A dull aching lingered just behind my eyes, and my mouth tasted of pennies.
“Babe, can you grab me a glass of water?” I called to Sammy, brushing a lock of hair from Isis’s forehead and kissing the perfect patch of skin beneath.
The dream from the night before was already slipping away. Still, the satiny texture of the cat’s soft skin after the fur had been shaved off lingered at the tips of my fingers.
“What a terrible dream,” I whispered, kissing Isis a second time.
CHAPTER 15
Now
Sarah
“Ted Morgan?” Sarah asked the man who stepped from the white pickup truck with a decal plastered to the side that read Morgan’s Building and Construction.
“The one and only.” Ted closed his door. “And you are?”
“Sarah Flynn.” She thrust her hand toward him and he took it, giving it a shake.
She watched his mind work, and when he placed her name, he looked puzzled.
“You’re related to-”
“Yes. Sammy was my twin.”
“My condolences, Miss Flynn, or Mrs.…?”
“Ms. Flynn. And I appreciate it. I came across something strange at Kerry Manor, and wondered if you could help me.”
He leaned back against his truck.
“Sure, go ahead.”
“I found an attic above the master bedroom. It was hidden behind a paneled wall. When I looked at the house plans, it didn’t show up. Why wasn’t it renovated?” Sarah asked. She had pulled up the house’s master plans on Dane Lucas’s website, but the attic was nowhere on them.
“I don’t know anything about an attic in Kerry Manor,” Ted said.
Sarah opened her bag and drew out the set of folded house plans.
He squinted at the house plan, shrugging. “It’s been a busy year. I must have missed it. I didn’t exactly go around tapping on every wall and searching for the hollow one. How did you find it?”
Sarah thought of Corrie and shuddered.
“I was exploring the master bedroom.”
“Hmph. Well, best if you tell Corrie and her little one to steer clear of it. I can’t say if the floor is sound. Probably lead paint all over the place. The usual culprits. I’ll get to it in the spring. To be honest, I figured Corrie’d move out after…” He didn’t say ‘Sammy died,’ but Sarah nodded.
“Me too. Hoped, actually. Maybe you could give her a little nudge, say there’s more work to do.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“Is there a reason you’d like me to do that?”
Sarah had a dozen reasons. Unfortunately, they all stemmed from the paranormal, and Sarah didn’t much feel like seeing his expression if she told him her concerns.
“I think it’s traumatic for her to be there. Someone murdered Sammy in the back yard. If not for Corrie, at least for Isis. It’s not a healthy place for either of them to be.”
“Have you told Corrie that?”
“Of course,” Sarah snapped. “But she’s not exactly in her right mind.”
“To be honest, Ms. Flynn, it’s not my place to ask Corrie to vacate. Your brother’s agreement was with Dane Lucas. He’s the owner of Kerry Manor. Overseeing the renovations is where my business with the house ends.”
Sarah stared at him, weighing her next words.
“Did anything strange happen during your renovations?” she asked.
The builder gazed at her appraisingly.
“Explain strange.”
Sarah faced him.
“I can’t explain it, because I don’t know what it might have been. Sounds, things moving, stuff like that.”
“I had thirty guys working out there on any given day. It was nothin’ but sounds and movement.”
“Did any of them describe anything bizarre?”
He sighed and rested his large hand on the hood of his truck, as if that small connection might keep the haunted things away.
“I know what you’re getting at - the Kerry Manor urban myths. I’ve heard a few stories, but I didn’t experience nothing like that.”
“Okay, but did anyone else?”
“I don’t want to read about this in this newspaper.”
“You won’t.”
“Maybe a handful of comments. I had a guy email me, he thought one of the other workers was bringing their kid to the site.”
“Their kid?”
“Yeah, a little girl. He kept hearing her singing. I talked to the other guys, and they swore up and down they weren’t bringing no kids. Then later, two more of ‘em admitted they heard a little girl singing too.”
Sarah nodded for him to go on.
“One guy, Ralph, real quiet type, walked off the job and said he wasn’t comin’ back.”
“Why?”
“He said he felt weird givin’ me a reason because he didn’t have one he could put his finger on, just a feelin’ what we were doin’ was wrong, renovating the old Kerry mansion. But Ralph’s been livin’ in these parts a long time, his dad’s an old codger, and I’ve no doubt those superstitions passed on to his son.”
“Will you give me Ralph’s phone number?”
“Sure, but he moved on down to Florida ‘bout three months ago. His dad lives in town. The big old rambler across from the library.”
“I know it,” Sarah said, picturing the old farmhouse with its peeling paint and shingles half-falling off the roof.
“Anything else?” she asked.
The man sighed, and Sarah knew he’d had an experience, something he didn’t want to divulge. But sharing the other men’s complaints had warmed him up.
“I stopped out at the property one night, eleven or so. I forgot my power drill out back. I smelled smoke. I was sure that little shit who’s tried to torch the place a couple times must’a come back to finish the job. I went runnin’ into the house, mad as a wet hen, wavin’ a crowbar with a mind to scare him off. There was fire in the back of the house, I saw it. It burned my eyes. I ran down the hall, and then” He wrinkled his forehead and held out his empty palms. “Poof, gone. I’d been workin’ with some varnish that day, staining the stairs, and I figured the fumes…” He waved his hand in the air, but Sarah knew neither of them believed fumes caused him to hallucinate the fire.
“I pretty well wrote it off until my wife told me the history of Kerry Manor, the little girl burnin’ up her family. I’ll tell you, I was happy to be rid of the job. Paid mighty fine, but money ain’t everything.”
“Do you regret assisting with the renovations?”
The man shrugged.
“Somebody was gonna do it. Might as well have been me.”
“Thanks for your time,” Sarah said, turning away.
“One more thing,” the man said.
Sarah turned back.
“Your brother, he called me a few days before it all went down and asked me some of the same questions you’re askin’ me now.”
“Sammy called you wondering about strange experiences in the house?”
The man nodded, pulling a pouch from his back pocket and tucking a wad of tobacco beneath his lower lip.
“Yep.”
Sarah drove home mulling over the man’s words. Somehow, the most disturbing piece of all was that her brother had called the man only days before his death.
CHAPTER 16
Now
Corrie
“J uicy, juicy,” Isis bellowed, leaning from the cart and grabbing at a stacked display of juice boxes. I handed her a box and steered the cart down another aisle. I tried to think about what we needed, knowing I should have made a list. I had not gone to the grocery store since Sammy’s death. The freezer full of frozen casseroles ensured I didn’t have to, but that morning I realized I had no coffee creamer and Isis was out of baby vitamins. I hated to go, and almost called Helen, but couldn’t bring myself to ask for the favor.
“Cookies,” Isis squealed, waving at a shelf. I plucked a box of chocolate chip and dropped them in the cart.
> “Cream and vitamins, cream and vitamins,” I whispered. I could do this. I had to do this.
“What was that, ma’am?” a voice startled me, and I glanced up a moment before I crashed my cart into the young store clerk stocking cans of soup.
“Oh, nothing. I’m sorry.” I turned the cart and went to the checkout lane, the cream and vitamins forgotten in my haste to leave the store.
I could feel the tendrils of panic rising into my belly. Soon they’d wrap around my lungs and squeeze. After that, I’d see the black spots begin to dance behind my eyes. I needed to get to the car before that happened.
I fumbled money to the cashier and hurried toward the door, glancing at the bulletin board heavy with fliers advertising everything from free kittens to reiki massage. One image caught my attention and I paused, my panic momentarily forgotten.
A spectral figure, almost transparent, stood beneath three bolded words: “They’re Not Gone.” I read the paragraph beneath quickly with Isis pulling on my arm. The flier described a gathering for those who had lost loved ones and wanted to reach out, make contact.
At the bottom of the paper, small tabs held a web address. I ripped one off and stuffed it into my pocket.
Isis dug through the paper bag of groceries, searching for the cookies.
I took a deep breath and lifted the box from her hands, oddly calm. The panic attack had not taken me. I no longer felt the vice surrounding my lungs.
“Here, honey.” I handed her a cookie and pushed the cart into the cool November day.
Sarah
* * *
“MR. PULVER?” Sarah stood on the sidewalk in front of the old house.
A thin man, with an orange hunting cap tucked over his ears, likely nearing ninety, sat in a rocking chair reading a book. He looked up and squinted toward Sarah.
“Who’s there? Melissa with the Girl Scout Cookies?”
Sarah walked closer and waved.
“Sorry, no cookies here. My name’s Sarah Flynn. I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
She glanced at the cover of Mr. Pulver’s book, which read “Fancy Cat Breeds” in tall black letters. In a photo beneath the title, a woman held a huge, fluffy gray cat with yellow eyes.
He sat up in his chair and set the book aside, tapping the cover.
“Ever seen a Norwegian Forest Cat, Sarah? Big as a bobcat, and fierce too. Thinkin’ bout gittin’ one fer security.”
“A cat?” Sarah asked skeptically. “I hate to tell you, sir, but my impression of cats is when trouble arrives, they run and hide under the bed.”
He stared up at her, his little blue eyes watery, and chuckled.
“True enough, but it’s not burglars I’m worried about. They say cats can sense evil. Did you know that?”
Sarah sat on a wooden porch swing.
“Yeah, I have heard that. Funny you should mention evil, Mr. Pulver. I was hoping to ask you some questions about Kerry Manor.”
The man frowned and picked the book back up, holding it against his chest like a talisman.
“Sure, sure. I’ve got stories and memories. What would like to know, Miss Sarah?”
“Everything,” she admitted.
He grinned and reached into his mouth, popping out his bottom dentures.
“These lowers give me trouble when I’m talkin’ too long,” he admitted, plopping them into a water glass. “James and Winifred Kerry built Kerry Manor in 1883. Winni, as they called her, was pregnant with their first child, a girl they named Stella.”
Pulver leaned back in his chair, eyes half closed as he talked.
“In 1872, Traverse City saw its first railroad, and life was booming in these parts. James Kerry was a businessman and realized there were opportunities to be had. He moved his growing family from somewhere out east. Rumor says an Ottawa trapper told Kerry of the rugged beauty at the tip of the Leelanau Peninsula, and the man became obsessed with building his mansion at the place where civilization ends. Back then you were hard-pressed to find a doctor, or even a grocery to buy a loaf of bread, up there. I can’t say how his wife felt about the move, but he constructed his mansion and they moved right in. According to my pa, there was never no trouble at Kerry Manor until after the girl-child, Ethel, went into the asylum.”
“Why was she institutionalized?”
Pulver shrugged, spotting something over Sarah’s shoulder and twittering his fingers.
“Here kitty, kitty, kitty. Come here, Mickey.”
Sarah turned to see a fat tabby cat lazily wandering from the neighbor’s yard. He trotted up the steps and planted himself just out of reach of Pulver’s outstretched fingers.
Pulver sighed and waved his hand dismissively.
“He likes to play hard to get. Five minutes and he’ll be in my lap, purring like a lawn mower.”
Sarah smiled, watching the cat crane his neck and vigorously lick his belly.
“My pa knew Ethel, went to the same school, though he was a few years younger. Said before she went to the asylum she was a pretty typical kid, got into a few scraps now and then. But after they released her, she was odd, real sneaky-like. He saw her push another little girl out of a tree. The girl broke her arm, and it could’a been worse according to my pa. Could’a killed her if she’d landed on the rake lyin’ down below.”
“What did everyone think at the time?”
Pulver shrugged.
“It was a different time. People didn’t sit around mullin’ over why a kid was bad or good. Kids was just kids. But after she burned her family up, well, that changed things, didn’t it? They decided James Kerry must have been beatin’ her or somethin’. Not that it was out of the ordinary to take a belt to your young ones in those days.”
“I’m curious how they knew Ethel Kerry started the fire?” Sarah asked.
“She nailed the door closed on her family and hid in the dumb waiter upstairs. Hammer and nails was on the floor in her parents’ bedroom where they found her dead, so they put two and two together. I ain’t no detective, but the writing was on the wall.”
“What happened to Kerry Manor after the fire?”
“It sat. There was a lot of superstitious folks in those days. Nobody wanted to live in that house. Later on, other kinds of stories came out of the house. People who went there and came back funny-actin’. Almost like there was a bad luck charm on Kerry Manor, and if you got too close, it’d grab hold and follow you home.”
“By the time I was growin’ up, my pa was right spooked by the old place. Me and my brothers wasn’t allowed anywhere near it. Course, that made it all the more enticing. I went once in high school with a few buddies. We threw some rocks at the windows - that kind of thing.”
“Did anything happen?”
Mickey hopped into Pulver’s lap, turning twice before settling into a little ball of fur, head tucked near his back legs.
“Not to me, per se, but my friend Jerry went up real close to the house to peek in. He came away screaming, blood runnin’ down his face. Somethin’ stabbed a piece of glass into his face. He thought he saw someone movin’ inside, and then a hunk of glass came flyin’ out the window and lodged in his cheek. We ribbed him about it good, said he prob’ly stuck his face too close and a piece stickin’ from the frame got him.”
“Do you think that’s what happened?”
“No.” Pulver smoothed his liver-spotted hands over the cat’s back. They seemed to stiffen, and he massaged his knuckles, opening and closing his fingers. “Jerry was the toughest kid I knew, and he didn’t tell no lies. I don’t think a one of us doubted his story. It was just our way to rag each other.”
“Did you know they restored Kerry Manor?” Sarah asked.
“Heard somethin’ bout that.” He nodded, his hand drifting to the side to rest on his book of fancy cats. “Damn fool thing. That house is as haunted as a plague graveyard. Best if they’d burned the whole place to the ground, trees and all.”
CHAPTER 17
Now
&
nbsp; I sat in the circle and wrinkled my nose at the incense wafting out from the ceramic turtle to my right. The worn, red and purple rug beneath me scratched at my bare calves, and I welcomed the sensation because I was uncomfortable.
There were no eyes on me. Everyone kept their polite distance, glancing at the wall hangings or closing their eyes and humming along to the ambient music drifting out from the laptop perched on a small glass side table.
Dede, the spirit guide, sashayed into the room with bells clanging on her wide hips. They were silver and copper and hung above her camel-colored tulle skirt on a belt of leather and beads. She sat in the single opening of our circle on a turquoise meditation cushion that barely supported her voluptuous bottom.
I struggled to hold my lips in a straight, grim line. This was one of those moments. When Sammy and I would have shared silent laughter, and later in bed, we would have bellowed like children. Everything about the scene had the surreal quality of a bad movie. I was visiting a spirit guide who’d converted her garage into a New Age hovel, complete with mandala wall hangings and wooden statues of pregnant deities.
“Let us begin,” Dede told the group, turning down the lights.
The candle flames flickered on our ghoulish faces.
“We will connect now. Turn your left palm up and your right palm down. Take the hands of your brothers and sisters.”
I pressed my clammy left hand into that of a man wearing a baby blue polo shirt. Sweat stains spread beneath his armpits, and he gave me a tiny, tight smile. I felt his anxiety streaming into my palm, and I gave it a little squeeze because I knew he sensed mine as well. My right hand went into the palm of Miss Cleo. Or that’s what Sammy would have called her. She was a heavyset black woman in a burnt orange tunic rimmed with purple lace. Her thick braids were piled on her head in a sort of crown, run through with strings of colored pearls. She rubbed her thumb along my wrist and murmured something that sounded like “it’s all gonna be okay,” though I may have imagined it.
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