“How are you doing, Mister Ingersoll?” she asked, face pinched with concern.
“I—don’t know. A little weirded out. I don’t remember much, just a nightmare.”
Doctor Cross nodded and examined him, then looked at his vital signs. “Must have been a bad one, but you’re normal again.”
Nurse Gilley put a cool compress on his forehead and Doctor Cross pulled up a rolling chair to sit by his gurney.
“You have a concussion, Mister Ingersoll, and I’d like to keep you here until you’re doing better—just a couple of days to make sure you’re strong again. What do you think of that?”
“I guess that would be okay,” he nodded. “Better to be on the safe side.”
“Good. Practical man. Now, there is another matter we need to address.”
“Yeah?” He tried to sit up, but the dizziness hit him hard. Paul laid back again and let it pass. Doctor Cross waited before speaking again.
“Your emergency contact, Gary Platt. What is his relation to you?”
“That’s the soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. I was going to get that changed. But, uh, my brother, Jeff—he’s a good guy—he can make decisions on my behalf.”
Doctor Cross sighed and smiled the way she might smile at a kitten rolling around with a ball of yarn—isn’t that sweet. “Good, I’m glad you have more than one person to look after you. I’ll make sure that’s put in your file, too. About Jeff. I doubt it will come to that though.”
“Why? I mean, why are you glad?” Paul asked, shifting in bed, still flat on his back.
Now it looked like she’d tasted something rancid. “Because your ex, or soon-to-be ex refused to show. He said he ‘didn’t want to hear about it,’ and hung up on me.” Cross’s eyebrow twitched, and she shook her head. “Now, you said your brother’s name was Jeff, and I assume his last name is also Ingersoll. Am I correct?”
“Yeah. And I’m not surprised Gary said that. In fact, I’m kind of glad. Not the best way to break up, but at least it’s over.”
Doctor Cross nodded. “This is true. Although getting in such a bad situation is not a great way to end a relationship. So don’t do it again, okay?”
Paul wanted to say something, flirt with her, but kept quiet. Cross was way out of his league, and he knew it. It had been a while since he’d been with a woman, and she wasn’t likely interested in a bisexual woodworker who was a patient, too.
“Get some rest, and I will check on you a couple more times before you’re admitted. Making room for you in Critical Care will take time. The police want to question you about the emergency call, but I told them it would have to wait until later, when you’re feeling up to it. As long as you’re my patient, you’re under my protection.” She jotted something down on her tablet again. Paul focused on the jet black stylus, and it changed into a jet black tentacle, roping its way up the doctor’s hand. Cross didn’t react, and Paul closed his eyes. It’s just the medicine. He shuddered to himself and opened his eyes. It was a stylus again.
“Thanks, Doc.” Paul said.
“Of course,” she tapped the stylus against the side of her tablet. “You don’t strike me as the type.”
“Type?” Paul shook his head.
“Violent type. The constable will ask you about the missing man. In fact, I’m curious myself.”
Paul sighed. “Me too. I mean, curious. I remember him now. But when I got downstairs to the basement, something happened. An attack, I think. I don’t know.” He didn’t want to recount his dream. Not yet. She might put him in the loony bin if he did.
Doctor Cross nodded. “Don’t think on it too much. Just rest. If it’s any consolation, I believe you. I’m told by some of the nurses that strange things go on in that place. Since I’m not a local, they don’t tell me everything, though.” She got up and crossed the room, her slender legs carrying her to the next emergency—she moved like rushing water.
“Doc?” He said, urgency in his voice.
She turned back. “Yes, Mister Ingersoll?”
“Please call me Paul.” He said.
“Okay, Paul. What can I do for you?” She said, taking a step toward him.
“Something bad happened to me in that house.” He said, feeling like he was a ten-year-old all over again, telling his mother about the tree outside his window that was alive and hungry for him.
“Yes it did, and it was a surprise you didn’t die en route to the hospital.” She said, putting her hand on his arm for a moment before withdrawing it.
“Why?” He asked, wanting to sit up, but the jelly that took over for his muscles made it impossible.
Doctor Cross sighed and sat down again. “Well, I didn’t want to tell you and scare you, but since you’re tough, I think you can handle this. Your body was covered in lacerations and you lost blood volume. You were in shock, and your vitals were everywhere. When you first got here, you were in and out of consciousness. We treated you, and you stabilized better than expected because you’re in excellent general health. But you were in bad shape.”
She paused and closed the jacket to her tablet, putting the stylus away.
“It was far worse than you realize. Though no bones are broken, you have a mild traumatic brain injury—a concussion I told you about before—and we need to make sure your blood pressure stays stable. That’s why I want to keep you, to ensure you’re one hundred percent better in the morning. If so, you should be able to leave.”
Paul took a minute to digest everything Doctor Cross said. After a moment he realized he’d been holding his breath and exhaled. If his dream had been any sign of what happened, well, it wouldn’t be a surprise if he had checked out for good.
“Thanks for being honest, Doc.”
“You’re welcome, Mister Inger—Paul.”
She patted his arm again and left.
What seemed like only a few minutes later, the staff moved Paul to a room. Then after that, Doctor Cross returned to check on him. One of the nurses got him a Braxbury Cola with extra ice and offered him a sandwich. She also offered him extra blankets and kept coming back to check his temperature and read his vitals. With this much attention, Paul wondered if he was doing worse than he thought, or even than the doc let on earlier.
“This is it for at least a few hours,” she announced after listening to his chest and stomach through her stethoscope. “I’m lending a hand in CC for the next few days, so I’ll be your intensivist as well. They’ll send me reports on you and I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Thanks, Doc.” He said, reaching out for her hand. “That’s a lot of work. I, uh—I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” Cross took his hand and gave it a friendly squeeze. Her hands were chilly, but the smile wasn’t. “And it is unusual, but not so much for an understaffed hospital.” She wrote on her tablet again as she left the room.
Paul could hear her speaking to someone in the hall about him—a nurse. She was giving medicine orders and checking on other patients, using big words he didn’t understand. Paul drifted on the sound of her husky voice. Two men’s voices joined it. One, he recognized as Chief Chet—that’s what the locals called him, and the other had to be his deputy—Postman. He opened his eyes.
He wanted to call Jeff and ask if he’d arrive tonight, or be there in the morning to drive him home. Would he be allowed to go home that soon? Home to an empty house, missing valuable items, like the collection of first editions he’d inherited from his great uncle.
Gary would be gone with them though. That was a plus.
But what if he wasn’t? What if he had to see the bastard?
He pushed that thought aside, stomach turning.
Something terrible had happened to him at the SHHS site, and the last thing he wanted was to come home and have to deal with that bullshit on top of everything else. The more he remembered, the less he liked it, but forced himself to stay calm.
The man was real. Paul had tried to tell him. They’d gone into the basement—he followed
where handsome man went. It was the lure of the Venus fly trap. Paul shivered and pulled up his blanket.
He couldn’t recall how he’d escaped—how they knew where to find him, but he’d lost consciousness so often, it was like trying to see something down a long tunnel. No matter how hard he squinted, it wasn’t coming into focus.
With a sigh, Paul looked at his arms. They were covered in cuts and scrapes. It looked like something chewed on him.
I’ve been eaten by a house. That is some freaky bullshit. I must be out of my fucking mind. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna tell anyone about this.
He wasn’t sure how he’d answer the police. He didn’t want to lie, but he knew the truth sounded bonkers. Silver Hollow had always been strange, so they’d understand. They might know something he didn’t.
The guy had been there, and he could’ve told them what happened. He’d been trapped in the basement (or wherever in Perdition that was), too.
Maybe he’d claim it was an animal attack. Since it looked like a huge animal mauled him, he could say one got into the basement and attacked him. Did that make any sense? Not more than what he believed happened. What he could recall. The choice was between honesty and insanity, or lying and incredulity.
Resolving to be honest, no matter how much he sounded like a nut ball, Paul closed his eyes again, hoping to keep away the nightmares.
A RED CAT
Silver Hollow Historical Society Archives
Archive Number: 000366
Date: 13 December, 1936
Historian’s notes: Found among several books and sherds of pottery. This is a partial diary found in the Sellers-Watson-Kellogg/Maxwell-Hunter House, formerly The Walker J. Dubbs House. Found during a cleaning of the house to prepare for asbestos removal crews and signed by Mary Sellers-Watson-Kellogg. This is the only portion (two entries) that survived. -FL
Diary: 13 December, 1936
Weather: Freezing and blustery. Snow in the afternoon.
It has been months since Elizabeth and I settled in and received our first guests, and a shorter while since Miss Emily, our chambermaid, hanged herself in the pantry. But we have a business to run, and we must take care of our guests. Life must go on as the cliché demands—and things must return to some semblance of normal.
At least Elizabeth has stopped bursting into tears and has stopped hiding in our room. These past weeks have been a dizzying cycle of me bringing meals to her room, asking if she would come out today, and her silent refusal to budge from the bed. I would sit with her during those meals, just to make sure she ate.
No bid for conversation drew Elizabeth out of her shell. Sometimes, she stared out the window, a tear slipping down the apple of her cheek.
I would collect the tray and leave her be. There was little else I could do.
Then, a fortnight ago, Elizabeth came out of our room and spoke for the first time in so many days.
“I think the outdoors will do me good.”
“Why not,” I said. Hope created tension in my voice and I winced, wishing I sounded casual. A fuss could send her back into hiding.
Earlier, I found out what had attracted her to the outdoors. Elizabeth has taken to sitting outside with the most unusual animal. Well, it’s a cat. If it weren’t for its strange color, it would be an ordinary feline.
It is a red cat.
Red as the maple leaves changing in late October, with long, fluffy fur. We have never seen a cat this color, and we’re feline aficionados.
The cat is enamored with Elizabeth and likes me well enough. But one would think he is her son, he follows her so. She says he is a familiar as the witches of Salem must have had. I try not to scoff at her whimsy—instead, I smile and remember that’s what attracted me to her in the beginning.
I would be foolish if I said that cat didn’t have a kind of extra sensory perception. The feline seems to know when Elizabeth is frightened, upset, or otherwise unhinged and comforts her with his deep, rich purr. But I’m not convinced it’s supernatural. Because he is a cat, his keen senses can pick up smells, sights, and sounds we humans cannot.
Elizabeth said she is never afraid to be in any of the rooms with him because he chases the evil out of them (so dramatic!). At night, he sleeps with us, pressed against Elizabeth’s back, and sometimes, I wake to see him alert and sitting as a sentinel at his post.
One morning after a long night of The Sentinel and his watchful eye, I told my love of this.
Elizabeth cut into her sausage link and smiled. “He does. The night watchman, my guardian angel.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, doubtless she could hear my skepticism. “But what’s wrong with this house? I mean, Emily was likely just an unhappy woman—she was probably trying to get away from her husband.”
Elizabeth made a face as though the sausage had turned sour and then stared at me with stony eyes. “Right. Because sometimes couples aren’t as happy with one another as they pretend to be.”
My eyes widened and I shot her a look, eyebrow raised. “Is that a commentary?”
Elizabeth sighed. “No, Mary. It’s not. I just—I think they were a happy couple until this—this goddamn house.”
Silent, I turned back to my breakfast. The woman didn’t use such coarse language often, and when she did, it was sheer frustration. This was not an argument to be had at the moment, so I changed the subject to business.
At first I thought that the cat being her guardian angel was an odd, childish flight of fancy. I also believed none of our guests or Elizabeth when they described the supernatural activity that seems to be so prevalent in this house.
That is, of course, before the incident, but I refused to admit it to Elizabeth, even though it was upsetting to her and something she needed to discuss.
I am not so full of hubris that I lie to myself—and my silence to Elizabeth was a victory for her. The two of us have been together for so long she puffed up with pride when I deferred to her opinion—meaning I don’t defer often. But in this instance, how could I not? My silence and subsequent changing of the subject was my admission of her being right. That’s just the way I communicate, but I am old and stuck in my ways.
The strange occurrences in this house have humbled me, as I cannot explain them away. I have been devastated by the suicide and violence—the disappearances. This house has been nothing but a curse and burden, filled with weirdness. Nothing bizarre has happened to me, but all around me, which is enough. That, and sometimes I feel I’m being watched, or I see a shadow out of the corner of my eye.
Then, this cat arrived.
Elizabeth named him Oscar. After Oscar Wilde. Apropos. Not because of his looks, but there was something about him that was playful yet dark—much like the man himself.
The animal’s appearance was sudden, and his demeanor remarkable. I am fond of cats, but I’ve never been so enamored with one until I met Oscar. He would follow Elizabeth from the gardener’s shed to the house, and would sit with her on the porch while she updated the guest registry, waiting for her to feed him.
When mealtime arrived, he sat outside the kitchen. Elizabeth would take whatever meats and bones (and the occasional vegetable) were on the menu to him on little plates and let him “select” his meals from there. Then she would go about her business, and, when he finished eating and cleaning himself up, he would go find her, and sit, purring, in her lap. That’s his payment for services rendered.
Now he gets to go inside the kitchen to eat—and he doesn’t jump on the counters in there, as if he can sense that Elizabeth doesn’t want him up there.
So far, not one guest has complained about him. Which is fortunate as he makes Elizabeth so jubilant. Not that it’s of any consequence. Should anyone complain, I would tell them they could try to find another place to stay. Good luck with that. The nearest lodging is up in Terrace Lake.
What is most interesting is that when Oscar is around—well—this is strange for me to admit as I am not much of a believer in the supern
atural. However, with everything that has happened, I will place my ego on the shelf and write what I think instead of fearing what others will think of me when they find this after I’m dead.
When Oscar is around, the supernatural activity stops.
If something is happening in a room—like the sensation one is being watched, and Oscar enters, the feeling stops. Elizabeth had commented on it once while we were in my office and I was going over the books, getting ready to place my orders for the coming months.
I looked up from the books and raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh, really?”
“Yes. When Oscar enters, it goes away. I’m not imagining it.”
“Hm.”
“‘Hm’ yourself all you like, Mary, but it’s true. Whatever it is, it’s frightened of Oscar.”
Sighing, I set my jaw. This would not turn into another sleepless night of me putting my hands on her and being turned away, leaving me to service myself.
“Yes, well. He’s a special cat,” I said, hiding the disbelief from my voice and smiling at him in her lap.
Oscar raised his head and stared at me as if to say, I know you’re lying. He put his head back down and turned away.
I went back to my books, still unbelieving. Still skeptical—refusing to accept it as truth despite past evidence that there was supernatural activity in the house.
Until it happened to me.
The night it happened I was in the library, organizing my books, separating fiction from non-fiction, as I had a case of new titles in and I wanted to ensure that the guests could find them.
So while moving the older books to the higher shelves, I was standing on a tall ladder. That’s when the eerie sense of being watched began.
I ignored it and continued to shelve the books. The room got chillier. Blaming the draft, I shivered inside my sweater, pulling it closer to my body.
That’s when the ladder shook. I gasped, gripping the sides hard and trying to regain my equilibrium. My feet slipped and I gripped the ladder till my knuckles turned white, determined not to die from falling to the oak floor and bursting open my skull.
Now Entering Silver Hollow Page 8
