The Box in The Cuts: A Supernatural Mystery

by Debra Castaneda

  Everyone is staring at Mary, uneasily, unsure what to say when Raj goes over to the largest window and opens the blind. “There!” he says in an overly cheerful voice. “That's better!”

  Alfie claps as the afternoon light pours in, but Destiny shouts, “I had that closed for a reason, thank you!”

  When Raj sees Destiny's furious face, he yanks it down, once again blocking the view.

  Chloe nudges me and we exchange looks. We have no idea what this is about, but now is not the time to get into it. The meeting is already running behind.

  The next hour drags by. The last time we met, the ideas just seemed to flow. But now, it's like we've all come down with writer's block. We throw out one lame idea after another. Everyone except for Mary, who just sits there. Destiny paces the outer edges of the living room, distracted.

  The real problem is that not a lot has happened since Monica died. Whatever small updates we've discovered, we've already posted to our site. Then the obvious hits me. The outbreak of appliance fires in Hillside. I share what I learned, and everyone gets excited. The guys get even more excited when Chloe and I tell them about the shuttle bus catching fire.

  There’s more I can tell everyone, but Alfie and I decided in advance that we'd keep what we heard about the sighting of a strange woman in Monica's backyard and any talk of ghosts to ourselves. At least until we could find out more.

  “I can't believe the media hasn't done anything about spontaneous combustion,” Raj says. He darts another worried glance in Mary's direction.

  Alfie shrugs. “I don't know if anyone else has figured out how many appliance fires there've been.”

  Chloe nods. “A reporter would have to spend a lot of time making calls to find out about the fires and even if they did find out, they'd probably think, so what? How's that connected to the cases of the girls?”

  “So how do we connect them?” Alfie asks, leaning forward. He's wearing his black-framed glasses.

  “We don't,” I say. “At least not yet. Let's just do a straight-up story about the appliances spontaneously combusting. Just to get it on the record. Interview someone from the fire department, see what they have to say.”

  “I like it,” Alfie says. Then he snaps his fingers. “Wait. How many days has it been since Monica died?”

  “Fourteen,” Chloe says without hesitation.

  I immediately see where Alfie is going with this. I get up, grip the back of a chair. “It was twenty-two days between Emily and Nicole.”

  Chloe whips out her phone, scrolls. “Twenty between Nicole and Monica.”

  Destiny gasps. “Is that a pattern?”

  “Probably. I think there needs to be three of something to make a pattern,” says Raj. We all turn to look at him. “You know, like a serial killer. Three murders is usually the definition.”

  Mary is sitting straight up. She's blinking rapidly, but her eyes are focused. She's paying close attention to the conversation. Her face is ashen.

  “What's twenty-two minus fourteen?” asks Destiny, a hand pressed against the side of her head. Chloe and I look at her in astonishment. Destiny is in the most advanced math class Hillside High offers, and now she can't do simple subtraction?

  “Eight,” we say. Destiny gives a little moan, turns, and runs out of the living room.

  “Eight days,” Mary says, wringing her hands.

  Alfie stands up. “Anyone know what's going on here? Mary? Eight days? Is that supposed to mean something?”

  Mary hesitates. “Someone else could die,” she says quietly, looking straight ahead. “In six to eight days. It might be a pattern.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Alfie says, scowling.

  “Twenty-two days is the biggest gap between the first two girls,” Mary says, falling back in her chair. “It’s been fourteen days since Monica. If we’re looking for a pattern, you subtract fourteen from twenty-two and get eight. Six if you use the smaller gap of twenty.” Then she begins staring off into space again. Raj leans over and whispers something in her ear, but she shakes her head and just blinks. Raj shoots me a pleading look.

  I kneel in front of Mary, giving her arms a little shake. Up this close I can see tiny beads of sweat above her top lip. “You're scaring us, Mary. Are you okay?” She nods, but her lips are pinched, and she won't answer any of my questions.

  Chloe has disappeared. Off in the distance I can hear her knocking on a door and asking, then demanding, that Destiny open it.

  The front door flies open and we all jump, even Alfie. It’s Destiny's younger sister, Faith. She throws her backpack under a bench in the entry way and then stomps past us with a friendly, “Hey all.”

  Faith is blonde, in the eighth grade and, unlike her older sister, willowy like their mother. It's a sore spot for Destiny, who takes after her father. Madison keeps telling her to embrace her curves, but Destiny wants nothing more than to be one of those thin girls with long arms and legs.

  I scurry after Faith. She's in the hallway headed toward her bedroom, and then she surprises me by making the first left: Destiny's bedroom.

  When I follow her inside, she's whipping off her clothes and changing into sweatpants and a T-shirt. "What are you doing in here?" I ask.

  Faith flops on the bed. "We switched rooms."

  The bed, I notice, has a new quilt. There are new posters on the wall, boy bands. Gone are Destiny's prints of dragons, unicorns, and other mystical creatures.

  I don't understand why Destiny would want to switch because this room is bigger and has a nicer view. Faith's bedroom overlooks the small backyard and has no view at all. I'm not sure why the swap seems important, but it is. I can feel it. “But why? She's had this room forever.”

  Faith springs to her feet and walks to the window. Then she waves me over. “Because of that,” she announces, pointing. My eyes scan the rise and fall of twisting streets, the wooded hills, the high school off in the distance. I can see bits of downtown Hillside, too. “I don't get it,” I finally say.

  Faith taps a fingernail against the glass. “There! The Wirth Mansion! She said she never wants to see it again, that's why.” And there it is. This far up, it's like looking at an aerial photo of the old mansion. It sits in the middle of a large property that takes up a whole block.

  “But why?”

  Faith shrugs, then looks down at her phone. “Ask her. She's been acting freaky, that's all I know.”

  Chapter 29

  Marguerite: Hillside 1868

  The weather was so very stormy this morning I thought the train from San Francisco would certainly be canceled, but contrary to my expectations David Wirth arrived in the afternoon. Which was an enormous relief after all the work we did getting ready for him.

  Mrs. A. shook me awake hours before the sun rose.

  It was to the young gentleman's bedroom that I was escorted. And there awaited an enormous new featherbed, along with bedclothes of the finest quality. I had to make the bed three times before Mrs. A. was satisfied. But still my work was not over.

  William delivered fresh flowers, with a look so longing that I feared it could not possibly escape the notice of Mrs. A, who hovered nearby. But no, she did not notice she was that distracted by young Mr. Wirth’s visit.

  I went about my work of arranging the flowers, dusting the gas lights, and fetching fresh towels from the washroom, clear on the other side of the house.

  Just as I was finishing, William arrived again, this time carrying a whatnot. Mrs. Wirth swept in behind him with a basket filled with bric-a-brac.

  In the harsh tone that is her custom, she ordered me to arrange the bits and pieces in as artful a manner as I could muster. This is a most pleasurable task and I take my time over it. I place a coral here, a conch shell there, toy with where the pretty little figurines should go so they look best on the shelves. But this comes to an end when Mrs. A. begins hollering my name from below.

  I run all the way down the backstairs, through the servant's passageway and out to th
e front hall.

  When I arrive, I am flustered and breathless.

  And there is David Wirth himself, all covered in mud. He is much taller than I imagined. His hair is a glorious color, like the sun itself. Mrs. Wirth is in such a state, wringing her hands, making a fuss, but doing nothing in the way of helping. Instead, this falls to me.

  “Get some cloth, girl!” Mrs. Wirth shouts when she sees me.

  “Yes, ma'am,” I say, turning on my heel.

  “Now mother, surely the girl has a name,” says David. His tone is pleasant, but serious.

  “It is Marguerite,” she says dismissively. “And what are you standing there for, girl? He will catch his death. Go! Go!”

  And so I do, as hurriedly as I can. But I do not hurry on account of that woman. It's for David that I run, for the poor young man must be cold on this chilly, wet day.

  When I return, Mrs. Wirth is so distraught that she's taken off to rest and recover. Mrs. A. asks me to accompany her to David's room where she requires my assistance, as there is no male servant in the house respectable enough to attend to him.

  I am asked to wait outside while young Mr. Wirth undresses. Mrs. A. opens the door a crack, shoves through the damp, filthy clothes and orders me to take them to the washroom. While he cleans himself up, I unpack his baggage and lay out fresh garments on the bed.

  When I see him again at dinner, he is the picture of a perfect young gentleman.

  Just as Mrs. A. claimed, he may well be the most handsome man in all of California with his golden hair and bright brown eyes. Certainly, he is the most handsome man in the room, though some of Hillside's finest have heeded Mrs. Wirth's invitation.

  While serving, I must concentrate very hard so as not to displease Mrs. Wirth, who watches me with her black, close together eyes. And when she is not watching me, she is watching David watching me, for that is how the young man is spending most of his meal.

  He is not loud or boastful, but even I have noticed he's drunk a bit of champagne, mostly because his father insisted upon on it, saying “Drink up, David, my boy!”

  The men talk of business in San Francisco, of fortunes to be made, of ships being built, of the shortage of ladies.

  I find an excuse to stay in the room so I can hear more.

  “There are just not enough wimmin to go around for all the males who want them!” declares a stout gentleman with a red face.

  “Isn’t that so, David?” Mr. Wirth nudges his son.

  “Yes, father, that does seem to be the case,” David replies, glancing at me.

  All of this does capture my attention. The women I knew lived and worked at the gambling saloon. Rarely did I venture into the streets. When I did, there were few respectable ladies about.

  This must be why David Wirth keeps looking at me every chance he gets: he has not had occasion to see many fine looking, respectable young ladies like myself.

  There and then I decide. While William is a most appealing man, David Wirth is every bit as handsome. He is also in possession of a fine character and prospects more worthy of my attentions.

  When Mr. Wirth asks for more champagne for his son, I rush over and fill his glass. My hand brushes his arm, a little touch made to look innocent, accidental. When he looks up, he gazes at me a little too long because Mrs. Wirth snaps, “That will be all, Marguerite. We have no more need of you.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” I say in my prettiest, softest voice.

  When I turn to leave, I can feel David's eyes on me as I go.

  Chapter 30

  My phone blows up as I'm driving to Gabe's for another swim after school. It's Friday and I'm hoping the swim turns into dinner and who knows what else.

  There's no ignoring the texts. I'm getting so many that I pull over and see what the big emergency is. I'm sure it's my mother. Somehow, she's found out I've been lying because I still haven't told her about Gabe, not with the way she's been acting.

  But it's not my mother. It's Madison.

  I call her and she picks up immediately and starts babbling.

  “Slow down,” I say, alarmed. “What about Mary? Where are you?”

  “I'm at work. At the mansion. Mary McKissick is here. And she's acting bat shit crazy. Can you come?” Madison sounds more than a bit desperate. “I don't know what to do with her.”

  “And I do?”

  “You know her better, and I'm supposed to be working, not chasing her around to make sure she doesn't get into trouble. If one of the other tour guides sees her, they'll call the police or an ambulance or something.”

  “Shit. Is she that bad?” I ask.

  “Yes, she is that bad. So please hurry the fuck up.”

  “You're welcome!” I shout into the phone, which is now dead because she's already hung up.

  I text Gabe saying something has come up, and he sends back a string of sad faced emojis.

  When I pull into the lot at the Wirth Mansion, Madison is already there, pacing. She's dressed in her tour guide uniform: a long dark skirt, high necked white blouse and her hair pulled back into a low bun. She looks like a teacher from an old western movie instead of a Viking warrior.

  “I love you, thank you,” she says, then grabs my arm and drags me through a gap in a hedge.

  A long path, mostly hidden by overgrown shrubs, snakes around the mansion and when we finally emerge, we're near the back entrance. Madison pauses, looks around, then pulls me behind her down a steep hill.

  I'm panting from all the running. “Where are we going?”

  “This is the shortcut to the carriage house.”

  When we finally come to a stop, we're in a little clearing. There's a creek next to a wooden building that looks like it's falling apart. A shaft of sunlight is shining on the water. Next to it is a bench and on it is Mary McKissick. She's rocking back and forth.

  “See?” Madison says nervously. “She was up at the house earlier. I found her talking to one of the portraits.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, I’m serious. I wouldn’t make up something like that. She was standing in front of one of the portraits and she was practically having a conversation.”

  “How long has she been down here?”

  Madison shrugs. “An hour. At least. I practically had to drag her out of the Grand Parlor. I left her in the bathroom, and she seemed better. Normal. Then I lost her for a while, but I found her, like that.”

  We stare at Mary. It looks like she's having an intense conversation, except no one else is around and we can't hear what she's saying. She also doesn't seem to know we're there.

  I clear my throat. “Mary?”

  She startles so violently that she pitches forward off the bench and lands on all fours in the dirt. We rush forward and help her up.

  She blinks at us, as if she's just woken up from a nap.

  “Mary, what are you doing here?” I ask, brushing dirt off the palms of her hands.

  “Here?” she echoes.

  Madison frowns. “Yes. The Wirth Mansion. You've been here since 2:45. It's almost four. And this is not the first time. I've seen you here before, twice.”

  I glance at Madison, who's tone is way too harsh. She shrugs. “It's true. She has.”

  “I can't help it,” Mary says suddenly, sinking onto the bench. Then she bursts into tears.

  I sit next to her and pat her back. “Can't help what?” When I glance at Madison, she's rolling her eyes. I shoot her a dirty look.

  Whatever I've said causes Mary to begin crying noisily. When she finally calms down, she says, “I can't help coming here. To the mansion. I can't explain it. I came here on a tour. And then, I don't know. I started having dreams about this place. And I keep thinking about it.”

  “Mary,” I say firmly. “Are you hearing voices? Anything like that?”

  Her eyes widen. She bites a lip, then shakes her head.

  “You can tell me the truth, Mary. I just want to help you.”

  “No,” she says stubbornly. “I'm not
. I've been having headaches. And earaches. My mom says it's probably just a sinus infection. They make you feel terrible.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling us, Mary? You’ve seemed really worried lately. At Destiny’s house, you said there might be a pattern. That someone else could die.”

  “In six to eight days,” she says faintly.

  “Do you actually think that’s going to happen?” Madison says. I give Madison a warning look, but it’s too late. The sound of Madison’s businesslike tone brings Mary to her feet.

  She's a bit unsteady, but it's clear she's trying to pull herself together. “I don’t want to talk about that anymore,” she says with surprising firmness. Then turning to me, she adds, “Thank you. Really. You're always so nice to me, Samantha.”

  We take the long way back to the entrance, a flat path that runs next to the tall iron gate surrounding the property. Raj is just arriving. He may be a new boyfriend, but already he's winning all kinds of awards for commitment and loyalty.

  The wind is picking up. Clouds are moving in over the ridge of mountains that separates Hillside from the ocean, ten miles away. Leaves flutter across the parking lot. I think about Destiny and how she switched bedrooms, just so she wouldn't have to look at the place where I'm now standing.

  What is it about the Wirth Mansion, besides just being old and creepy? One girl can't stand to see it. Another girl can't stay away from it.

  “What portrait was she looking at? In the Grand Parlor?” I ask Madison, who's clearly anxious to get back to work.

  Madison makes a face. “Mmm, not sure exactly. Either David Wirth or his mother. They're both right next to each other, so it's hard to tell.”

  “Any reason she'd be interested in those?”

  Madison shrugs. “The mother looked like a total bitch, so she was probably looking at him. I mean, he was kind of hot. All the tour guides are always talking about how handsome he was.”

  “So why do you think Mary ended down there? By that building. What was it by the way?”