Nightingale House

by Steve Frech

  Yes. This was happening.

  Uncontrollable terror set in.

  I went to the basement and searched everywhere. No Caitlyn. I went outside into the backyard and called her name, but quietly enough that it wouldn’t carry to Mildred’s. I even waded into the water. She wasn’t outside. I went back into the house and began turning the place inside out, double checking every corner and behind every piece of furniture. I took everything out of the closets and threw it on the floor. I cleared out the cabinets in the kitchen. The whole time, I kept calling her name. At some point, I wasn’t just looking for Caitlyn. I was looking for any type of clue that would tell me where she was.

  This went on for hours.

  At last, I stood in the wreckage of the living room and was seized by paralysis.

  I sank down on the couch and held my head in my hands, forced to accept a horrible truth.

  Caitlyn’s gone.

  As much sense as it doesn’t make, I have to accept it and I have no idea how to get her back.

  I need help.

  I have to call someone, but who? The cops? I know Caitlyn is here, somewhere in this house, but if I tell them what happened, they won’t believe me. They’ll just lock me up.

  I could call Mildred. She can help me look but what if she comes over and sees this? She might call the cops anyway. I have to take that chance. She’s the only one who might listen to me.

  I take out my phone, unlock the screen, and pull up the recent calls. Mildred’s number is right at the top. I’m about to hit ‘dial’ when my phone lights up with an incoming call. I don’t recognize the number.

  I hit ‘accept’.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Price?” a woman’s voice asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Dana Whitlock. I’m sorry to call so early, but you left a message yesterday. You wanted to speak to my grandfather?”

  My mouth hangs open.

  “… Mr. Price? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did call.”

  “Can I ask what it’s about?”

  “Well … it’s about his grandfather, Theodore Whitlock.”

  “Yes. You said that and that it has something to do with your house. Can you tell me more specifically what this is about?”

  “It’s … It’s kind of a long story, but it has to do with something that happened in Kingsbrook concerning his grandfather’s employers, the Carringtons.”

  “Yes, I understand that. It’s just …” She’s making no attempt to hide her frustration. “He wants to speak with you.”

  “Oh. Okay. Can you put him on the phone?”

  “Mr. Price, he’s ninety-five and very weak. He doesn’t do phone calls. He said he will only speak to you in person.”

  There’s no way that I’m leaving this house. Not now.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”

  “He said it was the only way.”

  “Then, I’m afraid—”

  “He also told me to ask you a question.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “I don’t know why, but he wouldn’t leave me alone until I promised I would ask you.”

  “What’s the question?”

  “He wants to know, ‘She still can’t sleep, can she?’”

  29

  My knuckles go white on the steering wheel.

  What am I doing? Why am I leaving the house? Caitlyn’s in there, somewhere.

  But where? I’ve taken the place apart. The only place she could be is in the walls.

  I suddenly have a horrible vision of Caitlyn trapped in a wall of the house and I nearly swerve off the road.

  No. The only way to get Caitlyn back is with answers and this guy sounds like he has them.

  Still, the voices in my head are screaming at me to turn around and get back to the house. I grit my teeth, grip the steering wheel, and wait for them to pass.

  I keep trying to rehearse what I’m going to say, but every attempt sounds more ridiculous than the last. When I see the exit for the town of Redmill, I have a crushing thought that causes my body to go limp; I lost Nicole, and now I’m going to lose Caitlyn.

  The blaring horn of a semi-truck, barreling towards me as I drift across the yellow lines snaps me out of it. I wrench the wheel to get myself back into the proper lane. The butterfly necklace, journal, and medallion slide to the side of the passenger seat next to me. I punch the dashboard and take a deep breath through clenched teeth.

  I can’t give up. Until I hold Caitlyn’s lifeless body in my arms, there has to be a chance. I have to believe that, or else there is nothing else but madness.

  *

  The Whitlock house is a simple, one-story ranch with a concrete porch on a lonely road, surrounded by fields, on the outskirts of Redmill. It has a sprawling, featureless front yard. The driveway is paved, but only just. I can feel every crack and depression as I drive over them. I park behind an ancient Ford Explorer and take a moment to check my reflection in the rearview mirror.

  I look like shit. I’m worried that my appearance might scare the granddaughter off the whole thing, but what choice do I have?

  I get out and walk up the stairs of the porch to the weathered screen door. The front door behind it is already open. Before I can knock or find the doorbell, I’m greeted by a petite woman somewhere in her forties. She has a sharp nose, thin lips, and wiry brunette hair that’s pulled tightly into a bun. She peers at me through the mesh of the screen door.

  “Are you Daniel Price?” she asks.

  I nodded. “You Dana?”

  “Yeah.” She looks me up and down. “You okay?”

  “It’s been a long couple of days.”

  “I can tell.”

  She opens the door, steps out, and stands with her arms folded across her chest. “You mind telling me what this is all about?”

  “I need to speak to your grandfather. I want to know if his grandfather spoke to him about something that happened a long time ago.”

  “He’s old, bedridden, and not all together upstairs, if you know what I mean. I don’t like any added stress for him and it sounds like that’s all you are. So, why don’t you ask me?”

  “It’s a long story and I think it’s be better if I ask him.”

  “Well, you can ask me firs—”

  “Please, I’m running out of time.”

  She cocks her head at me. “Until what?”

  We have a momentary standoff.

  “Please.”

  My gentle pleading reaches her and she sighs.

  “I was so weirded out by your message that I wasn’t going to tell him, but I let it slip last night. After that, he wouldn’t shut up about it. He kept asking to hear it, so I played it for him. He was more stirred up than I’ve seen him in years. That’s when he told me about the sleeping thing. What is he talking about?”

  “It’s something about my house. His grandfather used to work there.”

  “The Night-something house?”

  “Nightingale House.”

  She looks out at the surrounding fields. “He hasn’t spoken about that place in years …”

  “I need to talk to him. It’s important.”

  She gives me another appraising look. “I suppose I’ve got to or he won’t ever shut up about it. Well, let’s get this over with.” She turns and opens the screen door but stops. “Fifteen minutes, then you have to go.”

  “I might need more time.”

  “That’s non-negotiable. Fifteen minutes. If you’re sixteen minutes, I’m calling the cops.”

  “Okay.”

  I consent because I have to talk to this guy. If I need more time, I’ll figure something out.

  Once inside, she leads me through the living room to a closed door at the end of a short hallway. She places her hand on the door and fixes me with a look.

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  I nod.

  She gently opens the door. “Pa-pa?”

  The first thing that hits me
is the aroma of antiseptic, plastic, and body odor; a nasal cocktail that I’ll always associate with visiting my great-grandfather in a nursing home.

  “There’s someone here to see you,” Dana says softly.

  There’s a mumble from somewhere in the room and she motions for me to enter.

  The blinds are drawn, the carpet is worn, and the walls are covered in cheap wood-paneling. At the far end of the room is a hospital bed. Beside it sits a small steel stand, upon which rests a medical monitor and a pump attached to a breathing apparatus. Tubes run from the apparatus to the man lying in the bed: Benjamin Whitlock, the grandson of Theodore Whitlock.

  The bed is inclined upwards, giving the illusion that he’s sitting up, but there’s no way he has the strength. I can see the outline of his frail and withered body under the sheets. The fine strands of hair on his head do nothing to hide his liver-spotted scalp. His eyes are small, bleary, and bloodshot, but they lock onto me as I step to the foot of the bed.

  Dana comes over and gently takes his hand. “Pa-pa, this is Daniel Price. He left the message for you yesterday.”

  I register a slight nod from the old man.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” I say.

  “All right, Mr. Price,” Dana says. “What did you want to talk about?”

  I’m about to launch into my story, but Mr. Whitlock gently pats Dana’s hand.

  “Dana, can you please give us a few minutes alone?”

  “But, Pa-pa—”

  “It’ll be all right.”

  She eyes me in confusion and mistrust, but respects her grandfather’s wishes and leaves his side.

  “Press the button if you need anything,” she says. “Fifteen minutes,” she whispers to me before going into the hallway and closing the door.

  Once she’s gone, the only sound in the room is the old man’s rhythmic labored breathing.

  The corners of his lips lift slightly in what I think is a smile. “I can only assume you’re about to tell me some stuff my granddaughter, bless her, might not understand. Please, have a seat.” He indicates the wooden chair next to the bed. I accept and sit down. It creaks as it takes my weight. “Now, my granddaughter usually gives my guests fifteen minutes so as not to over excite me, but I’m not sure I even have fifteen minutes left, so you’d better hurry up.”

  He starts to laugh, which sounds more like a quick succession of coughs.

  “Well, again, thank you for seeing me,” I say.

  “You from Kingsbrook?”

  “Yes. I live in the Nightingale House.”

  “How are you liking it?”

  I don’t answer.

  He shrugs his shoulders by raising them a fraction of an inch. “I figured. What is it you want to talk about?”

  “You told your granddaughter to ask me something: ‘She still can’t sleep, can she?’ What did that mean?”

  His sense of humor vanishes and he shakes his head. “You know damn well what I meant. Ask me what you called about in your message.”

  I took a breath. “Your grandfather was the Carringtons’ butler, correct?”

  “I wouldn’t call him their butler. He was their valet. He didn’t cook or nothing, but he helped around the house and the yard and he drove them around.”

  “Did you know your grandfather?”

  “I did. He died when I was fifteen but I knew him. He lived with us for a while towards the end.”

  “Did he ever talk about the Carringtons?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much, but I guess he liked them enough … well, some of them.” He looks at me. “He loved the girl.”

  “Katherine?”

  “Yeah. Katherine.”

  “What about Abigail?”

  “Sure.”

  “And Thomas Carrington?”

  “Not his favorite. Wasn’t anyone’s favorite, as far as I could tell. The Carringtons were long gone when he talked to me about them, and like I said, he didn’t say much.”

  “Why not?”

  “It was hard for him …”

  I decide to cut to the chase. “Mr. Whitlock, your grandfather was there the night Katherine disappeared.”

  He closes his eyes. “Yes. He was there … Well, he said he was there.”

  “He told the police that he drove Thomas Carrington and his daughter to the train station in Dover.”

  “That’s what he told them.”

  “Mr. Whitlock, did your grandfather ever talk to you about what really happened that night?”

  There’s a change in him—a resignation. Like a weight is sliding off his chest.

  “My grandfather was a sad man … At least he was when I knew him. He was broken. Towards the end of his life, he lived with our family. My parents and me. It was awful. He was going crazy. He would mumble all the time in his room. He kept shouting in his sleep. One night, I was outside the door, trying to hear what he was saying and it sounded like, ‘She can’t sleep. She can’t sleep.’ Other times, he would just cry. The older he got, the worse it got. The littlest things upset him. It was like he would see something or someone who wasn’t there and he would apologize, over and over. Finally, my parents decided that he couldn’t live with us anymore. They made arrangements for him to stay at an asylum. The night before he left, I was outside his room, again, just listening to him mumble and cry. It got quiet, and then, all of a sudden, he opened the door, grabbed me, and pulled me into the room. I was scared out of my mind. He took me by the shoulders and kept saying, ‘She wasn’t there. She wasn’t there.’ I asked him, ‘Who?’ and he kept saying, ‘Katherine can’t sleep! Katherine can’t sleep!’ I started crying and that snapped him out of it. He said, ‘I’m going to tell you something and you can never tell anyone.’ I only wanted out of that room, so I said yes. He said, ‘That girl was never there.’ I asked him, ‘What girl?’ but he was so upset that he didn’t answer. Then he said that Thomas Carrington had given him a thousand dollars to tell the police that she had been with them at the train station. Carrington said that if he didn’t, he’d ruin him, but the daughter was never there.”

  He’s been growing more and more agitated as he’s been speaking. He releases a series of coughs and tries to calm himself. “Then, my grandfather reached under the mattress of his bed, pulled out an envelope, and stuffed it down my shirt. He told me to hide it, but never spend it. That it was cursed. He said she was coming to him in his dreams and that she couldn’t sleep. I tried to get out of the room, but he grabbed me and told me that she’s still in that house and that she can’t sleep. I started shouting and crying. My parents came running. They hauled my grandfather off to the asylum right then and there. That was the last time I ever saw him. Later that night, when I was alone, I opened the envelope. It was full of money. I hid it and my parents never knew. At the time, I didn’t know what he was talking about, but that night stayed with me. Nothing ruins a childhood like holding on to a dark secret. Years later, I started looking into what he meant. That’s when I put it together. Thomas Carrington did something to his daughter and paid my grandfather to be his alibi. The guilt drove my grandfather crazy.”

  By the time he’s done with his story, he’s gasping for breath. I can understand why he didn’t want his granddaughter in the room for this. I would have been escorted out long ago.

  His breathing returns to what passes as normal and he looks at me. “The clock is ticking, Mr. Price.”

  “Did your grandfather tell you what happened?”

  “No.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “Probably the same as you; Thomas Carrington killed his daughter. She never left that house.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  He’s seized by another fit of coughing. “What good would it have done? By the time I put it all together, everyone was gone. I hated my grandfather for telling me. I wish he would have taken it to his grave.”

  “So, after
all this time, why are you telling me?”

  “Eighty-two years is a long time to hold on to something. You’re not a child and it sounds like you need to know.”

  “One last question, Mr. Whitlock: do you have any proof of this?”

  He motions just enough to indicate the closet. “Top shelf. Leather suitcase. My granddaughter doesn’t know.”

  I go to the closet and open the doors. There are cardboard boxes on the floor and clothes that haven’t been worn in years hanging from the rack. The top shelf is littered with shoeboxes and papers. In the back corner, I find a small, beat-up leather suitcase. I ease it down, trying to make as little noise as possible, because I’m sure Dana is listening in the hallway. I gently place it on the bed, next to his legs, press the latches, and open the lid.

  It’s empty.

  “False top,” he says in a raspy breath.

  I find a loose corner of fabric and pull. It rips away.

  Underneath the fabric, fastened with a pin to the underside of the lid, is a yellowed envelope. I pull it off and open it. It’s stuffed with bills. They vaguely resemble dollar bills but these are bigger and feel like fabric rather than paper. Printed on them are words like “Gold Certificate” and “Silver Certificate”.

  “Proof enough for you?” he asks.

  I nod.

  The last piece is in place. Between his story and Rebecca’s journal, I know everything now.

  “I could never spend it. Never wanted to. It’s blood money … You want it?” he asks.

  I return the bills to the envelope, close it, and stick it back to the underside of the lid. I secure the latches of the suitcase, and return it to its resting place on the top shelf of the closet. I close the closet door and turn back to him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Whitlock.”

  “I thought my grandfather was crazy, the way he babbled about those dreams … He was talking about her, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  He looks down at his feet. “When they took him that night, he just kept screaming, ‘She can’t sleep! She can’t sleep!’ I’ll never forget that. I thought he was crazy but … last night, I saw her. Saw her in my dreams … She told me she couldn’t sleep …” He looks back up at me. “Can she sleep, now?”