by Blair Howard
There is one more thing I will ask of you. When you read the letter from my mother, please do so with an open mind. What she says is unsettling, but my own experiences were similar to hers.
Good luck Mandy. I hope you have a wonderful life.
Love,
Granny Madge
She refolded the letter, then slipped it back inside its envelope. She held both up to the light between two fingers, squinted at it, then turned and looked at me, her eyebrows raised.
“Hah,” I said. “Don’t look at me.”
She said nothing. She laid the envelope aside and picked up the ornate wooden box. It was made from some sort of exotic wood, a burl maybe, dark red and highly polished. The top was inlaid with silver and mother-of-pearl, an intricate design of four silver fleur-de-lis joined to form a cross, each with a small disk—maybe three eighths of an inch in diameter—of mother-of-pearl at its center. Two more such disks completed the design, one at the center of the cross and the other at what I assumed to be the front of the box. Granny Tyler was right: the box was a work of art.
Amanda hefted it, weighing it in her hands. She shook it. Something moved inside.
“See,” she said. “There’s something in it.” She shook it again, harder. Whatever it was that was inside was soft, for it made almost no sound. She ran her fingers around its edges and over the design, and then handed it to me.
I, too, hefted it. I figured it weighed maybe three or four pounds. I ran my fingers over the design on the top. It was absolutely smooth. I closed my eyes and did it again: nope, I couldn’t feel a thing. The craftsmanship was superb. Next I tried the sides, but it was no different. I could feel nothing but the unbroken, silky surface of the polished wood. If there was a way to open it, I couldn’t see it, and yet there must be. There was definitely something inside it.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I don’t think anything. It’s a pretty, antique box. There has to be a way into it, because there’s something inside it, but how to get at it….” I shrugged.
“Wow, some Sherlock you are. Does all of this not pique your investigative juices? You love this sort of thing, cold cases.”
“Oh it’s cold all right,” I said. “What about the note from your great-grandmother? Is it there?”
I placed the box on the coffee table. She picked up the other envelope. You don’t see that kind of thing anymore. I think they called them ‘notes.’ Small, square, the envelope yellowed with age, it had just the one word written on it—Marjorie—and even that was difficult to read. The ink had faded almost to nothing. Amanda opened it and took out three sheets of notepaper folded together; they too were yellowed. For several moments she sat quietly, reading the contents of the letter, and then she passed it to me.
My Dear Daughter,
I am writing to you from my sickbed. I fear I may not live through the night. You are, I know, already on your way, but should you not arrive in time I want to tell you about the Towers and, most importantly, my mother, Elizabeth. When you get here you’ll find a cardboard box in the closet behind my shoe rack. Inside there are several items that I want you to have. The fancy wooden box is an antique. It belonged to my father. The watch, the three silver perfume boxes, and the jewelry all belonged to my mother. She brought them to me the night she disappeared. I was only ten years old. I do remember her, but not as well now. Nor do I remember much about that night. I do remember that she was sad, and that she told me to keep her things safe, to hide them, and never to let my father know that I had them. I was half-asleep, but together we hid them under one of the floorboards in my bedroom. When I awoke the next morning she was gone, and I never saw her again. Many times I asked my father where she had gone. His answer was always the same: “She’s gone away.” That was all he ever said.
She was a lovely person, beautiful, as you will see in her portrait in the sitting room at the Towers. I loved her very much, and she loved me too. I know she never would have left me. My father was a hard man, moody. Introverted, I think, is the right word to describe him. He was not a loving man, although he never mistreated me.
After she had gone from the house, I would from time to time take her things from their hiding place and play with them. I loved the jewelry, especially the watch. It plays a tune when you open it.
I never was able to open the wooden box. What it is, what is inside it, I have no idea. If it’s a puzzle box, there are, as far as I know, no clues to solving it. Maybe you will be able to find the answer.
Marjorie, I hated that house. I lived there with your father until I could stand it no more and then I persuaded him to move us south. As you know, I have never been healthy. Why, I don’t know, but I think the downhill path to where I am now began there, at the Towers. No matter how well I wrapped myself up, no matter how high we built the fires, I was never warm. The house was always cold, unnaturally so. Even in winter it seemed to me that it was warmer outside than in, but that wasn’t all. I am certain, beyond any doubt, that the Towers is haunted.
No, I have never seen a ghost there, but I was always aware of a presence. More than one, in fact. One I felt was malignant, but it wasn’t until after my father died that I began to be aware of it. Was it his ghost? I don’t know, because I never saw anything. But even before that, even as a child, I felt I was never alone in the house. I felt I was being watched, but there was never anyone there. Several times I thought I felt someone brush past me on the stairs. Silly notions.
So now it all passes to you, Marjorie. My advice is to get rid of it as soon as you can. I would have done it myself, but somehow could never bring myself to do so. You simply must. It’s a bad place.
Goodbye my darling.
Your loving mother,
Sarah
“What do you make of it?” Amanda asked as I handed it back.
Be careful, Harry. There are no right answers.
“I… I don’t know what to say. She was sick when she wrote it. Maybe she was….”
“Crazy? Is that what you were going to say?”
“Er no. Of course not, but maybe she was on some sort of medication. There’s no such thing as a haunted house, or ghosts.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Oh come on, Amanda, surely—”
“No, of course I don’t believe in ghosts. Is that what you were going to say?”
“No. I was simply going to say….” What the hell was I going to say? “I was simply going to say…. Oh shit. You’re right. I was going to say that surely you don’t believe in ghosts.”
She looked at me. “Of course I do, Harry. What dedicated, steely-eyed, cynical journalist doesn’t?” She smiled. “Of course I don’t, you ass.”
“Well that’s good. I can’t stand creepy women.”
“Oh that’s just not true,” she said, getting up from beside me and then dropping down again onto my lap and wrapping her arms around my neck.
“You know how much you love it when I creep all over you,” she whispered in my ear.
She was right: I did love it, especially when she stuck her tongue in my ear…. Okay, that’s enough of that.
“Come on,” I said, pushing her gently away. “Be serious for a minute.”
She sighed and sat back down again.
“So, what about the mystery?” she asked, picking the box up and shaking it for the third time.
“What mystery? What you have here is nothing more than family legend. Stories that have taken on added significance through the years. There’s no mystery. Your great-great-grandmother’s disappearance—” I paused. “Look, that’s too much of a mouthful to be repeating. Let’s just call her Elizabeth, okay?”
Amanda nodded, and I continued. “So she met a guy and ran off with him. This other lady—Georgina, was her name? She got fed up with life in a hellhole and living with a creep and took the easy way out, a header off the cliffs. That’s all there is too it.”
She looked at me skeptically. “
You think?”
“I do.”
“But we could look into it, couldn’t we?”
“Look into what? Amanda, there’s nothing to look into. It’s been more than a hundred years since the old lady hopped it. There’s no way we can figure out what happened to her; there’s no one to talk to, no living witnesses, no physical evidence. Nothing.”
She sighed. “But you’ll try, won’t you, Harry?”
I rolled my eyes. Wow. “If you say so. Yeah, I’ll try.” You’re out of your mind, Harry, I thought. A hundred years? Sheesh.
Chapter 5
Amanda and I stood together and looked out the windows of the Wilson Air Center at Lovell Field. Even I was impressed. The gleaming white Gulfstream G280 was parked just on the other side of the glass. The large blue AS in italics on the tail proclaimed August Starke was the owner.
Sheesh, the old man has come a long way these last few years. I wonder what the hell that cost him.
“Hey you two,” a cheery voice said. I looked round. August was walking across the lounge toward us, a huge grin on his face. “Admiring my latest acquisition, are you? What do you think of her?”
“She’s beautiful,” Amanda said.
“You have more money than you know what to do with,” I said. “The Lear not good enough for you anymore?”
“It was coming to the end of its useful life. Time, my boy. Time. Needed new engines. It just made sense to trade her in. Let’s go, shall we? Joe has her warmed up and ready to go.”
We walked across the tarmac and ascended the steps into what can only be described as utter decadence. The interior was a world of plush, dark gray carpet, white leather, and polished walnut. We were met at the door by a male flight attendant, a drinks tray in hand: gin for the old man, white wine for Amanda and… yeah, you guessed it, Laphroaig scotch for me. Now that’s the way to travel.
“Holy….” I looked around. “This is quite a step up from the Lear. What did you pay for it?”
“Now, son,” he said with a wry smile, “that’s none of your business. And anyway, it’s just a little one, and whatever it cost, it’s tax deductible.”
Hell, I knew better than that, and I had a good idea what it had set him back, because I’d checked. It’s what I do. You can’t get a 2013 G280 for less than $17 million, and I knew damned well he’d had it gussied up some. We were standing inside the better part of twenty mill.
We took our seats on either side of a polished walnut table, Dad facing Amanda and me. No sooner had we gotten comfortable than we were joined by Joe Harper, my father’s longtime pilot, and Sarah Tinsley, his copilot. Once again I was stunned. Both were wearing brand new uniforms, light grey with gold trim: Sarah’s featured a skirt cut a couple of inches above the knee.
Oh my God. Now I’ve seen it all. The only thing missing is August’s initials.
“Are you all comfortable?” Joe asked. Sarah smiled down at us over his shoulder. It was easy to see that both were very happy with their upgrades, both the uniforms and the aircraft.
“Yup. We’re good to go when you are, Joe,” August said.
“Okay, then. Wheels up in ten minutes. Flight time to New York will be one hour and forty minutes, and we’ll be cruising at an altitude of thirty-three thousand feet and a speed of 630 knots.”
His estimate was off by five minutes. We touched down at La Guardia at just a few minutes after ten o’clock.
-----
It was about a nine-hour drive from La Guardia to Little Machias, but we were in no hurry so we decided to drive up to York, in Maine, and spend the night there. Amanda hit an app on her iPhone and soon had us booked into the York Harbor Inn, one of those storybook hotels you find only on the coastal roads in Upper New England. We arrived at just after six o’clock.
We checked in, showered, dressed for dinner, and dined in-house—on steamed Maine Lobster. What else?
After dinner we took a short walk on the Cliff Walk across the street, then retired to the inn and settled down in the bar, where we stayed, talking about the future, until she decided it was time for bed. I was glad; I was more tired than I realized. The fresh ocean air always has that effect on me.
We were on the road by nine thirty the following morning. We were still more three hundred miles from the hotel. It was located just east of Little Machias, and I estimated we’d be there by about four o’clock that afternoon.
We had lunch in Rockland—lobster sandwiches from McDonalds; did you ever hear the like?—and then, on a whim, took a slight detour for a pit stop in Bar Harbor.
We’d taken the coast road rather than the interstate so we could relax and enjoy the scenery, but the farther north we went, the antsier Amanda became. At first we’d chattered together, laughed and joked, discussed work, friends, and relatives, but then she seemed to withdraw. By the time we left Bar Harbor, she wasn’t saying much at all.
From Bar Harbor we took U.S. 1 and continued on to East Machias, where we turned east onto State Highway 191 and then on through Little Machias into some very wild and lonely country. By the time we’d passed through Jonesboro, it had begun to drizzle. We drove slowly along the narrow road, the ocean, to the right, shrouded in mist and rain. It wasn’t my first trip to Maine, but it was the first time I’d ventured this far north.
“Harry,” Amanda said finally. It was the first time she’d spoken in more than ten minutes. “I don’t think I like this. I sure as hell don’t want to spend the rest of my life up here. It’s too lonely. We haven’t seen another car since we left Highway 1.”
“Yes, it’s a bit isolated.” Isolated? Who am I kidding? It’s the end of the goddamn earth.
“Hey. There it is.” She pointed to a small billboard on the right side of the road. It had seen better days. The once-white paint was discolored and beginning to peel; the black lettering was faded.
“The Towers.” I slowed the car. “Wow. That’s not at all what I was expecting.” Jeez. What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?
I turned the car off the road and drove slowly up the long, winding driveway. Occasionally, fleetingly, through gaps between the trees that lined the way, we caught glimpses of walls. It must have been a drive of almost half a mile before we finally turned onto a wide gravel lot in front of the hotel.
Hotel? Oh my God. You’ve got to be kidding me.
I stopped the car and we peered out through the rain-streaked windshield.
I looked at Amanda. I couldn’t say what she felt when she first saw the old house, but I could tell that she didn’t like it.
The imposing edifice—oh yeah, it was an edifice all right—might have been lifted straight out of one those gothic horror movies so popular in the fifties and sixties. A stark silhouette against a gray, rain-sodden sky, it was set high on the cliffs. The once-white walls were in dire need of attention. The paint had turned black, even green in places, the result of mold and damp and lack of maintenance.
“Some hotel, huh?” I asked as I drove to the foot of a long flight of wide stone steps. There were half a dozen cars parked in a gravel area to the left of the steps.
“They probably all belong to the staff,” I said. “Who the hell would want to stay here?” But once I’d parked, I got a better look at the plates. The closest car, a Buick, had New York tags. “Huh. Guess at least one person does.”
Amanda didn’t answer. I got the impression she was totally overwhelmed.
We both stared out at the massive stone structure. The main house, three stories high and with crenelated windows, towered upward into the wind and the rain. To the front were a pair of round towers joined together; at the hip, was my impression. The smaller of the two was another story taller—four stories in all—than the building proper. To the left of the main structure was a third round tower, and on the side, at the far right corner, a forth. The house was more European chateau than New England mansion.
“Harry” she whispered, “I don’t think this is a good idea. I don’t like
it. It’s creepy. I think my grandmother was right. Maybe it is haunted.”
“Oh come on, it’s not that bad.” The hell it isn’t. “It is a bit weird, I agree, but what the hell. We’re here now.”
Amanda didn’t answer. Instead, she resolutely took hold of the car door handle, pulled it, and stepped out into the rain.
She stood with her back to the car, leaning against it, staring up at the great house. Her eyes watered in the biting wind. Her hair fluttered wildly and soon was plastered to her cheeks.
“Harry. I feel like I’ve been here before. I know I haven’t, not even as a child, but….”
Water gurgled down from the roof through lead downspouts and spurted out onto neglected, weed-covered flowerbeds. It ran in rivulets down the stone steps to the gravel parking lot. We began to ascend the steps.
She shuddered. “Oh my God. I don’t know if I can do this.”
At that moment, the front door at the top of the steps opened, and a man in a plastic raincoat emerged. He was tall, but not imposing: a skinny individual with a pinched face, a pale complexion, and a balding head with gray hair at the sides like two small wings. His eyes were all but hidden under great bushy eyebrows. He looked like an owl as he squinted down at us through a large pair of gold-rimmed glasses.
“Hello,” he said, grinning widely and tugging at the overlarge lobe of his left ear. “I thought I heard a car. Welcome, both of you. My name is Strong, Art Strong. I’m the manager of this pile of rocks. You must be my new owner, Amanda. It was nice to talk to you on the phone the other day.” He paused to take a breath. “And you,” he said, holding out his hand, “must be Mr. Starke. Miss Amanda told me all about you.”
She did? How nice of her.
“It’s good to meet you both,” he continued. “Come on in out of the rain. Don’t worry about your luggage. Just give me the keys so I can open the trunk, and I’ll bring it in for you.”
