Resigned that she was being pathetic, she started back into her room. The return of the soft crying stopped her dead in her tracks. It sounded like it came from downstairs in the entryway. Curiosity gave her courage as she stalked forward with purpose, this time flicking on the light in the stairwell to illuminate the space.
She stepped down the stairs, eyes shooting from one corner to the other, searching for the source of the sound. If she wasn’t mistaken, it sounded like a little girl. But how was that possible?
When she found nothing, she shook her head and decided she really was being stupid. And probably losing her mind, too. It had most likely been a bird or a cat outside, or perhaps she was just imagining things to get upset about. That’s what Rick seemed to think. Every time she got mad at him or felt anything other than joy he seemed to think she was exaggerating and creating chaos for herself.
That was the last time she’d ever date a psychologist.
Even though she tried to let her cynicism over her disastrous relationship harden the pain, she failed miserably. It all came back like a rushing tidal wave, and it took all she had to not crumble to her knees.
She clutched at her chest and frantically climbed the stairs, desperate to lie down. The dizziness slowed her, and her vision blurred as she stumbled into her bed.
Crawling under the covers, she pulled them over her head and waged war with her emotions. But the fury could only carry her so far as images of her parents, smiling and happy, flashed through her mind. Of Rick, irresistible with that boyish grin, proposing to her on the rooftop of Willis Tower. Her friends and coworkers surprising her with a lavish party for her birthday several months ago. It all flew by her like a movie reel, and it was impossible to make it stop.
Until it turned on her. Painful, horrible memories replaced the good ones, overwhelming her with a harsh, brutal ache. The phone call that had delivered the news of death. The caskets that held her parents being lowered into the ground. Discovering Rick in bed with her best friend on the day of the funeral. Succumbing to the grief on her last day at the hospital. The humiliation of falling apart in line at the grocery store. The compelling urge to run—run far away and never look back.
Wasn’t that what she was doing? She had run to Mad Rock Harbor to escape it all. Did she intend to ever return to Chicago?
Grace found she had no answer to that question, not at the moment. Instead, she inhaled deeply, her throat aching and her head pounding with pain as exhaustion claimed her. She settled into it, accepted the relief it promised, and plunged into a restless sleep.
Downstairs, the tearful sounds of sorrow faded into the night.
CHAPTER THREE
A full week passed, and Grace found herself missing the city less and less. There were some things she longed for, like Starbucks and city lights and her favorite hole-in-the-wall Italian bistro, but she was learning to live without them. Just as she was learning to live without her parents—her father, in particular. She was slowly coming to terms with the fact that she would never hear his voice again or laugh over a bottle of Merlot at Christmas while her mother fussed over decorations no one but them would see.
This year she would celebrate alone, which wasn’t a celebration at all. The idea of boycotting the holiday and spending it somewhere it wasn't celebrated crossed her mind. Just the sight of a Christmas tree might push her back into that dark hole of misery.
Or she could just remain at the Sparrow House and barricade herself inside with gallons of chocolate ice cream, murder mystery novels, and barrels of wine. That was a perfectly respectable way to spend the holiday.
She bundled her coat around her, watching the harbor from her seat on the back porch. Even though it was chilly and the mid-morning fog still hung in the air, she felt content. In this moment, she could reflect, and simply be.
Over the course of the week, she’d accomplished quite a lot. At least more than she’d figured, given her current state of mind. She’d walked the entire property, admiring the tall, leafless trees and sandy shoreline with its lonely dock. The dock itself was precarious; rickety on its pilings and weathered from the salty sea air. She had only managed a few steps on it before turning right back around, certain it would collapse under her at any moment.
She’d driven into town for supplies, visiting the local market that carried an impressive amount of produce and quality fish. It pleased her to know she wouldn’t be stuck eating Nellie’s beef stews and pot roasts every night, delicious as they were. No one should eat that much red meat.
Some of the locals introduced themselves to her as she wandered around and checked out the local diner, the library, and the wharf where the fishermen brought in their daily catch. Out of habit, she was short tempered with most of those she met. She didn’t want to come across as too friendly. They might expect her to stick around or make her feel sorry for leaving when the time came. Besides, if she made any friends then they’d be stopping by all hours of the day like Nellie was prone to do. Grace could only handle one intruder for the time being.
As it was, her solitary retreat had turned into a safe house with her the one to be saved and Nellie the one doing the saving. It was unexpected, yet not entirely unwanted.
“I made some hot chocolate to warm those bones of yours,” Nellie announced as she stepped onto the porch with two steaming mugs in her hands.
Grace snickered. “Hot chocolate? What am I, five?”
“Don’t you know how to say thank you?”
Grace accepted the mug, then looked down at it with a laugh. “Check it out, I even get some marshmallows.”
“You’re never too old for hot chocolate and marshmallows,” Nellie chided. She sipped from her own mug as she gazed at the harbor. Her gaze grew wistful while she enjoyed the view.
Grace warmed her hands over the mug, eyeing her neighbor thoughtfully. “Nellie, are there any children living on this street?”
“No, it’s mostly just retired folks. The Sampsons three doors down are in their forties, but they don’t have any children. Why do you ask?”
“Well—this is going to sound really stupid—and honestly, I don’t even know why I’m bringing it up except it’s been bothering me,” Grace began, suddenly irritated with herself. “I’ve been hearing what sounds like a little girl—crying, laughing, talking. I thought maybe one of the neighborhood kids had been playing near the house. It’s the only rational explanation.”
When Nellie said nothing, Grace felt anger sweep over her. “Or maybe I’m just crazy. I know I’m depressed, but crazy? I guess anything’s possible at this point.”
“You’re not crazy, child. It was probably just your imagination. Old houses give off all sorts of weird vibes.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed. “You look like you’re not telling me something. What is it?”
“Nothing.” Nellie bristled, her lips pressed into a firm line and her earlier humor gone. “Excuse me, I have things to do.”
She turned and went back inside, leaving Grace stewing on the porch. She pictured Nellie going to the nearest phone and calling up everyone to inform them that the newest Sullivan in town was certifiably crazy. A Grade-A lunatic who should be committed for absurd delusions bordering on schizophrenia. Hell, maybe she’d commit herself if the voices kept up…
A sharp scream and crash echoed from inside, startling her. She set down her mug and bolted through the door, her heart pounding as she found Nellie standing in the living room. Hot chocolate and shards of porcelain lay at her feet, marshmallows dotting the wood like flecks of snow.
“What the hell happened?” Grace demanded. She stared around frantically for an intruder, a spider, something.
Nellie shook like a leaf, her hands clutched against her chest as if she were having a heart attack.
Grace sighed and went to the older woman, concern in her eyes. “Are you okay?”
Nellie nodded, taking deep breaths to calm down. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” She leaned over and started to clean up the mess, grabbing the larger pieces of porcelain while her hands continued to tremble.
Grace frowned and crossed her arms. “It doesn’t look like nothing. Why won’t you tell me?”
“It was her,” Nellie whispered.
“Who?”
“Her.”
“Is there someone in the house? Do I need to call the police?” Grace asked impatiently.
Nellie got to her feet and glared at Grace with angry tears in her eyes. “That won’t solve a thing, child, and you know it. You’ve heard her. Now I just saw her. She’s made herself known to us.”
“Wait, what?” Grace blinked, her eyebrows shooting up in disbelief.
“Your father had mentioned seeing an apparition of a little girl in the house. He said he saw her nearly every time he came to visit. I’ve never seen her until now.” Nellie pointed over to the hall that led to the entryway, the stairwell visible. “She was standing right there, plain as day. One minute she was there, the next she was gone.”
“My father claimed he’d seen a…a ghost?” A skeptical laugh bubbled out of Grace’s throat as she shook her head. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you? You thought it’d be funny to tease me for hearing voices.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Nellie snapped, irritation hardening the lines of her face. “Do I look like I’m making this up? I saw what I saw and I’m not ashamed. Not like you are.”
“So, you believe in ghosts?”
“I do now.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Right. You realize how ridiculous that is, don’t you?”
Nellie sighed and rubbed her temple tiredly. “I have things to do. Excuse me.”
She left, leaving Grace standing amidst a pool of hot chocolate and marshmallows. She stared down at the mess, annoyed. Great, now she had insulted her neighbor. It hadn’t been her intention, but the whole idea of there being a ghost in the house was simply laughable.
She went to the kitchen for a towel and knelt to clean up the chocolate, sopping up marshmallows with it. She tilted her head and looked at the antique sofa beside her, concerned when she noticed part of the fabric on the arm was tattered and scratched.
Had the movers done that when they brought it upstairs? she wondered, examining the damage carefully. It didn’t look fresh, but rather worn from age. The royal blue fabric was even faded and fraying in spots, damaged as though by sun exposure.
If it had looked that way before, she hadn’t noticed it. Shrugging it off, she rose to her feet to wash her hands of hot chocolate and the entire notion of ghosts.
* * *
A couple of days later, Grace felt ambitious enough to head back down into the basement and tackle the stack of remaining boxes. It took her a while to muster up the strength for what she knew would be a difficult task, but the weight hanging over her felt lighter and her mood was oddly cheerful for once.
It could have something to do with the neighborhood tabby cat that had wandered over that morning, greeting her with a cheerful meow and rubbing his forehead against her hand. She missed her cat Charlie back home in Chicago more than she realized, and the encounter lifted her spirits. Though it was odd the way the cat tensed up after greeting her, eyes on the front door with its ears bent and a warning hiss on its breath. She’d looked around for the source of its anxiety but saw nothing. By the time she’d turned back, the tabby had fled.
She shrugged it off, not wanting to let it bother her. Instead, she slipped into comfortably faded jeans and a black T-shirt, tied back her hair, and took her coffee with her into the basement to get some work done.
On her way down, she flicked on the light. As her feet hit the solid-packed dirt floor, she took a moment to take in the room around her.
Without the old furniture, the basement appeared much larger. The vacant spots left behind by the sofa and tables were marked by grooves in the dirt, leaving only the boxes to line the cement block walls. Grace counted ten aged, cardboard boxes and one large antique trunk the color of blueberries. She rubbed her chin with her free hand, pondering where to begin.
Since the trunk seemed to be the most accessible, she started there. She set her coffee aside on a nearby box before pulling the trunk away from the wall and into the center of the room where the light was best. As she knelt beside it, she flipped up the latches and lifted the lid, letting it fall back on its hinges.
In the dim yellow light of the single bulb above her, Grace found herself staring into a trunk filled with photographs. Hundreds of them, all black and white and weathered by time. From the styles, she figured they spanned decades.
Beneath the photographs, she discovered a few albums and old camera equipment, along with reels of negatives. Intrigued, she opened one of the reels and pulled out the spool of film, holding it up to the light.
Pictures of women and children, the Sparrow House, the harbor—most likely taken by her relatives. Memories of them were long gone, yet they still lived on in the photographs kept secret in the trunk.
She replaced the negatives in the trunk and sat down on the dirt floor, reaching for a stack of photographs. Flipping through them, she looked for identification on the back. A few were labeled, though she didn’t recognize the names. Her father had never told her the history of her family and she’d never asked. Now she wished she had.
Now she was on her own to solve the mystery of her past. The mystery of the Sparrow House.
Grace held the photographs carefully, her capable hands reverent of the history they held. Part of her worried they might fall apart and she’d lose this little piece of her family she had found. This treasure trove of times past.
One photo was of an elderly man and woman standing arm-in-arm on the dock outside the house. From the clothing they wore, Grace guessed the date to be just before the Great Depression.
Were they her great-grandparents? She squinted at the image, trying to see some part of herself in these strangers. The names on the back labeled them as Howard and Ethel Sullivan. Who were they?
Feeling lost, she set the photograph aside and lifted the next one. An infant, dressed elegantly and lying among black blankets. It took her a moment to realize that this was a picture of death, common in the late 19th century. The child had likely died within the first few months of birth, and this was the only photograph ever taken of him or her. Seeing it made Grace shudder. What a morbid tradition.
She set it with the others as she heard Nellie come through the front door and call out to her.
“I’m down here, Nellie,” Grace replied, shaking her head to rid herself of the morose feelings.
Nellie stood in the doorway to the basement, her silhouette blocking the light. “Child, what in the world are you doing?”
“I wanted to go through these boxes,” Grace explained, glancing around at the photographs. “Though all I’ve done is sour my mood.”
“Well, why don’t I come down and help you,” Nellie offered, taking the first couple of steps into the basement. Grace watched the older woman stop abruptly, almost as if she’d run into a wall. She teetered back, trying to regain her balance, then shook her head as if to clear it. When she tried to step forward again, she stumbled backward and nearly toppled over onto the steps. “Good Lord!”
“Nellie?” Grace watched her friend stumble back up the steps, clutching her chest and wheezing before disappearing into the hallway. Her initial thought was that Nellie was having a heart attack. She took the stairs two at a time and found Nellie leaning weakly against the wall.
Grace held Nellie’s shoulders in a firm grip, her iron-gray eyes filled with concern. “Breathe, Nellie. Do you feel pressure in your chest? Any pain?”
Nellie let out a strained breath that ended in a laugh. “I’m not having a heart attack if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Are you sure? I have a bottle of aspirin upstairs.”
Nellie batted Grace’s hands away and turned into the living
room to get some space. “I’m just spooked.”
“Does this have something to do with your fear of the dark?” Grace asked. “Because if it is, then—”
“No,” Nellie retorted, still trembling. She looked around nervously, as though something was going to jump out and grab her. “It’s not that.”
Grace walked to the older woman, turning her around to face her. “Why are you acting like this? You’ve been strange ever since I mentioned hearing voices. I’m getting tired of whatever little game you think you’re playing.”
Nellie bristled, both shame and anger playing over her face. “There’s no game. I felt what I felt and I saw what I saw, and—”
Her gaze flicked over Grace’s shoulder to the basement door, and her face drained of all color. Her mouth fell open as she froze like a rabbit in front of headlights that promised death.
“What now?” Grace whirled around and saw nothing but the entryway, lit with peaceful morning light. “Right. Nothing. Christ, Nellie, get a hold of yourself.”
“How did you not see it?” Nellie stammered. She sucked in air with heavy, frantic gasps, her eyes still wide with fear. “It was right there, by the door.”
“Well, what happened to it?” Grace asked, unwilling to let the terror on Nellie’s face alarm her.
“It was a shadow…i-it slid along the wall. Then into it,” Nellie said almost in disbelief.
“The shadow did,” Grace stated flatly, crossing her arms. “Are you on any medication? Diazepam? Amitriptyline?”
“Damnit, there is something evil in this house!” Nellie asserted, snapping out of her fear. “You are so closed off to the world that you can’t see, but the girl is speaking to you. You hear her. I’ve seen her, and I’ve felt the evil that has somehow found its way into this house. I don’t know where it came from, but it wants to harm you. It weighs on this house like a dark shroud. Don’t you feel it?”
Grace didn’t know what to say. The sincerity in the other woman’s expression and statement worried her. She didn’t believe it, and yet she couldn’t deny that Nellie definitely believed what she was saying. “No, I don’t feel it,” she admitted.
So Fell The Sparrow Page 5
