by Pat Esden
My call went to her voice mail.
“Kate, this is Annie,” I said. “Could you please call me right away?”
I sagged even deeper into the chair, staring at the phone, heaviness settling over me.
After a minute, I went online and checked a couple of places to see if any of my friends were around. No one. If this had been last summer instead of now, I’d have been able to find at least one of them. I could have texted or chatted with someone if for no other reason than to break the silence. But most of them had gone away to college last fall, one friend had gotten married, another had gone into the service, most were deep into relationships. My friendship with Taj was totally screwed. I hadn’t told any of them about Dad’s condition. Six or seven months ago, I might have ignored the slight bittersweet tang of friendships moving on and called someone anyway, but now reaching out felt as impossible as crossing the gulf between stars.
With a sigh, I set my phone on the desk.
Kate wouldn’t call me back. I knew it in my heart.
CHAPTER 3
When my bed is cold I embrace the dark,
When it’s you, when it’s you I want to hold.
Oh, embrace the dark for my love is gone.
Embrace the shadows of the night.
—Susan Woodford Freemont
Ballad favorited on www.NorthTunes.com
As I expected, Kate never returned my call and the next morning I woke up with a million nightmares crashing around in my brain. Some were about Dad getting lost in a maze of hallways, but most were a crazy quilt patched together from scraps of his made-up stories. One thread involved Great-grandmother Freemont using the leg bone of a cat to become invisible, another was his favorite story about a treasury in the cellar filled with jars of plotting genies.
But woven in with all the fabricated tales were flashes of Mother’s death, narrated by my father’s voice: “They told me, she was walking in the graveyard when it happened. It was foggy, and the grass was wet. She slipped, and her head collided with a marble lamb. She died that instant: her skull cracking open, her dark-red blood staining the small white stone. By the time I got home, nothing of your mother remained, except for a jar of ashes.”
I wiped my sweat-dampened hair back from my face. Why couldn’t Dad have provided me with more happy stories about my family, instead of just material for nightmares?
The plush carpet silenced my footsteps as I got out of bed and went into the bathroom. It didn’t take me long to decide what to wear. I’d learned from watching Dad swagger into upper-end auctions in his worn-out chinos and slouchy fishing hat that when you were nervous about the crowd you were going to face, the best thing to do was dress like you had all the confidence in the world. In other words, like you were beyond having to dress for success. Be yourself, and then some.
I put on a comfy T-shirt, then shimmied into my favorite worn jeans. I topped off the outfit with a pair of bright-red spiked heels I’d found at a yard sale. Nothing says confidence like a touch of red, except perhaps the ability to strut while wearing spikes.
Grabbing my bag with Mother’s jar still inside it, I headed into the daylight-brightened hallway. Judging by the way the sun’s rays filtered in through the window at my end of the hall, I guessed that my room was in the east wing. If I’d taken the time to open my curtains, I’d probably have seen the ocean. Well, there’d be time to enjoy the view later, after I found Dad and had breakfast.
I strutted down the hallway. Here and there window-brightened alcoves broke up the relentless parade of closed doors. As I zigged and zagged, I watched for light switches. I didn’t spot any, but there was plenty of time before dark. I’d just have to ask someone where the switches were.
The gallery was hot and airless when I entered it. The only traces of brightness trickled down through a dome-shaped skylight. My heels clicked a staccato rhythm as I started across the room and silenced when I stopped to admire a nineteenth-century painting of castle ruins. I turned my attention to the statues. Fury contorted the angels’ cold marble faces. Their hands gripped swords. One had snakes writhing around its base. From the depths of her alcove, the three-faced goddess sneered at me. They were all truly fear-inspiring masterpieces, and it was amazing to think my family owned such priceless works of art.
In fact, the entire gallery was magnificent, except for an odd man-size stain marring the alcove wall closest to the goddess. It was black and oily and about six feet in height. The shadow in the abandoned church hurtled into my mind, and my chest tightened with fear.
I clenched my jaw and forced myself to not look away. This was ridiculous. I was going to drive myself nuts if I kept thinking imaginary things were real. This was simply a stain. Nothing more, nothing less. Certainly nothing alive.
My legs resisted, but I took a step toward it. The shape was oddly manlike, a head, neck, and wide shoulders. I was about to take another step, when the tap of fast-moving footsteps sounded behind me and I turned to see who it was instead.
A gangly, thirtysomething woman in a stretched-out gray cardigan and long black skirt scurried toward me.
“I went to your room to get you, but you’d already left. I was afraid you’d get lost.” Her throaty accent sounded vaguely Russian or Eastern European.
She flashed me a toothy grin like she was thrilled to see me, but her gaze skimmed disapprovingly down to my spikes.
I narrowed my eyes. “I haven’t gotten lost, yet,” I said defensively. I thought about complimenting her worn-out slippers or asking for my room’s GPS coordinates, but decided it was better not to rock the boat before I knew where I stood.
The woman draped a bony arm across my shoulder. “That’s good to hear. You’ll get used to the house soon enough. If you ever want company, our apartment is on the other end of the hallway. You come see us anytime.”
As she drew me into a motherly half-hug, I resisted the urge to push her away. I liked the idea of not being as alone as I’d suspected and her friendliness softened me a little. But I didn’t need a mother hen clutching me to her nonexistent bosom and expecting me to visit her for Russian tea and potentially lethal gingerbread—at least her burn-scarred fingers and the magenta and orange stains that crescented her fingernails made me wonder what she’d been brewing up.
She gave me another squeeze. “I hope you like your room. My daughter, Selena, picked it out. She turned eighteen last month, not that much younger than you. You’re going to be close friends. I know it.”
I wriggled from her grip. Though I didn’t remember her at all, I had a strong suspicion who she was. “Are you my aunt?” I asked.
Her hands fluttered to her mouth as if she was totally mortified. “Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry. How silly of me. Yes. Of course. I’m your aunt Olya. My husband is David, your father’s little brother.”
Like giant, freaky-colored moths, her stained fingers settled on my arm. I tried not to flinch as she went on about Selena and her eleven-year-old son, Zachary, and how my uncle David was away on business at the moment. Selena and Zachary. If Dad had ever mentioned them by name, I might have tried to connect with them on the Internet.
Still chattering, Olya steered me toward the far side of the gallery. I might not have known much about them, but it quickly became clear that she knew tons about me. She was totally aware that I’d been homeschooled and dealt antiques with Dad. She knew I’d gotten two speeding tickets, liked indie rock and cheesy popcorn. Unnerved, I began to wonder if she knew about my stupid fear of the dark as well. Dad’s lawyer was the only person who might have known all these things, other than Dad. But, even before the dementia, Dad never talked to people about our personal stuff. Perhaps the old boy network was behind me losing custody. But now I was also wondering if Dad’s lawyer had been spying on us and reporting to Grandfather for years.
Olya and I were almost all the way across the gallery when the dark stain I’d spotted near the three-faced goddess slid back into my mind. Maybe from this angle I cou
ld tell what it was.
I glanced back.
The stain was gone. Just like the shadow in the church.
My feet froze to the floor.
“What’s wrong?” Olya asked.
A bead of sweat dribbled down my spine. “I thought I saw something—a big, man-size stain on the wall—by the goddess. But it’s gone now.”
Her eyes flicked to the wall, then back to me. She was smiling, but her face had paled. “Oh, yes. A shadow. The statues sometimes cast them. Very lifelike. I’m not surprised it startled you.” She laughed nervously. “I should warn you, Zachary, he likes to play tricks. Ghost noises. Jumping out at people. Don’t tell him what you saw or he’ll paint shapes on every wall in Moonhill—just to terrify you.”
Her anxious tone did nothing to ease my fear. If anything, it spiked my suspicion that I might have indeed seen something supernatural—a ghost or some kind of phantom stain imprinted on the wall.
I faked my own laugh, and said, “I’ll remember that.”
But my eyes went back to that place by the goddess, and an unsettling sense of recognition came over me. It was impossible as I had no memories of this place, but still the feeling lingered, joined by an unrelenting rush of fear as if darkness had suddenly boxed me in.
A chill sent goose bumps across my skin. I hugged myself against it and took a deep breath. I needed to stay strong for Dad, so I could help him get well and get us out of this creepy place—and fast.
As we left the gallery and went down the main staircase to the foyer, I listened while Olya talked about how Zachary had tried to frighten Selena by hiding a motion-activated recording of ghostly voices in the family library. Great. Just what I needed. Real mysterious things and fake ones.
We had just passed the cabinet filled with artifacts when I heard a door squeak open behind us. I looked back and spotted a lanky guy with scruffy red hair shuffling out of a door under the staircase. With his brown work pants and matching shirt, I would have assumed he did maintenance around Moonhill, except that he was carrying a silver bowl filled with fresh fruit.
“Good morning, Tibbs,” Olya greeted him. “I’m not sure if you met Stephanie last night.”
Tibbs? I gaped. But Tibbs was an old man who wore tweed and a bowtie.
“Are you all right?” Olya said to me.
“Yeah. It’s just—” I tore my gaze off Tibbs. “I thought the guy who showed me to my room last night’s name was Tibbs.”
“Not me,” Tibbs said. “I had the night off. Probably Chase—guy my age, buzz cut, built like a boxer?”
That sounded like the military-type hottie Dad had yelled at. “No. He was up by the gate. The guy I’m talking about was old with a bow tie.”
Olya’s fingers once again fluttered to my arm. She gave me a couple of pats. “That would have been your grandfather. Ever since we found out about the situation he’s talked about nothing except you and your dad. He’s so glad—we’re all so happy you’re here with us.”
I took a step back. “But he didn’t even tell me who he was.”
“Did you ask him?” Olya said. “He probably assumed you knew.”
She was probably right about that, but it still seemed oddly presumptuous.
With Tibbs trailing behind, Olya escorted me across the foyer toward the hallway that Kate and Dad had vanished down last night. As we passed a thick, velvet braid, hanging beside a doorway, she flagged her hand at it. “If you need something pull any bell rope. Tibbs or his mother will come. You can phone or text them as well.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen for most of the morning,” Tibbs said. “Stop by after breakfast and I’ll give you the numbers.” He had a gentle voice, a little shy but not girly.
I glanced over my shoulders. “Thanks, I’ll do that.”
His cheeks and ears flushed bright red. He was a bit too skinny for my taste and gingers didn’t turn me on, but some girls would have really gone for him. In my book, he looked mostly like a potential ally.
“Tibbs is a godsend,” Olya went on. “If he or his mother aren’t available, there’s always Chase. If something happens at night, stay in your room and use your phone.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. It sounded a lot smarter than trying to call Kate again.
We left the hallway and stepped into an elegant dining room.
Kate sat on one side of a long mahogany table, her shoulders square and her spine as straight as if she had a broomstick taped to her back. A boy with spiked hair, most likely my cousin Zachary, slouched across from her, slurping cereal. At the head of the table, the old man from last night—my grandfather—sipped on a coffee. A little bit of it dripped off his chin and onto his bowtie. In the daylight, he appeared less dubious and more like a gentleman from an old BBC movie.
He looked over the rim of his cup and winked at me.
I gave him a warm smile, as if nothing from last night had struck me as odd. Then I glanced around the room and leaned in close to Olya. “Where’s my dad?” I whispered.
Before Olya could reply, Aunt Kate’s voice took command of the room. “Your father’s in town at a doctor’s appointment. I thought it was wise to get his treatments started, don’t you agree?”
My jaw clenched and a few choice words gathered on the tip of my tongue. It was great Dad was getting help. But I hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly and without me being notified.
A smile twitched at the corner of Kate’s mouth and in that instant I knew what she was up to. She was baiting me, trying to get me to lose my temper and yell at her.
Well, two could play that game. I took a second to flick a strand of hair back from my face, then steadied my voice. “It’s just, so early—and I would have liked to have gone with him.”
She cut me off. “He’ll be back around teatime. Now, fix yourself something. Breakfast hours are almost over.” She jerked her chin toward a buffet covered with breakfast food and carafes.
Anger and worry stole my hunger, but I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of knowing it. I nonchalantly strolled to the buffet, then snatched a blueberry muffin from a basket, stabbed it in half, and jabbed some butter onto it. Teatime. That was four o’clock. Seemed absurdly long for a doctor’s appointment, even for a specialist. Dad wasn’t going to deal with that very well. Not at all.
I sucked in a deep breath and set the knife gently next to the muffin. Then I strengthened my resolve. I had loads of reasons to be upset, but I’d never get anywhere if I let Kate and Grandfather unhinge me. Besides, Dad had raised me to keep my cool. And he’d taught me more than just how to dress like I was beyond dressing for success.
He’d taught me how to come out on top at auctions by staying quiet and watching body language, doing the unexpected and anticipating the opposition’s moves, not to mention a bit of faking and bluffing. Moonhill might be full of practiced liars and perhaps they’d see right through my pretense, but I wouldn’t go down without trying. First, I needed to make them think I was gullible and inexperienced, like Dad and I had done with the priest back in Vermont.
I let Olya fix me an extra-sweet coffee with cream. Then I carried it and my muffin to the table and sat beside Zachary, and as far away from Kate and my grandfather as possible.
Grandfather leaned forward, his eyes zeroing in on me. “You’ve got that same uppity chin as your aunt Kate, but you have your father’s sly eyes. Definitely a Freemont, through and through.”
His words sent heat rushing across my face, and as much as I would have liked to meet his stare, I submissively dropped my gaze to my plate. So much for not letting my emotions show.
Olya settled into the empty chair on the other side of me. She glanced toward Zachary. “You need to hurry up. You don’t want to keep the Professor waiting,” she said.
Zachary groaned. “I just started eating.”
I turned my attention to Zachary, much better than having the conversation go back to me. “A professor? So, you’re going to summer school?”
“No. He’s my private tutor.” Zachary’s voice grew shriller. “I know, it’s crazy. This is supposed to be vacation time. But I have to do homework.”
Olya shook a finger at him. “Mind your manners, young man.” Her accent was a thousand times stronger than her son’s.
A scowl darkened Zachary’s face. “It’s not fair. Chase and I have other stuff to do.”
Kate cleared her throat. “We’re very fortunate, Stephanie. The Professor is from Oxford. He’s overseen a variety of archeology projects the family’s funded. But he had some time off this summer and agreed to work with Zachary.” Kate’s voice dropped off, presenting me with a chance to say something.
“Sounds like a wonderful opportunity,” I said, bringing my coffee cup to my lips. I wasn’t sure if she was baiting me again or not.
“Well, as I was saying,” Kate went on, “we’re lucky to have him. Sometimes, Selena even sits in on his lectures. She’s taking a gap year before going to Yale. In her case, a short break is a good idea. On the other hand, someone avoiding college for two years”—she wrinkled her nose at me as if she’d caught a whiff of something rotten—“that tells us all we need to know about your academic abilities and ambitions. You did manage to graduate from high school, right?” She sat back in her chair, her eyes challenging me.
My fingers tightened around my cup and a voice inside my skull screamed for me to wing it at her head. But instead I calmly matched her pose and told her what I suspected she’d already learned from Dad’s lawyer. “As a matter of fact, I graduated with top honors—and it so happens I didn’t take a gap year. I’m simply not attending college full-time.”
Grandfather laughed. “There you go, Kate. She’s a perfect likeness of you when you were her age.”
Flustered, I glanced at Kate. Wrinkles fanned out from the corners of her dark eyes and her lips pressed into a firm line, undoubtedly holding back a comment as tart as the ones I longed to say.