Whispers from the Dead

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  Mom looked at me gratefully. “How about tackling the little room and bath next to the kitchen? We put some of the empty moving boxes in there to get them out of the way. You could take them out to the garage and dust and sweep the room. We ought to be able to make good use of it. It might be a good place to put the desk and computer.”

  “Dad said it was a maid’s room.”

  Mom laughed. “A live-in maid doesn’t fit our budget.”

  She went back to her work with the cabinets, and I dragged the big packing boxes out of the maid’s room and into the garage. When the room was empty of clutter, I stopped to examine it. “If we put bookshelves along the walls and a window seat under that one window, this would make a terrific library,” I told Mom. “Wouldn’t it be fun to have our own library? It could be sort of like the ones in British movies.”

  “It’s a possibility,” Mom said. She picked up a rag and a can of cleanser and added, “I’m going to give the bathrooms a thorough going-over. If you want me, I’ll be upstairs.”

  I leaned against the wall of the small room, just inside the door that leads to the kitchen. I tried to visualize the bookcase-lined walls with a comfortable chair over there, maybe a lamp table. We could use the one with the nick in it that Mom almost gave to a garage sale. But the imaginary layout suddenly disappeared, and a film shimmered across my mind.

  Shadows of objects, so softly blurred that I couldn’t make them out, glowed and faded, pulsing like a heartbeat. The air in the room ruffled softly against my face, and I could smell warm skin and hair. Someone was close by.

  ¡Ayúdame! The word, vibrating with terror, blew like a cold breath against my cheek.

  Trembling, gasping with fear, I reached out to steady myself against the wall. It was firm and solid. The mist vanished, and once again the room was still and bright, with dust motes lazily drifting inside the band of sunlight that streamed through the uncovered window.

  “Who are you?” I managed to whisper to this invisible woman. “What do you want?”

  The room was blank, as though the vision and the voice had never taken place. My fear slowly turned to anger. “I don’t want to be involved in this. It’s not fair. Why are you doing this to me?” I demanded.

  No answer came, but I didn’t need one. I’d just had more proof that the thread which tied me to an existence beyond this world had not yet been broken. I was still vulnerable, as though I were a link from one world to the next. Did I have to accept this? What were my choices? What was I going to do?

  My knees wobbled, so I slid down the wall and sat cross-legged on the bare wooden floor. Was that voice a hallucination? No. It was too real. Those terrified, pitiful cries for help were directed at me.

  I groaned and pressed my palms against my forehead. I wanted to be freed from all this, to be in control of my own mind. Okay, there was a way to handle it. I could tell Mom and Dad everything and ask for help. Maybe a psychiatrist could help me get rid of this spirit.

  But how could I turn my back on those heartbreaking pleas? If I ignored them, what would that poor desperate woman do? Who would help her? I realized I could no more walk away from this unseen spirit than I could if she were flesh and blood standing before me, begging for my help.

  But our contact would have to be kept secret. I couldn’t risk people knowing. Remembering the look in Marcie’s eyes, I knew what they’d think. I shivered, realizing what the consequences might be. Did I have enough courage to carry this through?

  Deliberately I made the choice.

  I put my hands into my lap, straightened my shoulders, and stared into the room, wanting the woman to make contact again. “Listen to me, whoever you are,” I said. “I promise to try to help you, but I can’t help you this way. I need to know what happened to you. I need to know who you are. If you want me to help you, then you’ve got to help me. Do you understand?”

  I waited tensely, almost afraid to breathe, but there was only silence.

  I heard the doorbell and Mom’s footsteps as she answered it. “Sarah!” she called. “Dee Dee’s here.”

  Staggering to my feet, I dusted off my shorts, tugged my T-shirt into place, and gave one last look around the empty, quiet room. Nothing. “Coming!” I yelled.

  It wasn’t just Dee Dee who had come to visit. I followed the sound of voices into the den and saw a guy who was a couple of inches shorter than me standing next to Dee Dee. She’d tied her damp hair back from her face, and her skin still glowed from the sun at the pool.

  “Hi, Sarah,” Dee Dee said. “This is Eric Hendrickson.”

  Eric studied me so intently, I stared back, hoping he’d get the message to cut it out. He wasn’t bad-looking, but not great-looking, either. His tan was blotchy, red-streaked across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and his short-cropped hair was sun-bleached. He was dressed in white shorts and shirt and carried a tennis racket. I wondered what kind of nut would play tennis during the hottest part of an August day.

  “Before I get back to work, would any of you like something cold to drink?” Mom asked.

  “Thanks. I could use a beer,” Eric said.

  “No,” Mom answered. “No beer.”

  “I’m eighteen,” Eric said.

  “No beer,” Mom repeated with a smile. “There are soft drinks in the refrigerator. If you’d like, Sarah can get them for you.” She left.

  “That was real smart, Eric,” Dee Dee said sarcastically.

  “Hey, what’s the matter with you, Chubby?” Eric complained. “She asked, didn’t she?”

  “You’re a clod,” Dee Dee muttered.

  This was awful. I tried to distract them from their argument by asking, “Why are we just standing here? Why don’t we sit down?”

  Dee Dee curled on one end of the sofa, as far away from Eric as she could get. He flopped and slumped, his muscular legs stretched out into the room. “I saw you yesterday when your family was moving in,” Eric said to me. “You gonna go to Memorial?”

  “I guess,” I answered, “if that’s where everybody around here goes to high school.”

  “Some of the kids go to private schools—St. Agnes, St. John’s, Kinkaid,” Dee Dee said.

  “What do you think of the house?” Eric asked me. His expression was so wide-eyed with innocence, it looked fake. I got the feeling he knew it. What was with him?

  Dee Dee glared at Eric. “That’s a stupid question. Why don’t we talk about movies? Has anybody seen that new horror one? The one that takes place in a cemetery?”

  “It’s not a stupid question. I really want to know what Sarah thinks of the house.” A trace of a smile flickered around his mouth. “Why don’t you want to talk about it, Dee Dee?”

  For just an instant I suspected him of mocking me, but it was Dee Dee he was looking at. She was so angry, her face was red.

  “You and your cruel sense of humor!” she snapped. “I already told you what Sarah asked me about the house. You’re a creep, Eric!”

  I didn’t understand what was disturbing her so much. If Eric wanted an answer, I’d give him one, but I’d hedge. I wished Dee Dee hadn’t told him what I’d asked. “Mom loves this place,” I answered. “I was just cleaning the maid’s room, and we were talking about making it into a library.”

  Dee Dee jumped into the conversation as though she’d been reprieved. “A library! Don’t tell me you like to read.”

  “I do like to read. A lot.”

  “That’s great,” she said. “I’d love to see what books you’ve got.”

  “You can help me unpack them,” I told her, “and borrow any you like.” Right now I didn’t want to talk about books. I thought about the woman who had called to me in Spanish. It dawned on me that maybe I could get some information from Eric and Dee Dee. “Did anyone in the Holt family speak Spanish?” I asked.

  Dee Dee gave a little start. “Adam probably learned some in school. We all did. Why in the world do you want to know that?”

  “What about a Spanish-speaking m
aid? You lived right next door to the Holts. You’d know if they had a maid.”

  “A maid?” She shrugged. “I have no idea. I told you, the Holts kept to themselves. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “If they had a maid, you’d see her going in and out, wouldn’t you?”

  “Not necessarily,” she answered impatiently. “I suppose I would if the Holts had day help, someone who arrived in a car. But if they had live-in help—especially if she was an illegal alien, like Lupita, and didn’t want to be noticed—that’s a different matter. Mrs. Taylor, who lives on the corner, had a live-in maid for over a year before I knew she was there, and she wasn’t here illegally. And I remember when—”

  I interrupted her. In a way I was talking to myself, trying to sort through my own confusion. “Are you sure there wasn’t someone in this house who spoke Spanish?”

  Eric looked at me with an odd expression. “I think the Holts hired a couple of illegals on and off over the years, but as far as I know, they didn’t have anyone working for them when—when they moved.”

  Dee Dee shrugged. “Eric would know if anyone would. He’s probably the only one on the block who was ever invited inside the Holts’ house, and that wasn’t even very often, because Mrs. Holt didn’t like Adam to get the house messed up, so Adam didn’t have very many friends. In fact, Eric was probably his only real friend.”

  “Don’t make it sound like it’s over and done with. Adam and I are still friends,” Eric snapped.

  “Dad said that the Holts got divorced,” I told them. “Does Adam live in Houston?”

  Dee Dee shifted on the couch, but Eric said, “Adam had to live with his mother in California.”

  “Where in California?”

  “It’s a little town—Cedar Creek.” He scowled. “What difference does it make?”

  I leaned forward. “Tell me about the Holts. What were they like?”

  Dee Dee twisted her fingers together. “The Holts are history. There’s a lot more interesting stuff to talk about.”

  Eric studied my face. “Why are you asking so many questions, Sarah? And what’s all this about someone speaking Spanish?”

  There was no way I was going to tell them what had happened to me in this house. I fumbled for an answer. “We’re living in the Holts’ house. It makes me curious. And Dee Dee’s parents have a Spanish-speaking maid, so I just sort of wondered if the Holts had one too.” I didn’t sound convincing, not even to myself.

  Dee Dee threw Eric a frantic look, as though she were asking for help. He ignored her, so she jumped to her feet and said, “I’ve really got to go. I’m supposed to baby-sit tonight, and I have to wash my hair and do a lot of stuff.”

  Maybe Eric could tell me what I wanted to know. “Eric, you don’t have to go, do you?” The words came out so eagerly, I wished I could take them back. He was going to get the wrong idea. I felt myself blushing.

  Dee Dee looked a little surprised, but Eric stood up and stretched, a smug expression on his face. “It’s tough to disappoint you, Sarah, but I never date girls who are taller than I am,” he said.

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. For a few moments Eric glowered at me. “That was rude,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

  My apology didn’t help. He was angry, so I was surprised when he said, “There is a guy you ought to meet, though. He’s tall, and he likes tall girls. Yeah. The more I think about it, the better I like the idea. I think he would too.”

  Dee Dee looked at Eric sharply. “What’s his name?”

  “Anthony’s his name, but we call him Tony. Tony Harris.” Eric grinned and added, “You don’t know him.”

  “Does he go to Memorial?”

  “No, he doesn’t, and it’s none of your business, anyway. He wouldn’t be interested in you.”

  “You’re a conceited jerk,” she said.

  “And you’re a nerd.”

  Trying to head off any more insults, I steered Dee Dee toward the door. “I wish you’d come over tomorrow morning,” I told her. “Have you got a bike? Maybe we could go for a ride and you could show me around the neighborhood.”

  “Okay,” Dee Dee said. “If you want to.” She looked at me unhappily, as though there was a lot more on her mind she’d like to say but didn’t know how.

  Eric edged past us through the open door. “I’ll get back to you about Tony,” he told me. There was a mischievous, mocking look on his face that bothered me.

  Dee Dee watched him walk out of earshot, then turned to me and said, “Sarah, I like you. I’d really like us to be friends. And it’s not my fault. I mean, I hope you can understand, and it really doesn’t matter because—”

  I put a hand on her arm, interrupting her. “What are you talking about, Dee Dee?”

  She looked down at the ground a moment, then up again, and her pale blue eyes stared into mine. “Don’t mind the way I rattle on. Just promise me, please, that you’ll stop talking about the Holts?”

  “If it bothers you so much,” I answered slowly.

  “It bothers me a lot,” she said. She backed away, moving toward the lawn. “See you tomorrow. Okay?”

  I smiled at her. “Sure. Tomorrow.” As I shut the door the house seemed to sigh as though glad the visitors had gone.

  A few hours later Dad arrived home. His face was gray as he called Mom and me into the den. “Sit down,” he said. “Please, sit down. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Your job!” Mom gasped as she slowly lowered herself into one of the chairs. “They just gave you a promotion. They wouldn’t—”

  Dad shook his head impatiently. “No, Dorothy. I haven’t lost my job. It’s something else, and it may or may not turn out to be a problem.”

  He tossed a quick, nervous look in my direction before he turned back to Mom.

  “I feel as though we’ve been cheated. Legally, she was correct; but ethically, what she did was wrong. And the neighbors—not one of them gave me the facts. I resent that.”

  “Ron!” Mom said. “Make sense! What are you talking about?”

  Dad took a deep breath. “I’m trying to make excuses for myself,” he said. “I’ll get to the point.” He sat on the edge of the sofa next to me and leaned toward Mom. “Evelyn Pritchard didn’t tell me the reason why this house hadn’t sold, why it was priced so far below market value. I found out today when one of the secretaries in the office recognized our address.”

  Dad paused and glanced toward the entry hall as he added, “Just a little over two years ago a murder took place inside this house!”

  Chapter

  Four

  Suddenly the vision of the blood on the tiles and the voice calling for help made sense. They were real. They had taken place in this house, and I had picked up on them. I’d seen the aftermath, but what about the murder itself? I shuddered and rubbed my arms, trying to warm them. Why was someone trying to involve me in this?

  Mom’s eyes sparked with anger, and her words were as clipped and sharp as if they were burning her tongue. “Evelyn Pritchard should have told you about the murder, Ron. Or one of the neighbors should have spoken up.” She stood and paced to the door and back, then suddenly dropped into her chair again, her fingertips white as she gripped the chair arms. “Today I was very pointedly told that Evelyn is a wonderful friend and neighbor. The people on this block were shielding her, and that’s not fair!”

  “It was more than that,” Dad explained, bitterness in his voice. “The empty house hurt everyone’s property values.”

  “I thought our neighbors were going to be nice people. I’d hoped they’d be friends.” Mom reached over to take Dad’s hand and asked, “Oh, Ron, what are we going to do?”

  Dad sighed. “I’ve already spoken to an attorney. Legally, what Evelyn did was acceptable. All we can do is try to sell the house.” He added, “If that’s our decision.”

  “If?” Mom asked.

  “We have to face facts, Dorothy. Look how long this house was on the market before we b
ought it. We can’t afford to rent or buy another place to live in while we wait to see if someone wants to buy this. And when we tell them the situation …” He said quietly, “We’d have to. We couldn’t do what Evelyn did.”

  “No,” Mom said. “We couldn’t.” They both glanced toward me as though the thought had struck them at the same time.

  “Sarah,” Mom said, “something about the house frightened you when you first set foot in it. What was it? You didn’t—” She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “That strange feeling didn’t come back, did it?”

  “No, it didn’t. It’s never coming back.” What else could I tell them? Dad had just pointed out that we couldn’t afford to make two monthly house payments. They were both watching me, waiting for more of an answer, so I tried to choose my words carefully and said, “Didn’t you ever walk in on two people who’d just had an argument? You can feel the tension in the air. That’s the best way to explain what I felt.”

  Mom’s expression was so dubious that I smiled and added, “Remember when we went to visit your cousin Linda and her husband? You said later you knew the minute you set foot in their house that they’d been having a terrible argument. You told us you could feel it in the air.”

  “That was different,” Mom said.

  I just smiled again and shrugged. That desperate cry for help still gripped me, and I ached for the poor terrified woman. I had said I would help her, and I keep my promises, so there was nothing more I could tell my parents.

  “Mom turned to Dad. “Are you sure there isn’t some way to get out of this contract?”

  “I’m positive.” Dad let out an unhappy sigh. “I made a stupid mistake in buying this house,” he said. “I was feeling so proud of myself, so glad to get such a bargain. I should have questioned why the house was so much below market value.”

  Both Mom and Dad looked so miserable that I felt guilty. If they weren’t so worried about me … I tried to sound as matter-of-fact as I could, and said, “People don’t tear down houses just because someone’s been murdered in them. Other people buy those houses and live in them.”