The Haunting of Crawley House (The Hauntings Of Kingston Book 1)

by Dorey, Michelle

  Sarah held Mommy’s hand until they got inside the big barn.

  The cows were mooing really loud. There was a long row of heads sticking out of some sort of thing that looked kinda’ like monkey bars at the park. There was hay and stuff in front of them, but they were looking at her, the whites of their eyes showing.

  Sarah took one look at Nana, kneeling down on the floor next to a man and thought the cows were crying like Nana was. She held the man’s head in her hands, brushing back his hair.

  Mommy had stopped running and walked slowly over to Nana. She had let go of Sarah’s hand.

  “Is he…”

  Nana nodded a bunch of times. “He’s so cold, Gillian.” She looked up at her daughter. “Your Daddy’s gone, sweetheart.” Mommy was on her knees next to Nana and they both started crying.

  Sarah stared at them. Why were they crying? Grandpa wasn’t just lying on the floor of the barn, he was standing over all of them, right by Nana’s side. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his blue overalls and his lined face was so sad looking down at Nana and Mommy. He took his hands out of his pockets and one hand lifted up the green ball cap on his head and his other hand pushed back his gray hair.

  “Mommy—”

  “Shhh Sarah! They won’t understand!” Grandpa’s finger crossed his lips.

  Sarah gulped back her words and tilted her head. He kept his finger on his lips and walked around Mommy and Nana over to where she stood at the door. They didn’t even look up at him.

  He took her by the hand. “Stay quiet as a mouse, sweetie, and we’ll talk outside.”

  She walked out of the barn with her hand in Grandpa’s.

  “We don’t have much time, sweetie,” he said. “I’m very sorry this is the only time we’re going to meet.” He looked down at Sarah, with teary eyes.

  “Why don’t you like me, Grandpa?” She had always hid it from Mommy, but she knew Grandpa didn’t visit because he never wanted to.

  He squatted down on his heels, eye level with her. “Because I was a stupid, stupid man, sweetie. I thought your mother was too young to be a mommy, and I was too thickheaded to admit I was wrong.”

  Sarah’s lips curled in a small smile. “Nana tells Mommy that she’s thickheaded too.”

  “She gets that from me.” He stood up. “Now come along, sweetie. I don’t have much time and I have to make sure you do something.” He held out his hand again and Sarah took it. His hand felt different from holding Mommy’s or Nana’s. It felt thinner sort of. Like if she squeezed it too hard it would smoosh through her fingers like Playdough.

  At the front door he asked her to open it. It was only a screen door which was closed, and she was able to get it open standing on her tippy toes. She held it open for him and they went inside and up the stairs to a bedroom.

  Grandpa stood by a bureau. “In the top drawer here, is a medal that I want you to have, sweetie.” He bent over and picked her up. Holding her, he said, “Now you have to open the drawer.”

  She looked up at him. There wasn’t any Grandpa smell. When Mommy would pick her up, she could smell Mommy’s makeup if she was wearing any, or the smell from her shampoo. When Nana would pick her up, she could smell something different, a smell which was just Nana. But Grandpa didn’t have any smell at all. And his arms felt like they were smooshy too.

  She shrugged and took hold of the two handles on the top drawer and pulled. One side came out a little, but the other side didn’t move.

  “It’s stuck, Grandpa, help me,” she said.

  “I’m afraid not, darlin’. I can hold you and touch you because we’re blood relatives and you have a gift. But I can’t touch or hold anything else. You’re going to have to jiggle it out, okay?”

  That sounded silly, but she tugged at one handle and it pulled out a little, then the other and it came out some. Back and forth she tugged and pulled until the drawer was finally open.

  “Good job, Sarah. Now you see that silver chain and the silver thing on the end?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s called a medal. It’s a St. Jude’s medal.”

  “Like medals soldiers have?” she asked. “From being in wars?”

  Grandpa shook his head no. “Soldiers get those as sort of prizes. This medal is to help remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “I’m not sure. Your nana’s mother gave it to me when we got married, and I want to make sure you have it.” He nodded his head at the medal lying in the drawer. It had a thin silver chain and a delicate medallion. She picked it up and looked at it. There was a man with a beard and some writing on it.

  “What’s it say?” she asked.

  “It says, ‘St. Jude, pray for us.’ And on the back are the letters ‘A and C’.”

  “Who’s St. Jude?”

  “He was a man from a long time ago who helped doctors and nurses.” Grandpa sighed and made a funny kind of smile. “He’s better known for being the patron of lost causes…”

  She brightened. “Mommy’s going to be a nurse! She just found out that she got…” Her face screwed up.

  “Accepted?”

  “Yes! Ack-septed to a school for nurses!” Her face fell. “We’re gonna hafta move away.”

  Grandpa nodded. “Yes. And that’s why you have to put this medal on and wear it all the time for me, okay?” He put her down, and she looped the medallion over her neck. “That’s a good girl.” Now his face looked sad. “Darlin’ I’m very sorry that I was so…”

  “Thickhead?”

  He chuckled. “Yes, thickheaded. Tell your mommy how sorry I am when you get the chance, okay? And when you move away, make sure you always wear that medal.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise me, Sarah. You know how to make a promise, right?”

  She looked at him. He was starting to fade away. Her eyebrows knit together as she watched him trace his finger over his heart. She copied his gesture.

  “Now say, ‘Cross my heart’.”

  When she did, he nodded and kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes just for a second when he kissed her. His lips felt really smooshy.

  When she opened them, he was gone.

  Chapter 22

  The smell of bacon drifted up the stairs and into Gillian’s old bedroom. Her eyes creaked open, flitted past the bedside table to the pale roses etched in the wallpaper and then to the shafts of the August sunlight streaming through the window. How many mornings had she woken up, here in this room? It had been the room of her childhood she left behind years ago. It had been, since Dad’s death, her ‘old room’ for the last few months. Of her twenty-three years on this planet, she had spent more nights in this room than any other. Well, last night was the final one.

  She pushed the comforter away and sat up. Sarah’s melodic voice and her mother’s laughter sounded from the kitchen below. Gillian smiled. That was good, the two of them making breakfast—but more importantly—her mother laughing.

  She listened as the laughter continued. Mom’s laugh was fuller bodied, rolling and throaty while Sarah’s danced along the edges, sparkling and light. Gillian dropped her head with a smile of gratitude. She hadn’t heard Mom laugh like that since before she got pregnant with Sarah. She didn’t realize up until that moment how much she had missed her mother’s belly laugh. She would take the laughter bounding up the stairs and filling her room as a good omen.

  God only knew, they were overdue for a good omen after the last three months…

  ***

  Mom had fallen apart when they found his body in the cow barn, and Gillian had to take over, hustling everyone back into the house so she could call the police.

  She had to go back out to the barn to get the milking done; the poor cows were ready to burst. It was surreal for her, setting up the milkers with her father’s body lying in the middle of the floor. But he would have been proud of her making sure the animals were looked after. She’d made herself do the milking; it was her penance for being thickheaded
.

  When Terry Foiles arrived in his patrol car, he was gracious. He actually gave her a hand finishing up with the cows before starting his report. After that, it was just waiting for Hanson’s Funeral Home to come and fetch Dad. It was then she learned he had a heart ailment for the last three years. Terry had phoned Dad’s doctor and they didn’t need to do an autopsy.

  She had an idea of everything else which needed to be done. She had been fourteen when Grandpop died and remembered what Dad and Mom had done then. Joe Hanson was a lot of help too. He ought to have been, for the money they paid for the funeral!

  Grandpop had lived on the farm with them all her life. There was no extended family to call when he died. For the three generations of the farm’s ownership, it had been passed down to the only child—always a girl, who had married a man from far away. Grandpop had been from Canada, Dad was from Maine. She didn’t know much about the original founders or anything. Like Grandpop’s, Dad’s funeral was a small affair. Which was sort of a blessing as Mom was barely able to function.

  Who could blame her? Forty-seven and a widow? With no employment history for the last twenty-five years? She hadn’t worked outside the home since she and Dad married. The farm had been profitable enough for them to live a snug life; Mom could milk a dollar for value as good as Dad could coax a cow’s udder.

  The farm community had rallied around. Mister Duffy from across the way had a herd of his own and did the morning milking for the first month after Dad’s death. Manny Killaloe from the spread down the line had looked after the evening milking.

  Manny had a crush on Gillian when they were in elementary school together, and Mom’s hopes were high that things would click between them—until she learned he was engaged to Lori Anders from Sparkill. Oh well.

  Gillian and Sarah had moved in to be with Mom—the three of them against the world. She had taken over the milking and all the chores during the first month or so after Dad died. She had done them before when she was growing up, so she knew the ropes. Now, after being gone from the farm for five years, she’d get used to it again, she supposed.

  But all that changed when Dad had been gone six weeks.

  ***

  She had come into the mudroom and ripped off her Wellingtons, kicking them into the wall as usual. She took off her shirt and pants as she had done every night and stuffed them into the hamper. Putting on a robe, she went into the kitchen. Mom was there with her laptop and a bunch of papers.

  “Take your shower and come right back down, dear,” she said. “We need to talk.”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll have a pizza or something.”

  “Where’s Sarah?”

  “I took her over to Mrs. Duffy’s for the night. Now scoot and get that smell you hate off, off you.” Mom had a sad smile.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  She pointed to the ceiling. “It’ll keep. Now go shower.”

  When she came down from her shower, having sluiced off cow stink as she had done every day, Mom had a frozen pizza in the oven. She was sitting at the table with papers and her computer.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  “Gillian, when does school start for you?”

  She gave a short snort of a laugh. “Beats me. I asked for a deferral back when Dad died.”

  “Okay, we’ll deal with that later. I’ve made a decision.”

  “What?”

  “I’m selling out.”

  “What?!”

  “And you’re going to nursing school in September.”

  “What!” Gillian looked around the kitchen. “You’re getting rid of the place? But—”

  “But I have to, Gillian. You hate dairy farming. And you’re not letting any of the single farmers in three counties so much as take you on a date. You don’t see yourself here; you’re just going through the motions, biding time.”

  “It’s only been six weeks, Mom. You’re not supposed to make any major decisions for a whole year as a widow! This is a stupid idea!”

  “Now Gillian…”

  She slapped her hand onto the table. “Don’t ‘now’ me! You’re not asking my opinion or advice, you’re telling me! What do I look like, a child?”

  “Gillian…”

  She leapt to her feet, fuming. “And furthermore, did you ever think of me? This is all I have of him! Ma! This is all I have! We never made up!” She burst into tears, covering her face.

  Maureen watched Gillian cry and her own eyes leaked tears, but a fire of anger flashed in her. “Don’t you think I know that, Gilly? For the last five years of his life, and the years of Sarah’s—both of you standing apart, arms folded, stubborn as a pair of jackasses. And for what?” She jabbed a finger at her daughter. “You had to win!” She held her hands up, encompassing the room. “He had to win!”

  She sat back in her chair, spitting out the rest. “For four years each of you raked at my heart with your icicle silences about the other!” Shaking her head, she continued, “No, young lady, it’s over. Your father’s dead and you both can carry your guilt. Life has to move on. I contacted Queen’s University and you simply need to phone them yourself and reactivate your acceptance.”

  “But this was my home!” Gillian’s hands fell below her chin, clasped forlornly. “Mom, it’s my home!”

  “How dare you, Gillian McDougall!” Maureen ignored the wide-eyed shock on Gillian’s face. “I have spent every one of my forty-seven years in this home! You moved away to the village five years ago and didn’t set foot here until your father died! How dare you even imagine your loss can compare to mine!”

  Gillian dropped her hands and hung her head. “You’re right…”

  Maureen rose from her chair and crossed to her daughter, taking her in her arms. “Daddy’s gone, Gillian. And it’s time we move on with our lives.” Nestling her daughter’s head to her shoulder, she stroked her back.

  Gillian had been brave for the last six weeks. She had been strong for Mom’s sake, and for Sarah’s sake. She had misted and teared up, and a sob or two had escaped her throat during the service for her father, but the harrowing grief, the scraping, snarling beast which shreds one’s heart with ragged talons of love, loss, and the finality of death rose from her feet to her throat.

  “Daaadeee!” She clutched at her mother, holding on to keep from being pulled down and into the beast’s hungry jaws. Crying out again and again she held on, the pain and sorrow never ending. It just went on and on and on…

  ***

  The laughter from downstairs stopped and her chest grew heavy as she rose from the bed.

  She grabbed the T-shirt she’d worn the day before and the jeans which were draped over the wooden chair. She would shower and get ready to take Mom to the lawyer later. This morning was a time for saying goodbyes. Her eyes began to sting and she blinked a few times to clear them as she thrust her feet into the legs of her pants. Clean pants that would stay that way—no more milkings.

  She bounded down the stairs, showing a lightness that she was far from feeling. But Sarah needed to see her smile as much as Mom needed it. When she entered the kitchen, Sarah raced over, her arms high in the air, eager to be picked up. “Mommy! Nana made pancakes.”