The Fullness of Time--A Novel of Watervalley

by Jeff High

  I stood for a moment, gathering my wits. Then, I used my phone to find the hall light switches; more of the brass plates with the black on and off buttons. They didn’t work either. Perhaps that explained the flashlight. Then again, how was it that the lights were working in the room where Matthew was trapped? There were no immediate answers. From the hallway, I made a passing glimpse into the other rooms and then returned to the one of Matthew’s entrapment. Along the way, I realized something that my previous trepidation had not allowed.

  The interior of the old mansion was a work of splendor. All the walls and high ceilings were of dark, raised wood paneling. Heavy moldings, polished brass hardware, and brilliant light fixtures of cascading crystal. Matthew's room appeared to have been a library or study originally. Given the mahogany desk and the accompanying laptop, it appeared that he now used it for an office.

  I stood in the room's center, absorbing all the rich details. The outer wall had three massive and ornately trimmed windows that during the day probably afforded a commanding view of the town below. His desk was to the left and centered on the wall to my right was a grand fireplace bordered in granite and surrounded by an enormous and intricately carved wooden mantel. Fascinated, I drew closer. Left of the fireplace were floor to ceiling bookshelves that extended to the outer wall. Oddly, the wall to the right of the fireplace was wood paneled and flush with the front of the firebox, making for a peculiar offset to the otherwise square chamber. That aside, the furnishings were magnificent and yet strangely, the desk and bookshelves as well as the entire room, were straight and orderly; quite the contrast from the disheveled appearance of Matthew.

  At that moment, I noticed a message on my phone that had been there for some time. I had silenced it during the Christmas service and not changed it back. It was from Christine. “Where are you?”

  I quickly texted her back. “Small emergency. I’m fine. Explain later. Be there soon.” Christine knew that the life of a doctor had its interruptions. I hoped that for now, this would suffice.

  Seconds later I heard Matthew’s footfalls echoing up the broad marble stairs followed by a hardened click of an electric switch. The chandeliers of the wide hallway came to life, replacing the previous shadows with a warm, pleasing light. As he entered the study, he thanked me again. His manner was now more of light-hearted relief tempered with mild embarrassment.

  “Your children okay?”

  “Yes, fine. Thanks. Our bedrooms are on a wing of the first floor. They’re sound asleep. Apparently, they missed all the excitement.”

  I nodded, and a long silence followed. Matthew blew out a sigh of deliverance. "Man, I am really glad you saw the SOS. I didn't know what else to do." He smiled and regarded me sheepishly. "It's all rather embarrassing."

  “Not to worry. As far as embarrassing goes, I’m the guy who decided to walk into your house, at night, in the dark, uninvited. If I had been wrong about the SOS, that would have made front page news in a lot of ugly ways.”

  Matthew stood casually with his hands in his trouser pockets. “Well, thank heavens you saw it. I had left my cell phone downstairs. The distress signal was the only thing I could think of.”

  “So, I’m guessing you were in Boy Scouts?”

  At first, he hesitated, not understanding my question. "Oh, actually no. I was in the Navy for several years."

  This was a revelation. Matthew hadn't struck me as ex-military. But in reflection, I recalled that at the church, despite his cautious nature, he did carry himself with a kind of understated reserve. Nevertheless, the initial surprise on my face had been too obvious. Matthew's eyes tightened, and I could detect an almost amused grin forming at the corners of his mouth; a response that struck me as odd. Perhaps because of his modest size and bookish manner, he was accustomed to a certain level of disbelief about his military service. I felt awkward at being read so easily and feared that my stunned reaction was likely viewed as a kind of slight. I changed the subject.

  “What do you think happened with the lock?”

  “Absolutely no idea. The doors and lights of this house seem to have a mind of their own. How did you get in, anyway?”

  “The front door was unlocked.”

  Matthew stared at me, composed but mildly bewildered. “Well, I thought it was locked. But I guess I’m fortunate that it wasn’t.”

  “I noticed the lights are working now. I couldn’t get them to come on.”

  "The breaker box is in the utility room off the kitchen." Matthew paused and glanced at the floor before continuing. His response was hesitant as if he felt the need to choose his words carefully. "I checked it before coming back up. Half the breakers were tripped off." There was something elusive in his manner. My curiosity stirred.

  "Looks like that flashlight of yours came in handy." It was a baiting question. I said this noting that he had not returned with it.

  Again, Matthew looked away before responding. "Yes. The lights have gone off before, so I usually keep one up here. Earlier I had put the children to bed and needed to get online for a few minutes. I don't even remember shutting the office door. But when I was through with the computer and tried to leave, the door was locked."

  He folded his arms and exhaled, visibly perplexed. “Who knows...I seem to be in a fog these days. Perhaps I absent mindedly shut the door.”

  “But it was locked. Doesn’t that require a key?”

  He lifted his shoulders in resignation, signaling his mutual understanding of the unresolved details. "Yes. The lock is not spring loaded; it's geared. You must have a key to engage it, just like you did."

  “And I take it you don’t have a key?”

  "No, I don't. There's never been a key in the lock like the other doors. So, I've never really thought about needing one."

  My eyes tightened. I spoke slowly. “So, there’s no key but the door locked anyway?”

  “Apparently.”

  I stared at him deadpan, wordless. An involuntary tingling bristled down my neck. I wanted to hold tight to the rational high ground. But for this night, it looked like creepy was determined to have the upper hand. "Nice," I mumbled in resignation. "And just like that, we go from curiously odd to mildly terrifying."

  Matthew scratched his head and smiled. “I hear you.” He shrugged. “But then again, I was told that this place is full of, you know....”

  "Ghosts?" I blurted abruptly. The events of the evening had tidily disrupted my previous definitions of reality and left me with half-humored gregariousness. "I mean, hey...why not just say it? Ghosts, right?"

  The question hung between us, and I waited for a response that at first, did not come. Matthew's only acknowledgment was an affirming nod and a wary grin. The paranormal was a topic that he seemed to embrace passively. "So, I take it you don't give the supernatural much quarter?"

  I grinned and scratched my head. "I've always tended to reject anything ghostly as improbable, lest everyone think I was delusional and regard me with a wink and a nod. Although admittedly, several of my Watervalley experiences during the past eighteen months have somewhat altered that hardened viewpoint. But after the locking doors, the tripping breakers, and the personal performance I received earlier from the Poltergeist Glee Club, I'm considering making a full conversion."

  “Poltergeist Glee Club?”

  "Yeah, in the front yard right after I arrived. For several seconds there, I could have sworn I heard a whirlwind of singing voices circling me. Needless to say, it wigged me out a little."

  “Huh, interesting. The children have spoken of the same thing. I’ve yet to hear it.”

  “Does it frighten them?”

  “No, actually they describe it as rather warming and pleasant.”

  “Well, I must have heard the unplugged version. Because it scared the crap out of me.”

  Matthew had no response but just stared at me woodenly. I exhaled and spoke again. "Anyway, you might think I'm nuts, but I think this place has some non-paying guests."

&nb
sp; He grinned, seemingly amused. “You mean, like spirits.”

  “Ghosts, spirits, whatever. Is there a difference?”

  “Ghosts are more shifty-eyed.”

  I stared at him blankly, not understanding.

  "Sorry. That was a joke," he said sheepishly and looked away. Under his breath, he added, "and obviously not a very good one."

  “You seem a little more at ease with this subject than I am.”

  Matthew spoke with bemused resignation. "Well, I guess since you've seen me at my worst, I might as well fill you in." He nodded toward the door. "Come on; we'll talk on the way down." I followed him into the hallway.

  “I’ll admit,” he said, “things go bump in the night here, but they don’t have an ominous feel to them.”

  "Well, that's reassuring, sorta." I wasn't certain what to make of his assertion. "I mean, how do you know. Do they sign a lease agreement with rules attached?"

  Matthew smiled as he continued down the steps. “My initiation began in Charleston. A year and a half ago we moved into a huge old house south of Broad Street that had been in my wife Emily’s family for generations. Her grandmother had passed and left it to her. Emily was the only surviving heir.”

  “Hmm, her grandmother you say?”

  "Yes. Emily was an only child, and her parents had passed away before we met; boating accident the year she graduated from high school. She lived with her grandmother during the summers of her college years and grew to love the old Charleston place. We had a house north of town. But when Emily inherited the family estate, she insisted we move there. So, we did."

  “Okay. And?”

  “We heard voices and noises all the time. Every Tuesday after midnight there was a Ladies Bridge Club that met downstairs in the parlor.”

  By now we had made our way to the second floor. I stopped and turned to him. “You’re serious?”

  His response was spontaneous and unmistakably matter-of-fact. "Oh yeah. Quite a cutthroat old bunch, too. We'd hear them in the night, chatting it up, snapping at each other, and taking direct hits off a bottle of bourbon. There was a two second grace period to play your card before getting yelled at. I'm pretty sure punching was allowed."

  I grinned but still regarded him skeptically. We proceeded down the loops of the grand stairway, and undoubtedly, I was slightly dumbfounded at his casual regard of the subject. Yet, he didn't seem to be joking. I was about to inquire further, but by this time we had arrived at the large room where I had previously bumped around in the dark.

  Instantly, the conversation took a dramatic turn.

  Chapter 10

  SECRETS

  The room was spectacular, almost magical, and I stood there gawking in amazement. The grand hall was alight with a magnificent Christmas tree and incredible furnishings. Thick Persian rugs defined the tightly ordered sitting areas gilded with vintage antique furniture. The soaring wood-paneled walls were covered with original artworks of both oil and watercolor. Tall, stately glass-front hutches contained lighted displays of Waterford crystal and bone china. There was a permeating, almost intimidating feeling of old wealth far beyond anything I had known in Watervalley. Oddly, the large chamber had the well-appointed and lush feel of a grand and luxurious hotel lobby, similar to one I had visited in Chicago in years past.

  Perhaps the most amazing thing about the room was the balance and symmetry of the space to its belongings as if the furniture had been meticulously selected and placed rather than randomly relocated from Matthew's house in Charleston. I stood for a moment, absorbing everything. Collectively, it was singularly extraordinary.

  “Matthew, I’ve got to hand it to you. For a classics professor, you’ve got a rather sharp eye for decking a place out.”

  By now Matthew had regained the reserved and polite demeanor of our earlier encounter at the church. He grinned dismissively. “Yeah, well...I had some help with that.”

  “Really? Someone locally?” Oddly, my curiosity had caught him off guard. He hesitated.

  "I um, I had a service out of Nashville come set everything up." By small degrees, he seemed uncomfortable discussing the room's furnishings. He turned his attention toward the Christmas tree, seemingly to redirect the conversation. "In fact, another Nashville service did the tree, lights, and everything. No way I could have gotten that monster in here by myself."

  I smiled and nodded. This explained the series of trucks and workmen who had been seen in the previous weeks. Yet, all the while I was weighing my thoughts about Matthew. I had mistakenly equated reserve with timidity. Now I realized that his restrained manner was more likely a derivative of his military service. Aside from his somewhat disheveled dress code, there was about him a casual urbanity. This was a man who was quite comfortable amid expensive things. All this pointed to a confirmation of Mayor Hickman's assertion. Matthew was wealthy and, given the salary of a college professor, I suspected he had married into it.

  I stood with my hands in my pockets, slowly circling to admire the grandeur of the enormous room. Matthew waited politely, granting me this brief indulgence. That was until I became fixated on the painting above the mantle.

  The oil canvas was of a young and elegant woman in a sundress, standing in the brilliant light and lavish pastel flowers of a brick courtyard, quite clearly a Charleston setting. She was breathtaking.

  In her early thirties, the woman was tall and slender, well made with fine blue eyes and splendid blonde hair that was stylishly swept away from her face. Although polished and reserved in presentation, she was fresh and beautiful with delicate, perfectly balanced features. Her posture and bearing had a flowing, almost regal quality, full of the artful lure and glamour that normally adorned the cover of Town and Country. And yet, there was something in her smile that conveyed a feeling of warmth and humor, an approachable, almost girlish nature that was vulnerable, sensitive, whole-souled, engaging. I was immediately and completely enchanted.

  At first, neither of us spoke, and we were both conscious of the avoidance. Perhaps I should have turned away, moved along as it were. But the woman in the painting was so striking, so radiant, that she seemed to absorb all the light in the room. I found it impossible not to stare.

  In time, Matthew straightened his back, and his appearance projected a varnish of fortification. He exercised great economy in his words. “Yes. That was Emily.”

  “She was quite beautiful. I can see where the children get their handsome looks.”

  He spoke modestly. “I would agree. It certainly didn’t come from their father.”

  I smiled and turned to him. “Well, that’s not exactly what I meant.”

  Matthew grinned. But I could tell that his attempt at humor was to mask the deeper emotions of his heart. He stared at the portrait with a mind that was elsewhere, fathoms deep in an ocean of loss. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was reflecting upon Christmas Eve’s that should be but never would. One thing about Matthew was certain. His grief defined him. Perhaps all else could be understood from there.

  He gazed solemnly at the painting for a long moment before finally speaking. “She could occupy a lot of space in a man’s head.”

  Instinctively I stepped toward the portrait to view it more closely. But upon approaching the fireplace, I noticed an array of framed black and white pictures on the mantle. One of the prints was sepia-toned and caught my attention. Carefully, I picked it up. The photograph appeared to be of Society Hill Manor from an earlier time, freshly built with no landscaping. Standing on the front steps was a man in a suit. He was tall and lean with thick dark hair.

  “Is this the mansion?”

  At first, Matthew seemed reluctant to speak. His gaze tightened, and I sensed that he was talking himself through some inner argument. Then he pursed his lips and smiled warmly. “Yes. It is. It was taken in 1925.”

  “Well, that is incredible. Did you find it on the Internet somewhere?”

  Matthew pondered his answer. "No. Actually, we found it in the attic
of Emily's grandmothers' house in Charleston."

  I was dumbfounded. “Are you serious? How did it get there?”

  Just as before, Matthew was contemplative, slow to respond. But in time, he spoke with a soft, accommodating smile. "The answer is quite simple. The fellow in the photograph is Hiram Hatcher, the man who built Society Hill. He was Emily's great-grandfather."

  "Oh," I said lightly, straining not to reveal the full jolt of his statement. For some reason, I wanted to appear indifferent...to act as though I was above all the gossip and curiosity as to why Matthew had come to Watervalley. I returned the photograph and folded my arms, doing my best to seem detached. Still, it was difficult not to speak to the obvious.

  “Well, I guess that explains your interest in the old place.” But in truth, this information did the exact opposite. His disclosure generated a lengthy list of questions. I was hoping he would volunteer more. He didn’t.

  A long silence ensued, during which I felt oddly conspicuous. We exchanged an affirming nod, a mutual understanding that the time had come for me to go. As we walked to the entry hall, we traded telephone numbers; a wise precaution.

  Once again, he shook my hand in gratitude. “Luke, I can’t thank you enough.”

  "Sure. No problem." I wanted to make light of the whole affair. "I still feel a little funny about coming in unannounced. Good thing you're not the gun-toting-shoot-first kind of guy."

  An amused, faintly cunning smile emerged. Matthew spoke impassively. “Well, actually I have a fairly extensive gun collection. Perhaps I can show it to you some time.”

  I hid my surprise. Matthew was mild-mannered and taught classical languages. So, I had pictured him as more of the stamp collecting type or the kind of person who was the first to finish his science project in elementary school, not a gun enthusiast.

  "Sure, sounds good. Although I must admit, having worked at Vanderbilt's ER, I'm more familiar with gunshot wounds than I am with guns themselves."