When Emmalynn Remembers

by Jennifer Wilde

  There was no one in the room. We had probably closed the door, and it had clicked back open. The hinges were rusty, the lock probably sprung. I was about to leave when I noticed the curious alignment of the furniture. Everything was slightly out of line, as though every piece had been pulled out and then pushed back rather carelessly. As I stood gazing, puzzled, I noticed the shredded wallpaper again, and I suddenly realized that it had been deliberately shredded. Someone had run a knife along behind it. I set the candle on a low table and bent down to examine a plum chair covered with shabby blue velvet. There was a large rip in back of the chair, and someone had reached in and dug among the stuffing. A few puffs of the stiff gray padding littered the floor. The room had been searched. Why hadn’t I noticed it earlier, when we were inspecting the rooms?

  I was still bending over the chair when the door slammed shut. It made an explosion of sound, and I cried out. The windows rattled. A great gust of wind battered the house. The candle flame spurted up, wavered violently for an instant and then went out. The room was pitch dark. Cold chills went up my spine, and I gripped the edge of the chair, frantic. Someone slammed the door. Someone closed me in the room. No, no, it was the wind, a gust of wind that caused the windows to rattle.

  I groped in the darkness for the candle holder. I managed to find it, and I stumbled towards the door. I turned the knob. I pulled. The door did not budge. Darkness swirled around me, black, black shadows, dust, decay, and fear so real it seemed to stroke my arms and blow wisps of hair across my temples. I turned at the door frantically, on the verge of hysteria, and it flew open, slamming against the wall and almost knocking me over. It had been stuck. I sighed deeply and shook my head, ashamed of my moment of panic.

  No one had slammed the door shut. No one had locked it. Absurd, absurd. No one was prowling the dark corridors. No one had broken into the house. Absurd to be out here, absurd to be imagining all sorts of things, carrying on like the heroine of an improbable suspense melodrama … back to my own bedroom, back to sleep. No more dreams, no more imagined noises. I stood in the hall, gripping the brass candle holder with its extinguished light. Without the candlelight the hall didn’t seem so black. The darkness was less impenetrable, less dense, and I could easily find my way back to my room without the aid of a candle. A candle blinded me and made the dark seem darker. I was calm now, willing to laugh at myself, willing to forget my frightened fancies.

  I started back towards my room, moving resolutely, almost unaware of the darkness and the shifting shadows and the creaking floorboards. I would not say anything about this to Billie. I would go back to sleep, and in the morning, in the sunshine, this could all be put in its true perspective. I had been nervous and on edge. I had been awakened by a dream. I had given way to a too active imagination. I smiled to myself, and then I stood dead still, horrified.

  There, near the top of the stairs, a dark form stood against the wall, not clear, vague, but quite real, moving along the wall towards the staircase. I closed my eyes tightly. I gripped the candle holder as though it were a log and I were drowning. I opened my eyes, sure the form would be gone, determined to be reasonable. It moved away from the wall, stood for an instant at the top of the stairs and then disappeared into the well of darkness. I dropped the candle holder. It clattered loudly. I cursed.

  I darted down the hall to the staircase. I leaned over the railing and peered down into that nest of shifting shadows. There was a window over the landing, a very small window set high up, covered by a dark curtain, but a few threads of moonlight seeped through, piercing the darkness with a faint misty glow. Movement catches the eye, even when it is almost invisible movement, and I saw something moving, a shadow among shadows, creeping down the stairs.

  “Who’s there!” I called.

  The shadow merged into shadows, and there was nothing but the echo of my voice. The house was still, silent. I peered down, angry now, all my fear submerged by the anger. The wind began to blow. The curtains at both ends of the hall billowed, flapping noisily. A floorboard creaked. Then I heard a soft sound, so soft that it was barely audible. It sounded like a chuckle, and it was the most terrifying noise I had ever heard. For a moment the sound floated up to me, and then it was gone. I could not even be sure I’d heard it.

  Billie’s door flew open. She charged into the hall, an oil lamp in her hand. Her hair was a tangled mass about her shoulders. Her eyes were wide. She hurried towards me, and I saw how pale she was. Her hand was trembling so vigorously that I feared she would drop the lamp over the bannister. I took it from her. In the warm yellow glow of light, the staircase was empty. The stairs circled down to the hall, and there was no one there. I set the lamp down on the post. I sighed heavily. I relaxed.

  “What on earth—” Billie began.

  “I had a dream.”

  “A dream!”

  “A—a nightmare, I guess. It woke me up.”

  “Something woke me up, too. A hideous noise. It sounded like a shrill scream—”

  “The wind—a door slammed. I dropped the candle holder. It clattered. Nothing is wrong. Nothing—seems to be—”

  “My God, Em! How could you come traipsing out here alone in the middle of the night?”

  “I thought I heard something. It was my imagination.”

  “What was it?”

  “Nothing. The wind, the house—nothing extraordinary.”

  “Thank Heavens! Why when I woke up—”

  “Rather early for you,” I remarked.

  “It’s five. I woke up and ran into your room and saw you weren’t there and I almost died!”

  “Everything’s all right now,” I said.

  “I thought I heard a scream, and I visualized an axe—”

  She shook her head, still visibly shaken. I smiled.

  “It’s almost morning,” I said. “Seems rather foolish to go back to bed now that we’re both awake. Why don’t we go get dressed and then make a pot of coffee. I could use a cup or two.”

  “So could I. I could use something stronger.”

  “At five in the morning?” I teased.

  “I certainly could!”

  We walked back to our rooms. I paused at Billie’s door, my hand on her arm. “Billie—did we lock all the doors of these rooms up here?”

  “I think so. Why?”

  “I just wondered. Do you remember an eagle?”

  “An eagle? Have you lost your mind?”

  “A stuffed eagle, perched on the top of the wardrobe in one of the rooms.”

  “What a perfectly ghastly idea. No, but then we didn’t go into all of the rooms. Remember? We went through all those on the other side of the hall, and then we started on this side and found these rooms and didn’t go into the other four.”

  “That explains it,” I said, relieved.

  “Explains what? What are you talking about? Eagles—”

  “I’ll tell you all about it after we’ve had our coffee,” I promised. “There really isn’t much to tell—”

  I went into my room to dress. The first light of of dawn was showing on the horizon. Daylight would come. Shadows would vanish. There had been nothing out there, no footsteps, no dark form, no soft laughter. It had all been my imagination. I tried very hard to convince myself of that.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A BIRD SANG lustily, celebrating the glittering sunshine and the pure white sky. The air was invigorating, heady, blowing off the water with a salty tang. It was a breathtaking day, and I found it hard to believe that only a few short hours ago I had been prowling dark corridors and imagining terrible things. I told myself briskly that I had imagined everything, and I had half convinced myself that this was true. Just the same I was now outside, circling the house and looking for signs of forced entry. All the windows had been locked downstairs, all the doors carefully secured when I checked them from inside, but perhaps I had missed something. There might be something out here that would not have been apparent inside. I did not know exactly what I hoped
to find—footprints in the ground, chipped wood on the window ledge, a board torn away. I had been unsuccessful so far. I had seen absolutely nothing that looked amiss.

  It was not quite eight o’clock, and yet I felt fresh and full of energy, despite the restless night. Perhaps it was because of the glorious air and the sparkling yellow sunlight, or perhaps it was partly relief that the night was over and darkness gone. I could almost feel the blood surging in my veins, and my body felt attune to the world, every muscle aching to be used, to feel. I wanted ro rush down the slope and take off my shoes and frolic at the water’s edge, and I wanted to examine the dark green leaves on the shrubbery and throw rocks at the blue jay and let the wind toss my hair in every direction. I had no idea where such vitality came from, but I was delighted with it. No depression this morning, no headache, no dark circles under my eyes. I had a feeling of release, of abandon.

  Billie was still in the kitchen, drinking her sixth cup of coffee and moaning about lack of sleep but I had been unable to stay inside a moment longer. It was so glorious not to hear blaring traffic, not to smell cabbage and ale, not to see dozens of people milling around with grumpy faces as they inhaled petrol fumes and soot. London was fascinating, but there was definitely something to be said for the coast.

  It would be warm later on, but there was still a slight chill in the air now. I was glad I was wearing my light knit yellow sweater and brown and yellow plaid skirt. The skirt was three inches above my knees, but I wore knee-high yellow stockings with my brown loafers. I broke a twig off a tree branch and nibbled at it, tasting sap and bark, feeling like an irresponsible child. After all, this was a holiday, even if it did have grim overtones. The blue jay scolded me and darted to another resting place.

  A drive of crushed gray shell wound around one side of the house, bordered with beds of tiny purple flowers. I walked along it, my shoes crunching loudly on the shell. I studied all the windows I passed. They were all locked, the panes streaked with dirt but the glass unbroken. There were no footprints in the grass, still soggy with dew, no sign whatsoever of any intruder. I followed the drive to the back of the house, the ugly black tree pressing closer now, the limbs twisted. They made dark tunnels that led into deeper woods. The wind rustled the leaves, caused the branches to groan. They threw dancing shadows over this part of the drive. I stopped several yards away from the carriage house.

  It was constructed of the same weathered gray wood as the house, paint peeling off the sides, the blue roof sagging slightly. The bottom floor had been converted into a garage, and the door stood open to reveal Clive’s car parked beside an ancient Rolls Royce which must belong to me now. A stone staircase led up to the second floor, where Boyd Devlon stayed. I saw curtains at the windows. I wondered if it would be possible for anyone staying in the apartment to hear noises coming from the front part of the house. I doubted it. Even if Boyd Devlon were a light sleeper, he wouldn’t hear anything if someone broke a window in the front. I stood on the drive, looking up at the curtained windows and wondering again about the man.

  I did not hear him coming down the stairs. I was still staring at the windows when he called my name. I was startled. He was standing on the bottom step; watching me. I felt a slight blush color my cheeks, and I felt guilty, as though he had caught me spying on him.

  “I—I was wondering if you were up,” I said.

  “Did you want something?”

  “No—” I replied. “Nothing in particular.”

  “I’ve been up since six,” he informed me.

  “I—uh—wanted to ask you about the car. The Rolls. I suppose it’s mine now—or Gordon would already have taken it.”

  “It’s yours,” he said. “You used to love to ride in it, remember? You sat in the back seat and said you felt like a princess in such an elegant car. You always insisted I wear my uniform when I drove you to town, although Henrietta—Mrs. Stern—didn’t care one way or the other. It was just a means of transportation to her.”

  “It’s such an old car,” I said, peering through the opened door at the dingy dove gray car with its red leather interior.

  “Needs to be waxed, shined up a bit. It’s still swank enough for any princess.”

  “I’ve never had a Rolls before,” I remarked casually.

  “You’re very fortunate.”

  “It’s strange owning one now.”

  Boyd Devlon didn’t reply. He was looking at me in a curious way, his light blue eyes gleaming, his mouth curled in a rather melancholy smile. He wore a pair of sandals, faded brown chino pants and a nylon polo shirt of light beige. The pants were a bit too tight, the shirt showed a little too much bronzed muscle, his hair was just a bit too shaggy and sun-streaked. He was a stunningly handsome man, but his good looks were too calculated for my taste. He looked like a romantic beachcomber, or rather a magazine advertisement’s idea of a romantic beachcomber. He should be holding a jar of men’s cologne, I thought, or a popular brand of cigarettes. Silly girls and middle-aged women might drool over his good looks, but any sensible woman would steer clear of him.

  “You really don’t remember, do you, Emmalynn?” he said quietly.

  “I—no,” I said. “What is there to remember?”

  He came towards me, strolling casually. He stopped a few feet away from me and rested his hands lightly on his thighs. His lips still curled in that melancholy smile, and his eyes were full of smoky promise. It was a look calculated to disturb, and it disturbed me. I could not look away. I was hypnotized, and he knew it.

  “How could you forget?” he asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You were so lonely,” he said. “The old woman kept you confined, and there was no one to talk to, no one to understand how you felt. Besides me. You were afraid at first—afraid of me, afraid the old woman would find out. You were stiff and proper and cold—at first. And then—”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said firmly. “I—I may not remember, but I know myself—”

  He shook his head. “You thought you did. You ignored me. You refused to talk to me—stiff and polite and imperious—at first. But all the time you were curious, and your curiosity finally broke you down.”

  I stared at the man, disbelieving. He implied that he had made love to me. It was very logical—I was lonely, repressed, and he was available, ready to welcome me. Anyone who didn’t know me would find it easy to believe. Certainly any woman would find it easy to believe. Boyd Devlon spoke in a persuasive voice, sincerely.

  “That’s why I didn’t leave,” he said softly. “I kept hoping you would come back. After—after she died I wanted to move on. I wanted to forget all about this place, but I couldn’t. There was always the hope that you would return, and you did—a stranger.”

  I said nothing. The sun glittered on his hair, and his eyes were sad. He looked boyish and vulnerable now, an actor in a television soap opera who has been deserted by his one true love. I could not imagine myself in those arms. I could not imagine myself kissing those large sensual lips or stroking that shaggy hair that curled on the back of his neck. Dr. Clarkson once told me that people never know themselves. They know the person they want to be, but the real person lurks inside, never recognized, feared.

  “Must we be strangers?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so, Boyd,” I replied.

  “Until you remember?” he asked, his voice husky.

  “I—until I remember.”

  “Then?”

  “Then we’ll see,” I replied.

  “You will remember? The doctor thinks so?”

  “Yes. That’s one of the reasons I came. He thinks being here will help me remember—everything. It won’t be pleasant, but I’ll be cured.”

  “Until then I’m an employee,” he said, shaking his head, “a stranger who works for you. I guess I’ll have to accept that.”

  “I’m afraid you will.”

  He grinned, the melancholy lover vanishing immediately. “Well, there’
s hope at least,” he said. “And we can be friends in the meantime?”

  “Of course,” I said. I smiled nervously.

  “Fine. That’s better than nothing. Is there anything you want me to do this morning?”

  “No.”

  “I think I’ll bring the Rolls out and wash it and wax it. It’ll keep me busy, and maybe when you see it like it was—it’ll help. Maybe you’ll let me drive you somewhere. I’ll put on the uniform and you can sit in the back seat, like you used to. You might remember something.”

  “Perhaps. You never know.”

  He nodded, brisk and confident now.

  “Where are the keys to the car? They weren’t given to me. I had no idea it would be mine. The will said the estate and everything on it—I suppose that included the car.”

  “I’ve got them,” he replied, “upstairs. I always kept them, and no one asked me for them after it happened. I’ll run up and get them.”

  He went back up the stairs and came down in a moment with the keys. He backed the old car out of the garage and parked it on the drive. He brought out a hose and a rag and a can of wax. I watched idly as he began to wash the Rolls. The dingy gray surface began to gleam after he soaped it down and washed all the dirt and dust away. He pointed the hose in the air and let the water splatter down. Streams of soapy water rolled off the car and soaked into the drive. Boyd Devlon worked quickly, effectively, with no apparent effort. There were several things I wanted to ask him. I waited until he had dried the car and was beginning to rub wax on the now gleaming body.