Don't Tell a Soul

by Kirsten Miller

  * * *

  —

  I walked a few blocks to the river and stood at the end of a dock that stretched out over the water. The first time I saw a picture of Manhattan island surrounded by ice, I was convinced it couldn’t be real. Then my father told me it used to happen most winters. You could walk all the way across the frozen Hudson River from Manhattan to the mainland. The winter my dad died, I kept my eyes on the Hudson whenever I rode down the West Side Highway. I swore to myself that if it ever froze over, I’d spring out at a stoplight and make my escape. It never happened.

  In Louth, the same river seemed impossibly wide, and despite the fact that the air was bitter cold, the water in the middle was still moving freely. Floating along the banks were circular patches of ice that resembled translucent lily pads. It was tempting to think you might be able to hop from one to the next. But I was already starting to suspect that escaping from Louth would be no easy feat. I believed Maisie when she’d said that the place was dangerous. But it made no difference to me. I wasn’t going anywhere until I had the answers I needed, and I had absolutely nothing to lose.

  When I finally turned back toward home, I noticed three gorgeous old houses perched on a hill looking over the river just north of town. Though none of them were as big or seemed quite as old as my uncle’s manor, they’d weathered the years with far more grace. The first house on the row looked empty, but smoke billowed from the chimneys of the other two. Maisie had mentioned she lived in the second one. A figure in a black coat was walking down the riverside road. It was the guy I’d seen outside the bakery. There was nothing else in that direction. Perhaps he was paying my new friend a visit—or maybe he called the other house home.

  The sun had briefly peeked out from behind the clouds while I stood on the dock, but as I made my way back to the manor, the wind picked up speed and dark clouds gathered over the forest. The weather was growing wilder and the temperature was plunging. I realized I needed to get home in a hurry.

  The road narrowed outside of town, and trees crowded together at the edge of the asphalt. A sharp crack echoed like a gunshot in the woods, and I heard a branch plummet to the ground somewhere out of sight. Others followed as trees sacrificed limbs to the ice, snow, and wind. I had almost reached the drive to the house when I heard a vehicle approaching from behind. I stepped to the side of the road, and a battered pickup rolled past. Three large men had crammed themselves into the cab. The truck slowed almost to a stop as the men craned their necks for a look at me. I suddenly realized where I was—out in the middle of nowhere all alone. My panic surged when I remembered I’d left my phone charging in the rose room. I couldn’t even call for help if I needed to.

  When the truck disappeared around a curve in the road, I slipped into the woods to hide. A few seconds later, it returned, just as I had suspected it would. It came to a stop right where I’d been standing.

  “Hello!” a man shouted. “You out there? You need a ride?”

  I was crouched behind a snow-covered stump a few feet from the road, shivering and praying they wouldn’t spot my frozen breath.

  “You think it was one of the dead girls?” I heard one of the other men say. The other two didn’t laugh. It wasn’t a joke.

  “Don’t be stupid,” the first responded. “That was Howland’s niece.”

  The window went up, and the vehicle drove off. I waited until I heard nothing but the wail of the wind and the crackling of the icy forest around me. Avoiding the road, I trudged through the snow between the trees until I reached the manor’s drive.

  Maisie had said Louth was no place for people like us. I wondered if she’d had men like that in mind. My heart was still battering my ribs, and my mouth had gone dry. The metallic taste of fear coated my tongue. Maybe they hadn’t intended to scare me. Maybe they’d only meant to get me out of the cold. Maybe I could have trusted them. But I knew that there was a dangerous gap beneath every leap of faith. I’d fallen in once. I wasn’t going to let it happen again.

  The weather only got worse while I climbed the hill. When I reached the top and saw the manor waiting, I felt almost giddy with relief. I didn’t believe in curses, and I didn’t give a damn if the house was haunted. The man in the truck had spoken of dead girls with a respect I doubt he’d have shown to any living young woman. I assumed he was referring to the girls Maisie had mentioned. If so, he was scared for the same reason that I wasn’t frightened at all. The living terrified me, but I didn’t fear ghosts. The dead are supposed to be buried and dealt with. But they don’t always go away. That’s what I was counting on—and what terrified him.

  * * *

  —

  As I walked toward the house, the sun began to dim. There didn’t appear to be any lights on inside, and it occurred to me that there might be no one home. I tried the front door, and it was locked. For the first time, I noticed the number of keyholes along the edge of the door. A few appeared to be brand-new—as did the digital keypad above the bell. It seemed unusual for an inn to have so much security. The whole idea was to invite people inside. I wondered who my uncle was trying to keep out.

  I pressed the bell and waited, but no one answered. I hadn’t explored the mansion enough to know where the other entrances could be. I stepped back from the doorway and looked up at the house. The ivy clinging to the façade seemed to writhe in the wind. Where the snow had fallen away, I could see that its serpentine vines remained a vibrant green. I was reaching out a hand to touch it when movement on the far side of the grounds caught my eye. A bulky figure in a dark down coat was heading toward me. He wore a knit cap and a scarf pulled up over his nose.

  There was nowhere to go. I looked around for a weapon, and all I could find was a snow shovel leaning against a wall. I grabbed it and turned. “What do you want?” I demanded.

  He pulled his scarf down, revealing the chiseled jaw of an old-school superhero. “I’m Sam,” he said.

  “Miriam’s son?” he added when he saw that the name hadn’t registered. “I watched you come up the drive. Mom’s at the store and your uncle is out. I figured you might not be able to get inside.” He pulled out a ring of keys so large, it resembled a medieval weapon.

  I relaxed a little, but not completely. “Why do you have keys to my house?” I asked, wondering if he’d been the one I’d heard sneaking around the manor the previous night.

  “I work here,” he said politely, but in a tone that made it clear I was out of line.

  “Sorry.” I felt like an ass. “I’m Bram.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he replied. He seemed to have no interest in me. I liked that about him.

  “I’m a little on edge. Some local guys scared the hell out of me on the way here.”

  Sam left a key dangling in the third lock and looked over at me. “What did they do?” he asked.

  I hesitated. I knew how it was going to sound. “Offered me a ride.”

  He nodded and got back to work. “On a freezing cold day in the middle of winter. Definitely serial killers,” he said with a perfectly straight face as he continued to open the door one lock at a time.

  “Are you making fun of me?” I really wasn’t sure.

  “I’m just kidding. This isn’t New York City. No one from Louth is out to get you.” He made me feel ridiculous.

  “That’s not what I heard,” I shot back. I didn’t appreciate being treated like an idiot.

  “Oh yeah? From who?”

  “A girl named Maisie. She told me I should be careful.”

  “That’s probably good advice,” said Sam. “Maisie knows a thing or two. But so do I, and I stand by what I said. You don’t have to worry about anyone from Louth. I can’t speak for anyone else, though.”

  Sam opened the last lock, tapped a code into the security pad, and opened the door. “Here you go,” he said, holding a cluster of keys out to me. “Keep them until you g
et your own set. The code for the door is ten-oh-eight-eighty-two. He changes it every week.”

  I felt the blood drain out of my face. “What was the code?”

  “Ten-oh-eight-eighty-two.” His eyes widened and he reached out an arm to steady me. “Are you okay?”

  “That was my aunt Sarah’s birthday,” I said. Why would he have chosen that number, though? Was it meant to be an expression of love? Or was it a message? And if so, was it meant for me?

  “Was Sarah James’s first wife?” Sam asked. “Were the two of you close?”

  “I’m really sorry,” I told him, pulling my arm free from his grip. “I need to go.”

  “Hey, wait!” he called out as I walked away.

  I turned back, thinking maybe he knew something about Sarah.

  “You should leave the shovel here,” he said. “If you ever get snowed in, I’ll need it to dig you out.”

  I’d forgotten all about the shovel. I went back and set it against the wall. The last thing I wanted was to be sealed inside.

  * * *

  —

  I ran up the stairs to the rose room, but stopped just inside the door. The suitcase I’d left standing against the wall was now on the floor. The zipper was open less than an inch. I’m sure most people wouldn’t have noticed, but I’d spent seventeen years with the world’s biggest snoop, and I always knew when someone had been through my things. I spotted my phone charging on the bedside table. I’d left it facedown as always. Now it was lying faceup. When I opened my suitcase, I could tell that the contents had shifted ever so slightly. I picked up a bra that I knew for a fact had been tucked into the side of my suitcase. Someone had moved it while I was gone. I looked back at the open door that led to the hall. Once again, I felt the strange sensation that someone was watching me.

  The phone rang, and I jumped up and rushed for the door. I slammed it, locked it, and stood there staring at it while the phone continued to ring. I didn’t need to look at the caller ID. There was only one person it could be—everyone else had been blocked. I caught my breath and then answered.

  “I’ve been phoning all day! Why haven’t you called me?” my mother demanded.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her. “My phone was dead, and I’ve been getting to know my new home.”

  “After everything that’s happened, when you don’t let me know you’re okay, I imagine the worst,” my mother answered.

  And what would that be? I wanted to ask her, but I didn’t dare. My mother’s voice was my kryptonite. No matter what words she chose, the message was always the same. I was incompetent, immature—a danger to myself and everyone around me. “I’m sorry,” I said instead.

  “Well, I spent last night worried about you when I should have been networking. The gala was a big success, by the way. We raised over five million dollars for abandoned pets. Can you believe it?”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “I know your pets are like children to you.”

  “I hope you’re not being funny,” she said.

  “Of course not,” I insisted. “I would never joke about my siblings.”

  She seemed to accept this. “Everyone was there,” she said. “We didn’t have a single no-show.”

  “Not even the Lanes?” I asked.

  “Not only were the Lanes there,” she said, her voice swelling with pride, “but they were among the night’s biggest donors. They gave a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “So does that mean I can come home when I’m ready?”

  During the pause that followed, I dug my nails into the palm of my hand.

  “Bram—”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Forget I asked.”

  “Bram, darling, I promise things will be back to normal eventually. But the wounds are still fresh, and all the old temptations are still here. You’re going to need more time. We all need more time.”

  “More time without me.”

  “Bram—”

  I’d only been yanking her chain. I hadn’t been serious. But now I could feel hot tears trickling burning trails down my cheeks. I tried not to sniffle. To keep my voice steady. I didn’t want her to know she still had that kind of power over me.

  “By the way, I think James has told people why I’m really here,” I said.

  “Told them what?” My mother’s tone of voice could turn on a dime.

  “All of it,” I lied.

  “He has?” I imagined the look of horror on her face, and I grinned.

  “Yep. I think he even told the maid.”

  “The maid?” Then the panic left her voice. I’d pushed it too far. “Very funny, Bram.”

  I wiped my face. “Maybe I’ll tell them all.”

  “Don’t you dare,” she whispered. “Don’t tell a soul.”

  Those were the words I’d been waiting for. I didn’t plan to tell anyone. I just wanted to hear her say it again.

  “The Lanes agreed not to press charges, Bram. But that could change. This is your future we’re talking about, darling.”

  “I know,” I told her.

  I was only playing along with her game. We both knew I didn’t have a future.

  After that phone call, I just wanted to be alone. I was sick of the living, so I spent the rest of the afternoon with Grace Louth. She might have been dead for more than a century, but she’d clearly left an indelible mark on the town that bore her name. By all accounts, Lark had found her fascinating, which meant I needed to get to know Grace, too.

  According to countless “Beyond the Grave” websites, Grace Louth drowned in the Hudson, just as my uncle James had told me. Over the years, I’d read a hundred stories just like hers. Grace was secretly engaged to a boy who’d “stolen her flower.” When her father found out about the impending nuptials, he paid the young man to leave town. Just as her father had predicted, the young man then outed himself as a scoundrel by immediately marrying another woman. So Grace did what any self-respecting girl would have done. She put on her wedding dress, ran into town, and threw herself into the river. Her bridal veil was discovered days later, tangled up in a tree branch that had washed up onshore twenty miles south of Louth.

  I found a dozen versions of the tale, but all agreed on the cause of death. Heartbreak had led poor Grace Louth to suicide. Judging by all the spooky stories I’d read over the years, that seemed to be how lots of ladies kicked the bucket back in the day. At least that’s what people liked to believe. Driven insane by betrayal, girls got gussied up in their wedding dresses and threw themselves into rivers. Afterward, they’d curse the houses where they’d suffered so horribly. It was a simple tale readers could all wrap our heads around. No one ever asked what had really happened, of course. The truth always got buried along with the girls.

  Grace’s story took an unusual turn following her fatal plunge. Shortly after her death, a sharp-eyed mourner noticed something odd about the mural in her bedroom. In the summer, weeks before she’d died, Grace’s father had hired an artist to decorate the walls with a pastoral scene. That’s how the mural in my bedroom had been painted. Apparently, when the artist had finished, Frederick Louth had found the nighttime scene a bit odd, but the artist’s work was so lovely, he hadn’t complained. Long after the artist had finished, and days after Frederick Louth’s only daughter had died, a guest pointed to a small figure in the otherwise deserted landscape. It was a portrait of Grace. Dressed in a white gown, she was running down the hill toward the river, her long blond hair streaming behind her. No one doubted that the mural showed the girl on the night she died.

  Some said the portrait, painted weeks before Grace’s death, had been a prophecy of the tragedy yet to come. Others swore up and down that the girl didn’t show up on the wall until after Grace died. Many attempts were made to locate the artist, but the person appeared to have vanished into thin air. Over the
days that followed, the manor’s servants became convinced that Grace’s restless spirit remained in Louth Manor. They claimed she would emerge from the painting after dark and roam the halls. Then, late one night, Frederick Louth was found dead in the rose room. The doctors said he’d suffered a heart attack trying to pry the plaster off the walls.

  Aside from the mural, which I’d seen for myself, there was one more thing that made Grace’s story different. Photographic evidence. On the day of Grace’s funeral, a newspaper sent a photographer to capture the manor. There was no one home at the time the picture was taken—the residents and staff were all at church. And yet there seemed to be a fuzzy figure standing behind the rose room windows. When I squinted, it almost looked like a young woman in a wedding dress.

  Is this the ghost of mad Grace Louth? asked the caption. That’s when I put down the phone and stopped reading. Mad. The word hadn’t left my head since James had used it. I liked it. It was such a shame, I thought, that the term had gone out of fashion. I couldn’t think of another that fit me so perfectly.

  I was mad that everyone had called me unhinged. I was mad I’d been told I couldn’t trust my own eyes. I was mad that I’d ever questioned myself. I was mad that they might have gotten away with it all. But I wasn’t crazy. And I was convinced that Lark and Grace hadn’t been, either.

  I slid off the bed and found Grace’s portrait on the wall. I stood there and studied it. I still could have sworn she looked thrilled. I didn’t know her real story. And no one knew mine. But I suddenly didn’t feel quite so alone. There were three of us now.

  Three mad girls.

  Around six that evening, I heard a knock. My eyes moved to the door, and I watched the handle twist back and forth in vain. I knew the door wouldn’t open. I’d locked it and wedged a chair under the knob.

  “It’s Miriam,” the housekeeper called through the wood. “I came to see if you’d like some dinner.”