Spider Lines

by Terry Trafton

“Thanks again,” he called, watching the car drive away into the trees that buffered Atwood House from the highway.

  Three steep dormers and three tall brick chimneys cut sharply into the purple sky. Evening shadows had already climbed high up on the front facade, muting the ornamental angular cuts of the cornices and corbels, and giving the impression that the dentils along the edge of the roof were dominos stacked in a long horizontal line. The last rays of sunlight lingered in the upstairs windows, while the bay windows on the main floor were flat, dull, and appeared more like those seen in black–and–white photographs of old houses. Suspicious eyes, the dormers stared down at him as he approached the house. Just for a moment, a dark shape was silhouetted in one window. When he looked again, there was only a gleam of pink sunlight.

  Ben closed the door behind him and heard the lock snap shut. He didn’t think more about what Jenna had said until later. After setting the folder on the mantel beside the Klassy Kleen business card, he went into the kitchen to make coffee. Footsteps in an empty house . . . that just wasn’t possible.

  Chapter 3

  It was chilly in the house and heat off the burner felt good. Unsure about the tap water, he used bottled water for coffee. Recalling what Jenna had said, he shrugged his shoulders, dismissing footsteps as nothing more than her imagination. Even though the house did have a kind of eeriness about it, there was no reason at all to believe occupants from another time still walked the wooden floors.

  Opening the folder that Jenna had given him, he was surprised to find several copies of newspaper articles dating as far back as 1905, and each had direct references to the Atwood property. There was no indication at all who had compiled these articles, or where Rikki had gotten them. Who would have taken so much time to locate them, and why? There were even pictures of the house taken several years after its construction in 1903. One picture showed a young woman standing on the back patio, looking at the lens of the camera. The photo appeared in a 1904 newspaper, The Boonville Enquirer, and though the resolution was grainy, the woman seemed to be standing in a beam of sunlight. and Ben thought her expression evocative, provocatively poignant.

  The focus on the house was most likely the photographer’s primary interest, but it was the slender shape that dominated the picture. Dressed in black and holding a lacy parasol, her face partially concealed by a sort of blusher veil, she wore a feathery hat tilted to one side. The eyes, however, were clearly visible through the gauzy veil, and they looked intently at Ben Manning—so it seemed to him. The entire countenance of the woman struck him as familiar; but that was a thought quickly dismissed with the realization that she belonged to a past century.

  William Atwood Dies in Motorcar Accident. Beneath this 1910 headline in the same newspaper were the details of a rather bazaar story of Atwood’s accident on a late summer night when he lost control of his car on State Road 66. There was an older passenger, James Alexander, with Atwood when the automobile went over the cliff into the Ohio River. Little information was given about Alexander, other than that he had worked for Atwood and was from Ferdinand, Indiana, visiting relatives in Newburgh at the time of the accident. There were mortuary photographs of both Atwood and Alexander that Ben considered offensive by contemporary journalistic standards—despite his doubt that propriety in journalistic standards prevailed at all.

  Until his untimely demise at age 42, William Gilbert Atwood had been president of the First National Bank of Newburgh, one of only a few local banks to survive the Great Depression. For several years after the Depression, the house remained occupied by Atwood’s young wife, Anna, until 1955, when a young military officer returning from the Korean War, bought the estate with the intention of turning it into a hotel. Before renovations began, two of three investors got cold feet and plans for the hotel fell through, leaving the house vacant for several more years. It wasn’t until the 1960s that a young physician, David Young and his family purchased Atwood House and renovated much of it. The house stayed in the Young family until it was sold to an eccentric businessman who intended to make it into a gambling casino. But the businessman eventually abandoned the idea when he was unable to secure the necessary zoning permits. At some point in this legacy of owners, the realty company had obtained the property and once again Atwood House remained vacant until Ben bought it.

  Unexpectedly, one story caught his eye. Apparently, there had been documented accounts of strange occurrences in Atwood House that began shortly after the Young family had purchased the property. The family frequently reported hearing footsteps, floorboards creaking, and doors opening and closing, especially late at night after they had gone to bed. The stately house soon took on the reputation of being haunted. No one really took it seriously, until one evening in June when ten-year-old Amanda Young was playing on the stone bridge near the house. She told her mother that a shadowy figure resembling a young woman in an old dress had passed her without saying a word.

  Several years later, a story in the Evansville Courier reported alleged sightings of apparitions in the foyer and parlor. Members of the Young family had frequently “observed ghosts” and were afraid their children might be harmed. One account of a young woman in a long black dress was so vividly recounted that it read like the description of a visiting relative. Ben considered these accounts imagination, resulting from living too long in a large house surrounded by dark woods. He put the folder on the desk and went to bed.

  Early Saturday morning, he cut and stacked nearly a cord of firewood. With cool evenings increasingly prevalent, he was already looking forward to the warmth of an evening fireplace. Anxious to engage Jenna’s cleaning services, he took the business card off the mantel, dialed one of the phone numbers printed there and waited for her to answer.

  “Klassy Kleen,” declared a cheery voice.

  “Jenna?”

  “This is Lacey. I’ll get Jenna for you.”

  Twenty seconds passed before Jenna answered the phone. “Hello.”

  “Ben Manning.”

  “Hi, Ben. How’s that great big house?”

  “Dirty . . . could you possibly work me into your schedule . . . soon?”

  “Lacey and I can begin today if you like.”

  “Terrific.”

  “See you in an hour—if that works for you.”

  “Works fine. Thanks, Jenna. The front door’s unlocked.”

  About an hour later when Jenna arrived, dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt, a red apron, and a ball cap, with her blonde hair funneled into a ponytail through the opening at the back, she had another younger girl with her. Both women had big smiles and as they walked toward the front porch, Ben gave a slight wave.

  “Glad you called,” Jenna said. “We had nothing at all scheduled for today. This is Lacey Laurens.”

  Lacey was a couple years younger than Jenna but didn’t have the same perky demeanor. She was just kind of there. Quiet, pretty in an old-fashioned sort of way, she nodded and forced a smile before returning to the SUV to get supplies. Her dark hair caught the morning sunlight as she walked away from them.

  “How do you want to lay this job out?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s certainly more than we can do in a day. Why don’t we start with the rooms on the main floor,” she suggested, “unless you want to do the house from the top down.”

  “The upstairs rooms can wait,” said Ben.

  “Any carpets that need cleaned?”

  “Just a lot of dirty wooden floors, and the few pieces of furniture can be pushed aside easily enough.”

  “It really is a beautiful house,” admitted Jenna. “I’ve been by it several times, but this is the first time I’ve been inside.” Then after a slight pause, she asked, “Are you going to put down carpet?”

  “I have oriental rugs for all the rooms, except the great room. Don’t know what I’ll do there yet. Floor’s good, so will probably leave it like it is.”
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  Standing in the doorway to the library, Jenna did a cursory survey of the large room. “What are you going to do, if you’ll excuse me for asking, with those awful drapes?”

  “Replace them,” he smiled. “They really are awful, aren’t they?”

  “Well they’ve definitely seen better times.”

  Lacey brought in everything they’d need to clean the main floor and seemed anxious to begin. “My God, this is a huge house,” she declared.

  Ben shrugged as he spoke. “I suppose I could always rent some of it out, but not until I’ve had a chance to enjoy it,” he joked.

  “Let’s get to it, Lace,” Jenna suggested, giving Manning the impression that the two women were quite comfortable together.

  “I can help if you want,” he told them.

  Jenna looked at him a moment before saying, “No, you’d just be in the way. If we need you, we’ll call.”

  “Then, I’ll be cutting firewood.”

  The morning passed uneventfully. Ben cut, split and stacked firewood. Jenna swept, mopped and waxed the hardwood floors in the parlor, library, and great room, while Lacey cleaned the three bathrooms on the main floor. As Jenna was finishing up in the library, something shiny caught her attention. On the floor near the fireplace was an ornate brooch, silver, octagonal, and embedded with what looked to be small diamonds. After looking at it for a minute or so, she dropped the brooch into her apron pocket and went on with her work.

  It was nearly five o’clock, and the sun was a sheet of orange draped over the branches of distant trees. When Ben came in, Jenna and Lacey were in the foyer. Both women stared at the stairway, which stopped at a large landing before splitting into two separate stairways leading to the upper rooms.

  Lacey’s expression struck Ben oddly. She pointed to something on the landing. Eyes narrowed, face blanched, her hand shook as she pointed. Her body was noticeably tense, rigid, as though her feet were fastened to the floorboards. She was clearly frightened by something . . . but what?

  “There’s someone there,” she declared anxiously. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she grabbed Jenna’s arm and shook it slightly. “This house is not what it seems.”

  “Psychic,” announced Jenna. “She sees things.”

  “You’re not serious,” replied Ben.

  “Look at her,” Jenna told him. “Does that look normal?”

  “What?” answered Manning, obviously confused by Lacey’s actions.

  “She looks scared out of her skin.”

  He looked at the staircase and landing. “There’s nothing there.”

  “There!” Lacey shouted, her shaky hand and arm gesturing emphatically, wildly. “There!” she repeated, eyes still focused on the landing.

  Again, he looked to where she was pointing, and again saw only stairs and the landing soaked in soft pink light that was coming in through the opening in the curtains. Eyes wide, complexion still paling, Lacey continued to point, while Jenna and Ben regarded each other curiously.

  “Do you see anything?” he asked Jenna.

  But before she could answer, Lacey whispered loud enough for both to hear, “There’s a woman in a long dress standing with both arms stretched out in front of her, as though she’s waiting to hold someone.”

  “Oh, my Lord,” blurted Jenna. “It’s her. It’s Anna Atwood.”

  Manning looked from one to the other for an explanation. “What’s going on here?”

  Lacey began coughing as her head rotated in slow circles. Ben expected her to go into convulsions at any moment. He glanced at Jenna who was now laughing uncontrollably.

  “Very convincing,” Jenna complimented.

  Lacey dropped her arms, and she, too, began to laugh, “Do you really think so?” she giggled.

  “We really had you going, didn’t we?” said Jenna. “She’s auditioning for a part in a community theater production. Tryouts are next week. We thought this might be a good opportunity for her.”

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” Lacey confessed apologetically.

  Ben was looking at the landing. He took a couple steps closer to the stairs. “My God, there really is someone there.”

  At first, both women seemed surprised, and looked at him suspiciously. Not smiling as he looked at them from the bottom of the stairs, he wanted them to know he was serious.

  In the silence that followed, they heard a perceptible creaking . . . and the sound of footsteps coming closer to where they were standing. Although the heavy velvet curtains were parted slightly, the trailing tints of the evening sun were nothing more than purple stains on the oak staircase. In the center of a strange white light that was becoming increasingly intense, was a distinct image, and that image was coming down the stairs toward them.

  More footsteps on the stairs. Then, before any of them could say another word, the walls began to shake. A door slammed shut somewhere deep inside the house. There was a tremendous gasp as though the house was exhaling. Whatever was happening was more than the spin of light and shadows . . . but was it more than progressive imagination? When the figure was only steps away from them, it suddenly became more indistinct, a vacillating shape about to vanish.

  “I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Jenna who was visibly shaken. “I saw it, but don’t believe it.”

  “There was something . . . someone there,” began Lacey . . . “on the stairs.”

  Ben shook his head. “There has to be a logical explanation.”

  “Good luck with that . . . but if you figure it out, tell me,” Jenna said. “I just watched a person vanish into thin air, and there wasn’t anything logical about it.”

  A peculiar calmness settled in the house, as each attempted to gather their thoughts about what had just happened. Lacey was the most distressed, but even she had regained composure before speaking again. “I feel like we’re being watched. Call it intuition if you want. But there is someone or something in this house watching us.”

  Late that same night, after Jenna and Lacey had left and the fire had burned low, he went outside to get more logs. That’s when he saw her. She was a distinct shape emerging out of the night and stopping near the stone bridge. For a moment, he thought it was Jenna Newland. Walking across the damp grass toward her, he suddenly hesitated, reluctant to take another step. There was something strange in the way the figure moved. With a full moon spreading its fire across the lawn, he pulled up his collar to keep out the cool night air. His shadow stretched in front of him as he came nearer the stone bridge.

  Not more than 20 feet away, Ben tried to distinguish the face, which was partially concealed behind a black lace veil. She wore no coat, only a sweater with several buttons that resembled pieces of icy starlight. The hem of her dress touched the grass as she stood completely still, regarding him carefully. The wind stopped blowing in the trees. A rush of cold damp air sent a shiver through him, and the rattling inside him could have been his bones clattering. Suddenly, an eerie silence took hold of the night, and the only sound was his heart banging against his chest.

  “Please, I must find it.” It was a fragile voice that reminded him of his mother’s crystal. Was she asking for his help—pleading for his help?

  Before he could speak, she turned away from him, and after a few steps, vanished. It was as if she had entered a hole in the night, a deep cavernous hole that swallowed her while he watched. The cold damp air warmed. Frogs croaked. Crickets chirped. Stars blazed against a black sky. Moonlight burned silver on the grass, and still, he stood motionless, watching, hoping she would return.

  After the fire had been replenished, he took up a sketch pad and began drawing the comely shape standing on the stairway, her arms stretched out in front of her. He left the face entirely without features. This was a preliminary drawing for the painting he would begin later that same night. He had recently stretched a new canvas, which was on the
easel in the study. His earlier intention to paint a landscape had now changed. It would be a portrait of a mysterious woman who had appeared on the stairs and who had only minutes ago stood in the moonlight—a shadowy enigmatic shape that had spoken to him.

  Chapter 4

  Dr. Adrian White was napping on the couch when the doorbell rang. Professor emeritus, internationally respected authority on the Einstein Rosen Bridge, White looked much younger than his 70 years. Unshaven, with his dark hair uncombed, he stood erect in the doorway, his light gray eyes looking curiously at Ben Manning.

  Once the two men were seated comfortably in White’s study, and with small talk out of the way, Ben felt his body relax. Adrian White, however, seemed a little apprehensive as he listened to Manning describe the mysterious figure he had seen appear and disappear, first on the stairway, and later, on the lawn—just a few nights ago.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Manning, but what you told me on the phone seems to me a pretty ordinary occurrence and not the mystery you seem to think it is. After all, people do come and go.”

  “But they don’t just vanish into thin air.”

  “You’re not a scientist are you?”

  “I’m an artist, mostly landscapes.”

  “We really are at opposite ends here. I deal with facts, while you deal primarily with imagination.”

  Dismissing White’s rather caustic remark, Ben asked seriously enough to keep the man’s attention, “Is time travel possible?”

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I’m fine thank you.”

  “You asked me that same question last night on the phone.”

  “Is it possible, at least theoretically?”

  “Yes.” Taking his glasses off, White ran thin pale fingers through his hair, stopping once to rub the gray sideburns, and then the corner of his right eye with a bent index finger. “Let’s back up a bit. When this happened, had you been drinking?”

  “Nothing at all.”