The Drifter

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  Mrs. Baxter groaned, and Nora regarded her coldly.

  “Laugh if you will, but Hazel believed it. Lots of folks around here do. That’s why I never stay at night. It’s a house for the dead … not the living.”

  Once more the silence fell. Once more Mrs. Baxter broke it.

  “Well, it’s a tragic story … a touching story … and it’ll make great publicity for our guesthouse, don’t you think so, Carolyn?”

  “What was her name?” Carolyn asked, and Nora turned off the stove as the teakettle shrieked.

  “Oh, Carolyn, really!” Mrs. Baxter laughed.

  “Do you know, Nora?” Carolyn insisted.

  For a long moment Nora said nothing. Then her voice sounded again, low and precise. “His was Matthew. Captain Matthew Glanton. And hers was … Carolyn.”

  Carolyn’s gasp was loud in the uneasy quiet. She glanced fearfully around the kitchen as though the captain himself might walk through the door at any moment.

  “Well, there you go!” Mrs. Baxter said brightly. “My goodness, Carolyn, I think it’s a sign! We really were meant to come here!”

  But Carolyn didn’t answer. She ran her hands slowly along her arms, trying to rub the goose bumps away. She was only half-conscious of Nora putting a steaming cup of tea down in front of her. She stared hard at Nora’s clawlike hands and pale, pointed nails.

  “Seriously now,” Mrs. Baxter spoke up, “after all these years of that story being handed down, generation to generation, a lot of the original facts have probably been distorted! Suppose the captain didn’t miss his wife at all? Suppose while he was off playing on the high seas, he fell in love with someone else? And he really wanted a divorce when he got back?” She frowned, thinking. “Hmmm … perhaps some native girl on some exotic island …”

  “Oh, Mom”—Carolyn sounded exasperated—“you can ruin a beautiful story quicker than anyone I know!”

  Her mother feigned innocence. “Well, I’m just being sensible! We don’t really know, do we? I mean, there’re no eyewitnesses, are there?”

  “You’re impossible,” Carolyn said grudgingly and got up and went into the parlor. She could hear Nora and her mother talking quietly in the background, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying—probably Mom telling her not to fill my head with nonsense.

  Sighing, she walked slowly to the dining room window and peered out into the fog. Even the glass was wet inside, and the room trembled with every gust of wind. She felt clammy all over, as if the sea spray were creeping in through the nooks and crevices of the old house, seeping deep into her soul.…

  I don’t care if it is only a legend … it’s still the most haunting story I’ve ever heard.

  For just the briefest moment there was a break in the fog, and Carolyn stared out at the shadowy surroundings. No trees … not a single neighbor in sight. But Nora had been right about one thing—the coastline was close to the house—too close, Carolyn thought uneasily. She could see now that the house sat on a ledge jutting out from the mainland and into the water, and as far as she could see there was ocean. It seemed to stretch forever, as gray and miserable as the fog.

  Carolyn clutched the windowsill to keep from swooning. Is this what being seasick is? Suddenly she felt so lonely … so vulnerable … so isolated that she fought back tears and closed her eyes.

  She stood that way for several minutes, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Then once more she opened her eyes.

  A chill crept up her spine.

  She drew in her breath and leaned in closer to the window, wiping at the pane with her fingertips.

  There was another shape out there now … something that hadn’t been there only a moment ago—vague and blurry—ghostlike through the fog.

  A person?

  It was impossible to tell for sure, but somehow she had the impression it might be a man—someone tall—someone just standing there, not moving, staring at the house …

  Carolyn hurried to the front door and flung it open. She went out onto the porch and strained her eyes through the fog, opening her mouth to call.

  But the fog streamed around her, empty.

  And the mournful shriek of the wind sounded almost like a human cry for help.

  3

  CAROLYN COULDN’T SLEEP.

  She’d tried hard to be cheerful through dinner, tried to be cordial when Nora had finally gone home, tried even harder to be enthusiastic over Mom’s growing list of plans for their guesthouse. But now she was tired of pretending, and so she lay in her unfamiliar bed in her unfamiliar room and tried to shut out the distant roar of the sea. Only it’s not so distant, she thought gloomily, it’s practically in our front yard.

  She could hear it churning forward at full speed … sounding for all the world as if it would crash over the house and swallow it whole. And then, after a moment, receding again … softening … going quiet and hushed, the calm before the inevitable storm.

  At this particular instant it was ebbing, and Carolyn braced herself for the onslaught to come. For the hundredth time she flopped over on her stomach and bunched her pillow around her head.

  It was no use.

  The ocean was just there—instead of birds or traffic or conversation or even silence. Just there going on and on forever.

  Carolyn groaned and sat up. She scooted back against the headboard and pulled her knees up to her chin, clasping her arms around them. Her heart ached with homesickness, for her friends, for Dad. She’d hoped for a cozy cottage on a sunny beach. Instead she’d gotten Glanton House and Nora.

  She sighed. “My luck.”

  Something thumped against the side of the house, and she stifled a scream. Throwing off the covers, she padded to the window and saw a loose shutter banging in the wind. The fog was so thick, she couldn’t even see the ground below.

  Carolyn leaned against the sill, staring out into nothingness. It gave her a strange feeling of unreality, this being suspended in a darkly swirling void. She stood there for a long time and tried not to give in to tears. And then at last she turned back to her bed.

  Halfway across the floor, she froze.

  She caught her breath and held it, and then she waited.

  And it wasn’t the sea she heard this time—not the sea or even the wind—but something different. Something hushed and hidden and muffled, coming from the floor above.

  As Carolyn stood there and listened, it hit the wall with a soft thud, and then it slid. Hit … then slid. Hit … slid.

  No, Carolyn thought wildly as her brain reeled to identify the sound—not sliding exactly—but rougher—more uneven—

  Scraping?

  Yes, that was it, she decided, more like scraping—no—like clawing—like something clawing at the wood of the walls—

  “She keeps watch for him … and he searches for her to this very day.…”

  Carolyn pressed herself back against the wall, her heart slowly freezing. In her mind she quickly tried to reconstruct the lay of the house, the location of each upstairs room. Was it possible the strange sounds were coming from some other bedroom on this floor? She closed her eyes and drew a deep, slow breath. No … the sounds had definitely come from above.

  The widow’s walk?

  She tried to picture it as she’d seen it earlier that evening—the railed platform and the small wooden garret it surrounded—and she remembered thinking it must be a sort of attic, or maybe just an empty storage room—

  Except it wasn’t empty now.

  Carolyn spun around, her eyes groping through darkness. Quickly she found her bedside lamp and turned the switch.

  Nothing happened.

  She tried it again.

  Still nothing.

  Trembling now, she felt for the matches on the table and lit the candle beside them. A sickly puddle of yellow light spread out across the floor, sending macabre shadows along the corners and ceiling. She moved noiselessly out into the corridor, and then she stopped. She could see the wooden door at the end of the
hallway—could see the latch upon it that had no key.

  She held her breath and waited.

  A gust of wind shook the house, rattling the windows in their frames. The ancient boards pulled and groaned, and the broken shutter crashed wildly against the outside wall of her room.

  It must have been like this that night the captain came home—only much, much worse because of the storm—the whole house heaving and swaying while the ship tore open on the rocks below and spilled her men into the sea—

  And at first Carolyn didn’t even hear the long, low groaning sound—the stubborn cry of warped wood tearing away from long-stuck hinges.

  But as she continued to stare at that narrow door, she suddenly realized it was moving—inch by inch—until at last it stood partway open, a pitch-black sliver in the wall.

  Her lungs ached, and she realized she’d been holding her breath. She let it out slowly and felt the candle tremble in her outstretched hand.

  It’s only the wind … it’s gotten through the cracks and made a terrible draft, and now the door’s blown open because it’s so old … that’s all it is.…

  Yet as she moved cautiously toward it, such a feeling of dread came over her that she had to stop and choke back a cry and then force herself to go on again.

  “Only the wind,” she whispered to herself, “only the wind—only the—”

  But the eerie sound came again from somewhere above her, and there was no mistaking it this time—that soft thud against wood, and then the long … slow … scraping …

  Carolyn lifted her candle and peered fearfully through the opening. A steep staircase flickered into view and led straight up inside the walls.

  “It’s much too dangerous … I don’t have the key.” She could hear Nora’s voice again, as plain as day. “It hasn’t been used for years.…”

  “Then why is it open now?” Carolyn whispered to herself “Why now?”

  She didn’t want to go up there.

  Every instinct warned her against it, screamed at her to slam the door and shove something in front of it, to run away and never get this close to it again.

  “Hello?” she called, and her voice echoed back to her hollowly. “Is someone up there? Mom? Is that you?”

  No answer.

  The silence was almost worse than the sounds.

  Carolyn cupped one hand protectively around the candle flame and began to climb.

  The stairs smelled of mildew and rot. They creaked and groaned underfoot as if each step she took might shatter them to bits. Carolyn moved slowly … carefully … eyes darting back and forth as she made her way above. Hidden things scurried around her in the walls; spiderwebs wrapped stickily around her face. She fought down panic, and at last felt the floor level out beneath her feet.

  “Hello?” she whispered. “Is anyone up—”

  Her voice broke, and she stared. It was a room—an attic, just like she’d thought—full of murky shadows and filmy cobwebs that shimmered like phantoms in the candlelight. There was no furniture, no decoration of any kind, save for a messy heap of boxes and trunks against one far wall. For just a second Carolyn thought she saw movement among the clutter, but as her eyes riveted in on the pile, everything lay silent and still. Nervously she turned toward the door that led out to the widow’s walk.

  Again she lifted her candle.

  The flame fluttered dangerously, and the walls seemed to breathe around her.

  I was right—there’s nothing up here—it was only the wind after all.

  She could see that the door had a wooden bolt, and that the bolt was slid all the way back, leaving the door unbarred.

  Carolyn moved toward it, scarcely conscious of the floorboards groaning beneath her feet. She stopped in front of the door and slowly reached out for the knob.

  A blast of wind tore through the attic.

  It shrieked through every crack and crevice, shivering the floor and vibrating the walls.

  As if alive, the doorknob jerked in her hand, pulling the opposite way as she tried to turn it. Carolyn screamed and let go. Panicking, she backed toward the stairs, but the candle flame suddenly flared, illuminating the other walls around her.

  Her blood turned to ice. She stared at the walls, and a second scream rose into her throat.

  Every wall was scraped and cut, spattered with dark spreading stains. There were deep gouges in the wood as though something had dug in with great force and then pulled out again. As Carolyn stared in disbelief, she could see that the runny splatters had hit the ceiling—sprayed up onto the rafters and dripped down into comers, leaving smeared patterns wherever they touched.

  Carolyn felt sick. Transfixed by the grisly scene, she was suddenly aware of a movement from the comer of her eye, and as she slowly faced the widow’s walk, her eyes widened in terror.

  Someone was in the doorway.

  Trapped within the swirling fog, the figure hovered there—floated there—clothes and hair billowing darkly in the wind …

  “No,” Carolyn choked, “no …”

  Ghostly arms lifted into the air … ghostly hands fluttered weakly at a throat Carolyn couldn’t see …

  But she could see the thick, wet pool upon the floor as it oozed slowly toward her and puddled around her bare feet.

  Carolyn bolted for the stairs.

  She tried to call for help, but without warning the floor disappeared, and she pitched down … down … into blackness.

  4

  “WE CAN DO THIS,” MRS. BAXTER SAID FIRMLY, LOOKING up as Carolyn appeared in the kitchen doorway. “We can do this, I know we can. We can make this work and—” She sat straighter and peered at Carolyn’s haggard face in alarm. “Goodness, honey, you look terrible! Didn’t you sleep well?”

  Carolyn pulled her robe tighter and walked to the table. She plopped hard into a chair and automatically reached for her mother’s coffee.

  “Mom,” she mumbled, “something awful happened last night.”

  “What was it?”

  “Something awful,” Carolyn said again. “Nora was right, there are ghosts here. I saw Carolyn Glanton.”

  “What!”

  “And I fell.” Her voice was dull and confused, and Mrs. Baxter leaned over to pat her hand.

  “What do you mean—fell out of bed?”

  “No, I mean I fell down the stairs.”

  This time Mrs. Baxter drew back and cast a worried look toward the hall.

  “These stairs? You couldn’t have fallen down these stairs or I would’ve heard you.”

  “Not these stairs,” Carolyn mumbled. “The attic stairs.”

  Her mother was looking more confused by the minute. “Attic stairs? But you can’t get to the attic—that door’s locked.”

  “No, it’s not.” Carolyn shook her head. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

  Without another word she got up and led the way to the second floor. Mrs. Baxter followed warily and stood watching while Carolyn marched straight to the end of the hall.

  “It’s not locked, see?” Carolyn said. “And wait till you go up there.”

  She yanked on the door. A strange, bewildered look came over her face, and she yanked again, harder.

  “Honey, are you going to faint on me?” Mom fretted. “That door is locked, just like it was locked yesterday. I asked Nora about it again, but she swears up and down she doesn’t know where the key is. Now, what’s this about—”

  “Look, Mom, all I know is, I was up there last night and something was up there with me. I fell down the stairs, and when I woke up, it was morning and I was back in my bed.”

  Carolyn’s voice was tight and shrill. Mrs. Baxter watched her for a long moment, reached out to feel her forehead, then put an arm gently around her shoulders.

  “Come have something to eat,” she said firmly. “Honey, I think you just had a bad dream. That’s all. And it seemed real to you, and you got confused.”

  “No, Mom,” Carolyn insisted, “that’s not the way it was! I he
ard these strange sounds up there, and when I went to the door, it was unlocked! And there were these marks on the walls, and—and—all this blood!”

  “Come on,” her mother coaxed, turning her around, guiding her back to the kitchen. “Come and sit down.”

  “Mom, I mean it! It happened!”

  “Dreams can seem awfully real,” her mother said carefully. “And you’ve been under a lot of strain. You’ve been holding up for my sake, Carolyn, and I knew it was only a matter of time before—”

  “Mom, listen to me—”

  “Honey …” Mom pushed Carolyn into a chair, then knelt in front of her, taking both of Carolyn’s hands in hers. She stared intently into her daughter’s face, and her eyes filled with tears. “I think I can understand what you’re going through. All the loss … the changes … our lives going in a whole different direction. But things are going to be better for us now. I promise.”

  Carolyn looked back in despair. “Mom … there was something up there. I did fall down the stairs.”

  “Don’t you think I would’ve heard you? An accident like that would’ve made a lot of noise in the night—”

  “But you were asleep in your room down here, and I was on the third floor! And the wind was howling so loud—”

  “Any bruises?” Mom interrupted.

  “I—no—I don’t know,” Carolyn said crossly. “But I have a splitting headache. And yes, my arms are killing me. And my knees hurt.” She pushed up the sleeves of her robe and pointed triumphantly to her arms. “Yes! See there? Bruises!”

  “You helped me do all that moving last night,” Mom reminded her. “You carried boxes up and down the stairs and rearranged some of the furniture.”

  Carolyn pulled away and shook her head, eyes bewildered. “It couldn’t have been a dream! She stood there touching her throat—”

  “Oh, that Nora,” Mom muttered. “No more ghost stories. Look—I’ll make you some hot chocolate, then I’ll fix breakfast, and it’ll seem like that bad dream never happened.”

  “How could it not have happened? How could it have been so real?”