by Wendy Webb
As we both rose from the couch and began to make our way out of the room, Flynn put a hand on my shoulder. “If you see her again,” he said, his voice low, “don’t mention it to the others. But let me know. I’d like to see for myself what this is all about.”
“You have my word,” I said to him, and watched as he pulled open the door and went through it, outside into the sunshine.
I made my way up to the third floor, thinking about what Flynn had told me. Were Honor and Prudence right? Had I truly seen a ghost? The thought of it shook me to my core.
Back in my room, I fished my leather-bound journal out of my suitcase and sat, pencil in hand, at the desk adjacent to the window where I had seen the vision the night before. I looked through the pane and saw Flynn in the garden, talking and laughing with an older man whom I presumed to be the gardener. This moment of normalcy quieted my racing heart.
Maybe there was nothing to this after all. Maybe there was a rational explanation for this ghost sighting. Maybe, I thought with my fiction writer’s mind, Prudence herself was somehow involved in this “apparition,” whether a result of some psychosis on her part or, more likely, as a way to play an elaborate trick on a newcomer and her own brother.
Maybe, I thought as I sat gazing out the window, something monstrous and hideous and undead was not lurking at Whitehall.
Oh, what the mind allows us to believe, even contrary to what we have seen with our own eyes.
CHAPTER 22
I looked up from the manuscript and saw Amity staring at me, her eyes as big and round as moons.
“I thought this was supposed to be the love story of David Coleville and Grandma,” she said, her voice wavering. “Not a ghost story.” She drew her knees closer to her chest and held them with her arms tighter. “It’s creepy,” she went on, “having it set right here.”
Matthew and I exchanged a quick glance. “Honey, it’s just a story,” I said, smiling a broad smile. “Just a work of fiction. It’s not the true story of what happened here that summer. Not at all.”
But even as I said the words, I wasn’t so sure. Coleville himself had written to my mother that this manuscript was indeed a “thinly veiled account” and had wanted her to read it to make sure it didn’t skim too terribly close to the surface.
“Listen,” I said to my daughter, “if you were a writer and you came to this house for the first time to get inspiration to write your first novel, wouldn’t your imagination go into overdrive?”
Matthew echoed my thoughts. “I agree with your mother. Seeing all this”—he gestured widely with his arms—“the secret passageways, the antique furnishings, the tapestries, I might conjure up a ghost story about it, too. Wouldn’t you?”
Amity considered this as her gaze traveled around the room. “I guess,” she said tentatively.
Still, I was wondering if asking Amity to listen in on this reading had been a good idea after all. She wasn’t a girl who typically was attracted to scary movies or books. Even television shows about police solving particularly violent crimes weren’t her speed. But like her, I had hoped that it was going to be primarily a love story, and I hadn’t seen the harm in sharing that with her. Now I was hoping she’d lose interest.
I placed my hands on top of the manuscript. “Honey, would you rather not hear the rest of it? You can go back upstairs or outside into the garden if you’d like—”
“No!” she said, cutting me off. “I’m already hooked! I want to know what happens. It’s just a little creepy because it’s set right here in this house, that’s all.”
I smiled at her, noticing for the first time that the late afternoon sun was streaming in through the window, shining on her face and warming the room. The sight seemed a little incongruous to me, as though I should be reading this eerie story on a dark and stormy night. “How about we take a quick break and you run into the kitchen to get some lemonade or a soda from Jane?”
Amity shrugged and unfolded herself from her chair. “Okay,” she said. “I guess I’m a little thirsty.” Heading toward the kitchen, she turned and wagged a finger at me. “Don’t start up again without me. I’ll be right back.”
After she had gone, I lowered my voice and said, “Do you think it’s okay that we’re reading this to her?”
“It depends on how sensitive she is.”
“And how frightening this story gets,” I said, quickly flipping ahead a few pages. “The thing is, it’s hitting a little close to home. It’s not like this house is without its ghosts. Do you remember the other night at dinner when I told you that I had the feeling my mother and brothers were here?”
“I do remember that,” he said. “And it’s not so unusual, Grace. Most everyone who has lost someone dear feels their presence from time to time. I think it’s comforting, actually. Especially for those who doubt there’s an afterlife. It’s a way for us to know that our loved ones are okay and happy, and that we’ll be okay and happy when it’s our time to go.”
A ghostly visit sounded rather lovely when he put it like that. But he hadn’t heard the full story from me yet.
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” I continued, my eyes on the door, making sure Amity wasn’t within earshot. “I had a horrible dream about my dad.” I shuddered, remembering. “He drowned, I think you know, and I had a dream … at least I think it was a dream, that he was standing at the foot of my bed. He was wearing the outfit he died in, and he was dripping wet. Fish were glistening in his hair and wriggling out of his mouth.”
Matthew’s smile faded into a look of concern and he squinted his eyes. “That’s a little less comforting, I’ll grant you.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said, lowering my voice and hurrying the story along before Amity came back. “He told me he didn’t have much time. He said she was here, and that she killed my mother and was coming for me.”
Matthew leaned in closer to me. “Who?” he asked.
“He didn’t say,” I told him, holding his gaze. “The only woman who has come into my life recently is my aunt Fate, and she’s so frail, there’s no way he could’ve been talking about her. He said that he didn’t think she could hurt us anymore, but she can. He said it was all true, and that I should be on my guard.”
Matthew was silent for a moment. And then he said: “I’m sure there’s a plausible explanation for all of it. You being home again for the first time, the resurgence of memories about your father. It makes sense, Grace, you having a dream like that, it really does.”
I took in that comment, wondering if he made it a practice of telling parishioners that their outlandish or even borderline crazy stories “made sense.” He had certainly said that phrase enough times to me.
“Amity had the same dream, just moments later,” I informed him, thinking perhaps that this wouldn’t make so much “sense” to Matthew. “She woke me up, calling out for me.”
Matthew gave me a look of such concern that I wondered what he thought of me—as crazy as her aunt Fate?—and hoped I didn’t make a mistake by telling him what I just told him. I fidgeted in my seat.
Finally, he said, “Well, I don’t—”
But I cut him off, grabbing his hand when I remembered something that hadn’t occurred me to until just then.
“I don’t mean to change the subject here, but there was a twin who died as a child! In real life, I mean. This manuscript talks about a twin who died, and—remember? Jane told us about Fate’s twin the other night! Mercy was her name, wasn’t it? I hadn’t heard anything, not one word about her until Jane told us about it. It’s like the family covered it up. And now … Coleville’s story about the twin. Do you think—you don’t think …?”
We sat there a moment looking at each other, and I realized I was holding his hand. Electricity shot through me and I dropped it, as though shocked.
I couldn’t discern what the look on his face meant—did the contact make him uncomfortable? Or was he distressed that I had let go? I didn’t get a
chance to find out because Amity breezed back into the room carrying a big tumbler of lemonade, her sunny energy dissipating the cloud that had fallen around us. She settled back onto the couch and put her glass down on the end table. “Are we ready for the next chapter?” she asked, looking from one of us to the other, a wide smile on her face.
“I don’t know, honey,” I said, hoping my own face didn’t look as ashen as it suddenly felt. “This might be too scary for you.”
Her grin got even wider. “Not a chance, Mom. I’ll admit I was a little creeped out at first. But I thought about it and what you guys said made sense to me. Anybody, especially a writer who comes here for the first time, would start thinking about ghosts. Alban House is that kind of place.” She shot Matthew a look. “Help me out here, Reverend Parker.”
Matthew shrugged and held up his hands. “This is your mom’s call, kiddo,” he said. “I’m just an innocent bystander.”
They both turned to me. “I’m not sure—” I started, but my daughter cut me off.
“Mom, I can tell you exactly why I’m not scared by this story,” she told me. “I’ve been coming here in the summer ever since I was little and I’ve never seen a girl in white. And you grew up here! You lived your whole life here before you moved to Seattle. Did you ever see a ghost like that?”
Of course, she was right. “No, I didn’t,” I admitted. No girls in white, no dancing around the fire ring, no strange and guttural language borne on the wind. I’d lived a lifetime in this house without seeing anything like that. My brothers never saw anything like that, either—they certainly would’ve taken the opportunity to scare me with it. And what about my mother and Jane? They had lived their whole lives here, too! Despite the admittedly strange dream about my father, the visions I had had of my mother and brothers, and the old legend about the witch in the wood, I knew Amity was right. There were no ghosts here, at least not the malevolent kind.
I exhaled and leaned against the back of my chair, shooting Matthew a glance—chagrin mixed with relief. He winked at me.
“I guess this story got to me,” I said. “What a great writer Coleville was, huh? He had us all worked up about ghosts being here at Alban House when we knew better.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say he had us all worked up.” Matthew grinned at me. “Some of us kept our heads. I’m just saying.”
I shot him a mock scowl and stood up to get us a couple glasses of wine as Matthew and Amity shared a laugh at my expense.
“So can we go on?” Amity asked as I handed Matthew his glass and settled back down in my chair.
“Onward we go.” I smiled at her, then opened the manuscript once again.
Chapter Four
I sat at the desk by the window for an hour or so, staring at the page. All I had managed to write was “The girl in white” over and over. I had to admit it to myself: I was preoccupied with the story Flynn had told me.
I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind of all its racing thoughts about ghosts and fires and dancing, breathing in and out slowly, calming my pounding heart, feeling my cells begin to vibrate in their own internal rhythm, listening to the soft sound within my own ears. It was a technique I often used to combat writer’s block, a clearing of the external noise that can conspire to stop creativity from flowing. I exhaled and sat for a moment, savoring the exquisite sense of peace this technique always brought with it.
And then I heard … something. A shuffling sound, muted, muffled, but there nonetheless. I listened closer. Scraping? The rhythmic motion of heels on a wooden floor?
Then a paper-thin singsong voice in my ear: “Michael … Michael Connolly …”
My eyes shot open. “Is somebody there?” I said a bit louder than I had intended. I stood up and whirled around, but all I saw was my empty room. My desk, my bed, the dresser, the closet door. The tapestry hanging on one wall. I was alone.
I rushed to the door and flung it open, believing I’d see one of the maids in the hallway. But no, looking both ways I saw only a long, empty expanse. So it wasn’t a maid. Who had said my name?
I closed my eyes and listened again, but heard nothing. After the story Flynn had just told me, my imagination was likely working in overdrive. That had to be it. Nobody had said my name. Of course not. And the footsteps … Perhaps it was an animal, a mouse scuttling through the walls? A wayward squirrel that had made a nest in the attic, which was, after all, just above my room?
I picked up my pencil once again, bent my head over my journal, and began to write, not full sentences, but concepts, words. The girl in white. A death in the family. A mother’s grief. A twin’s heartbreak. A brother’s concern. It might not have been the stuff of a novel, not yet, but it was getting there. Maybe I had found my germ of an idea after all, in just one morning at Whitehall Manor. I smiled, staring toward the window and tapping the end of my pencil on the page, wondering what kinds of fancy a whole summer here would produce.
I turned my gaze back to my work when I felt a shiver run all the way down my spine. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I felt, and then saw, goose bumps form on my forearms. Someone was watching me. I could feel eyes boring into my back. Was someone standing right behind me?
I stood up, whirling around once again and knocking my chair to the floor as I did. “Who’s there?” I said again, more forcefully this time. I wondered—was Prudence hiding in the closet? Would the girl really be so bold?
I strode across the room and flung open the closet door. “I found you!” I exclaimed … to an empty closet. Apart from my clothes and an extra blanket and pillow, it held nothing. I turned around and surveyed my room, at a loss. Nobody was there, nothing was amiss.
I was obviously gripped in a state of wild imagination, spurred on by my unfortunate experience of last night coupled by Flynn’s disturbing news of today.
I shook my head and looked at my reflection in the mirror. “Get ahold of yourself, old boy,” I said aloud.
Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was nearly noon already. Time had flown. I needed to get downstairs to meet Flynn and the girls for lunch. I closed my journal and slipped it into the desk drawer. Then I took one long look around my room before shutting the door behind me and making my way downstairs.
In the dining room, I found Lily standing alone by the wall of windows overlooking the garden. Beyond her, I could see the garden’s lush plants and flowers, and as she stood there, wearing a delicate floral dress, she seemed part of the garden herself.
“Hello,” I said, startling her.
“Oh!” She smiled, shaking her head. “It’s you. I didn’t hear you come in.”
I crossed the room to join her at the window. “And what had you so rapt?” I smiled back at her.
She gestured toward the garden. “I love it this time of year,” she said. “The plants so newly green and vibrant, the tulips in full bloom.”
Her eyes shone as she spoke and I found myself lost in them for a moment before gathering myself to respond.
“You’re an artist, I’m told,” I said. “Do you find your inspiration in nature?”
Her face reddened slightly. “I wouldn’t call myself an artist,” she said. “But I enjoy sketching and painting. I spend much of my time in these gardens. They’re so beautiful.”
I was about to say they weren’t nearly as beautiful as she, when Prudence and Flynn bounded into the room, breathless, as though they had been chasing each other like two puppies. Flynn pushed his sister and she collapsed onto one of the chairs, laughing.
“You will never beat me,” Flynn said to her, picking up a glass of water from the sideboard and drinking it down in a gulp. “You should just admit it now and get on with your life.”
“Never!” she replied, waving an arm.
I furrowed my brow at them and shot a glance toward Lily.
“These two have been racing from the lakeshore to the house ever since they learned how to walk,” she told me, taking her place next to Prudence at the t
able. “Everything’s a competition with them. Watch out when we play croquet.”
“She tries every trick in the book.” Flynn laughed. “Today she tripped me, and I still beat her.”
“Anything to give me an advantage, brother,” Prudence said, lifting her water glass to her lips and taking a long sip.
As I looked at Prudence’s expression—amusement with more than a touch of defiance—I wondered about that statement. It wasn’t hard to believe this girl would indeed do anything to give her an advantage, and not just against her brother in their childhood games.
Just then, Mrs. McBride entered the room carrying a large tray. One of the younger maids followed behind, carrying an enormous soup tureen.
“Your parents are lunching in town,” Mrs. McBride informed Flynn, setting the tray on the sideboard. “Soup and salad, that’s lunch for you today.”
She ladled the steaming soup into waiting bowls and the younger maid hurriedly set them in front of us, along with crisp salads and warm bread.
“So,” Flynn said, tearing off a bit of his bread and popping it into his mouth, “croquet after lunch?” He looked at each of us in turn, his blond hair falling onto his forehead, before his gaze fell upon Lily. He smiled at her warmly, so warmly that it made me a bit uncomfortable.
“I want Michael on my team,” Prudence announced.
“Perfect!” Flynn piped up, still smiling across the table at Lily. “The losing couple has to serve the winners when we go out for a sail. I’ve had Mrs. McBride bring a basket containing plenty of adult beverages down to the dock, and I’m sure Flaherty has already stowed it.”
“But how are you going to serve drinks to us when you’ve got to be the one sailing the boat, brother?” Prudence asked, shooting me a sly glance.
Flynn grinned. “Exactly. Which is why we’re not losing. Right, Lily?”
“I’ll do my best, Flynn.” She smiled at him. “But I’m not promising anything. You remember what happened during the tournament at the last solstice party.”