by Steve Frech
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “We were playing tag and I told her to stay outside, but she didn’t listen.”
“She seldom does,” Thomas grumbled.
Mrs. Carrington introduced the man as their valet, Theodore Whitlock. She then turned her attention to the little girl, hiding behind her hip. “And this little one is our daughter, Katherine.”
“Hello, Katherine,” I said, but she said nothing.
“You’ll have to forgive her. She’s painfully shy,” Mrs. Carrington said.
I nodded.
She glanced at her husband, then at me. “I can’t remember; have we invited you to the Fourth of July Celebration?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. We shall see you then.” She looked at her daughter. “Say goodbye, Katherine.”
“Bye,” the girl whispered.
“It was very nice to meet you, Katherine,” I replied.
“I’ll show you out,” Thomas said, and escorted me to the door.
We walked down the path to the street, where the bicycle was resting against the bushes.
“She was supposed to be gone for a few more days,” he quietly said. “I only received the telegram yesterday that she was arriving this morning.”
I asked him why he didn’t tell her that I had made a delivery to the house before.
“My wife can be suspicious, sometimes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s understandable around such a beauty as yourself.”
Can you believe he would say those words while only a few yards from his home and wife? I can and I relished it.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t kiss your hand as before but there might be eyes watching us.”
I told him that I understood.
“If I had my way, I’d kiss more of you,” he said.
I fought to keep from smiling but lost.
“There also won’t be a delivery next week. I’m worried she’ll grow more suspicious, but I do expect to see you at the Fourth of July Celebration.”
“You may count on it,” I said.
His eyes gleamed with approval.
“Until then,” he said and walked back towards the house.
My eyes followed and I was certain for a split second, I saw Mrs. Carrington watching us from an upstairs window. The curtain fluttered and she was gone.
I know it’s dangerous. I know it’s wrong, but I don’t care. It’s harmless fun. Besides, I have no friends, the pharmacy is failing, and Father and Carol rarely speak. Those beautiful eyes and thrilling conversations are the only good things I have in this town.
I will now begin counting the hours, minutes, and seconds until the Fourth of July.
Good night.
16
Portland Beacon, September 29th, 1900
GIRL MISSING
Police are searching for Katherine Carrington, the eight-year-old daughter of Thomas and Abigail Carrington. She disappeared from the platform at the Portland Train Station on the night of the 28th, sometime around 9:30 p.m.
According to a statement by Thomas Carrington and the family’s valet, Theodore Whitlock, the girl wandered off from the platform while they were securing luggage. After several minutes of searching, Mr. Carrington reported his daughter missing to the station superintendent, Frank Buckland, who contacted the police.
Under the article is the same photo of the Carringtons from the Kingsbrook Herald. I quickly return to the search page, desperate to find out more, but there’s just one more article that only states that she was still missing. After that, the stories stop.
I do a search for Thomas Carrington. There are some short biographies that mention he was the son of a lumber tycoon, and the articles about the disappearance of his daughter, but nothing else until I come across one more mention in the Kingsbrook Herald, dated October 2nd, 1900.
Thomas Carrington, son of Adolphus Carrington, was found dead of a sudden illness early yesterday morning, in the bedroom of his home, the Nightingale House, on Willow Lake.
I stare slack-jawed at the screen. The faces of the Carringtons stare back, especially Katherine with her wide eyes.
The silence of the house becomes unbearable.
I’m rethinking everything that I’ve dismissed over the last two weeks; the noises, the visions, the girl I saw last night in the hall.
What if …? What if …?
I look up, half expecting to see someone in the room with me. It’s empty but I don’t feel alone. The shadows have grown long from the setting sun.
Okay. That’s it. I’m out.
I shut off the computer and walk out of the Writing Room. I go to the kitchen, grab my keys, wallet, and phone, and leave through the back door.
I need to think right now and I damn well can’t do that in this house.
*
The streetlamps are just beginning to blink on as I park the car in the main square.
My first instinct was to race over to Mildred’s and ask Caitlyn about Katherine, but I couldn’t do that in front of Mildred without having to explain. I could have taken Caitlyn home and asked her, but that would have ruined the evening and I would eventually have to explain it to Mildred, anyway. I should wait until morning to talk to Caitlyn, but I can’t help myself.
I pull out my phone and dial.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mildred. It’s Daniel. I just want to make sure Caitlyn’s doing okay.”
“Yep. She’s fine. We’re eating pizza and watching movies.”
“Great. Can I talk to her real quick?”
“Sure.”
The phone changes hands.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, pumpkin. How was school?”
“Fine.”
“Just ‘fine’?”
“Yes,” she answers, confidently.
“Did … did, uh … did your friend, Katherine, follow you to school today?”
I can hear her fidgeting.
“Caitlyn, did Katherine come to school with you today?”
There’s a long pause.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want to talk about that. I’m still mad at her.”
“Okay.” I desperately need to know, but I don’t want to upset her while she’s at Mildred’s.
“Can I go back to watching movies with Mildred, now?”
“Of course, sweetheart. Can you put Mildred back on?”
“Okay.”
“Good night, pumpkin. I love you.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
The phone changes hands again.
“Everything okay?” Mildred asks.
“Yeah. I just wanted to hear her voice.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of her.”
“Thank you, Mildred.”
“And, Daniel?”
“Yeah?”
“Please, try to have some fun tonight.”
*
Sitting in a booth at Murphy’s, I stare into my root beer float and listen to the loud laughter from the group of kids in the next booth.
My phone call accomplished nothing. I still need answers but Caitlyn isn’t going to give them. Maybe Mildred could talk to her. No. I can’t ask her to do that. I don’t know who else to talk to. Caitlyn said that Katherine sometimes follows her to school. I need to know if she talks about Katherine at school or acts like Katherine is there, but there’s no one that I can—
Wait. There is somebody I can ask.
I take out my wallet and find the card with Denise Hancourt’s contact info.
‘You promised you would only call if it was an emergency,’ I remind myself.
‘This is an emergency.’
‘You’re going to have to explain that you think your daughter is talking to a dead girl. Do you want her teacher to think you’re insane?’
‘You’re having an argument with yourself. So, I’d say we’re past that.’
I dial before I can
change my mind.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Hancourt?”
“Yes.”
“Hi … umm. Hi. This is Daniel Price, Caitlyn’s daughter. I mean, her— I’m Caitlyn’s dad.” I wince in a manner that has to be audible through the phone.
“Oh. Hi. How are you?”
“Good. Uh, good … How are you?” I have not thought this through, at all.
“I’m good. Everything all right?”
“Well … Look, I’m sorry for calling you outside of office hours, but I’m a little worried about Caitlyn and I wanted to talk to you to see—”
The group of kids in the next booth erupts in laughter over something on one of their phones.
“—if she was acting strangely.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”
“Sorry. It’s a little loud in here.”
“Where are you?”
“That ice-cream shop on the square.”
“Murphy’s?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“I love that place. I live right around the corner.”
“Oh.” My mind quickly comes up with a plan to buy myself some more time to figure out what to say. “Care to join me?”
There’s a pause and then a light laugh.
“Sure.”
*
Minutes later, she walks through the door and spots me.
I hastily stand as she approaches.
“Thank you so much for coming to talk to me, Ms. Hancourt.”
“Of course. And please, it’s ‘Denise’. We talked about that.”
“Right, right, right.”
We sit in the booth.
“Actually, I should be thanking you,” she says, casually removing her jacket and tossing it onto the seat beside her. “I had to get out of my place. Grading, paperwork, filling out forms. The first couple weeks of the year are always a mess. I really needed a break.”
One of the high school kids working behind the counter waves to Denise.
“The usual, Ms. Hancourt?”
She nods and smiles. “You bet.” She notices my expression. “I told you; I love this place.”
“To the point that you’re a regular?”
“Guilty. So, what’s up?”
“I wanted to know how Caitlyn was doing.”
“As far as I can tell, she’s doing fine.”
“Is she … Is she making friends?”
“She keeps to herself, but that’s not surprising for a kid in a new school, and after what happened … I think she’s handling it well.”
The high school kid steps out from behind the counter with a foamy cappuccino and sets it down in front of Denise.
“Thank you,” she says, reaching for her purse.
I hastily get out my wallet. “No, no, no. I got this.”
“Daniel, you really don’t have to.”
“What’s the total?” I ask.
“Four seventy-five,” the kid replies.
I hand him a ten. “Keep it.”
“Thanks.” The kid smiles and heads back to the counter.
Denise raises an eyebrow as she brings the cup to her lips. “Are all best-selling authors such big spenders?”
“Only until their first flop.”
She snorts, sending puffs of foam in every direction. She tries to cover her mouth but it’s too late. The joke, compounded with the foam on the tip of her nose and glasses, causes us to burst into laughter.
Once we get ourselves under control, she relaxes. “Okay. Now that the ice is sufficiently broken, what’s on your mind? You’re worried that Caitlyn’s not making any friends?”
“It’s, uh, it’s slightly crazier than that.”
She leans forward, elbows on the table.
“Intriguing. Go on.”
I proceed with my plan, which is to tell her everything, starting from the day we moved in, to Caitlyn’s ‘friend’, to our visit to the Kingsbrook Historical Society, to our game of hide-and-seek, to my discovery this afternoon of Katherine Carrington’s disappearance.
“—and that’s when I called you.”
She’s been listening in rapt attention, her mouth hanging open. For a moment, I wonder if she believes the crazy theory that has been building in the shadows of my psyche; that my daughter might be talking to a ghost. Then, her lips curl into a smile.
“That is … amazing,” she says.
“But?”
“Well, I mean, Daniel, there’s a perfectly logical explanation for all of this.”
“That’s what I thought, too, but I’m having a hard time finding it. How could she have just happened to pick the name of a girl that lived in that house, who disappeared over a hundred years ago for her imaginary friend?”
Denise ponders it over a sip of her cappuccino.
“She could have seen something at the historical society. Maybe she saw Katherine’s name in a photo or an article.”
“But she’s had the imaginary friend since right after we moved in, and that was days before we went to the historical society.”
“Yeah, but she didn’t use the name ‘Katherine’ until last night, right?”
“Yes … I guess I hadn’t thought of that.”
“So, she had the imaginary friend, which isn’t unusual at all, and then decided it was Katherine after seeing something at the historical society, or maybe she saw something about it online, like you did.”
My anxiety is quickly evolving into embarrassment. As it grows, I look down at the table to avoid making eye contact with her.
“Doesn’t that sound more likely than your daughter talking to and you seeing a ghost?”
She’s being nice and I’m an idiot. Here is a grown adult telling me that there are no monsters under the bed.
I shake my head. “I am so sorry that I called you out here.”
“No! No! It’s okay.”
“You have to think that I’m crazy.”
“Not at all! Daniel, raising her on your own, after what happened, a new town, you said you’re not sleeping, and if you’ll excuse me for saying, but you look it. Something like this was bound to happen.”
“I appreciate you letting me off easy, but I’ve wasted your time.”
“Knock it off. This is so much more fascinating than the other calls I got from parents today. And, I got my usual,” she says, lifting her cup and taking a sip. “Plus, it’s a hell of a story. Are you going to write about it?” She asked it in a joking-but-not-really-joking tone.
I shake my head. “Not my genre. I’m more of a political thriller type of guy.”
“I know. I read In the Shadows of Justice.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s not every day a best-selling author moves to your town.”
“Did you like it?”
“I did. When am I getting a sequel?”
“I need a good night’s sleep first.”
“Best-selling author …” she muses. “What’s that like?”
I’m dying to tell her. This has turned into one of the first conversations in a while with someone that’s not about Nicole’s death and it’s taking my mind off the house. It’s taken a pleasant turn and I’m in no rush to have it end.
I glance out the window, across the square.
“You know what? I haven’t eaten anything since early this afternoon and I’m starving. As a way of saying thank you and for putting my mind at ease, can I buy you dinner?”
17
After an initial hesitation, she agrees to my offer. We walk across the square to La Piazza, Kingsbrook’s fanciest, and only, Italian restaurant. I’m a meat and potatoes man. I’ve been learning to cook because I want to make sure Caitlyn eats well. I’m still a novice, but Denise is an outright foodie, which was the product of a semester studying in Tuscany.
“That’s sounds terrible,” I say with mock sympathy.
“Yes. Vineyards and cafés. It was truly awful.”
“And this was towards you
r degree in …?”
“Political Science.”
“Riiiiiight.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a writer,” she says over her glass of wine. “They say everyone has at least one good book in them.”
“Well, I hope that’s not true or I’m out of a job.”
She picked out a bottle of wine, insisting that we split it, but I reminded her that I haven’t had my first flop, yet.
She chuckles but then grows quiet. “Listen, I really do appreciate you buying me dinner, but I need to be clear that … I don’t want to seem ungrateful … but …”
“No. Please, I completely understand. I wanted to know what was going on with Caitlyn. That’s all. And after the day— no, weeks that I’ve had, I needed to get out for a night. This is my way of saying thanks for helping me with Caitlyn … and for reminding me that there are no such things as ghosts.”
She laughs.
I glance around the restaurant and to my horror, I hear myself blurt out, “You know, I think this may be the first time I’ve been to a restaurant with another adult since my wife—” I stop myself mid-sentence.
It’s like a lead ball just crashed onto the table in the middle of the conversation.
“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I was thinking out loud.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” she says, reassuringly. “Again, I can’t imagine what you and Caitlyn have been through. To lose someone you love like that; it’s not fair.”
There it is, again, like before in her classroom. Her answer is perfect, as though she truly understands.
“No, it’s not,” I reply.
There’s a silence that’s not uncomfortable. Then, she seamlessly shifts gears.
“So, In the Shadows of Justice …”
“Yeah …?”
“I have a question.”
“Fire away.”
She takes the bottle of wine and refills our glasses. “You know about your little plot hole, right?”
I cast my eyes to the ceiling. “The guy’s car?”
“The guy’s car! How did he get back to the car? He left it at the house!”
She’s right about the plot hole. It’s something my editor and I missed, but the internet definitely did not. However, that’s not what I’m thinking about. It’s her handling of Nicole. She handled it in a way that only someone who had experienced a similar tragedy would. There’s something there in her past. I know it.
