“Death is not romantic. It’s worse than sad.” I swallowed around the tightness in my throat and quickly lit a cigarette, drawing in a deep drag and remembering too late that I didn’t like to smoke around Marly. Would there ever come a time when I wouldn’t need to suck dirty smoke into my poor lungs?
Marly looked dismayed and covered her mouth, her light blue eyes wide with apology. “Oh God, Tess … I’m sorry. Of course you’re right … I didn’t mean it was romantic how they died. I thought it was romantic that even in death they are still searching for each other.” She dropped her hands onto her lap and looked down dejectedly. “I’m just making this worse aren’t I?
I decided to take pity on her. Marly meant well. She always did. “It’s quite tragic but I can see your point. So tell me … why aren’t people scared to stay there now? Maybe the ghosts are gone and there is nothing more than an intriguing story to tell guests?”
“People are so much more open to that stuff now, Tess. People are fascinated with ghosts and the like. A lot of the people who stay there probably do so in the hopes of experiencing something themselves. People actually go looking for that stuff and you have to admit, it does add a bit of an extra thrill to stay somewhere that is rumored to be haunted.” Marly gave a delicate shiver. “I myself would not be comfortable, but you … just the thing for someone like you.” Marly’s features hardened a bit as if bracing for an argument. “I know you haven’t been doing any of that stuff for a while, but maybe it’s something you should do again. It’s who you are.”
I had to smile at that. Marly was fascinated with my past and what I used to do. Before Mike and Tootsie died. But I was closed to all that now because … well because I lost my faith. I didn’t know what to believe any more. “You think I should go stay at this place, which is probably very expensive, because it will be the best place to go to lay my husband and my dog to rest?”
Marly’s enthusiasm withered to dismay. “Of course I wasn’t thinking such a thing. I was thinking that maybe you could see if those two poor ghosts could use your help.”
I stubbed out my cigarette and stood up. “I don’t do that stuff anymore. I lost my ability, remember?” I walked away from her as fast as I could. I was mad–not at Marly–but I was mad, and I didn’t want to upset her. How many times did I try in those first few weeks after Mike’s death to contact him? And not once did I get so much as a whisper, a feeling, a smell … nothing. Even Sheila remained silent. It was all gone. And now I wondered if it had all been a big fat stupid lie.
Marly chased after me. I went into the back yard and opened a large bucket containing bird seed and proceeded to fill all the feeders. Marly followed along, holding the feeders while I poured the seeds. She said nothing for a long time. Neither did I. After the last feeder was filled, she spoke softly, testing the waters for she still wasn’t sure of my mood or my receptivity. “Why don’t you go there and write. Forget about the ghosts. Start your writing again.”
Marly’s suggestion caught me by surprise. I walked back to the bucket of bird seed, closed the lid and then sat down on a bench Mike had made and been so proud of and looked off into nothing. Could I do that? The thought of writing actually had my heart beating a bit faster. After I married Mike, he didn’t want me doing public sessions any more. I knew he was concerned that it would cast a questioning light on his own career. Who was going to listen to a lawyer whose wife talked to the dead? Mike’s discomfort was disappointing but I loved him. If he thought my public sessions would hurt his career, then I wasn’t going to do them. He did allow private sessions, but only when I was discreet and only with people we knew and trusted. Honestly, I think Mike was fascinated with the idea of my talking to deceased people, but despite that fascination, he was not comfortable with it.
To keep myself busy, I started writing articles and submitting them to magazines whose subject matter was the macabre and the supernatural. I used a different name, of course, and was delighted when most of my submissions were accepted. I eventually landed a deal with a newspaper chain for a weekly column in which people would write and ask question about the paranormal. Although the column was gaining in popularity when Mike died, I didn’t have the heart to continue with it and so my fledgling writing career ended. But now that Marly had brought up the subject, I realized how much I missed that part of my life. A dash of excitement went through me at the thought of doing it again. One thing I had loved about writing was the way my mind worked things out as the words spilled out on paper. Maybe that’s what I needed to do. Maybe I needed to work this all out by writing. “I think you may be right, Marly. I think I should start writing again.”
Marly beamed. “Really?”
Coming to a decision, I stood with purpose and strode back into the house. “Does the article tell us how to contact this place?” It was time for a vacation. The coast of Maine sounded just the thing. I loved the ocean after all. A haunted old mansion dressed up like a fancy resort was the perfect place to go. Mike and Tootsie could come as well. Maybe they could help me with the writing and tell me why all this happened. Why they left me here all alone.
CHAPTER FOUR
The long drive to Poke Harbor, Maine, was busy with summer traffic. Since I had to concentrate on driving, I didn’t have time to dwell on my growing apprehension.
Two months ago when I called to make a reservation with Sea Willow Haven, I hadn’t really expected there to be any openings left for the summer. It was quite a surprise to learn one of the cottages was still available. I booked it for the last three weeks of June. Though I wouldn’t admit to being excited, I did find myself looking forward to the trip. The idea of being gone from home for almost a month became more appealing as the day of departure approached.
Marly and Fran had done their best to keep my anticipation high. They wished I were more enthusiastic about the whole thing and secretly, so did I. Marly’s baby boy arrived only a few days before my departure and I was glad for a chance to see him before leaving. I would have used the excuse to cancel my vacation to help out with the baby but Marly’s parents arrived for an extensive stay. It seemed a good indication I wasn’t needed. Besides, she insisted I go and keep her abreast of the situation concerning the resident ghosts.
In the past two months as in all the previous months before that, I felt no stirrings of awareness for those on the other side and experienced no heightened intuitive feelings about anything. My special gifts may have indeed died with Mike; if I’d even had any gifts to begin with. The doubt for all things once believed really bothered me … in a very depressing sort of way. But how was I to believe in my contact with spirit guides when they did nothing to warn me of impending disaster? Hadn’t I received sufficient warnings for others? So, why did I get nothing from them about Mike? Was it because I was never really in contact with anything in the first place? Maybe I just had a very vivid imagination. Though why that imagination suddenly quit working when Mike died I can’t say. Another thing that bothered me immensely was the feeling that I did not have any control over my life. I was at the complete mercy of … what? Chance? God’s whim? Luck or lack thereof? The problem with this idea was that I didn’t believe anything happened by luck or chance. Heaving a long, loud frustrated sigh, I rubbed a weary hand across my face and wished the depressing thoughts away. It was tiring to think in circles.
Despite the traffic, the eight-hour drive to Sea Willow Haven in picturesque Poke Harbor (as described in the article) was relatively quiet until I crossed over the bridge into the state of Maine. At that precise moment, a pervading sense of coldness invaded my skin and burrowed deep into my bones. Shaking it off as inconsequential, I read the sign 'Welcome to Maine, the Way Life Should Be' and pondered on that for a bit. The slogan intrigued me. The Way Life Should Be. What did that mean exactly? Did anyone really know how life should be? I thought I did until that horrific day two years ago. Two years searching for answers and suddenly a state’s welcome sign tells me it has the answer. Maine
knows the way life should be. Great, maybe I’ll get this whole thing about life figured out after all.
A shiver passed through me, startling me from my reverie. My attention caught and I immediately began to take notice of what was happening within me. In the past, when I experienced these particular shivers, I thought of them as stirrings from the other side. I hadn’t felt stirrings of that sort since Mike’s death.
My cold hands gripped the steering wheel as I concentrated on emptying my mind of bothersome chatter. Sometimes, when doing this, I made contact with something. Usually it was with my spirit guide Sheila, but sometimes it was someone else. Someone on the other side desperate to communicate. The other side being, of course, the great hereafter or what I call the Tri-State, the state between life, heaven and hell. Granted, driving seventy on a busy interstate is not ideal for making contact with those in the Tri-State, but it was the first time in two years I had felt compelled to do so.
Nothing came to me, but I felt the cobwebs and it made my heart pound. My contacts with Sheila used to give me a sensation of cobwebs on my face. Thereafter, whenever Sheila contacted me (actually, it was always me contacting her, for I don’t recall her ever spontaneously showing up without my explicit invitation), the cobweb sensation helped me identify her. I don’t know why Sheila caused such a sensation and I never bothered to ask. It was just a phenomenon that I accepted, as I did all things back then. The loss of contact with Sheila saddened me and it hit me how much I missed it. The problem I wrestled with most was in believing Sheila wasn't real. Had she been nothing more than a figment of an overactive imagination? Truly, I didn’t really believe that but I also didn’t know what to make of her absence.
Though I waited for the energy around me to hum with an excited sort of vibration (there is just no other way for me to describe it), nothing more came. The energy in the car did not change, and I felt no strong thoughts from Sheila. When she was in contact with me, it was like having two thoughts in my head at once. Sheila’s thoughts were always calm and gentle while my own were skeptical and analytical. Of course, at this point in my life, I now wondered if all thoughts were actually my own and always had been. Though Sheila’s messages were often surprising, insightful and sometimes even prophetic, I decided it possible that my extra-sensory perception was at play rather than angelic communication. I still believed in life after death though. I had to believe that, otherwise … where did Mike and Tootsie go? Besides, past experience could not be denied. I had too many interactions with those in the Tri-State to believe otherwise. No, for me there was no doubt that our spirit survives death. And it hit me just then that I truly did not doubt that I had indeed talked to “dead” people. The two years of silence from that quarter bothered me immensely. Especially considering Mike now resided there. My anger with God must have destroyed my ability to communicate with them. So much was lost the day my husband and dog went away. Would I ever recover from the blow?
I wanted to believe in Sheila again. But, really, what good was she if she couldn’t warn me that my loved ones were about to cross over? Why bother talking to her if she could allow things like that to occur without a word of warning? And then keep totally silent afterwards, not offering so much as one word of condolence? I truly believed in my heart that if our roles were reversed and I was Sheila, I would do all that I could to help someone avert disaster. Why would I not?
The cobweb feeling went away after a short while and needing a distraction, I turned on the radio and found a station that played seventies rock. It did a lot to lighten my spirits as I sang along with the songs I knew while speeding along the highway towards a much-needed vacation. It felt so good to do that.
Lucky for me, driving without a navigator (that was usually my job when Mike and I went anywhere) proved none too difficult as the directions to Sea Willow Haven were quite simple: I-95 North to Route 3 East to Route 1 North to Poke Harbor, then follow the blue directional signs. The music kept me company and I made good progress despite the crawling traffic on Route 1. As promised, the blue directional signs led me right to the resort. My relief at arriving at my destination was over-shadowed just a bit, though. The coldness returned when the resort came into view.
I slowed the car and then pulled over to the side of the road to better enjoy the magnificence of the property where I was soon to be staying. The house sat splendidly against the ocean backdrop. The winding highway leading to its private drive sat higher than the house, which appeared from this vantage point to occupy a small peninsula of land. Off to the right side of the house, the land rose sharply upwards, ending in a high cliff overlooking the endless blue ocean. I knew that I would end up there at some point as it promised to offer a magnificent view. As for the house, it was a gothic piece of enchantment. The rounded turrets drew my attention and I immediately recalled the magazine story that claimed a young girl flung herself from one of its balconies. Another chill overtook me, making my teeth chatter until I firmly closed my mind to its call. My ability, it seemed, was coming back. At closer inspection, I could see that several of the windows were actually French doors that opened to balconies ornately enclosed in wrought iron balustrades. Even the cornices that secured them were of an intricately carved design. The house didn’t look like a hotel. It looked like a medieval home. The gray stone was dark but the tall billowing willow trees planted around three sides of it really gave the building an enchanting air.
I pulled back onto the road with a renewed sense of purpose. Yes, this was just the place I needed to be; the long delayed healing process could finally commence. I hoped. As I pulled off the road onto the resort’s short private drive, I was surprised I didn’t have to cross a moat to enter the grounds. It just had that sort of air about it. Instead, I passed through a massive wrought iron gate and stopped at a gate shack manned by a friendly uniformed guard. I gave him my name and he checked his clipboard, asked for a picture ID and then waved me through.
I pulled into the parking lot in front of the house and gratefully stepped out of the car. The salty sea air and cool breeze were most welcomed and I closed my eyes for a moment to enjoy it. Eager now to settle in, I headed for the heavy, ornate oak door, set deep within an archway. Despite its massiveness, it opened easily and I entered the spacious but cozy front lobby. My shoes clicked loudly over the dark marble floor as I crossed to the front desk. Tapestries of scenic fishing villages and large canvases of seascapes covered the walls. A large, beautifully crafted model clipper ship dominated the open area beside the reception counter. No one came to greet me and I looked around to see if maybe someone was watering the numerous potted plants scattered about. I saw no one. After an uncomfortable minute (the coldness was back and quite persistent at this point), I saw a small bell and a sign that said 'RING FOR SERVICE'. I rang. Almost immediately a woman–early forties maybe, very poised and casually classy–appeared with a smile. I could tell right away the smile was strained. Great.
“Can I help you?”
Wondering why she was upset and hoping it wasn’t anything that would inadvertently affect me, I smiled back. Maybe she, too, was aware of the coldness though it wasn’t atmospheric … the room itself was comfortably warm. This was a kind of cold that started from within and remained there, within the confines of the skin. “I have a reservation.”
The woman’s smile relaxed a bit as if the distraction of my presence was somehow easing whatever troubled her. “Mrs. Schafer? We’ve been expecting you. How was your drive up from New York?”
“Long and tiring, but blessedly uneventful,” meaning to me, that I saw no accidents involving drunk drivers along the way. At some point, I was going to have to deal with this bitterness. But not right now.
“I hope you enjoy your stay here.” She handed me a registration form that I immediately began to fill out. “May I ask how you heard about our resort?”
Was she an owner then or did the “our” just imply her association with the place as an employee? She was dressed too ni
cely and seemed too refined to be just an employee. “A friend of mine read an article about it in the Downeast magazine.”
The woman’s blue-green eyes widened and then became guarded. “The one from the April issue?”
“The very one.”
“Anything in particular about that article interest you?”
Her voice was too casual for the intense expression on her face. “Yes, all of it.” I wondered how much to divulge. After all, resort guests did not have to give their life story in order to become a guest. “My husband and my dog (I always felt a strong compulsion to include Tootsie when telling anyone my loss. Though my bereavement was stronger concerning my husband, I felt no less pain for losing her as well.) died two years ago. My therapist told me to get away for a while and so here I am.” Maybe that was too much in the way of personal information for an acquaintance of mere minutes. But it was said and I had nothing to hide.
The woman’s expression turned from guarded suspicion to concerned sympathy. “I’m so sorry. I hope your stay here will bring you some comfort.”
Tears prickled my eyes and I determinedly blinked them away. “Thank you.”
“You should find the Sea Shell Cottage very relaxing and comfortable. It is not far from the shore. You can hear the water crashing into the rocks all night long. Many of our past guests have found that to be quite soothing.” The woman held out a nicely manicured hand. “My name is Nancy by the way. Nancy McKeon. My husband Jack and I own Sea Willow Haven.”
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