It wasn’t the first time she’d been in Massachusetts, but it was the first time she’d done it alone.
Taking the MA-3 was part of her family’s tradition and she stopped to freshen up and view the marvel that is Plymouth Rock for the gazillionth time.
Finally in town, she stopped at Windfall to pick up groceries to take to the house. After flying in from Chicago, she knew she wouldn’t feel like going out again for the night.
The wooden sign was faded, but she knew the way now.
Watch Hill was one of the last of the sea captain houses built after the War of 1812 that hadn’t been modified into an inn or razed due to dangerous disrepair. The historic homes dotting Little Pond were gems from a bygone era.
She relaxed as she crunched on a packet of carrot sticks and sped past the cutoff for the yacht club.
The gravel drive was overgrown with juniper bushes and cryptomeria, and the alders remained green, even as the maples flamed in their annual rebellion.
Everything hit home as she turned into the drive.
The toughest thing about getting older is you realize that nothing is permanent and almost nothing you truly care about remains the same.
Her best childhood memories were made here, summers on the cape are incredible.
Now her beloved Aunt Rosemary was gone. She’d never had children or remarried after her husband disappeared in the Congo researching native plants working as a research botanist for a pharmaceutical company.
Time has a cruel way of making us forget what’s most important to remember.
She had not continued to visit her aunt in the summer after she’d graduated from college, busy, single and overworked in a law office in Avondale.
The hours were a professional Ironman and the goal was to make partner before she was thirty-five.
When the will was read over a Zoom call two weeks before and this incredible house was deeded to her, the primary emotion was shame for not seeing that there is no such thing as forever and now everything was different.
Her amazing aunt would not hug her hello, tell jokes while they cooked dinner or dig clams in the rain ever again.
Holding her breath as the pines and the shrubs withdrew, and Watch Hill emerged. The setting sun made the slate shingles glow. The mansion felt somber and watchful, as if it waited for her to come inside.
Architectural details had been added over the years, as in a Victorian turret that connected to the attic with cozy reading nooks on the lower floors, but the widow’s walk overlooking the breakwater was original.
She shivered when the sun hit the wrought iron fence on the roofline, where shadows arched just so.
For a moment she thought she saw the ghost peering down at her with those black emotive eyes that terrorized her as a little girl when she’d least expected it.
Her phone rang and she looked away for a second, but when she looked up, the platform was deserted again.
The mysterious caller hung up after the third ring.
“Oh well.” She shrugged and popped the trunk to pull out her suitcase with the groceries stuffed on top.
If your number wasn’t programmed in her personal phone, she rarely answered and waited to see if the caller left a voicemail.
If you didn’t, then it was your loss.
Too busy to chase or be a hand-holder, whoever it was they were welcome to ring her office line, but she was officially on a one-month hiatus with Gruber & Stenhurst.
Unsure of what she would do after she sold the house, she was uneasy about sharing her plans with anyone, as the competition for partner was a shark swim.
Unafraid but wary, she balanced a bag of groceries on her hip and unlocked the front door. A wild peacock flew out of the hydrangea bush, trying to come inside as she punched in the security code.
Flooded with memories when she spotted the faded barn jackets, yellow clogs and Wellies still lined up in the hall, as if ready to head down to the beach or weed the garden.
The narrow hallway led into a great room with a stone fireplace and a bank of windows that offered panoramic water views.
She was already fighting the morbid urge to traipse upstairs and peek inside the master bedroom where her aunt and uncle once watched TV behind closed doors. They had often taken their breakfast on a private, screened porch overlooking the pond.
The desire to fight the silence grew and she flipped open her music and chose something soothing and classical to fill the house with something other than her footsteps.
Sunset brought night gloom from the dark water on the bay, but she looked forward to stargazing and listening to the waves when the tide changed.
A glass of chardonnay with roasted potatoes and baked chicken would do nicely, especially after having only a granola bar and black coffee on the plane.
Although it had been well over a year since her aunt had lived in the house, the management company had done wonders and everything was sparkling clean.
Considering calling her girlfriend Elle, she picked her phone up to dial. They were tech rebels and refused to text like everyone else.
She almost dropped the phone in the vegetable sink when the distinct sound of something heavy scraped the floor right above her head.
Its urgency made her stop and listen closer.
The music was abruptly turned off and her heart pumped like a marathon runner, as fear awakened her senses.
“Hello? Is anyone up there?” She felt foolish afterward, considering that if anyone was actually up there, they were trespassing and more than likely wouldn’t be passive about being discovered.
The security system had been engaged and she hadn’t checked every window and door, but it was unlikely that anyone could be inside; they had to get past the alarm first.
Taking her wine with, she tucked the phone in her back pocket and grabbed a silver-tipped walking stick from the front hall closet, peeling off her fuzzy socks so she wouldn’t slip on the parquet floors.
The lights in the kitchen flickered and the hairs on the back of her neck tingled when heat lightning crackled over the ocean and a storm rolled in.
The stairs were shallow and steep. Winded and unsure, she hesitated on the second-floor landing.
Perhaps she should call the police and get in her car, instead of dealing with a home invader on her own?
Too late for common sense or creating a plan B, she proceeded to go through each room and look under the beds, behind doors and inside closets.
There was nothing amiss and even in the master bedroom; all was quiet, eerie and calm.
The chandelier was her favorite one in the house. Iron with crystals and tiny, plum-colored shades. It hung over the massive four-poster from England that had been ensconced in the oldest wing of Watch Hill since 1816.
The flame-shaped bulbs were the old-fashioned kind and just for a moment, a phantom face gave her a gruesome sneer as the lights went out and the room became a black pool.
She bolted for the stairs like a little kid, knowing that her reaction was silly. You can’t run so easily from spooky things or from real life.
Uncomfortable with how this night was going, she decided to sleep downstairs on the sofa, drink wine and read magazines until she passed out.
Daylight always felt easier to tackle the tough situations.
She realized when she chose to come here by herself that the house was haunted.
It had been ever since a woman lost her husband at sea more than a hundred years before Abigail’s family bought it.
Everyone knew the story and some had even seen her, but it’s very different from knowing and actually experiencing something like this.
Obviously, she couldn’t talk to her conservative colleagues about it, but she could certainly tell her best friend Elle.
She hustled back to the great room and cracked open the fireplace damper.
Lighting a fire in the the grate, in case the power went out again, she finally called her friend.
“Hey you
! Make it okay?” Answering on the second ring, Elle wasn’t always available, but she was tied to her phone, as she ran a successful, online business selling hand-painted scarves, art glass and elegant cashmere ponchos.
“Can you chat for a minute?” Abigail felt safer as she wandered back to the kitchen to check on dinner.
She poured herself a second glass before settling on the sofa in front of the crackling fire.
“Girl. Do you have E.S.P.? Was just wondering how things were going. Must feel awful lonely out there by yourself. Wish I could’ve met her. I mean, well before. It. Oh man, I.” She sounded uncomfortable and croaked out, “Well, you know.”
“It’s okay Elle. I knew she was ill. I never know what to say to people either. She’d been dealing with it for a long time. Even donated her Volvo to a women’s shelter, because she couldn’t drive it. Had a lady coming in once a week to cook and tidy up. Gosh, this place made her so happy. She often remarked that Sarah understood how she felt when my uncle went missing.”
“Come again. Who?” Pots and pans banged loudly and a dog barking in the background made Abigail grin.
“Sarah. Sarah Pritchard. She used to live here a long time ago. Her husband left on a merchant ship headed for the East Indies and he never came back. Broke her heart. I kind of admire her though. Many don’t believe in true love, but I do. Loving someone so much that she would…”
She trailed off, not wanting to vocalize the rest. Wondering if she would feel like this forever?
This wasn’t her house and it never would be, she was an imposter.
The fire flickered and the soothing heat made her extra sleepy, or was it the wine?
“Sorry A. You lost me. Are you sure you’re okay? I could come out and help pack things up if you want? Never been to Cape Cod. I can run Tapestries from anywhere. Jack knows how to cook for himself. Well… kind of.”
They shared a laugh, as Elle was definitely the person at their house who prepared meals.
She had once been a celebrity chef, but had changed paths after she took back her weekends by creating a way to stay home and make a ton more money.
“Didn’t factor in how hard it would be. It’s tough. So many memories. She’s in every room. Everywhere I look, I think about her.”
“Who? Your aunt or this Sarah chick?” Sounding even more concerned and a little bit bossy, her friend pressed it further, “Love you so much. If I overstep, slap me silly. Get mad, but I’m going to say it anyway. This a lot for one person to handle, even you. I know you’re burned out from work and that last client, whoa. What a massive pain.”
“Both actually.” Suddenly she wasn’t in the mood to talk anymore.
In the interim, Jack came home and their golden retriever barked so loudly she could barely hear Elle, so she decided to call it quits.
“Better say goodnight before I fall asleep on you. Thanks for picking up. Might need extra help in a few weeks. How did I get so lucky? Not mad at all. Thanks for having my back. Check on flights and let me know, ‘kay? Love you.”
“Love you too. Sleep well. Call me if you need anything, all right? I’m putting my phone next to the bed. Jack wears one of those white noise thingies anyway. He says it makes him feel like Superman. Thought that was my job? Am I right? Call me tomorrow. Mwah! Bye.”
The silence was deafening when the call ended and she felt even more restless and disconnected than before.
Trying not to let it take her down, she finished her wine.
Flipping through dusty photo albums, Abigail drank too much and revisited her family adventures on the Cape.
Hours flew by and it was too late to go out anywhere decent.
A few bars might be open, but they were the boltholes most women wouldn’t wish to enter alone.
It was at least three a.m. when she realized that the oven had been left on. Her baked chicken and potatoes were charcoal.
Turning off the oven and throwing out the spoiled food, her stomach rumbled in dismay.
Everything she’d purchased was a raw ingredient and she wasn’t up for another hour of faking Julia.
There wasn’t much to eat in the pantry except for an ancient tin of sardines and outdated cans of vegetable soup. She opted for peanut butter toast and brewed a pot of chamomile tea instead.
The rocks on the ocean side were treacherous, but the icky feelings from before still clung to her, as she slid the sliding glass door open to carry her portable snack outside.
It was a chilly night filled with the endearing hum of crickets.
The rainstorm had finally left, although the cushions on the porch furniture were soaking wet.
Noting the stars and wishing for a way to return to the past, she finally locked up and slept fitfully on the sofa wrapped in a throw blanket too short to cover her feet.
Daylight blasted her eyes and it was well after ten when she unkinked her legs and decided that she’d spent enough time mooning.
There was a lot to do and a month would go by quickly.
A hot shower cures many things and she decided to use the glassed-in one in the master bathroom, as it was luxurious with dual rain shower heads. It was also important to get used to being in the house again.
The rinse off was exactly what she needed. Ginger-coconut shampoo was invigorating and the periwinkle-blue towels were thick, soft and fluffy.
Just as she was drying off and making a mental to-do list, her heart almost stopped.
On the edge of the white, soaking tub was a pillar candle and a basket of fragrant soaps, but there was also a blond curl of baby hair tied with a pink ribbon and a dried flower.
It had not been there before.
She would’ve noticed, as she’d kicked around the idea of taking a bubble bath, but they rarely energized her. She wanted to get at least one room packed up before going shopping again.
The keepsake crumbled to dust and the scent of rose sachet clung to her fingertips.
The scaly mess on the bathroom rug was brown and gross, but it was nothing a decent vacuum couldn’t fix.
Looking in the bedroom for the Hoover, the shadow of a willowy woman disappeared behind the sheer curtains and she yelped out loud.
Her skin itched with uncertainty and she wanted to hop in her rental car and drive straight back to Chicago.
This endeavor was a quick trip to the nuthouse.
Clearly, she’d overestimated her ability to ignore how being alone at Watch Hill would make her feel.
Not the type to ask for help, she had to fight the overwhelming urge to cry and give up.
Sure, she had kind people in her life that she could ask to bail her out, but they had lives too and this entire situation was her problem to solve.
Note to self, sweep up the mess, buy more groceries, maybe a frozen pizza and stop being such a scaredy-cat.
Abigail tapped into the strength of her departed aunt and began to take back her power, “Nope.”
Faux-leather leggings and an oversized cotton sweater kept her comfortable and warm, as she cleaned out the cozy bedroom she’d always used when she was a little girl.
Almost everything was an antique and she wanted to keep it all, but knew that her apartment in Chicago had zero room for it.
Matching iron beds with mint-green quilts and embroidered throw pillows had hosted slumber parties with five, rambunctious sisters who’d summered only a few miles away.
They were “vacation” friends and never connected the rest of the year.
Her fantasy books were saved and boxed up.
There were plenty of schools and free libraries she could donate them to, promising herself that she would make it happen.
“A Miracle In Time” was one of her favorites. Her aunt had closely resembled one of the quirky, time travelers.
This thought soothed her ragged nerves and she hugged the book against her chest for a moment with her eyes squeezed closed.
A scraping sound disturbed the silence, then sharp knocking came from som
ewhere down the hall near the stairwell.
It creeped her out so badly, she had to take a short break with the bathroom door closed to collect herself.
“Not going to stop cleaning out this house. So, leave it.”
Geez, now she was talking to herself.
“Stop trying to intimidate me. Okay? Enough.”
She left the bathroom and made a concerted effort to ignore the doom rising in her chest, even though she had one eyeball glued to the bedroom door.
Meanwhile, she continued to box up more books.
Louder and more insistent this time, something heavy dragged across the attic floor just above her head.
Wanting to swear, wanting to get mad and throw something, as the frustration became physical and her reaction to stress was more intense than usual.
Instead of acting like a six-year-old, she faced her fear and crept down the hall to where the attic stairs met the curve of the turret.
The walk-in attic had a shorter and steeper staircase up to the third story with a draft door, as they did not bother to heat or cool it.
Of course, the door was closed and locked.
She held her breath, fumbling with a jumble of skeleton keys on a brass ring the size of a salad plate.
Finally, the brass one with the filigree unlocked it.
Feeling woozy, she flung open the attic door.
The space was bright and cheery from twelve large dormers.
Thankfully, no one and nothing with fangs jumped out to bite her on the neck.
It was a huge attic with shadowy corners, but it was uncluttered except for a battered sea chest stuffed with black and white photographs and winter coats hung on a rope nailed to a rafter.
There was so much dust on everything, she began to wheeze and cough.
It looked like the chest might have been moved recently, but there were no handprints on the lid where the leather handles had rotted off.
Feathers, leaves and twigs were scattered across the floor near a vented windowsill and she spied a sparrow’s nest tucked under an eave.
Tangled Webs Page 3
