They were still singing when the building broke apart and the children and the sisters were flung into the wind-driven deep.
* * *
AUGUSTUS Blackwood had built well. His house stood on sturdy piers that rose eight feet above the island’s sandy surface, its walls were stout, its slate-covered roof was firm. At least, that’s what Rachel Blackwood told herself as she and Colleen (in such a dire circumstance, they could hardly be Mrs. O’Reilly and Mrs. Blackwood) and Patsy retreated with the children to the nursery, which overlooked what had once been the garden and was now a surging, foam-flecked sea. The room was at the rear of the second floor, away from the Gulf, and seemed somehow safer, although the gallery that had been wrapped around the back of the house had gone the way of the front gallery, ripped off almost playfully by the giant hand of the wind.
Before they fled up the great staircase, Rachel and Colleen had chopped holes in the floors of the dining room, the drawing room, and the music room, then opened the front and back doors to relieve the pulsing pressure of the water. Now, they were standing at the second-story window, looking out across the neighborhood. There was still enough light so that Rachel could see the houses on the street behind them breaking up and washing away, the wreckage turning into battering rams and demolishing other houses as it was swept about by the waves. The Nevilles’ house next door had been among the most splendid in the city: large, three-storied, sided in an intricate pattern of shiplap boards and fish-scale shingles, painted in a colorful medley of greens and blues with red trim. But the piers on which it was built were several feet shorter than those beneath the Blackwoods’ house. Now, the Nevilles’ first floor was completely underwater, every slate stripped from the roof, the widow’s walk torn away by the wind. Rachel shuddered, wondering what their own roof looked like—and what horrors she would see from their widow’s walk, if she were able to stand there now.
Colleen clutched her arm. “Look!” she whispered. Just below them, past the window, a woman lashed with a rope of bedsheets to a wooden door was being whirled along by the waves. She lay limp and lifeless, her long hair trailing in the water like Ophelia’s, and Rachel knew she must be dead. Behind her was the body of a dead horse, grotesquely rolling over and over like a barrel whirled by the flood. For an instant Rachel wondered about Augustus. If he were alive, surely he would have braved even the worst of the wind and flood to come to her. He would not, could not abandon her and the children to face these terrors alone.
Then, just at that moment, Matthew ran from the hallway door and flung himself at her. “Mama, Mama!” he cried, clutching her around the waist. “The water has climbed to the top of the stairs! It’s coming across the floor!”
Rachel held him as tight as she could, her heart in her mouth. To the top of the stairs? How much farther would it come? How fast? The windows rattled and the floor shuddered under her feet, bricks from the chimneys were thumping down onto the roof, and wooden blinds slammed against the casements of the broken windows. Around her, the house was creaking and groaning, crying out as if it were in agony—as it was, she thought despairingly, as they were, as all were on this island, on this horrible night.
For Rachel, seeing that horrid black water sloshing across the upstairs hallway in her lovely house, the house that held everything that was dear to her, it was as if all that was good and true and beautiful in this world was being washed away.
Chapter Fifteen
Elecampane (Inula helenium) is a perennial plant common in Great Britain, Europe, and western Asia. The species name, helenium, is thought to commemorate Helen of Troy, from whose tears the herb was said to have sprung as Paris abducted her. The seventeenth-century herbalist John Gerard advocated a tea of elecampane for “the shortness of breath” (congestive heart failure); contemporary herbalists recommend it as a diuretic and expectorant. Recent research suggests that extracts from the herb are strongly antibacterial.
In the language of flowers, elecampane means “I cry for you.”
China Bayles
“Herbs and Flowers That Tell a Story”
Pecan Springs Enterprise
The clattering pans stopped dancing when Claire took one down and poured milk into it. She put it on the gas stove and turned on the burner, stirring it to keep it from scorching while Ruby took the pecan pie out of the box and got out three small plates and forks.
“The date,” Ruby said. She found a knife and cut the pie. “September eighth, 1900. You said it meant something to you, China.”
“It does,” I replied. “It’s the date of the Galveston Hurricane.” It was the deadliest American natural disaster ever—eight to ten thousand dead, according to most estimates. It was impossible to come up with an accurate count because so many victims were swept out into the Gulf or buried beneath the wreckage that littered the island. Unfortunately, the citizens had been encouraged—by their local weather expert, of all people—to believe that they didn’t need the protection of a seawall. They built the seawall, of course, too late to save themselves from the 1900 hurricane, but soon enough to protect them from the hurricane of 1915 and from Hurricane Ike, the second most destructive hurricane ever to hit the United States.
“I saw a TV documentary about that.” Claire frowned. “It must have been horrible. But I don’t see what that has to do with us. Here and now, I mean.”
“I do,” Ruby said, putting slices of pie on three plates. “Those framed photographs on the wall in the library, Claire. They’re all Galveston scenes, aren’t they? And if I’m not wrong, the photos were taken before the 1900 hurricane. Do you think maybe Rachel lived in Galveston at one time?” Without waiting for an answer, she handed me my plate. “Let’s not talk here,” she said. “Let’s go to the morning room.”
“How about the library instead?” Claire countered. “The chairs are comfortable there, and after we’ve filled China in on what’s been going on, we can look through those old scrapbooks. They might have something to tell us about Rachel. Where she lived before she built this house, for instance.”
Plate and mug in hand, I followed Claire’s and Ruby’s flickering oil lamps down a passage that probably seemed much longer than it was because I had no idea where we were going, and also because it was very dark and spooky. The lamplight cast shape-shifting shadows on the walls and high ceiling. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to see shrouded, misshapen ghosts in those hovering shadows, and it occurred to me that some of what was going on in this house could very easily be the product of Claire’s and Ruby’s imaginations. The house was that kind of place, especially with the lights off and the storm howling outside.
But still, there were the dead batteries and the ringing bell and the dancing pans and the writing on the menu board. I had personally witnessed all of that, and I can’t lay claim to an exceptionally lively imagination. Whatever was going on here must have some sort of reality to it, although it was an eerie, inexplicable reality. And Ruby and Claire had been deeply frightened—I could judge that from their grateful relief when I’d showed up at the door.
Was I frightened? Well, not then, I wasn’t. At least, my hair wasn’t standing on end and my blood hadn’t turned to ice water and I don’t think I had gone white as a sheet—all those physical symptoms of anxiety and fear that you read about in ghost stories. But I will certainly admit to a knot in the pit of my stomach and a few shivers of apprehension.
And although I couldn’t have known it at that moment, I was right to be afraid, although I could not have guessed why. What was yet to come—and soon—was more terrifyingly real and much more threatening than anything I could have possibly imagined. And there was not a thing in the world that I could have done to keep it from happening.
The book-lined room was large and deeply shadowed with a faint odor of flavored tobacco smoke in the air—another ghostly manifestation, Claire said, because so far as she knew, nobody had ever smoked a pipe in this house. Certainly not the two old ladies who had lived here.
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br /> Like the morning room, the furnishings of this room looked as if they were a century old. Claire closed the hallway door and we pulled three cushioned leather chairs into a circle around a low table, where we put the lamps, almost as if we were gathering around a hearth fire. There was something very comforting about our little circle, for the tall wingbacks of the chairs were turned away from the uncurtained windows and our plates of pie and mugs of hot chocolate were on the table in front of us. Of course, pecan pie and hot chocolate are comfort foods at any time, but on such a wild night, they seemed especially consoling. We settled down to our dessert, eating in silence while the wind howled in the eaves and shadows lurked like lost souls in the room’s dark corners.
Ruby tilted her head, listening. “That’s some wind,” she said. “I’m glad you’re not driving back home tonight, China. You could be blown right off the road.”
“I’m glad, too,” I said. “But I’m a little surprised. At six thirty, the weather forecast said that Amanda’s winds peaked when she made landfall, which must have been hours ago. But these early storms aren’t always entirely predictable, I guess.” Something loose banged against the wall—a shutter maybe, or a gutter pulled down by the wind—and we could hear the rain pelting down, harder now. It sounded as if it was mixed with sleet, or even hail. “They were warning of eight or nine inches. There’s likely to be flooding everywhere.”
“Or not,” Claire said. She finished her pie and pushed back her plate. “It might be this house. The wind howls like a banshee around here even when the wind isn’t blowing. Doesn’t it, Ruby?”
“I think I don’t quite get that,” I said around my last mouthful of pie.
Ruby nodded soberly. “It’s true, China. I saw it myself—phantom wind. I could hear it howling a gale, rattling the windows, banging something loose against the house.” Just as she said that, there was another sharp bang. “But when I looked outside, there wasn’t a leaf stirring on the trees.”
“There are phantom rains, too,” Claire said in a matter-of-fact tone. “It can be dry as a bone outdoors, not a trace of moisture anywhere. But I’ll find puddles of water in the first-floor hallway, just inside the front door, and on the second floor, at the top of the stairs. And the ceiling in one of the third-floor bedrooms has been wet since I arrived, even though there’s been no rain to speak of until today.” She added, thoughtfully, “It’s almost as though the house creates its own climate.” In the distance, I heard the bell ring. Odd how that bell seemed to have taken on the qualities of a voice. This time, it sounded bright and cheerful, like an affirmation of Claire’s statement. Claire and Ruby heard it, too, and the three of us traded glances.
“I don’t know about that,” I remarked, almost defensively, “but what’s going on out there right now is no phantom. I had to drive through it on the way here. It’s a tropical storm, for real.” I put my fork down, picked up my mug, and leaned back in my chair. “Maybe you’d better tell me about it,” I said. “Start at the beginning and don’t leave anything out.”
“It’s a long story,” Claire cautioned. “It’s going to take a while.”
“We’ve got all night,” I said, and cocked an ear to the rain, which was coming harder. Thunder was booming almost constantly. “I don’t think any of us is going anywhere.”
Even if we wanted to, I added to myself. For better or worse, we were here, at the whim and will of whatever force, natural or supernatural or both, had disabled our vehicles and our cell phones. I wished fervently for a radio or a television set so we could get the ten o’clock weather report. There was no telling what was developing out there. Lightning was putting on a spectacular light show outside the windows, and even though the floors and walls of the old mansion seemed solid, I could hear a mixed chorus of groanings and creakings, as though the house had its own story to tell and was anxious for us to hear it.
“It’s as if we were all brought here together for a purpose,” Ruby said in a musing tone. “Like one of those Agatha Christie locked-room mysteries. I wonder what we’re supposed to—”
The bell rang. It sounded closer now, as it had moved from the drawing room out into the hall. Then it was abruptly silenced, as if a hand had grasped it to keep it from vibrating. The hair rose on the back of my neck. Whose hand? Whose?
“I think we’re supposed to hear the story,” I said.
* * *
IT was a long story, which is entirely understandable, given the age of the house and its complicated ownership history. When Claire had finished (with several interruptions from Ruby, and one sharp ring of the bell), I set down my empty mug and said, “Now I understand why you wanted to have Ruby here, Claire. She’s the one who saw the ghost in the first place, when you were both here as children.”
“Saw Rachel,” Ruby corrected me. “This isn’t a generic ghost, China. Her name is Rachel Blackwood—at least, that’s who we think she is, based on the evidence in the graveyard. Her five children and her husband must have died here, perhaps all at the same time and along with their two servants. It could have been illness or some sort of violent tragedy, an accident—a fire, maybe?—or even murder. Whatever the tragedy, Rachel survived it and lived decades past it, lived to be a very old woman. But even her death didn’t allow her to escape this place. She seems to be deeply attached to it, and especially to certain rooms. The nursery, for instance.”
Ruby had already told Claire what had happened there that afternoon, and now she told me, ending with a shudder. “What I saw and heard—it was frightening. The jack-in-the box, the nursery rhyme book, the rocking chair, the giggle, the violet perfume, the sobbing. While it was happening, I was scared half to death. But afterward, I couldn’t think about being scared. I could only remember how sad I felt. Just terribly, terribly sad.” She looked at me, reading the skeptical expression on my face. “I know it’s hard for a lawyer to accept all that, China, but you’ll just have to take my word for it.” She lifted her chin half-defiantly. “I am not exaggerating. And I am not making it up.”
“I believe you, Ruby,” I said quietly. It was true. Ruby may worry that she doesn’t use her gift to advantage, or even that she doesn’t know how to use it at all. But I’ve seen her in action more than once, and I know that she’s in touch with something in the universe that the rest of us ordinary mortals are oblivious to. I don’t pretend to know what it is—to tell the truth, I don’t want to know. But whatever it is, it’s real.”
“I’ve heard some of it, too, China,” Claire said, “although not as strongly as Ruby. Sometimes it seems as though the place is inhabited, except that the inhabitants are invisible. And I suspect that anybody who has even a touch of ESP is likely to hear and see scary things in this house.” She leaned forward, her face intent. “I don’t have any idea what happened to Rachel’s family and I don’t want to be inhospitable, but that ghost really has to go. I need this house, but I can’t live here—and I certainly can’t have guests here—as long as she’s making cameo appearances and weird noises and leaving puddles on the floor.” Her mouth tightened. “And especially killing cars. People don’t want to get stuck here. They have to be able to leave when they need to.”
“I get it,” I said ruefully. “But I’m afraid I can’t make any suggestions about how to convince your ghost to leave.” I looked at Ruby. “Ruby, you’re the one with the gift, so this is your department. Any ideas?”
Ruby sighed. “Well, maybe. This afternoon, when I was in the nursery, I…” She stopped. “I don’t really know how to describe it. I felt that Rachel and I were engaged in some sort of tug-of-war, and that when it was over, I had…well, not won, exactly. But I hadn’t let myself be taken over, physically, anyway.”
“What would that have meant?” Claire was apprehensive. “What do you think might have happened to you?”
“I don’t know.” Ruby shuddered. “I don’t even want to think about it. I can’t say why, but it felt very dangerous. And I’m not saying I came out on top,�
� she added. “I just didn’t give in, if that makes sense.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Claire conceded.
“Anyway, when the tug-of-war was over,” Ruby went on, “Rachel seemed to sort of slip into my head.”
She paused, and it occurred to me that perhaps—to use Ruby’s own terms—Rachel had won, after all. If she had infiltrated Ruby’s consciousness…But I wasn’t sure what that would mean.
“At the time this happened,” Ruby went on, “I couldn’t put words to it. Rachel wasn’t speaking to me, at least not in words. It was more or less a glimmer, and certainly not a full-blown idea. But while we’ve been talking here tonight, it’s been…well, pushing its way into my thoughts. It’s coming clearer, and I think I’m beginning to understand.” Ruby turned to her friend, her face intent. “Claire, I think I know what she wants. What Rachel wants.”
Outside, there was a loud crash, like the sound of a heavy tree limb coming down against part of the roof. The house groaned and shifted slightly on its foundation, as if it had been nudged by the falling tree. I thought of the five little graves out there in the cemetery, in the wild night, the father’s grave, the graves of the servants. What had happened here? How had they died? Why?
The room was illuminated by a sudden glare of lightning, and when it went dark again, I caught the scent of violets, or thought I did. I gave myself a stern mental shake. Violets, schmiolets. I know for a fact that the power of suggestion can be very strong. I have employed suggestive strategies often enough myself when I’ve argued cases in front of a jury. I haven’t used perfume, though. Words are stronger.
Claire was leaning forward, intent on Ruby. “You know what she wants?” she asked eagerly. “What is it, Ruby? What does Rachel want?”
The wick in one of the lamps flamed up ardently, smoked, and extinguished itself. The room dimmed and the shadows in the corners thickened. Ruby was silent, her head tilted slightly, as if she were listening to something that came from somewhere deep inside her.
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