by Steve Frech
In the grand scheme of things, I know it’s not a big deal. I wasn’t ogling her or being a creep. She is attractive, but for a second, I’m overwhelmed with guilt; like there’s a brick tied around my heart, pulling it down.
I take another glance at Caitlyn, who is still staring out the window. It’s a bigger deal for me than it is for her. As I turn to look back at the road, my eyes brush past the rearview mirror to see Nicole staring at me from the backseat.
I gasp.
My hand slips on the wheel.
For a terrifying instant, we drift into the opposite lane. I grip the wheel and pull us back, but I almost pull too hard, sending us off the road. I’m able to get us back in our lane and avoid any disasters.
The whole episode is over in seconds, but my teeth are on edge and adrenalin is coursing through my veins. The moment I’ve got control of the car, I check the rearview mirror. The back seat is empty.
“Dad?”
I keep my gaze on the mirror for a beat longer and then look at her. She’s more confused than scared.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Daddy’s hand slipped. It’s okay.”
She slowly turns back to the window.
That’s it. I have to sleep tonight. Something like that can’t happen again.
9
I may have overdone it on dinner.
A fully stocked kitchen after a few days of relying on pizza and Chinese food has filled me with zeal and I’ve gone all out—salads, steaks, and baked potatoes. Afterwards, Caitlyn and I hover just above a food coma as we play card games and talk about her first day of school tomorrow. I don’t want to let on, but I’m worried about how it will go. Caitlyn, however, is taking it in her stride.
By the time I get her tucked into bed, I’m an absolute zombie. I kiss her goodnight, switch on her night-light, close the door, and head for my bedroom to brush my teeth and change. Stepping out of the bathroom, I stop and stare at the bed.
It looks inviting. So, why doesn’t it feel inviting? Why am I dreading laying my head on the pillow? Why can’t I feel comfortable in this room? The answer is that I’m letting my grief over Nicole play tricks on me. This afternoon was proof of that. It’s just a bed. It’s just a room. I’m going to have to get used to it, eventually … but not tonight, because I need sleep, and tomorrow is a huge day.
In addition to Caitlyn’s first day of school, I’ve decided that it’s time to get to work on the novel. It’s time to try to get things as back-to-normal as possible. I couldn’t get any sleep in this room the past two nights, and look what almost happened today on the road. So, tonight, I’m heading straight to the couch, which is where I would probably end up anyway.
I gather my pillow and a blanket from the bed and head off down the hall.
I set up shop on the couch, making my own little bed and turn on the television.
That same movie channel is having another classic horror movie marathon. On the screen, Lon Chaney is wrestling with a wolf that’s biting him on the chest. Perfect. I’ve seen this film dozens of times and I’ll be asleep in no time …
*
… or so I thought.
Two hours later, and I’m drifting in and out, nodding off for a couple minutes at a time, here and there. My brain is swirling with different fears and worries that won’t let me sleep. I’m thinking about Caitlyn’s first day of school tomorrow. What is that going to be like? I’ve done this before with Nicole and, I feel horrible about this, now, but last year, after we waved goodbye to Caitlyn as she got on the bus, Nicole and I went back inside and ‘celebrated’. This is going to be a lot different.
And what about the book? I was excited when I made the decision to dive in tomorrow, but I’m having horrible anxiety about writing a sequel. My agent said that the second book is always the hardest. Everyone loved the first one. What if I can’t pull it off again? I’ve already got the outline and had complete confidence in it when I lay down on the couch. Now, not so much.
And then there are the nightmares. What if I have another nightmare where Caitlyn gets hurt? I can’t take seeing her broken body in the back seat of the car in that intersection or floating face down in the lake. I’d almost rather not get any sleep at all than see anything like that again.
And finally, there’s this nebulous dread; this feeling that I shouldn’t close my eyes, that I shouldn’t turn my back on this house, not even for an instant …
This movie isn’t really helping, either.
It’s some haunted house movie starring George C. Scott. There’s a woman holding a séance where she’s scribbling on paper. A ghost takes control of her hand and writes messages on the paper and, for God’s sake, what the hell am I doing? I need to sleep.
I grab the remote and jab the power button.
“I can’t sleep …”
I search the darkness around me. It had to have come from the television as I was turning it off; one last snippet of dialogue before the signal was lost.
I pull the blanket up to my chin and settle my head onto the pillow …
Thump.
I let it go. I barely heard it; it was so faint. It has to be the plumbing or something—
Thump.
…
Thump.
With a grunt, I throw off the blanket and turn on the light.
Thump.
It’s coming from the Writing Room. It’s the same noise I heard yesterday when I was unpacking.
Thump.
I get up and walk through the darkness to the Writing Room.
Thump.
It came from the bookcase, just like yesterday. I snap the light on and stand there, waiting.
Nothing.
“Oh, come on,” I whisper.
Thump.
There it is. I walk over and inspect every inch of the bookcase, waiting for the sound, again.
It has to be a rat that’s gotten into the wall or into the frame of the bookcase.
Great. Stelowski not only forgot to mention the leaky pipes, now he forgot to tell me about the rats?
Thump.
Shit. I’ve been mentally berating Stelowski and not paying attention. I can’t tell where in the bookcase it came from.
I creep over and sit at my desk, staring intently at the bookshelf.
“All right, you little bastard. Do that, again …”
June 10th, 1900
Three weeks have passed and the crowds that Father predicted still haven’t materialized. Day after day, I stand behind the counter and watch the wealthy people of Kingsbrook go by like they’re on parade. Father and Carol are constantly fighting. Before it was only about the pharmacy, but now, it’s the smallest of things. A cracked teacup in Carol’s china turned into a full-bore shouting match. The leaking kitchen tap caused them not to speak to one another for two days. When they are together at the pharmacy, it’s toxic.
But everything is not entirely terrible. I have had the most fascinating day.
We received a telegram at the pharmacy this afternoon. It was delivered by a courier shortly after we opened. It was from Mr. Carrington! He placed an order for some powders and tonics, but couldn’t be bothered to come into town, and wanted them delivered to the Nightingale House.
Father began hastily putting the order together.
I begged him to let me make the delivery. I was certain that Mr. Carrington had placed the order in the hopes that I would be the one to deliver it.
At first, Father said that was nonsense and that he would go.
I persisted and he asked why I was so eager. I told him that I’m stuck at the pharmacy all day, every day. I wanted to go out for a change. I told him I could take the bicycle and be there in twenty minutes. When he hesitated, I tried to appeal to his business sense. I told him that people know me as working at the pharmacy and that I could be a sort of advertisement. He’s been trying to be the face of the pharmacy and it wasn’t working, so I argued that he should let me try.
It worked!
As I passed beyond the limits of town and into the grassy fields on the way to Willow Lake, I wondered if Mrs. Carrington would be there. I really hoped that she wouldn’t. I also became aware of the sweat that was running down my back in the summer heat—very unladylike.
All was forgotten, though, when I saw the Nightingale House. It really is beautiful. It looked like it was lording over the lake and surrounding hills.
I stopped in the street at the beginning of the stone path that led to the front door. I rested the bike against the bushes, gathered the powders and tonics from the basket, and carried them to the porch. I had to awkwardly shift them to my right hand to pull the chain. The bell rang from somewhere inside.
“Come in,” a voice answered. His voice.
The interior of the house was gorgeous.
I made my way through the living room, which had high-backed chairs and a sofa arranged around the fireplace, and found him in the dining room, sitting at the table, gazing out at the lake. He looked at me and smiled. No. It wasn’t a smile. It was that vicious little smirk he wore at my party.
“I see my little plan worked,” he said.
I tried to hide my satisfaction at being proven right. He wanted to see me.
“I have the items you requested. Where would you like me to place them?”
“Over there is fine,” he said with a wave to the dustbin.
I wasn’t sure if he was serious, which he found amusing. He told me to put them on the table.
“How is the pharmacy business?” he asked.
I told him it was good and he scoffed, saying that his order probably doubled Father’s business.
“Your home is lovely,” I said.
“More so now that you’re here.”
So wicked!
I blushed and asked when Mrs. Carrington would return from Boston.
“In a few days. She’ll be back for the Fourth of July Celebration and then she’ll return to Boston. My mother-in-law’s health isn’t well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I guess I’m stuck here, all by myself. So lonely.”
I’m not versed in flirting or innuendo, but I felt I understood his meaning and found myself enjoying it.
“Would you like to see the house?” he asked.
“Very much so,” I told him.
He guided me through the kitchen, the living room, and dining room, which was fine but then he led me to his office. His desk was in the middle of the room and there was a large bookcase with wooden panels on the side against the wall by the door.
“This is my little sanctuary,” he said.
“It’s lovely.”
“Would you like to see a secret?”
I didn’t know what he meant, but the gleam in his eyes said that he wanted to show me.
“All right.”
He went around to the side of the bookcase and waved me over. He popped one of the wooden panels off the side to reveal a hidden compartment. Inside was a bottle of whiskey and the flask I had seen him drinking from at my party. He took it out and gently shook it at me. I could hear the liquid inside.
“Care for a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, but don’t let me stop you.”
“Of course not.” He smiled. He unscrewed the top and took a long sip.
It may have been none of my business, but my curiosity got the better of me.
“If I may ask, why do you hide your whiskey in there?”
“My wife doesn’t approve of me keeping liquor in the house.”
There was a trace of anger in his voice as he answered.
“Does she set the rules?” I asked, trying to be flirtatious.
“I’m afraid I may have pushed my luck in that regard once or twice,” he said, returning the flask to the hidden compartment and replacing the panel. “Come. Let me show you the rest.”
He led me out of the office and to the stairs. He made some pretense of not wanting me to lose my balance and offered his hand. I took it but when we reached the top, he didn’t let go. We walked right past the two rooms at the top of the stairs and went to the door at the end of the hall.
“This,” he said, “is my pride and joy.”
Believe me when I tell you, it was the most beautiful room I have ever seen. The walls were paneled in rich wood. There was a settee, a writing desk, an ornate dresser, and a massive bed. The room even had a fireplace. On the mantle above, there was a framed picture.
“What do you think?” he asked, still holding my hand.
“Well, at least you have a fireplace for those cold nights.”
He smiled that wicked smile and pressed my hand. “That’s not the warmth I seek.”
“Don’t you have a wife for that?”
He pressed my hand tighter and drew me a little closer and repeated. “That’s not the warmth I seek.”
I understand that I had tried to be flirtatious earlier, but standing there in his bedroom, just the two of us, I felt that we may have gone too far.
I told him that it was a lovely house but then I began to feel like a fool for putting an end to our fun.
He appeared disappointed and led me back downstairs.
He showed me to the front door and we stood on the porch.
“If there’s anything that you need, let us know and we’ll bring it straight away,” I said.
He took out his billfold and extracted a ten-dollar bill. He held it out to me.
I reached for the bill, but he pulled it back.
“On one condition,” he said. “Whenever I make an order, I want you, and only you, to deliver it.”
I was feeling flirtatious, again, and anxious to make up for my behavior upstairs.
“I think that can be arranged,” I said, giving him my own wicked little smile. In that moment, I remembered, and brushed my hair from my shoulders to reveal the silver butterfly necklace I had purchased with the money he gave me before. I could tell that all was forgiven when he extended his hand.
“Thank you for your business, Mr. Carrington,” I said, taking the money.
“Please, call me Thomas.”
“Well, thank you, Thomas.”
I deposited the money in my pocket and held out my hand to shake his. You’ll never believe what he did.
He gently took my hand and raised it to his lips. “My pleasure,” he said and then he kissed the back of my hand! All the while, he held me with his striking blue eyes.
I felt like my face would burst from smiling as I walked down the path to the bicycle and he went back inside. I stole a look back towards the house as I mounted the seat and saw him watching me from the window of the study.
Father was thrilled at the prospect of more business from Mr. Carrington, but I didn’t tell him about the money. Why should I? He was clear that it was for me. I may have to pay another visit to the jewelers.
It’s been a long, wonderful day.
Good night.
10
‘Will someone please turn off that beeping?’ I mentally plead as I slowly come into consciousness.
I try to move, but every joint in my body objects. I groan and lift my chin off my chest. My head weighs a ton.
Please, make the beeping stop.
I open my eyes. The bookcase fills my field of view.
Oh no.
I fell asleep in my office chair, waiting for that stupid sound. My back is in agony and there’s a wonde
rful spot of drool on my shirt. The beeping is coming from the living room. It’s the alarm on my phone.
Please, don’t tell me I’ve overslept! Not on Caitlyn’s first day of school. I’m going to have to drive her in, which will look great after meeting her teacher and her principal, yesterday.
I drag myself out of the chair and into the living room. I snatch my phone off the end table.
Thank God. I’ve only overslept by twenty minutes. It’s not the end of the world, but I need to wake up Caitlyn and get her ready.
I climb the stairs, trying to rub out the drool stain on my shirt.
As I stand outside her door, instead of her customary snoring, I hear her quietly talking.
“… Okay, now it’s my turn … What’s it like in there …? How cold …? Okay, your turn … No … No, I told you. I don’t know Rebecca …”
I’m tempted to sit here and listen because I want to know what she’s up to, but we need to get moving. I knock on the door and push it open.
“Caitlyn?”
She’s sitting at the vanity, in front of the mirror. She turns to me with startled eyes, like I’ve caught her red-handed, but I have no idea what she’s guilty of.
“Hey.” I look around the room. “Who you talking to?”
She continues to stare.
“You okay?” I ask through a stifled yawn.
“Yes.”
“Great. Let’s go. First day of school. I’m making pancakes.”
She shoots up, and runs past me into the hall. Her footsteps make a rapid-fire drumroll down the stairs.
There are dirty clothes hanging off the back of the chair of the vanity she just vacated.
“Caitlyn?” I call in exasperation, but she’s gone.
I walk over and collect the clothes from the chair. In the mirror, I can see the slightly open closet door on the other side of the room, directly behind me.
“Come on, Caitlyn,” I groan. “The basket is right in there.”
I carry the clothes halfway across the room and stop.
Hold on.
I turn, walk back to the vanity, and stand in front of the mirror.
I can still see the open closet door. I shouldn’t be able to, because I’m standing right in front of the mirror. There’s no reflection of me. It’s like I’m not here.