Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  Which was just plain stupid.

  She didn’t believe in ghosts.

  So then why not run through the old hallways shouting? Did she think someone could hear her? Who? The nuns cloistered in their convent a quarter of a mile away? Did she feel the need to remain quiet out of reverence for the dead? Or fear? Of what? Possibly scaring up a snake that had taken up residence and now was coiled in some dark corner? Seeing a rat streak across the dusty floor?

  Or simply because she knew she shouldn’t be here. Not only was she trespassing, but if she was honest with herself, she was afraid.

  Of what she would find.

  Within herself.

  When the going gets tough, the tough get going . . . Her father’s words again echoed through her mind, replaying like a mantra as she stepped from the dining room and through a butler’s pantry that separated the eating area from the kitchen. She remembered being here as a child, the gleaming china, the glistening glassware that guests and patients, if they could be trusted, were allowed to use.

  The kitchen was dark and dingy, the old stove covered with grease and a decade of dirt and, she assumed from the droppings she spied, home to any manner of rodents that had obviously scampered across the counters and into the drains. She tried the door to the basement, but it was locked solidly and she felt instant relief that there was at least one dark place she didn’t feel compelled to explore.

  Enough with the facing of demons here in the kitchen, she thought and made her way to the foyer where, she remembered, an ornate grandfather’s clock had stood at the base of the stairs. The spot it had occupied was now empty, the reception desk unmanned and forgotten, the offices behind like small, airless tombs.

  The parlor, with its high ceilings, had once seemed elegant and grand. It now reeked of decay and disrepair, its faded velvet curtains tattered and torn, the one remaining chair once a deep maroon now a dull orange, its batting spewing out of the cushions and littering the floor.

  The whole damned place was depressing. If she were supposed to find any great epiphany of the soul here, it had yet to arrive.

  But then you haven’t visited her room yet, have you, Abby?

  Nothing else matters, does it?

  You need to see the room where she lived, the room where she spent her sleepless nights, the room where she finally cast herself through the glass and gave up her life.

  “Damn it,” she whispered and walked to the stairs. She climbed each riser slowly, as she had as a child, when Sister Rebecca had insisted that there was to be “No running. No jumping. No scampering about like wild hooligans.”

  At the second floor she stopped and looked down the dark corridor. All of the doors to the private rooms were open, sagging against old hinges.

  She grabbed the rail, started toward the third floor, and stopped when she thought she heard something—footsteps? —on the floor below? Or above? Holding her breath, she waited. Listened. But there was no sound save for the rain falling against the roof and water running through the gutters. The rest of the old hospital remained silent aside from the sound of her own footsteps creaking up the staircase.

  Get hold of yourself, she silently admonished, her heart hammering as, at the final landing, she looked at the stained-glass window and wondered how it had survived. Why hadn’t it been sold? What had saved it from being broken? She remembered staring at the image of the Madonna when bright summer sunlight had streamed through the colored glass, illuminating Mary’s golden halo so that it seemed to glow as if touched by heaven. Now it was dim and dark, no sparkling reds, blues, or greens on this dreary day.

  She turned and walked up the final few stairs to the third-floor hallway and froze, her heart squeezing painfully. Every door was shut, not one open as they had been on the floor below.

  “How odd,” she whispered and wished she’d had the presence of mind to bring her flashlight with her instead of leaving it in the glove box of the car. Just do this. Get it over with. She stepped into the hallway and walked directly to the door of her mother’s room. The numbers 307 were intact, and only when she slid a glance at the room next door did she find it strange. The neighboring room had no numbers on its door at all, and the one across the hall was missing the zero, so it looked like Room 36 with a gap between the digits.

  So what?

  Big deal.

  Go on, Abby, quit being such a wimp! What do you expect to find in there anyway?

  Mentally pumping herself up, she reached for the handle and tried to turn the knob.

  It didn’t move.

  She tried again. The door was probably just stuck, swollen against its frame from years of neglect. She tried again. The knob didn’t turn. It wasn’t the door that wasn’t moving; the lock had been turned.

  “Great.”

  She rationalized that there must be some valuables left on this floor, so the rooms had been locked. The stained-glass window was proof enough of that. Obviously whoever was cleaning out this old place had . . .

  Again she heard a noise, a shuffling, and her heart lurched painfully. Was someone walking downstairs? Slipping through a door? Shutting it behind him? Oh, God.

  She melted against the neighboring door.

  It gave way.

  Opened under her weight.

  She fell, stumbling loudly into the empty room. A gasp flew from her lungs as she caught herself. Over the knocking of her heart, she strained to hear any noises in this huge, nearly empty building.

  She heard nothing.

  Or did she?

  She licked her lips. Was there the slightest click of a door latch?

  Her hair nearly stood on end.

  It’s your damned nerves, Abby. Nothing more. You’re paranoid.

  Just like she was!

  A tiny sound of protest formed in her mouth, but she didn’t let it out. She wasn’t paranoid; wasn’t falling to pieces . . . no way! She was mentally strong. Had to be. When the going gets tough . . .

  Click.

  Abby’s heart thumped hard and fast. Was that another muffled noise? The nearly indecipherable sound of a lock turning?

  She wanted to call out, but didn’t. Instead she shriveled into the shadows, fear pumping in her eardrums.

  This is stupid, Abby! Pull yourself together. Do not let the settling and creaking of a condemned building scare you out of your wits!

  She forced her heart rate to slow and sagged against the wall, closing her eyes. She heard nothing. Her imagination had gotten the better of her. Again. Letting out a long breath, she fought the fear spreading through her, convinced herself that she was alone.

  Do this now and get it over with! Do it now!

  Stiffening her back, she moved to the door of her mother’s room again. She rattled the damned knob and pushed her body against the panels.

  It didn’t budge an inch.

  She walked to another room in the hallway and turned the handle. The door swung open as easily as if it had been freshly oiled to another empty, dirty, forgotten room. She tried another one, on the opposite side of the hallway. It, too, opened without any effort on her part. So did the next.

  But 307 was locked tight. The only room on the floor. Her mother’s bedroom. The supposedly safe haven from which Faith had flung herself to her death . . .

  Or had it really happened as she’d believed all these years?

  In her mind’s eye Abby observed her mother at the window . . . Had Faith been looking outside, making the sign of the cross over her thin chest, mentally preparing to leap through the glass?

  That’s what she’d always thought, but in her dreams Faith, frightened and shivering, was always staring away from the window and toward the open door . . .

  Thump, thump, thump!

  Footsteps!

  This time Abby heard the tread clearly. Someone was mounting the steps. Her lungs constricted and she gazed around in panic. Quickly, she shrank into the shadows, slowly sliding back into the room across the hall from 307.

  Who w
ould be here now?

  Had someone seen her?

  Or did they have their own reasons for entering this decaying asylum? For climbing to the third floor?

  But why?

  The entire building looked as if it hadn’t been entered in years. She was drawing in shallow breaths, trying to make no noise whatsoever, hoping desperately that whoever was coming hadn’t heard her, didn’t know she was hiding.

  Still the footsteps echoed through the stairwell.

  Closer.

  Almost to the landing.

  Oh, God. She swallowed hard and prayed.

  Steadily the tread neared, the floorboards of the upper hallway groaning in protest.

  She closed her eyes. Hardly dared to breathe.

  Nearer.

  Oh, sweet Jesus!

  The footsteps stopped.

  She opened her eyes and nearly screamed.

  Looming in the shadows was a dark, bulky figure.

  CHAPTER 12

  Abby gasped and stepped backward.

  “You’re the girl, aren’t you?” a soft voice demanded. “Faith’s daughter.” The figure moved closer, out of the shadows and Abby nearly collapsed as she saw the old nun’s face, a countenance she thought she recognized.

  “Yes . . .”

  “What are you doing here?”

  I wish I knew! “I was told, by my shrink, that I should come back here. You know, to resolve some issues I have.”

  “Did he also tell you to trespass and break in?”

  Heat climbed up her neck. “That was my idea.”

  “You could have asked.”

  “Would anyone have let me in?”

  The nun smiled and shook her head sharply. “Probably not. I’m Sister Maria, by the way.”

  Sister Maria. Of course. Abby stared at the old nun in the dark shadows and imagined how she would have appeared twenty years earlier with smoother skin, a healthy glow, more robust . . .

  “I thought I saw someone heading over here, so I followed,” Sister Maria went on. “I’m just not as quick as I used to be, so it took me a while to catch up to you.” She cocked her head to one side. “So, then, Faith, I assume you found what you needed?”

  “I’m Abby. Faith was my mother.”

  “Oh . . . yes, of course. That’s what I meant.” She blinked as if to clear her mind.

  Abby asked, “Why is the door to my mother’s room locked?”

  “Locked?” the older woman repeated. “I don’t think so. None of these doors have been locked since we closed the hospital. What’s it been, nearly fifteen years? The main doors, yes, of course they’re secured, but nothing inside.”

  “I couldn’t open it.”

  “Swollen shut, I imagine . . .”

  “Don’t think so.” They walked across the hall to 307. “And all the doors on this floor were closed, every last one of them, though, as you said, unlocked.”

  “Really?”

  “But the doors to the room on the floor below were open.”

  “Isn’t that odd,” Sister Maria said distractedly, seemingly unconcerned as she tested the door. It didn’t open. “Oh, come on.” She tried again. The door held fast. “Well, I’ll be.” She gave it one more shot before giving up. “You’re absolutely right,” she finally admitted. “It’s definitely locked. How strange.”

  She sighed and looked to the side.

  In Sister Maria’s profile Abby witnessed a younger woman, hurrying past, skirts billowing as twilight descended and Abby passed her on the stairs . . . “You were there,” she said, realizing for the first time that this was the nun who had rushed to her mother’s side, felt for a nonexistent pulse in Faith’s throat. “The day my mother died. I saw you.”

  “I worked here at the hospital, then. Yes.”

  “I was visiting . . . it was her birthday,” Abby said. “I—I was bringing a gift to her.”

  The old nun frowned. “You?” She focused on Abby’s hair, then her eyes. Confusion drew Sister Maria’s eyebrows into one. “That was you with the gold box and pink ribbon?”

  “Yes. It was my birthday, too,” Abby said, feeling the old sadness running through her. “I’d found this afghan in a little shop on Toulouse Street. It was white with a silver thread running through it and I knew my mother would love it . . .” Fragmented images of that long-ago night cut through her mind. The package. The gauzy ribbon. The blood-freezing scream. Her mother’s body lying broken by the fountain as she stared down at her . . .

  “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. I thought it was your sister, the girl with the black hair, who was carrying the box that day.” The nun was clearly puzzled. “Hadn’t you run by me on the stairs, near the landing? You were racing up as I was hurrying down, on my way to the convent. I’m sure of it.”

  “No.” Abby shook her head, but felt something dark and insidious run through her mind. “That’s impossible.” Or was it? And yet she repeated her story, the one she’d been so certain was true. “I’d just gotten out of the car when it happened.” Goose bumps crawled across her skin.

  As if she’d had a premonition.

  But of what?

  Why was the old nun staring at her so hard? What was with the unspoken accusations Abby suddenly felt simmering between them? As if she were lying. About what? The gift box? But that was silly. Abby remembered holding the bulky thing and fighting with Zoey in the car about who would actually get to carry it inside. As if it mattered. Abby had been impatient, her mind running forward to the upcoming dance and Trey Hilliard and . . . that was right, wasn’t it?

  The nun was confused, that was all. Sister Maria had made a mistake.

  And yet there was a sharpness to the woman’s dark eyes, as if she understood Abby more than she did herself. Abby cleared her throat. Forced a smile. “So you knew her, my mother?”

  “I didn’t know her well,” Sister Maria answered cautiously, “I’m not certain anyone really did.” She paused and looked at the door to Room 307. “If it’s answers you’re seeking, I’m afraid you’re not going to find them in here. At least not today.” Sighing, she touched Abby on the arm. “Your mother had a strong faith, child. Perhaps instead of searching through old hallways and dark rooms, you should look to God.” She motioned to the murky hallway. “This isn’t where you’ll find what you seek. You need to look inside yourself, into your heart. The Father will help you.”

  Abby thought about all the hours of prayer, the sleepless nights when she’d cried and reached out to God, especially right after her mother’s accident. Where had He been then? She’d searched her heart, her mind, her soul, and all she had come up with was an overwhelming sense of despair laced with more than a tinge of guilt.

  “Come now, there’s nothing more for you here. And besides, this building has been condemned.”

  By whom?

  The State of Louisiana?

  Or the tormented souls who had resided here?

  Abby hadn’t come this far to be thwarted. “I know, Sister, but I really need to visit my mother’s room before the wrecking ball destroys it forever. It’s part of my personal quest, my attempt at moving on with my life, of getting some closure about my mother’s death.” The nun hesitated. “I’ve prayed, Sister Maria, believe me. And I think God has led me here.” That was a bit of a lie, really, but Abby wasn’t beyond stretching the truth a bit, even to a nun, to get this behind her.

  Maria stared at her, sizing her up. “All right, then,” she said slowly as if she wasn’t quite sure what to believe. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  With this assurance, Abby allowed the older woman to shepherd her toward the stairs.

  “We have a caretaker for the grounds,” Sister Maria said. “I’ll ask him to come and check the door, see if he can find a way to open it.” She offered Abby a kind, understanding smile that Abby thought was odd. How could this woman know anything about her? Or was it just her communion with the Lord that made her seem so calm, serene, and understanding? “It may take some time,
Mr. DuLoc has a lot of work taking care of the convent, but he’s a very resourceful man. I’m sure he’ll be able to help.” They had descended to the second floor and the old woman stopped to squint down the darkened hallway. “I thought you said all these doors were open.”

  Abby couldn’t move a muscle. She looked down the corridor and her heartbeat deafened her ears.

  Every door was closed.

  Shut tight.

  “Isn’t that curious,” Sister Maria thought aloud and walked to the first door. “Hello? Is anyone here?” she called out, obviously irritated.

  “Who would be here?”

  “I don’t know, but let’s find out.”

  “No, wait!” Abby stepped forward, not certain who or what she thought would be behind the door, but she couldn’t stop the nun from yanking on the handle of 206. The door opened easily, allowing some light from a single cracked window to spill through the room and into the hallway.

  Abby let out her breath. Next, Sister Maria reached for the handle of 205 and pulled it open.

  No bogeyman jumped out. No one screamed, “Gotcha!” No ghost or monster or wraith appeared in a greenish cloud only to disappear.

  “You’re certain these doors were open?” Sister Maria asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  The old nun raised an eyebrow, obviously disbelieving.

  “Did you notice when you came up the stairs?” Abby asked and tried one of the doors herself. It swung open without catching. Room 204 was empty.

  “I really didn’t pay attention.”

  “What? But you were following me.”

  Sister Maria nodded. “And I knew where you’d go, didn’t I? My eyesight isn’t as good as it once was, the hallway was dark . . . darker than this. I think the doors were as they are now, Abby.”

  But that couldn’t be. Abby’s fear dissolved and she marched down the hallway opening doors and peering inside, leaving the one directly under her mother’s room for last. She walked to that final door, set her jaw, and yanked hard.

  The door stuck.