by John Manning
“Sounds good,” Diana said.
“Rack your brain,” Carolyn said. “See if there’s anything we can do to protect the family in case we aren’t successful with persuading the ghosts to back off.”
“If you go in with doubts about your mission, sweetie, then you’re doomed to fail.”
Carolyn sighed. “I just worry that we’re simply repeating steps Kip already took. They thought they had succeeded. Beatrice was free. But still the killing took place.”
“She may have been free,” Diana said, as Huldah came into the room with a specially designed prop that she set on the disabled woman’s chest. “But whatever keeps her wandering between worlds was not addressed. The reason for her grief was not assuaged.” Twisting her torso, she grabbed the folder Carolyn had placed beside her with her teeth, maneuvering it onto the prop Huldah had placed on her chest. Again using her teeth, she opened the folder and glanced down at the first page. “I’ll start reading right away, sweetie. I promise you I’ll think of whatever I can.”
“Thank you,” Carolyn said, stooping down to kiss her on the forehead.
“We’ll do our best to save your young man,” Diana said. “It would be nice if you could finally move beyond the past and forget that horrible experience.”
Carolyn just smiled. Diana knew all about David Cooke. Some of it Carolyn had shared; some of it Diana had picked up, without even trying too hard to read Carolyn’s mind.
She said good-bye to Huldah, who gave her a grunt that seemed a little cheerier than usual. Maybe she was looking forward to taking a trip. Carolyn let herself out of the apartment and headed back down the crooked staircase into the gathering purple evening of the city.
The meeting with Diana had gone well. It should have made her optimistic. But suddenly the sounds and the hustle-bustle of the city no longer felt comforting to Carolyn. Making her way back across town, she couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled over her. She felt cold, shaky, even though the night was warm. She felt as if strangers were looking at her, their sharp eyes burning holes into her face. A bus backfired, and Carolyn jumped, letting out a small cry. This is crazy, she thought. Why am I so jittery all of a sudden?
Heading down into the subway, she had the distinct sense that someone was watching her. Following her. She looked up and down the platform, but saw no one overtly suspect. But she distrusted everyone. The man with the backpack and the shifty eyes. The woman carrying the Macy’s shopping bag. The lanky teenager with the sagging jeans and exposed checkered underwear. The heavyset man with the red splotches on his face. The girl with the iPod plugged into her ears.
Getting onto the train, Carolyn clung tightly to the bar. Her heart was racing. Why am I suddenly so frightened?
The train lurched and began to move, twisting its way along the underground tracks. Someone was on the train who wanted to kill her. Suddenly she knew that as clearly as anything she’d ever known in her life. She was being stalked. She was the prey, and the killer had her in his sights.
Or her sights.
Or its sights.
The entire subway trip was a nightmare of nerves and terror. Every person who pressed against her caused her to recoil. Her hands had broken out into clammy sweat. When she finally reached her destination, she walked quickly out into the night, hoping the sights and sounds of her neighborhood would reassure her. They did not. Walking past the convenience store just a few doors down from her apartment, she decided to pop inside for a moment, hoping some of her usual banter with the clerk, an Indian man with kind eyes, would calm her nerves. But to her dismay, there was a different clerk behind the counter this night, a hard-eyed man who frowned when she looked over at him. Outside she noticed a figure pause outside the store window. The darkness precluded her from getting a look at the figure’s face. Was this who was stalking her?
Stop it, Carolyn, she scolded herself. You are letting your fears run away with all sense and reason.
This had never happened before. She had been frightened at times. The night seeing George Grant on the pier had been one of those times; the bloody message on the wall in that basement room in Mr. Young’s house had occasioned another. But never had she been paranoid. Never had she felt an irrational sense of danger.
That’s why she took the emotion seriously.
Someone-something-was out there. She knew that was a fact.
Taking a deep breath, she headed out of the bright lights of the store and back into the purple night. Whoever had paused outside the store was gone. Fighting off a shudder, she hurried around the block and let herself into her apartment, climbing the steps to the second floor. Carolyn unlocked her door and quickly shut it behind her, sliding the bolt firmly in place. She let out a long breath of relief. She was safe here.
But the fear still ate away at her.
He’s outside, she thought.
She moved over to her window. Leaving the lights off, she opened the Venetian blinds just a pinch and glanced down at the street.
There was indeed a man standing down there, looking up at her window.
Carolyn gasped.
She knew who it was.
It was no pitchfork-wielding ghost.
It was a far more human, but no less dangerous foe.
It was David Cooke.
Chapter Sixteen
“I’d like to leave the kids with Linda’s mother,” Dean told her. “I don’t want to bring them… I mean if something were to happen…”
Paula understood. But sitting across from her brother, glancing out the window at Zac and Callie playing in the yard, she wasn’t sure it was a good idea.
“We always went to the reunions as kids,” she said. “Mother and Dad always took us. For as long as the lottery has been held, the children have always been in the house. None of us knew about the lottery, of course, until we were older, but we were always there. Not bringing Zac and Callie would be breaking tradition, wouldn’t it? Against the rules?”
“I don’t know,” Dean admitted. “Uncle Howard doesn’t know either.”
Paula took another sip of her coffee. She’d headed out to her brother’s house this morning because she’d spent another sleepless night, dreaming of that baby. The baby who taunted her. Her eyes were puffy and dark with circles. She needed to talk to Dean. He was the only one she could talk to.
“What pisses me off is that we don’t even know what the rules are, or who laid them down,” Paula said. “It’s obscene. Unjust. That some unknown force dictates the rules by which we live and die.”
Linda came by to refill both their cups. “I wake up every morning crying,” she said. “Thinking that this time, maybe…” She couldn’t say the words.
“I hope it’s me,” Paula said. “I hope I’m the one chosen for the lottery.”
“Stop it, Paula,” Dean said.
“Oh, Paula, no, you can’t mean that,” Linda said.
She frowned. “Of course I mean it. I have no one now. Since Karen left, there’s no one who needs me.” She looked out the window again at Zac and Callie.
“I hope it’s going to be none of us,” Dean said. “Uncle Howard sounded optimistic that this Carolyn Cartwright could-”
“Could what? Oh, Dean,” Paula said. “He was optimistic about Kip Hobart, too. And whatever the man’s name he had the time before that.”
Linda had moved out of the room, her emotions getting the best of her. Brother and sister sat in silence for a while, just staring down at their coffee cups.
Finally Dean reached into a large manila envelope sitting on the table and withdrew the scan he had printed from his computer. He hadn’t even shown it to Linda. For some reason, he wanted Paula to be the first to see it. After all, she had been with him the day he had taken it all those years ago.
She knew instantly what it was. “The Polaroid,” she said, almost in awe. “You found it…”
He nodded. “I had it blown up. We were right all those years. It was a face.”
&
nbsp; Paula held the image in her hands. A short, startled breath escaped her lips.
“A baby,” she said. “It’s the baby I see in my dreams.”
Dean nodded. “I remember before Dad died, he saw a baby. Well, the apparition of a baby. I told him about the Polaroid then, and it seemed to disturb him.”
Paula couldn’t take it anymore. She stood, a bundle of energy that needed release. She missed Karen terribly. Respecting her wishes, she hadn’t tried to contact her. She spent her days and her nights in a constant state of turmoil, grief, fear, and anxiety. She had meant it when she said she hoped she was chosen in the lottery. What did she have to live for now? Dean had Linda and the kids. Her cousins Douglas and Chelsea and Ryan were still in their twenties and had their whole lives ahead of them. It should be her.
But then she thought of her students, the children struggling to adjust to life in this country. She thought of little Quynh-Anh, just six years old and refusing to speak because everything around her was so different from what she knew. Paula had worked with her tenderly and diligently, teaching her words for her favorite things: her doll, a daisy, a glazed donut, a sparkly tiara. Quynh-Anh was making progress, but her mother was still worried about her. Only Paula, the mother insisted, had managed to get through to the little girl.
“Oh, Dean,” she said. “What went on in that room so many years ago to cause such enduring tragedy?”
“I don’t know if we’ll ever really know.” Her brother sighed. “All we know for sure is a servant girl was murdered. That’s all Uncle Howard has ever admitted.”
“But what about the baby? Why is there a spirit of a baby as well?”
“When Kip Hobart was investigating the room, he learned that Beatrice had a baby. But what happened to the baby, none of us know.”
Paula shook her head. “Uncle Howard knows. He must. He was there!”
“But he can’t say,” Dean told her. “Somehow he’s prevented from telling all he knows.”
“Are you so sure? I love Uncle Howard. He’s always been very good to me. And to you and Zac and Callie. Dad adored him. But…”
“But what, Paula?” Dean asked. “Do you suspect him of something?”
“I remember the year that Dad died. There was a man investigating the room then, too. Remember? A Dr. Fifer?”
“Yes. I remember him. But he wasn’t able to find anything to end the curse. No one has.”
Paula pressed her point. “But Fifer accumulated a good amount of information. I remember him saying to Dad once that he thought he understood why the forces in that room were so restless, and that it was up to someone living to put them at rest. That’s when he went out to see Jeanette at Windcliffe. Do you remember?”
Dean was nodding. “Yes. He upset her. For the first time, he was able to produce a response from Jeanette.”
“Exactly.” Paula looked at her brother sternly. “The next day Uncle Howard fired him.”
“He said Dr. Fifer wasn’t getting anywhere,” Dean said.
Paula smiled cagily. “Or maybe he was getting too close to something.”
Dean frowned. “Do you think Uncle Howard would abandon the mission to end the curse? That’s insanity, Paula. He’s spent his whole life trying to end the cycle of death. You can see the pain in his eyes at every family reunion.”
“It’s true,” Paula agreed. “I know Uncle Howard is deeply pained by all of this. But the way he withholds information…Dad even commented on it. Dad-who paid the ultimate price in that room.”
Dean was silent. He was looking at the scan of the crying baby again.
“Why let Dr. Fifer go just as he was about to tell us something?”
“I admit it’s odd,” Dean said.
Paula lifted the scan to study it herself. “I think,” she said, “I’ll have a few questions for Uncle Howard when we see him.”
Chapter Seventeen
Philip steered his Bentley up the long driveway outside Uncle Howard’s mansion. If he’d had his way, he wouldn’t have come to this depressing old place a day earlier than he had to. But Ryan and Chelsea had called a few days ago, all in a state. Uncle Howard had told them about the room and the lottery. Philip cursed the old fool. He should have waited until he was there before revealing the family secret. But apparently something had happened-some sighting of that crazy woman ghost-and Uncle Howard had felt he needed to tell them everything. It had taken Philip a good hour to calm his kids down.
He stepped out of the car and tossed the keys to one of the old man’s valets. “Be careful with that car,” Philip barked. “Don’t think I won’t check for dings or scratches, and I’ve noted the mileage. No joyrides.”
He strode imperiously into the house. “Hello!” he called impatiently.
A maid appeared, a big stupid grin on her face. Philip told her to let Uncle Howard know he’d arrived. And where, he demanded, were Ryan and Chelsea? The maid said they were out on the back terrace. Philip made a beeline there.
They have got to be careful, he thought to himself. They can’t give anything away.
He found his son and daughter stretched out on lounges sunbathing. Chelsea wore a polka-dot string bikini, and Ryan wore flower-print board shorts. Both of them had music plugged into their ears and so they didn’t hear him approach. He walked up between them, and with one tug from each hand, he extracted the headphones from their ears.
“You idiots,” he spit.
“Daddy!” Chelsea was sitting up, Ryan doing the same.
“You both are complete idiots,” Philip said. “Look at you! Lying around acting as if you haven’t a care in the world!”
“But, we don’t, Daddy,” Chelsea said. “You told us not to worry about the lottery.”
He wanted to strike her. “You stupid girl,” Philip said. “The rest of the household will be overwrought with stress and worry, thinking they might be chosen. And here you two are acting as carefree as jaybirds. Do you want to let your uncle-or worse, your cousin Douglas-suspect that we have an ace up our sleeve?”
“I suppose we should be acting a bit more concerned,” Ryan conceded.
His father glared at him. “I expected more smarts from the appointed heir to the family business. Would you run the company this way? You’re far more shrewd on Wall Street, you jackass, than you are here!”
“Oh, Daddy,” Chelsea said, in that voice she knew always softened his angry moods, “we’ll do better. It was just that it was so nice and sunny, and who knows how many more days we’ll have before winter will be here.”
Philip looked at her. She truly had no idea of the irony of her words. The rest of the family had no idea how many more days they had to live. But all Chelsea was worried about was how many days she had to sunbathe.
“Listen to me,” he told them both. “I want you to go in the house and get dressed. I want you to appear subdued. Quiet. Contemplative.” His eyes burned holes as he turned to glare at Chelsea. “Is that something you can even do?”
“Oh, sure,” she assured him. “It will be kind of like that acting course I took, remember? It’ll be fun.”
She kissed her father on the forehead, then gathered her things and scampered into the house.
“You’re brilliant, Dad, you know that?” Ryan said, preparing to head back inside himself. “When Uncle Howard told us about that room and all that crazy supernatural bullshit, I was like, we are fucked. But I should have know you had it all under control. The old bait-and-switch with the names thing. Brilliant. Truly brilliant.”
He gave his father a little salute and walked inside the house.
Philip sighed, sitting down on his son’s vacated chaise. He felt rotten. Oh, he had no misgivings about the chicanery he intended to work on the lottery. It had served him well, kept him alive. But it had come with some cost. Philip Young could rationalize most things, and most days he lived without any guilt about what he had done. But every once in a while, something would happen-seeing his brother’s children, for exampl
e-that would cause a flare-up of conscience. He wasn’t like his brother, so noble, so upstanding. Nor was he like his father, another good man. There were days that Philip Young almost admitted to himself what he really was: a coward.
His children, he realized, were even worse. They took it for granted that they should not have to face the same risks as everyone else. They had been raised that way. Their entitlement knew no bounds. Unlike their father, they suffered not even a moment’s compunction over their trickery. Not once did either Ryan or Chelsea experience even a flicker of guilt or remorse for their cousins. No, to them it was their right, their due, to be excluded from the messy realities of life and death.
Sitting there on his uncle’s terrace, Philip was not proud of his children.
Nor was he proud of himself.
But that didn’t alter the course he had planned.
“Philip,” came a voice.
He looked around. It was Uncle Howard, walking slowly, a little stiffly, onto the terrace.
“Welcome, nephew,” the old man was saying. “I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon.”
They shook hands.
“I came early because I knew Ryan and Chelsea would need me,” Philip explained. “They’re very upset after learning about the lottery.”
“Are they?” Uncle Howard asked. “They seemed to take it surprisingly in stride.”
“They are quite good at masking their emotions,” Philip lied. “I suppose I’ve trained them that way.”
Uncle Howard sighed, taking a seat in a large wicker chair overlooking the grounds. “Well, I have much faith in this woman that I have hired. She’s in New York right now making inquiries about possible solutions. I sense she may be able to finally uncover a way to end the curse.”
“Why do you have so much faith in her?”
“Because she’s a woman.”
Philip laughed. “You’ve said that on the phone. But I don’t understand.”
“The spirit that has controlled this family, that has wrought so much destruction, is a woman,” Uncle Howard said, his voice hard with resentment. “No man has ever been able to figure out what she wanted or how to control her.”
