Phantom in the Pond

by Dorothy Bodoin

  I turned to Lucy, but she hadn’t followed me, having come to a standstill on the landing. She was looking through the stained glass window, an unmoving figure in black that contrasted sharply with the rainbow tints.

  “Lucy? What is it?”

  “The fear is on the landing, too,” she said. “It’s not quite so strong, but strong enough. I can feel what she felt. Her emotions stayed behind.”

  “She?”

  “It was a terrified woman. She felt trapped on this landing.”

  “But you were aware of her fear in the kitchen. Do you think someone was murdered in this house?”

  “There’s no way of knowing without researching the house’s past.”

  “Misty doesn’t seemed concerned,” I said. Then I looked for her. She’d wandered away again, moving as quietly as a spirit.

  She was restless, I realized. Searching. Perhaps sensing a little of what Lucy did. Looking for something.

  “Let’s see if there’s anything to be found in the rooms,” I said. “We’ll start with the furnished bedroom.”

  Misty had found it already and leaped up onto the mattress where she had an excellent view of green maple leaves on a tree that grew too close to the house.

  “Get down from there,” I told her.

  She leaped onto the floor with a little growly protest.

  “Brent will probably throw out the mattress,” Lucy said. “Look. One of the spokes broke through. The bed’s headboard is gorgeous though.”

  I had to agree. All scrolls on dark wood with an intricate pattern on the posts, the bed was an elegant example of Mediterranean style. So what if it had long gone out of style? All it needed was dusting and polishing and a colorful comforter with fluffy pillows.

  “This was her room,” Lucy said. “I feel her fear here, but it’s faint. It’s like she was just becoming aware that something was wrong.”

  I crossed to the window, but all I could see were leaves shaking fitfully in the wind. “Brent should have that tree cut down.”

  “It looks like he bought a haunted house,” Lucy said. “We’ll have to tell him.”

  I could feel something myself. Not quite fear, but… What? Anxiety? That wasn’t it either. Somehow I’d have to learn the history of the house. Otherwise, I’d continue to wonder about it.

  Nine

  The next day at Clovers, Annica joined me for a lime cooler. With a touch of cooling mint and the air conditioning, one could almost forget the temperature in Foxglove Corners had stalled at ninety degrees.

  “I didn’t see a collie in the pond,” Annica said. “But all that algae—yuk. That’s super scary. Isn’t algae alive?”

  “It’s an organism. So, yes, in a way. But it isn’t an animal.”

  She glanced at her cooler. “Now that I’m thinking about algae, mint doesn’t look so appealing.”

  “Mint is a plant,” I said. “An herb. Think peppermint patties and mint chocolate chip ice cream.”

  “Crème de Menthe,” she said, getting into the spirit of the discussion.

  “Think about how beautiful the pond will be when it’s cleaned and filled with pure fresh water,” I said.

  “Brent is letting me paint the flamingoes. One will have its head toward the water like it’s drinking. The other will be looking at the house.” Then in a dizzying subject change, she added, “Does Lucy really think the house is haunted?”

  “She said a woman who once lived there had been so terrified by something that her emotions seeped into the very walls.”

  “Terrified by what, I wonder?” Annica asked.

  “Lucy couldn’t tell.”

  “Let’s see if we can figure it out. Maybe she was trapped in an abusive relationship. Or she was in the house alone when someone broke in. Or she had an attack or seizure and couldn’t get to a phone.”

  “Any or all of those…possibly,” I said. “We’re just guessing.”

  “Then there’s no actual ghost,” she said.

  “There’s the collie in the pond.”

  “That might have been an illusion. You said it was there and gone.” She snapped her fingers. “Like that.”

  “I didn’t imagine it.” I was certain about that now.

  “What we’re left with is a low-level haunting,” Annica said. “What was a dog doing in a pond, anyway?”

  “Trying to cool off? Dogs love water. Our collies can’t get enough of running through the sprinkler.”

  I suspected it wasn’t that simple, though. The explanation for the phenomenon eluded me, but I suspected it must have been a serious one, perhaps sinister. A sinister reflection. A ghost.

  “On a day like today, I’d like to run through a sprinkler myself,” Annica said, taking a sip of her drink. “This is so good.”

  I followed her example, trying to isolate the ingredients in the lime cooler which Annica refused to divulge, even to me. I tasted lime, of course, and vanilla and mint and… Vernors ginger ale? I had a Drinkmaster at home. One day soon I resolved to duplicate this satisfying summer drink.

  “Just don’t think about algae anymore,” I said.

  “Or grasshoppers,” she added.

  “Ugh.”

  Annica drank more of the cooler, then more. Soon it was gone. My advice had worked.

  “If the house is haunted, I want to help you catch the ghost,” Annica said. “Even if it’s just the dog in a pond.”

  “I have a feeling the two may be connected,” I said. “But I have to know a lot more about the situation. What frightened the woman? Did the dog belong to her? They may have been separated by decades. Or not. We’re starting with very little. Lucy sensing a woman’s fear and my brief glimpse of a dog in the water. And a line of poetry,” I added. “All houses wherein men have lived and died are haunted houses.”

  “Longfellow, right?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s enough to make a decent mystery,” Annica said.

  ~ * ~

  That evening Brent showed up at our doorstep with a Farmer's Market bouquet for the house and liver tarts from Pluto’s Gourmet Pet shop for the dogs. Seven collies who wanted us to think they were starved gathered around him, smelling the treats which I thought had a disgusting aroma. But then I wasn’t a dog.

  “I’ve come to ask you for a favor, Jennet,” Brent said as he handed the flowers to me and the Pluto’s shopping bag to Crane. He flopped into everybody’s favorite chair, the rose velvet rocker. “It’s about the house.”

  I waited for him to invite Misty onto his lap where she knew she was always welcome. Sky lay at his feet, content with the second best place in the house. When everyone was comfortable, he said, “I think you’ll want to do this.”

  “Don’t keep us in suspense. Do what?”

  “A little research on the house. Lucy tells me there’s a bad vibe associated with it. I want everything perfect before I move my geriatric collies in. Chances are they’ve had enough trauma in their lives.”

  “Did Lucy say ‘bad vibe’?” I asked.

  “Not exactly. That’s my take on the situation.”

  “Why can’t you do your own research, Fowler?” Crane asked.

  “That’s not my thing. Jennet is the ghost expert.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  “You’re the intellectual one. I’m a man of action.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  “When I heard about the developers’ plan to demolish the house, I rushed in to outbid them. I didn’t ask questions. After you told me about the pond and I talked to Lucy, I had a little meeting with the realtor. He admitted there’d been rumors about a haunting way back in the seventies.”

  “Wasn’t he supposed to tell you about it before you signed any papers?” Crane asked.

  “According to law, yes, but he was desperate to unload the property, and I wanted it. So the subject didn’t come up.”

  “That’s why the house stayed on the market so long,” I said.

  “That and i
ts condition, which got worse every year. Will you do it, Jennet? Go on a ghost hunt?

  “With pleasure.” I glanced at Crane.

  “It seems safe enough,” he said. “Unlike that search for the land transport company.”

  I hadn’t forgotten about my prior commitment to Helena Millay, but my efforts in that direction were stalled like the temperature in this current hot spell.

  “In the meantime, I’m moving the pond to the top of the list,” Brent said. “I hired a gardener to replant the rock garden and take care of the grounds. The place looks like a jungle now.”

  “Are you going to stock the pond with gold fish?” I asked.

  “Eventually.”

  “That’ll be a great finishing touch.”

  But restoring the pond was mere window dressing. Readying the house for occupancy had to come first.

  “Have you found a caretaker for the dogs yet?” Crane asked.

  “I’m interviewing a couple tomorrow. They sound good on paper. I have three senior collies who need a home. One was surrendered to a high kill shelter.”

  I cringed at the idea, at the circumstances that had brought the collie to a place of death at what should have been a happy time in his life. Well, he was going to be one of the lucky ones.

  “Where is he now?” I asked.

  “At my barn. That’s going to be my holding place.”

  On the surface, everything was falling into place. Of course, all the restoration in the world wouldn’t banish the remnants of a past trauma so strong it had imprinted itself on the structure’s walls.

  If only I could find out what had happened to the house on Loosestrife Lane.

  Don’t forget the pond. Something had occurred there, too.

  “Now for the important stuff,” Brent said. “What are we having for dinner?”

  ~ * ~

  These days I always watched the five o’clock newscast, not wanting to miss Kate in Your Corner and her promised update on Sea-to-Sea. She was also investigating other matters. Like a horror story of a pet parlor that somehow lost three dogs and a family dealing with an unfinished second story and a vanished contractor.

  “I’m going to turn the TV on for just a while,” I said, as we sat in the living room over banana cream pie and coffee.

  “Don’t mind me,” Brent said. “It’s time for Kate in Your Corner. I follow her, too.”

  Today Kate was on the trail of Sea-to-Sea. They had contracted with a Maple Creek man, Harold Camden, to deliver a pair of Labrador retriever puppies to his farm. Horace’s story was similar to Helena’s: A hefty amount paid by check, two dogs transported to an unknown destination.”

  “That’s close by,” Crane said.

  “It’s the third case in this part of Michigan that we know of,” I added. “We should get together with that couple from Tennessee and compare notes. Maybe Kate missed something.”

  “She’s pretty thorough,” Brent pointed out. “But she doesn’t always get her man. Or woman.”

  I turned back to the television. Kate considered the possibility that Sea-to-Sea was operating under another name. I gleaned an important piece of information from her report. All failed transports had taken place in the same week, none recently. Or perhaps there were victims out there who didn’t realize they weren’t alone. In which case would others hear of Kate’s broadcast and come forward with their stories?

  There was strength in numbers. A meeting was a good idea if all concerned parties would agree to it.

  Ten

  That night I dreamed about the pond. Not the one on Brent’s property but the half-remembered pond of my childhood home. We had a pair of flamingoes, too, graceful birds painted light pink. One appeared to drink from the pond; the other seemed to be watching our house.

  What had become of them? I couldn’t remember—if I’d ever known.

  In the dream I was small again, perhaps eight or nine, and fascinated by this wondrous corner of the yard. Misty, who wouldn’t be born for several years, slipped by me, a silent white shape, scrambled over the rocks, and sank in the water.

  I tried to call her back but couldn’t make a sound, which happens so often in dreams.

  I was going to lose her. But no…Moments later she emerged from the water, her coat dripping with algae. Her snow white fur had turned a sickening shade of green. Dog-like, she began to shake, and immediately the befouled water soaked my dress through. And I was cold. So cold.

  Algae, I thought on waking. Nasty stuff.

  Fully awake, I oriented myself.

  I was in our bedroom, safe under the covers. Light was cautiously breaking through the dark of night. Crane lay beside me, a solid, comforting presence. Misty slept at the side of the bed, my side. I leaned over to stroke her head. She didn’t stir, and I closed my eyes, letting the odd dream drift away.

  For a moment before sleep claimed me completely, I heard a sound of water.

  ~ * ~

  Sue and I made a plan. She would contact Harold Camden, explain our interest in Sea-to-Sea Transport, and ask him to come to a meeting at the horse farm while I notified the Tennessee couple, Lyle and Marguerite, of Helena’s dilemma and our determination to find the stolen dogs.

  Lyle, the gun carrier, answered the phone. I listened to a ten-minute rant directed toward the fraudulent transport company before I was able to deliver my message. He agreed to attend our meeting and once again threatened violence to the men who had taken his money and kept his dogs.

  Kate’s segment didn’t air on the news that evening. I was disappointed but knew that investigations take time. She might not have any leads yet. Wouldn’t it be satisfying if Sue and I tracked down Sea-to-Sea before Kate did?

  But it wasn’t a race. Money aside, five dogs were at risk, two of them puppies. I could only hope we would find them in time.

  The meeting was set for the coming Friday. As the next day was free and Annica didn’t have to work, we agreed to pay another visit to Brent’s property. After a light lunch at Clovers, we set out for Loosestrife Lane, both of us hoping to feel what Lucy had felt or to see a collie reflected in the pond.

  To that end I took Misty. As I attached her leash to her collar, fragments of last night’s dream came back to me. What did it mean? If a dream can have a significant meaning, that is. Surely I wasn’t going to lose my dog in the murky water.

  Don’t worry. Just don’t let her run free.

  I didn’t intend to do that anyway.

  Luckily the house was within walking distance—well, a long walk—and a steady breeze cooled the hot air. Summer had a firm grip on Foxglove Corners, and I realized I’d rather be on my way to investigate a haunted house than on any exotic vacation. In any event, with our seven collies, vacations weren’t on our agenda.

  “I’m going to make curtains for the kitchen,” Annica announced as the massive weeping willow came into view. “What do you think of blue gingham? Or should they be sheer?”

  “I love gingham,” I said. “But since when do you sew?”

  “I don’t,” she admitted. “My mother is going to make them for me, but Brent doesn’t have to know that.”

  “He wouldn’t care,” I said. “In my opinion, Brent is sufficiently impressed with you. You don’t have to pretend to be what you aren’t.”

  “I’ll help her, so it’ll be sort of the truth.” We came to a brief standstill as Misty sniffed at a purple weed. “Do you really think so?” she added.

  “That Brent is impressed with you? It’s obvious.”

  “I think so, too.”

  Ah! To be in love and not quite sure if your feelings are returned. I’d been in Annica’s place once. It had been an exhilarating time but a stressful one.

  “I wonder why Brent hasn’t fixed the fence yet,” Annica said as we went through the opening left by the fallen pickets.

  “He didn’t drain the pond either.”

  The state of the water repelled me. Once again a memory of my dream returned. While Annica str
olled over to the flamingoes, I held tightly to Misty’s leash and stared down at the mess of water, yard debris, and algae.

  And the face of a dark sable collie appeared on the surface where Misty’s reflection should be. Light wreathed his body, blocking the scummy water in that one section of the pond only. One ear was nicely tipped, the other was pricked.

  Misty lunged forward and placed both paws in the water, giving a pathetic little whimper.

  I pulled back on the leash. “Annica! Come here.”

  But she was too slow. In the blink of an eye, the apparition changed. Misty’s face took its place, along with my own reflection holding on to her leash, both of us wearing puzzled expressions.

  “Did you see the phantom dog?” Annica asked.

  “Yes, but only for a moment.”

  She trailed her hand in the murky water. “There’s nothing here now. Where did it go?”

  “Where all ghosts go, I guess.”

  “Wouldn’t you know it? I was right here.” She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and dried her hands. “The next ghost is mine.”

  Misty hovered over the pond like a lawn statue, undoubtedly wondering, as we did, where the phantom dog was now.

  “I don’t think it’ll reappear today,” I said. “Shall we see if we can find one in the house?”

  Annica nodded. “Maybe it’s inside. Or at the bottom of the pond.”

  Neither theory was likely. The dog could be buried nearby, however.

  I glanced at the house. In that moment, I didn’t see how Brent could ever transform it into a happy home for geriatric collies, no matter how much fresh paint covered the walls or how many pairs of curtains graced new windows. It looked gloomy and forbidding, steeped in a melancholy that was almost palpable. It reminded me of the kind of house you’d find on the cover of a traditional Gothic novel from which the heroine, clad in a long white gown, flees in terror.

  But this was real life, not fiction, and Annica and I were going toward the house, not running away from it. Curiosity can’t be denied. But I remembered that it killed the cat.

  ~ * ~

  The key stuck. I tried to turn it, but it didn’t move. It was as if it had encountered a tiny barrier within the mechanism.