The House of Memory (Pluto's Snitch Book 2)

by Carolyn Haines

  It was only three o’clock. We didn’t have to be up until six. I inched beneath the sheet, and Reginald continued to hold my hand. “Thank you.”

  “No more bad dreams.”

  I smiled and felt the weariness tugging me along. I let go and slept.

  The next morning the fragments of the dream remained vivid, and I pondered them as Reginald returned to his room to pack and dress. We had a train to catch at eight o’clock, and I was eager to get back to Montgomery. Roswell House lured me like forbidden fruit. We had two possible leads—an unwanted pregnancy piled high with guilt and Roswell House. If the former proved true, then a compassionate doctor or a minister willing to perform a marriage might alleviate the source of the problem. If the house harbored ghosts, if it were the seed of Camilla’s troubles, then Reginald and I might be able to effect a cure.

  Reginald called the hospital to check on the driver while I ordered breakfast in the dining room. He returned with good news. The driver had sustained severe injuries, but he would survive with no permanent damage. Relief made the dewberry jam on my toast even sweeter.

  In no time at all, we were on board the train and headed for Montgomery.

  A vague sense of dread from the nightmare hung over me, and I found myself gazing out the window, watching the green, green, green of Alabama flash by and thinking of another train ride. One that had changed my life more than I’d ever dreamed possible.

  I’d met a young man on the ride from Savannah down to Mobile and my uncle’s Caoin House. Now Robert was dead. If I had to visit the underworld in my dreams, why couldn’t I find Robert, or my husband, Alex, or my parents? Perhaps they were in Elysian Fields, the section of the underworld where bliss reigned. That gave me some comfort, to think they lived in beauty and abundance without truly tasting death.

  “Are you worried? That something truly evil is in the house?”

  “I hadn’t really given the house a lot of thought. I suppose I should.” After what we’d encountered in Caoin House, I had every right to be at least a little worried. If the house contained an entity strong enough to push a young woman to commit a violent act, I had to be careful.

  “I hope it is the house,” Reginald said. His tone let me know he was as concerned for Camilla as I was.

  “Yes, a problem we can at least attempt to solve.” I glanced out the train window and felt my heart seize. My reflection glared back at me, and my features were gone, replaced by a blank face. I cried out and pushed back.

  “What is it?” Reginald leaned forward and grasped my upper arms. “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to return to that nightmare world, even to talk about it. “If the problem isn’t Roswell House,” I said, “do we have another plan?”

  Reginald sighed. “No. But we’ll think of something.”

  “You have such confidence in us.”

  “Not really. It’s just that Camilla has no one else to help her.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  We returned to the Sayre house long enough to drop our bags, greet Minnie, and leave. David Simpson was still out of town and wouldn’t return until the next day. He’d left Zelda a key to Roswell House so we could make an initial examination, and she drove us there straightaway while we filled her in on what had happened at Bryce Hospital and the attack on us that had resulted in our driver’s injuries.

  Clearly the car wreck upset her, and when we turned down an overgrown driveway, she stopped the car. “I’m not comfortable with you continuing,” she said. “If the solution can’t absolutely be found at Roswell, it might be best if you dropped this case. I have to consider your safety, too.”

  “Absolutely not,” Reginald said. “That poor young woman is in dire circumstances. Whether you pay us or not, we’ll continue.”

  I nodded. “This isn’t the time to quit.” I delicately broached the subject of an unwanted pregnancy to Zelda.

  “Camilla? Pregnant? The pope would be caught with the Vatican full of harlots before that happened.”

  Relief and disappointment touched me. I was glad Camilla didn’t have to live with regret, but a reason for her behavior would have given us a place to start for a cure. “There’s not a chance?”

  “Camilla told me everything. When she kissed David and got aroused, she called to confess to me. She was afraid she’d damaged herself.” Zelda lit a cigarette. “Poor little schoolmarm. She’s hopelessly proper.”

  A swarm of yellow flies had finally caught our scent and descended on the car. Zelda put the vehicle in gear and drove, the stinging flies in hot pursuit. What had once been planned landscaping of hydrangeas, camellias, and beautiful white oaks was now a jungle, and in places it encroached on the driveway to the extent that branches scraped the side of the car. Scuppernong and wisteria vines threaded through the shrubs and climbed the trees. Scrub oak and privet grew through some of the camellias and bridal wreath.

  As we drew closer to the house, I saw a lawn crew hard at work. They used the two-man saws I’d seen applied to timbering as they cleared underbrush and removed the volunteer trees that had grown unchecked for more than a decade. It was backbreaking work in the summer heat.

  “Wedding plans march forward,” Reginald said.

  “They do.” Zelda was noncommittal. “You know, if Camilla had become pregnant, it might have solved all of our problems.”

  “Her mother would have killed her,” I said.

  “No, I don’t think so. The old dragon would have secured a place in the Simpson family forever. She would be grandmother of the child, a blood link that could never be denied.”

  “What a twisted way of thinking.” I got out of the car, my body already sticky in the heat and humidity.

  “Twisted, but the mind-set of the successful predator. Never forget that Maude Granger is a predator. And we are all her prey.” Zelda jumped out of the car and signaled us to follow her to the house. It was a short walk through a driveway clotted with felled trees and debris. When we broke into the cleared front lawn, I stopped.

  Roswell House rose with such grace and beauty that it literally stole my breath. Fresh white paint glistened on the columns and the exterior walls. The windows were opened so that a cross breeze could blow through, and the sounds of carpenters came from the interior. The turpentine smell of paint thinner filled the air.

  Zelda pocketed the key because the front door was wide-open. We stepped inside, and the temperature dropped at least ten degrees. I heaved a sigh of welcome relief. The house had been constructed for maximum cooling. It wasn’t nearly as grand as Caoin House, but it was a jewel, a sparkling diamond of balance, grace, and charm. The foyer was huge and roomy with matching mirrors that gave back reflections of reflections—an illusion of depth that intrigued me.

  The staircase, where I presumed the bride would descend for the wedding ceremony, did seem to float. I could imagine the banister and railings decorated in fall blooms wound with ivy, Camilla so beautiful in her white dress descending to her waiting groom. The bridesmaids would be waiting on one side, the groomsmen on the other.

  Even the exquisite details of the room worked toward that image. The crown molding around the entrance hall was a cupid motif, obviously handcrafted for this home. The inlaid wooden floor created a starburst pattern of lighter and darker woods.

  Hosting the nuptials here guaranteed one of the prettiest weddings ever. I understood completely Camilla’s desire to have the ceremony here, to show off the fine home that was her future, to share the joy and beauty with those she loved.

  If David Simpson was on the up-and-up, this house was a gift of adoration for his bride. But that was a big if. I leaned toward Reginald. “I don’t know what I can pick up with all the workmen here.” The hammering and calls of the carpenters made it difficult for me to sense anything that might lurk in the house.

  “Zelda, do you think we could clear the house for an hour?” Reginald was a take-charge man.

  “Hey, woodpecker,” Zelda ca
lled out to a man who was hammering in the next room. “Knock it off for an hour. We need quiet.”

  Two men came out of the front parlor and spoke softly to Zelda. In a moment she had them laughing as they put their tools down and walked out the front door. Four other workmen followed with grins and tips of their hats. She had a way with men—that was for sure.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  “No.” I started up the stairs to the third-floor ballroom. I’d try there first.

  “Shall I come with you?” Reginald asked.

  “Maybe in a few minutes. Let me see what I sense.” The house felt empty to me, as if any spirits that might have once dwelled there had left long ago.

  The banister was smooth beneath my hand as I climbed the stairs to the third floor. The heat was more intense here, and I opened the large windows. The woodwork had been sanded and prepared for painting. The ballroom was not nearly as big or fine as the one at Caoin House, but it would be a lovely setting for the bride’s first dance with her husband.

  I walked to the center of the room and stopped, closing my eyes and letting my body sense the things around me—the slight breeze, the openness of the room, the smell of cut vegetation and summer easing in from outside. There was no hint of an unhappy spirit or ghost. I drew a total blank.

  I walked the perimeter of the room, calming myself, opening up to the possibility of some other entity in that space. My mouth was dry, and my heart beat furiously—I was afraid. What dark entity might take hold of me? What if I wasn’t strong enough to hold it out? My fear hindered me, but I tried nonetheless.

  Minutes later I’d heard and sensed nothing. If a spirit was there, it was playing shy. Sometimes it took a bit of encouragement to bring a spirit forth. A séance might give me some answers, or at least a direction. Since my last attempt at holding a séance, in which I’d deliberately set out to manipulate the audience, I’d come to learn more about the procedure from Reginald. If I could not draw out a spirit without help, I’d propose that to Reginald.

  The longer I stayed, the more collected I became. My confidence grew, but still I detected nothing. I went downstairs, my footsteps the only sound in the house. It was empty as far as I could tell.

  I found Reginald in the library, examining the work of the carpenters. “They’re doing a beautiful job,” he said. “Anything?”

  I shook my head, hiding my disappointment. “I’ll try the kitchen. Why don’t you go upstairs and see if you pick up on anything? It could be I’m holding the spirit at bay. Or that I’m not sensitive to . . . other things.”

  “Sure.” He dusted off his hands and headed to the staircase.

  I wasn’t certain where Zelda had gone, but her presence wasn’t necessary. She had such high energy that I wondered if she might emit a life force strong enough to repel spirits. An anti-ghost field. I’d have to share that with her for a laugh.

  Construction in the kitchen was finished, and David had seen to all the modern conveniences, including a new Kelvinator refrigerator. Not even Uncle Brett had one of those—yet. The kitchen cabinets had been cleverly designed to match the wood of the refrigerator. The electric stove was also the newest thing. I’d never been much of a cook. The idea of tending a stove had made me set aside what little ambitions I’d had in the culinary arts. An electric stove would make all the difference.

  I opened kitchen drawers and found a fine selection of new butcher knives. They were arranged on a satin cloth with indentations for each knife. One was missing—the second largest. These were professional tools, sharpened to a razor’s edge. Great damage could be inflicted with one of the blades. What I couldn’t imagine was dainty Camilla picking up a knife with the intention of harming anyone, especially David.

  Shutting the drawer, I turned slightly, glancing out the open kitchen window as I shifted. I froze in place. Two young girls stood in the overgrown garden watching me. They wore matching pastel dresses, one of blue and the other green. The style was from the late 1800s, a calf-length skirt with ruffles, a pinafore, and matching bows in their long dark hair, much like the illustrations of Alice in Lewis Carroll’s adventure tale. The girls were twins.

  Holding hands, they moved toward me, not walking but floating over the tangled grass and weeds. I deduced their age to be about ten, still very young. Healthy, smiling, they were like children who’d died of fevers or some illness, for they didn’t appear to have suffered any mistreatment.

  “Save her.” They spoke in unison, and a whisper of fear touched me. They were very close to the window now. The scent of wisteria came with them, a springtime perfume that was long past in the July heat. “Save her.” Their brows furrowed, as if they were concentrating on some fact that eluded their grasp.

  “Come inside,” I suggested, knowing I didn’t have to speak the words.

  They shook their heads. “Afraid.”

  “Afraid to come inside?”

  They nodded.

  “Who are you?”

  “Save her.” Their happy little faces drew tight in frustration. “Butchery!” The word carried a blast of dark emotions.

  Before I could respond, their heads toppled, and blood spurted from their necks. Their heads rolled into the weeds, but their bodies remained upright. “Save her,” the heads said.

  I didn’t scream, but I stumbled backward, banging into the cabinets. Reginald heard the commotion and came instantly. “What’s wrong?”

  “Hurry.” I grabbed his hand and dragged him through the pantry and out the back exit to the yard where I’d seen the girls. “They were here. Twin girls. They lost their heads. They were asking me to save someone—some female—and then their heads simply toppled into the grass as if they’d been beheaded.”

  “Come inside out of the heat.” Reginald started toward the house, but I stopped him.

  Reaching down into the grass, I picked up a tattered blue bow. A rusty stain had spattered over it. “They’re here, the spirits of two little dead girls. But they aren’t what’s troubling Camilla. I’d say they might be protective of her.”

  “Then there is something else here in this house?” Reginald sounded excited.

  “Yes. But I don’t know who or what it is. I only know it’s dangerous.”

  “We’ll figure it out.” He propelled me back into the cool depths of Roswell House. “We have to.”

  I passed the kitchen and forced Reginald to stop. The knife drawer was open, and all the dangerous blades had been withdrawn and were standing, stuck upright into the cabinet cutting board. “We have to leave.” I couldn’t explain my feelings, only that I knew I wasn’t prepared to engage with whatever force controlled Roswell House. This entity, whether ghost or something else, was extremely powerful. And malevolent.

  When Zelda returned from her examination of the work on the lawn, we were standing in the front gallery, waiting. She took one look. The play of emotions on her face went from concern to victory. “Hot damn! There’s something here.”

  “I’m afraid there is,” I said.

  “Jump in the car. We’ll leave this vale of tears behind.”

  Even as unnerved as I was, I had to laugh at Zelda’s use of a biblical phrase. I’d never expected such to fall from her lips, and I said so.

  “I was raised properly, Sunday school and church. It just didn’t take.”

  As soon as Reginald closed his door, Zelda sped down the driveway. I looked back at Roswell House and felt a trill of fear. The two girls, heads in place, stood on the porch. Above them, in a second-story window, loomed a dark-haired woman. The atmosphere around her was thick with what looked like buzzing insects. Flies.

  Zelda took a turn, and the house disappeared behind a dense glade of trees.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Reginald went straight for the bourbon when we arrived at the Sayre home, and a bracing drink was exactly what I needed. I managed to smoke part of a cigarette, but it only made my head swim, so I put it out. Zelda laughed at me. She and Reginald sat with
me in the sunroom, begging for details of what I’d seen.

  I told them everything.

  With Zelda’s permission to place a long-distance call, Reginald agreed to telephone Madam Petalungro. She was the only person we knew to turn to for help. Her experience in the spirit world was desperately needed. I had sensitivity to spirits but no experience. I was learning quickly—and with some trepidation—that more entities than ghosts roamed in the shadows. And even ghosts came with varying degrees of power and strength. The ghosts of Caoin House had been angry and malevolent, but I’d never felt such dark intent. The unwanted inhabitant of Roswell House was female, and she called to her the forces of darkness.

  I told Reginald and Zelda of my dream about visiting the underworld. If it applied to this situation somehow, Madam might be able to tell me how, and I needed her help.

  Reginald placed the call. As the phone rang in New Orleans, I sipped the bourbon and prayed for courage. Even false courage. What kind of investigator would I be if I was too afraid to investigate? A tiny little voice inside my head answered: A live one.

  Reginald gave Madam Petalungro the basic details of what had occurred, while Zelda and I waited.

  “I’ll put Raissa on the phone.” He handed the receiver to me.

  “You must protect yourself,” Madam told me. “This is no ordinary spirit.”

  “What is it?”

  I heard only the buzzing of the open line for a moment. “I honestly can’t say. If my health were better, I would come to help you. You must protect yourself. The flies you saw trouble me. They’re a sign of . . . something that may never have been alive. A ghost is the energy, or some would say soul, of a human who has passed on. This thing that lurks in Roswell House concerns me.”

  She wouldn’t say the word, and I didn’t want to. But I had to. “Do you believe in demons?”

  “Whatever you wish to call the darker spirits, you must protect yourself, Raissa.”