Widow's Tale

by Miller, Maureen A.

  "Serena, if and when those footsteps start tonight, I want you to listen to them. I mean really listen. You have the advantage. You know this loft inside and out. Tell me what you hear. Tell me what’s wrong with them. Are they accurate?" His eyes left hers to span the living room. "You know where the planks creek on the floor, the weak spots, try and gauge where they’re coming from, or if they were even produced in this house."

  Serena set her spoon down and shoved the bowl away.

  "Oh no you don’t."

  Startled by his rebuke, she glanced up. Brett came around the table to sit beside her.

  "What?" She flinched.

  He drew up a foot away from her and stifled a curse. "First, don’t shy away from me like that.” His voice grew soft. "I’m not going to hurt you."

  Visibly relaxing, she offered him a shamefaced smile. "And second?"

  Brett left a decent gap between them. He tipped his head towards the porcelain bowl. "You are going to finish that."

  Serena followed his gaze to the sodden mass.

  "Soggy wheaties," he reminded her.

  She continued to scrutinize the clump of bran and milk, and wrinkled her nose. "I lied."

  "Then what does turn you on, Serena?"

  Serena’s head snapped at the soft lure of Brett’s voice. She was pinned by stormy eyes that washed over her with a gale force. He had not moved, but she felt his close proximity, aware of his warmth, sensing something so raw and elemental that she wanted to connect with. Of its own volition, her hand rose until the tips of her fingers skimmed the dark stubble framing his jaw. Gray eyes continued to watch her. Steady. Solemn. Hot.

  Brett reached up to enfold her hand in his and turned it to brush a soft kiss against her palm. Then he guided her trembling fingers back to the table and around the handle of the spoon.

  "Eat," he ordered in a husky voice.

  With her eyes fixed on him, she hesitantly raised the spoon, managing a brief mouthful as he nodded his encouragement.

  Her spine stiffened. The spoon crashed down into the bowl of milk.

  Brett’s head jerked at the sound of footsteps.

  "Serena!" His voice was raw. "Listen to it."

  Her first instinct was to cover her ears, but Brett grabbed her arms. "Listen. Tell me what you hear."

  Eyebrows furrowed, Serena searched past Brett into the living room, then wrenched from his grip to approach the phantom steps.

  What did she hear?

  She heard Alan crossing the living room in slow, deliberate steps. It was another of his endeavors to sneak out the front door, hoping not to be overheard from the bathroom where she stared at her distraught reflection in the mirror.

  Serena’s eyes closed now, listening to the past, listening to the present—what was wrong between the two?

  There was a hollow sound to the heavy stride that she had not detected before.

  She crouched down in time to heed the steps as they passed before her. Splaying her fingers on the wooden floorboards, she leaned forward and listened to them fade.

  "What is it?" Brett ducked down beside her.

  Focused, she replayed the eerie tread in her mind.

  "It—it didn’t sound natural. I mean, if I wasn’t really paying attention, I could swear it was Alan walking out the front door," she shook off a chill, "it did sound like his footsteps. But it sounded hollow, like an echo." She glanced at her fingers on the polished floorboards. "It seemed like it came from downstairs."

  "Downstairs." He repeated. "What’s down there? I noticed that the stairs outside don’t stop on the second floor, how do you get downstairs?"

  Brett followed Serena’s glance to an unmarked door in the hall.

  "That’s the inner stairwell. We used to live down there, Alan and I." She explained. "My parents stayed up here in the loft, but once they left for Florida, I pretty much closed off the second floor."

  She rose and clutched her arms about her to ward off a chill. "I had aspirations of turning the second floor into a real Inn, renting out the rooms to weary tourists and all."

  "That doesn’t sound so ludicrous." Brett reached the stairwell door, twisting the brass knob, but found it was locked.

  With a steadying breath, Serena sought to moderate her thunderous heartbeat. She probed through a ceramic curio box on the coffee table and grabbed the key, but immediately dropped it at the sound of an infant’s laughter pervading the still loft.

  Brett crossed the floor in three strides, reaching for her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.

  "It’s a cruel trick. Don’t cave into it, Serena. That’s what he wants."

  "It is a cruel trick," she cried.

  His arms enfolded her as if he sought to shelter her from the haunting mirth. His broad chest, so warm and powerful beneath her cheek proved to distract her from the invasive sound.

  At length, Brett set her back and stooped to retrieve the key. His hand reached for hers and their fingers meshed. They stared at that simple connection.

  With a gentle squeeze, he whispered. "I’m going to put a stop to this, but I need you. Can you hang in there with me?"

  The baby emitted a string of cooing giggles. It was a hoax Serena reminded herself—a malicious joke, and the only way to end this daily torture was to trace its source.

  She clutched his fingers. "Come on."

  A single bulb mounted high on the angled ceiling cast a yellow hue on the wallpaper. Along the border of the wooden steps the aged paper curled away from the wall. Serena made tsking noises at the state of disrepair as she flattened her hand against the course material.

  "We haven’t used these stairs much," she whispered. Anything louder than a whisper would have reverberated enough to peel the cracked wallpaper.

  "The middle floor has been closed off," she said. "I guess I’ve neglected it."

  Honestly, she did not want to come downstairs and address the memories. She had ventured down here once a month ago to locate some personal effects for Alan’s service, but there was nothing sentimental she could find to bury in his empty coffin.

  Using the same key, Serena unlocked a door at the first landing as Brett surveyed the shadowed route down to the restaurant. When the door swung inward on squealing hinges, he stopped her with a light touch on the shoulder and then moved past to survey the dark chamber.

  "I can’t see a damn thing," he cursed, using one hand for leverage, the other secured around her forearm.

  "The electricity is off on this level. We were being cheap." She brushed by him. "Hold on."

  Distressed by her disappearance, Brett called out Serena’s name. Her face appeared before him, glowing in the wake of candlelight. She clutched a thick vanilla candle melted at an uneven angle so that half the room shone brighter than the other.

  In that flickering ring of light, he was able to discern a family room with its few pieces of furniture sheltered in dusty sheets.

  Ghosts.

  Acclimating to the darkness, only large objects were recognizable, and these he warily steered around. Taking the candle from Serena’s hand, he held it up towards the ceiling to inspect the chain of cobwebs linked in such a fashion that no mortal could have tampered with them.

  "Is this room directly beneath the living room?" Brett cringed at the echo of his words.

  "Not exactly. There’s a small kitchen through that archway. The floor plans aren’t similar at all, and the third floor was an attic till about thirty years ago."

  Serena guided him towards the entry of a galley-styled kitchen. Here, the dark was impenetrable, with no window to cast even the subtlest glow. Brett set the candle down on the counter, snapping his hand back from the hot wax that trickled down to scorch his flesh.

  "Are you okay?" She whispered.

  "Yeah," He reached for the first cabinet. "Is there a dish or something I can set that on?"

  Brett sensed Serena’s touch beside him. "Here."

  Accepting the small saucer, he held the flare aloft and craned
to examine the ceiling for the telltale track of wiring. Nothing seemed amiss. Frustrated, he handed the candle back off to her.

  "Hold this a second."

  He hoisted onto the counter and reclaimed the candle, peering into the dusty alcove above the refrigerator. As much as he dreaded what might be lurking there, he thrust his hand into the tight space. The grill behind the icebox was cold to the touch, but not rigged with anything malicious. Still, he was convinced that the source of Serena’s ghost lie in this room.

  Impatient, Brett began tossing open cabinet doors, his fingers probing the remote corners, coming up empty except for a mousetrap that snapped near his pointer finger.

  "Dammit!"

  "Brett?"

  "I’m okay. Wait, there’s something here." It was a cable coiled in the recesses of the cabinet. He yanked the cord and heard a muffled crash upstairs.

  "Brett?"

  The urgency in Serena’s voice pervaded as he reached for the candle to catch the taut shadows of apprehension around her lips.

  "What is it? Did you hear something?"

  Brett climbed down and positioned Serena behind him. He jabbed the light out into the family room, but saw only the harmless mounds of furniture.

  "No." Her voice was tremulous. "Over there. On the counter."

  Sweeping the candle back into the kitchen, it penetrated into the far corner to reveal two dim shadows atop the nicked formica. Advancing towards them, Brett was conscious of Serena’s nails biting into his arm. Her other hand was on his hip as she molded herself against his back.

  "It’s a bag of corn chips?" He tried to justify the fear he felt in her grasp, but wasn’t going to dissuade the friction of her body.

  "And a bottle of Allagash." she added, hoarsely.

  "Yeah?"

  "Alan drinks Allagash," she whispered. "And corn chips were his favorite snack."

  "But this was his home, naturally there are going to be traces of him left behind. I know it must hurt, Serena—it must be hard on you to come down here and see signs of your husband, but—"

  "No," Serena grabbed the beer bottle and held it up to the flame. Tilting the glass left and right, she watched a frothy ring of liquid slosh around the bottom.

  "I was down here a month ago, just before Alan’s service. These were not here. There’s still condensation in this bottle. It would have evaporated if it was here that long."

  She seized the bag of corn chips, where several chunks were still intact. "And the damn mice from the cabinets would have feasted on these."

  In the diffused light, Brett saw rage darken Serena’s face. He took the bottle from her hand and watched the liquid swirl around in the same pattern his thoughts whirled about in his head. Disbelief, incredulity, cynicism—and above all else, a growing resentment.

  "Are you sure?" he asked. "Allagash is a local beer. It could belong to anyone. Maybe it belongs to this John Morse—if they’re so buddy buddy, naturally they’d have the same tastes."

  "I guess I don’t know him well enough, but I think about anybody in Victory Cove will testify to the fact that Morse won’t drink anything tamer than whisky."

  Brett’s curse was enunciated clearly as he slammed the bottle back down, wishing it would break. It didn’t—which only nurtured his anger.

  "Well, Serena," his voice was cold, "maybe your ghost is more real than you think."

  She wrapped her arms about her. "What do you mean?"

  "What if Alan is still alive?"

  In the family room, the Atlantic’s fierce wind rattled the windowpanes, making his already ominous voice even more compelling. "What if it really is Alan that’s haunting you?"

  Brett reached for both her arms.

  "Tell me, Serena, do you think Alan is capable of this?"

  The question might have been verbalized to her, but the query rooted inside his mind.

  CHAPTER X

  Alan—still alive?

  The thought rolled in Serena’s head, inciting an attack of nausea. Would he do this? Would he be malicious enough to drive her towards the brink of madness? Would he prey on her vulnerability at a time of such despair?

  Alan, alive.

  Was that such a startling revelation? Hadn’t she felt him all along? Wasn’t that why she sought the cliffs each night, hoping for closure?

  "Yes," She choked. "Yes, he could do this."

  Strong fingers touched her jaw, dragging her from anguish. In the candlelight Brett’s features were eclipsed, but his touch stole through her.

  "Look at me." His free hand reached up to cup her face, his thumb gently tracing it.

  "Serena, you’re not safe. I know what Alan’s capable of, and I know when he’s got it out for someone−he will carry it out to the end. We’ve got to go to the police."

  She laughed. "And say what? A corpse is chasing me? They’ve pronounced him dead—as in the subject is closed. You’ve worked with them. Haven’t the police been very closed-book on this?"

  Brett released her and hoisted a hand through his hair. "Yes, but my brother is not right. He’s—" the word took a second to form, "dangerous. I’m just going to have to make them understand that."

  No amount of darkness could conceal the pain or disillusion in his voice. Serena reached for his hand. These were the same emotions racing through her veins, pulsing where his fingers grazed her wrist.

  "We’re losing the candle," she whispered. "Come on, let’s go back upstairs. I don’t want to be here anymore."

  Brett seemed preoccupied with remorse. Mechanically, he took the lead, candle aloft in one hand, his other gripping hers tenaciously. They mounted the stairs in silence until a thin band of light was distinguished at the base of the door.

  Desperate now, she wanted nothing more than to return to her radiant loft and leave behind this pit of shadows and anguish.

  "Well, I guess I really know how to wine and dine a woman, huh?" Brett inched his thigh into a half-seated position on the edge of the dining room table.

  "You’ve virtually swept me off my feet."

  What had been fun baiting suddenly lost its allure.

  Trying to ease the beginning signs of a headache, Brett rubbed the apex of his nose and mumbled something.

  "What?" Serena asked.

  "I’m sorry."

  "Sorry?"

  "Yes, sorry. Sorry that I didn’t stop you from marrying him. I wanted to, you know." He let loose a pent-up breath. "Isn’t that selfish? I stood in that hall, staring at you, willing myself to say the words—don’t do it."

  Serena touched the wall. "Why?" she whispered.

  For a moment, he just looked at her.

  "Because I knew he’d hurt you. I knew what type of person Alan was—that love was something I didn’t think him capable of. I knew he would use you, and when he was tired—" Brett’s eyes cut through the dark. "Because I wanted you."

  Unnaturally loud, the tick tock of the Grandfather clock beat in time with Serena’s heart. She opened her mouth, but Brett had already launched off the table.

  "Never mind," he growled. "Forget I ever said that."

  She didn’t want to forget, but he was evading her gaze. He went so far as to stand up and inspect the loft. Fascinated by his broad shoulders and the long dip of his back, she watched him stoop down, his knee on the hardwood floor.

  "Whoa," he said. "What have we here?"

  Serena moved to stand over him.

  "What is it?"

  Brett righted the wooden figure adorned in a yellow slicker and hood. A craggy face looked up at them.

  "Ya know," he smirked, "this guy looks like Coop Littlefield."

  About to laugh because the statue really did look like Coop, Serena took notice of what Brett had seen. There was a barely visible hole inset between the narrow, painted lips. In addition, the statue had a tail, a cable that disappeared into the wall like a scurrying snake.

  "Well, Miss Rena, I think we’ve found your ghost." He leaned back on his feet.

  She
stared in fascination at the statue. It was one of the pieces her parents had left behind. They figured flamingo sculptures would be more appropriate where they were heading.

  "But how?" The thought that someone had been inside her apartment long enough to rig this apparatus staggered her.

  "More important is who." Brett glared as he yanked the wire out of the fisherman.

  "Look," he kicked the cable. "That puts an end to your nightly visitors."

  Serena held a hand to her heart. Just like that, her ghosts were gone.

  It wasn’t that simple.

  Brett must have read her thoughts. He reached for her arm. "Why don’t you try to get some sleep? We’ll deal with it all in the morning."

  She nodded. She wanted that. She wanted to go hide in her room. She wanted to hide from the events on the second floor. She wanted to hide from this hollow fisherman with his illusory mouth. And she wanted to hide from Brett’s compelling gray eyes and his gentle words.

  With a whisper of acknowledgement to the man, she did just that.

  Outside her window, Serena was aware that the wind had died down. She hoisted a long sleeved t-shirt over her head and then yanked off her jeans. She left on the thick wool socks to battle the bitter cold that lurked at the foot of the bed.

  Lifting a hand towards the lantern on the nightstand, her fingers stopped short and retreated. Instead, she closed her eyes to shut out the dim light. Abruptly, her eyes flared, afraid of the darkness beneath her eyelids.

  Alan was still alive.

  She could feel it in the thunderous beating of her heart and the throbbing of her veins. Hands that clutched the quilt beneath her chin began to shake. Alan would torment her. He had already begun. Then he would come for her—and what he would do to her depended on how far over the edge he had finally gone.

  Serena burrowed under the covers. In a whirl of anguish and fear, her last conscious thought before she fell asleep were the words Brett had uttered.