The Box in The Cuts: A Supernatural Mystery

by Debra Castaneda

  It is official. She is now giving me the silent treatment. This can go on for days. Until I finally say I am sorry.

  As we sit there in silence, the wind starts up again. It's whistling through the trees and rattling the windows. It's a good thing we're not talking because I'd have to shout to be heard. At least the power hasn't gone off. I get up and find a flashlight and some candles just in case. When I peek outside, water is rushing down our street like a river. I can imagine the little creek at the bottom of our backyard. It's probably overflowing by now.

  Finally, the storm slows down. My mother still isn't talking to me, but at least the thunder has stopped, and the wind has calmed down.

  My phone rings. I hurry out of the room, hoping it’s Gabe.

  It's Alfie. He's talking so fast I can hardly understand what he's saying. Something about Raj and Mary McKissick. I can just understand the basics. Raj tried calling Mary, but she didn't answer. She was home alone, so he got worried and went to her house. Nothing. No sign of Mary. Raj called Alfie, and they broke into her house. Alfie catches his breath.

  “She's dead, Samantha!” Alfie shouts into the phone. “Mary is dead.”

  Chapter 34

  The storm continues to whip through Hillside. It sounds like someone is standing outside, throwing buckets of water at my window.

  It's three o'clock in the morning and the wind is whistling through the trees and screaming across the telephone wires. It's impossible to sleep. But I'm not getting much anyway, thinking about Mary McKissick. Dead. Like the others.

  Alfie's up. He texts, asks if he can call. When I answer, his voice is flat. He says it was a nightmare, finding her burned body huddled in a corner of the entryway. Raj cut his hand smashing it through the window they had to break to get inside. After the police arrived, he went to the hospital where he got thirty stitches. Then to the police station, where Alfie was already being questioned. They were finally allowed to go home after midnight.

  “She showed up at the Wirth Mansion,” I say.

  Alfie sighs. “Raj told me.”

  “He didn’t tell you everything because we didn’t tell him. Mary became obsessed with the mansion after a tour and she said she couldn’t stop going there. Madison saw her talking to a portrait. That’s when she called me. We found her outside, sitting on a bench talking to herself. I asked if she was hearing voices, but she wouldn’t answer me.”

  Another sigh, closer to a moan. “Shit.”

  “I didn’t see her at school,” I continue. “I tried calling her, but she didn’t answer. I thought maybe she just didn’t want to talk to me. I should have gone to the office. Or done something.” I’m crying now, thinking of everything I should have done but hadn’t. “Why was she at home, alone?”

  “She went to school. That’s what the police told us.” Alfie hesitates. He sounds exhausted. “Her parents had hired some lady to stay with Mary after school until they got home, but she had some sort of an emergency and never showed up and she didn’t call anyone, either, to let them know Mary would be home alone.”

  I don’t feel the least bit guilty for wishing horrible things to happen to that lady, because she deserves it.

  I can't believe Mary is dead.

  Sleep finally comes, and when I wake up it is a bright, cold morning.

  Outside is a mess. Tree branches broke off in the storm and are scattered everywhere. Palm tree fronds litter the sidewalks. Leaves clog the storm drains so there is nowhere for the water to go. Parts of the street have turned into lakes.

  While I slept, the Hillside Police Department posted a press release on the death of Mary McKissick on its website.

  With trembling fingers, tears sliding down my face, I type a short breaking news story, sticking to the facts given in the statement. The police had asked Alfie to keep his role in the discovery of the body to himself, at least for a while, and Alfie agreed.

  When I walk into the kitchen, dressed, my mother is sitting at the counter drinking coffee. She is decked out for work. Saturdays are her busiest day at the salon. When she sees me, she bursts into tears. “Oh my god, Samantha, I am so sorry, baby. I was terrible to you. I don't know what got into me.”

  This is a first. My mother never apologizes. It can mean only one thing.

  I make myself a mug of hot tea. “You heard about Mary McKissick?”

  More crying. Then my mother gets up and hugs me, like she'll never let go. “Yes, mija, I heard. It's terrible. Just terrible. And she was on the newspaper with you, right? That's what the TV news said this morning.”

  My mother gets a stiff barely there hug in return, but she doesn't seem to notice because she's so upset. As usual, it is all about her. How upset she is. My father doesn't ask any questions about Mary, but he gives me a bear hug and kisses my forehead. “We can talk about this later if you want,” he says into my ear. Then he leaves to deal with the fallen tree outside.

  Breakfast is ready. I’m not feeling hungry, so I ignore the ham scramble and nibble toast and sip my tea.

  The doorbell rings. It's Alfie. “Hey, Mama Reyes,” he says to my mother, which is what he always calls her. “I'm taking Samantha. It's a workday for us too.” He looks so worn out that my mother pats his cheek but doesn't ask him any questions. He pulls me aside and explains a police officer he met overnight tipped him off about a news briefing at the station.

  My dad is outside with Daniel, cutting up the giant tree branch that's blocking the driveway. They're using chainsaws, one on each end. Daniel stops what he's doing and stares. I wave, but don't go over to say hello. I'm not sure what to say. I don't think I can handle another one of our awkward conversations.

  When the car door closes, I say, “I can't believe she's really dead.”

  Alfie rubs the side of his face. “I can't either. And I saw the body. It's one thing writing about this stuff, it's another seeing it. Jesus Christ. What could do that to a person?”

  “Maybe spontaneous human combustion is real after all,” I say, leaning over and picking a leaf out of his hair. “Remember the article Mary wrote? She did such a great job. Did you know she wanted to be a science writer?”

  Alfie shakes his head. “No. But she could have if she wanted. She had real talent. And she was nice, too. Sweet.” Then he buries his face in his hands. I'm not sure if he's crying, but when he starts the car, his eyes are red. Now I'm crying, too.

  I turn and study his profile. “You okay?” He looks terrible.

  “No. There's something I didn't tell you. Mary saw a woman at her house. In the backyard, then inside. Raj says Mary called him to tell him about it, but she hung up. When he called back, she didn't answer. That's why he went over there. He told me when we were at the police station.”

  My heart starts thudding in my chest. “You're kidding. Did she call the police?”

  Alfie shakes his head. “No. She said the lady just appeared out of nowhere, and then disappeared, then came back again. Mary thought she might be seeing things, and she didn't want to sound crazy. But Raj called them, only he messed up and gave them the wrong address. He told them it was Oakview Drive, not Oakview Circle. That's why we got there first.”

  It's cold in the car. I shiver in my seat, pull my sweater over my hands. “Monica's sister said there was a woman wandering around before the fire started in their backyard. And now Mary saw one too. And the way they both describe her. Like she's a ghost. And remember what Emily asked the neighbor lady? If it was possible her house was haunted? I mean, are we seriously talking about ghosts?”

  I glance at Alfie. He's staring straight ahead at the road, frowning. “Maybe. Probably. Yeah, it sounds like they're describing a ghost.”

  “How is that possible?”

  Alfie shrugs. “Forty-five percent of Americans believe in ghosts. I looked it up. And get this, there are supposed to be nine types of ghosts. Nine.”

  “You're kidding. You must have got up early.”

  “I never went to sleep,” Alfie say
s, turning on the heater. “I couldn't get Mary out of my head. Burned like that.”

  “Maybe you should go home. Get some rest. I can handle the press conference alone.”

  “God no. The second I close my eyes I can see her. I plan on staying awake so long that I just fall over and crash.”

  A downed power line comes into view. It's dangling above the road, suspended between two tall trees. Alfie steers around the orange cones. “I read some stuff about ghosts. There are poltergeists, time slips, elementals, apparitions, and others with names I don't remember. Just don't ask me what all of them are because I don't remember that either.”

  I stare straight ahead. “You know it was exactly eight days yesterday that we had our editorial meeting? The one where Mary and Destiny predicted someone would die?”

  He nods. “If we had any doubt about a pattern, this settles it.” His eyes widen. “What's up with Destiny? Does she know?”

  I shudder, thinking about the phone calls I made to the girls. Chloe shrieked, then began crying. At first Madison was stunned into silence but then started talking about Mary's strange visit to the Wirth Mansion. Destiny whimpered and dropped the phone.

  “Not really,” I say. “Madison and Chloe were going to her house to make sure she's okay.”

  “Destiny is blonde,” Alfie says, pointing out the obvious. The elephant in the car.

  “I know. She has a thing about the Wirth Mansion, too. But when I asked her about it, she just said the place has always freaked her out.” I pause, take a deep breath. “I mean, how do we keep her safe? From what?”

  We don’t talk the rest of the way. We’re too tired. Overwhelmed.

  At the police station, there's just a single TV news van, but it's just a matter of time before the media hordes begin arriving. Inside, we find out the press conference is rescheduled for the afternoon. There's no point in hanging around for hours so we head back to the car.

  “You know our moms won't be able to keep their mouths shut about you and Raj finding the body, right?”

  Alfie sighs. “It'll be all over town by the end of the day. I don't know why I told her, but I did.”

  Alfie tells Vanessa everything, but I let it go. “You were upset. Don't beat yourself up.”

  “The police told me not to give anyone Mary's address. The reporters will find out soon enough, though.”

  It occurs to me that I don't know much about Mary, what she was like outside of school and our editorial meetings. “Where did she live?”

  “I'll show you,” Alfie says.

  We take a new route. The Wirth Mansion looms into view. We drive past it a couple of blocks, then Alfie turns on a skinny street that dips into a canyon. Another one of Hillside's hidden neighborhoods.

  There are just a few houses on Oakview Circle. It's obvious which one belongs to the McKissick’s because there's a black coroner's van parked in the driveway.

  Police cars are everywhere, including one that blocks the entrance to the dead-end street. On the outside it's a typical, traditional house painted gray with white shutters. It doesn't take much to imagine what's going on inside.

  A police officer motions for us to drive away, so Alfie backs up. This time, we take another way out of the canyon and there it is again, the Wirth Mansion.

  “Mary's house is really close to the mansion,” I say. “It's just over that hill.”

  Alfie pulls over and stops the car. He looks at me, both hands gripping the steering wheel. “Yeah it is. Emily's house is across the street from the mansion. And you said Nicole's house was nearby, too. What about Monica's house?”

  “It's in Old Hillside.” I point. “It's on the other side of that hill.” Hillside isn’t called Hillside for nothing. There are hills everywhere. Hills covered with redwood, pine and eucalyptus trees.

  Alfie starts the car. “I want to see where Monica lived.” His voice is urgent.

  It takes less than three minutes to get there. We exchange looks.

  Alfie's first to break our stunned silence. “Is this just a coincidence? What are the chances that all four girls lived within, what, half a mile of the Wirth Mansion?”

  I nod. “Less. It's walking distance. We know Mary visited the mansion. We need to try and find out if the other girls did too.”

  Chapter 35

  Before I do anything else, I decide I need to do a little research of my own. Starting with the mansion. It’s the one thing that links all four victims together. Mary had visited. Emily Miller practically lived in its shadow. It would have taken Nicole and Monica fifteen minutes to walk there, less if they cut across the hill separating them from the place.

  The History of the Wirth Mansion isn't available online, which means a trip to the Hillside Public Library.

  It's busy for a rainy Sunday. Teenage girls cluster together inside glass-walled study rooms. By the looks on their faces, they're talking about Mary McKissick.

  Chief Legaspi released few details at the press conference. Reporters pounded him with questions about a serial killer. He gave the usual answer: “Investigators haven't made any clear connections between the victims.” He said the only common denominators between the four girls were their age—seventeen—their blonde hair and that the deaths occurred indoors.

  I can think of at least one more, besides the girls living close to the Wirth Mansion. Three of the girls had visited the place within a few months of their deaths. This was easier to find out than I'd hoped. It was just a matter of making some calls. Mr. Miller said his daughter Emily went on a tour with her school. Mrs. Goodman admitted she’d taken both her daughters to a special tea in the Grand Parlor. Gabe said he remembered Nicole telling him about a visit to the mansion sometime before school started. The biggest surprise came from Raj. Their first date was a tour and breakfast at the mansion. His mother's suggestion. He said Mary had loved it.

  I’m in luck at the library. The Wirth Mansion book is on the shelf. I tuck it under my arm and then search for books on ghosts. There are only a few so I grab them. I find a place in a quiet corner and sit down.

  The History of the Wirth Mansion is a skinny book with photos in the middle. Mostly faded pictures of the mansion. It looks even creepier in brownish sepia tones.

  My heart skips when I come across a picture of the carriage house near the creek, the same place Madison and I found Mary McKissick sitting alone, talking to herself. In the photo the carriage house is new, not falling apart like it is today. It's the very same building a construction crew stopped working on because, they said, it was haunted.

  Much of the book is devoted to Charles Wirth, the rich banker who bought the big summer home in 1860. He added ballrooms, parlors and bedrooms until it was a proper mansion with a veranda and a secret passageway for the servants.

  While Charles Wirth had a wife, that didn't stop him from having mistresses. The author describes his wife as a “jealous, bitter woman” who turned all her attention on her younger son, David. “A focus bordering on the unhealthy,” the book said. Her older son escaped the clutches of his mother by moving to Europe. In a portrait it's clear David was good looking, even with his curly blond hair scraped over in a side part. Today, he'd be called hot.

  Another photo shows David and his mother together. Something about it makes me shiver. Posed outside the house, she is staring straight at the camera clutching his arm. He's smiling, but it's fake. His eyes are flat and serious.

  The author's note says the photo was taken the year before Edith Wirth's death, the result of a mysterious fall. After that, Charles and his son moved out of the mansion, never to return. It sold to a General Baldwin. That's when the story gets interesting.

  On her first night at the mansion, the general's wife—described as a nervous, superstitious woman from Ireland—woke to “frightful noises”: doors slamming, pounding on walls and the screams of a woman.

  The general investigated, thinking someone had broken in or the servants were playing tricks on them. He found the se
rvants in their beds and there was no evidence of a break-in.

  The noises continued night after night. The family dog, a spaniel, began behaving strangely, acting terrified and refusing to leave the general's side. The final straw came three months later when one of the maids and a housekeeper saw a woman in a “dull-colored dress” walk up the grand staircase.

  “Alarmed, fearing a stranger had entered the house, the two women searched the upstairs, but found no one. This was reported to Mrs. Baldwin, who packed her bags and refused to stay another night in the house, insisting it was haunted.”

  General Baldwin announced he'd had enough nonsense and sold the house.

  The Wirth Mansion was bought by Guy Haner, a man who made his fortune selling supplies to miners in the Gold Rush.

  “Excuse me,” a voice says. “Can you please stop that?”

  I look up, surprised. A college-aged guy in a sweatshirt is sitting at a nearby desk that was empty when I sat down.

  “Me?”

  He smiles patiently. “You've been drumming your feet on the floor. It's making it hard to concentrate.”

  I look at my feet in surprise. Sure enough, my feet seem to have a life of their own, tapping against the floor. “Sorry,” I say, gathering up the books.

  I'm itching to continue reading when I get home, but my dad has other plans. He takes me to lunch and then a movie to take my mind off things. Except it's impossible. I keep thinking about Mary McKissick and cursing myself for not seeing her death coming. If only I would have spent more time with her, explained more, tried to get her to open up. When I'm not thinking about her, I'm wondering about what happened when the Haners moved into the Wirth Mansion.