor behind her.
She glanced at him occasionally, smiling, hoping that in time her son would adjust to the change in their circumstances. Still, what if there was something wrong with Grant? What if neither she nor a doctor could help? No, she wouldn't think like that. She resolved to be patient and as understanding and compassionate as she could be, while at the same time struggling with her own grief and loss.
She held the carrot against a cutting board with her left hand, slicing with her right. It was a mindless task, until she was suddenly overwhelmed with a wave of sorrow. Dragged under, she was choking, drowning, in her grief. Tears filled her eyes and she bit them back. This was certainly not unusual, but rarely had she experienced such a depth of despondency, of … of the realization that she was truly on her own now. Alone. A widow without a university education, and with a small child to support.
Her thoughts turned darker and her heart thudded dully in her chest. What was the point? She had no real work skills, had never had to work before. Jeremy's death had left her totally unprepared to survive on her own. She frowned, not sure why she felt such negativity. She was intelligent. Willing and able to work hard to do what needed to be done—
You can't do it and you know it.
The woman's voice inside her head taunted her. She shook her head and tried to focus on her task. Chop. Chop. Chop.
The knife stopped and raised, she paused, staring at the hand holding the carrot. The knife in the other hand wavered, and suddenly she wondered what would happen if she took the knife and sliced her wrist open.
Do it! Do it now!
She blinked, startled by the intensity of the voice in her head.
Don’t.
Her eyes widened. That voice was a male voice. It had not come from inside her head. No, she had felt cool breath in her ear. Dropping the knife, she spun around in startled dismay. Grant looked up from his coloring book, a number of crayons puddled around him.
He smiled shyly. "Hello."
Diane pulled herself from her dismay. "What? Who are you talking to?"
"Him," Grant said, pointing to a spot not far from where Diane stood. "He says his name is Angus."
Diane swallowed, not sure how to respond. Had she had invisible friends when she was his age? If so, wouldn't it seem natural to give them names? But he seemed so sure, so … she saw the way Grant was looking at her, his eyebrow lifted with expectation. She offered a wan smile as she turned and spoke to the invisible friend.
"I’m pleased to meet you, Angus."
Grant grinned.
The look on his face unsettled her. Her son couldn't possibly believe there was a man in the room.
But what had she heard, what had she felt?
Shaking her own doubts away she wondered about her son. Had he experienced some sort of psychological break? She didn't know what it was called. Something that happened to people sometimes when they experienced a shock. But until they had arrived here, he hadn't displayed any indications of … of imbalance.
She was about to say something to him about his new "friend" until the room dropped in temperature, her skin suddenly erupted in goosebumps, her breath misted before her. Like static electricity, she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up on end. Her mouth went dry, her heart pounded, and she stood still, peering around her. Was that a shadow? Impossible. She didn't believe in ghosts, spirits, or the afterlife.
"There's no one here, Grant," she finally said, doing her best to maintain a gentle tone of voice. She didn't want to dash his beliefs, but she had to put a stop to this, this wild imagination, or he would take her down with him.
"There is too!" Grant pouted. He pointed. "He’s standing right there next to you. And over there by the refrigerator is the mean lady. They don't like each other."
"Grant, stop talking like this. It's just your imagination."
"No, Mummy, it's not! Can't you see them? They're right there!"
"Grant, please. I know you're upset about your father, but this kind of pretending, it isn't healthy. It's not good for you."
Grant stood, tears glazing his eyes as he threw the purple crayon in his hand to the floor. It broke in half while he stood, glaring angrily at her.
"I'm not pretending!" he shouted. "Why won’t you believe me?"
She took a step toward him, hand extended. "Grant, there's no such thing as…" What could she say? Invisible friends… ghosts?
Grant turned and abruptly ran out of the kitchen. She heard his small feet pounding against the hallway floor. Then, much to her dismay, she heard the front door slam open. Her heart leaped into her throat.
"Grant!" She put the knife down on the counter and hurried after her son. Heart pounding, fear racing through her veins, she reached the front door, and horrified, saw Grant running pell-mell toward the edge of the cliff. "Grant! Grant, stop! You're getting too close!"
She raced after him, but his little legs had taken him so close to the edge … so close that if he didn't stop now, he would fly right off the edge.
"Grant!" she screamed. "Stop!"
Angus snatched the boy's arm and plucked him away from the edge of the cliff just before a bit of earth gave way beneath his feet. He tossed the boy further away from the edge of the cliff and once again felt himself falling, falling …
In the next instant, he stood atop the cliff, arms crossed over his chest as the boy's mother raced toward her son, her face filled with panic, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, and mouth open in silent horror.
The little boy was crying now, reaching for his mother. She gathered him close and clung to him tightly, lifting him in her arms as she quickly turned away from the cliff and headed back for the house.
"You've grown soft."
Angus barely spared a glance at Beatrice. "Go away."
He so desperately wanted to be free, but not like this. Not at the expense of a little boy like Grant or his mother, who obviously loved him so very dearly. He had always wanted children of his own, but after only a few months with Beatrice he had known that he would never subject any child of his to her bitterness and cruelty, her jealousy and petty ways.
"If you don't take them, I will!"
Angus turned toward her then, seeing her as the truly ugly being that she had always been, stripped of her beautiful exterior. She was nothing more now than decaying skin, half-skeletal, eyeballs round in their sockets.
"No!" His roar echoed above the sound of the waves far below. He wouldn't allow it. Beatrice liked to kill because that's who she was now. She had first tasted that power with his death at her hands. With each subsequent death, her power grew.
He turned toward the house where Diane had just disappeared, still cradling Grant close to her. Beatrice disappeared at the same
time that the front door slammed shut behind her.
Chapter 60
Diane had finally gotten Grant settled in bed. She sat on the edge, watching him breathe until she was sure he had fallen fast asleep. His deep, steady breaths reassured her, and she finally let the thoughts come.
What was happening? How could her son possibly … possibly suggest that he was seeing … she hated to even put a word to it. Ghosts. Not one, but two, and according to Grant, one was male, the other female.
Staring down at him sleeping so peacefully, his eyelashes gently resting against his pudgy cheeks, he looked so innocent, so angelic. He was a kind, compassionate, and happy child. Or had been, until his father had died. Was she to blame for this?
She had never indulged in a belief of the paranormal, ghosts, or spirits. When someone died, they died. If they were good, Diane believed they went to heaven. If they weren't, they went to hell. Jeremy was in heaven. And if Grant wanted to pretend to see ghosts, why didn't he pretend to see the ghost of his father?
Things like this didn't happen. Not in the twenty-first century! And yet, she couldn't deny her child's firm belief in the existence of two spirits in this very house. As she gazed around the room, she swallowed, her stomach fluttering, her heart thudding with anxiety. If it was true, where were they now? Was she being watched at this very moment?
She shook off such foolish thoughts. Still, for her son's sake, she resolved that first thing in the morning, after breakfast, she would call the taxi driver and ask him to pick them up early. She had paid for two more days, but because Grant was behaving so strangely, she didn't think it was such a good idea anymore. The thought of him running toward that cliff top would stay with her forever. It looked as if he was going over and then he had been lifted off his feet and sent backward. At the time she believed it must have been the wind, an up current but what if… No, she wouldn’t believe that, couldn’t believe that. She was just a distraught woman terrified that she would lose her child as well as her husband.