by Amy Cross
“No,” Tabitha says quietly. She seems painfully shy, although she might just be embarrassed by the way her mother came bowling into the room so noisily.
I know I would be.
“You must rest and get better,” Harriet says, turning to me. “Do you have a bell? You should have a bell, so you can get people to come up and bring you things. There's no harm in letting your family take care of you, you know. That's what they're there for. When I broke my ankle a few years ago, I made sure to press young Tabitha into service for a couple of weeks.”
I look over at Tabitha and see that she looks so timid, it's almost as if she's about to shatter.
“Why don't you come downstairs for a cup of coffee?” Mom says, clearly sensing my discomfort. “Harriet, there's so much I don't know about the area, and we can try those brownies you brought over.”
“What a marvelous idea,” Harriet replies, heading to the doorway. “Tabitha, you must stay up here with Annie and get to know her. I'm sure you'll be friends in no time!”
Tabitha remains obediently just beyond the door as our mothers make their way to the stairs. Harriet is so loud, I swear I can make out every word she's saying, even once they get down into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Tabitha is simply loitering outside my room, avoiding eye contact and generally seeming as if she wants the ground to open and swallow her up. I mean, I'm not exactly the most sociable person in the world, but at least I can fake it from time to time.
“Do you want to come in?” I ask her finally, hoping she might perk up.
She glances at me quickly, before looking down at the floor again. She hesitates for a moment, before taking a couple of steps forward and then stopping at the foot of my bed.
“Do you want to... sit down?” I ask.
Again she seems hesitant, but after looking around for a moment, she takes a seat on the very end of the bed. For a moment, I find myself wondering if she'll literally do anything I tell her to do, although I figure it'd be rude to test that theory out. I can't help but notice that she's wearing pretty normal clothes, and I'm starting to think that I was getting carried away when I expected people around here to look totally backward. Once again, my imagination was running away with me.
“So you live nearby, huh?” I say after a period of excruciatingly awkward silence has passed.
She nods.
“In the white house, yeah?” I continue.
She nods again, and this time she lets out a faint murmur which I think might be “Yes.”
“I saw that house when I arrived yesterday,” I tell her, trying to strike a friendly tone. “It's, what, three or four miles away?”
She nods.
“And you're the closest neighbor?”
She nods.
“Well...” I pause, feeling as if this is the most one-sided conversation of my life. “I mean, it's good to know there are people out there somewhere,” I continue. “Looking out the window, it's almost like this place is a million miles from anyone else, but I guess when I'm up on my feet again I'll be able to look around more.” I pause again, keenly aware that Tabitha is looking down at her hands, which are resting in her lap. “So are there any cool places to check out?” I ask. “I have a bike, so when my legs are better, I can get about properly. There's a town not too far from here, isn't there? Dunceford?”
She nods.
“Is that a fun place to hang out?”
She pauses. “I guess,” she whispers finally, which is something of an improvement.
“I used to live in New York,” I tell her. “As you can imagine, coming out here is kind of a culture shock.”
“I've never been to New York,” she replies.
“But you've seen pictures, right?”
She pauses again, and then she nods.
“Well, the difference is crazy,” I continue. “This time last week, I was living in one of the biggest cities on the planet. I had friends, I had places to go all the time, I had a life and I swear my phone never stopped ringing. Not that I was one of those cool people, you understand, but I definitely did more than sit in bed all day. Now look at me, I'm holed up in a manky room in a creaky old house, and there's nothing for miles around except... Well, I guess there's you, right?”
She nods.
“Sorry if that came out wrong,” I add, feeling as if I'm talking too much. Then again, it's difficult when she only seems to answer with one word at a time. “So did you know the people who lived here before?” I continue, already starting to run out of things to say. Compared to this Tabitha girl, I'm positively loquacious.
She shakes her head.
“You didn't come to visit them?”
“They...” She pauses. “No-one lived here before you.”
“No-one? Okay, how long was it empty?”
“I think...” She glances at me briefly, before looking back down at her hands. “Seventy-one years, I think.”
“Seventy-one years?” I stare at her for a moment. “This house was empty for seventy-one years?” I wait for her to reply. “What gives?”
“Well, there's...” She pauses again. “You know, there's the Barringer law about real estate in this county.”
“The what?”
She flinches slightly, as if the mere effort of talking to me is making her skin crawl. “The Barringer law,” she continues, her voice so low that I can barely hear a word she's saying. “The law says that anyone buying a house has to be told if a murder took place on the property at any point in the past seventy years.”
“They do?”
“After seventy years,” she continues hesitantly, “it no longer has to be mentioned.”
“Huh.” I pause. “So no-one bought the house until the seventy years were up?”
She shakes her head.
“So...” I pause again, suddenly realizing what this mean. “So you're saying that someone was murdered here?”
She nods.
“Who?” I ask, sitting up a little more. “Come on, you have to tell me. I had no idea about any of this!”
“There was a family,” she replies. “Um, there's a website with it on, maybe you should -”
“We've got no internet here yet,” I tell her. “Please, just tell me what happened.”
She flinches again. “I don't really... There was a family here, the Garretts I think their name was, apparently they didn't mix much with anyone from town and then the daughter...” She pauses, and yet again she glances briefly at me but seems to have to look away almost immediately. “The daughter died, or vanished, or something.”
“Okay,” I reply cautiously, “but... Who was murdered, then?”
“They found enough blood to know she was dead,” Tabitha continues.
“But they didn't find her body?”
She shakes her head.
“So then what happened?”
“They convicted her parents. The parents got sent to the...” Her voice trails off.
“To the where?” I ask. “They got sent to jail for killing their own daughter?”
“Not jail,” she replies, still looking down at her hands. “The electric chair.”
I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. Instead, all I can manage is to stare at her in shock for a moment. “Seriously?” I ask finally. “Are you sure you're not just trying to freak me out?”
“That's what I heard,” she continues. “I mean, different... You know, there's different versions, but that's the basic one.”
“And they never found the daughter's body?”
She shakes her head.
“Wow,” I mutter, looking over at the window, “no wonder it took so long to sell the -”
Stopping suddenly, I think back to the woman I saw in the garden earlier. I lean over and peer out, but there's no-one there now. Still, a faint shiver runs through my body as I remember the way the woman was just standing there. I've never believed in ghosts, and I still don't, at least I don't think I do, but I can't help at least wondering who
that woman was. Turning back to look at Tabitha, I see that she's started playing with her fingers, wriggling them in her lap like a nest of worms.
“Do you know a woman who wears white?” I ask cautiously. “Like, a white dress or gown, and she has black hair?”
She frowns. “Um... I don't think so.”
“But there are other houses nearby, right? I mean, within a few miles?”
“We're the closest,” she replies. “The Wayming family lives a little further off. Maybe ten miles.”
“And is there a Mrs. Wayming there?”
She nods.
“Does she have black hair?”
“Um... Kind of dark brown.”
I pause, thinking back to the sight of the woman, and after a moment I realize that her hair might have been dark brown after all. In the bright sunlight, it was kind of difficult to tell for certain.
“I guess it was her, then,” I mutter, trying to keep from dwelling on the possibility. “Is she... I mean, is she kind of weird?”
“What kind of weird?”
“I don't know, like -”
“Tabitha!” Harriet calls up from the bottom of the stairs suddenly. “Don't forget your piano class at three! You'll have to come back another day to spend time with your new friend!”
Getting to her feet, Tabitha makes her way obediently to the door, as if she unthinkingly follows every order she's given by her mother.
“Feel free to drop by some time,” I tell her, suddenly feeling as I really want to make a new friend. “I know I'm not very exciting right now, but when I'm out of this bed we could, I don't know, hang out or something?”
She mumbles a reply, but I can't quite make it out.
“What was her name?” I ask.
She stops on the landing and turns to me.
“The girl who was murdered here,” I continue. “You said they were the Garretts, right? I was just wondering what the girl's first name was?”
She stares at me for a moment, and for the first time she doesn't avert her gaze at all.
“Annie,” she says finally.
“I'm sorry?”
“Annie,” she says again. “Her name was Annie.”
I feel another shiver pass through my body. “My name is Annie,” I point out cautiously.
She nods. “I know. Pretty weird, huh?”
With that, she turns and hurries away, and I hear the sound of the stairs creaking as she goes to join her mother. Harriet is saying goodbye to my mother – loudly – and already promising, or perhaps threatening would be the right word, to come and visit again soon. There's some talk of a barbecue when the weather improves, and of the two families getting together for dinner one night. As I listen to them talking, however, I can't help looking around my room and thinking about the story Tabitha just told me.
“Annie,” I whisper, a little freaked out by the coincidence. “Well, that isn't creepy at all, is it?”
Six
Seventy-one years ago
“Look at it!” Father shouts, pulling Mother over to my bedroom door. “Whose room is this?”
“It's Annie's,” she stammers, with tears streaming down her face. “I know it's Annie's, I promise I won't -”
Before she can say another word, Father pushes her back against the opposite wall and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small knife.
“Annie's room is for Annie,” he continues, clearly annoyed. “She's old enough now that you shouldn't go into her room without being invited, is that understood?”
Mother nods.
“Is that understood?” Father shouts, stepping toward her.
“Yes!” she replies, holding her arms up to cover her face.
“It's okay,” I say calmly, standing next to my bed and watching as Father towers over her. “I think she realizes her mistake now, Father.”
He looks down at her for a moment longer, before heading back to the door-frame and kneeling down. “I'm going to make damn sure she doesn't forget,” he mutters as he starts carving something into the wood.
Stepping closer, I see that he's already inscribed the letter A.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but he doesn't answer.
Looking over at Mother, I see that she's shivering on the floor, as if fear has overtaken her. I know I should feel sorry, that I should have empathy for her, but instead I'm struck by the same feeling as always: I wish she'd smarten up and start acting in a way that makes Father not have to punish her. When I was a child, I learned pretty fast how to follow the rules in this house, but Mother just doesn't seem to have that ability. Sometimes I wonder if she's ever going to learn, or if she's going to have to be disciplined for the rest of her life. Is she stupid, or just stubborn?
“This is humiliating,” Father mutters, still carving into the door-frame. “I shouldn't have to do this in my own home.”
Turning to look at his work so far, I can't help but smile as I see that he's almost finished writing 'Annie's room'. His handwriting has always been loose and untidy, almost childlike, and using the knife isn't helping either; still, I feel a burst of pride in my chest as he finishes. He takes a piece of sandpaper from his pocket and uses it to file down the rough edges, and then he blows on the wood to get rid of any remaining shavings. Before I can thank him, he slips the knife away and then gets to his feet, before making his way over to Mother.
“No!” she shouts, covering her face with her hands again. “Please, I understand now!”
“Stop crying,” he says firmly.
She nods, but the tears continue to flow
“Stop crying!” he roars, grabbing her by the collar and dragging her over to my door. He pulls her hands down and takes hold of the back of her head, holding her by the hair and forcing her face toward the door-frame. “Tell me what that says!”
She's sobbing, as if she might actually break down into hysterics.
“Tell me!” Father shouts.
“I can't!” she wails, adding something else that I can't quite make out.
“I think she's crying too much,” I tell Father. “I don't think she can see properly for all her tears.”
“Is that right?” He tilts her head back and stares down at her, and then he mutters something under his breath as he watches the tears flooding her eyes. “Are you going to stop crying, woman?”
She stares up at him. I don't think I've ever seen so many tears in someone's eyes before, they're positively overflowing.
“Are you going to stop?” he asks again.
“I don't think she can,” I say after a moment. “Look at her.”
“Do you have a handkerchief, Annie?” he asks.
“I...” Looking around, I realize I don't. “No. I'm sorry.”
Reaching into his pocket, Father pulls out the coarse sandpaper again. “I don't have one either,” he explains, “so I guess this'll have to do.”
“No!” Mother screams, trying to pull away.
“Get still!” he shouts, pushing her down and then rubbing the coarse sandpaper across her face, using it to wipe away her tears. She struggles some more, crying out, but she should know that resistance will only make him angrier. After all, he can't stop until she's learned her lesson, can he? He scrapes the sandpaper harder across her face, and although he tells her to keep her sobbing eyes open, she tries to squeeze them tight. Clearly annoyed, he starts rubbing the sandpaper in different directions, forcing her eyelids open and eliciting more cries of pain as finally beads of blood start running down the sides of her face. All the while, I can hear the sandpaper scraping through her skin.
“Father,” I start to say, shocked by what I'm seeing. “I think -”
I pause, realizing that it's too late. She's angered him far too much, and now he's wiping her eyes furiously with the sandpaper, digging it deep into her eyes as she screams and tries in vain to push him away. Finally, after one more big, hard scrape, he stops drying her eyes and pushes her down onto the boards outside my door.
Shaken
a little by what I just saw, I can't help noticing that there's blood on the sandpaper's rough surface.
Down on the floor, Mother is sobbing as she clutches her face, and more blood is running onto her wrists and then down her arms. As she tries to sit up, I get a glimpse of the skin to one side of her eyes, and I can see scores of little scratches caused by the sandpaper. Still moaning with agony, Mother gets onto her knees and holds her hands a short way out, as if she's trying to look at something.
“I can't see!” she shouts, her voice filled with horror. “Help me! I can't see anything!”
***
“Won't be needing this, then,” Father mutters as he drops the envelope onto the fire that's burning in the hearth. It's the same envelope Mr. Clement brought over this morning, but it's unopened, which I guess means he never gave it to Mother. “She can't read a letter if she can't see.”
Turning back to Mother, I dip the cloth in a bowl of warm water and get back to work, dabbing at the cuts all around her eyes and the bridge of her nose. Even though Father's punishment was much harsher this time, I know deep down that Mother deserved it, and I also feel that Father wouldn't have gone so far if she hadn't provoked him. Her whole body is trembling, and her damaged eyes are open. I feel as if I can help with the cuts and scrapes around her eyes, but when it comes to the ones on the eyeballs... I shudder as I see the thin scratches that criss-cross her pupils. It's no wonder she's blind, and her eyes are watering a lot too, thanks to the small pieces that came off the sandpaper and got lodged in the white parts.
“It'll be okay,” I tell her, even though that's a lie. The pale scratches on her pupils are too deep and large to ever heal, I'm sure of that.
She blinks, and more clear fluid runs down the side of her face. I'm not sure if she's crying, or if her damaged eyes are just leaking, or a little of both.
“Did you learn your lesson?” Father asks, making his way across the room and standing over her. He waits for a moment. “Well? Did you?”
She nods.
“Hold still,” I tell her.
