House of Ashes

by Loretta Marion

  * * *

  During the drive back to Whale Rock, Ashley seemed to understand that I didn’t want to talk. But as we approached The Bluffs, I turned to her and said, “I’d prefer nobody else know about this.”

  “I won’t even tell Vince.” She reached across and took my hand, tears brimming. “I’m so sorry, Cassie.”

  I squeezed back and then shared the briefest history of my affair and the end of my marriage.

  “Since we were teenagers, Billy’s had this hold on me,” I confessed and then went on to explain how this predicament had occurred. “When things went south with Ethan, I was just too weak to resist. I admit it’s not a very good defense, but I’m good at avoidance.”

  “Sometimes we don’t think with our minds, do we?” She said this in a remorseful tone, prompting me to wonder if she’d had a similar personal experience.

  “Have you ever been involved with someone like that?” I asked. “Someone who can possess you?”

  “There’s only ever been Vince.” Which wasn’t really an answer.

  9

  Early August ~ a month before the disappearance

  I scowled at my ghostly reflection staring back from the shiny metal teapot. At least the bleeding had finally stopped. Now, if only I could get a full night’s sleep. But I couldn’t seem to escape that enduring odor of decay, and Zoe’s words haunted me, especially at night. It’s the smell of burning flesh. But where was it coming from? Another spirit in the house? Robert Toomey? How I longed for the return of the uniquely pleasing burnt sugar scent.

  Johnny was none too pleased when I took a leave during the height of summer season. I was simply too weak from the combined results of the blood loss and the side effects of the injection to terminate the unviable embryo lodged in my Fallopian tube.

  I was waiting for my tea bag to steep when Ashley and Vince burst through the door.

  “Cassie!” Ashley yelled before seeing me in the kitchen. “You’ll never guess what I found.”

  “You’ve got to see this,” Vince added, as keyed up as his wife.

  He motioned for me to follow, and I obeyed, but I lagged way behind. My slow progress offered only a peek of a gray Jeep kicking up a trail of dust as it took the bend of the lane.

  When I reached the barn, I stopped to catch my breath. “Who was that?”

  “Just a friend who delivered these for us.” Ashley could hardly contain her excitement.

  I stared blankly at two old-fashioned portraits of a man and woman I’d never seen before … yet curiously, there was a hint of familiarity about the couple.

  “I was doing research at the library for my story,” Ashley explained, “when I noticed these portraits being carted from the basement storage area.”

  “They’re having a tag sale tomorrow,” Vince added. “And they were cleaning out everything that had been stored there for decades.”

  “Remember how you said people tried to save valuables from the house during the fire? Like the crystal and silver and stuff, but then it all got kinda scattered?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I read that among the things removed were some paintings of the Mitchells from the front hall, but nobody knew what happened to them.”

  “You’re saying these are Percy and Celeste?” I turned back to the portraits, astonished at the thought I could be looking at my great-grandparents. “What makes you think so?”

  “The article indicated a local artist named C. Arnold Slade painted their portraits.” Ashley pointed to the signature. “Here’s the real proof. This was taped to the back of Percy’s portrait.” She handed me a weathered envelope.

  I removed a slip of yellowed notepaper and read a letter penned by Caleb Slade to my great-grandfather, presenting the portraits in exchange for Percy having ferried the artist and his wife around the Cape. So he bartered for them. What a clever man you were, Percy.

  “Apparently these portraits slipped away unnoticed after the fire. Speculation was they’d been removed with the intention of making a profit, since Slade was an artist of some note and they might’ve had monetary value.”

  “But all along, they were safely tucked away in the library basement?” I wondered when they were stashed there and by whom. I remember Fiona’s tireless fundraising work on the capital campaign for the library expansion when I was just a child. It had to have been after she died, or surely she would have reclaimed them for the family.

  The longer I gazed at the images sitting before me, the more I could see my father’s likeness in the portrait of the man. And Zoe’s features closely resembled those of the woman.

  “I guess we now know where your auburn hair came from,” Ashley pointed out.

  But it was Vince who revealed the most significant reason they looked familiar by propping up one of my mother’s paintings next to the portraits. The figures depicted in her art were distorted perspectives of the portrait subjects.

  Then Ashley brought over one of my newer canvases and set it beside my mother’s.

  The similarities were undeniable. A sudden wooziness came upon me. I stumbled back onto the bench and continued to study the works before me. But how could I have painted people I’d never seen before? Or how could my mother, who’d also never met Percy or Celeste? Though Fiona might have recognized the faces when my mother painted these. Was it she who’d had them crated up and hidden in the carriage house attic?

  So many questions were swirling inside my head, but the two I tried to push away were the most devastating: Had something otherworldly possessed my mother and manifested itself through her painting? Was the same thing happening to me?

  * * *

  For the next few days, I avoided the barn. Though it was hard to resist the strong pull of those paintings, I needed to recuperate. The vile odor seemed less intrusive. Or maybe I was just getting used to it. A longed-for respite from my recurring nightmares, likely the result of pharmaceutical assistance, was allowing me to sleep through the night.

  I’d awakened early but wasn’t ready to traipse down for breakfast, so I picked up the folder of articles Ashley had given me from her research into my family. I puzzled over something written in the margins and, hearing morning noises in the kitchen, went down to ask Ashley about it. But when I heard her mention my name, I stopped halfway down the back stairway.

  “Cassie seems so lost.”

  “Lost? More like a walking zombie,” Vince observed.

  “Do you think it has something to do with those paintings?” she asked.

  “Dunno. They sure creep me out.”

  Feeling wobbly, I lowered myself onto a step.

  “There’s got to be something we can do to help snap her out of this trance that’s taken hold.”

  “Well, whatever it is, we need to act fast because there’s no way we can postpone.”

  “You’re right, the timing stinks.” They were both quiet for a while before Ashley added, “I wish we didn’t have to leave at all.”

  His response was stern. “You know we do.”

  Was Vince pressuring Ashley to leave? And if so, why?

  The sounds of chairs scooting across the floor were followed by “Better get back to work.”

  I remained on that step for the longest time, contemplating the miasma that had enveloped me. The only way I could think to shake free was the very thing that was making me crazy. I needed to find a way back to my painting. And I needed Percy and Celeste to find their way back to me.

  10

  Mid-August ~ two weeks before the disappearance

  Whistler’s barking drew me to the window, where I saw him leaping playfully beside Vince and Ashley as they pushed my garden cart in the direction of the family cemetery.

  What were they up to? I could think of no reason to follow without it being painfully evident I was spying on them. So I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee, took the morning paper out to the porch, and waited rather impatiently for them to return. An hour later, I was still pretending to r
ead the front page when at last their heads popped above the horizon. The duo waved, and Ashley jogged over to join me while Vince rolled the wagon to the barn.

  “Good morning.” She settled herself in the porch rocker opposite mine.

  “Coffee?” I offered.

  “I’m off the poison this week.” She leaned forward rubbing her face with her hands. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately—thought I’d try drastic measures.”

  “Mornin’, Cassie.” Vince approached with the shepherd at his heels.

  “Skipping breakfast today?” There’d been no evidence of their presence in the kitchen.

  Ashley rolled her eyes. “As if.”

  Vince laughed good-naturedly before explaining. “We needed some grouting compound, so we thought, why not treat ourselves to breakfast at The Hatchery?”

  “I hope you don’t mind our borrowing the truck without asking,” Ashley said.

  “You know you can take it whenever you like.” Their ancient Subaru had died shortly after they arrived on the Cape.

  They didn’t seem inclined to mention what they’d been doing with the garden cart, so I asked, “What’s on the agenda today?”

  “We can’t do anything more until the flooring comes in. Are there any other chores you might have for us today?”

  “Can’t think of anything. Unless you consider taking the Cat out a chore?” The sea air might just be what I needed to escape the persistent shadow of gloom.

  Vince’s eyes popped. “Are you kidding?”

  My new friend had caught the sailing bug, and with each sail he’d become more daring, heeling the Cat and reveling in the thrill of it. Today the winds were favorable, and it would be the perfect occasion to let Vince take the helm.

  “Do you feel okay to sail?” Ashley asked me.

  “Much better.” Physically, I was nearly back to normal. I sent her a furtive thumbs-up to indicate my follow-up doctor visit had gone well. I stood and gathered my cup and paper. “I’ve got a quick errand to run. While I’m out, I’ll pick up some lunch. Why don’t we meet down at the Queen at noon?”

  “That will give us time for a ride.”

  We departed together, they on their bikes and I in my old but faithful Mazda Miata. After several circuits of the main streets, I finally found a space to park, and just as I reached for the door handle, a familiar swagger approached on the sidewalk.

  Damn. I pretended to sort through my purse, hoping the tinted windows would be adequate camouflage. But alas, he recognized the car; not surprising, since I’d been driving the Miata since high school.

  Billy Hughes drummed his knuckles against the window.

  I turned on the ignition to open the window, not trusting my legs to get out of the car.

  “Hey, babe.” He leaned in close enough for me to take in the alluring scent of Old Spice.

  “Taking the day off?”

  “I can’t work every day. You know what they say about all work and no play.”

  “A dull boy you will never be, Billy.”

  He fixed me with a suggestive smile. “You free today?”

  “Nope.”

  He glanced up at the sky. “Perfect day for a sail. Are you sure you can’t shake free?”

  “Positive.” I kept my focus trained on the parking meter.

  “I hear you’ve found some new playmates.”

  It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t respond.

  “You should probably know,” he said, glancing around the street, “folks in the Rock aren’t exactly enamored with your new buddies.”

  I did look at him now. “Well, you know how it is. Unless you have Whale Rock blood cursing through your veins, you’re a nobody and can’t be trusted.”

  “Mee-oow”.

  I was back to staring at the parking meter.

  “Too bad you’re not in the mood to play.” His tone implied it would be my loss.

  “See ya.” I pushed the window button, leaving him standing there awkwardly until he gave the hood of the car a fond farewell tap and sauntered away.

  As I watched Billy disappear into the throngs of tourists, I contemplated the recent pregnancy scare. All the possible ramifications, had it been viable and the baby carried to term, started playing out in my head. What type of father would Billy have been? How involved, if at all? Who would the child have resembled? Would it have been a boy or a girl? Had I lost the baby because of the curse Robert Toomey had cast upon my great-grandfather? Was that why Percy and Celeste had abandoned me? And how might it all tie in to the eerie happenings at Battersea Bluffs? I despaired to think it was the most recent consequence of the lighterman’s curse. I was tiptoeing toward a slippery slope of dangerous speculation.

  You can’t go back. I was channeling Fiona now. There was no way to undo my shameful betrayal, so I might as well move on. Besides, Ethan and I had been teetering on a precarious edge for some time, and I had no doubts he’d have left by now anyhow, since my bank account had been completely tapped.

  Too miserable to conduct my errand, I shifted into reverse, pleasing the driver of a Ford Explorer swarming with sightseers and circling like a vulture. Such was the seasonal downside of living in a beautiful harbor town on Cape Cod. I made a quick stop at Town Line Deli for sandwiches, arriving back at the house well before noon. With time to kill, I decided to pay a visit to the cemetery to see what Vince and Ashley had been up to with the garden cart.

  At first glance, everything looked much the same, although my mother’s perennial garden needed weeding; I’d tended it the many years since her death but had been derelict this summer.

  “Sorry, Mama.” I began to tidy it a bit until something caught my attention by the stone wall border, and I discovered what my friends had accomplished: on either side of the unknown boy’s marker were freshly planted daisies and baby’s breath, fitting floral symbols of innocence for the poor abandoned child who’d washed up on our shores decades ago.

  More surprising was the bronze statue of Winnie the Pooh placed in front of the grave. Winnie was part of the fabric of Main Street Whale Rock, where the statue had delighted scores of children for years from its prominent display in the window of Coastal Vintage Wares. I’d never considered that it might actually be for sale, and couldn’t begin to think how my friends would’ve convinced Archibald Stanfield to part with his prized Pooh. Not to mention what it must have cost them.

  I stood before this memorial to an unclaimed child with hand on heavy heart, conflicting emotions at war within me. I was immensely proud of Ashley and Vince for this generous act, while I also chastised myself for never thinking to make such a heartfelt gesture of remembrance. I’d placed cut flowers at the grave on Memorial Day and laid a wreath of greenery at Christmas, but never anything of a more permanent nature. I took a closer look around the hallowed grounds and also noticed a newly planted shrub between the stones of my great-grandparents. A burning bush. I leaned down to sniff the flower of the shrub, which emitted a light, clean lemon scent, whereas the air surrounding me was heavy and with just a hint of familiar burnt sweetness. I was afraid to hope Percy and Celeste had returned. If they had, what were they communicating through this more complex essence? Approval? Appreciation? Were they mourning all the losses they’d experienced during their own lives and witnessed from beyond the grave? Or was it the scent of regret?

  ~

  Eighty years ago

  September ~ three months before the tragic fire

  Percy paced, then halted; turned, then paced again. This went on for several minutes before he finally asked his son, “What if I forbid it?”

  “Then I’ll not go.” Ambrose looked at his shoes.

  Percy had raised obedient and respectful sons. In return, he had always been generous, even indulgent. But how could he give in to this request, especially with that damn curse hanging over their heads like a French guillotine?

  He loved his son and wanted to keep him near to protect him. And Celeste had never fully recovered fro
m the deaths of Edwin and Jerome. Would she ever forgive him if he agreed to let Ambrose ship off as a blue jacket to far-off lands?

  Percy knew it was prideful to want his good name to live on after he was pushing up the daisies. But he wanted nothing more than for his own son to outlive him and for his grandsons to outlive Ambrose.

  “What about the Patrick girl?” Percy had never seen his son blush until that moment. Perhaps she was the key to convincing his son to abandon his dream. “You’ve been spending time with her?”

  “When she can escape the watchful eye of her folks.”

  Percy gave his son a stern look.

  “She’s a good girl.” Ambrose said.

  “Have you made any promises to her yet?”

  “No.” Ambrose fingered something in his pocket. “But I care deeply about her.”

  “Yet you’re willing to leave her behind with a broken heart?”

  “I won’t be gone forever. She may wait the three years for me.”

  “A pretty girl like Fiona turns a lot of heads.”

  Ambrose was quiet for a moment, which bolstered Percy’s confidence, until his son’s next deflating words.

  “Haven’t you always told me a man must be true to himself? What good would I be to Fiona if filled with regret? Not going would eat away at me until it killed me. Wasn’t that how it was when you left England for America?”

  “But it was with your mother I came to America. I didn’t leave her behind.”

  The two men stared hard, waiting for the other to end the stalemate. It was the older, more mature Mitchell who finally laid down his sword.

  “Would you promise to give it up at the end of the three years? Will you come back and take over the business, settle here in Whale Rock?”

  “I promise.” Ambrose, the victor, smiled broadly. “Thank you, Father.”