“Tomorrow we’re going to take all of it and burn it. I’m tired of having this shadowing us. We need to get rid of all of Beatrice’s things, even the letters.”
Claire felt a prickly sensation at the back of her neck but said nothing. Her fingers went to the crucifix around her neck. They had come so far. Perhaps it was time to close the mystery. With the removal of Henry’s body, the spirits had quieted. Now if they just got rid of the rest of the items from the Hagen’s legacy, they could move on.
Feeling mildly uneasy, Claire said nothing. When she went to bed she left a dim light burning and checked the cross above her bed. On impulse, she also pulled out her suitcase and donned her favorite nightshirt her mom had given her years ago, wrapping it around her like a big good luck charm. She eagerly burrowed under the covers and pulled out the romance novel she was currently reading. She had read only two pages when she heard the sharp rap outside her door in the hallway, and her eyes jerked up to the closed panel. Slowly she climbed out of bed and crossed the room on chilled toes, suddenly anxious. She couldn’t decide if she was fearful if the spirits were stirring outside her door, or if it was Cole, wandering the halls in an evening vigil. She paused and laid an ear against the smooth surface of the door, and when she heard nothing outside, she turned the knob. Squinting up and down the corridor, she stepped onto the worn runner and stood frozen.
Nothing. She turned hastily and returned to her bed, her heart pounding uncomfortably in her chest. If she made the supposition it was Cole, was she being foolish, hopeful? She would much prefer a late-night guardian than a menacing one, but she realized it was not hers to choose.
The door to the outside balcony remain a blur of ice with no pale shadows dancing behind the pane. Her dove had not returned either.
Sleep was difficult, and she found her mind racing. Finally, she settled down with her book again and read until her eyes grew heavy. Despite her concerns, she slept deeply and soundly until the sun finally rose.
By morning, the ice showed signs of melting slightly although the day seemed overcast. Claire had more hope for leaving and went down the stairs with a lighter heart. Her good mood was ruined, however, when she saw Cole’s activities. He had assembled a large number of items in the parlor and was building a fire in the huge fireplace.
“What in the world,” she muttered, watching him gather more kindling.
“I decided to get it over with. The weather seems to be warming up, and I’ve called into the city. We may be leaving this afternoon.”
Claire felt a wave of relief so strong it was almost palpable. “Oh, that’s great. Thank God. Not that this hasn’t been fun but...”
“Yes, waiting for the other shoe to drop is fun. I just want to get rid of these things quickly.”
“Well, I’m going to grab some coffee. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She left quickly, anxious as he to have done with the gristly tasks. She had the sudden urge to put the letters in the flames herself. No matter what had happened to Beatrice, Claire had a deep abiding fear she hadn’t killed her husband and left to live happily ever after. Even if her lover had turned up, happy and healthy, she doubted Beatrice’s fate had been as sweet.
The kitchen light was off, the only illumination seeping through the window shade. The light on the coffee maker blinked red, and Claire inhaled the aroma appreciatively.
She grabbed the mug off the counter, left by Cole as he had taken to doing over the last several days, and poured. Adding sugar with quick strokes, she smiled absently, thinking of her mother’s strong coffee.
She turned toward the refrigerator to grab some cream when a movement caught her attention. She walked to the dining room door, freezing when she saw her. The figure was as clear as it had been in her room. It was a young woman dressed in an archaic gown of indiscriminate color, the lines straight and plain as it swept to the dusty floor. Her hair was pulled back into a modest bun, and her hands were clasped before her, pale fingers fidgeting in the still air. It was Etta. Claire had little doubt. She looked almost exactly as she had in the photo from the little book. Although she may have been slightly older, the clothes were similar, and her expression was the same intense concentration.
She looked directly at Claire, her mouth moving in a soundless plea. The cup slipped from Claire’s fingers, smashing on the floor when it struck. The ghost of Etta stood firm, her hands raised and she shook her head vehemently, her expression becoming anguished. She was there a moment longer, then, like a storm cloud, dispersed into nothingness.
Claire stood, her face pale in the reflection of the windows. She saw movement behind her and spun again, relieved to see Cole standing quietly.
“What? What did you see?” He approached her quickly, stepping around the splattered coffee and shards of china to catch her shoulders in his hands. “Did you see them? The ghosts?”
“I saw Etta,” Claire replied, looking blankly at the mess at her feet. “She was talking, trying to say something. She kept shaking her head. I think she was scared.”
“Of what? She’s dead, for Christ’s sake. What can she be scared of now?”
“She doesn’t want you to burn it.”
His eyebrows rose with curiosity. “I thought you didn’t know exactly what she said.”
“I didn’t. I don’t. I just feel like, I don’t know...” Claire looked uncertainly at the dining room, its emptiness haunting her.
“Well, unfortunately I’m not taking any more crap from these spirit friends of yours, pardon my impatience. Come on, we’ve got some things to burn.”
He turned on his heel, heading for the parlor without waiting for her. She followed, uncomfortable and feeling like she was trapped between two very strong and determined forces. She had never seen him like that, so determined and almost angry.
She felt color flood her cheeks as she stepped over the china and coffee and followed him. If he was angry, she wanted him to face her, talk to her. The sheer ambivalence in the atmosphere was overwhelming, almost as though the house was holding its breath in anticipation.
The parlor was flooded with heat, the fire licking the sides and back of the fireplace, the greedy flames leaping over the heavy wooden frame of the painting Cole was thrusting inside. His stack had grown to include the portraits of the Hagens as well as their other pictures, several heavy books, and a trunk full of clothing. The letters and bottles lay by themselves to the side, waiting for the last call.
As Claire watched, he picked up a heavy book and tossed it on the flames.
“Who are you so angry with?” she asked loudly from the doorway.
“Angry? I’m not angry. Tired, frustrated, fed up -- okay, a little angry. I’m not letting them do this. Pop in to mess you up and pop back out, leaving you floundering. It’s not right they try to control us. No, control me through you. That’s what it’s been. They’re trying to get to me, the last of the family, and they’re doing it by messing with you.” His face looked dark and set. “You hear me!” he shouted, looking toward the ceiling. “Deal with me!”
The silence was deafening, the crackle of fire the only sound.
He took up the portraits and shoved them both in at once, watching the flames lick their faces, bubbling the paint and blackening Beatrice’s softly curling hair. The frame crumbled under the abuse of the fire and the poker, the canvases gradually folding in on themselves until the images were totally obscured.
Cole moved more swiftly, pushing the rest of the books in the huge fireplace. When the stack was cleared, he grabbed the box of bottles, snatching them one at a time and hurling them into the flames. The glass shattered, powdery contents scattering within the brick cavern.
Claire herself picked up the letters. She folded them reverently and wrapped them with the time-faded ribbon. Carefully tying the bow, she handed the packet to Cole feeling suddenly soiled by handling them. He didn’t pause, but tossed them into the fire. As the flames greedily spread over the fragile paper, a mild tremor
shook the floor.
Claire’s hands caught the chair behind her, and she backed away from the fireplace. Cole moved to her side, reaching out to grasp her hand as a pungent smell permeated the room. Claire gagged and covered her face with her hand, and then reaching up to grasp the cross hung around her neck. She looked up quickly; staring with horror as a form began to develop.
It grew, dark and huge, becoming more distinct. As before, it seemed to separate into two entities. The temperature in the room dropped as the searing heat from the fire dissipated, and a chill settled.
Claire felt her teeth chattering and a grinding pain in her hand she realized was a result of Cole’s tightening grip.
As her eyes widened in silent horror, the figures continued to evolve. The one on the left growing taller, bulkier, but still a mere shadow.
The second began to take on a more human form, the limbs lengthening until arms could be seen. Within seconds it was fully recognizable. Bulbous breasts and exaggerated hips made a cruel farce of the female form. The face was a dark sketch of her once lovely features, and her hair curled like writhing snakes around her head. Her eyes were distinct, yellowish lights sunk in a putrid face.
“You,” the sibilant whisper rippled over Claire’s scalp. “Destroying my things! How dare you.”
Her head whipped around with unworldly speed and she pinned her gaze on Cole. An odd change came over her features. “Michael? Oh Michael, you came back for me.” Her words were slurred and breathy, sounds coming from a long dead throat.
Cole stood stone still, his face a mask of disbelief.
“Don’t you know me? Can’t you see me? I thought I’d never see you again.” Her face changed again, the expression unreadable. “Why didn’t you help me? You knew he was after me? You knew he had come back, even after all we’d done to him. Why didn’t you save me? Michael? Michael did you kill me? Did you?!” The voice rose to a shriek.
Cole was stumbling back, his hand clamped hard over Claire’s arm, pulling her back with him. “I’m not Michael.”
The spirit seemed not to hear him but turned with furious speed, her horrid eyes, sunk into the twisted face, following Cole’s every move.
“You locked me here with him. You left me here with him. I killed for you.” The floor was trembling again, the plaster from the ceiling raining down on them in thick white dust.
Claire realized the spirit was caught in her own web of disillusionment and sheer insanity. She felt the eerie awareness of having lived in this creature’s mind. She was sure, in that moment, that the nightmare had not been just a figment of her fertile imagination but a replay of this woman’s final moments when her mind finally betrayed her. Chased by her guilt, she had raced down the shadowy hallway with the spirit of her own twisted crime breathing down her neck. Had she fallen then? Or had she heaved her body over the rail to land in a broken heap on the cold tile floor?
“Beatrice, you’re dead now. You need to leave,” Claire said loudly, her voice high and trembling.
“This is my home. I will never leave here!”
“Not anymore. You’re dead. You’ve been dead for a very long time. Let Henry go. You need to leave and let Henry leave too.”
The spirit looked back to Cole. “Michael?” Her voice, a hot whisper, was imploring, somehow confused.
“I’m not Michael. He’s been dead for a long, long time. Beatrice, leave.”
“I can’t. I’m here!”
The floor shook with an undulating motion, the fury causing Cole to grab Claire’s upper arm to steady her. Claire yanked the chain from around her neck and tossed the cross at the creature, saying a breathless prayer as she stumbled backwards on unsteady legs.
“We’ve got to get out of here. She’s pulling the whole place down.”
They staggered into the foyer, tripping on the tiles, broken, uprooted, and scattered. Claire froze, her eyes on the floor. Beneath the stairway, the exact area where John’s body had laid after his fall, the tiles were flipped over, yanked free. In the gaping hole was a body. Claire knew who it was before she approached it, pulling away from Cole’s firm grip.
“It’s Beatrice.” The blond hair looked like shredded yarn, the mouth pulled in a parody of a grin full of yellow teeth. “She truly did die here. Michael just left her. Left her to rot while her husband lay one floor above.”
A roar of anger, frustration and madness burst out of the parlor, sending the air into a cyclone around them. The fragile bones rattled with the tremor of the earth and the rotted dress stirred around skeletal feet in the makeshift tomb.
Cole grabbed Claire, pushing her out the front door as a wedge of ceiling broke free from above and tumbled down.
The ice was a solid sheet on the porch, and Claire barely felt the wood strike as her feet slipped from beneath her.
“Claire, darling Claire. Please wake up. Please God.”
Claire opened her eyes to see Cole’s gray face hovering above her. His arms held her tight, his breath coming in steamy puffs in the chilled air.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” her voice sounded hoarse to her own ears. “I’m okay, I think.”
She slowly became aware of the pain. It shot up her arm and into her shoulder, becoming an ache in the cold.
“I think I broke my arm,” she said softly.
“It’s okay. I’m here. I won’t leave you, and help will be here soon.”
She didn’t ask how, or what he knew that made him so certain they wouldn't be stranded on the ice slicked porch. She just lay in his arms, feeling his soft kiss linger on her lips.
She heard the soft coo of a voice over their heads and her eyes focus on the carved lip of the doorway. Perched in a small niche was a familiar cream-colored shape, the dark eye gazing at her with strange intelligence.
“Leta,” she breathed softly.
“What?” Cole’s breath pearled in the air.
When she smiled faintly, he held her tighter.
As she opened her eyes she expected to see the house, the beautiful antique bed with the lovely carvings, the French doors shaded by the heavy curtains, and the huge fireplace, empty but for a few spent ashes.
But the room was painted a bland green, the curtains a straight fall of tan, and the bed had metal rails caging her from head to foot. When she turned her head, a bloom of pain spread from the back of her head up to her temples, causing tears to spring to her eyes.
Cole sat in a straight-backed chair next to the window. His arm rested on the sill and his head rested on one hand, eyes closed and seemingly asleep. At her gasp of pain, his eyes blinked open and stared at her with glassy eyes. He looked terrible, his hair rumpled for the first time in their acquaintance, his clothes wrinkled. A shadow of whiskers covered his cheeks and chin, and his eyes were reddened.
He got up quickly and bent close, his hand brushing her cheek.
“Does it hurt?”
“I have a headache,” she responded, sounding a little cross. “What happened?”
“You got hit by a piece of the ceiling as we went out the door.” He ran his hand through his hair, his face drawn. “I guess I wasn’t quick enough. Then we hit the ice and slid down the steps.”
Claire frowned, taking inventory of her aches and pains. “Are you hurt?”
He shook his head slowly. “Sprained ankle, a few cuts and scrapes,” He gestured vaguely to a bandage on his hand. “You bore the brunt of it. A concussion and broken arm. The doctor says you’ll be fine.” He paused, easing his palm against her tender jaw. “Should I call the nurse? Get some pain medication?”
“No, not yet.” She covered his hand with her own, blinking back the pain. “What happened to the house? To Beatrice?”
“I don’t know. We had been outside for only a few minutes when I heard the plows. I ran down to flag the driver, and they picked us up. They were able to take us down to a clearing where a police officer was stationed. He drove us out to the interstate where the ambulance met us and too
k us in town. I never looked back.”
Claire closed her eyes, overcome by fatigue. “How long have we been here?”
“Since around 3:00 yesterday. I called Charles and got the phone number for Noel and your parents. I expect visitors at any time.” He smiled wryly, his eyes betraying his concern behind the attempt at humor.
“What time is it now?”
“Almost noon. Your mom was very polite but very short. She said they’d be here as soon as possible and then asked to talk to the doctor. If it hadn’t been for the snow, I’m sure she’d be here by now.”
“She can be pretty protective when one of us is hurt,” Claire responded faintly.
“It’s the parent in her. She said she wanted to talk to me. Do you suppose I’m in serious trouble?”
Claire smiled at his second attempt at a joke.
“She’ll probably want to know your intentions.”
He grinned. “I think I’m more interested in yours.” He bent close again, his smile fading. “I was thinking of getting a place nearby, maybe in town. I don’t want to stay in that house anymore, but I don’t want to leave.” She watched as his eyes darkened, betraying his emotion. “I want to stay and be with you. I know you’ll need time; we both will.”
She raised a weak hand, silencing him with a gesture. “Yes, we may need some time, and I know we said we’d go slow, but don’t get carried away. I’m not that fragile.”
“You look a little fragile. I feel like I almost lost you, and I don’t want to let you go. I want us to have a chance at a relationship.”
She took his hand, holding it loosely. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. I mean I don’t want to tie you down...”
“Maybe I want to be tied down. Besides, I already told Grandma we’d be out there after Christmas to visit. You’ll come, won’t you?”
“I’ll be there,” she said softly, yawning. His kiss was infinitely tender as he pulled the blankets up around her shoulders.
“I love you, Claire.”
Epilogue
Talitha Page 25
