The governess was dismissed and lived out the rest of her days a skittish pauper, constantly afraid of Judson hunting her down and exacting revenge.
But the evidence doesn’t cease there. Another servant, who died under mysterious circumstances less than a month later, revealed to a local reporter (who later redacted the story and himself disappeared) that she had seen young Judson stealing up to the nursery via the back hallway at around four a.m. The servant had marked the time because of the disquiet she had experienced at the twelve-year-old’s furtiveness, but had refrained from pursuing Judson because she assumed the nanny was still watching over Sarah.
This brings me to the reason I am so frightened today.
Yes, dear journal, as I sit here by the riverside in the calm light of midmorning, I confess that I am overcome with dread at the prospect of reentering the Alexander House.
It was just after six a.m. when I was awakened by a noise so clear yet so illogical that I was at first convinced I still dreamt. But as I opened my eyes and patted my face to reassure myself I was truly conscious, I understood that what I was hearing was no fancy, that it was in fact emanating from the second storey of the Alexander House.
It was the shrieking of a child.
And not just any child, an infant. The baby, by my reckoning, must be no older than six months, for its squalls were too incoherent for a toddler, yet too powerful to be produced by a newborn. I lay in bed, wide-eyed, unwilling to credit what I was hearing. But hearing it I was, and eventually (I’ll not admit how long it took me to peel back the sweaty bedclothes and set foot on solid ground) I tottered my way to the stairs. Even as I began the climb, I cursed myself for neglecting my birch cane, not only because it steadied me, but because some childish region in my brain had long ago imbued the cane with talismanic powers. It had been passed down by better men than me, men whose belief in God had fortified them against whatever evil dwelt in the earthly realm. That I was not also a believer was immaterial. Because their belief was so unwavering, their faith represented something unbreakable, and that stalwart faith, I suspected, had somehow communicated itself to the cane, the secret weapon I kept as a boon companion.
But now I moved without it. The journey up the staircase was the longest thirty seconds of my life. For as I climbed each successive step, so too did the urgency in the child’s voice grow. When I reached the second-storey landing, the brays of the infant were well-nigh deafening. That there could be no child in the house at this or any hour did not occur to me then. So compelled was I to bring solace to that squalling newborn that I eschewed logic for passion. I was reaching for the doorknob of the western bedroom (a door I could not remember closing!) when I heard the quality of the child’s screams change.
Note that I didn’t say the screams ceased; I said they changed. Oh, how I wish they’d ceased instead! Dear God, were that the case I might even now be sitting in the Alexander House working on my book rather than trembling out here in the shade of an elm tree, my body shivering with a terror-spawned ague despite the torrid heat of the day.
When my fingers closed on the doorknob, the child’s cries grew muffled, not as though the child’s agitation had been mollified, but rather because someone or something had covered the child’s mouth.
I, too, covered my mouth, and though I know I should have entered the accursed bedroom, I was too horrorstruck to do aught but hold my breath and hope the child would be permitted to breathe freely again.
At length, the screams grew choked, ragged.
Within moments, they stopped.
I stood there quaking, unable to either enter the bedroom or escape down the staircase.
Then…though I wish I could forget the entire affair…then, with God as my witness, the doorknob began to turn. Whoever had smothered the child was coming now for me.
This was sufficient to throw me into a paroxysm of terror. I thundered down the stairs, and since that moment, nearly three hours past, I have not reentered the Alexander House. Only because I had left my notebook and pencil on the porch the day before have I been able to record here the phantasmagorical happenings within the house looming behind me.
I know it is a risk to give voice to these musings, for if something happens to me, this journal will prove my undoing. Yet the Catholics, despite the flawed basis of their dogma, do understand the cathartic quality of confession. Sharing these thoughts with you, dear journal, has provided a measure of solace. I shall continue to inscribe my experiences no matter how irrational they might sound, and in so doing I will palliate my nerves sufficiently to disprove the legends surrounding this property and its erstwhile owner, Judson Alexander.
I will reenter the house soon, but before I do, I will admit to one alteration in my beliefs. Prior to studying the account of Judson Alexander, I believed in the corruptive influence of money and the impure taint of power. Now, I must confess a newfound belief in evil. Not, as some would have it, as a floating chimera or a creature with horns and a pitchfork, but rather as an innate hunger for inflicting suffering.
Judson Alexander, I believe, was a manifestation of darkest evil.
Was, I say, such a manifestation. Not is.
It will take more than a figure in a window and the cry of a child to persuade me otherwise.
David closed the book, extricated his legs from the covers, and sat on the edge of the bed.
It was time to implement a more proactive approach.
Yes, he thought, pushing to his feet. Chris Gardiner and Katherine Mayr, he was sure, were conspiring against him. Chris’s attitude the other day all but confirmed it. Jessica and Ralph knew far more than they’d let on, and though he didn’t regard them with the same contempt he felt for Chris and his wife, he understood the folly of trusting them.
Time to formulate a plan.
Step One: Get a couple hours of sleep and rejoin the search for Ivy.
Step Two: Confront Chris and Katherine, at their Williamsburg home if necessary.
Step Three?
Step Three, he decided, was the simplest of all: Write the damned book. He needed to be more disciplined, more confident in his own abilities. Okay, so he’d underestimated the effect the Alexander House and its macabre history would have on him. He’d underestimate it no longer. He’d take measures to guard against the onset of panic. He’d make sure Chris and Katherine couldn’t make sport of him again.
Good, he thought. Good. He opened the door of the master suite, went to the hallway to make sure the front and back doors were locked. Then he returned to the downstairs bathroom, shook out a quartet of Melatonin tablets – too many, he knew, but he was desperate – and downed them with a cup of water.
He returned to bed, set his phone alarm, picked up The Last Haunting, and continued reading for the next forty minutes. Only when he reached the Hartenstein chapters did his eyes begin to grow heavy. At around one in the morning he fell into a dreamless sleep.
Only in the deepest level of his subconscious was he aware of someone watching him through his bedroom window, or the way the figure floated twenty inches off the ground.
Chapter Thirty-Two
David jumped awake and knew immediately something was wrong. For one thing, the light in the bedroom was too bright; for another, he felt too good, too strong, to have slept only the four hours or so on which he’d planned. He fumbled for the iPhone, thumbed on the power, but the screen remained black. He leaned over, checked to make sure the charging cord was plugged into the wall, and of course it wasn’t. Dammit! And now…
…now the search party would be deep into the woods.
Cursing, he flung the covers aside and hustled into the bathroom. He wanted a shower, but feeling oily and unkempt was better than failing Ivy.
He splashed water on his face and realised that’s exactly how he felt – like he’d failed the girl. When or how he’d begun to feel responsible for her
he didn’t know, but the fact was, he believed her wellbeing was dependent on him.
He rushed into the kitchen, saw it was 8:25 – dammit – and grabbed a granola bar. He wolfed it in four bites, forced it down with a glass of water, and moved to the master suite to get dressed.
In another minute he was out of the house and hurrying through the yard, but even before he neared the Shelby property, he knew something was amiss. For one, there were no voices in the woods, no signs of a search party. For another – and he was inexpressibly glad of this – there were no boats in the river, no indications that the water was being dragged.
Yet rather than relaxing him, this struck a deeper chord of unrest in his heart. What if they’d found the body? He was reminded of an axiom his father once uttered when David was a child: an ambulance with its siren blaring was a hopeful sign; it meant its occupant was still alive.
A silent ambulance meant death.
My God, David thought. Was the silence that lay over the peninsula the equivalent of a quiet ambulance?
Jogging on legs he couldn’t feel, David made it to the Shelby house and was met with a sight he didn’t know how to interpret. There were only a trio of cars in the driveway, and only one belonged to a policeman.
Policewoman, David amended, drawing nearer. It was Harkless’s cruiser. The other cars were a cobalt blue Subaru Forester and a white Cadillac Escalade.
David heard voices before he rang the doorbell.
The hand that opened the door belonged to Mike Jr.
David gaped down at him, was about to ask the boy what was going on, but before he could, Sheriff Harkless stepped into view and waved him inside. Mike Jr. looked like he’d donated too much blood, frail and ashen-skinned.
“You okay?” David asked and put a hand on the child’s shoulder, but when he did, Mike Jr. tensed, shot a look toward Harkless.
David let him go and moved toward Harkless, whom he now saw was in the sitting room talking to a young woman with a hank of long brown hair gathered in a ponytail, khaki pants, and a teal blouse.
The other occupant could only be Honey’s father, the Mayor of Lancaster.
The moment he saw David, his expression changed. The mayor’s grin, if it could be called that, looked more like a rictus of pain. His eyes gleamed.
“Ah,” the mayor said, “if it isn’t the king of the sleepovers!”
Harkless sighed, said, “David Caine, meet Jim Warner.”
They didn’t shake hands. With an effort, David broke the stare-down with the mayor and asked Harkless, “Any news?”
“You haven’t heard?”
He swallowed, terrified of asking. If something had happened to Ivy….
Maybe Harkless read this in his face because she nodded down the hallway. “Go see for yourself.”
As David moved toward the family room, he could hear Honey Shelby singing a soft, surprisingly melodic lullaby, saw Michael Shelby on the sofa reaching out to stroke someone’s hair.
Ivy’s, he saw. The child was lying in her mother’s arms, seemingly safe, her eyes closed but her breathing steady.
David looked from mother to child. “Is she…?”
“Healthy?” Honey asked. “She’s cosy and warm, not that it’s any of your business.”
David took a step forward.
“You touch her,” Shelby said, “and we tell Harkless what happened the night you kept our kids at your house.”
David stared at him blankly. The words refused to register. Kept our kids, he thought. Kept our kids….
“David?” Harkless called.
David turned and saw her waiting halfway down the hallway. She waved him over.
He looked at Ivy, saw her eyes were open.
He smiled. “It’s good to see you safe. I was—”
“Please leave,” Ivy said.
David stared at the girl. Her eyes were utterly bereft of warmth.
“Don’t come near me,” Ivy said, her expression fierce.
David’s lips worked, but he couldn’t speak.
“You heard her,” Honey said, smiling a little. “Get your ass out.”
Numbly, he left the room and joined Harkless. His mouth had filled with a noxious taste. “Sheriff, there’s something wrong.”
“Agreed,” she said. “This all stinks, but I need time to think about it.”
For the first time he realised how shaken Harkless was. He’d never seen her look like that, and in a way, this was as disturbing as the change in Ivy.
He knew he should be celebrating. The girl was safe. A few minutes ago he’d been sick with worry. Now she was in her mother’s arms.
“You with me?” Harkless asked.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t get it. Where was she last night?”
“Your cellar.”
“What?”
“She told us…” Harkless’s lips thinned, “…some story this morning about her folks quarrelling and not wanting to be in the house. Claims she hid in your cellar most of the day and all last night.”
“That’s not possible,” he said, but even as he spoke the words he knew it was possible.
“Ivy claims she went in your house when you and Jessica were here last night. Says she was hungry and went in there to raid your refrigerator. She needed a snack.”
“That’s crazy.”
“She heard voices approaching and had to get out in a hurry. That’s why she left the front door hanging open.”
And as insane as it sounded, it jibed with what had happened. The question was, why had she hidden in the cellar in the first place?
“Hey, David?” Harkless said, lowering her voice. “There’re some things you need to know. Mr. Fancy Pants over there—” a nod at Honey’s father, “—he and his daughter seem to have concocted a really…damning story about you. I know it’s not true, but you need to know.”
David’s heartbeat was a hollow thump. When he glanced at the mayor, he realised the man was grinning at him the way a nasty child grins at an insect he’s trapped.
“There’s something else,” Harkless said. “Something about Jessica.”
Before David could respond, the mayor was striding over to him. David moved forward, preferring to meet him head-on.
Though older, the man was rangy and appeared to be in good physical shape. David put him in his late sixties, with a broad, tanned face and gleaming white teeth. He resembled a television evangelist, David decided, including the hypocrisy.
“You make it a habit,” the mayor drawled, “to upset families every time you write one of your screeds?”
The last word scarcely registered. “What do you mean, ‘upset families’?”
“Why, this one,” the mayor answered, his long arms out to encompass the Shelby home. “My Honey and her family were perfectly content before you started smuggling our children into your bed.”
David glanced at Harkless, who was watching the mayor sourly.
David said, “They were with me because your daughter and son-in-law are substance abusers. Why don’t you ask Honey—”
“Defamation of character,” the mayor cut in, “is a grave matter. These allegations are unfounded and sickening. What evidence do you have?”
David noticed the woman, who was evidently from Child Protective Services, looking on with interest.
Harkless stepped closer. “Both times I’ve stopped by – including the night of Ivy’s disappearance – Mr. and Mrs. Shelby were under the influence of alcohol, at the very least.”
“In their own home,” the mayor said.
The woman from CPS said, “A parent needs to be a good role model no matter where she is.” Her voice was quiet and controlled, but David sensed a strength there and experienced a moment’s hope that this might turn out sanely.
Then the mayor spoke again an
d his hope vanished.
“My lawyers are preparing charges, Tina,” he said to the CPS woman. “The sheriff acted unconscionably last night when she wrested Mike Jr. from the house when he needed his parents most.” The sharkish smile. “And that’s not even mentioning the unlawful confinement or the police brutality. Bungee cords, Georgia?”
“It’s Sheriff Harkless,” she said in a low voice, “and I’m not one of your appointees.” She tapped the star on her chest. “I was elected, and I’ll be re-elected next cycle.”
“I doubt that,” he said. “Not when the facts of this sordid affair are made public.”
“You have no proof of any unlawful confinement,” David said.
The mayor smiled. “Just as you have no proof of any wrongdoing on my daughter’s part. It’s hearsay, Mr. Caine. Unsubstantiated and uncorroborated by anyone save Sheriff Harkless.”
David gritted his teeth.
“And that’s not even getting into the…disturbing details Ivy has shared with us since returning,” the mayor said. “If I were you, I’d consider legal representation, Mr. Caine.”
“What are you—”
“Don’t tell him anything, David,” Harkless said, taking his arm and leading him past the mayor.
“She’s right, Mr. Caine,” the mayor said as David passed. For a moment they were close enough for David to smell the mayor’s breath, and though the dominant scent was spearmint, beneath that he detected an undercurrent of halitosis, rank and unkillable. “Our granddaughter has provided ample ammunition for your prosecution.”
David stopped, shrugged Harkless off. “What the hell are you implying?”
The Siren and the Spectre Page 20
