Martha scanned the moonlit yard. No sign of the woman, but something else was there now, down by the river. The same thing she had observed last night from her bedroom window, only closer now.
The orange lights.
Martha considered going back upstairs for her shoes, but already the will-o’-the-wisp shapes were bobbing, receding.
She stepped into the yard. The grass felt cool and damp under her feet. She walked under the canopy of the big oak tree, shrouded in moon-shadows, and picked her way across the exposed roots, careful to keep the broad trunk between herself and the apparitions.
She could hear someone talking now, men’s voices, hushed and urgent, near the shoreline. She could smell the mud and brine of the river. She stopped next to the trunk and peeked around and saw their dark shapes, hunched, moving, working among the reeds that lined the water’s edge. Several of them stood in the shallows of the river, while one was waist-deep in the water, holding on to something. A boat? A canoe? She couldn’t make it out through the tall grass.
The one standing in the river was bent over, still, and the others, the ones holding the orange lights—torches—stepped toward him. She heard splashing, and then she could see only the tips of the flames, lined up in a tight cluster. The cluster moved as a unit, drifting toward the center of the river. The torch flames slid above the edge of the marsh grass, winking behind skeins of grass and trees.
Martha stepped around the wide trunk, keeping her body close to it, trying to catch a better glimpse of the craft. She saw the ripple of water and a last glimmer of orange firelight as it disappeared through the tree branches.
She started to step slowly away from the tree, keeping her eyes focused on the river. The edge of her foot caught on one of the oak’s gnarled roots and she stumbled sideways, planting her other foot behind to regain balance. Then she felt a dripping wetness on her shoulder. Something brushed the back of her head.
Martha wheeled around. The thing that touched her hung at eye level. Dark. Blistered. Swaying. A foot.
Martha shrieked and staggered backward and tripped on the roots, landing on her butt amid the hard tangle. Disoriented, she looked up and saw a long form swaying above her. Feet bound with rope. One toe severed at the joint. Tattered trousers. A dark, glistening torso. Glints of moonlight on bare skin. Head slumped, as though in prayer.
Martha tried to scream, but the sound caught in her throat, stillborn and airless. She crab-walked backward across the root system and rolled. She scrambled to her feet and charged toward the house.
She crossed the yard at a dead run, clambered onto the front porch, snatched the door open and slammed it closed behind her. She clawed at the wall, feeling for the foyer lights. For several seconds, she couldn’t speak. She tried to shout for help, but could only make a toneless h-h-h-h-h-h sound. She paused, took a gulp of air, and belted the words out.
“H-help! Somebody help….”
Martha felt herself hyperventilating. White specks floated in front of her eyes and she heard nothing but a dull roar in her ears and the violent rush of her own breathing.
She wasn’t sure how much time passed before she heard the voice of Eileen Pritchett calling from the landing at the top of the stairs.
“Who’s down there?”
“It’s M-Martha.” She panted, pressing her back into the wall.
“Who else? Is somebody else in the house?” Eileen stood holding the banister with one hand, clutching the front of her robe with the other.
“N-no—not in the house—but out there—”
“Eileen?” The voice of Eileen’s husband came from a more distant point upstairs. “Who is it? Do I need to call the police?”
“Hold on, Alvin, stay in the bedroom. Now, what’s all the commotion down there?”
Martha struggled to control her breathing enough to speak.
“Something out there…I saw…”
Eileen took a couple of tentative steps down the stairs, gripping the banister.
“What now? What’s this about?”
Martha heard Mr. Pritchett saying something from down the hall.
“Don’t call ’em yet, Alvin. Let’s see what the problem is.”
Mike, the quiet tenant from the other end of the hall, appeared on the balcony. “What’s going on?”
“Some kind of trouble,” Eileen said. “That Covington girl—down there.”
“I’ll go see what’s the matter.” Mike descended the stairs, squeezing past Mrs. Pritchett. He stopped next to Martha and looked at her, waiting. Martha had glimpsed Mike only once before. He was pale and thin, and tonight he wore a faded T-shirt and shorts.
“In the yard,” Martha said, working to control her breathing. “Out there, something horrible…so horrible…”
“Can you show me where you saw it?” Mike’s voice was soft.
Martha nodded, and Mike opened the door.
“Under the tree…the big tree.” Martha pointed toward the dark canopy of limbs, bathed in moonlight.
Mike flipped a light switch and a floodlight cast a circle of illumination, but it didn’t quite reach the full extent of the canopy. “Don’t go out there,” Eileen called from the stairs.
“I’m just going to take a look,” Mike said. “Okay if I borrow the flashlight?”
“It’s by the door,” Eileen said.
Mike took the rechargeable plastic lantern from its cradle and headed out into the yard. Martha stepped onto the porch, watched his thin silhouette move silently around the perimeter of the tree, first in the area illuminated by the floodlight, then into the shadows, flashlight beam sweeping across the limbs and grass.
Finally, he returned to the porch.
“Did you see?” Martha panted. “Did you see it?”
“I don’t see anything. Can you show me exactly where?”
Martha nodded, then walked with him back toward the tree canopy. “Watch where you step,” Mike told her, glancing at her feet. Martha gripped his knobby elbow.
“It’s over there,” Martha said, pointing toward a shadowy form hanging down at the far edge of the canopy. “Be careful.”
“Come on with me,” Mike said. “Watch your step.” They picked their way across the root system, and Mike shined the flashlight beam directly toward the dark shape.
It wasn’t a body, but a tree limb hanging vertically, caught by a Y-shaped stub on one of the tree’s boughs. Draperies of moss and dead leaves shrouded the limb. They stepped closer to it. Mike touched the limb, and it swayed.
“Is that what you saw?”
Martha looked around the rest of the canopy, then toward the river. She nodded.
“Anything else?”
“Yes…there were some people….” She glanced toward the glassy water.
“Who do you think it was?”
“I don’t know. Never mind.”
They made their way back to the porch. Eileen peered through the crack in the door.
“Well?”
“Everything’s okay,” Mike said. “It was a limb.”
“What? A limb?” Eileen opened the door.
“What is it?” Mr. Pritchett stood on the landing, leaning on an aluminum walker.
“Go back to bed, Alvin, and get your rest,” Eileen called up to him. “Looks like everything’s all right.”
They came into the house and Eileen closed the door, turned the dead bolt, and flipped off the outdoor light.
“Land sakes, what were you doing out there this time of night?”
“I heard sounds…and then…”
“What kind of sounds?”
Eileen and Mike looked at Martha. Her landlady’s face looked waxy in the light of the foyer. And Martha was aware of her own appearance, her pale thighs exposed below the edge of the skimpy kimono. She pulled at the hem. “It started across the hall…the people in the room across the hall. They were arguing—you must have heard them.”
“There ain’t no people across the hall,” Eileen said, worki
ng her jaw. “You and Mike is the only tenants we got.”
Martha looked at Mike. His round eyes looked sad.
“The only noise I heard was all that screaming in the yard. Was that you?” Eileen said.
Martha folded her arms across her chest, nodded. “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.”
“Well, let’s see if we can get some rest,” Eileen said, hitching her robe and turning toward the stairs. “Alvin has a blood condition, and he has weak spells if he doesn’t get a good night’s rest. Do you reckon you can stay in the house the rest of the night?”
“Yes.” Martha nodded, holding back tears.
Eileen headed up the stairs, muttering something under her breath.
Martha stood next to the wall, head lowered, arms folded, waiting for Mike to go.
“Are you going to be all right?” he asked. Martha nodded, not looking up.
—
Once she was back in her room, Martha closed her door and leaned against it. She scanned her little living space and its hopeful decorations—the Chinese lantern, the picture of her father on the wall. Her tape recorder and notebooks were spread out on the little dining table.
She slid slowly down to the floor and sank her face into her hands.
Watch for signs of a relapse. That’s the other thing Vince had told her. Catch it early, that’s the key.
Chapter 8
The next morning, Martha sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in jeans and a blouse, waiting. She could hear the sounds of preparation in the hall, the squeaking wood floors, the sound of running water, a fleeting scent of talcum. The Pritchetts were churchgoers, as it turned out, and this was a good thing. She knew what she had to do, and she needed some privacy to do it.
She heard the screen door swing shut downstairs, and soon after, the sound of the Buick starting up and crunching off down the gravel driveway. The house was silent.
Martha picked up her billfold and went downstairs to the phone in the hall, took a deep breath, and dialed the number to Vince’s cellphone.
After three rings, his recorded voice came on, telling her he was currently unable to answer and inviting her to leave a message. Martha pulled down on the phone hook, thinking that over. She glanced at her watch and resolved to try again in forty-five minutes.
She picked up her billfold and looked at Vince’s card, then slid it back into one of the card holders. She was about to close the billfold when the creased edge of another card caught her attention. She pulled out Lady Albertha’s address.
Martha put the billfold into her back pocket and went to her room. She picked up her room key from the dresser table, pocketed it, and headed downstairs and out of the house, locking the front door behind her.
—
Martha studied her merchants’ map of downtown Amberleen. Albertha’s address was 16 Planters Walk. The map showed Planters Walk starting at the end of Bay Street, on the other side of the canal. She followed the waterfront palisade to the end of Main Street and peered over the edge of a cement wall.
The tide was flowing in, carrying with it bits of grass and barges of yellow foam. The canal wall was cracked in places, exposing twisted ganglia of rusted iron. She followed the wall away from the river and reached a narrow iron bridge that spanned the waterway.
She crossed the bridge and reached the top of a cement stairway, which clung to the side of the canal wall and descended steeply. She followed it down to an area below street level.
The pavement was older here, cracked and potholed, and fronted by a dilapidated row of cotton warehouses. She had seen a framed black-and-white photo of this place in Nick’s office, and thought it looked interesting. It’s worth a visit, Nick had told her. Just don’t go there at night. Planters Walk had once been the town’s commercial heart, he’d explained. A few years ago there was a short-lived plan to redevelop the area as a tourist attraction by establishing shops, restaurants, and a museum, but the funding for the project never got off the ground.
Martha headed down the cobblestone walkway, passing the empty shell of a warehouse, its doors boarded up and windows broken. Weeds sprouted through cracks in the pavement. An old truck tire leaned against the wall. Graffiti was everywhere. She saw a familiar image spray-painted on a piece of plywood—a piece of chain that morphed into a snake’s head.
Martha passed a narrow alley; the next set of buildings were in better shape, some pressed into service as makeshift businesses. She passed an establishment that sold refurbished boat engine parts, a place with a hand-painted signboard that offered freshly caught seafood by the pound, then a gun shop. All closed today, the street deserted. Sunday morning.
Martha walked past a trio of brick archways blocked with padlocked metalwork, some of it dented inward, and reached a peeling wooden door marked with the number sixteen. Lady Albertha’s. No sign identified the place. Next to the door was a window covered by wrought-iron bars. Martha squinted through the dusty panes. Discolored venetian blinds hung lopsided in the window. A cardboard sign on the sill said: LADY ALBERTHA. ADVISOR. READINGS, ROOT WORK.
Inside, darkness.
Martha considered trying the door, but the place looked closed, and the whole idea suddenly seemed foolish. She decided to explore farther, following the street past more derelict buildings, more alleys. A small, narrow market with greasy windows.
She reached the end of the row, where a low-slung, shedlike structure with a corrugated tin roof slumped against the side of the last brick warehouse. The tin was rust-brown, with pieces missing, exposing weathered beams. The door was open and the place exhaled a scent of urine. A cloud passed in front of the sun, the street darkened. A breeze agitated a hanging piece of sheet metal, producing a mournful groan.
Ahead, the cobblestone curved and slanted upward, back toward street level. She could continue in that direction, explore farther. But rather than risk getting lost, she decided to backtrack. She picked up her pace, a sense of unease overtaking her curiosity. When she reached the door marked “16,” she paused again. At least try the door.
Martha pressed on the thumb latch and it gave. A chime tinkled as she swung the door open and squinted into a dusty abyss. A sweet smell of pipe smoke and musk flooded her nostrils.
“Hello?” Martha asked the darkness.
“Wait there, child.” Albertha’s voice came from somewhere deep within. “Let me put the light on for you.”
Martha heard a faint shuffling in the shadows and then a light came on at the far end of the corridor. Martha stepped across the threshold and peered down a long, cluttered space.
“Wait a spell, child. Let your eyes adjust, before you come on back.”
Martha paused, letting the room come into focus. The walls were lined with narrow shelves, brimming with small cloth bags, bowls containing assorted bone fragments, shells, Mason jars. Bottles and feathers and countless containers of other things she might not have been able to identify, even in broad daylight. None of the shelves, or the inventory itself, were labeled.
Martha pulled the door closed behind her, the chimes tinkling again. She walked down the corridor toward the weak, amber light, floorboards squeaking softly.
She passed a counter with an old cash register, and beyond that the room widened, and she stood at the edge of a small parlor. There was an oval hooked rug, a table made from half a wooden barrel with a varnished piece of plywood on top, a threadbare sofa with an afghan, a potbellied stove. Lady Albertha sat next to the stove in a padded rocker, smoking a lacquered pipe.
“Enough light, child? No use ’n burnin’ the bulb ’less there’s a customer.”
“Yes, thank you. I’m Martha…don’t know if you remember me…we met at—”
“I remember you, child. Come and take a seat.”
Martha sat on the sofa. Albertha sucked on the pipe, which looked like it was fashioned from driftwood, and Martha saw the tobacco in the bowl glow brighter, emitting faint squeals. The tobacco smelled delicious, almost intoxicating. For a lo
ng moment, neither of them spoke. The silence felt comforting.
Albertha reached into her blouse pocket and fished out a small round object. She held it forward and Martha took it.
“See that? Picked it up this morning, down yonder on my morning walk. Young one, ain’t it?”
Martha turned the acorn in her hand, feeling its texture. “Yes.”
“Fell early. And I got this itch, right here, in my elbow. Had it for three weeks now. Somethin’ big. Somethin’ mighty big.”
Albertha set the pipe on a wooden cradle on a table next to the chair and leaned back, humming faintly. “Where do you stay at, child?”
“It’s a place called the Pritchett House. It’s a rooming house at the end of Pearl Street.”
Albertha nodded her head. “How’s the sleeping out there?”
“I’m afraid I don’t sleep very well there. That’s part of the reason I came to see you.”
Albertha released a fragrant cloud of pipe smoke. “Something there won’t let you rest.”
“I think about things too much. And sometimes I hear things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Noises, arguments. And I see things, too. In the yard…I thought I was better. I thought I was ready, Vince thought I was ready. Vince, he’s my doctor. But now I’m getting worse. I think it’s all happening again.”
“It ain’t just you, child. It’s the place.”
“What about the place?”
“There’s a shadow on that land.”
Albertha picked up the pipe and cradled it. She took a long, thoughtful draw. “Most folks can’t know it. They ain’t like you and me.”
Martha picked at the threads that showed through to the bunting on the arm of the sofa. “Something happened there?”
“For true. Long time ago.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“Where that house now stands, that was a plantation back in the days gone by. Burnt to the ground back in 1860. That place was run by a well-to-do fellow name of Clyde Tarrant.
“He weren’t no worse than others like him. Fact, they say he was a sight better than most. But he had a jealous heart, and that’s what done him in, along with a run of bad luck. None of it would of happened, ’cept he happened to buy a certain slave. A man by the name of Sattu Grundei.”
The Girl in the Maze Page 8
