But it was the light shining along the ground, a light that never went high into the trees, that held his attention. Someone was searching for a pathway in or out of the woods and seemed to have difficulty keeping the light steady. At times, the long beam cast a large circle on the lawn, a crisp white circle that did not move for seconds at a time. When it did move, it was to a place not more than ten feet away from where he had last seen it. This movement happened four or five more times before the light turned back into the woods and finally disappeared. Someone was searching for something on the ground, but what? More importantly, who was in the woods?
Before going inside, he walked around to the front of the house, the wet ground soft with each footstep. Looking out across the lawn to the tower, as it was now being called, he remembered the unusual event that had occurred there. The bridge glinted blue-white in the dull moonlight, its shape nearly indistinct against the tall trees behind it. How much longer they would leave the strange anomaly standing, he couldn’t say, probably until Drs. White and Raymond had done enough with it to understand what it was or wasn’t, and that could certainly take significantly more time. If it hadn’t been for the strange thing that happened to him that night with Jenna just a few yards away, it might just as well be a piece of abstract yard art. Even though it had done little more than exist, Ben sensed something evil about it, and would be glad when the strange thing was gone.
The fire felt good. He was tired and stretched out in his favorite recliner to watch the hypnotic flames as they sparked high up in the fireplace. Despite the odd occurrences, Ben was beginning to feel comfortable living in Atwood House. Even alone, he felt the house to be a special place far enough away from the busy streets of the city, and to some extent, insulated from the politically correct dictates that society had become. Here was refuge, and Ben Manning felt sure the house, in its own way, was happy to have someone living in it again. He couldn’t say how he knew that—just that it was something he felt deeply.
It was a quiet house, no dripping faucets, no squeaks or groans. Even the occasional sound of a whiney floorboard was all but silenced beneath the heavy oriental rugs, which covered the floors of many rooms. Music brought Atwood House to life, and those silences that were often disconcerting vanished in the concertos of Mozart and Vivaldi.
It was not just the music that brought inspiration, but maybe even more, the overall atmosphere of Atwood House. Each room had been lived in by people whose lives were in some ways connected now to Ben’s own life. There had been parties inside these walls. People had spoken of other times that Manning could only read about. Those times had been lived out in each of these rooms. If anything, it was the high ceilings that he loved most. That kind of space was rare in most contemporary houses.
The unfinished painting was still on the easel and covered with an old bed sheet. As the fire crackled, Ben removed the cloth and regarded the portrait with new interest. What if he put in Jenna’s face? No, that wouldn’t work he decided. This face was from a time and place that did not belong to Jenna Newland.
A few minutes passed before he noticed it. After a closer look, and even in the firelight, he saw it clearly, and knew at once he had not painted it there. But there it was, an exact image of the brooch Jenna had found by the fireplace. Then again, maybe he had painted it and had just forgotten he did it. That had to be the case.
No, he remembered leaving the blouse loose at the neck until he could decide how to finish it. A brooch or necklace had been considerations, but he was sure he had left the blouse open. Jenna! Only recently, she had suggested how right the brooch would look. No, Jenna could paint a wall, but this was done carefully, with artistic skill. Jenna didn’t paint it.
Immediately, he was conscious of someone else in the room. He felt his body tighten as he turned around to face her. “Anna?” he whispered.
“Yes,” replied an airy voice from the shadows at the back of the room.
“This cannot be happening.”
“There are things you do not understand,” said the woman gently.
“This is sure one of them.”
“There is no reason to be afraid, Ben Manning.”
“You know my name?”
“I have heard it spoken in this house.”
There was a soft rustle as she moved closer to him. Trying to separate her from the shadows, his heart pounding, he thought he could no longer keep his phony composure and might collapse at any moment. “Who are you?”
“You have just spoken my name.”
“But how? I mean how can you be standing here talking to me like someone who just came in off the lawn?”
“It is too soon for that,” she told him. “Do you have the brooch?” she asked.
“It was you who painted it there?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted you to see where it belongs.”
“Then it is your portrait I’m painting?”
“It is,” she replied. “It is a portrait of what I was in this house.”
Ben wanted to step nearer for a better look at the woman, but hesitated. She was taller than he expected, or was she hovering in the air? At present, he could not be sure of anything, except that he was talking to a young woman he could not see clearly—and she was talking back.
“Do you have the brooch?” she asked again.
“Yes.”
“It was a gift from my husband before he died.”
“This is too preposterous to believe. If you are who you say, then I’m talking with someone who lived more than a century ago. That’s not possible.”
A long white hand came out of the shadows toward him. He instantly saw the ring that matched the brooch closely. Her hand was just a few feet from him, and for a moment he thought about reaching out to take it in his own. Was she offering it to him, or did she want him to see the ring?
Behind her was a very faint glow, almost imperceptible at first, but unmistakably there. Slowly the hand and arm receded, but not before he saw a green flash from the ring. A slender shadow, blacker than night, was cut sharply against a burst of white light so intense it caused him to look away. It only lasted a few seconds, and when he looked again, the light and the woman were gone.
Chapter 16
“I’m telling you, Jenna,” began Ben with Jenna standing next to him, “she was really here. Her hand reached out to me. As crazy as it seems, I talked to her.”
Shaking her head slightly, Jenna looked closely at him before speaking. “I don’t know what to say. You’re sure you weren’t dreaming? You’ve been noticeably obsessed with the woman in the painting.”
“It all happened just the way I told you. She spoke to me. I heard every word clearly. It was an experience as real as you talking to me now.”
“Where’s the brooch?” Jenna asked.
“Bergman has it in his safe. I asked him to keep it for me until I decide if I want to sell it.”
“Get it back. Give it to her. Maybe then this craziness will end.”
“We’re talking about 30,000 dollars.”
“Wow, that is a lot of money.”
“What if this entire thing is a clever scam, a setup?” After a pause he asked, “How well do you know Lacey?”
“Ben, you don’t expect me to believe . . . ”
“It could be an elaborate setup is all I’m suggesting.”
“Why? Who would go to all the trouble of spooking this house, and all the rest of it? It would be an impossible thing to pull off, and you know it.”
“I don’t know. I just think what’s going on here has a rational explanation and has nothing to do with the paranormal.”
“I saw her Ben—remember? And I don’t care what you say, there is something freaky about this house. It’s much more than it seems—more than just an old house.” After pausing, she asked, “Y
ou said she just disappeared?”
“There was something behind her, a flash of light across the wall. It all happened so fast.”
Jenna took his hand in hers as she spoke, “It might take time, Ben, but with Liz and Adrian helping, we will get to the bottom of all this.”
“I have to admit that it’s stressing me out a bit. I’m not even sure I can go back to the painting. I don’t know if I want to finish it.”
“You can always sell the house,” she smiled.
He shook his head. “I can’t do that—too much like running before I know why I’m running.”
“This apparition has substance. I don’t know where she’s from, but she’ll come again, you know,” said Jenna seriously.
Nodding, “I know. It all happens quickly, though. There’s no warning. She’s just there, and then gone.”
“If you don’t mind, why don’t I hang around tonight?”
“I don’t mind at all. It’ll be good to have someone else in the house,” and he gave a slight laugh that made him feel a bit more relaxed. “I’ll make some coffee,” he said. “Only take a minute or two.”
The overhead lights were on in the library. The foyer was lit brightly. The light on the stairway was bright enough to soften shadows. He had left more lights on in the house than usual these past few nights, trying to convince himself bad things came out of shadows, but hesitated to appear in rooms that were brightly illuminated. He’d been sleeping on the couch in the library and had not been in any of the upstairs rooms in several days. Although size was a consideration when purchasing Atwood House, Manning had recently considered a smaller place in town—a studio space where he could display his paintings in a gallery setting. Infrequent as those thoughts were, he did not deny them so much as momentarily dismiss them.
When he returned with a pot of fresh coffee, Jenna was standing with her back to him—in the same place where he had seen Anna. For a moment, the thought that it was not Jenna startled him. When she heard him place the tray on the desk a few feet away, she motioned him to look at something. Kneeling, Jenna brushed her fingers over a section of rug directly in front of her.
“What?” he asked curiously, kneeling beside her.
“The rug is damp. Feel it.”
Looking up at the ceiling, he answered nonchalantly, “Probably nothing more than a leak.”
“This is where she stood?” she asked.
“I think so.”
“She came out of the rain.”
He looked at Jenna for an explanation. “What?”
“She must have been wet and stood here dripping on the rug.”
“I don’t think she was wet at all.”
“There was a storm,” Jenna persisted.
“I don’t think she was ever in the rain.”
“You’re telling me she lives in the house with you?”
“Come on, Jenna, you’re making too much out of this.”
“Maybe so,” she said, walking over to sit in a chair beside the fireplace. “But if that’s the case, maybe we better search the house.”
Ben handed Jenna a mug of coffee. “If I told you what I think, you’d call me a lot more than crazy.”
“Try me . . . maybe I already know some of what you’re thinking,” admitted Jenna.
Putting himself in the empty chair beside her, he said, “It’s something not so easily discussed. Practical doesn’t seem to work here . . . especially when you consider all that’s happened. The more I try to rationalize what I’ve seen, the more I realize there’s no workable explanation, no convincing reason for any of it.”
“There is if you believe in ghosts,” she replied sharply.
“Don’t you think that’s pushing it too far?”
Jenna looked thoughtful. Then she said, “Not anymore. If what you told me really happened, and I have absolutely no doubt that something unusual is going on in this house, then rational explanations aren’t in the cards, that is if you really want to understand this—this phenomenon.”
“It’s constantly on my mind, Jenna. I just can’t shake it.”
“Shaking away a ghost isn’t that easily done,” she said candidly.
He looked at her for a few seconds before speaking again. “You’re really serious.”
“I’m not the only one who feels that way, Ben. I’ve heard the rumors about Atwood House. And what about those others who have reported seeing things out of the ordinary?”
He tried to play this down by saying, “But things out of the ordinary aren’t necessarily ghosts.”
“If you’re saying you think someone is fabricating what’s going on here, it’s one tremendous piece of work. And why would anyone go to so much trouble?”
“I’m not sure, Jenna.”
“Atwood House is haunted and has been for over a century,” she insisted.
Before the conversation could continue, footsteps came from the foyer, as though someone was walking toward the library. They were distinct enough for both to hear clearly. Jenna and Ben looked at each other before she asked, “Expecting anybody?”
“No one,” he answered. “I keep the house locked at night.”
Slightly shaken, Jenna got up and stared at the main entrance to the library, as though she fully expected someone to enter at any second. “Did you lock the door after you let me in, Ben?”
“I think so but can’t remember for sure.”
Jenna gasped . . . a long uneasy sigh, then told him rather assuredly, “Well you definitely got a visitor.”
With enough visible light in the doorway, they would see anyone entering the room. They waited, and the footsteps grew louder. At just about the time they expected to see someone, a bolt of green light cut sharply across the oriental rug. There for only a few seconds, it was harsh enough to cause both to cover their eyes.
Then came the huge silence of a large house. Both knew someone was now in the room with them. The large overhead light in the library dimmed, leaving the room in shadows. In the large doorway that opened into the room was a woman, and behind her was a long fissure of green light.
“It’s her,” Ben said softly. “She’s back.”
“I wasn’t serious about the ghosts, Ben,” Jenna said nervously, clutching his arm with enough strength to get his attention. “I didn’t know what else to say.”
The apparition before them was a striking silhouette, tall, shapely, and stunning in a pink dress. She was wearing a large hat tilted to one side. In one hand, she held an umbrella. Her other arm was above her waist, and she carried something Ben could not distinguish. Backlit in green light, the shape seemed more like a statue, a comely figure chiseled from polished marble—until it moved.
“Say something, Ben. Talk to her,” urged Jenna.
“What do you want me to say? I don’t even know if she’s really there.”
“Oh, she’s there all right.”
“How are you?” Ben asked politely. “Nice to see you again.”
‘“How are you? Nice to see you again”’ Jenna repeated. “That’s the best you got?”
“Come on, Jenna. What do you say to a ghost?”
More footsteps. The woman was moving deeper into the room, closer to where they stood. Their feet were stuck to the floor. No matter how much they wanted to move, they could not. The statue was coming closer, and they too had turned to stone.
“My time is short.” The voice, though plainly audible, was little more than a whisper.
Somewhat to his surprise, the woman was not floating two feet above the floor. Her gait was deliberate and with purpose. She passed so close to them that her dress brushed against him. An ornate Victorian table was pushed back a little into one corner of the room. Ben had considered moving it to another room but had forgotten to do it.
“Can you smell them?” asked Jenna.
“What?”
“Flowers, she’s carrying flowers.”
They heard the glass vase placed on the table. The sweet smell of cut flowers filled the room. But it was what the woman did next that held their attention. Placing her parasol on the table, she bent lower to arrange the flowers in the vase, standing over them several seconds before turning to leave.
“There were always flowers in the house,” she said. The green slice of light from the foyer shot once more into the room, and in little more time than it took to blink, the woman was gone again.
For several seconds, Jenna and Ben stared at the empty spot. Momentarily distraught, neither knew what to say. Thoughts of what just happened surged through them with such emotional charge that both were once again on the verge of denial.
His body had tensed so much that it was entirely stiff. He heard Jenna’s breathing, uneven, rapid, and was afraid she was going to pass out. “Snap out of it, Jenna. It’s over. She’s gone.”
“I don’t believe it,” she managed to say. “It’s too incredible to comprehend. I saw it happen. As sure as I’m standing here, I know it did happen.”
He helped her over to the couch and dropped down beside her. She sat rubbing her hands together as she stared into the fireplace. Above them, the overhead light burned bright. Even the deepest corners of the room had shaken loose their usual shadows—in the air, a sweet seductive aroma. The room had taken on fruity scents, possibly of pomegranate, persimmon, or jasmine—pungent, intoxicating scents.
“Perfume,” remarked Jenna abjectly.
Chapter 17
Early one morning, the sun still low on a pink horizon, Dr. Liz Raymond drove south on Highway 231 from Bloomington toward Saint Meinrad. She looked forward to spending a few hours with an old acquaintance before driving to Evansville for the weekend. Sixty-year-old Carl Hewitt had spent his entire life working at the Archabbey that stood like a medieval fortress at the top of one of the highest hills in Spencer County. She had recently read a news story in the Bloomington Herald Times about an excavation near the Abbey and was sure Hewitt would have all the pertinent details.
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