Talitha

by Rachael Rawlings

  Claire forced a smile. “Sure,” she responded. She swung open the door of the dishwasher and placed the few dishes in the rack with a light clatter, closing the door.

  Noel dropped the garbage with the glass in the trash can and washed her hands. “Let’s go on up,” she said “We’ll run the dishwasher when it’s full. I’ll wash the pans in the morning.”

  They walked up together, switching the lights off as they went.

  Claire went in her room, exhausted and confused. There was an explanation about what had happened. She could picture it in her mind. But her mind screamed back that it was a lie. The glass hadn’t fallen. The table wasn’t tilted; her hand hadn’t struck it. In fact, when she forced herself to truly focus, she realized when she had examined her place at the table after the incident, the base and stem of the glass stood intact and upright. So, what would make the glass just burst like that?

  Now, tucked in her bed she left the light on. Her eyes drifted closed, and she felt herself began to dissociate. Her muscles eased as sleep took hold. She opened her eyes one last time, her gaze landing on the portrait by the mantle. The knowing eyes seemed to meet hers. Then she fell asleep.

  Chapter Five

  She woke up slowly, surprised to see the soft gray light of dawn fanning out across the floor. She felt as though she had slept only a moment, not all night long, so deep and dreamless was her rest. She knew the construction workers would arrive soon, so she unwillingly slid out of bed, warm feet touching the cold wooden floor.

  Her eyes went automatically up to the portrait; the painted eyes following her appeared mildly amused. She felt herself smile back, feeling a strange kinship to the lady who may have once slept in the same bed she now used. Shaking her head to clear it, she stood up and walked toward the wardrobe, planning what she would wear for her first real day of work.

  She caught her reflection in the mirror as she walked by and stopped short in front of the mirror. The middle of the glass appeared foggy, as though caressed by a soft, moist breath. Written in the haze, as though marked by a child's finger, were two words. GO HOME.

  Her first instinct was to obey and flee the room. If that was what they wanted, she would be happy to oblige. But instead she stood still, torn between yelling for Noel to come see what she was seeing, to witness this, and running from the room hysterically. Instead, she decided that perhaps she wasn’t seeing what she thought she saw. She blinked hard, her mind insisting, wait for it, wait for it.

  As Claire stepped hesitantly closer to the mirror, the words appeared still visible on the surface. But when she reached the mirror, the fog began to dissipate. By the time she was close enough to touch, the glass was clear, and the words were gone.

  Claire brought a single finger to the glass, watching as the reflection and her finger met. The glass was cool, but not cold, and the surface was unmarked except for the blacking age marks. It felt like, well, nothing unusual. It felt like glass, just glass. She looked at the frame and finally, gingerly, attempted to lift the mirror from the wall. Although it moved and would swing easily along the wall, when she tried to lift it off the hook, she realized it was too heavy for her to take down. Because of its age, she feared breaking it. With a grim look, she gave up her investigation of the mirror and looked around the room, still uneasy.

  There was no doubt in her mind the words had been there. Someone had written the message; someone close by. She wasn’t crazy or seeing things. The message had existed for such a short time, thought Claire, as though someone had breathed it to life as she had gotten out of bed.

  She crossed her arms protectively over her chest, feeling a sudden chill of apprehension. If someone wanted to scare her away, they had chosen a good way of telling her. The message was destined not to last, at least not long enough for her to find a witness or snap a picture for proof.

  And why would anyone want her to leave? She hadn't done anything destructive and hadn't made anyone angry. At least not to her knowledge. This had to be tied to something much larger, something about the house, about the renovation, perhaps.

  Frowning, she turned away from the mirror and checked the French doors, finding them locked. The door to her room was also secure. The only person who had a key was Noel, and surely, she wouldn't play such a nasty joke.

  Noel, she thought abruptly. She was the only other person around just now. Could it be?

  She yanked her door open and went next door, knocking loudly. After a minute, Noel opened the door, her hair standing in tufts all over her head. Her eyes were heavy with sleep. Claire knew as soon as Noel answered she had not been the prankster.

  "What?" Noel grumbled, her voice rough with sleep.

  Claire thought furiously. If she told Noel about the incident, she would look idiotic. And frankly, she didn't want to bring up something new after her wineglass exploding the night before.

  Noel continued to look at her curiously, her sleep forgotten as she watched the emotions pass on her friend's face.

  "I was just checking to see if you were up yet. Sorry to wake you. I didn't realize how early it was," Claire lied weakly.

  "Oh, well, I'll be up in about 30 minutes,” Noel responded, running her hands through the shaggy hair, “if you’re all right.” With Claire’s forced smile and nod, Noel waved and closed the door, choosing more sleep over her curiosity.

  Claire stood in the silent hallway for a few more minutes. She glanced up and down the corridor, seeing rows of closed doors but little else. There were no footprints tracing up the worn carpet or suspicious sounds emanating from behind the closed doors. Pushing her hair behind her shoulder in an unconscious gesture of dismissal, Claire returned to her room. There she paced around the room for a few minutes, checking and rechecking the windows for loose catches or signs someone had crept in her room. With nervous energy, she made her bed and rearranged her pillows. Finally, she unplugged her cell phone and called her parents’ house to soak in the reassuring voices from home. Her mother was naturally interested about Claire's new residence, so Claire spent an extra half-hour on the phone telling her details about the house and how the move went. When she hung up she felt an acute sense of loss, wishing she had been able to be honest with her family about her concerns. But no, they had enough just dealing with her father’s illness. To even suggest that her “problems” were returning would send them into a panic.

  Claire quickly straightened her bed covers again. Her braided rug seemed to have crept out from under the bed-frame as though it was slowly traversing the length of the room, so she tugged it back into place. Finally, she gathered her shower supplies and clothes. She went into the bathroom, feeling a little like she was playing Russian roulette with the shower. The water stayed warm but not hot, and by the time she was done, she felt much better. It was nice to scrub at the faded grime on her hands and she took a few extra minutes trying to remove some splotches of paint from her skin she must have gotten while passing through the active construction.

  After quickly getting dressed, Claire jogged down the stairs in the morning sunlight. She was eating toast when Noel slipped downstairs, her hair still damp. As the coffee perked in the machine, they heard the rumble of the workers already busy in the other bedrooms upstairs. Charles arrived shortly after and got down to business, assigning each girl to a different room. He briefly outlined the tasks he wanted them to perform and was specific about the cleaning solutions he wanted used because of the possible chemical reactions with some of the more fragile finishes on the woodwork. Since the workers were still concentrating on the second and third floor bedrooms, the girls started work in the wings where the plaster and drywall had been completed.

  “We want this done right and carefully, so take your time,” Charles said cheerfully. “This place has to be close to perfect.”

  It was slow, painstaking work dusting and wiping the grim off the woodwork, cleaning and mopping the dusty floor. Each carving on the fireplace held numerous creaks and crevices, which had to be
cleaned with precise care. The detail of the artwork, each minute fold of a figure’s gown or twist of hair made the job an equal part fascinating and then with time, tedious. They were provided with small ladders to reach the higher surfaces of the mantles and the built-in wardrobes as well as some of the crown molding.

  By noon, Claire felt filthy and tired, her eyes burned, and her throat ached. But she wasn’t thinking of her problems, her classes and exams, or even the mysterious happenings at the house. And even though that was a small victory, it made the work seem a little more worthwhile, at least for her sanity since it had so thoroughly distracted her.

  The girls met at lunch with some of the workers. They sat out on the lawn, leaves drifting to the ground in showers of golden green. They feasted on ham sandwiches, potato chips, brownies and ice-cold cokes, all provided by Charles. It gave both girls a chance to get familiar with some of the men they would be seeing day in and day out for the next several months. There was Paul, the best wood worker and refinisher in the business; Scott, the mechanical expert; and Brad, the electrician. All three men were sturdy and middle aged, appreciative that someone would be helping them clean up as they toiled in the old house. They had worked together on other jobs and were totally comfortable in their roles.

  In the distance, Claire noticed the bent figure of a man wading through one of the overgrown gardens, plucking out plants at random in what seemed to be a monstrous job. She noted aloud that it would take forever to clean out the beds by hand.

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  Paul followed her gaze and answered, “Eddie.”

  “And?” Noel was less patient with the lack of response.

  “Oh, Eddie’s the caretaker. He’s been working here forever.” Paul nodded in his direction, “Eddie knows all there is to know about the outside of Talitha, but won’t set a foot inside.”

  “Why?” Claire asked.

  “Don’t know. He won’t say. Funny old guy,” Paul replied and then climbed to his feet. “He’s okay though.” He balled up his trash in his fist. “Guess we’d better get going.”

  On cue, they all stood in the lawn and gathered their things. They dropped garbage in one of the outside bins and headed into the shade of the house. Claire had to admit she was a little disappointed in the men's lack of conversation. But they obviously weren't gossips and had they been more talkative, she suspected their preferred topic would have been sports rather than mysterious old gardeners.

  Too soon, it was time to return to work. Claire scrubbed until 3:00, then got cleaned up for class in the evening. She had missed her Monday courses, so she planned to arrive early to get notes from some classmates. She just hoped she could stay awake through the long lecture.

  It was approaching dark when she headed away from campus toward her new home. The center of campus had been brightly lit with friendly neon signs that advertised eateries and shops, and her eyes had difficulty adjusting as she traversed farther away from town following the interstate into the suburbs. In the Simpsonville area, the road was flanked by horse farms delineated by winding meadows framed by white and brown fences that sliced up the land into neat sections. Fewer lights out here and far fewer people. She had always enjoyed the scenery in the area in the past, but once she turned off the main road, her face became grim. The lane approaching the house was almost black in the shelter of the ancient trees, and the bridge glowed a pale pearly gray in the soft twilight. Claire had an eerie feeling of being watched and studied the bridge as she neared, suddenly seeing the vague shape of a person perched on the railing. Her heart leapt into her throat. She found herself glancing at the car door locks as though the figure might leap from the side of the road and tear into her car when she slowed. As she approached, she could see more clearly. It was an indeed a person, she realized, a man with longish hair and a sharply chiseled face with large deep-set eyes. He was still bathed in the gloom, indistinct in the shadows, but his features were strangely clear. His clothes were dark, his hair dark as well, but his skin pale. He appeared as solid and real as the structure itself, sitting on the broken edge of the bridge, one leg cast over the concrete rail that reached the height of the car door window. But as soon as she was in the middle of the bridge and glanced toward the railing, she realized she couldn’t see him any longer.

  A burst and flutter of movement on the opposite side of the arc made her gasp as a flock of birds, dark against the cool concrete, soared in their secret formation from beneath the arch of the bridge and toward the freedom of the sky. Her heart seemed to flutter along with them, but she forced herself to drive on. As she put more distance between her car and the bridge, she looked back into her rear-view mirror. There was no further movement there, no birds, no forest creatures, and no man. She braked slightly, staring into the reflection of the scene but then sped up again. She felt herself grow cold. He had been there. She was sure of that.

  She muttered a curse under her breath. Now she needed to know where the man had gone. If for no reason than to prove she had seen him. She would have much preferred to see him walking casually back up the road, or even sitting back at the bridge, long legs crossed casually as he perched on the railing. But the road was dark ahead, and getting darker, so she tapped the accelerator slightly, feeling unsettled. She couldn't stop to go in search of some crazy guy trespassing on private property, she silently scolded to herself.

  At the top of the incline, she had to stop because the gate was closed. She threw her car in park and sat in the heavy silence. The house looked dark and empty, its windows a dead black. She forced herself to open the car door and leaned out to look around her, frightened that if a figure who could disappear with such ease, he might be able to reappear just as simply.

  The night was still and silent. Claire stepped out of her car and pulled at the gate, the air and twisted metal cool against her skin. It smelled of earth and age here. The gate opened with a stutter, and she left it propped wide. After driving through, she stopped her car again, leaving the engine running. She yanked hard on the cold black iron, hearing the sharp clang as the metal hit metal. Satisfied it was closed; she turned back towards her car and the massive house beyond.

  Her eyes scanned the dark lawn and the shadowed facade of the house. From this angle, a dull glow could be seen through the front window, a reflection of a light in the dining room or kitchen. The second floor was dark. Then, as Claire watched, a light appeared in the left turret window several floors up. The glow was soft, like a candle or small shaded light bulb instead of the sharp beam of a flashlight. It hovered, still for a moment, and then drifted out of her line of vision. A second later, it was gone, as though extinguished by a breath.

  Claire shivered, jerked her car door open, and climbed back in to pull it up in front of the house. She tried to mentally shake herself out of her mood. This was stupid! She was getting freaked out because of a light. Maybe John was checking out some of the upper floors? She smiled at the thought of John, candle in hand, creeping up the spiral staircase to the top of the turret. He had been neat as a pin when she had seen him in the halls earlier, the only one there unaffected by the dust and the heat. She would enjoy seeing him a little mussed after the ribbing he had delivered to her and Noel earlier.

  She parked the little car at its place in the drive and switched off the engine. It died with a buzz and whir, leaving her in the silence of the trees. She glanced around her one final time and then hurried up the grand porch staircase. At the door, she yanked at the oversized latch and felt it give easily. Thank goodness it hadn’t been locked.

  Inside the house, she hurried through the foyer and adjoining hallway to the kitchen, breathing a shade too heavily. There she dropped her books and purse on the counter and went looking for Noel. She found her in the back living room, a tray piled with Chinese food in cardboard boxes with little wire handles in front of her. There was a strong scent of cooked pork and the television cast a bluish hue over Noel's still form. The old set was blink
ing and rolling, the reception decreasing when Claire crossed in front of the bent antenna.

  “Nice,” Claire said, looking at the old TV, trying to appear cool and composed.

  “Yeah,” Noel agreed and nodded toward the light. “This is the one and only channel we get out here, so I hope you like it.”

  “So, no cable,” Claire observed.

  “Good guess,” Noel agreed. “They’ll have to figure something out if they want this place to be successful.”

  “Yep, but that won’t help us. That’s probably one of the last things they plan on adding.”

  Noel smiled and offered Claire a chair and a plate for the food. “We’ll have to live with what we have.” She sat back, holding up her soft drink can. “They don’t deliver out here either, by the way.”

  Claire chuckled and dropped into her seat. The food smelled good, and she now realized she was starving. Aside from that, her nerves were frayed after the encounter at the bridge, her mind was alive with information she had digested during class, and her body was aching from all the bending and reaching she had done while cleaning.

  Noel watched her for a minute, then turned back to the television, sitting in comfortable silence.

  "Where's John?" Claire asked, her mouth full of sweet and sour pork. There would be plenty of food left to share if he wanted to join them.

  "Oh, he's gone out. He got me this for dinner and went out with some friends that came into town. Said he'd be back tonight but late."

  Claire looked up, surprised. "So, who was rooting around upstairs?" The words slipped out before she could think how it would sound.

  "What do you mean?" Noel asked. Then, as Claire’s words sunk in, she suddenly became more attentive. "No one's here but us, and I wouldn't dream of going upstairs. Not alone anyway."