“That bird scratched your head. You probably need to get something on it. You are having a run of bad luck, aren’t you? Didn’t you say a wolf bit you yesterday?” Seth teased. Reagan stared at him, surprised at the teasing note in his voice. She had just been attacked by a bird, and he was making a joke.
“I don’t think this is funny,” she said hotly, angrily swiping her sleeve across her face to erase the remnants of her tears.
“Neither do I,” murmured Seth, “and I am going to make certain this shit stops.” He brushed away the last tear on her cheek and gave her a quick hug. “You need to take care of that cut, and I need to go. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. I am not interested in another bird attack.”
“Don’t worry. It won’t happen again,” promised Seth, the muscles his jaws flexing as he clenched his teeth. “I’ll make sure to protect you next time. Are you okay to go back to the house?”
“Yeah,” said Reagan reluctantly. “I’ll be fine.” With that, she gathered her belongings and started up the trail. She turned to tell Seth that she wasn’t mad at him, but he was already gone, nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 13
Frustrated and angry, Reagan made her way back up the trail. She felt abandoned by Seth, and she couldn’t believe she was attacked by seagulls. Wiley padded next to her, his head down, sulking. He looked at her with his big, brown, liquid eyes, as if apologizing for not protecting her. She reached down and absently patted his sun-warmed head.
She thought about Seth’s lips on hers, cold and salty. Her stomach quivered at the memory. Strange, she thought, how chilly Seth felt despite the sun pounding down on them. She hugged herself. He may have been chilly, but he sure lit a fire in her. His kiss was delicious, and she hoped it would happen again. She could use a little excitement of the normal teenage variety as opposed to the wacky things these people seemed to always talk about.
Humming to herself, and feeling happy despite her wounds, she let herself into the house. In the kitchen cupboard she found a first aid kit, and she smeared antibiotic cream into the scratch on her head. It was tender, and it made her angry all over again. Luckily, Cora Rose seemed to be gone, so she didn’t have to deal with the woman’s speculation as to why the gulls acted crazy. Cora Rose would probably blame it on wolves or ghosts, or something insane like that.
Reagan put away the first aid kit and snapped off the kitchen light. Walking through the dining room, she saluted the table with a defiant middle finger and went into the library. She carefully pulled the ancient album off the shelf and opened to the page with Adelaide’s portrait. This is where she had closed the album, but now she wanted to see the rest of the pictures. Curious, she studied the visage of her long ago aunt. Could she see a family resemblance?
Picking up the album, she left the library and headed upstairs to her room. Sitting at the dressing table in front of the mirror, she held up the album, switching her gaze from her own reflection to the picture of Adelaide and back again. Was it her imagination, or did they look a lot alike? The jawline was the same, the same heart-shaped face. They both had high, delicate cheekbones, but Adelaide’s nose was more refined and slightly turned up. They shared well defined eyebrows, although Adelaide’s eyes looked like they might have been light-colored, perhaps a blue, but in the sepia-toned photo, it was hard to tell. The two could definitely pass as sisters that was certain.
Reagan carried the album to the rocking chair. Settling in, she turned the page carefully. The next portrait showed a young woman who stared defiantly at the camera with an almost scowling attitude. Her eyes were dark, and her hair was a wild array of long, inky tresses. Her dress was devoid of the dripping lace that adorned Adelaide’s bodice. Underneath the portrait was the name Ariana. Reagan studied Ariana’s eyes. They felt menacing and unkind. She was a sharp contrast to Adelaide.
The other album held more portraits of stiff looking people in formal poses. Reagan idly paged through, losing interest. These pictures captured the style of dress and hair of the time period, but there were no pictures that depicted a slice of the peoples’ everyday lives. Reagan considered the thousands of pictures she’d snapped with no thought. She took pictures of food and her toes on the beach, selfies of her crazy faces and her friends just hanging out. Someone could easily see what kind of person she was just by the photos she had taken and those taken of her. These ancient portraits only showed the formal side of these peoples’ world. They didn’t open the door to their hopes and joys, or hard work to survive. As Reagan absently turned the last page she gasped. There were two pictures of babies. One beautiful child, dressed in a long, snowy white christening gown, lay in an ornate wicker bassinet, her chubby cheeks and eyes crinkled in an unintentional baby smile. The other portrait was of a baby also in a snowy white gown, only her face was still, her eyes closed as she lay dead in a satin-lined casket.
What the hell? They took pictures of dead babies? Who does that? Reagan closed the book in disgust. She couldn’t wrap her head around the idea of taking a baby portrait of a dead child. Was it the same child as in the picture next to it, or was it another? She was curious, but really didn’t want to ask Willow or Cora Rose, especially Cora Rose. She would say the baby had been attacked by wolves under the dining room table!
Reagan took the album back to the library and stopped in the kitchen to get a glass of milk. She decided to finish out the day reading her last library book so she could take a trip into town the next day to return her books and take out new ones.
Trotting upstairs to her room, she retrieved her book off her nightstand. As she was walking out the door, she noticed a small book laying on the rocking chair. Where the heck had that come from? Setting down the glass of milk and her library book, she crossed to the rocking chair and stared at the book. It was old leather with an ornate, heavily embossed cover. The word ‘journal’ graced the cover in fine, gold script letters. Reagan continued to stare, waiting for the book to disappear. After all, it just appeared there. She was just in this room, and this book hadn’t been on the rocking chair. Cora Rose was gone, and Willow was in the barn working. Books didn’t just appear out of thin air. Someone was screwing with her, and she didn’t think it was funny.
She snatched the journal off the chair and immediately felt guilty because crumbs of disintegrated leather from the cover floated to the floor. She loosened her grip and carried the journal carefully. Leaving her book, she picked up her milk and headed out to the porch. First, she was going to take a look at the journal. Then, she was going to sort this out. She was determined to find out just who put that book on the chair even if it meant disturbing Willow in the barn when she was working.
Wiley wandered up to Reagan as she lowered herself to the porch swing. He sniffed the journal in her hand and wagged his tail happily. His nose worked harder at sniffing, and his tail followed suit, wagging until his whole butt was wiggling. Reagan laughed at his antics and sipped on her milk. What was with this silly dog? She carefully opened the journal and looked at the first page. The name Adelaide was written in a graceful hand in a faded blue ink. Under the name were doodles of flowers and leaves, and even an attempt at a stylized bird.
Reagan felt a little thrill course through her. This was Adelaide’s journal, written in her hand so, so many years ago. She thought back to when she was looking at the pictures, disappointed that they didn’t really show a glimpse into the people’s lives. Now she was holding a journal that well may give her personal details into the world of the girl who used to sleep in the very bed Reagan slept in every night.
~ Adelaide’s Journal
My name is Adelaide James. Papa came home from Boston today and brought me this beautiful journal. He told me that everyone has a story to tell, but not everyone gets to read it. This is for my most private thoughts I can’t share with anyone. Papa winked when he gave it to me. He knows I am growing up, but I wonder if he knows how I feel about S. I hope not. I’m not yet ready to share
that with anyone, and I don’t want Papa to disapprove. I am afraid he will. He would say S. is of a lower station in life and that I am destined for a more genteel gentleman. Hogwash. S. is as gentle and kind as any gentleman. He is not coarse or crude. I do care for him greatly, but I am afraid of my feelings. He stirs in me something I don’t understand, but I love the feeling of butterflies in my stomach.
Reagan smiled at the mention of butterflies, recalling the fluttering feeling she knew all too well. Captivated with Adelaide’s story, she tucked her feet under her and settled deeper into the soft cushions of the swing.
Papa brought Ariana a journal, too, but she tossed it aside with a laugh and pestered Papa, looking for jewelry or some other trinket. She was sorely disappointed to find that there was none to be had. She went sulking to the cliff. Sometimes she can be so unkind. I wonder how Papa will react when Mama tells him that Ariana has been visiting Widow Hobbs. Papa forbade her to go to the widow’s cottage, but Ariana has never been one to listen to what is good for her. I’m not sure why Papa and Mama don’t like the Widow Hobbs. She just seems like a lonely old woman who lives in a cottage at the edge of the bog. I’m sure they have their reasons, but I don’t see the harm in visiting a lonely soul.
The first entry ended with an amateurish flourish of the pen. Reagan smiled to herself, remembering the awkward flourishes she used to draw under her name when she signed birthday cards to her mom. Some things must be shared between generations.
She heard footsteps on the porch and looked up. Willow was walking toward her with a strange look on her face.
“Whatcha got there?” she asked, her voice sounding strained.
“As if you don’t know,” accused Reagan.
“What are you talking about? Where did you get that book?”
“That’s exactly what I want to know,” demanded Reagan. “I want to know who put this in my room.”
“Maybe you’d better slow down, not be so hostile, and tell me what you are talking about,” said Willow, steadily.
“I was in my room looking at the old photo album. I came down to the kitchen to get some milk, then went back upstairs to get my library book. When I was leaving my room, I saw this book on the rocking chair. It wasn’t there five minutes before because I was sitting in that very rocker. I want to know who is screwing with me and why!” Reagan’s voice was pitching up, and it was obvious she was getting more and more upset.
“Please let me see the book,” said Willow, softly. Reagan passed the journal to her. She carefully looked at the cover and then opened it to the first page, paling slightly.
“So, who put Adelaide’s journal in my room?” asked Reagan again.
“Humph. I don’t know, but I know I didn’t do it. Probably Cora Rose, just messing with you. She does enjoy it so.”
“She’s not here to do that.”
“Of course, she’s here,” said Willow.
“She hasn’t left already?”
“No, she was staying later to pick cherries in the old orchard. She wants to preserve a bunch of them, and she’ll probably make a pie or two. Those are not to be missed, Cora Rose’s cherry pies. I wouldn’t get my panties in a bunch about Cora Rose and her pranks. If you get upset, it will just encourage her to do even more. Just ignore it and it’ll go away. I am driving into town to get some pizza. Do you want to come? If so, put your shoes on and come on.” Startled by Willow’s quick change of subject and rare offer of some public social time, Reagan jumped up out of the swing.
“Just let me put this away and run a brush through my hair. I’ll be right out.” Reagan ran up to her room and placed the journal carefully on the dressing table, swiped a brush through her hair, and ran down to meet Willow. She would deal with Cora Rose later.
That night, Reagan settled into bed with her library book. Adelaide’s journal lay on the dressing table in line with the brush and Reagan’s perfume. She had had enough of all the unexplained happenings. She tried to talk to Willow about it over pizza that night, but Willow shrugged it off and stuffed her face with the steaming hot pie. Reagan couldn’t tell if Willow believed the house was haunted or not. Sometimes she said things that made Reagan think Willow was one of the crazies, and other times Reagan thought Willow was just messing with her to see how much Reagan would fall for. Well, it didn’t matter. There were no such things as ghosts, and houses weren’t haunted. On the other hand, there were a whole lot of people who were bat-shit crazy. Reagan looked down at Wiley stretched out next to her bed… and dogs, too. Dogs were bat-shit crazy, too.
Reagan woke. It was still night, and the moonlight helped to light the room. She heard a creaking sound and turned her head, looking at the rocking chair in the corner. Adelaide sat in the rocking chair, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders. Her head was bent down, and she was holding the journal in one hand and Reagan’s hairbrush in the other. She was rocking slightly, and her shoulders were shaking. Reagan blinked and looked again. Adelaide was still there. It looked as though she was weeping. The journal was opened toward the last pages. Wiley sat next to her, anxiously licking the hand that held the brush. This can’t be happening, Reagan thought. I have to be dreaming. She sat up in bed. Adelaide raised her head and steadied her tear-stained eyes at Reagan. She smiled a wistful smile and vanished into a swirl of mist. The journal dropped to the seat of the rocking chair, and the hairbrush fell to the floor with a clatter.
Reagan began to shake. She didn’t just see that. It didn’t just happen. Wiley whined at the rocking chair, then tucked his tail between his legs. He turned and looked at Reagan sitting up in bed. Wagging, he approached her and licked her hand. Reagan still stared at the chair, trembling. Wiley jumped up and placed his front paws on the bed. He gently licked her chin. When she still didn’t respond, he pulled his back legs, one after another up on the bed and curled next to her. With one front paw, he gently nudged her back down on the bed until she was curled up against him, her face buried in his neck. With one paw touching her, guarding her, they both fell asleep.
Chapter 14
Reagan woke abruptly to sun streaming through her windows. The room was cheerful, and a cool breeze was bringing in the scent of the ocean. Despite the beautiful morning, Reagan felt cranky and out of sorts. She’d had crazy dreams during the night, and she didn’t feel well this morning.
Wiley was stretched out next to her in the bed, his muzzle sharing her pillow. His pink tongue reached out and kissed her face. She moved toward him and snuggled into his warm fur. She didn’t feel like facing the morning, and she was seriously out of sorts. The smell of coffee and bacon reminded her of Cora Rose and the conversation Reagan was planning to have with her. Thinking of Cora Rose reminded her of the dream she had the night before. Involuntarily, she glanced over at the rocking chair. Of course. The journal was on the seat and her hairbrush was on the floor. Just like in the dream. Only Cora Rose wasn’t in the dream. Adelaide was.
Reagan sighed. She didn’t know what to think anymore. Maybe she was the one who was going crazy. Maybe none of this was really happening, but her mind was playing tricks on her. Aren’t the teen years when psychosis and other mental illnesses surface? Isn’t that what she learned in the Intro. to Psych. class she took last year? What if she really was losing it?
Wiley whined and pawed her gently, licking her chin again. He knew she was stressed out. Reagan rubbed his ears gently. “Don’t worry, Wiley,” she whispered. “I’m made of stronger stuff than this. This crap isn’t going to get to me. There’s a logical explanation for everything that’s happening, and I am going to find out what it is.”
With a firm resolve, Reagan got out of bed. She picked up her hairbrush from the floor, brushed her hair, and set it back on the dressing table. Then she retrieved the journal from the rocking chair and put it next to the brush. She made her bed, kicking Wiley off first, then took a long hot shower, preparing herself for a confrontation with Cora Rose and to find some answers.
Cora Rose’s b
ack was to Reagan when she entered the kitchen. Reagan poured herself a cup of coffee and walked over to the cook as she was spooning scrambled eggs into a serving dish.
“Good morning, Cora Rose.”
“Good morning,” Cora Rose grunted in return.
“So, what is your plan today? How do you plan on messing with me? Are you going to plant a picture for me to find, or a letter? Are you going to rearrange my room so I think someone or something has been in there?” Reagan calmly helped herself to some bacon and eggs. Cora Rose turned and looked at her, hostility radiating from her eyes.
“Little missy, I don’t know what you are talking about, but I don’t appreciate your tone, and I really don’t appreciate you accusing me of things I don’t do. I don’t know what crawled up your ass today, but I am not going to put up with it. If things are moving in your room or appearing in front of you, well that’s because this house wants it to happen. It will happen whether you or I want it to or not. It will happen whether or not you or I believe in it. I don’t really give a rat’s ass if you accept it, but I am tired of your high and mighty attitude. Now, I have to feed you, but I don’t have to like it, and I don’t have to talk to you, thank you very much.”
With that Cora Rose slammed down a hot cherry cobbler and marched out of the kitchen. Reagan stood with her mouth hanging open. She expected Cora Rose to admit she had been pranking Reagan all along. She did not expect this vitriol.
“Now you went and did it!” Reagan looked up to see Willow coming into the kitchen. “Reagan, you need to watch your mouth and your attitude. You came here not understanding the superstitions and beliefs of a small, historic community. You insult the person who feeds you every day and cleans your room, and you don’t even stop to consider that what she believes is part of her heritage or the fabric of her soul. I told you to let it be, but you just couldn’t, could you? Now I have to make sure I don’t lose the best damn breakfast cook in the county.” With that, Willow stalked out of the kitchen looking for Cora Rose.
The Starfish Talisman Page 8
