Nine Lives

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  * * *

  Bella had intended to retire to the Rose Room after double-checking to make sure the outside doors are all locked. Yet long after Max and Chance have drifted to sleep beneath the denim comforter, she finds herself lingering on the first floor, contentedly drifting from one inviting room to the next.

  Maybe she should be more uneasy about finding herself alone in a big old house on a stormy night—especially in a town where ghostly visitors are allegedly as commonplace as gamblers in Vegas or actors in LA. But for the first time all day—the first time in how long?—she feels as though she can breathe a little more easily.

  The thing she’d been dreading for months is behind her at last. Leaving home had been traumatic, but in a sense, staying there without Sam, wondering what lay ahead, had been even more so.

  See? We’re moving on, just like you wanted us to do, she tells him as she investigates the windowed breakfast room with its whitewashed wainscoting, ruffled blue curtains, and well-stocked morning beverage station.

  For the first time, she isn’t worried about where they’ll wind up. Less than twenty-four hours into the unknown, she’s already found a soft landing spot—albeit a temporary one. There will be others.

  We’ve made new friends, Sam. Odelia is a hoot, and the cat just loves Max, and even Doctor Bailey turned out to be one of the good guys.

  Not that we’ll ever see any of them again after today, but . . .

  For a few hours, the world seemed a lot less lonely.

  With a sigh, she crosses the threshold into the dining room, where fine china and crystal stemware fill the built-in cabinetry. She recognizes many distinctive iridescent Carnival glass pieces among them. They’re similar to the much smaller collection Aunt Sophie had left to her, but these are red and thus rare and far more valuable.

  Walking into the elegant parlor, she hesitates before a closed French door off to one side. The glass panels are veiled in opaque maroon curtains. Turning the knob, she finds it locked.

  Curiosity aroused, she pulls the key ring from her pocket. All but one of the skeleton-style keys has a stickered number on it. She inserts that one into the lock on the French door and sure enough, it turns.

  Behind the door is a small study. Its lone window, with a cushioned built-in bench beneath, is covered by drawn blinds. A trio of blue-and-white floral pillows with ruffled hems form a backrest. The walls, painted a buttery golden shade that reminds Bella of corn on the cob, are unadorned. A couple of framed prints lean in one corner as if waiting to be hung.

  The only furnishings in the room are a pair of easy chairs facing each other and a round table covered in a blue tablecloth. It holds a telephone, a large candle with a burned wick, a box of tissues, a notepad and pen, and a spiral-bound appointment book.

  This, she presumes, is where Leona gave her psychic readings. There’s an almost identical room next door in Odelia’s house, similarly devoid of decorative touches like the fringed tablecloths, velvet draperies, Ouija boards, and crystal balls Bella had envisioned.

  She idly picks up the appointment book. It’s laid out week by week and appears to be a log of client readings. The first half of the book contains many of the same names week after week, most in the same time slot on the same day of the week, with a smattering of aberrations. Some are preceded by an asterisk, she notices: a woman named Mary Brightman on January 1 (New Year’s Day) and another named Helen Adabner on February 14 (Valentine’s Day). She wonders if the asterisks denote holidays, but the theory is quickly blown when sees asterisks on random dates as well.

  As she flips through the pages, she notices that Leona’s schedule shows plenty of prescheduled appointments and very few open slots during the summer months but that the final quarter of the book is nearly blank. That makes sense, given Odelia’s mention that the season ends on Labor Day.

  Giving in to morbid curiosity, she finds herself flipping back to June, looking for the week Leona died. Did she have some inkling? Is there some clue that she saw it coming?

  Like what? An appointment to meet her maker?

  Disgusted with herself, she starts to close the book when she notices something odd.

  When the page is open to the first half of the first week in June on the left, the opposite side shows the second half of the second week in June.

  There’s a page missing between the two.

  Someone must have ripped it out. Usually, when you tear a sheet from a spiral notebook, at least a partial scallop-edged strip is left behind inside the wire coil, but not here. If she hadn’t noticed the jump in dates, she never would have realized a page is missing.

  That bothers her for some reason.

  Probably because you’re being nosy.

  Guiltily aware that she’s violated Leona’s private sanctuary, she closes the appointment book, returns it to the table, closes the door, and locks it securely behind her.

  Back in the parlor, she notices a stack of leather-bound albums.

  Since they’re sitting right there on the marble coffee table in a public room, she wouldn’t be snooping if she looked at them, right?

  Right. She settles onto the sofa and reaches for the first one.

  Its pages, like the others, are filled with vintage photographs of the house dating back at least a century. The exterior remains remarkably consistent through several eras, as seen in the pictures. She notices that the formal turn-of-the-century furnishings are intact but looking threadbare by the Depression, only to be replaced by exceedingly modern décor before finally reverting to the current, classic style.

  The occupants, too, are perpetually made over to reflect changing times. Pouf-haired Gibson Girls trade shirtwaists and suffrage banners for carefree grins and flapper fringe, then Depression-era cloches perched atop gaunt faces etched in worry lines. Argyle-clad Jazz Age dandies with slicked, parted hair become uniformed soldiers and then proud husbands and fathers in overcoats and fedoras. Gradually, the posed black-and-white portraits give way to Kodachrome candids featuring bobbysoxers and beatniks, hippies and yuppies.

  Fascinated by the window into the past, Bella can’t help but marvel that generation after generation of inhabitants couldn’t appear more . . .

  Well, normal.

  In this supposedly extraordinary setting, ordinary people seem to lead largely ordinary lives. The photos depict everyday folks engaged in everyday activities. They pose on porch steps, row boats on the lake, show off bicycles that have giant front wheels, and wave from Studebaker touring cars or fifties convertibles with enormous fins. They swing croquet mallets on summer lawns and pile atop sleds on wintry hills.

  There are no floating tables or filmy specters, and again, certainly no Ouija boards or crystal balls.

  Did Odelia exaggerate her claim that Lily Dale is populated by mediums? Bella decides she must have—until she decides to help herself to some herbal tea and stumbles across the daily summer schedule posted on the breakfast-room wall. Perusing the schedule while microwaving a mug of water, she finds it packed with mystical activities. There are daily message and healing services, classes on astrology and numerology, and workshops on astral projection and spoon bending. The guest speakers’ lineup features a few household names: a best-selling author, a celebrity psychic who stars on a cable television show, and a self-help guru.

  Okay, so Odelia wasn’t exaggerating.

  Perhaps she should find it all disturbing, but there doesn’t seem to be anything dark or exploitative about what goes on here. The daily offerings, more detailed in the brochures and catalogues stacked on one of the café tables, proclaim peace and enlightenment.

  Steeped in serenity, she sips steaming chamomile and browses the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in an alcove off the dining room. The steady rain beats a pleasant rhythm beyond the windows as the antique clock ticks away the minutes. When it chimes midnight, she rinses her mug in the kitchen sink and selects a couple of local history books to read in bed, turning off lights as she goes up the stairs. P
eeking into the Train Room, she sees that Max and Chance are still in deep, snuggly slumber. She marvels that the cat stayed put.

  Back down the corridor, she notices light glowing in the crack beneath the closed door of the Rose Room.

  That’s strange. She doesn’t remember leaving a lamp on earlier. She hesitates, then knocks, feeling slightly foolish.

  There’s no reply.

  Of course there’s no reply. You and Max are the only people in the house, remember?

  Frowning, she opens the door and peeks in.

  Flooded with cozy lamplight, the room is decidedly empty, and yet . . .

  Somehow, Bella was expecting to find someone there.

  Odelia? A ghost? Leona’s or Sam’s?

  Even the prospect of an otherworldly visitor doesn’t frighten her much. Not in this particular moment, in this particular place.

  “I wish we could stay here forever,” was the last thing Max said to her earlier, before she turned off his lamp.

  Maybe not forever, she finds herself thinking sleepily as she sinks into a mound of downy pillows, but tonight is good. Really good.

  She listens to the soft patter of the rain on the turreted roof high above her head, grateful that it’s not falling on thin canvas within arm’s reach.

  Then, remembering something, she sits up and reaches for her phone, plugged into the charger beneath the bedside table.

  The small screen glows in the dark as she types into the search engine: S-U-M-M-E-R P-I-N-E-S C-A-M-P-G-R-O-U-N-D.

  Hmm. Not a single hit. Nothing that fits, anyway.

  Taking a different tactic, she looks up a list of campgrounds located in Chautauqua County.

  There are quite a few. None contain the words Summer or Pines and none are located off Route 60 ten miles north of the interstate exit.

  There are also quite a few quaint cottage colonies in the area. Bear Lake, Van Buren Point, Sunset Bay—they all seem like regular waterfront resort communities frequented by regular people.

  There is even, just a few miles away from Lily Dale, another century-old summer colony that happens to be gated and filled with charming Victorian homes. It, too, sits on the grassy shores of a picturesque country lake. It, too, is more than a mere resort. Similarly populated by like-minded souls devoted to a singular purpose—the arts—Chautauqua Institution has its own world-class symphony orchestra, ballet, opera, and theater company.

  Why didn’t I find my way there, instead? Why did I wind up in the one that’s filled with Spiritualists?

  Oh, well. She’s going to find her way right back out of here as soon as the sun comes up. But for now, she’s bent on locating the elusive Summer Pines Campground.

  She expands the search to neighboring western New York counties—Erie, Cattaraugus, even over the Pennsylvania border, in case there was a typo on the billboard. In case it should have said fifty miles instead of ten or south instead of north . . .

  No.

  Even if the billboard was outdated and the place is long gone, there would still be an Internet trail. And someone—Odelia or Doctor Bailey—would have heard of it.

  Okay, so what does that mean?

  That Summer Pines Campground doesn’t exist and never did?

  That the billboard didn’t exist, either?

  Putting the phone aside and closing her eyes, Bella can still see it, clear as day, with its simple directions and photo of a picturesque lake not unlike the one behind the guesthouse.

  The billboard was there. Of course it was there, because if it hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t be here. Max and I would be shivering in a damp tent somewhere instead of tucked into warm, dry beds.

  As drowsiness overtakes her, that’s all that matters.

  Chapter Five

  Bella brushes her hair.

  Beyond the bathroom window, the night sky is dark, and a stiff breeze tinkles Sam’s wind chimes, and something, something . . .

  Something isn’t right.

  Gradually, it dawns on her: nothing is right. It’s all wrong—the bathroom, the sound of the wind chimes, the length of the hair, and the face—dear God, even the face in the mirror above the sink is wrong.

  Wrinkled, topped by cropped silver hair, it’s the face of an old woman.

  But she must be me, because I’m brushing my hair and . . .

  And she’s brushing her hair and . . .

  It doesn’t make sense, but the reflected woman’s movements exactly mimic Bella’s. The trepidation in her eyes—eyes that are the wrong shade of blue and fringed by crow’s-feet—echoes the trepidation in Bella’s gut.

  She’s me.

  I’m her.

  The wind chimes have gone from melodious to garish. Their deafening peal fills her head, drowning out her thoughts and . . .

  Drowning . . .

  Drowning?

  Something about drowning.

  What is it?

  There’s something she’s supposed to remember.

  But she can’t think clearly amid the noise, and now the wind chimes meld with a ringing doorbell, and . . .

  And I was dreaming, she realizes, opening her eyes to bright morning sunlight.

  Or maybe she’s still dreaming, because this isn’t right.

  She stares up at the wavy crack in the plaster ceiling that leads from an unfamiliar light fixture medallion to the crown molding. Struggling to get her bearings, she looks over at the lace curtains fluttering in a windowed nook, the floral wallpaper in shades of vibrant reddish pink, the heavy antique furniture.

  Slowly, it all comes back to her: The road trip. The cat. The guesthouse.

  Downstairs, the doorbell rings again, this time followed by a sharp knock.

  “Hello?” she hears a faint voice calling from outside, below the closed window. “Leona?”

  Leona . . .

  Leona died.

  Leona . . . drowned.

  Unsettled by that thought, Bella gets out of bed, throws on Sam’s sweatshirt, and hurries out into the hall.

  The door to the room where Max was sleeping is ajar.

  “Max?” she calls, hurrying down the stairs. “Max!”

  From the landing, she can see a pair of human silhouettes through the frosted glass panel in the door. The bell rings again as she reaches the first floor. She opens the door to a pleasant-looking couple standing on the front porch with suitcases and a bag of golf clubs.

  Their healthy tans, the woman’s gold jewelry and designer handbag, and the emblems stitched onto both their polo shirts signify that they’re solidly upper-middle class. Upper-middle aged, too—probably late fifties, early sixties. The man’s blond hair is graying at the temples, and while his brunette wife’s chic, short cut is highlighted to perfection, a faint network of wrinkles extends from the corners of her eyes and mouth.

  “I’m sorry—did we wake you?” she asks apologetically, eying Bella’s disheveled state.

  “I—what time is it?”

  “It’s only ten forty-five . . .”

  Ten forty-five? What? She slept almost twelve hours? She’d been planning to be on the road right after sun-up.

  “. . . and I know check-in isn’t until two,” the woman talks on, as Bella tries to gather her scrambled thoughts, “but we spent last night in the Falls, and Steve thought we might as well drive down and see if our room is ready early.”

  “The Falls?” she echoes, even as she darts a look over her shoulder, hoping Max is still up in bed. He probably opened the door when he used the restroom in the night, or maybe the cat managed to open it and slip out.

  “Niagara Falls,” the man clarifies.

  The Falls . . . The Dale . . .

  She really needs to get the hang of this local shorthand. Then again, why bother? As soon as she finds her son, who is safely upstairs—of course he is!—they’re out of here.

  “Is Niagara Falls pretty close by?” she asks, weighing the prospect of a budget-friendly sightseeing detour. It can’t cost anything to look at a waterfa
ll, right?

  “It’s a little over an hour away,” the wife informs her. “Although the way Steve drives, about forty-five minutes.”

  Her husband chuckles good-naturedly. “And if I let you drive the car, Eleanor, it would’ve taken us all day to get here.”

  They’re obviously from the Boston area, judging by the way he pronounces car—cah. Sure enough, Bella can see Massachusetts plates on the silver sedan parked at the curb in the unloading zone.

  “Are you staying at the guesthouse?” the woman asks.

  “Me? Oh, I’m . . . we just stayed last night, but we’re about to hit the road. Max!” she calls again, then says, “I’m sorry, I need to find my son.”

  “And we need to find Leona,” the man returns. “Is she around?”

  She hesitates, wondering how to phrase it. “Leona is . . . I’m afraid she . . .”

  Saved by the sound of running footsteps outside, Bella is even more relieved to see Max burst into view on the small patch of grass in front of the house.

  “Hey, Mom, look what Odelia made for us!”

  “Max! You went outside barefoot, in pajamas, all alone?”

  “Not alone. Chance the Cat was with me. We were talking to Odelia through the window screen. She invited us over for breakfast and we were hungry, so we went.”

  “Without telling me?”

  “You were sleeping. She made us kittycakes! See? And she sent some for you!” Bounding onto the porch, Max holds out a plastic-wrapped plate.

  Kittycakes, at a glance, consist of a large pancake with chocolate chip eyes and bacon whiskers topped by French toast triangle ears.

  “Isn’t that clever!” The woman—Eleanor—peers at the plate. “Leave it to Odelia. She’s quite the creative cook.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year,” her husband mutters.

  “You know her, then?” Good. Bella can send the couple next door, and Odelia can break the sad news about Leona while she and Max pack up and get ready to leave.

  “Eleanor knows everyone in Lily Dale,” Steve informs her. “She’s been coming here for years. Now she’s roped me in, too.”