by Ann Cook
“I know what I saw,” she said defensively. “We’d stopped the boat near the shore. Kind of in front of that old house. Then one of my girl friends goes, ‘Look over there. Isn’t that the house that’s supposed to be haunted?’ That’s when I looked. I go, ‘Oh, you must be joking.’” Her eyes grew rounder, remembering. “First I just looked at how big the house was, like it was so high, right near the edge of the water. And then I saw something that looked like a figure at one of top windows. I couldn’t make out much about it, but it moved. Looked like someone’s head and shoulders. That was spooky enough.”
When she removed her fingers from the steering wheel, Brandy could see they left damp streaks. “I was still trying to figure out what I’d seen at the window when something moved down on the lawn. Lights were on downstairs, so I could see. The shape of a woman was coming around from behind the house. But it didn’t look like a real woman, you know what I’m saying? It’s hard to explain.
“You couldn’t see through it or anything, like in the movies. But it didn’t seem to walk. It kind of glided, like its feet weren’t touching the ground. It kept moving toward the lake and when it got to the boat house, it went right into the wall. It was there one minute and most of us saw it, and then it was gone.” The girl’s eyes pled with Brandy to believe her.
“Do you mean it went through a door?”
Charlotte shook her head. “No, Ma’am. That was what was so scary. The figure just disappeared into the wall. I didn’t see any opening.”
“Could you tell me what the figure was wearing?
“Well, it was pretty dark, but there was light from the house and our boat. Whatever, the thing was wearing, it didn’t reach to the ground. Seemed like it had something white around its neck.”
Brandy hoped she could get some details to connect the figure with Eva Stone. She framed her next question carefully. “Try to describe what was at the neckline.”
“It wasn’t white like a mist or a fog, or like that. It looked like it had sharp edges. It wasn’t very long. Below that I saw something like reddish cloth. Well, we didn’t wait to examine anything carefully, Miss O’ Bannon. I wasn’t the only one who saw it. Some of the girls started screaming, and we just took off.”
“I appreciate your telling me about this,” Brandy said.
“None of the other girls will talk about it. The guy driving the boat says it must’ve been a trick of light, or the shadow of a cloud passing over. Our folks want everyone to forget what happened. They say it was all in our imaginations. They think we were drink-ing——but it happens we weren’t.”
Charlotte stared through the windshield, chin up and defiant. Then the blonde head dropped, and she gripped the wheel. “Still, I don’t want you to use my name. I don’t care if you write what I told you, but to get my parents off my back, I told my parents I’d shut up about it. If they see I’ve talked again to a reporter, they’ll ground me for a year.”
Well–documented interviews, Brandy thought grimly. Those were Mr. Tyler’s instructions. She thanked Charlotte, nevertheless. Even though she wouldn‘t be quoted, the girl’s description might later give Brandy’s account credibility.
She pulled out of the parking lot, aware that she faced her moment of truth. Who could she use as a witness? None of the other students were even willing to speak to her. Only one possible witness came to mind——herself. She would have to follow her plan, even if she followed it alone.
FIVE
After Brandy checked her county map, she took 441, turned south, passed over a canal, and finally cut right on the small road near Lake Dora’s south rim. Mentally she took inventory. Her mother didn’t expect her until very late. She had a pen flash-light——its beam would be hard to see from the house——and her note pad and a flash camera. To look professional, unfortunately, she had worn a shirt waist dress and pumps, not entirely suitable for a stake–out in the woods.
As she made the final turn into Sylvania’s lane, she faced the inky blackness of woods. Overhead, branches arched in a thick, dark canopy. She felt a sudden tightness in her chest and lectured herself severely: nothing was here at night that was not here in the day time. Besides, no one had ever claimed this alleged haunting hurt anyone. What danger could there be in simply watching?
Before she came to the parking area, she pulled off the road under a live oak draped in Spanish moss. Then tucking her purse under the front seat, she locked her car, pocketed the pen light and her car keys, and hung her camera on a strap around her neck. As she slogged through the sand toward the uneven side lawn, she cursed her high heels. Skirting a ragged fringe of cherry laurel, she inched around the back side of the house and crouched behind shrubbery several yards from the lake. She had a good view of the boat house where Charlotte claimed she saw the figure. Because the lake side of the house and its dormer windows faced the shoreline, they were not in her direct line of vision. No light came from the two side windows.
Time passed slowly. Her legs began to cramp, her eyes to ache from sheer concentration. Far across the dark expanse of water glimmered the tiny lights of Tavares. For an hour the only sound was a throaty chorus of frogs. Then behind her on Blackthorne’s lot something creaked. She caught her breath, heard small thud-dings, raspy panting. A metallic clank, the rattle of a lock.
And then she knew, knew with absolute certainty, what was coming. Someone had opened Blackthorne’s gate. Even while she stumbled to her feet, she could hear claws raking the ground. She screamed a panicky “Help!” her voice lost in the oaks and the cypress, and looked toward her distant car. No way could she reach it. No way could she reach Sylvania’s door, either, even if it were unlocked. The house loomed tall and silent. At the same instant the Dobermans leapt through the gate, she scrambled toward the boat house, then spotted the padlock rusted on its side door. In front of her lay the black waters of the lake.
Frantic, she glanced over one shoulder. Both dogs were loping toward her, their strides long and confident, their teeth flashes of white. Kicking off her pumps, she flung the camera on the ground and dashed, gasping, toward the water’s edge. Again she heard herself call out, but she was not conscious of making those strange, high sounds. If she turned around, if she tried to go back, the dogs would fall upon her.
“Oh, God!” she thought when she felt the cold wetness over her feet. Would they follow? She’d never been around attack dogs. Her feet slipped and she caught herself, one hand plunging under the surface to steady herself. The muck of the lake bottom rose over her ankles. Groaning, she pulled free, threw herself forward, dragged one foot after another.
Behind her the Dobermans had paused at the water’s edge. One whined and trotted back and forth, undecided. The other, bolder, tried the water daintily with both paws, then waded out a little, stretching his neck, baying. In a nightmare corner of Brandy’s brain lurked the sound she had heard the night before——an alligator’s grunt.
Like a thunderbolt it came to her. She was re–enacting Eva Stone’s walk——only not deliberately, not with dignity, but with a frenzied desire to live. The news story had mentioned a drop off, but where? Behind her the second Doberman had now lunged into the water and was striking out toward her, his neck and head extended, ears flat. She lurched on.
Suddenly near the boat house she felt the water tremble. Something large was moving toward her, something churning under the surface. Her mind exploded with the paralyzing image of a huge ‘gator. Her heart gave a giant leap, and her foot stepped into nothing.
She forgot every rule about saving herself. Floundering blindly, she tangled her arms in weeds, strangled on a mouthful of fetid water, was dragged down by wet clothes, and went under.
***
She was only half conscious when she felt herself lifted, water swirling around her, felt her lungs fill with air, felt her head forced into a collar, and then the cool night on her face. Hands pulled her through an opening above the lake and she found herself lying on her back on a hard, vibrat
ing surface, eyes shut, head to one side, water dribbling from her lips——cold and wet and sick at her stomach.
Shivering, she opened one eye and looked into a canopy of stars. Next to her a thin band of light fell across a man’s sodden tennis shoe. Mack, she thought groggily and murmured his name. He came, after all, hauled her to safety. But there wasn’t a deck this broad in his speed boat. She opened the other eye, stared up at the base of a console and a captain’s chair.
“Better?” A man knelt beside her and gently removed the life jacket. Brandy could not hear an engine, yet the craft was steadily moving. His next words answered her question. “Glad I got a trolling motor. Gets me in closer and quieter. We’re pulling out now.”
The churning in the water——the blades of an electric motor? A face came into focus——a wet lock of dark hair, sharp cheekbones, a damp mustache. When she looked into the concerned brown eyes, she tried to speak and instead moaned.
“Gotta guard against shock,” he said. “You’re white as a ghost. No sick joke intended.” He began tucking his jacket around her. “Better move you to the back seat, get your feet up a little.”
“John Able,” she said faintly. “But how?”
He sat back on his heels. “Now’s not the time to argue. You said you were coming back to ghost hunt. Everyone warned you, even the delightful Mr. Blackthorne. But I worried, so I phoned your mother after dinner. She told me you were working on some mysterious story and wouldn’t be home until late. That cinched it. I cruised up behind the boat house about the time you hit the lake.”
“I thought…
“I know. You thought I was the overfed hunk you were with at the pub. You said his name. Sorry.” She felt arms under her knees and around her back, knew her tattered dress clung to her body, felt rivulets of water drain onto the deck. His own jeans and tee shirt were soaked. He must have jumped in himself.
He carried her across the deck and laid her on the cold vinyl. Then he forced a seat cushion under her knees and peered once again at her face. “Hard to tell about shock in this light. Your skin’s a little bluish, but you didn’t inhale much water. You were just scared to death.”
Below the white running light, Brandy could see ripples glisten along the shore where the Dobermans had retreated. Then her eyes widened, and she drew in her breath. Under a cypress tree several yards away a long, corrugated shape slid from the bank. About twelve feet of thick, smoke–green hide stretched forward on the surface and drifted through the bar of light, nostrils and eye ridges elevated, pointed tail raking the water. Brandy’s teeth chattered, her whole body shook. The ‘gator had been there, close by, after all.
Once more John knelt beside her, leaned against her, tried to quiet her tremor while the huge back gradually submerged and was gone. “With all that ruckus going on,” he murmured, “the old boy probably thinks the neighborhood’s gone to pot.”
A smile trembled on her lips. She buried her face in his chest and knew the tingle she felt was not from trauma.
After wrapping his jacket more tightly around her, he held his fingers on her pulse. “Still rapid and not strong enough. We got to get you warm and dry. Get some hot tea down you.” He lifted a water hyacinth from her soggy hair. “Tonight you’re not exactly Cleopatra on her barge, but hang in there. This is the best I can do until I get you to the trailer.”
His trailer, she thought. She did not protest. Even shuddering with cold, she admired the grace with which he stepped to the bow, cut off the silent trolling motor, and switched on the gasoline engine. How could she have ever called him unimaginative? Mack would not see her as a bedraggled Cleopatra. He never read anything but the sports pages.
Yet as John guided the boat away from shore, he gave no sign that he felt the same electricity. In the distance a thin whistle shrilled and then faded. At the sound, the Dobermans whirled and tore back around the house out of sight.
Weakly Brandy raised herself on one elbow. “Someone opened the gate. There were only two keys——Blackthorne’s and your Aunt Sylvania’s.”
“Probably thought you were a burglar. The dogs are lucky the ‘‘gator didn’t go for them.” He looked back at her and shook his head. “But Aunt Sylvania’s right about one thing. The lake can be dangerous. Especially if you run across a cottonmouth moccasin.”
Brandy watched the high, gray front of the house recede, its curved window on the second floor lit like a giant eye. But the figure emerging from the rear was not ghostly. Brandy recognized Sylvania’s tall silhouette. She walked across the grass, and stood beside the boat house, looking out over the saw palmettos.
John nodded in her direction. “The keeper of her brother’s flame. Must’ve heard me and the dogs. She’s probably the ghost people think they see.”
Brandy dropped her head back on the hard seat while John set a northwest course and shoved the throttle forward. My nice white pumps, she thought, and my camera——on the lawn somewhere. My car with my bag and driver’s licence and all my cards——in the lane. My keys at the bottom of the lake. Sylvania would have no trouble identifying her prowler. She winced at the thought of facing John’s great–aunt again.
When the running lights of a motorboat flickered on west of the Able mansion and roared past, Brandy wondered if Blackthorne already kept a boat at his new property. “Sometimes we get a few night fishermen,” John said. His own boat bucked solidly on, the drone of its engine the only other sound on the moonlit surface.
Brandy closed her eyes, strangely warmed in spite of her chill, and faded in and out of awareness.
Once she was jolted by the other boat’s engines close behind them and turned her head to watch it swerve north toward the Wooten Park pier. The Dora Canal would be at least another mile and a half. She awoke at last when she felt herself lifted again, then heard John’s footsteps beneath her on the wooden dock. He was shaking with cold, too, and almost as wet. Halting under a porch light, he worked awkwardly on the lock, and then swung her, feet first, into his small, tidy living room.
SIX
Arandy had a rapid impression of colorful wall prints, a bookcase, a tiny kitchen area. Mack had said John lived like a monk. She glimpsed no feminine touches as he whirled her down a short hall.
“Can you stand?”
His voice so close to her ear rattled her. “I think so.” Tenderly he set her down in the tiny bathroom beside the stall shower, but as her bare feet touched the floor, her knees buckled. He caught her again, close, and held her with one arm while he reached into the shower and turned on the tap. “Soap’s on the shelf,” he said, his voice unsteady.
Her head felt woozy. With fingers stiff as ice, she fumbled with the zipper in the back of her dress. “I can’t seem to…” Suddenly she felt the zipper pulled down, felt the sodden fabric tugged over her head, felt hooks unhooked, and knew that she was naked——and that she did not care. John’s own waterlogged jeans fell to the floor. Then they were both standing under the warm stream, John still holding her. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his. Unresisting, she felt herself being carefully lathered, rinsed, gently toweled dry, then picked up once more and carried into the darkened bedroom.
***
Brandy woke from a light, refreshing sleep, rolled on her side, and reached out to touch John’s bare chest. Once she had thought him a tin soldier. Big mistake.
Leaning on one elbow, he peered into her eyes. “Revived?”
She nodded, smiling. Softly, with one hand he traced her body from hip to breast. “I’ve got to get home, you know,” she said, “or my mother will send out the gendarmes. She’s a worrier.”
“I wish you’d stay.” When she shook her head, John swung his legs over the side of the bed, sat up, and rubbed his forehead. “A long time ago I believe I promised you some hot tea.” He stepped to a closet, pulled on a pair of jeans, and handed her a man’s lounging robe. “A Christmas present. I never wear it. In a few minutes I’ll look for something you can wear home.”
He gave her a long, warm look. “Of course, I prefer what you’re wearing now.” At the door he paused. “There’s a hair dryer in the upper dresser drawer.”
Brandy stretched and lay for a few minutes, gazing around the small bedroom, listening to him move about in the kitchen. On one wall hung a Miro print cut from a magazine, wine colored drapes, a dresser clear of everything except a clothes brush, a manicure set, and a framed photograph she could not see well in the dim light. Finally she rose, slipped her arms into the robe, found a pair of men’s flip–flops and shuffled into the living room where John was dropping tea bags into two mugs. The muted strains of a Mozart concerto came from a tape player on a corner cabinet.
“I didn’t know you like classical music,” she said.
She plumped down on the couch before a small coffee table and pushed her still damp, stringy hair behind her ears.
“Music is mathematics with emotion.”
She glanced approvingly around the tidy room and thought of her own cluttered bedroom. “I’m impressed by your housekeeping skills, too.”
John set the tea box back in the cabinet, came over and kissed her. “My dad left his mark on all of us. The guys in the department called him Old Spit and Polish.” He stepped back to the counter, poured hot water into the mugs from an aluminum tea kettle, and rummaged again in the cabinet. “A few saltines is all I’ve got to go with the tea.”
On the opposite wall beside the drawn drapes hung a color photograph of an unpainted house with tin roof and wrap–around porch. John arranged crackers in a bowl and followed her glance. “Some day I’ll use what I learned at the university. While the other students were designing new forms, I was figuring out how to resurrect the old ones, the ones before air conditioning. Those guys built practical houses. Cracker houses. I’m glad the Ables were among them.”
