Nightingale House

by Steve Frech

  “All right, all right,” she said, in a way that indicated I was no fun. “I only wanted to know how your ‘business’ was with ‘Thomas’.”

  “It’s fine,” I replied. “And there’s no point in lying about him to me. He told me what happened.”

  She appeared shocked and angry.

  “Told you what happened?”

  I nodded.

  “And what exactly did he say ‘happened’?”

  “That you tried to become overly familiar with him and that he turned you away.”

  Her shock and anger melted into a smile. “Oh. That’s what he told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Of course,” I answered, defiantly.

  She began to laugh. “I can assure you it was quite the opposite. It was at their last Fourth of July Celebration. The handsome lecher tried to corner me in his office. I laughed in his face and told him I wasn’t his nanny. It’s only out of respect for his wife that I haven’t told anyone.”

  I could feel my stomach sinking into the floor. I didn’t want to believe it.

  “You’re lying,” I said.

  “Believe what you like. It appears you already have.”

  “Why would Thomas lie to me?” I asked, trying to fight back tears.

  “Yes,” she said, mockingly. “Why would he lie?”

  She knew as plainly as if I had told her.

  I was stunned, mortified, but deep down, I knew she was right. I had suspected it as soon as I left the Nightingale House.

  She shook her head in pity.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to your work and your little ‘bliss’,” she said with a nod to the necklace.

  She turned and walked out of the pharmacy.

  Thankfully, there were no other customers, because I spent the rest of the day weeping in the storeroom.

  I’m such a fool. Such an idiot.

  After closing the pharmacy, I came home and locked myself in my room.

  I never want to leave.

  23

  I watch through the windshield of the parked car as the sun begins to rise above the hills surrounding Kingsbrook. Caitlyn is sleeping across the back seat.

  Once I regained my senses in the basement, I ran upstairs to Caitlyn’s room to find her sitting up in her bed.

  “Get your things,” I said. “We’re going for a drive.”

  In the five minutes it took to pack up some of her things, the house remained still. I stayed by Caitlyn’s side the entire time. When she was done, I picked up her duffel bag, took her hand, and led her out into the hall and down the stairs. I didn’t bother turning off the lights. I wasn’t going to let the shadows anywhere near us.

  Caitlyn didn’t say a word. She was resigned to my decision and didn’t protest but stopped at the door.

  “Wait! I forgot my medallion! It’s by my bed.” She went to go back upstairs but I gently, but firmly, grabbed her wrist, and led her out the door.

  “We’re not going back into this house for a while, okay?”

  “But I—”

  “Go to the car, please.”

  It was more of a command than a request.

  He shoulders sagged, but she obeyed.

  Ironically, she had reminded me of Nicole’s ring, which was still sitting on the dining-room table. I almost went in to grab it. I started to go through the door, but was stopped by what sounded like a little girl crying at the top of the stairs.

  I turned around, walked out, and shut the door behind me.

  *

  It was late, and I could have gotten us a hotel, but for some reason, I felt safer being on the move in the car. It had followed Caitlyn to school. I worried that it might find us if we stopped, so I kept driving.

  As we aimlessly drove around Kingsbrook, I tried to get her to talk.

  “Caitlyn, you have to tell me what happened to Katherine.”

  “I told you, and you didn’t believe me.”

  “I know, pumpkin, and I’m sorry, but I need to know, right now.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbled.

  “Caitlyn, please.”

  She looked at the back seat. “Can I lie down?”

  I couldn’t put her through any more. Not tonight. “Okay.”

  She clumsily climbed to the back seat and lay down. She was out in no time.

  I continued driving around Kingsbrook. I drove through the town square, past La Piazza, where only forty-eight hours ago, Denise and I had had a wonderful dinner. God, only forty-eight hours ago?

  At last, I decided that I had to pull over. I wasn’t tired but I worried that I wouldn’t know I was tired until I smashed the car into a tree.

  I found an overlook in the surrounding hills, parked, and now I’m watching the sun come up. Most of the buildings and homes in Kingsbrook are silent shadows, but some of the lights in the windows are starting to come to life.

  To the sound of Caitlyn’s snoring, I try to think of what comes next.

  One thing is certain; she is never going back in that house. Ever.

  *

  The sun finally clears the cedars, oaks, and pines.

  I know what I’m going to do. I’ve just been waiting to call until I was certain that she would be up.

  She answers on the third ring.

  “Daniel!” Mildred sings into the other end of the phone. “You’re up early. Want to grab some coffee on the porch? I’ve got a new blend from that shop on the square—”

  “Mildred, I need your help.”

  *

  An hour later, we pull into Mildred’s driveway. Caitlyn stares at the Nightingale House and gives me a look of panic. I reassuringly shake my head.

  Mildred’s waiting on her porch. She forces a smile as we walk up.

  “Hi, sweetie,” she says, gently stroking Caitlyn’s hair.

  “Hi, Mildred,” Caitlyn yawns.

  “Let me take your things.”

  Caitlyn hands off her duffel bag and Mildred carries it inside.

  I crouch down to Caitlyn. “It’s only for a little bit, okay?”

  She nods.

  “I want you to be really nice for Mildred and if you need anything, you call me.”

  She nods again and rubs her eyes.

  I hug her tightly. “I love you, pumpkin.”

  She hugs me and whispers in my ear. “Don’t go back in there.”

  Mildred steps back onto the porch.

  “Everything’s ready for you, Caitlyn.”

  Caitlyn lets go of me and goes inside.

  With Caitlyn gone, Mildred’s demeanor goes from warm and welcoming to concerned.

  “I called the school and told them Caitlyn’s sick and won’t be in today.”

  “Daniel, what’s going on?”

  “There’s … It’s something with the house. I need a few days to sort it out.”

  “What? Like a gas leak or something?”

  “… Yeah.”

  She cocks her head in disapproval at me.

  “You know, for an author, you’re a terrible liar.”

  “It’s only for a few days.”

  “She can stay here as long as she needs … and so can you.”

  “Thanks. I may take you up on that.”

  “But you’re not going to, are you?”

  “We’ll see.”

  She throws up her hands in disgust. “Fine. You do what you have to. Don’t worry about Caitlyn. I’m going to make that girl some pancakes.” She turns to go inside but stops. “Be careful, Daniel.”

  “I will.”

  She shakes her head one last time and goes inside.

  24

  I should go. I know I should simply take Caitlyn and go someplace else. We’ll stay at a motel until we find a new home. I’ll sell the Nightingale House and never set foot in it again.

  But I can’t do that.

  I can’t just leave because of what Caitlyn said—that sometimes, Katherine can hear Nicole.


  She also said that Katherine can’t leave because of her dad.

  I’ve seen Nicole in there and I chalked it up to grief and fatigue, but now?

  What if Nicole’s in there? What if we leave and Nicole is trapped? Caitlyn said that Thomas Carrington won’t let Katherine leave. What about Nicole?

  I can’t leave without knowing. It’ll forever be on my mind if we walk away now. Caitlyn is never going back in there. That’s done, but I have to know.

  But how? How do you do that?

  There’s two ways that I’ve heard of … and they’re not from the most reputable of sources.

  *

  The plastic bag containing my purchases hangs from my hand as I walk into the Nightingale House.

  It’s mid-afternoon and, ironically, the house feels warm and welcoming. Golden sunlight streams through the windows and birds are singing outside. It’s just as beautiful as it was the day Nicole and I visited for the first time, but I know better.

  I’m not sure where I should go. Stuff’s been happening all over the house, but I don’t want to go in the basement, Caitlyn’s room, or mine for that matter. This probably isn’t going to work, but if it does, whatever is here can make the trip down the stairs, or up from the basement to talk to me.

  I sit on the couch and withdraw the first of my purchases from the bag: a Ouija board. The receipt comes out with it. It feels ridiculous to remove the thin plastic wrapping. I also feel stupid looking at the toy company logo on the box. I take off the lid and set it off to the side, along with the instructions. Who doesn’t know how this works? I place the board on the coffee table in front of me and remove the plastic heart with the clear plastic hole. I quickly consult the instructions and discover it’s called a ‘planchette’. I place it on the board and lightly rest my fingertips on its edge. I’ve heard you’re not supposed to do this alone, but I’m not asking anyone else to do this with me.

  Deep breath. Here we go.

  “Ummm … hello?”

  I wait, my fingertips barely touching the planchette.

  There’s no movement.

  “Is anyone here?”

  The plastic heart remains motionless.

  I can’t believe I’m about to ask this …

  “Nicole, are you here?”

  I almost want it to move. I want it to slide over to the word ‘NO’ on the board and spell out ‘NICOLE IS NOT HERE’. Then, I’ll head out the door and never look back.

  Instead, the planchette stays right in the middle of the board.

  Thank God Caitlyn’s not here to see this.

  “Katherine? Are you here?”

  I wait … My arms are getting tired.

  I keep trying to come up with different versions of the same question over and over, again.

  “Will someone speak to me?”

  “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

  “Who is here in this house?”

  “What is it that you want?”

  The only time the planchette moves is when I’m startled by the sound of the motor in the fridge kicking on in the kitchen.

  *

  An hour later, and the planchette still hasn’t moved under my fingers. How shocking that something I learned from the movies is wrong. I finally take my fingers off the planchette and put it and the board back into the box. When I walked into this house, I was terrified. Now, I’m tired and bored.

  Time for Plan B.

  From the bag, I take out the large sketchpad and pencil. I rip out a couple pages and stack them on top of the pad in my lap.

  I’m going to try that ‘spirit writing’ thing I saw in that George C. Scott movie.

  Am I going to have more luck than with the Ouija board? Of course not, but I feel like this is more my style. When I’m writing some of my best stuff, I feel like I’m in a trance and the writing is coming from somewhere else. It sounds strange, I know, but I’m willing to give it a shot.

  I take the pencil in my right hand and touch it to the paper. I start making scribbles and long loops. There’s no pattern, no rhyme or reason to it. I try to let my mind wander. Wait, or should I concentrate? No. I think it’s wander. Just relax. I close my eyes and allow my hand to roam across the large sheet of paper. I don’t know how long I’m supposed to allow this to go on. From time to time, I’ll catch myself intentionally drawing loops and then have to tell myself not to plan or attempt to force anything. The pencil continues to hiss across the paper.

  I finally open my eyes.

  The paper is covered in scribbles, swirls, and loops. The side of my hand is coated in graphite. Tossing the paper aside, I start again on a clean sheet. Deep breaths. I let my hand flow. Closing my eyes might be a bad idea. I can’t tell if I’m becoming ultra-zen-like or if I’m falling asleep.

  Without opening my eyes, I swipe the second scribbled-covered sheet of paper from the top and start on the next one. The sound of the pencil moving across the paper and the flowing movement is hypnotic. I try visualizing the room while keeping my eyes closed.

  I twitch.

  Not because some spirit has seized hold of me, but because for a brief second, I did fall asleep. Can’t do that again. The last thing I want is to fall asleep on this couch in this house, alone.

  I open my eyes just a bit, but I can’t open them more than that, even though I’m trying really hard. This feels weird and my eyes refuse to open further. The pencil is still moving but it’s miles away. It suddenly feels like I’m locked inside my own body, that I’m being shut out from my own senses.

  I’m panicked but I’m not.

  The room is different.

  It’s the living room of the Nightingale House but there are lamps mounted to the wall. The couch is firmer. It’s not a couch. It’s a chair with a straight, high back. All the furniture is different. This isn’t my living room.

  It is my living room.

  It’s my living room. My chair. My house.

  I can see the paper in my lap, gleaming, white, pristine. The pencil is in my hand. The point is so sharp.

  A thought fills my mind with a pleasant warmth.

  What fun it would be to shove the pencil through my eye.

  It’s the answer to all of this—my daughter, this man in my house and his child. It will all go away.

  I lift the pencil from the page. It’s incredibly heavy because part of me doesn’t want to do it, is fighting against me, but it would solve everything, for both of us. He would never find her. His child would be taken away and he would be out of his misery. It would all be over. Just a quick press, puncturing the eyeball, through the socket, and into the brain.

  I turn the pencil and grip it so that the sharpened end is pointed at my face.

  Why am I struggling? It’s perfectly natural.

  I slowly pull the pencil towards me. It’s as though my arm is trying not to stop me. I know he is fighting but I keep on pulling it towards me. The point inches closer to my eye.

  I try to calm the voice that is screaming in my head to stop. It sounds like me, but it isn’t.

  The point of the pencil is so close, I can’t focus on it. All this voice has to do is give up. This is what it wants. I know this is what it wants. That’s why he has that box upstairs in his dresser, just as I did.

  Closer … closer …

  Just let go. Let go and you can be in this house forever.

  I smile as the tip of the pencil touches my eyeball.

  One last speck of pressure should do it.

  The woman is there, standing before me, filled with a white-hot light. Her eyes are brimming with rage.

  “Stop it,” she says.

  No. Only one more inch. One more.

  “Let him go!”

  Almost … almost …

  “Let him go, now!”

  She flies at us.

  I sit back and gasp.

  I feel repulsive, like I’m covered in filth. I’m pouring sweat but I’m freezing. Every muscle is shaking.


  I glance around. I’m in the living room of the Nightingale House, the Nightingale House I know. The pencil is still clutched in my hand, the point turned upwards towards my face. I’m gripping it so hard that it snaps in two.

  I don’t know if what just happened was real or if I fell asleep, but I’ve written something.

  Among the angry scratches and looping swirls, two words stand out:

  August 8th, 1900

  This will be the hardest entry to write. I am completely lost.

  Things are so much worse for Father than I had imagined. There is still no word from Carol. His drinking is getting worse. And now, vendors are beginning to send us notices of bills that are past due.

  This morning I woke up and went to check on Father. He was in bed, snoring loudly, and there was a bottle on the nightstand. I went to wake him, and the smell of alcohol was overwhelming. He told me he didn’t feel well and that I would have to work by myself, again.

  I didn’t argue with him. It wouldn’t have done any good.

  I set off for the pharmacy and arrived to find more past due notices.

  A little past noon, a man walked into the pharmacy. He was tall with broad shoulders, and a bald head. He casually surveyed the shelves.

  “Can I help you find anything?” I asked.

  “Is Mr. Harker here?”

  The tone with which he asked about Father worried me.

  “No, he’s not,” I replied.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No,” I lied, knowing he was probably at home, passed out drunk in bed.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “No.”

  He eyed me for a moment. I don’t know if he knew I was lying, or if he was trying to intimidate me, or both.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Susan,” I said, not wanting him to know that I was his daughter.

  “Well, Susan, you don’t seem to know much about your employer.”

  I was too afraid to speak.

  “When he does come back, can you give him a message?”

  I tried to nod without letting the rest of my body tremble.

  “Tell him Mr. Lloyd dropped by to discuss his delinquent accounts. Can you do that for me?”

  I nodded again.

  “Thank you.” He gave one last appraising stare. “Good day.”