Tangled Webs

by Bibiana Krall

  That surprise would have to wait, as she wasn’t even sure if she could legally take it down.

  There was one more set of spiral stairs to go before she could be completely sure, still uneasy about the noises, because of not fully checking this part of the house the night before.

  The final steps up to the roof were pierced iron and had once been part of a colonial lighthouse.

  Fully prepared to meet the specter or the intruder, she exhaled and unlocked the last door to reach the widow’s walk.

  It had been off-limits to come up here alone when she was a child, but this was her house now.

  The roof platform was unoccupied and breezy. She’d almost forgotten how high up it was.

  Dizzy and slightly anxious, she glanced down at the rocks three stories below. Vertigo hit her hard in the stomach and she quickly backed away from the rail.

  Waves rolled in to foam against the dark cliffs, as a flock of sea birds glided over the millpond.

  Wondering what the ghost wanted and what the lock of baby hair on the tub earlier meant, she calmed down and watched the tide roll in.

  Salted wind, the whoosh of Atlantic waves and the earthy scent of kelp bolstered a firm resolution to hold her ground.

  No matter what.

  She would not be chased out by something that didn’t belong here. She refused to live another day in fear or angst and would make a point to find out why this haunting woman was still here and somehow, some way send her off to a better place.

  “Good tidings, Sarah.” She whispered towards the horizon, “I’ll try to help you. Please. You must stop scaring me, okay?”

  Closing up and locking the doors behind her. As she descended to the second floor, she realized with a grin that she’d just been speaking to a spirit.

  Would her buttoned-up, legal clients drop her like a flaming arrow if they knew?

  Giggling and relieved that there was no human intruder, her heart lightened, as she finished up another bedroom and stacked moving boxes in the hall.

  The Victorian furniture and Tiffany lamps were going to auction and she left them where they were to be assessed in a week when the representative came to set up a time and date for the liquidation.

  Perhaps it would have been easier to turnkey it all, but she owed herself the time to do this the right way.

  People should be allowed to grieve in privacy without having to explain themselves when they act strangely or in her case, start hearing and seeing things that literally aren’t there.

  It was late afternoon when she made a second piece of peanut butter, power toast and washed up.

  Pulling on a light-blue, cashmere poncho, a gift from Elle on her thirtieth birthday for an extra layer. A swipe of peach blush and a spritz of designer perfume helped her feel ready for town.

  Locking up and backing the car out, she didn’t look up or worry about Sarah.

  The historical society had a reading room and she would stop there first, and then get enough groceries to keep chipping away at the pile for another week.

  It was a homecoming to drive through a pretty village she’d known her entire life.

  When she pulled into the parking lot for the historical society, memories hit her in the feels when she turned off the ignition.

  Some things change, while others never do.

  The cedar shingles silvered with age and gingerbread trim on the cottage roofline made her mouth water for a savory lobster roll and a homemade blueberry muffin.

  The shop bell jangled as she stepped inside.

  Glass museum cases filled with bone buttons and musket balls had been a great mystery to her as a little girl, but now she was far more concerned with finding more information about the house.

  “May I help you?” An elderly woman with a modern pixie cut, dressed for a walk on the shore popped her head from the office.

  “Welcome. We close in half an hour. Since it’s after four, there’s no fee for the museum.”

  “Thank you, but I’ve been here before. I was looking for information about Watch Hill.”

  The woman perked up and slipped on an oversized pair of cherry-red, reading glasses that matched her turtleneck, “Really? Such as?”

  “Such as exactly who Sarah Pritchard was and why she’s still haunting my house.”

  She muttered this with a slightly humorous tone and hoped the woman wouldn’t chase her out or call the police.

  “Well now. That’s a gothic puzzle piece. I have the Pritchard family bible in the reading room. Afraid I’ll have to thumb through it for you. It’s quite fragile and priceless.”

  “Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

  This went differently than she had imagined.

  Unsure if what she wanted to know would be in the book, she followed the woman into a library filled with leather-bound volumes stretching from floor to ceiling with a writing desk and photocopier tucked in the corner.

  “Lemme see here.” The woman thumbed through the stacks while talking to herself and finally stopped at a thick book stamped in gold leaf.

  She set it down on the desk and donned a pair of muslin gloves, “Beg pardon. What did you say you wanted this information for?”

  “I didn’t actually.” Feeling panicked and thinking this field trip had moved beyond absurd.

  What was she hoping to find?

  “Oh, I see. Are you a leaf peeper then? Nah. Too young for that. Mmm. Anything to talk about history. Right. I’ve always loved the place. My son used to compare it to the mansion in the Addam’s Family. He liked his afternoon shows.”

  The woman peered closer at her and then jumped up from the desk and hugged Abigail with the force of a ‘Nor’easter. “Bed knobs and broomsticks. I would’ve never!”

  She came in for another one, “Didn’t mean to startle ya. Oh my goodness, me. It is you. You’re Abigail Dickerson. Why didn’t you tell me who you were? You’re so grown-up honey. Don’tcha remember me? I was a close friend of Rosemary’s. Godspeed to an incredible woman. Once in a while, I read sleepy time stories to you when she hosted, Cocktails, Murder and Cookies.”

  Unfortunately, Abigail didn’t remember, but she was overwhelmed and grateful to see how much her aunt was missed by her friends.

  “You’re cool for doing that. They got a little crazy in that book club sometimes. What’s cozy about killing people in those mysteries they all read? I had no idea that old ladies, I mean––elderly women got so wild together.”

  “If the walls could talk… oh my word! We had such a time. Back to Sarah Pritchard. She was married in 1891 to a wealthy landowner named Randolf Pritchard and they had two children, a girl and a boy. The first child, a son was stillborn and then her daughter. Oh, this is just awful. She was only five when consumption took her. Poor dear. It gets worse. After their daughter passed, Randolf became a bit of a cad and died in a bloody duel over another man’s wife.”

  “A duel? As in black powder, pistols and twenty paces?”

  “Apparently so. It was outlawed in Falmouth in the late 1800s, but apparently Amelie Cooke, the other wife was the socialite to know. Hate to speak ill of the departed, but she was a bit of a doxy.”

  “Wow. No one ever told me about any of this. I thought her husband was lost at sea. I don’t follow. So why would Sarah haunt the house?”

  “It might make more sense for her to haunt the village green, but the matters of hearth and home can take a deep toll. I believe that Sarah truly loved him. All those nights she must’ve waited while that scoundrel was lost in the arms of another. Amelie was known to be the most beautiful woman on the Cape, perhaps in the entire state? Envy can tear a good woman to pieces. Public scandal was considered worse than death back then. The human heart is a complicated mechanism.”

  “So it is.” It made a lot of sense, concerning a betrayal situation, but she still didn’t understand what the ghost wanted from her.

  “That’s about all we have about it. I did experience something once and perhaps it w
ill help? In the woods behind the house, some say there is a family cemetery and a stone crypt, but I’ve looked to no avail. The original records room had a fire and I’m afraid many things were lost. Saw her on the roof once. A storm blew in while I was helping unload Rosemary’s station wagon. She glared down at me and wasn’t all see-through or mist-like, as most films prefer to show them. It was frightful. Won’t soon forget that beaded dress and the fresh flowers tucked in her hair.”

  “What kind of flowers were they?” Her pulse raced, remembering the dried bloom on the side of the tub.

  “Roses, sprigs of rosemary and purple lavender. Why?”

  It’s never easy to hold back certain feelings, but now she realized that the flowers were a message and somehow tied to this mystery.

  “Do you know anything about the night she died? This is really important.”

  “My understanding is that their party to begin the official social season was at Watch Hill. The entire county came and tradespeople set up booths in the yard. The more influential guests were dressed for a formal ball afterwards. Her husband never arrived. She paced and paced on the roof waiting for him and finally she just... well, I think that’s just about far enough. Rest assured, she was distraught and emotional. Who does that to their wife? Everyone knew why it happened. It was too much for her and then she...”

  “Oh my gosh. Horrible. I understand. No freaking wonder. I don’t have a husband or children, but I loved someone like that once. It wasn’t meant to be, but losing him gave me the room to pursue other things when I finally stopped crying. I’m probably better off, even if it’s tough sometimes.”

  The woman nodded wisely, “We all have our challenges. I wish no one had to discover these lessons on their own, but that’s what it’s about. Learning who to trust and having the courage to give our love away again and again, while secretly hoping that someone will cherish it and send it back to us. I learned a long time ago that you’re the only person in the world who can do that part for you. The other person, the right one is icing on the cake.”

  She hadn’t been ready to accept so much, making the mistake of thinking that complications of hearth and home wouldn’t be basically the same now, as apparently they had been hundreds of years ago.

  The phone rang in the office, “Whoops. Be right back.” The chatty historian scurried off to answer.

  Allowing Abigail the opportunity to say goodbye without drama, “Thank you for your help. Good to see you,” and she quickly left.

  She couldn’t help it when the tears flooded in.

  How terrible must Sarah have felt to be humiliated like that. She had to dig in the pockets of her handbag for a Kleenex to fix her mascara.

  The emotion came and went, she needed to let it out and was extra thankful not to be at work dealing with difficult people.

  It was a rare day she cried or even got upset, but here she was a thousand miles from home, a wreck.

  Her aunt was gone, and wasn’t coming back, so how could she help Sarah rest peacefully?

  Throwing herself into law, and being a litigator for a private firm had been partly about career goals, but it was also a way to hide and make excuses for not getting back out there to meet someone new.

  Headed to the grocery store, a million thoughts flooded her mind. The strongest one was missing her aunt and wishing they had talked more while they were still able to.

  A few hundred dollars lighter, with enough food to camp out for two weeks, she pulled into the drive and fully expected to see Sarah again, but the widow’s walk was vacant.

  The house felt less ominous than the night before, as she set about to make lemon penne and grilled salmon for dinner.

  Her elbows were deep in hot dish suds when her phone rang.

  Wiping off her hands quickly, she answered.

  Elle smiled like a lunatic on SpaceTime.

  Her face was so close to the screen that she almost looked like a cartoon character. “What gives chickadee-dee-doo?”

  “You’re the best Elle! Not much. Just finished the dinner dishes. Wish there was a dishwasher here, but it’s only me, so it’s fine.”

  “How vintage of her. Don’t get ticked at me, okay? My flight arrives in Martha’s Vineyard tomorrow at 3:45 p.m. I made a reservation on the last ferry and should be on your side of the water by seven at the latest. Hope you’re not upset?”

  “What? How?”

  “One of my favorite clients has a summer house in Aquinnah. We ran into each other on the walking trail this morning and stopped to chat. When I shared with her some of the difficult challenges you’re dealing with, she offered me a ride. She’s going private to avoid people who might recognize her. Hardly anyone is around this late in the season and she likes to be alone on the beach.” Elle stage whispered, “Plastic surgery. The works.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, good for her. I can’t wait. Just went shopping, so I have tons of food and plenty of empty moving boxes. It’s been a strange day. Woke up feeling lonely, and out of it. Now I don’t. It feels more like I’m on a mission.”

  “So dang proud of you. Seriously, you’re my hero. I still have to pack, so I’ll hang up. I shall see you tomorrow then? We can cook supper together and you can show me around this amazing cottage that sounds more like a mansion. Oh yeah, before I forget. I booked a reservation at a bed and breakfast in Waquoit. Don’t want you to feel like you have to…”

  “Cancel it right now. Are you kidding me? This house has eleven bedrooms, plus a master. Anyway, I plan on consuming gallons of red wine with you. I would be devastated if you didn’t stay here with me. Be at the dock waiting. Safe travels. So, so excited. Pack your warm jammies. See you tomorrow.”

  “See ya!”

  Her energy had certainly changed. There’s nothing like a great friend to boost your mood when you’re feeling low.

  After finishing the dishes and cleaning up the counter, she was inspired to start on another room upstairs.

  When the scraping and knocking started up again, she ignored it and kept going.

  She wasn’t quite ready to sleep in the master bedroom, so she cracked the door to the suite her parents often used in the corner of the house with a view of the bluffs.

  Almost any challenge holds a better perspective after a deep sleep.

  After she shimmied off her rumpled clothes and changed into a flannel nightgown from the bureau, a thick quilt and extra-soft pillows sailed her away to dreamland.

  A new day dawned and she was up early, brewing coffee and blasting Florence and The Machine on the WIFI.

  What she wouldn’t give for her own Ceremonial.

  Perhaps when she sold the house she could afford a spa vacation somewhere exotic like the Maldives to relax and regroup?

  Whistling and packing up yet another room, a book fell out of the shelf and she almost stuffed it in a box before yet another dried flower fell out on the floor.

  It was a diary.

  Written in perfect cursive and dated 1898 on the first page: He never loved me. I see that now. My family had money and prestige. Foolish, stupid, insipid me. How blind was I to believe that anyone like him could be trusted.

  That someone might love me for who I am, not what I can give them. I despise him, but I might hate myself even more.

  Weary. So weary from life.

  If only I had a way to make him happy again. I’ve tried to give him another child, but after everything else that’s happened.

  I don’t know if I can bear it. -S.

  There were a few more entries and then they just stopped.

  As if Sarah didn’t want to keep baring her soul and filling the pages with angst.

  She was reading the first passage again, when the fog lifted off the ocean. Down on the rocks a young woman walked, wrapped in a black shawl with wind whipping the fringe.

  Her shoulders were hunched over. Clearly, she was troubled and wanted to be left alone.

  It was dangerous down there and Abigail didn’t relish the li
ability of someone slipping and falling.

  Just as she tried to shove the window up, the woman looked towards the house, shook her head no and dove off the rocks straight into the churning sea.

  The waves crested and the impossible happened when the shawl flew up and out of the water like a blackbird and pasted itself against the window glass.

  A peevish voice croaked in the hallway, “It’s true. He never thought of his poor wife, not even once. Why did you let him kill me?”

  She was so freaked out that she wanted to confront the specter, but after knowing what she’d learned at the historical society, it seemed obvious that Sarah felt guilty somehow.

  Personal tragedy had tied her spirit to this place, perhaps forever?

  “Who hurt you? No one mentioned murder. Was it your husband?”

  The air in the room grew so cold, she could see her breath, “I imagine you’re right about the first part.”

  Abigail’s mouth was bone dry and she wished that someone else was here with her to help figure out what the heck was happening.

  The ghost screeched, “Make the crowd go away. Leave me ‘lone. I mourn my pitiful life.”

  Speaking again, unsure of where this conversation might take her, “Sometimes people who are the closest to us don’t consider or understand our feelings. It’s okay Sarah. I understand, I really do. Adam. We met at Woods Hole. I was fifteen. He was seventeen. So hilarious. So dang smart. But college was hard for us. He wanted things I didn’t and maybe I wasn’t ready? We drifted apart, perhaps we were supposed to? Your children need you. You should try to find them out there, and go to them. I can’t believe you would want to stay here in this house and be miserable until the end of time?”

  Continuing to work, she discovered an oversized silver locket and opened the clasp.

  It had a tiny music box inside and the strains of Clare De Lune filled the room with its melancholic melody.

  Unexpectedly a horrible, gaunt woman’s face shot out between two books on the shelf, “Mine!”

  The engraved locket went spinning across the room and a lock of hair fell out.

  The blond curl was yet another wisp tied with a faded ribbon.