by Rosa Sophia
She went into detail about everything she’d learned about Jonathan Stark and his supposed victims. Once she had explained it all, from start to near-finish, she stalled.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. They had gone down to the kitchen for something to eat, and they were sitting at the table. When Jake saw Kat’s eyes fill with tears, he went to her side of the table and put an arm around her. “Tell me,” he implored her. She put her face in her hands and closed her eyes, but opened them again as soon as she realized that almost every time her lids shut, she saw the murder again.
“August thirty-first,” she muttered. She stared forward at the sink, her eyes darting across the very same place where she had helped Julie cook dinner so many times before. “I just realized that’s the day I first started having those dreams. Over six years of those dreams, Jake. Julie was with me even before she died.”
“What does August thirty-first have to do with it?”
He didn’t know, and she didn’t want to explain the correlation. But even if he did think Kat was losing her mind, just like her grandfather, answering his questions would at least put more logic to the matter.
“I think what happened on that date is what Julie wanted me to see, or stop. John, my uncle, was murdered on August thirty-first, in 1960. I have to put the killer where he belongs. In prison.”
“Kat, do you hear what you’re saying? You sound crazy.”
“I was waiting for you to say that.” Kat was upset, depressed and forlorn, but not angry. If she were in his shoes, she wouldn’t have believed it either.
“Sweetie, what Allen Ryman told us when we moved in was just a rumor. It doesn’t necessarily mean that your grandparents really had another son.”
Kat didn’t expect Jake to believe her, but there was a large block of time that he would need to account for in some way if he were to apply pure logic to the entire incident. Three months of her absence were unaccounted for. To add to the matter, she had come back in a brown, tattered housedress of a fifties’ style. Where had she gotten the dress and where had she been all that time? Kat decided she had a lot in her favor when it came to explaining herself. She mentioned this to Jake, who glanced about as though searching for an answer. He looked back at her and shrugged.
“I have no idea,” he said. “I can’t explain where you might have been and I can’t explain the dress.”
“See?” she countered. “It really happened.”
“Kat, what if some nut-job had you all this time, manipulated you, I don’t know, put some information in your head and dressed you up in that ugly thing I found you in?”
“That’s even more farfetched than the case I’ve been pleading,” Kat concluded. “Anyway, I don’t have time to argue about this. I have to call my mother.”
“Good idea,” Jake agreed. “She’s really worried about you. She calls me every day.” He paused. “Then we can call the cops, let them know you’re back.”
“Oh, no. Not yet. Not until I get this all figured out. Then I’ll call the cops and then I’ll have all the information I need to convince everyone that Jonathan Stark was innocent and the old guy with dementia at the nursing home is a bloodthirsty murderer who’s into Shakespeare.” Kat stood and went straight for the phone. She grinned maniacally and picked up the receiver. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ve got this.”
***
She wished she could’ve gone to visit her mother, but instead she had to call her over the phone. Jake said her mom had visited while she was gone, but she’d returned home to care for her pets. She was in Georgia, losing her sanity over the disappearance of her daughter.
“Katherine? Oh, my God. Katherine, is that really you?” Her mother’s voice was strained and filled with weeks of repressed worry.
“Yes, Mama, it’s really me.”
“Katherine, where have you been? I’ve been so worried! Have you seen the news?” It was more of a frustrated statement than a question.
“No, I haven’t. But I—”
“They’ve been talking about you all this time. Your photo is everywhere. You know, the one that I took when we were at the Olive Garden last year.”
“Oh, I—”
“Did someone hurt you? Did someone hurt my daughter, because if they did, I’ll—?”
“Mama, please let me get a word in!” Kat begged.
Her mother sighed heavily. She was exasperated, confused and worried, but Kat had to get some answers.
“What is it?” she asked. Kat could tell by the sound of her mother’s voice that she was wringing her hands in a desperate attempt to keep herself calm.
“Tell me what you know about the murders at my grandparents’ house.”
If she had been ready to say something at all, Kat’s mother had been silenced quickly enough, with nothing to do but wonder how in the world Kat had come upon knowledge concerning murder in their family.
“Earl Woodworth,” Kat said. “Does that ring a bell? How about Jonathan Stark?”
“Katherine.”
“What?”
“Where were you?”
“Mother,”—she knew she hated it when Katherine called her that—“I need answers and I need them now. You can’t call the cops yet. You can’t do anything. Don’t you understand? I can’t have the media pounding on my front door!” Kat made a useless gesture to the other side of the house, even though she knew her mother couldn’t see it. A fleeting thought passed through Kat’s head, something mundane that she was actually grateful for. This long-distance call would cost her a hell of a lot of money if her mother didn’t just explain what she knew and hang up.
“Kat, how do you know about Jonathan Stark and Earl Woodworth?”
“I don’t have time to explain that right now.”
“I want explanations, Katherine, I want reasons! You expect me to be calm and collected when my own daughter who’s been missing for three months suddenly calls me? I know we’ve never really gotten along, but I am not here for you to use me.”
“Fine. I’ll get my information elsewhere. In the meantime, don’t you dare alert the authorities, Mother! If you respect me at all, you won’t send them after me. I have things to do first.”
Kat slammed down the phone and looked over at Jake.
“That didn’t sound promising,” he said.
“No kidding. I need the phone book.”
“Why?” He put his hands in his pockets, and watched as Kat hurried over to the small shelf where they kept the flimsy yellow tome.
“Somebody has to know something. Phillip—Grandpa—isn’t the only person who knows about those murders and he can’t have kept his son’s murder that quiet, no way.” Kat set the phone book down on the kitchen table and tapped her finger on the paper cover. “Frank Ruth was never allowed out of the house,” she said, more or less to herself. “It can’t have been just because he was blind, that’s preposterous. He knew something.” Kat looked over at Jake, who took her hand.
“Sweetie, I think you need to calm down. Maybe we should just relax for a while, call up Corry and let everyone know you’re home.”
“Why?” Kat snapped.
“Because what you’re saying is preposterous,” Jake hazarded. “I know I can’t explain that dress you were wearing and I certainly can’t explain your absence, but there is no way that you could have—”
“Could have what?”
“Gone back…in time.”
Kat wanted to yell at him, but instead, she tried to accept where he was coming from. After all, how could she lend more evidence to her case? First, she began with pure facts.
“If none of that happened, then how do I know that Frank Ruth, my grandmother’s brother, had an ongoing obsession with Ray Charles? I heard him playing it nonstop in his bedroom. Phillip can verify that.”
“No, he can’t, Katherine, because your grandfather lost his mind. Remember?” Jake gently placed his hand on Kat’s arm, as though he were tending to someone who was sick. She thought back to he
r high school psychology class and realized that she was becoming a target for labeling. If Jake and everyone else believed Kat was crazy and told her that she had lost all her of senses, would she become that way in the end?
“I don’t believe my grandfather is insane. I think he is completely lucid,” Kat decided.
“You haven’t even spoken with him. How can you know that?”
“I’ll know for sure when I make him admit it.” More evidence—what could she use as more evidence? “John Maslin, David’s brother, always played with a train set that his Aunt Kay gave him for Christmas.” She had no proof and nothing to back up these facts, but at least it was something. Then she remembered Frank’s best friend. What was his name?
She thought back to the day that she had been standing with David by the creek. They had seen a car coming across the bridge and David had said that it was Jacob. Jacob who? Jacob Hains, Hainslin—
“Jacob Haisley!” Kat exclaimed.
“Who’s that?”
“Frank Ruth’s best friend.” When Kat noticed Jake’s disbelieving look, she fought back. “How could I have known that if I hadn’t been there?” Something else popped into her mind. “Go up to the attic,” she told him. “Look for my clothes. There was my skirt, my tank top, my over-shirt, and my Nike sandals. Where did they go? They have to be around here somewhere. I left them in this house. Maybe Phillip didn’t get rid of them!” Jake just stood there. “Don’t you want proof? Why are you just standing there?”
“This is ridiculous, Kat,” Jake muttered. He was still sticking with the apparent impossibility of time traveling. Kat didn’t blame him, but she wished he would believe her. Then again, maybe she really was crazy.
“It is not ridiculous,” Kat insisted, still following along her original path. If she gave in, she would feel stupid and she would disappoint Julie. So she hung in there, as valiantly as she could. “Go upstairs, Jake.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Go check the attic, please! Look for my clothes, look for the train set, look for something that might satisfy you, even Shakespeare.”
“Why Shakespeare?”
“Just do it. I just want you to try to believe me.” She leaned up and kissed him, then grabbed her wallet and car keys. They were on the kitchen counter, just where she had left them in June. “I’m going. I have to figure this out.”
Kat walked into the foyer and out the front door. She peeked back in, called out, “I love you!” and was gone within the next few minutes.
***
Jake stood in the foyer and watched Kat leave, both hurt and shocked she was acting as if she’d never left. Running away from him. The car sped down the driveway, hugged the first curve and disappeared behind some trees in a cloud of dust.
She hadn’t stayed. She hadn’t even comforted him. She hadn’t bothered to utter ‘I love you’ to his face. Rather, she said it while on her way out the door, as an afterthought. Jake didn’t think their love should be an afterthought.
He headed up the flight of stairs that led to the second floor. Regardless of the silly story Kat had fed his worried mind, he decided there must have been some truth in it. Maybe he really would find a train set and Kat’s clothing up in the attic, but he was certain it wouldn’t make her story any more believable.
Still, there was a dry feeling in the back of his throat and Jake had to acknowledge that it was doubt. It wasn’t doubt in her claims, but it was disbelief in his own certainties. Was Katherine right? Had a murder, or more than one, taken place on this property?
Jake strode down the second-floor hallway, where Kat had found her ring. He went over to the end of the hall, passed a few musty old rooms, and looked up the dark staircase that led to the attic. He was worried about whether or not the floor up there would be able to support him. He hesitated for a moment, then ascended the steps.
His heart jumped when the wood creaked beneath him. He hadn’t started fixing up this part of the house, nor had he gotten to the second family-sized addition before Katherine had mysteriously disappeared and his life had slipped downhill. She was back, but he was confused as hell and things weren’t getting any easier.
Jake ran his hand up the old wooden railing as he headed toward the attic. When he put his foot on the top step, he knew he was in for trouble. The floor did not look at all reliable. He decided Phillip Maslin must have really fallen apart in his old age, since he’d never gotten up here to fix anything.
He began to wish he’d brought a flashlight with him. Jake took another small step and peered into the attic. There was light filtering in from the other side of the wide, stuffy room, probably from a squirrel-made hole or an old, broken window. He still wished he had a flashlight, but this would have to do for now.
Unfortunately, when Jake tested the floor again, his foot went right through the wood. He shouted loudly, cursing, and clung to the banister as he pulled his aching limb out of the floor.
It was odd how such unpleasant circumstances could lead to positive discoveries. At that moment, as Jake wrestled his leg from the grip of the wood, he caught sight of something to his right. When he’d finally freed himself, he looked over at a small cardboard box, so dusty that it practically melted into its shadowy surroundings.
He might not have seen it if he hadn’t fallen.
The neat cursive on the side of the box caught his eye:
Our Guest. August, 1960.
***
Kat went to the library because she had gotten tired of Jake’s constant interrogation. He had spoken to her as though she were insane, or lying to him. They had phone books at the library for different areas, so she borrowed a pen and paper from the receptionist, who looked at her oddly. She wondered if the woman had seen her on television.
Kat went to the most secluded area she could find, where a small desk and chair sat in a corner. She set down the book, made herself comfortable, and began searching for the first name: Jonathan Stark. There were ten of them listed, so she acknowledged the dreadful task before her and copied each of them down before she realized the library had its own copy machine she could have used. She leaned back, growled under her breath, and continued her work.
She knew without even having to think about it that Frank Ruth would be the hardest to find. Sure enough, there were three pages of him—damn.
An hour passed. Kat had looked up Jacob Haisley as well, but she doubted he was living anywhere around here. She searched through all the Woodworths and soon had a fresh pile of papers from the library’s copier.
When she was finished, she took her papers and left the library. This time, several elderly people gave her funny looks, so she walked across the parking lot as quickly as she could.
“Hey!” someone called. She looked back and saw a young man standing by a red Mustang. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
Kat climbed into her car and started the engine. The man watched her leave, mesmerized. He must’ve seen her in the news.
***
Kat didn’t know what it was like to lose someone you love and have them return to you out of nowhere, seemingly no reason behind it whatsoever. When she saw Corry’s face, she had an idea of how her best friend must have felt. Kat didn’t have much time to think. Corry’s arms were around her before she even opened her mouth.
“Where were you? I’ve missed you so much! Do you have any idea how worried I was, Katherine?”
“No, I don’t. Hey, do you think I could use your phone?”
“What?”
“Please?”
She felt badly about acting this way. Even though Kat felt that emotional urge to hold Corry tightly and explain everything to her while crying at the same time, she refrained.
I have work to do, she reminded herself. She decided that when justice was involved, her friends would just have to wait. Corry watched her the whole time, staring at her open-mouthed.
Kat dialed the first number, one of the Starks, but stopped when she felt C
orry’s cold gaze settling on her from across the room. Kat looked up. She had taken a seat by the phone on a green plush couch. She was looking just about as sophisticated and calm as someone in ratty jeans, a torn t-shirt, and a damaged psyche could. She didn’t say anything, but Corry did.
“I demand to know what’s going on.” She crossed her arms and stared furiously at Kat. “Where have you been?” she snapped.
“You were so happy to see me a minute ago.”
“But you’re acting like nothing happened! What the hell?” Corry’s eyes brimmed with tears. Kat felt terrible, but she didn’t think there was anything she could do to fix this.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said.
Wait a minute, Kat thought. Of all people, wouldn’t Corry be the one person who might actually see the truth in my story?
Standing before Katherine was a professional ghost hunter, a parapsychologist, a woman whose beliefs lie in a realm most people ascribed with insane asylums and fairy tales.
“Or maybe you would believe me.” Kat shrugged, which made her think of her father.
She ended up telling Corry the abridged version of her tale. By the time she reached the part about the murder, she realized she was crying in her friend’s arms.
All she could see was blood.
A half hour later, they were still sitting in the living room, their faces streaked with tears. “Why didn’t you go back home to take care of this mess?” Corry was looking through Kat’s pile of copied papers, her legs crossed as she sat on the couch. She was wearing her around-the-house clothes—baggy shorts and a t-shirt.
“Jake doesn’t believe me. I just couldn’t go home to that.”
“You do realize that he was a mess, right? Your being gone was horrible for him.” Her tone was kind and compassionate. She would have made a good psychiatrist if haunted houses and ghosts hadn’t distracted her. Not that her career choice was a bad one, but Kat still couldn’t understand it. She was officially open to the existence of ghosts, but that didn’t mean she wanted to track them down and try to contact them.