Storm Island: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery (The Kate Pomeroy Gothic Mystery Series Book 1)

by Linda Watkins

  “This will help, too,” he said, pouring two fingers and handing the glass to me.

  He sat down beside me, poured himself a drink, then clinked his glass against mine.

  “Here’s to old friends,” he said.

  I looked at the alcohol, mentally counting the hours since I had taken my last pill. Assuring myself that enough time had passed, I smiled, lifted my glass, and took a sip.

  “To old friends,” I echoed.

  We sat quietly for a few minutes, sipping our drinks and watching the fire. Finally, Jeremy broke the silence.

  “Let me take a look at that ankle,” he said.

  “It’s just twisted. Not broken. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you’ll say that tomorrow when it’s swollen and you can’t walk on it. Now let me take a look at it.”

  I sighed and stripped off my slipper-sock and stretched out my leg.

  Jeremy examined my ankle and I was surprised by the gentleness of his touch. After a minute, he again stood. “I’m going to get some ice for you, but first let’s see if there’s an Ace bandage in the bathroom. Be right back.”

  I watched him stride toward the back of the house, noting that he was curiously familiar with its layout.

  He came back holding a first aid kit and began rummaging through it.

  “You seem to know where everything is,” I stated, nodding toward the bourbon and then to the first aid kit. “How come?”

  Jeremy blushed, then smiled. “Last summer, Hettie had a guest here … a fashion model from the Big Apple. I kept her company most nights.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He laughed. “Think nothin’ of it. It wasn’t much. I was just a distraction for her. We used each other.”

  I grinned at him.

  Inadvertently, he had answered a question that had been running around in my mind … was he married? Obviously, the answer was “no” and it didn’t sound like he was seriously involved with anyone either.

  He continued looking through the first aid supplies until, with a flourish, he lifted out a well-used, beige Ace bandage.

  “Voila!” he exclaimed. “Let’s wrap that ankle, then we’ll make you an ice pack.”

  I again stuck out my foot and he lifted it into his lap and began to wrap it snugly with the bandage. As my skin absorbed the warmth of his touch, I felt a twinge of desire and found myself wondering what he would be like in bed.

  Ankle wrapped, he lifted it and placed it back on the floor. Then he reached for the bourbon bottle, poured himself another drink, and held the bottle out for me.

  “You want another?” he asked.

  I looked down at my glass, surprised that it was empty. “Sure,” I said.

  He poured me another, took a sip of his, then got up and put together an ice pack for my foot.

  “Put this over your ankle now and take some ibuprofen or something before bed.”

  “Yes, sir, doctor,” I replied, grinning at him. “I think I’ll be fine in the morning thanks to your treatment. And, may I say, you have a wonderful bedside manner.”

  He laughed. “That’s what the fashion model said, too!”

  We sat sipping our drinks and talking about old times until, finally, he glanced at his watch.

  “Well, I’d better be going, Katy,” he said, standing. “It’s late and I’ve got to catch the tide in the morning. You going to be okay?”

  I smiled. “I’ll be fine. And, really, thanks again. You saved my life.”

  “Only did what anyone would do. Don’t bother seeing me out. I know the way. Good to see you again, Katydid. I’m down at the Wet Your Whistle most evenings. Stop by if you’re in the ‘hood.’”

  “I’ll do that,” I yelled after him as he strode out the door.

  As the door slammed shut, I reached over and put another log on the fire. The house seemed suddenly very empty.

  I thought about his invitation. The Wet Your Whistle was a small bar down near the wharf. It was frequented mainly by locals and an occasional guest of the island’s owners who wanted to do some slumming. My mother used to stop in there for a drink occasionally, preferring the company of the hard-working folks who lived year-round on this island to that of the New York elite who were frequently guests of Hettie and Raoul.

  “I think I’ll take him up on that,” I said aloud. “Maybe in a couple days, after I’m a bit more settled.”

  I sipped my drink watching the fire, feeling warm and cozy, and thinking about that surge of desire I’d felt for Jeremy when he’d touched my foot. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad being back on Storm after all.

  I stayed in front of the fire for another half-hour or so thinking about the little stone silo. I decided that, first chance I got, I would try to find that clearing again. This time, however, I’d do it during daylight hours. I also planned to question Horace about the property. He knew everything about this island and, perhaps, he might be able to shed some light on the ownership of that particular parcel of land.

  Then, there was Jeremy. He was decidedly cute and I had to admit I was attracted to him. Maybe it was time to change the direction of my love life, give Alistair the boot, and try dating someone who wasn’t so stuck on himself for a change.

  Yawning, I knew it was time for bed. I got up and turned out the lights, surprised at how good my ankle felt as I walked across the room.

  Smiling at the thought of Jeremy’s strong hands on my body, I washed, then dutifully took my pill and slipped under the covers. The alcohol and lingering warmth from the fire made me sleepy and, I was sure, with the additional benefit of the pharmaceutical, I would be in dreamland in no time.

  I was inside Stormview Manor, standing in the middle of the great room. How I had gotten there, I didn’t know. It was still night, and all the electric lighting had somehow disappeared and been replaced by candles and oil lamps. The illumination from these outdated fixtures cast strange, flickering shadows in the cavernous room and I felt a finger of fear run down my spine as I watched them.

  What was I doing here?

  Somehow, as I pondered this, I felt oddly compelled to explore the mansion. I walked around the room, trying not to trip over or bump into any of the furnishings, which were still covered with drop cloths to protect them over the winter months.

  I knew I was looking for something, but for what I didn’t know. As I circled the great room, I realized intuitively that whatever it was I was searching for was not in this room or on this floor.

  So, urged on by the unknown, I walked to the entryway, where the staircase to the second floor loomed.

  I hesitated. Candles flickered weakly in their wall sconces, providing very little light. The top of the stairs was dark and, for a moment, my resolve wavered.

  I glanced around, realizing that none of this was real. I was asleep and in a dreamscape. I took a deep breath … if this was just a dream then I had nothing to fear. I would wake up in the morning, safe in my bed, no matter what I encountered in this house.

  Nodding, I put my hand on the bannister and began to slowly climb. About halfway up, I glanced back, over my shoulder. The lights behind me were fading and, when I looked forward again, I saw that now new lights were, one by one, appearing on the wall by the landing at the top. This heartened me and I began to proceed more swiftly. I still didn’t know what I was looking for, but something in my gut urged me on.

  At the top, I again hesitated. All of the bedroom doors were closed. I stepped up to the first one and tried to open it, but, like in my dream on the plane, it was locked. Slowly, I walked down the corridor, stopping at each door, but none would open. Ahead of me now was the winding staircase to the third floor, the one that led to the tower room.

  The back of my mind screamed, “WAKE UP!” But my body didn’t obey.

  I knew nothing good could be served by going into that room, but, still, a nameless something compelled me to go on.

  Taking a deep b
reath, I stepped onto the staircase. The light was dim, but, unlike the main stairs that were open and wide, this passageway was narrow and winding. I let my hands trail along the walls for balance as I made my way up toward the third floor.

  The ascent seemed to take forever, the stairs winding on and on. Finally, I could see the small landing at the top.

  The door to the tower room looked immeasurably tall and I felt as if I were ten years old again. As I reached for the knob, I prayed that it, too, would be locked and that this would be a fitting end to the dream.

  But that was not to be.

  The knob turned easily as somehow I knew it would, the door sliding open as if of its own volition.

  The interior of the room was black as pitch. No candle flickered here, nor would moonlight dare to enter through the open curtains. This was a place of darkness … a place of death.

  Tears streamed down my cheeks as I stood in the doorway, listening to only one sound … the rhythmic whirring of the ceiling fan, going relentlessly ‘round and ‘round.

  Unable to stand it, I turned and fled down the stairs. I stumbled once but was able to catch myself before falling. The spiral staircase seemed to have become narrower, now not much wider than I was, and I pushed out with my hands, trying to keep the walls from crushing me.

  Down and down I went on this never-ending stairway to hell until, finally in the distance, I caught sight of a faint light and I hurled myself toward it.

  I was back on the second floor, but now all the bedroom doors were open and I wondered who or what had unlocked them. Cautiously, I tiptoed down the hallway, not wanting to wake whatever lurked inside the rooms. By the time I reached the main stairs, my heart was pounding and I could barely breathe.

  As I set my foot on the first step, I began to relax … I would escape this terror unharmed and, hopefully, like most dreams, this one would fade away before dawn.

  But, in the darkness of the bedroom behind me, I heard a faint scurrying, followed by an odd chittering sound.

  Unable to help myself, I stopped mid-step and looked back.

  Shadows met my gaze and I laughed, shaking off my fear. There was nothing there, only my overactive imagination.

  Once again, I started down the stairs but was stopped when the scurrying sound recurred, only this time louder and closer.

  I steeled myself as I turned toward the sound.

  My mouth fell open.

  Looming in the bedroom doorway was a creature, the likes of which I’d never seen before. Tall and black, it was spiderlike with eight long, hairy legs … each one ending in a vicious claw. Its eyes were dark and rheumy and somehow glistened evilly in the dim light. Venom dripped from it maw and, as it stared at me, it began chittering away, sending waves of fear down my spine.

  Horrified, I forced myself to turn and descend the stairs. But before I could set foot on the next step, the creature stretched out one of its hairy legs and touched my ankle, its claw moving across my skin like a lover’s soft caress.

  I screamed, losing my balance.

  Down and down I tumbled, rolling this way and that, conscious only of the thought that that evil thing was close behind me.

  I landed in a heap at the bottom of the staircase and desperately tried to gain my footing.

  But when I looked up, I knew all was lost. The creature was towering over me, its legs forming a circle around my body, giving me no hope of escape.

  I cowered at the base of the stairs, waiting for the inevitable. The creature opened its maw and let out a chittering scream of triumph, then, without hesitation, lowered its bulbous body on top of me…

  It was at that moment I woke, gasping for breath. I was drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around me like some sort of vile cocoon. Desperately, I tried to extricate myself, but the linens were wound tight.

  “Goddamn it!” I yelled at the sheets as I struggled.

  My outburst released my frustration, and I took a deep breath, stopped fighting, and got myself to a standing position. Wiggling my arms, the sheets finally unwound and eventually slipped from my body to the bedroom floor.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I stripped off my sodden nightgown. My other pair of pajamas were hanging in the closet and I reached to open the door.

  But, as my hand touched the knob, I heard it.

  A scurrying sound, followed by a faint chittering.

  I pulled my hand away from the knob as if it were on fire, stepping back from the door. I held my breath. The sound coming from within my closet was the same as in my nightmare … the voice of that vile creature that had attacked me at the manor house.

  I stood frozen, staring at the closet, not knowing what to do. My rational mind told me I was hearing things … that I was still overwrought from the dream and that, perhaps, I was not even fully awake.

  Again, I reached for the knob.

  But, as my fingers touched it, I heard the rustling begin again from within. It was followed by that awful chittering … only this time, louder.

  Terrified and abandoning all reason, I grabbed my robe and wrapped it tightly around me. Then I pulled the comforter from the bed and, draping it over my shoulders, swiftly backed out of the room, closing the door firmly behind me.

  I stood in the hallway for a moment, waiting, but nothing happened. I grabbed a chair from the kitchen and wedged it under the bedroom doorknob, then went to the living room.

  The fire was dying down, so I added another couple logs, stirring the embers with the poker to get it going again. Then I lay down on the couch, pulling the comforter up over me.

  Surprisingly, despite my fear, sleep came easily and, the next thing I knew, I was waking up to a room bathed in bright sunlight. I checked my watch … it was eight o’clock. I was expecting Horace Hatchet, the caretaker, at nine so I knew I had to get moving.

  I put on a pot of coffee, then went to the bathroom to get washed. I felt soiled from all the sweat I’d exuded the night before, so I began with a hot shower. Afterward, I put my robe on again and stepped into the hallway and stood frozen, staring at the bedroom door.

  I needed to get dressed, but all my clothes were in that damned closet.

  I knew I couldn’t spend the day in my robe, especially if I were to be starting my chores at the manor house, but, still I hesitated, my mind full of indecision.

  “This is stupid,” I finally said, trying to bolster my courage.

  I took a step toward the door, then shook my head and walked back to the living room. There, by the hearth, sat an iron poker. I grabbed it and, wielding it like a cudgel, approached the bedroom.

  I pushed the chair aside and grabbed the knob. Taking a deep breath, I threw open the door.

  The room looked totally ordinary, sunlight streaming through the windows. Holding the poker high, I counted to ten then pulled open the closet door.

  Everything was as it should be. My clothes were hanging just as I’d left them and my shoes were lined up on the floor in perfect order.

  I pushed the hangers aside, half-expecting that creature to jump out at me, but there was nothing there.

  After I inspected every inch of the closet, I finally put the poker down. Shaking my head at my foolishness, I grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and proceeded to get dressed.

  Horace Hatchett

  I WAS SITTING at the dining table, sipping my coffee, when I heard a truck pull into the drive outside. I checked my watch. It was five after nine. I got up and walked to the window just in time to see Horace Hatchett, caretaker for Stormview, struggle to get out of his vehicle.

  I frowned as I watched him. Horace was not what you would call an attractive individual. He was short, probably not much over five foot five. His left arm was withered, the result, I was told, of a mishap during birth. In addition, he was afflicted with congenital kyphosis, or in layman’s terms, a hunchback.

  I shook my head. Had he been born with these impediments today, measures would most likely be taken to correct them. However, g
iven the state of Medicine in the 1950s and the fact that his family was poor, no intervention had taken place.

  Yet, despite these disabilities, he’d found a place for himself here on Storm. He worked as caretaker for not only my aunt, but also for the other three ruling families. It helped that he was abnormally strong, especially on his right side. I remembered a time when he delivered a cord of wood to the carriage house during the summer when I was nine years old. I’d watched, fascinated, as he’d unloaded and stacked the wood, never faltering despite his afflictions. My mother, when he’d finished, had thanked him. I think she thought that was enough, however, Horace had reached out and taken her hand, as if to shake it.

  Watching him now, I thought about my mother’s reaction to his touch … she was repelled … and, when he left the house, immediately went to the sink to wash her hands.

  “That guy creeps me out!” she’d exclaimed, shuddering slightly.

  I never really paid much mind to her aversion to Horace when I was a child, but now I wondered about it. What was it about this poor soul that so turned her off?

  He’d been in his prime back then, a man in his late thirties or early forties. Now, almost twenty years later, he stumbled as he made his way up the path to the house.

  Watching him, I remembered another time when my mother and Hettie argued about him.

  “I don’t like the way he hangs around … always staring,” said my mother.

  “Cassandra, you’re being foolish. Horace has been with us forever. You’re just put off by his appearance.”

  “No, it’s not that … although he does look in need of a good scrubbing. It’s the way he looks me … at Kate … like he’s got some sort of vile secret. I don’t want him around us.”

  Hettie had gone on to accuse my mother of being bigoted, something she did not take very well. I couldn’t remember much more, only that my mother grabbed me by the hand and stormed off in a huff.

  Was Hettie right? I had loved my mother and thought she was perfect in every way. Perhaps, I was wrong.