Shade and Shadow

by Theresa Jenner Garrido

  Just when she thought she couldn’t go one more step, Randy tripped on something in front of her and fell against another set of cold, stone steps—this time going straight up. On hands and knees, she crawled up the rough staircase—so narrow and steep, it was almost a ladder. When it came to an abrupt end, she groped around and touched the uneven surface in front of her. Could this be a dead end? Was she going to end up like her aunt, after all?

  Randy rose up on tiptoes feeling the wall in earnest. Beginning at the top, she let her hands run down the surface until they hit the stair. Up and down, back and forth, she searched. With tears pouring down her cheeks, she slapped the wall with the flat of her hand. “Come on. Where is it? There has to be a way out. There has to be.”

  For what seemed an eternity, Randy ran her hands up and down the wall. By now her arms ached and her palms stung. This wasn’t the way she wanted it to end. There had to be a way out. Had to be. They wouldn’t have built it otherwise. They wouldn’t.

  Slapping the wall for the umpteenth time, she hit a tiny knob that gave her palm a painful poke. With an exclamation, she withdrew her hand and rubbed it against her thigh. Then, as the significance hit her, she brought her hand back to what she hoped was the general direction. But she couldn’t find the button.

  Giving the flashlight a vigorous shake, she turned it on. The dying bulb emitted a feeble glow. She aimed it at the wall. Balancing on tiptoes, she pressed an eye almost to the surface, willing the knob to show itself. “Where are you? Come on. Where are you?”

  And then she spotted it, an almost imperceptible protuberance hidden close to the ceiling. Randy pulled and pushed on the little button in growing desperation. She was rewarded with a click and a section of the wall moved, sliding upward like a garage door. Randy peered through the opening into a dark room filled with boxes and old furniture. A battered motorcycle leaned against one wall. The place looked familiar.

  “Jeez. It’s the old kitchen. What do you think of that?” She squirmed through the small open panel and straightened up. She stood there for a moment letting her eyes get accustomed to what seemed an impossible glare in comparison to the infinite darkness she’d just endured.

  “Miranda, dear,” a male’s low voice said behind her.

  Randy jumped a foot. She whirled around to see Uncle Arthur, large flashlight in one hand, materialize out of the yawning void from which she’d just come. “Uncle Arthur. Jeez. You startled me. Were you down there? I thought I was alone.”

  “Yes, my dear, I suppose you did. I have not been in the tunnel long...not long. I only came down a few minutes ago. The family...the family is very upset over your disappearance...very upset, indeed. They discovered your absence several hours ago and have been looking for you...and it occurred to me that you...that you may have stumbled on the...on the tunnel. So I came...I came looking for you…down here. I always knew you would find the secret door...sooner or later. You are nothing but resourceful, my dear. Yes...very resourceful.” He chuckled ruefully. “Or, perhaps I should say, incorrigible, hmm? Yes...that’s the term I want...incorrigible. You should have emulated your more reticent and retiring cousin, dear, ever the lady, Willadee. Now, there is a young lady who knows her boundaries. Yes...oh, yes…” He sighed.

  “You knew about the secret tunnel?” Randy asked, fear making the tiny hairs on her arms itch. “You knew your sister was down there...all this time?”

  The facial tic was visible even in the semi-darkness of the old kitchen. Uncle Arthur lowered his head, and a groan escaped his now grimacing lips. For a full minute he didn’t answer, but when he finally spoke, it was in a low, guttural voice that she didn’t recognize. “Yes, my dear, I knew. I knew. I knew. I knew. And it has been eating at me for over forty years.”

  “Why? Why didn’t you tell somebody? I don’t understand.”

  The man she’d come to know as the weak and high-strung Uncle Arthur—the eldest brother of her deceased mother—the ‘sweet’ uncle who was going to rent a car for her—now didn’t look so benign, so sweet. And when he raised his head, he looked directly at her. It was the first time since Randy had arrived at The Shadows that he actually met her, eye to eye. This simple, normal act in anyone else now made Randy shudder.

  Her uncle interpreted her rising fear, and it spurred him into action. “Come along, my dear, come along. We, uh, we have to go back down...into the underground passage. Hurry now. You go ahead of me. Hurry. We’re wasting time. We’re wasting time.”

  Randy shrank back but his arm shot out and grabbed her by the hair. She gave a small yelp but stifled it after seeing the strange, faraway look in his watery blue eyes. He wasn’t looking at her any longer. Instead, he’d regressed into the shrinking, overly sensitive man he’d been for the past umpteen years.

  “Uncle Arthur...why do we…” she had to swallow. “Why do we have to...go back...down there? She’s down there...Miranda’s body is down there. We need to let the others know.”

  “Be quiet.” he barked. “I told you that they are out looking for you. They could be nearby, and I do not want them to hear you. Now, hurry. I do not want to do this, Miranda, really I don’t. You must realize how much this is hurting me. But I can not risk anyone finding out about the treasure. Don’t you see? The treasure. It belongs to me. I found it. It is a tribute to my family and what they accomplished. It should be a memorial to them...a sacred trust. If the others discovered its existence, they would want to sell it...prostitute all it stands for. Do you understand? Do you see why I must protect it? At all costs?”

  Randy shook her head in utter bewilderment. “No, I…” Before she could finish her sentence, her uncle yanked her down the steep staircase into the bowels of the secret tunnel. Randy didn’t struggle. She was too stunned to think straight. She couldn’t believe that her uncle—her mother’s brother, her flesh and blood—was doing this to her. It seemed something out of a very bad movie.

  He pulled her after him down the long tunnel and then made a sharp turn to the left. In her groping ordeal down the main tunnel, she hadn’t noticed this side passage, similar to the one where she’d found the lost Miranda.

  It wasn’t very long, but narrow, with a low ceiling. When her uncle skidded to an abrupt stop, Randy almost collided with his bulky frame. He shoved her to the side and directed his flashlight beam on the mass of things in front of them. To her surprise and bewilderment, the light displayed a collection, even her untrained eye could see was valuable.

  There were candlesticks, a tea service, and flatware—blackened from need of a good polish, so most definitely silver. There were numerous crystal vases and bowls and plates. Several ruined paintings leaned against the wall and Randy suspected they were originals by famous artists. Some things she knew were made of gold—whether solid, she couldn’t be sure. All in all, it was a magnificent assortment of very fine and priceless objects.

  “What is this? Where did it all come from?” she gasped.

  Uncle Arthur, their plight momentarily forgotten, brightened with unbridled enthusiasm. “They are wonderful, aren’t they? They belonged to my family...the owners of this stately house, back before The War.”

  “The War?”

  “Yes, my dear, The War Between the States. Union soldiers descended upon my people like wolves on a pack of innocent sheep and began pillaging and plundering, so they had to hide their treasures in a safe place. I discovered this underground tunnel when I was fourteen. I didn’t tell a soul about my discovery.

  “I went off to school, blissfully content that I had my future secure, should I choose to sell any of the priceless items. I courted my college sweetheart and hinted at the wonders I would lay at her feet, although, as I thought more about it, it came to me that I owed it to my ancestors never to sell, but to protect what they so ardently wanted protected. It is my heritage. Our people helped found this state. We are, after all, related to such inspiring heroes as Francis Marion, you know.”

  “Y-yes...you told me, but…”<
br />
  “My grandfather was part of a vibrant community, filled with artisans and men of letters. ‘The Charleston Renaissance’ they called it...and it was. It truly was.”

  Randy was dumbstruck with the fluidity of his sentences. He hadn’t faltered nor stuttered once. His whole face glowed. Then the older man frowned suddenly, and Randy thought he was going to lose it. He pursed his lips and struck a balled fist into his other hand.

  “And then that silly Miranda...that spoiled, recalcitrant, foolish sister of mine...stumbled onto the secret entrance in their playroom. I could have throttled her, but, as it turned out, I didn’t have to. She was already dead when I found her. Oh, God.”

  He threw his hands up to his face and sobbed brokenly. “Oh, Miranda. Why? Why? Why?”

  Randy touched his sleeve. “I don’t understand, Uncle Arthur. You didn’t...you didn’t kill Miranda, did you?”

  He looked up, stricken. “No. No, of course not. You foolish girl. What a thing to say. She disappeared while I was away at the university. It did not even occur to me that she might have discovered the tunnel...not for several weeks, anyway. When the unspeakable idea did enter my mind, I was almost too afraid to find out for certain.”

  The man’s shoulders slumped and he looked old and frail—a broken-down man, burdened with an overwhelming secret. He coughed, reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and mopped his perspiring face. “Oh, God...I went down...and I...I found her. I found her. She was curled up like a little child who had merely fallen asleep...so sweet...yet so-so awful...” He looked at Randy with eyes that seemed on fire. “She was dead. Do you hear me? My sister...Amanda’s twin...was dead...decaying there like some despicable rodent. And it was my fault...my fault. If only I had remembered the tunnel in time, she might have been saved. She need not have died like that...frightened and alone and cold. Cold. I should have remembered.”

  “But, Uncle Arthur...why didn’t you tell them...your family...when you did remember? Why keep it a secret? Poor Aunt Amanda...all these years…”

  “Because then I would have to share my secret. Don’t you understand? Then the priceless heirlooms would have to be divided among us all. And that would not be fair. I am the one who found them. I am the one chosen to be the sentinel. Like a Knight Templar protecting the Holy Grail.”

  “So...why show me? Why did you make me come back down here if you wanted to keep the treasure a secret? Why, Uncle Arthur? Why?”

  “My dear, you already know too much. You would tell them. You would destroy my precious secret.”

  Something sour rose up in Randy’s throat. “No, I wouldn’t. Uncle Arthur, please. I’ll keep your secret. I won’t tell a soul. I promise. I’m your niece. I’m your baby sister’s daughter. Uncle Arthur, please.”

  “No, my dear, you wouldn’t be able to...keep that promise, I mean. You would tell someone, and my secret would be a secret no longer. Oh, no...no, no, no.” He shook his head sadly. “I am so sorry. So very sorry, dear...but Emily will forgive me. Emily will understand. She loved our history...our past. She was proud to be a South Carolinian. Even living in such an awful, god-forsaken place as the Northwest, she loved her home.”

  And then Uncle Arthur—the man she’d thought wimpy, timid, and lost in history—raised his arm to bring the flashlight—gripped, vice-like, in his blue-veined hand—down on the top of her head. Randy sidestepped him just in time, a shrill scream escaping her gaping mouth. He lunged for her, his breath coming out in wheezing gasps.

  Randy screamed again and turned, catapulting down the narrow tunnel like an animal gone wild. Without a flashlight of her own, she bumped into the rough, clammy sides of the passage, bruising her arms and shoulders, in her frenzy to evade this uncle-turned-maniac.

  Somehow—she couldn’t have explained how she did it in a million years—Randy found the staircase that led up to the old kitchen. Scrambling up the steep, narrow steps on hands and knees, she flung her arms up to grope for the tiny knob. Behind her, Uncle Arthur sobbed and called for her to return in a voice too gentle to be sane.

  “M-Miranda. My dear. Sweetheart. Come back. I won’t hurt you. Come back. Please.”

  With amazing dexterity, he took the steep stairs two at a time. Randy swallowed another scream and slammed her fists on the closed panel. He grabbed her shoulder and forced her to turn around. “Stop it, Miranda. Stop it this instant. Do not make this any more difficult than it...than it already is. I have no more patience, Miranda. No more.” He pulled on her arm, almost upsetting them both. Without a thought to her elbows scraping along the walls or the fact that she was breathing in strangled gasps, Arthur dragged Randy back down the stairs. Then he released his incredible hold on her, and she collapsed in an ignominious heap at his feet.

  She tried to scramble up but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. They felt rubbery and too weak to support her. It was like trying to run in water—desperate to move but finding too much resistance. All she could do was look up into the blinding light of her uncle’s flashlight.

  “Oh, p-please...Uncle Arthur,” she whimpered.

  “I am so sorry, my dear…”

  “You’re not sorry, you’re crazy.”

  “But I am...I am sorry. You are my niece. I love you. You are my dear sister’s only child.” He raised his arm. “Now, close your eyes, dear, and it will be over quickly. You won’t have to be frightened much longer. You won’t suffer the fear and loneliness and the unimaginable cold that dear Miranda did. No...I promise it will be done quickly.” He raised his arm higher.

  “Arthur Bainbridge. Stop. Stop.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The voice came out of the darkness, making both Randy and her uncle flinch. Randy lowered her arms from around her head and scrambled to sit up. She watched in disbelief as a figure materialized out of the impenetrable void. It was the illusive robed spirit who’d been haunting Randy’s thoughts and dreams for the past week. But it wasn’t the dark face she’d expected to see.

  “Elizabeth…” Randy murmured.

  At the mention of his deceased wife’s name, Arthur Bainbridge gasped. By the way the flashlight’s beam bobbled up and down, Randy knew the older man was unable to control his shaking. Then he spoke and the unrecognizable voice was from a being in the depths of mortal agony. “Elizabeth? Elizabeth? My, God. Oh, my God. You’ve come back to haunt me...to punish me. Oh, God, I cannot endure any more of this nightmare.”

  Randy didn’t wait another second. She clambered to her feet and flung her arms out in front of her. Numb by the time she reached the narrow stairway, Randy half crawled, half stumbled up the crumbling steps, too much in shock to see, let alone feel. Frantic, she groped for the tiny knob. Behind her, Uncle Arthur was sobbing out of control and the woman—Elizabeth’s ghost—called after her.

  Ignoring the woman, Randy pounded on the small panel—willing it to submit. She lifted her foot to kick at the door when the wall suddenly opened, and a blinding light enveloped her.

  “Miranda Smith?” a forceful male voice called out. “Miranda? Miranda, it’s all right. Come on, now, you’re all right...that’s it...I’ve got you.” A strong hand pulled her out of the inky depths.

  The old kitchen was lit up brighter than a penny arcade. Randy blinked, blinded by the glare. Several voices were talking at once, but she only recognized Uncle Colton’s, Henry’s, and finally, Aunt Amanda’s. It was her aunt who engulfed her in a fierce embrace. She felt rather than saw the tears that poured from her aunt’s eyes.

  “Aunt Amanda? Aunt Amanda?” she croaked, her teeth chattering like marbles on a tile floor.

  “Shh, sweetheart. Don’t talk right now. It is too confusing in here. Wait until we are back at the house. You are safe, dear, dear Miranda. Thank God, you are safe.”

  Her eyes were focusing better, and she could make out uniformed figures milling around. Several had already descended the stairs in search of Arthur Bainbridge. Randy could hear muffled shouts, but was unable to make out what they were say
ing—or doing. Aunt Amanda whisked her away from the turmoil and noisy muddle of people and glaring lights, across the yard to the relative calm of the big house.

  Once inside the kitchen, however, they were surrounded by the babbling, incoherent voices of Carolina, Willadee, Esther, and Evangeline. Amanda had to shout in order to quiet their strident questions.

  “Quiet, please. Miranda is not going to answer any of our questions now. She has been through enough for one day. I am taking her up to her room, helping her bathe, and putting her to bed. You, on the other hand, are going to fix her something light and easy to digest and something warm to drink. After she has slept for a while, we will get to the bottom of this unbelievable story, once and for all.”

  In a daze, Randy was only half-aware of her aunt’s gentle ministrations. Before she knew it, she was tucked into bed. The clean, fresh scent of lilac engulfed her senses and she drifted off to sleep. The soft-boiled egg and hot tea had to be returned to the kitchen, untouched.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Randy stirred and yawned. Stretching her legs under the sheet and blanket, she drifted up out of the sleepy world where she’d had a wonderful time visiting her mother, sailing on Puget Sound, and eating chocolate-covered cherries in the hammock. Yawning again, she opened her eyes. She was surprised to see Aunt Amanda sitting in the wing chair pulled up close to her bed.

  “Aunt Amanda?”

  Her aunt smiled and Randy was taken aback by its sweetness. She couldn’t recall having ever seen her usually severe and dower aunt looking so relaxed.

  “Yes, Miranda. How do you feel? You have slept for over thirteen hours so you should feel well rested.” She reached out a hand and smoothed the hair off Randy’s forehead. Randy sat up in consternation.

  “Thirteen hours. Sheesh. I’m totally out of it.” Then everything came flooding back. She remembered her horrible experience in the hidden passage—Uncle Arthur and his terrible secret. She shot a glance at her aunt and shuddered. “Oh, Aunt Amanda. Aunt Amanda...I found...down there…”