Talitha

by Rachael Rawlings

  Claire abruptly shook her head. “Stupid! We’ve forgotten the timeline! The turret rooms didn’t even exist when Beatrice and her husband, what was his name, that's right, Henry. It wouldn't have existed when they were here. They were built after the house had been abandoned the first time. This couldn’t have been Etta’s rooms. Or Beatrice’s.”

  “But the turret is involved, even if it wasn’t Beatrice’s doing. And the rest?” Noel looked around slowly.

  “The rest makes sense. But if the lovers got away free, and Etta hid their things, then who’s doing the haunting?”

  “Good question.”

  “And I remembered one other thing. Remember after we first moved here when I asked you who had lit the lamp in the turret? I thought it was John, but you said he was out for the evening. Whoever it was had to have a reason for being here, and I think we just found it.”

  “So, we’re back to the first question. Who lit the lamp, and who is doing the haunting?”

  Claire sat silently for a minute, looking intently at the letters. “It would be the one person who was unhappy with the situation.”

  “It’s her husband. He got angry after she left and closed up the place and died here, an unhappy hermit. Now he’s staying here because he knows this is where they did it. This is where they betrayed him.”

  Claire eased up onto her knees. “But that doesn’t follow exactly. He wouldn’t be in the turret either. It wasn’t here while he was alive. And if it were just him, why the two ghosts holding on to each other?” She stopped and turned to look out the window at the beautiful view. The trees were a riotous mass of color; red, flaming orange, bright yellow, and green fought for dominance in the dusky landscape. But Claire barely saw it, her eyes turned inwardly. “I don’t think she ever left here.”

  Noel’s eye widened but she caught Claire’s implication quickly.

  “He killed her. Beatrice.” She said in a breathless voice. “He found out, and he killed her. Then he got rid of her body, claimed she left, and pretended to be upset because of her unfaithfulness.”

  “But did Etta know the truth?” Claire asked, mostly to herself.

  “Probably. I don’t know. Why protect the letters if he found out about the affair?”

  Claire paused. “Only Etta knows that.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Claire stopped the car and looked up at the lighted windows of the house. Her mixed emotions showed vividly on her face as she pulled out her small suitcase. Being home with her family had been wonderful, rejuvenating.

  Her brothers had teased her unmercifully, her mother had cooked rich seasonal fare until she felt she was as stuffed as the Thanksgiving turkey, and her father had declared how proud he was of her. She was the first in a long line of Martins to finish her master’s degree.

  She had smiled, laughed at the good-natured ribbing, but died a little inside. She had so desperately wanted to lie with her head in her mother’s lap and cry. She hated that she had created such a barrier between her parents and herself, even though she knew the beginnings of the rift had been formed long ago. She had taken that incident at the abandoned house and locked it tightly in her mind, bound by embarrassment and fear. And at the same time, she had subconsciously decided there was something about herself she needed to hide. It had taken Talitha to make her see what a mistake it had all been. But it still didn’t diminish her desire to be protected. She wanted to spill out all her fears and lean against their solid warmth.

  In the end, she had said nothing and driven back with a firm determination to see it through. She had decided at the last minute to take a detour into town with a very specific list of errands to run. She had stopped only twice, once at the church supply store where she picked out a lovely brass crucifix to hang on the wall in her room and an ornate silver cross pendant on a chain for Noel. On impulse, she had bought a plain silver one for Cole as well. Her second stop had been at St. Francis Catholic Church on her way out of town, and she took with her the small bag.

  Thundering organ music signaled the end of 12:30 mass, and Claire walked in as the other parishioners filed out. Father Walters stood at the door, shaking hands and exchanging remarks about the weather and the upcoming parish building project. Claire waited until the church had cleared before approaching him.

  “Father Walters, hello,” Claire said as she approached him.

  “Claire, I heard you were coming into town. Did you attend an earlier Mass?”

  Claire took his outstretched hand, smiling at his firm handshake. He had been at St. Frances for 10 years, retiring there and content to stay in the familiar setting, to say a few masses between fishing trips and hospital visits. His white hair and lined face hinted at his age, but his handshake was firm and his eyes clear.

  “We went to 9:00. Mom and Dad still like to get us up as early as they can.”

  “Your brothers still in town?”

  “No, they left yesterday and I’m on my way out.”

  He looked at her closely, his expression concerned. “Are you feeling alright? You look a little different, tired or worried.”

  “I’m fine, just dreading finals. I’ll be home again at Christmas, but I wanted to ask you a favor.”

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, waving her towards the front of church.

  Her eyes went to the illuminated windows, the plaster saints, their eyes raised to heaven in silent supplication. This place was special, as full of life and spirit as the Talitha house. But here the air fairly hummed with serenity, the silent song of angels. She had always felt a special comfort in this place. And never, even in her childhood, had she seen one of the shadowy specters.

  Her mind suddenly snapped, like a picture being brought into focus from a blurry lens. But perhaps that wasn’t exactly true. When she was just over six years old an elderly man had suffered heart failure during mass. She could see the memory now with crystal clarity. The service had stopped, and one of the parishioners, a nurse, had administered CPR as they waited for the ambulance in silence. Claire had stepped out into the aisle while everyone in the church had frozen, kneeling in prayer, as the priest stood at the altar giving a ritual blessing as old as the faith. She could picture it now. Her shoes had been shiny white patent, and she had slid a little on the marble floor. She had tiptoed to see, only knowing the flurry of activity in the front had continued, the woman in the pretty blue dress leaning over the old man and pressing on his chest. The priest had been muttering softly, and over his voice, the sobbing of a woman echoed grief into the still air. And then it happened. In that short time, Claire had seen him, like steam rising from his cooling body. The man had stood and walked a few short steps to the altar. His face was ablaze with a strange light, and he was smiling. Claire had heard another sob and tried to call out, to tell them he was going, but her voice had remained silent as though frozen in her throat. The spirit had stopped and, turning for one last look at his grieving family, had again melted into an indistinct shape that floated, no flew, upwards into the hot white light streaming through the open window.

  Claire had cried then, for the pure joy of it in her childish heart. It was easy for her to see the purity and the ecstasy, even if her young mind had no words for what she was seeing. And she finally discovered where they were meant to be; those poor lost souls that had become her companions. But she had never told anyone about that incident, although the church became a place of solace.

  They stopped at the altar, and Claire realized the priest had been speaking to her.

  “What? I’m sorry?”

  “I said, are those gifts for me, or are you here to show me something?”

  She smiled back. “Actually, I’d like them blessed if you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not. Haven’t blessed anything for you since first communion rosaries.”

  She took out the objects and handed them to him, one at a time.

  “Wait here for a minute while I get my things,” he instructed and disappea
red to the side of the altar. When he returned, she had spread out her purchases and prayed with him while he read from his prayer book.

  After he was finished with the blessings, they had made small talk, but the question was in his eyes. She knew he blessed things all the time, jewelry and rosaries, and even more elaborate things. But she hadn’t asked the favor for a long time. When she left, he took her hand again in a tight clasp.

  “If there is anything I can ever do for you. Anything at all, you know where I’ll be. God bless you, Claire.”

  Tears had blurred her vision as she walked quickly away, listening as the church bell tolled the quarter hour.

  Now, approaching the house, she held the paper bag in front of her like a shield. Ben’s car was nowhere in sight, and Claire wondered if he had brought Noel back yet. They had together gone to Noel’s mother’s house for the holiday and were planning to stop in at his parents’ before returning to Talitha. Claire found it touching that they had progressed so far in their relationship, enough to want to share it with their families. Noel had changed as well. Gone was here careless disregard for the future. She had acquired the glow of love in bloom that came with an anticipation of things yet to come.

  Claire hesitated and looked back to her car. If the house was empty she wouldn’t go in, she thought desperately. She couldn’t, not by herself.

  The front door opened and a figure stood, framed in the doorway. Soft light illuminated features, fine sculpted and familiar. His hair was pulled back off his face, raked back with impatient hands. The dim light seemed to emphasize his eyes, large and luminous in his shadowed face.

  “Are you coming in or running out?”

  She walked up to the foot of the stairs where he met her, his warm hand brushed hers as he bent to take her suitcase. She could smell his scent, warm and intoxicating.

  “I didn’t know if anyone was home. Ben is bringing Noel, and I didn’t see the car...”

  “They’re not here yet. I’ve been back for most of the day. I didn’t want you to come back to an empty house.”

  “I wouldn’t have stayed. I’m not that brave.” She dropped her eyes from him and looked at the rough stone of the porch. The open door yawned before them, and Claire felt herself holding back. She hated the foyer, hated it with a passion that was uncontrollable and frightening.

  “Are you okay?” His hand went to her arm, turning her away from the door. “Claire, are you alright? What do you see?”

  She shook her head and looked up into his concerned eyes. She could almost melt in the depths of them. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m fine.” She walked determinedly in, noting that he trailed her closely as she went up the stairs and into her bedroom.

  It had remained untouched except for the dress that continued to rest on the bed. She took the suitcase from him and placed it on the bed, holding the bag in front of her. She didn’t know what religion he was but suspected since the funeral that he was Catholic. She felt strangely vulnerable, bringing to him a symbol of something so intimate, so special to her. But she dug into the bag with greater resolve and pulled out the necklace.

  “I don’t know if this will help, I mean, it’s just a symbol to some people, but I got you this.” She held it out, the silver catching the light.

  He lifted his hand, taking it gingerly. “I used to have something like this. My grandfather’s family was Catholic.” He smiled, putting the chain around his neck. “Not a bad time to go back to the Church.” He unbuttoned the first button of the shirt, slipping the cross inside, next to his heart. “Thank you. I appreciate your concern for me. It’s been awhile since someone has cared.” He stopped awkwardly.

  “Perhaps it’s time for that to change,” she said impetuously, feeling a well of sympathy for him, for the bleak expression on his face as he gazed slightly beyond her.

  The door below slammed and Noel’s voice carried, loud and sharp, up the stairway. “Claire, where are you?”

  The rest of the evening was spent settling back in. Noel had brought leftovers from her turkey dinner which they reheated for a late supper. Ben had followed her in and stayed to make sure they were comfortable. Claire felt sure Noel had told him about the recent events at the house.

  Cole especially seemed to enjoy the meal, and Claire was surprised again at the sharp prick of empathy she felt. While she was basking in the glow of familiar warmth at her home, he had taken a business trip to Denver. When she asked about his Thanksgiving, he brushed the question aside, choosing instead to distract the flow of conversation to her vacation away from the house.

  Ben left slightly before 10:00 and Claire took Noel upstairs to give her the cross necklace.

  “It’s beautiful. You said you had it blessed? That’s so cool.” She hung it around her neck. “Now I’m ready for anything, vampires, werewolves, the boogieman.”

  Claire shook her head smiling. “I think you need a silver bullet for werewolves, but we haven’t spotted any of those yet.”

  “Yet is the word,” Noel said, rolling her eyes. “Around this place you can never be too sure. But seriously, thank you. I know how much your religion means to you, and right now I think we all have a good reason to look to a Higher Power for some help.”

  Monday morning was spent in classes, and Claire had never felt so eager to get back to Talitha. She felt a strange suspended sensation, as though her life and the lives of all around her had been placed on hold until the situation at the house was resolved. Cole had declared no cleaning was to be done until the following day, and then only light housework would be necessary. With the laborers gone, their services had been reduced to cleaning the renovated areas of the house and cooking meals. No promises had been made about the job following Christmas, but Claire wasn’t prepared to think so far ahead anyway. When she drove through campus to pick up Noel, she was pleased to note that the car was working well. With cold weather setting in, she didn’t want to become stranded anywhere.

  Once home, Noel decided some additional exploring was called for.

  “Come on, what else do you have to do this afternoon? Don’t tell me you think you can concentrate on your schoolwork. I can barely pay attention while the class is in session.”

  “I agree. But don’t you think we should check with Cole before we go exploring any further?”

  “He won’t care, and you know that as well as I do. I think we might just find some good stuff in the attic. We may even find some things that will give a clue to our ghosts.”

  “I think that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Well, I prefer to be an informed victim.”

  “I know, I know.” Claire reluctantly acquiesced and followed Noel up the steep side stairs to the third floor. Noel grinned as she dragged a reluctant Claire up the final set of stairs into the attic. The silence in the house was complete except for their footsteps as they climbed the stairs. They started at the far end of the attic, opening the door into utter blackness. It was no surprise the place was sound, no crack of light invaded the place. The leaks that had previously plagued the roof had been repaired months ago, and the house felt as tightly sealed as a tomb.

  A series of bare bulbs provided light, the wire so new that no dust had settled. It was apparent they had been recently installed with the renovation of the upper floors. The attic was cut up into many rooms of various sizes, some shut behind thick wooden doors and others open without so much as a doorframe.

  The dust was thick and choking, even when the girls walked gingerly along the path left by the workmen as the lights were installed. The attics were full, packed with decades of furniture, representations of each phase of decor.

  The oldest was in the main part of the attic, just above the original rooms. Here were large, lumbering pieces of furniture; the fabric thick and dark with little pattern, ripping a little at the hand sewn seams. Over all, it was well made but unattractive.

  Many of the corresponding decorations were piled atop the furniture, graceless lamps and dark
tapestries depicting hunting scenes; many shrouded in sheets for protection. Stacked neatly against the wall were paintings, their frames chipped from careless handling. It was apparent the new owners had wasted no time in moving all the old things up into the attic since none of them resembled the more elaborate pieces still in place on the lower floors.

  “Bingo!” Noel exclaimed, laying out several portraits face up.

  “Oh lovely. The Addams family revisited,” Claire said dryly, moving them closer to the light.

  The portraits were poorly rendered, heavy handed with stiff expressions and dull eyes. The first was a man, dark haired with coarse features, his eyes hooded by thick brows that met in the center of a lined forehead. His nose was slightly bulbous, his lips a dark slash above a square chin. His skin looked browned by the sun, but the colors were difficult to determine because of the dust and grime accumulated after years of storage.

  The second was a woman, as light as the man was dark. Blond hair was gathered atop her head and girlish ribbons twined in the curls and fell to bare shoulders. The overall impression was of youth and beauty, a stark contrast to the man.

  “Could this be Mr. and Mrs.?” Claire asked softly.

  “I was thinking Beauty and the Beast,” Noel responded grinning.

  “Let’s look at the others. Maybe they were just some other relatives.”

  Noel looked skeptical but pulled out the rest of the pictures. Hunt scenes, poorly painted landscapes, and a still life. All were different, by various artists according to the flourish of a signature, but none were impressive in quality. They hadn’t pressed for much decoration or some of the pictures were gone, because there were too few for such a large house. But no other portraits of the inhabitants were found in the area, and the two girls carried their find downstairs.

  The library was conspicuously empty; Cole was busy with meetings in the city. They laid out the portraits and, taking only a dry cloth for fear of damaging the paint, dusted as best they could.