by John Bladek
Duncan tilted his head back and lifted his mug to his mouth.
I stared at him as he began to pour himself another. If he had any more, he’d be crying on the floor.
“Day after day went by with no word from her,” Duncan continued. “I put up a calendar, crossing off every day ’til I got to nine months from that day. I planned to sneak into the abbey close to the due date and find her, beg her to come away with me. If she didn’t want to come, I…at least I would’ve tried. I’d saved some money and borrowed a car so we could escape. Still I heard nothing. I couldn’t risk poking around and asking questions, exposing myself too soon.
“I waited until my last X on the calendar, knowing it was a shot in the dark as far as when the baby would be born. I didn’t want to wait any later. I was afraid that the new parents of our child would come and take the baby away. After lights-out, I made my way to the abbey. They were waiting for me: Mother Angelica and the police. I don’t know how they knew I was coming. I assume Mother Angelica either guessed I was the father or maybe she’d tortured Pamela into revealing it. ‘You leave this place forever,’ she’d commanded. ‘Pray God to forgive you your sins.’ Then the police hauled me off for trespassing, and my last chance was gone.”
“Did you tell them what was going on?” I asked.
“As much as I could, but I didn’t know Pamela was imprisoned,” Duncan said. A look of loss and despair clouded his eyes. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The police never listened to me. I think they knew what went on at the abbey. They never interfered. It was the Church, after all.”
The Winterbay police not taking people seriously sounded all too familiar.
“The cops couldn’t hold me, so I went to the lighthouse and holed up inside. I watched from the rock every day for any sign of her. The abbey remained locked up tight. Two weeks later, my life changed forever. There was a storm blowing in when I happened to spot Pamela through my binoculars. She had somehow slipped out of the abbey and was wandering on the beach. I raced down to the relief boat. Once I’d cleared the rock, I headed toward the landing up the way from the abbey, hoping she’d see me and meet me there.
“Swells washed into the boat, and the current pushed me far up the shore. As I approached the landing, a large flock of seagulls flew over my head, squawking and crying. They circled so low I had to duck and swat at the damned things to drive them off. Never seen such a thing, before or since.”
Duncan’s story of the birds sounded like my own run-in with those winged rats.
“It almost seemed that the sea itself was set against me.”
“Bay of Lost Souls,” I mumbled.
“What’s that?” Duncan said. “What did you say?”
I shook my head. “Something I heard in town, about Winterbay being cursed.”
He nodded and covered his face. “I raced straight for the beach, not caring if I split the boat open on the rocks. I lost sight of her as I made my way toward shore and then found her later, floating face down in the water. I pulled her into my boat. She was already gone.” He choked off a sob. “Those lovely green eyes, cold and staring. I’ll never forget that as long as I live.” He squeezed the gold cross in his hand.
I realized I’d been holding my breath despite knowing the awful end of the story.
“It was my fault. She’d seen me and was coming out into the water to meet me. I just know it.” A sob escaped his lips. “Mother Angelica claimed Pamela drowned herself on purpose. I won’t believe it, not ever!” He finished by knocking over his whiskey bottle.
Gryffin whimpered.
I took the opportunity to take the bottle away. “Is that why she’s not buried inside the cemetery?” I asked, sliding the bottle underneath the table. “Because they thought she was a suicide?”
“She didn’t kill herself.” Tears trailed down his face.
I sat back. Despite his protests, it seemed more than apparent that Pamela probably had.
chapter eighteen
This tale of Duncan’s—lost love, stolen children, Pamela’s torture at the hands of a vindictive nun, and suicide—provided plenty of reasons why Pamela might still be haunting Winterbay Abbey. Her tragedy—indeed the misfortune of the abbey itself and all those other “wayward” girls—was greater than I’d imagined. But what was I supposed to do about it? What did Pamela want, if anything, from me? And why did Duncan think my life was in danger?
These realizations elevated my anxiety to a new level. All I wanted was to be rid of Winterbay, escape from this town with all its tragic secrets.
“I’m sorry for your loss, truly. But could you please tell me what all this has to do with me?” I asked.
Duncan sat hunched over with his head on the table. He snapped his head up and glared at me, his eyes hot. “It was Mother Angelica. She drove her mad, drove Pamela to her death. She hated Pamela, wanted her to suffer.”
Age-old hatred flamed in his eyes.
“Why?” I asked. “From what you’ve said, she was a stern woman, hard and cold, and she did some terrible things as Mother Superior. But why would she have especially hated Pamela? It sounds like she treated her like all the other girls. And why would all of this lead to Pamela haunting the abbey if Mother Angelica was already dead?”
Duncan’s held his head. “What?! Haven’t you been listening? Pamela’s not haunting the abbey!”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “I saw her ghost on the beach. I know it was Pamela. It was the girl from the newspaper photo.”
Duncan shook his head harder. “No! You’ve been fooled. Like I was at first. I thought Pamela’s ghost had returned after I’d heard some of the strange rumors of the ghost. But if she had, she’d have come to me, not drowned all those girls.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “I’ve never seen Pamela’s ghost.” Then, in a near shout, he pointed his finger at me. “Mother Angelica haunts the abbey.”
I stared at him. How in the world had we taken this turn? He thought Angelica was the ghost and drowned some of the girls? “I don’t understand,” I said. “That makes no sense.”
“Mother Angelica was a vicious, hateful bitch,” Duncan said. “Her malevolence has continued beyond her death.” Duncan cleared his throat. “She also believed in demons. Pamela was followed by angels.”
“Followed by angels?” I asked.
“Pamela had a special connection with them, ever since she was a small girl, at the orphanage she grew up in. Used to talk to them. They guided her, gave her advice. At times, they were her only friends. That’s why she was becoming a nun.”
This story was starting to go off the deep end. Duncan was clearly drunk now. I slid my chair back, thinking it was time to leave.
“Sit down!” he yelled.
“Look, I’ve listened to this whole story. You’ve even got me believing in ghosts. But angels too? And you still haven’t answered my question about what all this has to do with my life being in danger,” I said, pointing at him.
Duncan waved a drunken hand at me. “Go on, get out!” he snapped. “I knew you wouldn’t believe. You’re like all the rest. I told people the same thing. Mother Angelica hating Pamela for her angels, jealous to the point of murder. That’s the truth. The idea that Pamela could talk to angels drove Mother Angelica mad. She told Pamela they were demons, not angels. Pamela getting pregnant was the work of those demons, and Mother Angelica sent her to her death, torturing her to drive them out.”
I sat there, gaping, not knowing what to believe. “You said Angelica killed the other girls too,” I said. “By driving out their demons as well?”
Duncan nodded. “She tortured them all for their sins, same as Pamela. All the pregnant girls. And they all died the same way as Pamela, drowned.”
I thought back to the newspaper records. There had been a death shortly before Pamela, perhaps more. I hadn’t looked at the records for the previous decade. Did Angelica really cause those deaths?
“Drownings?” I asked. “The paper only mentioned
one.”
“They were all found on the beach. Mother Angelica covered that up.”
“How do you know?”
“I know,” he said.
“Why didn’t anyone notice so many girls were dying?”
“They didn’t all die, only a few, and like I said, it was covered up. It was easy enough to say they had died in childbirth. No one questioned the church back then.”
“Not even parents?” I asked, not believing what I was hearing.
Duncan shook his head. “The girls were all like Pamela—orphans, or abandoned by shamefaced parents. Pamela was different, though.” Duncan jumped up, unsteady on his legs, and staggered back to the cupboard where he’d retrieved Pamela’s letter. He pulled a small book out of the same silver box and held it up. “Read this.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“Pamela…” he choked, “Pamela’s diary. I found it in a space beneath a loose floorboard, up in the tower,” Duncan said. “Read what she says about Angelica, about how she twisted her mind.”
As he handed me the book, a memory of the floorboard I’d found in the tower room surfaced. I’d shined my flashlight in the hole. It had been empty.
I glanced down at the red cover with the word Diary in scripted gold lettering on the front, just the sort of journal a young girl would have. I gently turned back the cover and saw Pamela written in fancy calligraphy on the inside front. “Okay,” I said with a sigh. “But I still don’t understand what this all has to do with me.”
A blank stare hovered over his expression, as though he didn’t recognize me for a split second.
“Duncan?”
“Just read it!” he snapped.
I frowned and opened the diary to the first entry:
Jan. 17, 1957
Dear Diary,
I’m fourteen years old today. The orphanage’s headmistress reminded me again that I’ll have no place to live in two more years. I miss my mom and dad. Why did God have to take them so early?
My angels say I have a destiny, but they haven’t told me what it is yet.
June 29
The bright one came last night, Francine. I like to call her that, she’s never told me her real name. She hovered over my bed, amazingly none of the other girls ever see her. She smiled and told me I must serve the Lord. That’s what she always says mostly, but not how, or where or why, just that I must serve. I think I will ask Miss Blandeau, the headmistress. I won’t tell her about my visions, but just to get an answer how best to serve here at the orphanage.
July 1
Miss Blandeau says I should become a nun, in fact she’s surprised it took me this long to think of it. There’s an abbey, Winterbay Abbey, in Maine, where she knows the Mother Superior and is sure I would be taken in and trained. There I would be able to help young girls and serve the Lord. I will ask Francine.
I hope they have lots of birds in Maine. We have them here, and I love to watch them. Sometimes I sit in class and just watch out the windows at the circling seagulls, calling and swirling over the yard.
July 14
It’s been over two weeks since I last saw Francine.
I am afraid. Norman has come back. He’s the grumpy angel. I call him Norman because he reminds me of the janitor who used to work here at St. Bridget’s. Sometimes I still have nightmares about him. I was thankful one of the girls told Miss Blandeau about the blood they saw on my shirt before he was finally sent away. I was always so afraid. Angel Norman doesn’t talk much, and he scares me sometimes. He stands in the dark corner of the bedroom here at night staring at me while I try to sleep. He usually only comes back when I have the dreams about my parents. I did ask him about becoming a nun, but he didn’t answer. I must still ask Francine and trust her to protect me from Norman.
August 18
Sometimes I believe if I concentrate hard enough, I could really fly like the seagulls outside. Miss Blandeau chastises me for daydreaming, and I know Francine must want me to think more about the Lord than birds, but I believe that God made all creatures great and small and does not mind when I consider how beautiful His creation is. Their wings are so remarkable. They remind me of Francine’s wings. Birds must be special sorts of angels sent from God. They are so free.
The entries stopped for a while, until Pamela was at Winterbay. I wasn’t sure what to make of her “angels.” They sounded almost like pets, or imaginary friends. Her fascination with birds was another uncomfortable reminder of my bird attack, and Duncan’s tale of the day of Pamela’s death.
July 1, 1959
Dear Diary,
My first day at Winterbay Abbey. Mother Superior Angelica is much like Miss Blandeau, only worse. She is very strict and stern, a scary little woman not more than 5 feet tall with iron gray hair and a gold tooth. She says that I must be open and honest, tell her the truth at all times, and keep nothing from her. I will try, but I am not sure about my angels. They’ve always been mine alone. I’ll have to keep this diary hidden at least for now and hope that’s not a sin.
There are a dozen nuns and two pregnant girls they call “guests.” I’ve heard of girls who’ve gotten into trouble being sent to nunneries to avoid the embarrassment. Mother Angelica told me to stay away from the guests so their sinfulness doesn’t corrupt me. I know what they’ve done is a sin, but I feel sorry and sad for them. They seem like nice girls and are my age. Can’t they be forgiven?
Mother Superior Angelica showed me to a little dorm room, they call them all cells. It’s not very comfy, and I’m so lonely. I miss St. Bridget’s. Never thought I’d say that.
There are birds everywhere here, though. My room looks out toward the woods and not the sea, but I can watch them from the beach whenever I’m not busy studying or praying. Their wings are so beautiful and strong.
July 10, 1959
I feel so alone. The nuns here at Winterbay seem cold, like Mother Angelica. They’re mostly older, some ancient, except for Sister Joanne, who’s very nice and only a few years older than me, and I think I could be her friend. Mother Angelica is frightening. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s lectured me about sin and doing penance. She carries a wooden pointer that she smacks in her hand while she speaks, or on my hand if she thinks I’m not listening. Miss Blandeau always did that with the younger girls, but I hadn’t felt it in years. I’m afraid what else she might do with that stick.
I saw Francine last night, her first visit since I’ve come to Winterbay. I’m so glad she found me. She appeared in my cell. She told me to be wary of Mother Angelica. I’m not sure why. She wouldn’t say. She did say I mustn’t ever tell Mother Angelica about seeing her.
Mother Angelica gave me another lecture about the Devil today. She says the whole world is under Satan’s control, and she’s the only one who can stop him. It’s frightening. Is that why Francine warned me about her?
July 12
A young man was at Sunday dinner, not too much older than me. He has red hair and a sweet face. He smiled and winked at me. I was so nervous I couldn’t look at him, but my heart started pounding. I don’t know if any man has ever smiled at me like that, just rude whistles, like the janitor at St. Bridget’s with his crooked leer and those bug eyes. I wish I could be rid of the memory of the janitor’s face forever.
I asked Sister Joanne, and she said the man’s name is Duncan. That’s a nice name. He works at the lighthouse offshore. He’s so lucky. All the birds fly around it during the day, and many nest out there on the rock. I would love to visit. What a wonderful place to fly from.
I looked up at Duncan, who stared intently at me as I read. His story, at least Pamela’s angel sightings and Angelica’s obsession with demons, was playing out. Their meeting and her impressions of him were there too. I was beginning to see Pamela in a different light. This shy girl whom Duncan talked about and who spoke to me through her diary didn’t seem so scary, or resemble that malevolent, hate-filled face I’d seen on the beach. She’d lived a sad and lonely life, an
d I could only assume had been abused in some way by this “janitor” she spoke of. I didn’t see how these two visions could be the same person.
Sept. 5
Mother Angelica said today that I can’t become a real nun until I recognize my sins and rid myself of demons. I asked her how I could do that, and she said she would show me. She led me upstairs to a room beneath the bell tower and pulled down a ladder. We climbed up, and she opened a padlocked door. There’s a tiny room, barely big enough to pace, with one round window. There’s a bed, a rocking chair, and a cradle. Why is that here? Surely the pregnant girls don’t come up. Mother Angelica said I must stay here and pray for forgiveness. Then she locked the door.
Sept. 6
I’m writing this now, back in my regular cell, but I’m more worried than ever that Mother Angelica will find my diary. I was so alone up in the tower. The room was very quiet, except for the loud ringing of the bell every hour. After six hours, Mother Angelica came to get me.
Sister Joanne visited today. She says I must endure. She’s very nice. I want to be like her. I hope I’ve made the right choice. I am scared.
Sept. 8
It’s been three days since I was up in the tower. I have done little but pray, eat, and sleep. I don’t ever want to spend another minute in that terrible place, so I must prove to Mother Angelica that I am worthy. I can hear her coming; she clicks that pointer on the wall as she walks.
The dates in the diary tailed off, and I was no longer sure how much time passed between them.
Dear Diary,
It’s Sunday, the best day of the week. After morning mass, which is better than daily because there are more people there, I walked on the beach and watched the seagulls swoop and soar over the water. They are so beautiful.
I think and hope that I may see Duncan again tonight at dinner. I’ve been watching the lighthouse for any sign he is there or coming over in the little boat I see tied up at a small pier.