by Noel Hynd
She also enjoyed being away from 17 Cort Street. And that feeling made her wonder why she had bought the house if she enjoyed being away from it.
But she returned to her house just past six P.M. She showered and washed her hair. Then she went downstairs, found some classical music on the radio and tuned three radios to it throughout the ground floor of the house. Then she busied herself in the kitchen as she prepared a light dinner.
She would eat in the dining room, she decided. She put out a blue linen placemat, a matching napkin, and one setting of tableware, though she did not yet set the place. She returned to the kitchen and was still thinking about the various scripts she had read. Then she suddenly went very still. She heard something. Then, clearly, she heard the rattle of the tableware that she had left on her dining-room table. “Oh, God,” she muttered to herself. “Not again.”
Annette slowly turned the comer from the kitchen to her dining room and stopped short when she saw a frail human figure before her.
Annette’s heart leaped, then settled as she recognized the intruder. Suddenly, everything was familiar and safe. Suddenly, an awful lot made sense.
“Mrs. Ritter!” Annette said to the old woman inspecting Annette’s dining table. “What are you doing here?”
Mrs. Ritter looked up and smiled.
“Just visiting. Just looking,” Mrs. Ritter said. Her face was healthier and happier than the last time Annette had seen her.
Annette sighed. “You have to stop scaring me,” Annette said gently. Annette paused to think. “Do your friends at Mid Island know where you are?”
Mrs. Ritter laughed. “No,” she admitted. “They know I left. But they don’t know exactly where I went.”
“And you’ve been here before, haven’t you?”
The old woman gave Annette a mischievous expression. Then she nodded. “I’ve always loved this house,” Mrs. Ritter admitted. The old lady’s eyes gleamed merrily. The escape from the nursing home had served her spirit well.
Annette sighed again, this time with relief. So the mystery of the silverware had come to this. It had been Mrs. Ritter all along. Could a rational solution concerning the strange intrusions at night be far behind?
The visitations were now readily explainable in terms of a lonely old woman going for a walk—seeking attention, some sort of human companionship—yet not wanting to admit what she’d done, as she knew she’d be kept under tighter rein. Annette’s whole world made sense again. She felt hugely relieved.
“Mrs. Ritter?” Annette said.
“Yes, dear?”
“You startled me. I wish I had known you were coming.”
“Oh, I had no way of telling you,” Mrs. Ritter said. “Believe me. I would have called. Dear Lord,” she said. “I didn’t know I’d be able to come by.”
“How did you get here?”
“A lovely peaceful walk.”
“From Mid Island?”
“That’s right, dearie.”
“You must be feeling particularly chipper today,” Annette said. She came a few paces beyond the kitchen and neared the other woman. “You’re feeling well?”
“Oh, today? Today I’m fine,” Mrs. Ritter insisted. “You?”
“I’m fine, too.”
Annette was at a loss what to do with her guest. Mrs. Ritter in turn seemed preoccupied with the table setting. She kept looking back to it.
“Eating alone, I see,” Helen Ritter said. She inspected the table very critically. “I don’t think that’s good,” she said. “You eat alone, you stay alone. You should get married,” the old lady suggested tactlessly. “Make some nice babies.”
“Maybe someday,” Annette answered indulgently. “I’m sure someday.”
Mrs. Ritter reached to the table settings. Her fingers were more nimble today. Perhaps the arthritis had abated, Annette thought. Maybe that was an explanation. On the days that her flesh and bones would allow, she made her exits from the home. Maybe it was that simple.
“You’ll marry the policeman,” Mrs. Ritter said out of the blue.
“What?”
“Timmy. The policeman. “
Annette smiled indulgently. “The policeman is a very nice man. But we’re not romantic.”
Mrs. Ritter’s eyes were alive. “Oh, but you will be, dear. You’ll marry the policeman. Your Hollywood friends won’t understand, but you’ll be happy because he loves you.” There was an undertone to this that Annette didn’t like. Goose bumps rose on her arms. For a moment, Annette didn’t respond, as she considered Mrs. Ritter’s words.
“I can see the future suddenly,” Mrs. Ritter said. “And for you, it’s very bright after some troubles. You’ll marry the policeman.”
“Okay, Mrs. Ritter, thank you,” she said. “That’s enough along those lines, okay?”
“Pardon me if I overstepped,” Mrs. Ritter said. “I mean no harm.”
Annette gave her a smile. “You’re fine,” she said.
“Daffy old hen, huh?” Mike Silva, the porter at Mid Island Convalescent, had said. “Crazy, crazy, crazy.”
Annette had resented Mike’s words at the time. But now, there seemed to be a bitter verity to Silva’s mean-spirited assessment. What right or logic did she have to blithely predict a marital involvement with someone Annette barely knew? And why did she need to wander around other people’s houses? The guest fingered the tableware. She moved a fork with a shockingly deft motion.
“So it’s you who has been playing games with me?” Annette asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Reversing my forks and knives? You’ve been here to do that before.”
“Oh, no, dearie!” Mrs. Ritter said. “As you can see. I just corrected them. They were piled together in the wrong place.”
“I hadn’t set the table yet.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Ritter sounded hurt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I’m making a pest of myself, aren’t I?”
“Not at all,” Annette relented. “You may set the place for me.” She suddenly felt sorry for the lonely old woman. She wondered if she should ask her to stay for dinner. Yes, she decided, that’s what she would do. Then Annette would accompany her back to Mid Island. Annette would walk over herself to make sure Mrs. Ritter arrived safely.
Then another thought was upon Annette. The staff at Mid Island had probably called the police. If Mrs. Ritter was missing, they were probably combing the island.
“I’m afraid the young girl keeps reversing them on you,” Mrs. Ritter said, neatly setting a serving place for a single diner.
“What young girl?” Annette asked.
“The young girl whom you said was sitting in your rocking chair that night,” Mrs. Ritter said. “Mary Elizabeth.”
“Who?”
“The college girl who was murdered. She’s a very nice young lady and her soul lives in this house with you now. She will be here until it is her time to pass onward.”
A full and horrible shiver overtook Annette. A full body tremor. “Mrs. Ritter, please… !” Annette said.
“Why are you alarmed?” Mrs. Ritter asked calmly. “Did you think you were alone?” She laughed. “Don’t worry. Mary Elizabeth is very much your friend. She won’t harm you.”
“Come on now, Mrs. Ritter,” Annette answered.
“No, no. In truth!” Helen Ritter said. She was very animated and sure of herself, her intonation rising. “Mary Elizabeth is here with you now!” She glanced around as if to locate something. Then her eyes seemed to find something just behind Annette. She nodded toward the doorway where Annette stood.
“There she is,” Mrs. Ritter said happily. “Dear girl! She’s standing right there. Close enough to put a hand on your shoulder.”
“Please stop that!” Annette snapped. “I don’t like it! And I know it’s you who moved my place settings.”
Something swept against Annette’s cheek. It felt like a cobweb. Feathery light. Glancing. Brushing. Annette felt a flash of alarm and struck at it with her ow
n hand.
Nothing was there. Already it was gone. Fingers?
Something had touched her.
“That was Mary Elizabeth,” the old woman said. “She caressed you. Can’t you see her?”
“No! There’s nothing there!”
“Of course there is,” Mrs. Ritter said calmly, patiently.
The feathery touch was at Annette’s cheek again. Annette struck at it furiously and again whatever it was eluded her.
Annette quickly stepped away from where she stood. She looked in each direction. She saw only Mrs. Ritter.
“Pity you can’t see her,” the old woman said. Helen Ritter shrugged. All eighty-six years of her. She raised her eyebrows and made a pained Well-I-tried-to-tell-you smile.
“What should I do?” Annette wondered. “I want this woman out of my house. Call Mid Island? Call the police? Call Tim Brooks?”
She considered the options.
“And I know what you are thinking,” Mrs. Ritter said. “You want me to leave. So I don’t wish to stay for dinner. Thank you very much, anyway.”
Annette decided she would call Mid Island first. She could very nicely ask the nurses if Mrs. Ritter was really allowed to be at liberty like this. Subtext: could they please look of the old bat! Then she would phone Tim.
Mrs. Ritter looked at Annette.
“Could you get me a glass of water?” she asked. “Before you make those phone calls.”
“How did you know I was going to make a phone call?”
“Oh, you’re going to call and have them come for me!” she scolded. “Think I don’t know how you think? You go ahead and call the nurses and the policeman if it pleases you. But could you get me my drink first?”
“I’ll get you some water.”
Annette returned to the kitchen, mildly shaken. She found a small glass and drew some water from the tap. She heard Mrs. Ritter walk to the living room.
Creaking floorboards again.
Annette followed and found the old woman sitting on the rocker near the hearth.
Annette handed her the water.
“Just set it on the table beside me,” she requested.
Annette did exactly that. Mrs. Ritter studied the glass. “Have you ever given much thought to your own death?” Mrs. Ritter asked, looking up to meet Annette’s gaze.
“No. I really haven’t,” Annette lied. The old woman was starting to scare her.
“I have,” Mrs. Ritter said brightly. “I’m not sure anymore what the big fuss is about. I don’t know what everyone’s so afraid of. Death should be seen as a liberation. You know? The loose gate in the old churchyard, the one that swings so easily and peacefully. There are many rooms in your Father’s house, you know. I’m anxious now to move on to mine. She shrugged. “Well, that’s just my thinking today, anyway.”
“Well, that’s very brave of you.”
“It’s not brave, dearie. It’s just realistic.”
The old woman laughed. She reached to the water and sipped. “Now you make your calls if it makes you feel better.”
“Then maybe I can walk you home,” Annette suggested. Mrs. Ritter shrugged. She looked at the younger woman and her eyes tingled with mischief. “I made it here by myself,” she said, sounding a note of independence, “and I can be on my way by myself, too, thank you very much.”
The old woman stared contemplatively off into the middle distance for several seconds.
“Did I ever tell you this?” Mrs. Ritter asked. “My sister used to live in this house. That’s why I came by. Just to see how it looks once again. My dear sister. She was a music hall star. Did you know that?”
“Was she?”
“Died many years ago. Life’s very unfair and unequal,” she continued gently. “She had so few years, I’ve had so many.” Again, Mrs. Ritter shrugged. And again, Annette felt another surge of fear.
A music hall star: she remembered that haunting music she heard in her dream the first night a woman in white appeared, the syncopated ragtime beat plunked out on a piano, the sense of being on a stage long ago in New York City.
“A lot of stage people used to come to this island in the twenties and thirties,” Mrs. Ritter said. “Stayed down in Siasconset where it was cheap. The theaters in New York and Boston closed down in the summer. Cities were unbearable.” She paused. “Heat. Summer heat.”
“Of course,” said Annette. “Why did your sister die so young?” Annette asked. Instantly, she knew she had touched upon the wrong subject. Mrs. Ritter’s face twisted into a fearsome expression.
“Oh!” the old woman snapped, fervently shaking her head. “The less said the better. It’s been many years. Doesn’t matter anymore to anyone living, does it?”
“I’d like to know,” Annette said.
Mrs. Ritter smiled cryptically and finished her glass of water.
“I think you’d better make that call now. I’m very tired.”
Annette nodded warily.
“And remember, I just came to warn you, dearie,” Mrs. Ritter concluded plaintively. “Heaven knows, the whole island is in danger.”
These words echoed ominously in Annette’s ear. She stared disbelievingly at Mrs. Ritter. Then, thoroughly frightened, she returned to the kitchen where there was still an old fashioned land line for a local phone. But for a moment Annette couldn’t find the telephone book.
“You don’t know the number at Mid Island, do you, Mrs. Ritter?” Annette called out.
No answer.
Deaf as a haddock, Annette thought, but only when she wanted to be. Annette located the directory wedged against the wall behind the kitchen table. It had apparently fallen down but looked as if a strong arm had stuffed it there. Why, she wondered, wasn’t anything where she had put it anymore?
In the end, Annette used her cell phone. Mid Island’s line was busy. Annette clicked off and waited a moment. Yes, she would return Mrs. Ritter personally to Mid Island. And she would have to do it soon. Who knew how long she’d been out?
Annette rang up the numbers for Detective Brooks, office and home. He was at neither location. She left a message for him on his beeper.
Annette walked back to the living room and stopped short.
The room was empty.
“Mrs. Ritter?” she called. “Mrs. Ritter, where are you?” There was no answer. Not a soul present. Annette stared at the empty room.
“Come on, Mrs. Ritter,” she said softly. “Don’t do this to me.” Then she said louder, “Don’t scare me like this, okay?” Louder still. “It’s not funny. Not a game.”
There was a slight creak in a floorboard toward the front entrance hall, just beyond Annette’s view. Always, it seemed in this house, there was something just beyond Annette’s view. Annette walked through her living room. She rounded the corner. The front hall was empty, too. So was the dining room. No one had gone upstairs. Annette looked back into the living room.
The little rocking chair, the one near the fireplace, was rocking very gently. Wind? An unbalanced floor? Sure. Of course. The rocker looked like someone had just got up and left it. It settled to a halt. And when it did, another thought come up behind Annette, surrounded her and took hold. The thought was so firm, so real, so convincing that immediately Annette realized its truth.
Mrs. Ritter. Just passing through. Just stopping to say goodbye.
And to “warn” me. About who? About what?
Then, with a shock, Annette sensed that she knew exactly what had happened.
“Come on, Mrs. Ritter,” she called. “Please! Stop this!” She took a final look in two closets. She knew no one had gone upstairs. Or downstairs to the cellar. The steps creaked remorselessly. Not a chance.
Annette went to the front door. It was locked from within.
She went to the back door. The same.
“Oh, dear God,” she said. Then she was struck with a thought. The drinking glass in the living room! She ran back to it. It was still where the old woman had left it. Annette didn’t tou
ch it. But it was filled with water again.
“I’m not going crazy,” Annette said aloud. ‘I’m not.”
Not going crazy. But she knew.
Annette went back to the kitchen and grabbed her cell phone. Again the nursing home’s line was busy. Fine thing, she told herself. Great if there were an emergency! Then she ran out the back door without trying to lock it.
At the end of her short driveway, she scanned the street in both directions. For a moment, she thought she saw Mrs. Ritter a block away, a thin figure moving steadily in the shadows beneath an elm tree. Annette jogged toward the spot.
But as Annette approached, the figure receded like a mirage until it wasn’t there. A little girl was nearby instead, a little girl in a dress from the 1970’s. She looked at Annette sweetly and curiously, but said nothing.
Annette searched in every direction. But when she turned back to the child to ask if an old lady had passed, the child had vanished, too. There was nothing near Annette except pleasant evening shadows and the moving leaves from a bush. She even wondered if she had really seen the little girl.
Annette began to run again. She arrived at Mid Island within three minutes. Mrs. Ritter hadn’t been on the street and hadn’t been on any path to the convalescent home.
Annette burst into the building. There was a new employee on the reception desk, and there was no one on the telephone.
“Hello?” the woman said, looking up. “May I…?”
“Helen Ritter,” Annette demanded. “Room Twenty. I need to see her.”
Mike Silva appeared at a downstairs doorway. He grinned as if he received a sexual thrill every time he saw her. There was something particularly devious in his expression today. “Hello, Miss Carlson,” he said.
Annette ignored him.
“Who?” the woman at the desk asked. “I’m sorry. I just started to work here. I don’t know the name.” She fumbled with a computerized directory.
“Mrs. Helen Rit…! Never mind!”
