*
Moisture formed in Penny’s eyes as she finished reading. “Just think how many years they had together and they still felt the need to be considerate and caring toward each other.”
“Who are you talking to, Mom?" Chrissy had caught her and Penny decided it was time to share the journal with the rest of her family.
“I found this in the old roll-top desk. It’s like a diary, sort of; it’s just a few thoughts about each day as it ended. It’s very sweet. The man who lived here before we came wrote it, I guess. I wonder where he is.”
“What do you suppose the ‘CCC’ stands for?” Chrissy wondered.
“It stands for ‘Clifton C. Coy’ and his wife’s name was ‘Lorraine.’ I found a checkbook in the old desk, too.”
“Mom, I think it would be nice to start at the front and every night read the journal entry for one day aloud to the whole family. What do you think, Mom?”
“I agree. I think that would be a nice way to remember the people who had kept this place. Without them, we wouldn’t have had a place to stay. Yes, I like that idea a lot!" Before long, though, they were reading two or three and sometimes four days’ entries in the evenings. They would become so caught up in the lives of the Coys that they felt they actually knew them. It was obvious that they were a devoted and loving couple who cared about each other deeply.
Chrissy was daydreaming that night after they went to bed. “I wish we had some pictures so we could know what they looked like. I’ll bet Lorraine was beautiful. Maybe someday I’ll have somebody who will love me that way.”
When Chrissy awoke next morning, she had completely forgotten about her wishes from the night before. But someone (or some thing) hadn’t. On the night table by her bed was an old dusty family picture album. It was open to a page that showed a bride and groom in clothing from the nineteen thirties or forties. Chrissy was thrilled by the picture album and it took her a few moments to notice the little bouquet of forget-me-nots beside it. When she did find them, she had the oddest little fluttering in her stomach; and she didn’t know what to make of it. She found a small coffee mug and with water from the bathroom, she watched the wilting flowers come back to life. But how on earth did they get there? How had the picture album materialized on her nightstand? She sat on the edge of the bed and thought about all the strange happenings since they had arrived. They had wished for their suitcases—and they had appeared on the front porch. They had wished for gas in the SUV and they had found it with almost half a tank. They had wished for eggs and milk and discovered the hen house and the next day the Jersey cow showed up. But all of those things had happened outside the house. Now things were happening within the house. And they always locked the doors when they went to bed. What in the world was going on? How on earth could these events be explained? How were their conversations and their wishes being overheard and fulfilled?
Chrissy had no answers, but she took one more long, lingering, look at her little bouquet of forget-me-nots and taking the album she hurried downstairs. The rest of the family was as dumbfounded as she was and as fascinated by the pictures. In those photos, they could watch the years go by and see the changes in Clifton and Lorraine. One photograph of Lorraine showed plainly that she was pregnant. Though they looked quickly through the rest of the pages, and then, again more slowly and thoroughly, there was never a picture of a baby.
Toward the end of the book, they found a snapshot of an older woman, a young man, and a small girl. But it was obvious it was not the Coys. From the journal entries, Penny deduced that it was probably their niece, Penelope, and her father and maybe his mother. At least that seemed the most logical assumption based on family resemblance and apparent age differences.
Then Chrissy brought up the question that was bothering her. How did the picture album get on her nightstand? They all looked at each other in bewilderment. This had to mean that someone (or, again, some thing) had been in the house while they were all asleep with the doors locked. This made them think again of the suitcases that had been retrieved from the locked car. None of them wanted to think about ghosts but the car had been locked and the house had been fastened up tight, too. Ghosts were a figment of the imagination, weren’t they? Or were they? Who could have heard their wishes? Who could have known how to fulfill those wishes?
As if on cue, one of the doors on the upper floor banged loudly startling everyone so that they jumped as though they were shot. Of course, they didn’t believe in ghosts. But how else could it be explained? Chrissy still didn’t tell them about the forget-me-nots. She didn’t see how knowing about the flowers could shed any light on the situation. They continued with their daily routines but each of them was keenly aware of the questions in their minds about the inexplicable events of the two weeks since fate had stranded them there.
Chapter Three
The Intrusion
The Ghostly Hideaway Page 4