A Darker Shade

by Laura K. Curtis

  A gust of wind blew down the chimney, driving smoke past the heavy wrought-iron fireplace screen and into the room. My eyes watered and I choked, as did both Nathaniel and Liza.

  “I’d as soon not relive that night, thanks,” he said when the air cleared. “Let’s see what else she copied.”

  Another article lay beneath the first, and the headline blared such a gruesome message that I instinctively snatched it away to hide it from Liza.

  “What does it say?” she asked, pushing at my hand. “I want to see.”

  I shook my head and handed the paper over her head to Nathaniel. He glanced at it, then got up and walked over to the fireplace to read it. I feared he’d throw it in to protect his daughter, and from the desperate expression that tightened his features, he considered it. But at last he returned and laid the article face up on the coffee table where we could view the horror together.

  THAWING WILTON POND GIVES UP DEAD BODY.

  Chapter 23

  “It’s her,” I said. “It has to be.”

  “So now we know how she died, and where, but we still don’t know who she is.”

  “Actually, it doesn’t say how she died. Just that they found her in the pond. Where she’d obviously been since before it froze over the previous year.” The year before the fire. The year before the influenza epidemic.

  The article said that the woman’s body had been too badly decomposed for them to make an identification. No women had been reported missing within the past year in the community, so she was not local, which reduced any chance they would find her identity. An artist had attempted a pencil sketch to go with the report, but the broad-faced woman with long dark hair might have been anyone. I didn’t suppose for a minute that they’d had forensic sketch artists studying bodies in the 1930s, so the picture had probably been included to sensationalize the story and attract more eyes to the paper than to provide actual information about the victim.

  Liza curled into herself, making tiny mewling noises, and Nathaniel gathered her into his lap. “It’s okay, honey. It was all a long time ago.”

  “Do you think they skated on the pond back then?”

  My stomach flipped. I could picture it as clearly as she did. Liza’s grandmother and her family, which that winter would still have included a twin and an adopted older sister, teasing and laughing and skating atop the body of a murdered woman frozen beneath their feet. Currier and Ives gone horribly wrong. I tasted bile and for a moment was back in the pond, thick, scummy water filling my mouth.

  “She was gone,” I said as much to myself as to Liza. “It’s terrible to imagine, I know, but she was past caring.” Because someone had hanged her before they dumped her body in that pond to rot. I could feel the rope’s welt around my own neck as surely as it would have shown on hers had she been found before decay had set in.

  “What if she wasn’t? I mean, not dead, of course she was dead. But she’s still here. So what if she wasn’t past caring?”

  “Speculation on whether she cared or to aside, the important question is still who was she?” Nathaniel focused on the salient issue. “What connects her to this house? The article doesn’t have her name.”

  Liza leaned over to the coffee table and picked up the planchette, turning it over in her fingers.

  To forestall any more talk about calling spirits, I reached for the papers. “Let’s go through the rest of these and see whether there’s more about her.”

  We separated the stack of paper into three sections and each of us took a chunk. It only took about twenty minutes to find that none contained any information on the mysterious woman from the pond.

  “We’re so close,” I moaned. “We’re right there. We can’t give up now.” I picked up the binder and flipped through it. The pages were covered in tight, small, elegant handwriting.

  “My mother,” said Nathaniel.

  Here she had chronicled the family. She had used her own mother’s research to weave a narrative history from the bare facts. It started with the earliest American Wiltons, emigres from England who had landed at Plymouth and made their way north, then north again, to settle in Acadia, in lands brutally and bitterly contested between the French and British. They’d been traders, trappers, fishermen, and hunters, and she painted their world with a delicacy I hadn’t seen in her husband’s drier, academic tome.

  “That part doesn’t matter,” Nathaniel said.

  I pulled myself away. If we lived through this, I would go back to Linda Prescott’s work.

  I flipped forward to the end of the written pages to see how far Linda had gotten. The narrative only made it to the Civil War, but she had continued charts, graphs, and outlines right to the 1950s when her parents had married. The family tree and several of the other papers had notes saying “see photo box” and I asked Nathaniel if he had any idea what it meant.

  “We have a hell of a lot of pictures,” he said. “Mom’s childhood friend Patsy became a professional photographer. She stayed with us when it wasn’t wedding season, and took a ton of pictures. Mom has them all in boxes in the master bedroom. I keep telling her she should take them home, that we’re not going to look at them, but she and Dad don’t really want them, either. The thing is, they’re only the latest in probably three or four generations’ worth of photographs and she thinks they all need to be kept together. Like they’re going to be valuable someday or something.”

  “I like them,” said Liza. “Seeing those people in those cool old-fashioned clothes.”

  “I know you do.” He ruffled her hair. “That’s the only reason I haven’t thrown them out. Your mom liked them, too. She used to pin them up on a board as inspiration when she was painting.”

  “I want to see them,” I said. “Not the recent ones, but the ones from the 20s and 30s. Can we get them?”

  “We can try. I have to admit, I’m not exactly eager to go back upstairs.”

  My stomach rumbled, embarrassingly loud in the silent room and Nathaniel put down the papers he was holding.

  “These are useless. Let’s adjourn to the kitchen, have some lunch and regroup.”

  On the way out of the living room, I stopped and picked up the book on Canadian schools. Using a silicone potholder to protect my hand, I eased out the glass shard and scanned the first few pages. I was still reading, horrified, when Nathaniel placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of me and laid a hand on my shoulder. It was only when I looked up that I realized tears were dripping down my cheeks.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “These poor kids. I had no idea.”

  “It’s not where my grandmother’s sister came from, you said.”

  “No. And this is too late—the stories come from people who attended the school in the 1950s. But I can’t believe it would be so different at any of the other institutions. Your great aunt May must have lived through hell.”

  He shook his head. “Let’s not focus on that. You said May’s not our ghost.”

  “It all starts with May. Can’t you feel it?”

  “I saw her.” Liza’s statement came out of the blue.

  Nathaniel and I both stared at her.

  “You saw May?” he asked.

  “The woman. The day you fell off the ladder. I was in the sitting room on the third floor in the window seat and she was on the ground, looking up at me.”

  I shuddered and laced my fingers around the hot bowl, trying to warm myself. It didn’t help. “That day... Liza, did you hear me calling you?”

  “Calling me?”

  “I had been looking for you. Did you see me in the doorway? Before your father fell?”

  Her features screwed up into a thoughtful frown. “No. It was weird. Like everything else was out of focus except her. She was sharp and clear and she called me. And I heard her.”

  “What did she say?” Nathaniel’s harsh tone was born of fear, not criticism, but Liza flinched.

  She drew her knees up under her chin, folding herself in half on the c
hair. Her eyes filled with tears and she took several deep breaths, unable to answer.

  He knelt beside her seat and wrapped his arms around her. “Tell me, sweetheart.”

  “She said I should jump.” The words were a whisper, a mere thread of sound winding through the kitchen.

  My heart cracked and stopped. I struggled to breathe. I’d felt it that day, the danger Liza was in. I couldn’t have named it, but the clawing desperation that had driven me to reach her nearly swallowed me again right there at the kitchen table.

  Nathaniel’s breathing, fast and heavy, filled the kitchen, but Liza wasn’t done.

  “She said no one here needed me anymore, but that she did. She loved me. She wanted me. We’d be happy together.”

  “You know that’s not true, right? You know I need you.”

  She nodded. “Now I do. Because you’re here and she’s not. But I couldn’t feel it then. I just wanted my life to end. I wanted everything to be over. And she showed me...”

  “Showed you what, sweetheart?”

  Her dark eyes darted to me, then away. “You had other children. And you were happy.”

  “Other children?”

  Liza shut her mouth in a flat, firm line.

  But I understood her meaning, so I finished the thought for her. “With me. That’s what she tried with all the tutors you hired. That’s why they didn’t work out.” I steeled myself against the waves of loss that threatened. It was all a horrible joke. The ghost had manipulated my interactions with Nathaniel the same way Jennifer had manipulated my relationship with Matt.

  “I don’t know what she showed the first one, but clearly she wanted Aimee to seduce you. And if that failed, maybe Aimee could kill you. If she could convince Liza that you had fallen for them, she could have what she’s wanted all along—your daughter. Liza’s love for you is the only thing that stands between this thing and the completion of her dream. She wants Liza, and to get her, you have to be removed in a way that Liza won’t blame on her. She can’t kill you because Liza would never forgive that. But if you had a completely mundane accident? Or ran off with a new bride and forgot about her? Liza might be vulnerable to persuasion.”

  He was shaking now and I reached out and laid a hand on his arm. The muscle bunched and trembled beneath my fingers.

  “Who tries to convince a child that her father would be better off without her?”

  “Liza has to come to her willingly. Whatever drives her won’t be satisfied by snatching an unwilling victim.”

  “But it’s okay to lie and even murder to make her willing?”

  “It doesn’t have to make sense to you, only to her.”

  “We’re never going to figure this out.” He shook his head.

  “We are. Eat first and let’s go get those photographs.”

  We were in and out of the master bedroom and back in the living room with four boxes of photographs and two ancient albums covered with olive green fabric within minutes. Nathaniel and I lifted the coffee table out of the way, leaving the papers atop it, and all three of us settled on the floor in front of the fireplace.

  “What are you hoping to find?” he asked.

  “Anything. She’s here. Close.” I pulled the first photo album into my lap. There, on heavy black paper I found an oval photograph of the woman I’d seen in the schoolroom right before I passed out. The same wide-shouldered outfit. The same erect posture, pale skin and fine bones. Black spots flickered around the edges of my vision and dizziness assailed. How could I have seen her? This was not the woman from the sketch made from the remains.

  “My great-grandmother,” Nathaniel said. “Mom has that same bone structure.” He ruffled Liza’s hair. “So do you, actually.”

  “Really?” She peered at the photograph and I longed to hug her tight. I’d underestimated the depth of her solitude. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to let go of the ghost. “That’s my great-great-grandmother?”

  “It is.”

  “We’ll come back and look at it in a few minutes, okay? I’d like to get through this and see if we can find any pictures of May.” I hoped my voice didn’t sound as strangled to them as it did to me.

  The next few pages had more pictures of the woman, along with some of her husband. And then, at last, I found what I was looking for. The photographer had captured May kneeling at the edge of Wilton pond. Her long, black hair trailed into the water and tiny ripples echoed out from the ends. She was a beautiful girl, but her loneliness radiated from the page. Liza gasped, and I knew she felt that same oppressive emotion coming off the page.

  “That must have been right after they adopted her,” Nathaniel said. “She can’t be more than nine or ten.”

  “She’s so lonely,” Liza whispered.

  A few pages later, the twins appeared. Photographs became more frequent after that, with several crammed on each page. I flipped through hurriedly, slowing only for those pages that prominently featured May. Though she was often pictured caring for her younger sisters, she never lost that air of separation.

  And then, in the second book, came the funeral. Black cloaked figures huddled under a pale sky inside that tiny cemetery. I looked for May but did not see her among the mourners. It was Liza who figured out why.

  “May must have died first.” She pointed out the corner of one photo, where the stone cross was evident.

  Nathaniel frowned. “First by a long shot. They didn’t get that headstone in a week.”

  “It’s not engraved. Or if it was, the engraving’s worn off. So it wouldn’t have taken as long as a custom one.”

  Nathaniel nodded thoughtfully. “No. But if your daughter were ill with influenza, wouldn’t you focus on her instead of on the one you could do nothing for? Would you worry about a headstone at all, especially for a kid you weren’t planning on putting in your own family cemetery?”

  “Maybe that’s not May’s grave after all.” I was playing devil’s advocate. It was May’s grave. I knew it. I just didn’t want to consider the implications of it being there already.

  “It has to be. Look at this picture. She’s not there but my grandmother is. And they haven’t left empty spaces around Ellen’s grave. They didn’t think they’d need a spot for her sister. For either of her sisters.”

  The Ouija planchette flew up from the table where Liza had set it and ripped across the page, sending photographs flying. Invisible hands tore the album from my hands and flung it at the fire. It bounced off the screen, which wobbled before falling to the floor in a clatter. Once again air gusted down the chimney, puffing smoke into the room before sucking it out, creating a vacuum that stole breath and sound. In the impossible silence, soundless voices shrieked and spun. Clear as a church bell, I heard my mother's admonition: Maloney Jane, close the door!

  "I don't know how," I cried.

  The light went out and the room disappeared and I was outside, looking up at the house from the shelter of the woods.

  Close. So close. After all this time I was going to see her again. I screwed up my courage and dusted off my clothes, dirty from the long trip. I should wait until morning. It was only a few more hours. But I could not bear even another minute, so I left my bag beneath the sheltering oak, rubbed my hands to still the shivering—only partially from the cold—and approached the heavy wooden door.

  My knock echoed inside—Imagine having a house so loud a sound might echo—and shortly thereafter footsteps approached. A tall man opened the door and down his hawk-like nose at me.

  "Yes?"

  I straightened to my full height. "I have come for my daughter."

  "You have no child here," he said.

  "Little Fawn," I insisted, though this was not the name her white father called her, nor the name I had given her in my heart. But when the churchmen came for her, after her father had kicked us out, they promised to call her Fawn. That much was allowed.

  "Fawn!" I called. "Little Fawn, come to your mother!"

  But he was shouting, too, and an
other man came, and one of them hit me, and it was Fawn's father all over again, the hitting and the hurting, and though I fought I was near unconscious when when they dragged me over to the tree and laughed when they saw my bag and joked about my lack of power.

  They flung a rope over a branch, then, and as it tightened around my neck, I looked up at the house and saw you in the window. And I made you the same promise I had made when they took you from me so many years before: I am coming for you, heart of my heart, and I will never stop.

  "Molly!"

  A sharp pain whipped across my right cheek and I blinked. We were standing by the broken window and for a second the scene outside remained superimposed over the library. When my vision cleared, my knees buckled and Nathaniel caught me, an arm around my waist, before I could fall into the glass on the floor. Liza was weeping and she flung herself at me, practically knocking me over. I couldn't understand the words beneath her sobs.

  Chapter 24

  Nathaniel ushered both of us over to the sofa and Liza crawled into my lap. The trembling heat of her angular body against mine reminded me painfully of the times I’d held Ali in the forlorn days after Mama’s death.

  “It’s okay,” I assured her, my throat raw and achy as if I’d been screaming. “Liza, honey, it’s all right.” Was it? I was still processing the vision.

  She burrowed deeply into me and did not look up, so I addressed Nathaniel.

  “What happened?”

  His skin looked waxy, scarcely alive, and when he spoke, it was the sound of a creaky hinge. “It was like upstairs.”

  My hand went to my neck, where new bruises were forming over the old ones.

  Nathaniel reached for my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. “Don’t. It’s not good. How much do you remember?”

  “The planchette came up by itself. The photo album hit the fireplace and then…then…did you hear anything?”