With the pajamas on, her teeth brushed, her face washed, she slid into the king-sized bed. She wondered who had slept there in years past, and imagined the well-heeled guests of long ago, traveling by train, then by carriage, up through mountain switchbacks and groves of pines to the crest of a hill, where behind two tall, iron gates, stood the glorious limestone mansion of Briarcliffe. There they would remain for a month, maybe even two or more, with a vista of mountains as their backdrop, playing cricket on the lawn, rowing canoes along the creek. Then at night, dressed in their black suits and ties, they would feast on five-course dinners in the grand ballroom, afterward dancing in their evening gowns to a Waltz.
How many people had passed through this house of old, she wondered, and how many of their ghosts still remained?
She drew her book from the side table and rested it on her lap.
A Christmas Carol.
From the time she was a child, she had been a fan of Charles Dickens, ever since Beau Arson had given her a copy of Great Expectations when she was eight. She had read all of Dickens’s books since then, including A Christmas Carol.
She opened the book and began reading.
Ebenezer Scrooge has returned home for the day, and as he is preparing for bed, he is visited by the ghost of his old business partner, Jacob Marley.
“But you were always a good man of business, Jacob,” faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself.
“Business!” cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. “Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”
The book sagged on Harley’s lap. The day’s troubles, its accompanying fatigues had at last descended on her mind and body. She rested the book on the nightstand, lowered her head to the pillow, and as her face sunk into the soft down, and her cheeks kissed the high thread count, she drifted into another realm.
33
The Sins of the Father
Harley was no longer in Victorian London, nor was she in Briarcliffe’s east wing.
For the house had not yet been built.
She was in the middle of a forest.
Trees gathered around her, above her, ancient, giant, virginal and untouched, except by the Cherokee who had sheltered in their shade. The trees, the rocks, the rivers were the outgrowths of mountains formed millions of years prior when the earth knew nothing of man, only of the plates that had formed them.
Traces of sunlight seeped through the branches above, etching golden patterns in the snow at her feet. For miles snow covered the land, stretching up past the foothills to the between place where the mountains meet the sky. And there were no roads in this wilderness, not yet.
The timber industry had only just arrived. Its accompanying railroads would not join them for another year, furrowing steel tracks through dense forest and mountain passes, carrying tons of logs to the rivers to be transported to the Northeast, where they would burn as fuel for the country’s burgeoning technological industry. This, along with coal, had been Appalachia’s contribution to the Industrial Revolution, forging America’s path to becoming a superpower, and on a microcosmic level, leading to the first highways in the Great Smoky Mountains.
But for now, only a single footpath led to a copse of trees, where among them, nestled in a clearing, sat a log cabin, a trace of smoke rising from its chimney. It was a small cabin and one of meager fortunes, its gray beams weathered by time, its porch sinking in the middle and rotting at the corners. Only one creature seemed to hold any life at all in this place and it was fleeting. A mule, sagging and skeletal, stood tied to the porch railing, slowly succumbing to starvation and cold.
The cabin was seemingly deserted, its occupants having either died or fled from winter’s squalor. But then a woman appeared in the open doorway, or what was left of a woman, only a black mourning dress hanging from the pale sinew of her flesh. Her hair was black and wild, left untended for days, for weeks, it seemed, hunger having usurped any remaining vanity, and her eyes were dark and fallow from sadness and malnourishment.
She held a length of rope in her hand, and as she crossed the porch and stared listlessly out at the land once her own, the planks seemed to rot beneath her feet, her body along with them. She stood on the edge there, drawing up the last bit of strength and courage from her spent body, planning to use it for what she had to do next.
She stepped down from the porch and along the snow-covered path, her bare feet seemingly numb from the stinging cold. Then she disappeared among the trees, like a wisp of smoke, not looking back, her fate already sealed. They had lost their land, their mode of survival, and now they would lose the last of their lives.
34
The Visitation
Harley woke with a start. She sat up in bed, her gaze darting about the dimly lit room. She had not meant to fall asleep, and now she searched her surroundings, her mind racing to define what had startled her.
Past the drapes, the night sky was dreary and dark, sweeps of pinewood and mountain drifting like islands among the fog. The snow had ceased, leaving crusts of ice and a film of frost across the windowpanes.
Murmuring.
Coming from the walls.
Followed by moaning.
Then silence, a silence so deafening the chimes of the grandfather clock clanged like church bells in the hallway. One, two, three … at last ending at twelve.
Midnight.
She looked to the door. Someone was in the hallway. Footsteps, light and determined, worked their way down the tiles, toward her room, followed by the sweep of fabric against the door. Breathing came then, raspy and low, seeping through the keyhole, crawling across the floor, and into her bed. A swell of goose flesh rippled up her arms, and she clenched the comforter with both hands, staring at the door, imagining what was just beyond it.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
At any moment she expected the knob to turn, for the thing to come inside for her. But the breathing dwindled to silence, then the footsteps retreated back along the hallway to the staircase, rapping down the steps, one at a time, descending each floor, three, two, one. A door opened and closed on the first floor, and with it, silence smothered the east wing.
But there was not time for Harley to settle her nerves because the moaning had begun again, through the walls. She was sure it was coming from Beau’s room, his anguished voice crying out for help.
She hurried from her bed and unlocked the door, her hands trembling on the knob. Darkness engulfed the hallway, the drapes having been closed by someone, something, and she felt her way along the wall.
She reached Beau’s bedroom door and pressed her ear to it.
“Beau, are you okay?”
Nothing.
She placed her hand on the doorknob and turned.
Unlocked.
The door clicked, and she drew in a deep breath, as it creaked opened.
35
The Woman in Black
Moonlight pooled from the windows, paving a path of light toward an immense four-poster bed, one made of ancient mahogany and crafted for a king. In that bed, among the plush comforter and sheets, his dark waves of hair caressing the pillows, was Beau Arson, writhing in his sleep.
Harley stood frozen in the doorway, unsure how to proceed. Perhaps she should just return to her room, allow his nighttime demons to exorcize themselves.
But then he cried out again, and she rushed to his bedside, placing her hand on his chest. It was wet with perspiration.
“Beau, please wake up!”
But he had fallen back into his writhing, the nightmare having taken full hold. His arms wrestled with the sheets, the comforter, as if to strangle them.
“Beau!” she said, shaking him. “You’re having a nightmare!”
He woke with a start and sat up straight in bed, his chest heaving, his eyes staring into the darknes
s.
She rested her hand on his, searching his face. “Beau, it was just a dream. You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
His breathing slowed, as did his heart, and she realized he was fully awake then. He tilted his head so that their eyes met, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he looked at her.
“Harley?”
“You were having a nightmare. I came in to check on you—wake you up—and …” She squeezed his hand as it lay beneath hers. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“No.” He ran his hands through his dark hair, brushing the waves from his forehead. “No, I don’t think I am.”
“Beau, what’s happening to you? That dream … you—you were absolutely terrified.”
His voice dropped to a near whisper. “You’d be terrified too … if you saw her.”
“The woman?”
He shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know—who she is—what she wants.” He lowered his head, so that his chin touched his chest. “I think I’m going crazy, Harley.”
“But everybody has bad dreams sometimes.”
“Not like these.” He removed a glass of water from the nightstand, and after taking a sip, returned it. “Not like her.”
Harley sat erect on the side of the bed, her mind turning to the dream she had about Margaret Reed. He was not crazy.
He took another sip of water, and said, “And I know what everybody’s gonna say if they find out, that I’m just having another one of my breakdowns—losing it—just like I did before I left L.A.” He shook his head. “I’m not.”
“I know you’re not,” she said.
He tilted his head up and looked at her. “You believe me?”
She nodded. “I heard something—in the hallway—just a little while ago. I-I don’t know what it was, who it was, but I-I was scared, and I …” She looked at him in earnest. “You’re not going crazy, Beau. Something very strange is happening here.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “But what?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure yet.”
He sighed with resignation, then met her gaze once more, this time with serious determination. “You can’t tell anybody about this, okay? Promise me. I don’t want anybody to know.”
“Not even Boonie?”
“Not even Boonie.”
He heaved another sigh and threw back the comforter, sitting on the edge of the bed. A pair of red plaid house pants covered his long legs, and nothing covered his chest.
Harley forced her gaze to the ceiling. On only one other occasion had she seen Beau Arson without his shirt, and the experience had been an unsettling one for her, stirring up conflicting emotions.
While she was not as susceptible to temptations of the flesh as others were, Beau Arson had an alluring physicality that spoke to the basest of human desires.
She did not like to view him through that lens and kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Seemingly unaware of any of this, he rose and nonchalantly grabbed his flannel robe from a chair by the bed. He guided his arms through the sleeves before tying it at the waist.
Then his eyes moved over her, and she found his anguished face had relaxed for the first time that night. What appeared to be a slight smile curved his lips.
“What?” she asked.
36
How the Cardinal Became Red
“You want me to?” Beau asked.
The resonance had returned to Beau’s deep voice, and with it, a bit of teasing.
“Huh?”
“Rub your tummy.”
She nearly groaned when she realized he was referring to her bear pajamas. “Oh. Yes. Those.”
He laughed, the color returning to his face. “Now, you gotta tell me. Where in the world did you get those?”
Harley prepared her response, feeling her cheeks color. “Well, it’s kind of a long story … as usual. You see, Opha Mae Shaw makes pajamas inspired by animal designs. And Aunt Wilma thought a pair would make a great gift for me—for my birthday. So here I am. In all my glory. This particular design is called the ‘Teddy Gram.’”
He smiled. “Well, they are kind of cuddly, I’ve gotta admit. Maybe I’ll have to get myself a pair.”
“Oh, you just say the word. Opha Mae will be on that like syrup on hoe cakes.”
He scratched his bearded chin. “But I don’t know which animal would suit me, do you?”
“Oh, I don’t think you’d get an animal.”
“Nah?”
“Probably a muffin.”
“A muffin, huh?”
“A Hot Stuff McMuffin.”
He raised his brows. “What in the world?”
“Dr. Hot Stuff McMuffin. That’s what Opha Mae calls you.”
He laughed. “Well, that’s one I’ve never been called before. Coincidentally, though, I do happen to have an honorary doctorate in music.”
“Oh really now? Well, Opha Mae will be thrilled to hear that. You see, Aunt Wilma was skeptical of your new nickname, didn’t think it was appropriate assigning educational attainments to a person who hadn’t earned them. But now, it’s legitimate. You’re bona fide.”
He grinned, then lowered himself back to the bed, spreading his legs across the comforter. “Harley Henrickson, you do always make me laugh.”
They settled into a comfortable silence, and once she saw he was truly relaxed, she rose to leave.
“Will you be okay, you think?” she asked.
He seemed unsure and sat in thought for a moment. “Why don’t you stay a bit? You mind?” he said. “Have a night cap?”
“Are you sure?” she asked. Then she remembered he always meant what he said. “Okay.”
He rose from the bed once more and retreated to his desk, lifting a liquor decanter and pouring shots of whiskey in each of two Glencairn glasses. He returned to Harley and handed one glass to her.
“This is Henrickson’s,” she said, drawing in the aroma.
“Always.” He returned to the bed and sat on top of the sheets.
They sipped in comfortable silence for a moment, and he said, “So, you know any good stories?”
“Stories?”
He reclined on the bed, stretching his legs down the length. “In one of the foster homes I stayed at when I was a kid, the grandma—she used to listen to the radio at night before she went to bed. Garrison Keillor. Said it helped her sleep. I guess it helped me too because not long after she’d turn on that program, and Garrison would start tellin’ those stories, I went out, just like that. Slept all night, too.” He considered this, then added, “Part of it, I think, was the stories, and then the other part was just the fact I knew she was awake in there and kind of watching over me.”
Harley smiled. “It was kind of similar when I was growing up. But it wasn’t Garrison Keillor on the radio. It was my granddaddy.” She readjusted herself in the wingback chair. “After my mother died, I couldn’t sleep at all anymore … and I’d stay awake in bed all night, staring up at the ceiling for hours, listening to all the noises in the house, knowing I’d never hear her come through the front door again. So, my granddaddy … he started sitting by my bed at night, telling me stories.”
From across the bedroom, Beau watched her intently, his whiskey glass resting on his chest. “What stories did he tell you?”
“Old folk tales mostly … from here in the Appalachians.” She looked at him. “Would you like to hear one?”
He nodded that he indeed would, and before she commenced, she paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “My grandmother told him this one. She was Cherokee. It’s a story about how the cardinal became red.”
Beau signaled to her that he was ready, and she commenced.
Well, Raccoon was a trickster, and he loved to tease Wolf. One day, Wolf became so angry he chased Raccoon into the woods and to the river.
Raccoon climbed up a nearby tree, but Wolf, not knowing this, saw Raccoon’s reflection in the water, and thinking it was him, jumpe
d in the river after him. He grew very tired searching for Raccoon in the water, and after nearly drowning, he crawled onto the bank and fell asleep.
While he was sleeping, Raccoon climbed down from the tree and rubbed mud onto his eyes, so that he couldn’t see. Then Raccoon ran back through the woods, laughing about the trick he’d played on Wolf.
Wolf woke sometime later, and thinking he was blind, called out for help. Little Brown Bird heard his cries, and she flew to the river, landing on his shoulder.
“I can’t open my eyes,” Wolf told her. “I can’t see. Please help me see again.”
Little Brown Bird pecked away at the mud over Wolf’s eyes until he could see. Then, in thankfulness, Wolf carried her to the rock that oozed red paint, and he drew a twig from the ground, and chewed the end, so that it was soft like a paintbrush. Then he painted Little Brown Bird’s feathers red, so that she glowed, crimson and bright and beautiful.
When Harley ended her story, she saw Beau had at last drifted off to sleep, still holding his whiskey glass on his chest.
She approached him as he lay on the bed, and after removing the whiskey glass and resting it on the nightstand, she pulled the covers up to his chest.
For the first time that evening, he seemed at peace.
But for Harley’s part, a fogginess had descended on her mind, and she felt a bit delirious. The room appeared not as vivid as it had before, the bed, the chairs, the desk, blurring at the edges.
Just as she turned to leave, a light flashed in her peripheral vision, and she directed her gaze to the line of windows, where the light flickered through the panes, casting golden speckles across the dim walls.
Traveling the path of moonlight, she approached the window and looked out to the expanse of navy mountain and sky, and to the woods below, where a small point of light had formed in the forest.
The Ghosts of Notchey Creek Page 11