by Brenda Hill
“Remember … remember.”
The next morning she woke, so listless she could barely get out of bed.
Not bothering with her robe, she staggered downstairs and made coffee, standing by the coffee maker while it dripped. She downed the first cup so fast she burned her tongue, but it was only after her second cup that she could concentrate.
Last night had been a nightmare filled with mythical monsters. Not only a ghost, but also a sea monster. Had she been asleep and dreamed it all? A ghost, if there was truly such a thing, was ethereal, a spirit with no physical body, incapable of making physical love. So it couldn’t have been real. Remembering how she’d responded, she decided it must have been the female version of a wet dream.
After her third cup, she still felt heavy fatigue, so she dropped bread into the toaster. Maybe something in her stomach other than caffeine would help.
“Remember,” he’d said, as if she should know him. If the lovemaking had been a dream, then his words had been her imagination. If so, why did they linger in her memory? Why did she feel if she could only remember, she would have the key to everything that had been happening?
Remember … remember.
An image formed in her mind, lingered for a heartbeat, then was gone. Her heart quickened, as if recognizing a treasure believed to be lost.
Was it the lover from her dream? She tried to visualize his features, to capture the eyes, but try as hard as she could, his image remained just beyond her perception.
Could she paint him? Not if she couldn’t recall how he’d looked. Yet, there had been times in the past when something from within guided her strokes and she created a painting entirely different from what she had intended.
Could that happen again? Would her subconscious allow her to paint a portrait from her heart?
She had to try. Now. Before his image was gone forever.
The toast forgotten, she dashed upstairs to the attic, frantically digging through still-packed boxes of art supplies and spreading them on the floor. Once she had a canvas and her paints ready, she began. One long stroke to outline the face, then … nothing. She didn’t even know if the face outline was accurate.
She tried again. Maybe if she held the brush next to the outline, her hand would begin to move, like when trying to contact a spirit with a planchette from an Ouija board.
Still nothing. Maybe she wasn’t concentrating hard enough. She tried again, eyes closed, her brows scrunched in a frown.
Was that a face she was seeing? She moved the brush a stroke, then two, then nothing. After a few more determined and unproductive moments, she felt foolish and dropped her arm.
It wasn’t going to work. Maybe the image truly wasn’t there. Maybe the entire thing was rubbish. Of course it was. There were no such things as ghosts, and if, by the barest possibility they did exist, they certainly didn’t make love to the living.
“I truly am ready for the funny farm,” she said. “You’re not real.” She twirled around, crying to the barren attic. “If you are, why are you doing this to me? Who are you? I need some answers! Help me!”
She waited, expecting … what?
Feeling even more ridiculous, she gave up and began to clean her brushes. Maybe it was all was rumors and gossip, and she should see a shrink.
The first hint of Bay Rum was subtle, so delicate she wasn’t even aware. She dried the first brush and stood it, bristles up, in a red-splattered jar. Then she noticed the scent. It filled the air and she raised her head, breathing it in. She began to paint.
Three hours later, covered in sweat, Lindsay lowered her brush onto the easel, wiped her hands on the rag, and stood back from the canvas.
She’d captured a face, a young man with Nordic features. Mid-twenties, bluish-hazel eyes with a touch of green that complimented his blond hair and brows. His features were strong, and she sensed he was tall enough to stand well over her five-ten height.
But it was the love—and sadness—in his eyes that tore her heart. She couldn’t look away. Her eyes welled and spilled over. The grief was like nothing she’d ever experienced before, and she couldn’t stop the tears.
A heartbeat or an eternity later, the scent faded, and just as the last hint waned, Lindsay felt a slight pressure on her lips, a kiss as delicate as butterfly wings.
She gingerly touched her lips, then studied the painting, the questions in a whirl of confusion. Who was he, and what was happening to her in that house?
Maybe Shirley would provide the answers.
She hurried downstairs for her cell phone, took a photo of the painting, and got ready for her meeting in the park.
Chapter Twenty-One
Armed with the photo on her phone, Lindsay arrived at the park about four-forty. Knowing she was early, she strolled past the skating park and found a bench on a little knoll overlooking the water. Behind her in the play area, children shouted from the monkey bars, their mothers watching in the warm sunshine. The dock was busy with cars and RVs pulling up to launch fishing boats. Farther down the shore, people fished from a dock by the city hall.
She watched the activity, checking her watch, wishing Shirley would be as eager as Lindsay to talk. But the waitress didn’t appear. At five-twenty, Lindsay scanned the area. Still no Shirley. The park was only a five-minute walk from the diner. Had she changed her mind?
At five-thirty-five, Shirley strolled onto the grass carrying a white paper sack.
“Sorry, but I had another stop to make. I have to get back soon, so I can’t stay long.”
Oh no, was she sorry she’d agreed to talk and was trying to get out of it? Lindsay had to be careful in her words, had to placate her, anything to keep her from running.
“I appreciate your meeting me at all.” She tried to keep the impatience from her voice. “I have so many questions—”
“Before I get into all that, let me feed the ducks. With work and family, I don’t get here as much as I want.”
Nearly screaming with frustration, Lindsay wondered if she could endure another second. But she doubted the woman would respond as well or be quite as open if she pushed it too hard, so she called on every ounce of patience she had.
Shirley opened the sack and threw crumbs at a small family of ducks swimming close to the reeds.
“I like to feed them. It’s calming.”
Calming? The ducks raced for the bread, squabbling and diving for crumbs, their quacks attracting others from across the lake. Finally, when the sack was empty, Shirley sat quietly, still not looking at Lindsay.
Lindsay kept her eyes on the ducks too. What was the best way to start the conversation? Should she ask questions about the old woman? She was desperate to discover what the woman knew about the house and family, yet it might be rude to plunge right in.
“Did you know Frida wanted the house burnt to the ground?” she finally said. “It was in the will.”
Shirley said nothing and was silent for so long, Lindsay wondered if had changed her mind and decided not to talk at all.
Finally, “Maybe they should. No one will go near the place, no workman or anyone else.”
“Then everyone believes it haunted?”
For the first time since sitting next to her, Shirley faced Lindsay. “How much do you know about it?”
Lindsay wasn’t sure if she should mention her encounters with the ghost, spirit, or whatever it was. At least not yet. Better to keep the conversation general—until she felt she could trust the woman.
“I didn’t know anything at first, just bits and pieces Eric remembered from his childhood. He spent summers with his aunts until he was about eleven and loved it.”
“Why is it so important you talk to my grandmother? What’s been happening?”
Heat rushed to Lindsay’s face.
“You’ve seen him.” Shirley watched her closely.
“I haven’t actually seen anything, but strange things have happened, things I can’t explain.”
“Such as?”
Yet she needed to trust someone, and the woman did say something about HIM.
Without revealing the intimate details, she talked about the Bay Rum scent, finding the tree’s initials, and sensing someone in her bathroom. She left out the vivid details. Still, Shirley was horrified.
“You need an exorcist instead of my grandmother. Least of all, you have to get out of that house.”
“Eric doesn’t believe any of it, and he loves it there. I’d think it was all me, but that first night in the diner, you and the others acted so strange. Then your grandmother’s warning. I went to the library and found out the house is actually supposed to be haunted.” She went silent, gazing at the water, watching boaters cruise by.
“Sometimes,” she finally said, her voice so low that Shirley leaned in to hear her, “I just know someone there. I can’t explain it, but I know.” She turned to the woman. “I can’t believe this is happening. Not to me, not in this day and age. Am I going crazy?”
The waitress studied Lindsay intently, then sighed. “This is hard, you know. Gran tried to warn people for years, but they made fun of her, so we just don’t talk about it anymore.”
“I'm sorry,” Lindsay said. “But please, you’ve got to help me.”
“What did your husband tell you about his aunts?”
“Only that they were good to him and that Frida took care of Berina. She was supposed to have a mental condition, but he didn't see any problems, other than Berina was a bit spacey at times. Of course he was just a child. What are you getting at?”
“Gran thinks the ghost haunts that house because of the sisters.”
“Good God why? Who’s the ghost supposed to be?”
“Kind of a long story, but I’ll try to make it brief.”
“Tell me everything, please.”
“Gran worked in the Peterson house back in the days when it was in its heyday. People around here still talk about the old Peterson place, and how grand it was. The Petersons were the social elite at that time, you know, him being the bank president and all. They were like royalty for these parts. And the house was the grandest place, all fresh and new.” She stared out at the lake. A breeze blew off the water, rustling the leaves on the trees near the bench. She shivered.
“Please go on.”
“Well anyway, Gran started working there when she was a teenager, helping Tilly, the general housekeeper and maid. She got lots of overtime at all the social affairs. She liked the two girls. Frida was year or two older than Berina. Berina was adopted, you know, although no one talked about it. Everyone knew, though. When Frida was eighteen, she fell in love and planned to marry a bank teller.”
“Galen Halidor.”
Shirley turned a questioning glance at Lindsay.
“Read about it in the library.”
“Yeah, well, just before they were to be married, Miss Frida shot him.”
“In a hunting accident, although I didn’t know it was Frida who shot him.”
“Wasn’t no hunting going on in the parlor at night.”
“The parlor? But he was okay. The paper said he left for a position in Wisconsin.”
“Oh he left all right. In a box.”
“But the paper—”
“You have to understand the Petersons were grand people and had done a lot for the town. Gran said the paper didn’t want to cause more harm that family.”
“My God. Poor Frida, to have killed her own fiancée. No wonder the house is so sad.” She was silent a moment, then, “Wait a minute. Why did Frida shoot him?”
“No one knows what happened except Frida and Berina, but Tilly testified at the hearing that Mr. and Mrs. Peterson were out of town that night. Miss Frida said she woke to strange noises in the house, thought someone was attacking Miss Berina, so she shot him. It was young Mr. Halidor.”
“How terrible—for all of them. Was Frida charged with the shooting?”
“It was filed as accidental, but it changed that family. Miss Berina had a breakdown and Miss Frida took care of her. The whole family kept to themselves.”
“I don’t understand. If Frida suffered the trauma of shooting her own fiancée, why would she devote her life to her sister? It doesn’t make sense.”
“We’ll never know. It all sort of went away, except for the gossip. Old man Peterson retired, and nothing much was heard from them until they died. Him first, then a year or two later, she passed. Oh, they’d go to church, but still kept to themselves. The girls lived pretty quiet until, oh, sometime in the sixties, when Miss Berina died. Then Miss Frida lived alone until she was sent to the nursing home.”
“God. A lot of tragedy for that family.”
“The house has been empty ever since. Until you guys came—except for the ghost, of course—if you believe the rumors.”
“You think it’s the fiancée?”
“Gran thought so. Said Miss Berina used to cry and talk to the air as if someone were there, but why Miss Berina, instead of Miss Frida, would see him is beyond me. But someone or some thing was there. For years afterward, even until right before you came, people boating by the place reported a man’s outline in the attic window.”
Although she should be frightened by the mounting evidence of a ghost in her home, Lindsay felt a surge of excitement. The ghost was real—or as real as a spirit could be, more evidence she wasn’t crazy, wasn’t hallucinating, and didn’t have a brain tumor.
She couldn’t wait to tell Eric the story. She was sure he didn’t know his aunts’ involvement in the shooting and certainly had no idea of the tragedy surrounding it.
She felt validated.
And resentful.
As much as she tried to ignore the feeling, it surfaced like the area’s fabled lake serpent, confronting her, refusing to go away.
Why hadn’t he believed her? Even if he couldn’t support the idea of a ghost, he could’ve had enough faith in her to be open to possibilities. Anything other than the condescending ridicule he’d shown. She’d endured enough of that in her childhood.
Now she wanted proof of the ghost to show him.
She picked up her cell and clicked through to the photo.
“Do you recognize this?”
Shirley shook her head. “Who is it?”
“I’m hoping the old woman can tell me. Heavens, I can’t keep calling her that. What is her name?”
“Elsie, Elsie Hall, but you can’t talk to her.”
“But she made a point of warning me, so she must be concerned. I was hoping she’d be with you today.”
“She won’t be talking to anyone for a while. Maybe never again.”
“But—”
“She had a stroke after talking to you that day,” Shirley interrupted, “and she hasn’t regained consciousness. They don’t think she’ll make it.”
After offering condolences, Lindsay headed home, the old woman’s fate on her mind. How sad for Elsie. To have been scorned most of her life, then to have it end without knowing she’d been right. Or, without the town knowing there truly was a ghost at the Peterson home.
Was she doomed to the same fate?
Because now Lindsay was convinced it was true. And she felt in her heart it was the fiancée, Galen Halidor. Why he seemed to be haunting her, she had no idea—unless she were connected to his past. Even though such a thing seemed incredible—and impossible, her mounting suspicions were telling her it was true. And if so, was it revenge because Frida had killed him? Yet the episodes weren’t frightening. The ghost seemed tender. Loving. Maybe he simply wanted to be near his fiancée. But, she reasoned, if that were so, wouldn’t his spirit have left the house once Frida passed on?
So many questions …
Maybe, with more investigation, she could find some answers.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lindsay wondered how to find Harry. If anyone were old enough to have bee
n around when the tragedies happened, it was Harry. He might be able to fill in some details.
How to find him? Karen—at the library was the best place to start. It was probably closed, but Lindsay felt desperate enough to try.
Sure enough, the doors were locked, the building dark except for a couple of night lights over the counter.
Harry had talked as if he knew everyone in town, so perhaps someone at one of the diners would know him. But how could she find out? She couldn’t see herself simply walking in and announcing she was trying to find Harry. So, as anxious as she was to find him now, she had to wait until tomorrow to begin the search.
Before going home, she thought about Mathews. If the entire town knew about the Peterson house, why hadn’t he warned them? Surely it was something she and Eric should have known before deciding to keep the place. Certainly before moving in.
What else did he know?
She hurried down Main Street toward his office. She didn’t know his hours, but it was well past seven, way past the time most businesses in town closed. But she was hoping to catch him before he left.
When she arrived at the door opening to the stairs, it was unlocked.
His office was dark except for a single lamp on his secretary’s desk. Had she missed him? But wait. A sliver of light shone underneath his closed inner-officer door.
She knocked.
Nothing.
She knocked again, louder this time.
His door opened, and when he saw her, he frowned. Not a good sign. Still, he cracked open the outer door.
“Mrs. Peterson. I’m about to go home. If you need legal advice, check with my secretary in the morning.”
Funny thing, he didn’t meet her gaze.
“Why didn’t you tell us the house was haunted?” she blurted. Probably not the wisest thing to do, but there it was.
Startled, he faced her. He even opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
She barged right through the door and into his office, firmly taking a seat. He plodded through like an old man facing execution.
