by Cat Knight
“Weed is not a drug.”
“And I’m not delusional.”
She slammed the pill bottle on the table.
“How am I to open that with one hand?” he asked.
She removed the cap and set the bottle back down.
“Make your own damn tea.”
Grabbing her mug, Alison left the kitchen. She wasn’t about to hang around with someone who questioned her sanity. Where the hell did he get off doing that?
Steaming, she went directly to the little parlour that she had chosen as her office. As she slid behind the table, a small, nagging voice inside her head asked if she really was ‘all-right’. All-right people didn’t hear voices or feel cold breezes on their necks. All-right people didn’t wake up with someone else’s wallet on the bureau. All-right people could explain how those things happened.
Then, the truth struck her. The explanation was simple really. The old manor house was filled with hidden passages. That had to be the explanation.
If someone knew about the passages, it would be simple to move from one room to another unseen. It would also be easy to speak and then disappear. Ridiculously easy. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? It explained everything. Well, almost everything. Grabbing her phone, Alison called Willard.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“How can I help you?” Willard asked.
“I have a question. You know the manor well, don’t you?”
“I think I’m familiar with it.”
“Are there any secret passages?”
“Secret passages?” Willard’s tone questioned her question.
“You know, ways to get out of a room or from one room to another without anyone knowing.”
“Oh, yes, like some of those old mysteries. No, I never heard of any secret passageways or rooms. Why?”
“Are you certain? Are there any blueprints or plans of the manor?”
“The main part is centuries old. I don’t think they used blueprints back then.”
“Well, there must be some kind of schematic. Who might know?”
“I know of no one, but I will make inquiries. If I learn anything, I’ll get back to you.”
Alison left it at that, hanging up and wondering if she could somehow discover a passage. Then, she pushed the problem out of her mind. She had cleaning to attend to, and the cleaning didn’t include secret passages. As she opened the checklist, she half smiled. There wasn’t someone or something breathing down her neck. That made her smile.
Until the fire alarm BLARED.
Chapter Twelve
For a moment, Alison was frozen. While she knew there were smoke alarms in the manor, she had no idea what they sounded like, or if they even worked. Now, she knew. And now, she had to act. She jumped out of her chair and headed for the kitchen, because that was the logical location. It also seemed to be source of the alarm. What in the world had Paul done? When Alison reached the kitchen, she found Paul dragging the table across the room. With only one good hand, he wasn’t making a lot of progress. Alison wondered what was going on.
“PAUL!” she shouted.
He turned but didn’t say a word. He merely pointed up the wall to where the smoke alarm was BLASTING away. Even as she crossed the room, he climbed onto the table. He stretched, but he could not reach the offending alarm.
He looked around and pointed to a chair. Alison fetched the chair which he set on the table. As he climbed on it, Alison grabbed the legs to steady it. The last thing she needed was for Paul to fall and injure himself anew. On the chair, he stretched, and this time he reached the alarm.
For some seconds, he played with the device, until he managed to find the right button.
The blaring stopped. He stepped off the chair even as Alison’s ears rang. Why were alarms so loud?
“What happened?” she asked.
“How do I know?” he answered. “I was fixing tea, and I turned my back. Then, the bloody alarm sounded. When I turned to the stove, the flame was five feet in the air. It looked like a blooming torch. I had to kill the fire before I could handle the stupid alarm which can’t be reached without a ladder. Who decided to put it there?”
“I have no idea,” Alison answered. “Was the gas on high?”
Paul shook his head. “You don’t use high heat to brew tea. I’m going to have to do a thorough look-through of this stove. I told you we needed a new one.”
“We can’t afford a new one, so you’ll have to make do for a while.”
“Well, unless you want the guests stumbling out of the house in their pyjamas, I recommend a new stove. Or at least call the gas people to look over this dinosaur.”
“I can do that. You’re not hurt, are you?”
“I’m fine. Just angry. No one likes to start the day with a fire alarm. My ears are still ringing.”
Alison left and thought it might be a good time to call Meg Delaney and perhaps arrange an interview. She grabbed her mobile and found the number.
Meg answered on the third ring… not encouraging. Alison explained that she was the new owner of the manor and elicited no answer from Meg.
“And the listing agent said you might be interested in a housekeeping job here.”
“You said the old manor house?” Meg asked.
“That’s correct. I’m transforming it into a bed and breakfast.”
“Then, I wouldn’t be interested.”
Alison paused, not quite sure she had heard correctly.
“Are you certain?”
“Indeed, I am.”
“May I ask why?”
“The house is strange, has been since that Earl died.”
“Strange how?”
“Have you been inside?”
“Yes.”
“Then, you probably know.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that weird happenings occur there.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t repeat rumour, and I think you’ll find out soon enough.”
The connection was broken, and Alison found herself staring into her phone. What had just happened? How “weird” a reputation did the manor house have? Who would be willing to work for her?
In the kitchen, she found Paul sitting with Jeff. Alison frowned. She had not seen Jeff walk past.
“Hello, Alison,” Jeff said. “I heard you had a bit of a ruckus this morning.”
“That’s true, if you consider trying to burn down the house a ruckus.”
“I wasn’t trying to burn down anything,” Paul said. “It was the bloody stove. And my hand hurts.”
“Yes, well, we’ll make sure the stove is in tip-top shape before we get guests. But, tell me, Jeff, how did you slip past my office?”
“Came in the back way,” Jeff answered. “Paul said you were talking to someone, so I was to use the back door.”
“She’s the woman who will not clean the rooms, although I thought she might,” Alison said. “So, since you’re here, where would you like to start?”
Paul laughed. “I told you she would put you right to work. No shirking around here.”
“I don’t mind,” Jeff said. “I can paint. I take to that.”
“You’re in luck,” she said. “I have a small bedroom that is begging for a fresh coat. Come with me.”
“See you in a week or two,” Paul called as Alison led Jeff from the kitchen.
“From the outside, this place looks imposing,” Jeff said.
“It is imposing, and I need to open it as soon as possible. Thank you for offering to help.”
“No worries at all. I’ll dream up some good reviews for you while I’m hard at it here.”
“Well, I owe you. Should you need help with anything, let me know.”
Alison had already prepped the bedroom. The furniture had been moved to the centre, and the moulding and windows had been taped. Drop cloths covered the furniture and rugs. The paint was stacked to one side, and there was a ladder so Jeff could reach the top.
“You certainly have saved me a lot of work,” Jeff said as he looked around. “I’ll finish this right off.” He walked over and opened both windows. “Can’t be breathing paint fumes.”
“Need anything else?”
“Not a thing.” With a wave, Alison left Jeff to the painting. In the hall, she heard the laugh. She froze. A sudden fierce cold swirled around her ankles. She looked down, half expecting to see some sort of snow or ice covering her feet. The cold was intense, but it was only in one place. She frowned. The laugh came again. Her lips quivered. Her shoulders shook. As she stood there, the cold crept up her legs like some sort of vine.
It wound around her leg, the hair on her arms stood up and goose-bumps formed. It was freezing, stealing all feeling from her legs. It was incredible and insidious. Was she turning into stone? Would her heart stop beating if the cold reached it? Would she become some kind of ice sculpture?
The thoughts raced through her mind. What was going on? She couldn’t find the will to move or even scream.
Laugh.
Panic expanded like a balloon inside her body. Her eyes danced back and forth, little things trying to escape the spreading cold. Her brain seemed to be slowing, recognizing that something awful was coming and yet unable to give directions. When the cold reached her waist, she felt she was wading into the coldest part of the coldest ocean on earth. The frigidity sucked away every bit of heat she generated. She couldn’t move if she wanted to.
Laugh.
Panic expanded. The cold rose. Alison felt her sanity slipping away, because this couldn’t be happening. This was the definition of insanity. It was something that occurred only in novels, in movies, in fantasies. It was bonkers.
Laugh.
Alison closed her eyes and battled the sheer terror racing through her brain. No, she was not going to give in to this impossibility. If it couldn’t be happening, then it wasn’t happening. She whispered to herself… “move, move, move”. She had the idea that if she moved, then the illusion would disappear, then the cold would stop. If she could just… move.
Her feet wouldn’t move. No matter how she ordered, her legs would not obey. She felt paralyzed, held still by some force she couldn’t countenance. It couldn’t be happening, but it was. And then, she did the only thing she could think to do.
Chapter Thirteen
She forced her body forward until she was at an angle her frozen feet couldn’t counter, until she fell over.
She caught herself with her hands, which hurt her wrists, but the fall succeeded. Suddenly, the cold was gone. She could feel her legs and feet — and her pain-filled wrists. She rolled onto her back and took a deep breath. What the bloody hell had happened? There was no residual cold, no lingering numbness. It was as if it was all inside her head.
And that scared her more than anything else. She could deal with something on the outside. But if it was all in her head…
She didn’t answer the question.
She stayed on the floor for a minute before she climbed to her feet. Her wrists still hurt, but not as bad.
Her hip hurt too, another victim of the fall. Her first step was a limp. She wondered how the hell this had happened. She fell over like statue — on purpose. That sounded absolutely beyond the ken. Who did that? She did. She limped to the master bedroom. As she entered, she waited for the laugh.
Nothing.
The first thing Alison checked was the door lock.
She had read about magicians who employed special locks, ones that could be opened if one knew the secret. She set the lock and worked every little bit she could in order to spring the lock. Nothing worked. Well, if it wasn’t the lock, then it had to be some sort of special door.
She put herself in the middle of the room and looked around. Where would someone put a secret door? She supposed the most obvious place was the closet. It wasn’t a big closet, and it was empty, and she supposed the back wall would be the logical place.
She examined the back wall carefully. She found no cleverly concealed seams, no hinges, nothing that indicated access. When she tapped the wall, she heard no echoes, nothing that translated into an open space behind.
She tried the side walls also, but those provided nothing. Frowning, she stepped out of the closet and looked around.
She ruled out the headboard, and she was pretty sure no one could come from behind the bed. She tried the wall where the bureau stood. First, she tried to move the bureau, thinking it might hide a space. No, that didn’t work. Then, she went over the wall as carefully as she could. Nothing.
As she straightened up, she felt stupid. She felt like some young girl who had read some mystery where the haunted house came complete with secret rooms and passages. She wasn’t some young girl. She was a grown woman who had been reduced to hunting for hidden doors.
She was a walking cliché. Shaking her head, she limped toward the door and glanced at the closet.
And that was when she noticed it.
In the ceiling of the closet was a small rectangular door or sorts — attic access.
Alison took in a sharp breath. Attic access!
That explained everything. How difficult would it be to go from room to room via the attic? Oh, it might require a bit of climbing and squirming, but it was definitely doable. Any able-bodied person could accomplish it.
And it explained everything. Well, almost everything. She had to make sure that the master bedroom also had attic access. She limped down the hall and into the master bedroom. She flipped on the light in the walk-in closet and looked up.
She smiled. The closet had attic access. That answered her questions. ‘But it doesn’t answer for your frozen feet’, a tiny voice mocked her. She ignored the voice and turned out the light. Now, how did she get into the attic without climbing through one of the access points. Funny, she had never thought of that before. But now, it was imperative that she explore the attic. She was of the opinion that if someone used the attic to travel from room to room, there would be evidence. She limped into the hall and looked around. Where? There was a linen closet at the end of the hall. Was that the access to the attic?
She limped to the linen closet and opened the door. And there it was, a small door on one side. Not much, not easily noticed, but a door. She pulled it open. The steps were narrow and dark, and they led up. Alison smiled.
Success. She wanted to climb immediately, but she knew that in the dark, she wasn’t liable to find the evidence she needed. She needed light. She turned and walked out. Where would she find a torch? She thought for a moment before she went to the master bedroom.
All the walking was making her hip hurt, but she was too close to stop. In the bedroom, she searched the nightstands next to the bed. The torch was in the bottom drawer, and to her surprise, it threw off a beam of light. Maybe not the brightest torch she had ever seen, but it was more than she had before. Torch in hand, she gritted her teeth and limped to the attic stairs.
The steps ran up and then turned abruptly; the framers had used the little space they had. Of course, the access didn’t provide enough room for large items; those things couldn’t navigate the narrow turn. One hand on the wall, she pushed on. At the top was a second door, smaller than the first. For a moment, she felt like Alice in Wonderland, moving from small door to smaller door. If she found pills with messages on them, she was coming right back down.
The second door led to the attic, and while it was dark, it was not completely dark. There were several vents that allowed a minimum of light, and while the gloom was inadequate for searching, it did provide a bit of comfort. Wandering about in total darkness was a recipe for disaster. She flicked on the torch and waved it about. The attic did not have a floor, well, not a regular floor.
There was flooring in spots, and on that flooring rested boxes and trunks and the odd items that people saved over the course of a lifetime.
Lamps, tennis racquets, an old set of golf clubs, a small Christmas tree, those were the things she recog
nized. She had no idea what was in the boxes.
She supposed they held items that required a bit of protection. Photos perhaps or clothes or shoes or papers, things that wouldn’t weather well. Whatever they were, it didn’t matter.
Alison didn’t want to rummage through things. Perhaps, rummaging would provide a fruitful quest on a rainy Sunday afternoon. But for now, she wanted to ascertain if the attic could provide a way to move from one room to another without being noticed. In a way, she felt like a detective, some kind of Sherlock bent on discovering the truth. Yes, Watson, it was the attic access that everyone overlooked. Alison laughed, and the laugh immediately invoked memories of frozen legs. She quit the laugh as soon as she started it.
There was a narrow set of boards that provided a path to the islands of flooring. To Alison, it looked like some kind of board game. Roll the dice and move five squares. Silly but provocative. As she moved, she tried to determine just where the bedrooms were, the bedrooms she wanted to locate.
If she was oriented correctly, the master bedroom was in the far corner, and the other bedroom was halfway on her left side — if she were oriented correctly.
She wasn’t sure of that. There weren’t any signs on the rafters that said Master Bedroom with an arrow.
Carefully, she edged along. The sloping roof gave her a certain sense of security. If it were necessary, she could reach out and grab a rafter if she fell off balance.
For a moment, Alison wondered if there might be spiders about. Spiders were everywhere, weren’t they? It wasn’t that she hated them, she always saved them, it’s just that she preferred not to brush up against them. She looked around, but she found no webs.
That was encouraging. As she neared the halfway point, she took another path that led to a platform filled with plastic boxes and an old rotary fan and briefly wondered why they had kept such an item.
Alison moved slowly along the narrow wooden path. As she went, she shined the torch between the joists. She hoped that between a set of joists, she would find the attic access to the bedroom below. While that didn’t prove someone had used the attic to go back and forth, it proved that it was possible.
