“So, what did you see or sense?”
“It occurred so long ago, but the images are still vivid. If I had Grams’ artistic ability, I’d draw every detail.” She grins, remembering rare occasions when guest piqued Tessa’s interest. From a discreet parlor corner, she’d sneak furtive glances as she sketched visitors’ portraits. At the end of their stay, and to their surprise, Tessa quietly gifted them the drawing. She sighs and continues. “It occurred downstairs. I sleepwalked as a child…”
“So, you’re a wee bit touched,” Jayson interjects with a chuckle.
“Touched!” Twyla squeals and elbows him in the side.
“Ow,” he moans with a muted laugh. “That wasn’t an insult. The Iroquois believed people have two souls, a conscious and sleeping one. When we’re asleep, the sleeping soul leaves the physical body and travels in dreams. Perhaps your sleeping soul walks with ghosts.”
“God, I hope not. What a frightful idea,” Twyla says with a shudder.
“I had a few sleepwalking episodes when I was six, but they only lasted a few months. My parents assumed it was the stress of moving and starting school in a new town. Though I have no recollection of those events, I’m positive it was preternatural,” Jayson says.
Twyla wonders if anxieties or specters explain her sleepwalking and the chill moments ago. “Why do you believe that?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Hmm, that’s a strong hunch for a child.”
“Hunches, inklings, intuition I’ve always trusted. So, what happened when you were a child?” he asks, tightening his lips.
She clears her throat and delves into a memory that’s never receded far in her mind, picturing her seven-year-old self as if the experience belonged to someone else. The memory’s a constant reminder of mysteries beyond her physical world. For this reason, she’s never doubted her family’s otherworldly beliefs. Without the encounter, she imagines she’d be as skeptical as Charlie. “During one sleepwalking episode, I wandered to the main floor in the middle of the night and woke to a strange white-gowned woman in the Grand Hall. She stared at me, then entered the cellar door. Her sad expression induced me to follow.
“Strange…”
“What?”
“I don’t recall descending the basement stairs, just standing in the storage room. The woman stood over Grams’ antique trunk, fiddling with the lock. I’ll never forget the loud clanks.” Twyla pauses, too embarrassed to mention pissing herself. “I’ve never experienced such a fright and never go near the trunk alone.”
“How old were you?”
“Seven.”
“What time was it?”
“Why?”
“Most people sense specters around midnight or dawn.”
Twyla shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know but it was pitch black.”
“You ever wonder why she guided you to the trunk?”
“Guided me?”
“You’ve never considered she wanted you to follow her to see what’s inside the trunk?”
“Oh wow, I never saw it that way. There’s nothing special in that trunk. Grams kept family heirlooms and photographs there. She insisted the trunk held valuables and locked them away. It was impossible to open. Besides…” she says, touching her collarbone, “…Grams secured the key inside this locket, which she wore everywhere.” And she has done the same since Tessa’s death but never removed the key. When the clasp broke, she’d considered storing it in the jewelry box but found a jeweler in town who repaired the tiny, antiquated fastening. Just like Grams, she’s never without the locket. When she learned Tessa left her the pendant, she wondered why her and not Skylar. But Grams knew how much she adored the piece.
“Have you opened the trunk since her death?”
“No. It’s in the storage room where it’s been since she passed. It looks as if it arrived on the Mayflower,” she says with a chuckle. “I believe it’s a steamer trunk.”
“Such craftsmanship, I love those trunks. My family owned one or two over the years,” Jayson says, gliding his index finger along Twyla’s nose, across her cupid’s bow, circling the outline of pouty lips. “Hmm,” he mumbles with narrowed eyes, “Aren’t you curious to see what your Grams hid away?”
“No,” she mutters, closing her eyes, picturing the high, rounded buckle-embellished trunk underneath the cellar window, surrounded by antique furniture and box-laden shelves. “I’ve never felt the slightest urge to rummage through her belongings. But now, with this new insight, I wonder what Tessa protected for years,” she says, tapping her feet against Jayson’s leg in contemplation. She opens her eyes, gazing from his long legs to his perfect toes edging the queen-sized bed.
“I had a similar ghostly experience in the Colonial where I’m staying.”
“Yeah. I remember you mentioning it on my first sleepover. I thought you were joking.”
“Nope, not a joke.”
“What happened?”
“I’d gotten up around one or two in the morning to use the bathroom when I saw something white waver through the door. As I approached, a girl clothed in a white nightgown was standing in the doorway, staring at the floor. I glanced away for just a second and she vanished. I assumed the spot near the bathtub is where she’d died. She’s still visible in my mind, wavering there in that 18th-century nightgown. When I told a colleague at the university, he said many students in off-campus housing reported seeing apparitions.”
“You sure you weren’t dreaming?”
Jayson quiets, turns on his side, and narrows his eyes at Twyla. “I’m amazed you’d ask that question. Was the woman you saw a dream?”
“No, no, no, I don’t mean it that way. I believe you. It’s just that… well, sometimes I’ve had lucid dreams where my senses are awake. I was dreaming, but it felt so real.”
“I knew mine wasn’t a dream.”
Twyla turns on her stomach, resting on her elbows with a curious gaze into his eyes. “How?”
“My sleeping soul was dormant. After the girl vanished, I didn’t go back to bed. I gathered my laptop, went straight to the kitchen, brewed tea, and worked on my dissertation at the dining-room table until dawn. Several times, I’d checked the bathroom, but she never reappeared.”
“My brave, curious man.”
“I’ve heard ghost sightings are rare instances people glimpse when specters are most active or visible. They’re just as surprised to see us as we are them,” Jayson states.
“Well, that explains the woman’s startled expression in the storage room.” Twyla holds his gaze, remembering many late-night conversations with Jayson. She loves that they discuss the craziest things without apprehension. “How strange…”
“What?”
“You, here, in my room, my bed after a year of sleeping at your place.”
“It’s time, don’t you think? I thought you’d never introduce me to your parents.”
“It’s not you. My dad believes dating interferes with schoolwork. And I didn’t want to hear, ‘Twyla, concentrate on your studies, not boys,’” she mimics in a bass voice and chuckles. “It’s a constant lecture of his. It was best to wait until school finished. I did you a favor. Charlie might have harangued you nonstop.”
“I could have handled it.” With a gentle press of his left thumb, Jayson tilts her chin upward and stares at her brown eyes that kindle his soul with a mere glance. “We can wait longer if you’re not ready to mention the engagement to your parents. There’s no rush.”
His tender voice stokes a rousing urge to press her body into his, curl into his skin. She’s deeply connected to Jayson during these moments. It’s been this way since the beginning when they spotted each other during her junior year, at the Day of Mourning in Plymouth, Massachusetts, walking in opposite directions. When she’d turned around, he’d stopped, doubled back toward her, introducing himself, “Hello, I’m Jayson.” Simultaneously they’d both asked, “Do I know you?” and laughed. He looked familiar because it wasn’t the first
time their paths crossed, but on campus.
Before he advanced toward the podium to deliver his speech, he’d spun around and yelled, “Wait for me here. I’d love to talk to you more.”
She’d nodded her head and replied, “Yes.”
He’d smiled and proceeded to the stage, blowing her mind with his powerful, professorial voice as he delivered a one-sentence opening, garnering applause. “Thanksgiving was the end of Native American culture.” She’d never seen a man look so exceptional in native garb, with two braids and feather earrings. His well-articulated speech increased his appeal.
On stage, he spoke of being the lone Native American in his high-school class and the isolation it brought those four years. His experience resonated with her, evoking memories of her sixth-grade Thanksgiving play. She was young but had learned of the Iroquois Confederacy’s annihilation from her family. When the teacher gave her the role of Squanto and asked her to sing, “This Land Is Your Land,” she’d protested, “I will not perpetuate a myth. Pilgrims stole Native Americans’ land.” Words she’d heard Grams and Papa articulate often. The teacher sent her to the principal’s office for disruptive behavior.
She’d scowled, refusing to retract her words, but there was no reprimand for her actions. Instead, the principal apologized for the teacher’s ignorance. “I’m ashamed history books have whitewashed your people’s story.”
Twyla hadn’t understood and asked, “Whitewashed?”
“Not represented accurately,” she’d said, looking at her with warm, green eyes.
It was reassuring, knowing a Caucasian agreed with her people. The tolerant principal threw her a commiserating smile, praised her mettle, and sent her back to class.
Jayson’s story was much her own as he spoke on the podium two years ago. Later that same day, she’d learned he was an adjunct professor at her university. They had been inseparable since that fated Thanksgiving.
Twyla ponders Jayson’s remark and winces. Prolonging their engagement announcement would only prolong her anxiousness. She sits up and straddles his hips. “My considerate man… Nah, let’s get it over with this weekend.” She leans over for a quick kiss, but he grips her waist and flips her on to her back. At once, she pictures Charlie on the third floor, knocking on Jayson’s door, then rushing straight to her suite when he doesn’t answer.
Jayson’s warm breath and soft lips skim her neck, a sensitive spot rousing a low moan in her throat and coursing tingles along her spine, vanquishing thoughts of Charlie. His drifting palm across her spine spikes her elevated pulse. She’s liquid, yielding, molding to his firm grasp, melding with her arching back. Her will is zilch as his hand slips to the waistband of her jeans, tugging and freeing the zipper along her lower abdomen. Her thoughts grow wanton as her jeans glide beneath her hips. She lifts her head to his pounding chest, prods her nose into his pulsing neck, relishing his natural, earthy scent. He lowers his mouth, and she finds his lips, locking hers with his, unable to stop, no longer caring her parents are two floors below in the family suite.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Bang!
Startled, Twyla snaps her head sideways and pushes Jayson away, believing Charlie’s at the door until she realizes the sound wasn’t from the main door. “What was that?”
“Hissssss!” Mystik complains in the corner with fangs exposed, back arched, hairs quill electrified in the air. She shrivels back and growls deeper with her eyes moving from the door to the bed. With her torso low to the floor, Mystik races beneath the chair, filling Twyla with alarm.
Startled from an excited state, Jayson heaves an agitated breath and sits upright, glancing toward the stairwell door. “It came from there,” he says, lifting his sweater from the floor and over his head.
At once, Twyla springs from the bed, pulling and zipping up her jeans. “No one uses the back stairwell except family.” She takes one step in her sock-clad feet, slides into a slight split, and catches her balance. “Whoa! There’s water on the floor.” Her eyes follow the watery pool from the door to the bed. “Did you spill water last night?”
“No, I never left your side,” he says, staring at the bottom of the door. “The trail is from the other side.”
It was me! Her mind screams. No, she ponders. Her clothing wasn’t soaked enough to leave puddles. “Odd,” she murmurs, unbolting and opening the door.
10
Watery Trail
The slight niggle scratching Twyla’s mind before opening the door heightens to gut-wrenching fear when she steps on to the wet landing. She spots Sky one flight below on the floor against the wall, head lolled to her chest, legs spread on the bottom step. A tight knot loops from her stomach to her throat. “No!” leaps from her mouth and a frantic dash ensues. “Mom!” Please, please, please be OK!
Twyla’s foot slips, and her leg sails forward. She seizes the rail before her bottom smacks the step. In an instant, she scoots forward, crawling on her knees to Skylar’s side. She checks her pulse with tears welling her eyes, and a familiar pain crushing her heart. The same heartrending ache that occurred with Grams’ and Papa’s loss arises again.
Taking Sky’s wrist and pressing her index and middle finger on the underside, she can’t discern whether it’s her pulse racing in her fingers or Sky’s. Twyla runs two fingers along her neck to her carotid artery, finding a steady beat.
She’s OK… just unconscious.
Twyla exhales. “Mom? Mom wake up…” she begs with a light shake of Sky’s shoulder.
Descending swiftly, Jayson maneuvers past puddles, glancing at the ceiling and walls. “Is she OK?” He asks and stoops beside Sky, checking her breath.
“She must have slipped on the water. It’s odd, though, there’re no crevices water can leak through, no busted pipes or open windows.” Softly patting her arms and legs, he continues to check her throat and head. “Mrs. Ferguson?” he says, adding, “She’s out cold. Let’s get her into her room.”
“Please be careful, you could injure her further.”
“Where to, Twinkles?” Jayson asks, lifting Mom without a grunting breath.
“This way.” Twyla guides him to the second floor, through an exit into the family suite’s enclosed lakeside porch. Through drawn shades, Twyla senses the storm growing fiercer, raising her alarm.
Skylar stirs in Jayson’s arms. “Ow!” she moans, rubbing her forehead. At once, aware of Jayson, she stares, dazed, with furrowed brows.
The knot crushing Twyla’s gut slackens with Sky’s waking. Twyla squeezes her arm for reassurance. “Mom, you OK?”
“Mrs. Ferguson, any pain?”
Confusion clouds her face as she stares over her shoulder, nestling her forehead in her palm. “Just a headache. Was I unconscious long?”
“Not long. We… I heard your fall and came at once. What happened, Mom?”
“I slipped and banged my head a little.”
“A little? I thought a boulder crashed into the wall,” Twyla says.
“We jumped from bed with the sound,” Jayson says without forethought.
Twyla throws Jayson a scowling headshake, and glances back at Sky, hoping the gist of his words had flown over her head.
“You sure your head’s OK, Mrs. Ferguson?”
“Please, it’s Sky.” She squints at Jayson then lowers her head with a pained expression. “Well, this is awkward,” she says with a guffaw. “Not the introduction I’d planned.”
“Nothing’s ever accidental…”
“Come, it’s this way,” Twyla interrupts, tugging his arm, afraid he’ll start spouting wise Native-American proverbs.
Jayson follows through another door straight into the warm family lounge, glowing with flickering firelight on laurel mist walls, a pale green made sinister gray in shadows. In the corner, a spangled labyrinth fades when Twyla turns on bright overhead lights. On the large pedestal table, tall crystal vases stand unfilled, circled by decorative winter florals, yet to adorn guestrooms for the Christmas season. Neither Grams nor Mom had ever
wanted a florist to create them, preferring to conceive their own designs.
“There,” Sky says, directing him toward twin armchairs flanking the mosaic-stone-faced fireplace.
Striding across the floor, Jayson eases her into the seat. “We should get you to a hospital to rule out injuries” he says, examining her head.
Sky adjusts her body in the chair, resting her elbow on the armrest. “Not in this storm, you’d risk your lives on those treacherous roads.”
Jayson walks to the window and opens the shades to a raging blizzard. “Holy shit!” Jason declares, instantly aware of his words. “Excuse me,” he says, turning his head toward the oblivious women. “It didn’t look this severe in your room.”
Twyla peers at Sky, gnawing on her bottom lip. With Sky’s head sunk in her hand, Twyla can’t tell whether she caught Jayson’s blunder. “It’s freaky… just came out of nowhere.”
Jayson saunters back to the fireplace, noting Twyla’s glare and retracts his remark. “I… um, I noticed the snowstorm in my room earlier,” he stammers, glancing at Twyla with wide eyes and drifting toward Skylar. He crouches before her chair, elevating her leg on the ottoman. When he whisks hair behind his ear, the wolf clan tattoo flexes around his forearm muscles.
Impressed with Jayson’s attentiveness, Sky glances at Twyla with a grin and arched brows.
Just as surprised, Twyla’s face skews.
Jayson lifts his head, catching Sky’s grin and Twyla’s cockeyed expression, feigning ignorance of their sly glances. He lowers his gaze and tugs Sky’s boots from her bare feet, sets them near the warm hearthside, wiping moisture on his jeans. “It must be the water from the stairs.”
“No, it’s snow. I was outside earlier…” Sky narrows her eyes on their faces. “So you both saw the water?”
The surprised tone in her voice strikes Twyla as odd. It’s impossible to miss the water. “Well, yeah. The puddles start at the second-floor landing straight to my room.”
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