“She felt like what?”
“Maybe Mimi should be the one to tell you.”
“To tell me what? Why can’t you tell me?” He sounded disappointed, like she was keeping something from him that he had every right to know.
“She felt like she didn’t just fall.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She … she felt like someone or something pushed her.”
Carson looked away for a moment. “What did Eldora say?”
“Caroline didn’t like her being here. She didn’t stay long. She only went into one room—the parlor. She left after that.”
“And?”
Marielle shuddered slightly at the memory of Eldora standing as if in a trance, her head cocked in the pose of someone listening to something faint but present. “And it was creepy. She said she sensed a presence. Stronger than the last time she was here. Much stronger. Freaked me out, actually.”
Carson exhaled and shook his head. “What else did she say?”
“She wanted to go into the other rooms, but Caroline wasn’t going to let her and I certainly didn’t want her to. She wanted to go back to the places where she had sensed this presence before. The studio, the cellar, the garden. But lunch arrived, and Adelaide didn’t ask her to stay.”
Carson stroked his chin with his hand, thoughtful and silent.
“Do you think … Do you think Eldora knows what she’s talking about?” she said. “I mean, I’ve never believed anything like this could actually happen. Eldora said Holly Oak isn’t like other houses. Is that even possible?”
He turned his head to look at her. “I think Adelaide hit her head too hard, and I think Pearl made a mistake by bringing Eldora here. Caroline was right to ask her to leave.”
“But do you think it’s possible?”
“Do you?” His tone suggested he didn’t.
“I didn’t think I did.”
He took her hand in his and kissed it. “I’m sorry about this. I told you Adelaide had some quirky notions about the house, but I didn’t think she’d take it this far. You shouldn’t have to worry about any of this. I’ll talk to her.”
“To who?” The sense that she was betraying someone again pricked her. “Talk to who?”
He laughed gently. “To Mimi, of course. I’ll tell her to please keep her odd superstitions to herself. They’re upsetting you. I can see that they are.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t tell her that.”
“Why not? I really don’t want Eldora coming back here. This is my house too, and I don’t want her here.”
“But that’s just it, Carson. This isn’t our house. It’s Adelaide’s house. Right now, it’s just her house.”
He still held her hand, and she felt it tense in her palm.
“What do you want me to do?” he said.
Marielle felt the weight of the house’s history envelop her as she considered his question. Adelaide was not likely to change in the years left to her. She had lived a lifetime believing what she did about the house. It was up to them to lessen the weight if they could. She and Carson.
“Leave Adelaide be. I don’t think you can say anything that will make her feel differently about the house. But I think cleaning out the studio is a good place for us to start feeling differently about it.”
Carson closed his eyes and pressed his head to the back of the couch.
“Yeah. About that.”
“What?”
“I have to fly to Houston on Friday. I’ll be gone until Sunday night late. I can’t clean it out on Saturday. I’m sorry. We’ll have to do it another day.”
Disappointment settled over her. It surprised her how much.
“The following Saturday then?” she said.
“Sure.”
“I can help her clean it out this Saturday.” The voice from behind them was Caroline’s. Marielle and Carson both whipped their heads around to see her standing in the doorway. Marielle had no idea how long she had been standing there.
“What was that?” Carson said quickly, but Marielle could see by the look on his face that he had heard her.
Caroline moved farther into the room. “I said I can help her on Saturday. Marielle and I can clean out the studio.”
“Oh. No, that’s … that’s too much to ask of you, Caroline. It’s a mess in there. And I don’t mean just random art supplies.” Carson sounded alarmed.
“I’m sure I’ve lived in places in worse condition than the studio,” Caroline said. “You’d be surprised how many ways I know to kill a rat.”
“Yes, but there’s a lot of … stuff. You’ll need some muscle, I think. I’m afraid it would be too much for both of you,” Carson stood and faced Caroline, met her gaze eye to eye.
“I don’t think a few old art tables and crumbling shelves are a match for Marielle and me. I’ve seen what’s in there, Carson. We’ll be fine.”
Carson cocked his head in surprise. “You’ve seen the inside of the studio?”
“Yes, I have. Sara was my daughter. What’s left in there is all that is left of her for me. So, yes, I’ve been inside. And I know Marielle and I will be just fine, won’t we, Marielle? You’ve been inside it as well. You didn’t see anything in there the two of us couldn’t handle, did you?”
Marielle stood too. She took Carson’s hand. “I think we’ll be okay, Carson. Caroline and I can take care of it. And then it will be done.”
His hand was limp in hers but gradually he took hold of her palm. “You’re probably right.” He turned to her. “Sorry I won’t be there. It can’t be helped.”
“We’ll be fine,” Caroline said. “Now, I say we order Chinese. Who’s hungry?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
Carson was quiet but congenial the next two days. He seemed genuinely happy when Marielle said she wanted to call the children after they’d finished plates of szechwan beef and vegetable lo mein. And Friday morning, as he packed his suitcase for Texas, he kept apologizing for the lousy timing of a business trip that had the audacity to fall on a weekend. He lingered over breakfast and pulled her into his arms three times before he left, assuring her he would call her when he landed in Houston.
After he left, Marielle was keenly aware that the house was empty except for the three of them. Adelaide. Caroline. And herself. And yet the house didn’t seem empty. Quiet, yes. But definitely not empty. It was a queer sensation, as if the house was marveling at the turn of events that had ousted everyone but the women.
Saturday dawned misty and humid. Marielle dressed in old jeans and a faded T-shirt a decade old. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and took off her wedding ring. For a second she considered slipping it back on. But she turned from it, leaving it on her dresser where it would be safe from the dirt and debris in the studio. Then she went down the stairs, taking them quickly, her eyes on her sneakered feet.
It was early and the house was quiet. She wondered if Caroline would be up soon or if she would have to wait long for her. As she entered the kitchen, she saw that coffee had already been made and a cup sat in the sink. She touched it. Cold. Marielle moved to the door that led to the garden. Unlocked. She opened it, walked onto the patio, and looked toward the studio. Caroline was already there. Four large trash cans were placed at its entrance, one already full, and Caroline was tossing boxes out of the entrance as if she were in a great hurry. Or angry.
Marielle walked quickly across the patio stones. She reached the grassy knoll and began the gentle descent, the toes of her shoes quickly becoming moist from the dew on the grass. When she reached the studio steps, Caroline appeared at the entrance with an armful of curling magazines. She tossed them into one of the trash cans. Hurled them in. She nodded to Marielle and went back inside. Marielle followed her in. Clouds of dust swirled about Caroline’s ankles.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” Marielle said.
Caroline, breathless and already sweating, pushed away a lock of hair that had worked its
elf loose from her hair clip. “Why in God’s name were you waiting at all? How could you have lived here all these weeks with all of this in here?”
Caroline grabbed a wooden bolt of rotting twine. She heaved it outside. It landed on the stone steps and broke in two.
Marielle, stunned for a moment, found her voice. “I didn’t think it was my place to make demands, Caroline. Especially about this room.”
“Your place? You didn’t think it was your place? For Pete’s sake, you’re his wife!” She grabbed an armful of tiny gift boxes, gray with age and misuse. She tossed them into the nearest trash can.
“So you think I should’ve told him he can marry me when this room is cleaned up.”
“You got that right.” Caroline stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Did you really think you were doing him a favor by letting him keep this room like this?”
“I …” Marielle didn’t finish. She suddenly felt naive. Foolish.
“What is wrong with you people?” Caroline shook her head, her eyes narrowed in pitiable frustration. “It’s like the minute you step inside that house, you fall under its miserable, godforsaken spell and you start letting the dead—the dead!—tell you how to live your lives.”
Marielle shuddered. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve fallen for it, you have.” Caroline pressed her lips together. Emotion roiled across her face, and her eyes grew misty. “Just like all the rest. God, help us.”
Tears sprang to Marielle’s eyes as well, surprising her. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Caroline leaned back against Sara’s art table and raised a hand to her forehead. She rubbed the flesh there as if to rub something out. “And people wonder why I left.” She laughed without mirth. “People wonder why I went crazy. Good Lord, it’s this hell of a house. I thought it was me. But it’s this house.” She turned her head to look at Marielle. “And now you’re getting sucked into it just like I was. Just like we all were.”
Two tears slipped unchecked down Marielle’s face. It occurred to her in a random thought that she’d never realized that fear could make you cry.
And she was definitely afraid.
“Is this house haunted?” she whispered. “Am … am I not safe here?”
Caroline stared at her and then looked away and sighed. “No one is safe here.”
Marielle swallowed the lump of dread in her throat. “Is it … is it Susannah? Does she haunt this place? Is she going to try to hurt me?”
Caroline brought her gaze back to rest on Marielle. “Sweet Jesus,” Caroline murmured, incredulous. “Is that what you’re thinking? That this house is haunted by a ghost desperate to be absolved for her many sins? Is that it?”
“I … I don’t know,” Marielle stammered.
“You believe it all, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to believe!”
Caroline said nothing for a long moment. Then she grabbed Marielle’s arm. “Come with me.”
Caroline trudged up the hill toward the house with Marielle in tow. At the patio stones she grabbed a heavy garden shovel leaning against a small shed, then kept walking.
“Where are we going?” Marielle tried to wrench her arm away from Caroline, but the woman held her fast.
Caroline continued past the patio table, the french doors, the kitchen door, and turned toward the little door that led to Marielle’s office. But then she stopped. In front of them were the wooden cellar doors, locked and pitched at an angle that seemed to invite intrusion.
Caroline let go of her arm. “Stand back.”
“There’s a key in the garage—,” Marielle began, but Caroline raised the shovel even as she said it. She brought its strong metal head down on the hinged lock, sending a resounding whack across the stillness and the pieces of the hinge scattering.
She tossed the shovel clanking to the patio and lifted the doors wide. A yawning darkness appeared.
“Go get a flashlight,” Caroline commanded.
“I don’t want to,” Marielle whispered, childlike fear clutching at her voice. Eldora said she had sensed something in the cellar the time before. The Yankee soldiers buried there?
“Fine. If I break my neck trying to find the light switch, I don’t want gladiolas at my funeral. I hate those.” Caroline disappeared down the first couple of steps even as Marielle yelled a protest.
Seconds later, Marielle heard a click, and a sallow light emerged from the open cellar doors.
“Caroline?” Marielle bent down and peered into the gaping opening. She saw wooden stairs, an earthen floor, and shelves of dark boxes and dusty jars.
“Come down here, Marielle.”
“Please, Caroline. I don’t want to.” Her voice sounded juvenile in her ears. “Not until you tell me why,” she said with forced authority.
Caroline’s face appeared at the opening. Her features had softened. In her hand she held a key on a ring. Webs hung off the metal and dangled from Caroline’s fingers. “I need to show you something.”
“I don’t want to see where those soldiers are buried,” Marielle said, closing her eyes to the thought of traipsing across the bones of dead men.
Caroline said her name gently, and Marielle opened her eyes. “There are no Yankees buried down here.”
“But Adelaide said—”
“There were. A long time ago there were. But they were reburied ages ago, properly and in a cemetery, I promise you. There are no ghosts down here.”
Marielle hesitated and then crouched to her knees and dropped a foot onto the first step.
Part Four
THE CELLAR
arielle eased her body down the wooden steps, her sodden sneakers turning brown with subterranean dirt and dust. Remnants of an ancient handrail offered no support, so she took Caroline’s outstretched hand to make it safely down the last few steps.
A heavy dampness clung to the air, which smelled of age and darkness. The humid morning air that had followed her down whisked its way back out, unable to compete with the weighted chill inside the cellar. Utility shelves lined one wall, and two wooden benches lined another, blankets wrapped in plastic covering them. Carson had told her if there was a storm advisory when he was at work and she was instructed by the weather channels to take cover, she was to bring Adelaide and the children here. She shuddered now at the thought. Being inside the cellar was like being inside someone’s grave.
“Over here.”
Caroline had walked away from her and was now in another section of the cellar. Marielle followed the sound of her voice. Shelves of old Mason jars and garden decor sat along a wall of foundation stone. It was even cooler in this section. A large, metal trunk sat in the corner. It looked old. And its size seemed incongruous to the size of the room, as if the cellar had been built around it. Caroline was kneeling at it. She inserted the key into the lock and turned it.
“This trunk has been here since the house was built,” she said. “Everyone thinks it’s empty and that the key is missing. But it’s not. I found it.” She held it up. “A very long time ago.”
Marielle took a step forward. “Why does everyone think it’s empty?”
Caroline looked up at her. “It looks heavy. But it actually doesn’t weigh that much. It doesn’t make a sound when you rock it. It sounds empty.”
She opened the chest. On the underside of the lid, welded to the metal, was a mesh pocket about the size of a casserole pan. Caroline reached inside and withdrew a package wrapped in plastic sheeting. She looked up at Marielle.
“Susannah Page isn’t the person you think she is, Marielle. She wrote letters. A lot of letters.” Caroline began to unwrap the bundle. Marielle knelt to the floor next to her.
“Adelaide told me about these letters. She told me she gave them to you when you were a teenager. She thinks you threw them away or sold them for—”
“For drug money; yes, I know. She wanted to think that, so I let her. And I didn’t care. I brought them down here to h
ide them from her, actually, because I was mad at her and I wanted her to think they were gone for good. I had found the key in the old slaves’ quarters—what you call the studio. But that’s not what Susannah called it. I didn’t know the key belonged to this chest. I just decided to give it a try. When it worked, I found that I wasn’t the first person to decide to hide letters inside it. There were others already there.”
Caroline let the plastic fall away, revealing a length of dark cloth which she also unwrapped. In her hands were letters, yellow with age. Some were loose, and some were bound with a blue ribbon that now fell in pieces to the dirt floor.
Caroline held up the loose letters. “Susannah was very close to her cousin Eleanor Towsley in Maine. Susannah wrote to her often after her father died and she and her mother moved back here. Holly Oak was her mother’s childhood home. And the loss of Susannah’s father was devastating to her mother. She never quite recovered from it.” Caroline handed the loose letters to Marielle. “Those were all written between 1860 and the middle of 1862. After that Susannah couldn’t mail any more letters north because of the war. Eleanor kept these letters, long into her adult years. She didn’t keep any of Susannah’s letters written after the war, even though I’m sure there were others. They both lived into their eighties. Before Eleanor died, she asked that these be sent back to Susannah, which they were. My great-grandmother had them in her escritoire. My mother found them there after Annabel died. And when my father died, she gave them to me.”
Marielle fingered the delicate, aged paper and studied the flowing script and the ancient postmark. The letters felt warm to the touch despite where they had been slumbering. Marielle looked at the other stack in Caroline’s hands, the one that had been bound by the ribbon.
“What are those, then?” she asked.
Caroline stroked the top letter. Marielle could see that the envelope was different. No postmark. No address. Just one word. Eleanor.
“These are the letters to Eleanor she never sent. She wrote them but she never sent them. No one ever saw these letters. They were here in this trunk in that little hiding place when I opened it. They had been there a hundred years, Marielle.”
A Sound Among the Trees Page 17