The Feel of Echoes

by Mari Labbee

  Last night was just a fluke, I understand. We both got carried away. He prepared the little speech in his head but then stopped. This is ridiculous—quit getting ahead of yourself, Matt, he thought. She forgot about an appointment and hasn’t had a moment to call. That’s all. The note hadn’t said much, and he’d read and reread it several times, looking for hidden meaning, but nothing. The whole of it was ordinary; a note, polite, explanatory, nothing in there said otherwise, but still, he was getting a vibe. And here it was seven thirty, still no word from her, and he was packing the truck up to leave. Suddenly he wondered if she was all right. As he sat in the truck ready to go, he decided to call her. But just before the call connected, he hung up. He’d give her the space she obviously needed. It was late, and he was tired. He turned the key, and the truck roared to life.

  The rain that had made the surrounding areas an absolute misery did not reach Jackal’s Head Point that day. There it remained bright and sunny. The only gloominess to be found hung over Matt, but as he headed home, he saw the bloated storm clouds rolling in from the sea mopping up what was left of daylight—even the weather’s been moody since she’s been here.

  The rain started about halfway to Whittlebee. Matt drove carefully. It wasn’t coming down hard, just a steady drizzle, enough to annoy him. What typically took forty-five minutes took over an hour tonight. He didn’t remember the drive. He was on autopilot, and like the nag that finds its way back to the barn, he found his way home.

  More than anything, he wanted to stop thinking about Bri. How would it be the next time he saw her? Would they suddenly be uncomfortable around each other? He didn’t think he could take working around her, if it came to that. No. Not this time, he thought. This time he wanted more. He knew something had been bothering her, and he was going to find out what it was. Next time they saw each other, he’d ask her and wouldn’t stop asking until he got an answer.

  He swung his truck into his parking space at the marina, stored his tools in the storage bin in front of his spot, and with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, he jogged in the rain down the dock to the Audrey Natalia.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Historical Society of the Greater Tri-Counties was located inland, north of Portland. Bri glanced at the hand-drawn map that the librarian at Pegottie had so kindly made for her. It was very accurate, and she found her way easily.

  On hearing that the historical society was mostly staffed with volunteers, she’d expected a much smaller building, but it was large, and there were several people at the ready behind the reference desk.

  “Maybe in the Portland Room,” said the older of the two women after Bri described what she was looking for.

  The young man standing behind them stopped sorting through a stack of books and documents and added, “The bulk will be on microfiche, and public records too, might be something there.”

  They all nodded, agreeing.

  “Third floor is where the oldest publications are, but I’m afraid not all of them are categorized yet. It’s a work in progress as we transfer to digital. The collections, rare books, diaries, weeklies and such are up there. And you’re welcome to look at all of it, but none of it can leave the premises.” Again, it was the older woman who spoke as she came around the desk and gestured for Bri to follow her.

  “And you have records and publications going back to the 1830s?” Bri asked as they walked.

  “Yes, some. We have newspapers dating back to that time. What is the name of the publication you were looking for?”

  “Well, that’s part of the problem,” Bri said. “I have no idea what the newspaper or periodical might have been called, but it would be for the Pegottie area—Jackal’s Head Point, to be exact.” The woman frowned, thinking. Bri went on.

  “It’s just outside of Pegottie, if that’s any help. The librarian in Pegottie said there was a weekly publication from the last century, but she wasn’t sure of the dates it ran. It was called the Mast. They didn’t have any copies in the Pegottie library.”

  “The Mast,” the woman repeated, scratching her chin. “I’m not familiar with the name, but that doesn’t mean anything. There are hundreds in here. Let’s take a look at the index. If we have it, it’ll be listed. At least you have a place to start,” she said brightly. “You can search through public records too. Whatever we don’t have on digital yet, we have on file. Funding’s been low this year, but luckily a lot have been transferred already.”

  It all sounded so overwhelming, and she began thinking about when she could come back, because she might not have enough time to search through everything today. That and she had no idea what she was looking for and no way to zero in on it. They reached a computer terminal, and the woman began typing.

  “Here it is,” she said.

  “I’m specifically doing research on the lighthouse at Jackal’s Head Point,” Bri volunteered.

  “We have records of all the lighthouses in the state. Do you think that would help?”

  Bri nodded enthusiastically.

  The woman led her to a large room with several long rectangular tables. There were computers and microfiche machines by the windows.

  “Do you know how to use one of these?” the woman asked, pointing to the microfiche. Bri nodded.

  “Good, you can start there.”

  It took Bri about twenty minutes to locate Jackal’s Head lighthouse records. The information was incredibly detailed—and of great use—if you were an engineer. Base circumference, height, light source, building materials, start and finish dates, along with schematics, were painstakingly recorded. No mention of the keeper or his family—nothing she could use.

  The woman returned with a large, unwieldy hardcover binder and set it in front of Bri. A round, wooden bar held the fragile, yellowing newspapers inside.

  “There are several others, but you can start with this one.”

  “Thanks,” Bri said.

  The woman handed her a pair of thin white gloves. “Please use these.”

  Bri slipped the gloves on and pulled the binder toward her; the years 1820 to 1830 were inscribed on the spine. She flipped it open and stared down at a copy of the Mast newspaper. It was slightly smaller and much thinner than a modern newspaper. The copy was dated June 10, 1822. Her heart quickened as she reached out and touched the corner of one page. Would she find what she was looking for in these pages?

  Her eyes quickly began skimming over the stories, announcements, and advertisements. Bri had gone through half of the first binder by the time the woman, trailed by the young man from earlier, returned hauling several binders and a cart with boxed documents. The weekly was full of interesting things and transported her back in time. She fought to stay on track as stories caught her eye. She had come for one reason, and as much as she would like to meander through these, time was of the essence today; distraction was her enemy.

  The news of that time differed from modern news in so many ways. Human-interest stories filled the paper. And a large part of almost every issue were the obituaries, the section expanding as epidemics swept through the region. The fragility of life in those times was commemorated forever. The common cold easily became pneumonia, with no antibiotics a scrape turned into a deadly infection, a broken limb meant disability or worse, and, of course, tuberculosis—quite common then—took the young, old, rich, and poor equally; death was not discerning. The stories, though seemingly sad, were wonderful retrospectives about lives well-lived with recollections and anecdotes from loved ones. There were wedding announcements, betrothals, and, of course, births. So many lives all gone now.

  Done with the first binder, she closed it and set it aside. The last issue in it was dated December 18, 1830. She went through several more before noticing the weather outside had changed. It was overcast again, and a low rumble in the distance meant more rain. Just what I need, she thought. Before continuing, she stretched, looking absently out the window.

  “Everything going OK?”


  The woman’s sudden appearance startled Bri. She jumped, and one hand flew up to her chest.

  “I’m sorry, forgive me, I didn’t mean to surprise you,” she apologized, thinking Bri the most skittish person she’d ever met.

  “Oh, you did, but that’s OK.” Bri laughed lightly. “So far so good. I still have these,” she said, glancing at the stack of binders she hadn’t opened.

  “Good. Well, if you need any more materials, I’ll be right up front.”

  Bri nodded and massaged the back of her neck as she opened another binder. She spent the next few hours scanning through binder after binder, finding nothing. She looked at the cardboard boxes stacked on the cart and decided that she’d take a look in there next, but then she reached the issue dated September 22, 1834, and her heart stopped.

  “Tragedy at Jackal’s Head Point,” the headline screamed in bold letters.

  The once serene Jackal’s Head Point has become the scene of a grisly crime of madness. Sometime in the night, Rosabel Bennett-Browne, in a fit of madness, killed her husband of four years, Elias Browne, and two servants. Then she killed herself.

  “It was a horrific scene. Not the sort of occurrence our quiet community is accustomed to. Horrible deaths,” said Constable John Barber.

  Yesterday morn, Rosabel’s body was discovered, washed ashore near Pegottie Point, an apparent victim of suicide.

  “The mystery of Captain Browne’s disappearance two years hence and his sudden return surely contributed to her madness. Living out there alone for so long, far from everyone, is much for a young woman to bear. No one could know what was going through her mind or when her fragile mind broke and the madness began, as it does in families,” the doctor added.

  Bri couldn’t believe it. This is the story Chris was talking about but with the details that she didn’t have. She kept reading.

  An Englishman by birth, Captain Browne rose through the ranks of the Royal Navy, where he became a captain. After his marriage to Rosabel Bennett, he was employed by the Lawson Trading Company out of Portland as captain of several of their many ships. It was the Sparrow, lost at sea, that the captain sailed last. He retired upon return and settled into the life of the landsman; he did not return to sea. It was not known where the Sparrow went down exactly, and Captain Browne did not shed light on this during the inquiry following his return, which proved fruitless. He was not able to tell the authorities of his whereabouts during this time, claiming he could not remember.

  The identities of the servants found at Jackal’s Head Point are unknown at this time, and the property has been turned over to the law firm of Downs and Cable for probate. Neither Elias nor Rosabel had children; the search for next of kin is in progress.

  She’d found what she came looking for, sort of.

  Rosabel. The name was familiar. Where had she heard it before? Bri had firsthand knowledge of how isolated Jackal’s Head Point was, and without a car and phone, it would be like living on another planet. She couldn’t imagine the solitary existence this young woman had lived. And how did they know Rosabel had committed suicide? What a strange story. Where had Elias been? Why wasn’t he able to tell them where he had been? What had happened to him—both of them—in the years while he was gone? She wasn’t any closer to answers. In fact, there were a few more questions.

  Were her dreams about this woman named Rosabel? Bri felt frustrated…something was nagging at her…something didn’t fit, but she had no idea what it was. Like a mirage, it appeared only to disappear, just out of reach, but was still there. All of a sudden, she sat straight up in her chair, remembering a picture she’d seen in one of the binders. She was positive she had seen the name Elias Browne. She grabbed one of the binders and began her furious search. It was in the first binder, among the marriage announcements, one of several at the bottom of the page—a picture with a caption.

  Captain Elias Browne

  and

  Rosabel Bennett

  Engaged to be married

  It was dated November 18, 1829. Bri looked at the picture. It was creased and smudged, and she couldn’t make out the features all that well, but one thing was clear enough—the halo of curls framed Rosabel’s small face like the sun. Curls that fell well past her shoulders and likely reached her waist. A chill ran through Bri—the woman in her dream. She stared at the photograph. Her mind fought it, but no matter how incredible or unlikely it might be, this strange thing was happening to her. The dreams weren’t dreams at all; they were visions, she was sure of that now.

  Angela’s mother had had the dreams too and for far longer, which had made Bri’s stomach roil, and she felt a little panicked as the thought of Angela’s mother surfaced. She felt violated. This was being forced upon her, and she had no idea how to make it stop. More importantly, why was it happening? She looked at the photograph again. Which woman could this be? Was she adding her own random details just to add to the confusion? The woman painting the mural and the one who stood at the top of the lighthouse had golden hair. The woman searching in the room and the young girl in the lighthouse, which Bri was sure were one and the same, had dark, almost black hair. And only now she realized that the dreams left behind their unique imprint. There was a difference with each one upon waking, depending on which woman was in the dream. But the sense of dread and fear came with only one. She slapped the binder shut with a loud snap. There was nobody around to be bothered by the infraction. She requested copies of what she had found in the binders. The rest of the afternoon yielded nothing more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The rain fell hard as Bri drove back to Pegottie from Boston. Her shoulders ached from exhaustion, but her mind was eons away and going a million miles an hour. After the visit to see Angela and the discoveries at the historical society, Bri was sure about one thing: none of this was just her imagination, and none of this was a coincidence—and this left…what?

  Bri contemplated what she knew so far in a deliberate, clinical way. She wished she had tape-recorded her conversation with Angela, but then she realized Angela wouldn’t have allowed it anyway.

  Rosabel Bennett-Browne had lived in that house, had married a naval captain, and had killed herself; Chris’s story, it seemed, was accurate, at least about that.

  The driver next to her lay on his horn as she drifted into his lane. She swerved back into her lane and waved apologetically as he passed, glaring at her.

  The first dream she could remember was nothing more than a jumble of images: water rushing toward her and a scream. Then there was the girl in the lighthouse, and she had been looking at the girl. In the mural dream, she had been pulled into, and became, the woman with the golden hair. She saw the blood, she saw the images inside the woman’s head, heard the laughter that only she could hear, as if she were the woman. Then the dream she had while she was with Matt. She had been looking at the woman with the black curls, just like she’d been looking up at the girl in the lighthouse. This was consistent. Angela’s words came—my mother said the woman was trying to steal her soul.

  Was that Rosabel?

  She swerved again. Luckily the highway was empty. Why hadn’t she realized this before!

  The dreams always ended with the same images of water rushing toward her, the feeling of falling, and a scream. In the most recent dream, she’d seen the woman standing at the top of the lighthouse, surely Rosabel, which could only mean one thing: Rosabel had fallen from the lighthouse. Bri wasn’t ready to say just how. But she had not been alone; there were people chasing her. Bri felt the connections forming, a picture coming to light. But why was Rosabel being chased? What had happened up there? And if she had fallen from the lighthouse, then she could not have killed the others, as the news story reported. So who did?

  Whatever happened to Angela’s mother was happening all over again—to her. Today had confirmed everything, that somehow the dreams were real, but she knew that did nothing to enlighten her, and Bri had no idea what to do about it or how to make it stop.<
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  It was dark by the time she turned into Jackal’s Head Point. She stared at the house for some time before getting out of the car. Foreboding and dark, filled with secrets. What do you want from me?

  The rain added a healthy dose of humidity to the warm air, just enough to make it uncomfortably sticky, and the strands of hair that had come loose from her clasp stuck to the side of Bri’s face. All she wished for now was a relaxing bath. A heavy silence hung in the dark interior of the empty house, and the echo of her footsteps ricocheted through the hollow space. She didn’t call out for Matt—she knew he wasn’t there; she was alone. She flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. She got a flashlight that she kept underneath the kitchen sink and took it with her now as she made her way upstairs. About halfway up, she slowed down and then stopped, thinking.

  The long, thin arm streaked with blood, pointing. Pointing. The woman had forced Bri to look at something. But it had been nothing, just a corner of the fireplace in the great room. She started climbing again but stopped and turned around.

  The great room was a cavern of shadows. Bri noticed the settee and wing chairs that she had ordered were pushed up against the wall by the hearth. They must have been delivered, and Matt took care of it. Her throat tightened at the thought of him. She was sorry she hadn’t contacted him at all while she was gone, but first thing tomorrow she would tell him what had been happening.

  In the great room, she made sure to shine the narrow beam of the flashlight away from the mural; she didn’t want to look at it. Instead, keeping it directly ahead of her, she shone the beam of light over the mantel. Piece by piece it appeared under the beam of light, looking strangely disjointed.

  Well, now what? she thought. What am I looking for?