by Blair Howard
“Good lord, miss. How would I know? How would anyone know? I don’t think she could have been in the place more than a year or two before she….”
We both looked at him, but he seemed disinclined to continue.
“Mr. Strong,” I said. “You told us that Amanda’s grandmother told you that she thought the house was haunted, and you also said that you didn’t think so, right?”
He nodded, but didn’t seem to want to look me in the eye.
“That’s not really what you think, is it?”
He looked up at me, startled.
“It’s all right, Art,” Amanda said. “I already have my own ideas, so you can tell us. We won’t think any less of you.”
He hesitated for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind. “I said I don’t, and I don’t, not really. Who could believe in all that stuff? It’s not logical, is it, but….” He looked at me, then at Amanda, shaking his head. We waited.
“This is an old house, miss. A very old house. It creaks and groans, and it’s cold all the time. It’s drafty, and the drafts, they—well, they move the drapes. You know how it is. My Mary, Mrs. Strong, she thinks.... That is, she won’t go into that sitting room. She just won’t. It takes a visitor like you just to get her to go up to the top floor.”
“Okay,” Amanda said briskly. “That’s just what I needed to hear. Would you mind fetching her, please. I’d like to talk to her.”
“Oh dear, Miss Amanda. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Good idea or not, it’s what I want. So please. Ask her to come, and while you’re at it, please bring another bottle of wine. Oh, and I’ll want to see Perkins too. Maybe tomorrow.”
He rose to his feet with a sigh. “If you say so, miss.” And he left, shoulders stooped.
Amanda turned to me. “What do you think, Harry?”
“I think this silly shit is getting out of hand. You’ll be calling in the Ghost Busters next. It’s all your imagination, mine too. He’s right. It’s just a creepy, drafty old house. Hell, that place of mine up on Lookout is no different. Smaller, sure, but it was just as drafty and creaky until we fixed it up. You know it was.”
“That’s not what’s going on here, Harry. What about the music, and the piano, and the lamp? You know I wasn’t imagining that, right? And be very careful how you answer.”
Oh hell. I’m not going to fall for that one, and I sure as hell am not going to lie to you.
“Harry?”
“What?
“Answer me.”
“What’s to answer? You believe you heard and saw what you did. So, then, my answer is that there has to be some logical explanation for it.”
“But you said she was looking at you.”
“Prrrrrrrr.” Damn it. She had me there. “I did, but she couldn’t have been. I must have imagined it. Come on, Amanda. I had to have been imagining it. A painting can’t move.”
It was at that moment, thank God, that Strong returned with his wife in tow. And we both caught it: as she walked past the painting of Jonathan Miles she looked up at it, and I swear the look she gave it was… apprehensive, to say the least.
She was a tall, thin woman: thin face, slim figure, mousy gray hair.
“Please sit down, both of you,” Amanda said. They did.
“It’s good of you to give us a few moments of your—”
“Yes. It’s haunted,” Mary Strong interrupted defiantly. She stared at me, her mouth set in a tight, grim line.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Strong said, exasperated.
I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms. Damn. Now that, I wasn’t expecting.
“Why do you say that, Mary?” I asked. “It is all right if I call you Mary?”
She nodded, “Go down into the village. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you. The stories go back as far as anyone can remember. We can’t get anybody to work here, only old Perkins. Why do you think the gardens are such a mess?”
“Oh my God,” Strong muttered.
“Go on,” I said.
She shrugged slightly. “Strange happenings. Mostly on the top floor, but not always. Lights on at night when there’s no one up there. Music, piano music. Cold spots, especially on the stairs and the landings. I won’t go up, not unless I have to. There’ve even been stories of a woman on the cliff tops, just standing there in the moonlight, looking out to sea. I’ve never seen such a thing myself, but….”
I leaned forward a little and watched her closely. “Have you experienced any of that yourself, Mrs. Strong? The music, the lights?”
“Some. not all. Not the music, but lights on when they shouldn’t be, yes. Other than that, it’s just feelings I get, like I’m being watched, especially when I’m in here, by him.” She glanced up at the portrait. “I only ever went into that sitting room once, and that was more than thirty years ago, when we first came here. She was watching me; the woman in the portrait. I mean not just watching me; she was staring at me, with a look on her face like I wasn’t supposed to be there. I’ve not set foot inside that room since. I make him do it.” She twitched her head in Strong’s direction. Amanda grabbed my knee beneath the table and squeezed it.
“So,” I said. “You’ve never seen a ghost, or…?”
“I’ve felt them. It’s like someone brushed by me. It happens all over the house, but especially on the stairs and… in here. I won’t stay here by myself. If Art goes out, I go with him.” She folded her arms and shuddered.
Bless her. She wasn’t lying. Whatever she’d experienced, or not, she knew what she believed it to be. What bothered me most was, obviously, the reference to Elizabeth’s portrait. She’d had the same experience I had. Okay, so one person experiences something and it’s just imagination; but two, and it’s… what?
“Okay,” I said, leaning forward again. “Let’s see if we can get a handle on this. From what you’re saying, Mr. and Mrs. Strong, and you too, Amanda… okay, and me. We none of us, but especially you,” I looked from one to the other, “have experienced anything tangible. You’ve had odd feelings of a presence, cold spots, lights on when they shouldn’t be, but other than that you’ve never seen anything out of the ordinary. We all have imagined eyes on us. Yes, me too,” I said, as Amanda opened her mouth to speak. “So what do we have then? Nothing concrete. Nothing I’d want to talk about outside of us four. Even the lights could have been left on unintentionally, now couldn’t they?”
It seemed not, because I didn’t get an answer, just stony looks from Amanda and Mary Strong, and an enigmatic half-smile from Strong as he sat there with his arms folded across his chest.
“Do you have anything else to say, either of you? Can you give me anything specific, anything tangible?”
I looked at them both, and then at Amanda. All I got were the same stony looks. I shrugged. “That’s it then. I suggest the three of you try to reach some sort of agreement as to what the future might hold, what you’re going to do with this… this… house, hotel, whatever, and then Amanda and I can get the hell out of here and go home to where the world is a much saner place.”
“That’s not fair, Harry. We haven’t given it even a half-try yet. We owe it to my grandmother to at least look into what happened to Elizabeth.”
I sighed. This again. “Look into what? I’m a detective, not a clairvoyant. She’s been gone for five generations, more than 110 years. What do you expect me to find?”
“I expect you to find nothing, if you’re not even prepared to look,” and with that she jumped to her feet, stormed out of the room, and ran up the stairs.
Strong and his wife glared at me across the table, the rims of Strong’s glasses glinting in the artificial light. Hell, I guess I know whose side you’re on now.
“Oh well,” I said, getting to my feet. “It seems I have some apologizing to do. Look, I’m sorry we dragged you into this. Maybe we can talk again tomorrow morning. We’ll see you for breakfast. About nine o’clock?”
They both nodded, and I f
ollowed Amanda, out of the dining room and up the stairs, past the darkened sitting room to the bedroom.
Chapter 11
“So,” I said. “You okay?” She was sitting on the bed, a washcloth from the bathroom clasped between her hands. She’d been crying. Her mascara had run, and she’d wiped her eyes with the cloth. The black eyes did not make for a pretty sight.
“Yes, I suppose so. I guess I got a little carried away, what with everything. I’m sorry. I really didn’t want to spoil our special evening.”
“You didn’t. You’re my special evening, no matter the circumstances, and you always will be.”
“Oh, Harry,” she jumped to her feet, dropped the cloth and wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her face to my chest. “I love you so much.”
“I know,” I whispered in her ear. “I love you too. Look. I’ll call Art and have him bring up some wine. Let’s just enjoy our evening. Let’s not think about any of this other crap again until morning. Okay?”
She nodded, and tilted her head up to be kissed. I obliged. She tasted salty from the tears. I picked up the phone, and hit zero for the operator—it was Strong who answered.
“Art, can you bring us a bottle Riesling, please? Nah. Hold on a minute,” I looked at Amanda. She nodded. “Better make it a couple of bottles, and glasses too, please.”
He arrived a short time later, laden down with an ice bucket, a small bag of ice, two bottles, and two glasses. How he managed to get all that up the stairs, I have no idea.
After we’d showered, and done all the other stuff one does in preparation for a romantic evening, we turned out the lights and sat together in front of the bay window, looking out over the ocean. The night was clear. The moon was up. The white caps on the sea were tipped with silver, and the indigo sky was set with thousands of twinkling stars. The moon cast an almost solid shaft of silver light across the room. It hit the center of the bed like a searchlight. It was going to be an amazing evening.
At that moment, I didn’t have a care in the world. I was at peace, something I rarely was able to experience. We’d been sitting there for a while, talking quietly together and enjoying the wine, when the enormity of what had happed that afternoon hit me like a punch from Rocky Balboa: I was getting married.
Damn. Who would have thought it? I needed to call Dad, and Rose. “Hold on a minute. I need to make a call.”
There was no cell service, so I had to use the house phone. I reached him via his cell. He was at the club, as usual, and slightly the worse for Bombay Sapphire, also as usual.
“Harry, m’boy. How’s the world according to Stephen King?” What? Oh, I get it. The man lives just down the road in Bangor. How appropriate.
“Hey. This place could have been lifted right out of one of his novels.” I beckoned Amanda to join me, and I slipped my arm around her waist. “Hey, Dad,” I said into the phone, “you sober? Good. I want you to say hello to someone. Your future daughter-in-law.” I had to hold the phone away from me ear. The garbled yelling could be heard three feet away. Laughing, I handed the phone to her.
“Hello, August. Yes… yes… yes…. He asked me this afternoon. I know… yes, I know. I do…. I will…. I love you too. Here’s Harry.”
“Congratulations, you sneaky son of a bitch,” he yelled. Oh yeah. That’s my dad. “You never said a word; never gave us a hint,” he shouted. “Rose is having a fit. Can you hear her? Yeah… yeah, you heard right. He’s getting married. To Amanda for Christ’s sake. Yeah. Drinks all round, and keep ‘em coming.” Who the hell he was talking to now, I had no idea.
“Harry,” he said, “when are you coming home? Listen. I’ll have Joe come up and get you. The nearest airport is in Bangor. That’s not too far from where you are. When will you be ready? Oh my God. I never thought it would happen.”
“Slow down, Dad,” I was laughing. “That will be fine, but we need at least a couple more days up here. I’ll let you know, okay?”
“Okay… okay. Yeah, okay. Oh my God. Never in a million years… and to Amanda! You’re one lucky son of a bitch. Damn. I gotta sit down. Call me tomorrow.”
Click. He’d hung up.
I looked at the receiver. “He’ll never change, bless him,” I said, looking at the dead instrument. “At least we won’t have to drive to Boston or New York. Oh boy, wouldn’t I like to be at the club tonight. They’ll have to carry him out of there.”
I put the handset back in its cradle, and pulled her to me.
“Take me to bed,” she told me. And so I did.
-----
I woke suddenly. The moon was gone. The room was pitch black except for the little red numbers on the bedside clock: 3:30 a.m. Amanda was out cold, and cold was the operative word. The air was freezing. I rolled over, and I saw it. What the hell?
I grabbed Amanda’s shoulder and shook her.
“What?” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter,” I said, “is someone’s playing games. Look.” I pointed at the bottom of the bedroom door. A light shone from underneath it. There hadn’t been any light on when I came up from dinner, and I knew that for a fact. “Come on. Put something on. Let’s go take a look.” I jumped out of bed and flipped the lock on the door and grabbed the handle.
“Hey, wait for me,” Amanda said, trying to find her gown.
But I already had the door open. Down the hall, the damned sitting room door was open again, and there was a light on inside. She came up behind me, grabbed my arm, and tried to see around me. I put a finger to my lips. All was quiet; no music.
“Do you hear anything?” I whispered. I felt her shake her head. “Me neither. Let’s go take a look.” Amanda bringing up the rear, hanging onto my hand, I crept down the hallway. Amanda was shivering, but not from the cold, of that I was sure. She let go of my hand and put both of her arms through my left one and squeezed it tightly to her chest. What an incongruous couple we must have looked: me in boxers and a T-shirt and her in a slinky black romper and dressing gown, hanging onto my arm for all she was worth.
I reached out and pushed the half-open door all the way open, took a deep breath, and stepped forward.
“See? I told you. Now you have to believe me,” she whispered.
She was right. There it was: the piano lid open again and the lamp on.
“Somebody’s screwing with us,” I said, loud enough to be heard on the floor below. “And I want to know who the hell it is.”
I stormed out of the room and went to the head of the stairs and yelled, “I know you’re there. Come on out you son of a bitch!”
Nothing. I could almost feel the quiet. I turned and went back to the sitting room.
“I told you. It’s her.” Amanda grabbed my arm and squeezed, hard, hanging on like a pit bull.
“Nope. I don’t believe it.” I disentangled myself from her and stepped to the window, then the bookcases, and I shook them each in turn. Nothing. I got down on my knees in front of one book case, then the other, examining every inch of the floor for any signs that something, anything, had moved: again, nothing. I looked up at the portrait. Nothing. I walked to the mantle, grabbed the painting, and took it down. There was nothing behind the frame or on the wall, only a discolored rectangle where the painting had hung. Other than that, nothing.
“Damn it!” I snarled. “Who the hell is screwing with us? Get out here, you bastard!” My voice echoed around the room, and then all was quiet again. I rehung the portrait and dumped myself into one of the fireside chairs; Amanda took the other one. And we sat there, staring at each other like a couple of fools. Amanda’s face was as pale as milk, and she was shivering, even though the temperature in the room was quite mild.
“What the hell’s going on here?” We both swung round, startled by the loud voice behind us. Strong stood in the doorway, a tiny .25 revolver in his hand that wouldn’t stop a kitten. “Oh…. I see. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize….”
“Chris
t. You scared us half to death,” I said, and took a deep breath, and we both got to our feet and turned to face him. “What’s the hell’s going on here, Art? Look at the piano, the lamp. This room was dark—and empty—when we came up from dinner. Now look at it. Where did you just come from?” I looked hard at him, but he didn’t flinch.
“I was in my office. Couldn’t sleep. I heard someone yelling up here and I came to see what it was. I wouldn’t have… not if I’d known it was you two.” I continued to hold his gaze, and he mine. I didn’t think he was lying, but what the hell was going on? Someone was pulling something, and I was going to find out what, and who, and why for Christ’s sake.
“I’m not buying it, Art. I’m not buying any of it. I don’t believe in the supernatural—and the damned piano playing? I haven’t heard it, but Amanda has, but that’s easily enough accounted for, isn’t it? There’s a logical explanation for it all, and here it is: Someone, some person—and the only one I can think of is you, Art—is trying to put the fear of Christ into Amanda. Me? It ain’t gonna work. You want to know what I think? I think you, Art, are behind it. I think you wait until we turn off the lights, and then you sneak up here, rearrange the furniture, and turn the lamp on. Then you go back to your hidey-hole, maybe one of the other rooms on this floor, and you turn on the music and you wait. The minute Amanda shows her face, you flip the switch and all is quiet. Hell, there must be a speaker hidden in here somewhere, or outside, and if there is, you can bet your ass I’ll find it. I’ll tell you this, Art: I intend to get to the bottom of it, and you, my man, are the prime suspect.”
“Me?” His mouth was wide open. “You can’t be serious. That’s damned ridiculous. I’ve been downstairs all evening. Go ask Mary. She’ll tell you. And why, in God’s name, would I want to screw around with you anyway?”
“That’s easy enough,” I said. “You figure you’re about to lose your cushy spot and—”
“Oh for God’s sake, Harry. Stop it. Look at him. He’s more put out than we are. I’m sorry, Mr. Strong. Harry tends to fly off the handle when he’s faced with something he can’t explain.”