I nodded slowly, following Philip to a large window, from which a weathered board hung by a rusty nail.
“I read about Connie Ingerman in my mother’s papers.”
“In what?” Philip paused with the window half open. I realized he didn’t know what I was talking about, so I explained how my mother had been writing the mansion’s story for the newspaper and how I’d discovered her work.
“Sounds intriguing,” Philip said. Then he helped me through the window and into the mansion.
Chapter Seven
When my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw what looked like large white bodies bulging out of the walls. Catching my breath, I realized they were merely pieces of furniture covered in dustsheets.
When I spoke, my voice automatically came out as a whisper. “It’s creepy in here, isn’t it?”
Philip’s eyes sparkled silver. “That’s what makes it exciting.”
Maybe so, but I knew I wouldn’t want to be here alone. Shadows draped the room like black cobwebs and the air hung thick with dust. I jumped at a sudden whistling noise. “What was that?”
“You’re a bunch of nerves!” Philip laughed. “Don’t worry—it’s not ghosts—just the wind.”
That really made me feel foolish. My thoughts drifted back to the tragic story of Connie Ingerman and how her ghost was supposed to haunt the mansion. I began wondering about the map. Was it a legend, or did it exist? And if so, could it be hidden somewhere in this mansion? As Philip and I crept across the carpet, its thickness muffling our footsteps, I asked, “Have you heard the story of the treasure map?”
“Of course. That’s what led me here in the first place.” He turned to face me. “How did you find out about it so quickly?”
“The story was in my mother’s papers.”
“Ah, that’s right.” Philip sounded disappointed. “Too bad. I thought I was going to have the fun of telling you all about this place. Now you probably know more than I do.”
We drifted into a solemn, silent tour of the mansion, which had clearly been a place of elegance at one time. Its past grandeur was preserved in opulent paintings, lush carpets, and thick draperies. Were they velvet? I touched them gently, felt the soft coating of dust. A crystal chandelier hung high above us, dim with its own film of dust, and I imagined how magical the room would appear if lit. I could almost see dancers spinning across the dazzling room, hear the waltzing music.
I felt the influence of this bygone age so strongly that, instead of bringing the present with us into the rooms, it was as if Philip and I were transported into the past. This is how it feels to be inside a haunted house, I thought. Haunted not with spirits, but with things from long ago. Almost as if by remaining undisturbed, the mansion’s interior cast a self-fulfilling spell, preserving itself by preserving the atmosphere. Its decrepit exterior acted merely as a disguise.
Having the uncomfortable feeling that I was an intruder in the mansion, I followed Philip into a large room lined with bookcases so tall, a ladder was propped against the wall. The center of the room was dominated by a large oak desk, beside which stood a globe of the world. A leather chair sat before an immense fireplace, and I wondered briefly why these things weren’t covered in dustsheets.
Walking into the room, my footsteps resounding loudly on the wooden floor, I caught sight of a huge portrait hanging above the fireplace mantel. I had never seen such a stern looking man. Though his face was draped with cobwebs, which blended with his white hair and beard, I could see his eyes burning through. How could anyone read a book in this room, I wondered, with that man glaring down at them?
Philip came to stand by my side. “Feels like he’s watching us, doesn’t it? Old man Ingerman, still guarding his realm . . . Wonder what he’d do to us if he were alive right now and knew we were here searching for the treasure map.”
“Philip, don’t say that!” Deciding I’d had enough of this room, I turned to leave. Philip’s laughter echoed behind me.
“It’s true,” Philip said, catching up to me. “The Ingermans can’t stop the curious—not even their ghosts can. What’s to stop us from finding that map?”
I paused. Was he serious? I couldn’t tell. His question was like a joke, yet not quite, and he seemed to be waiting for an answer. I tried to laugh. “It’s just a legend. We don’t even know if there is a map.”
Philip took my hand and drew me toward a massive, curving staircase. “Well, I think there is. These rumors have to start from something. Think about it. After Connie died, the other Ingermans ignored the rumors because they didn’t want to tear this place apart looking for the map. They didn’t need the gold, so they chose to forget about it. But that doesn’t mean we have to.” Philip’s voice took on an unnatural rush of enthusiasm. “We could find it if we tried.”
Pure speculation, but for a moment, I think I believed him. I felt caught in a net of mystery. The thought of finding the map held such alluring possibilities. I followed closely at Philip’s heels as he climbed the stairs.
“What about the curse?”
“Do you believe in curses?”
“No.”
“Well, there you go.”
The conversation ended, and the idea, fascinating as it was, slipped to the back of my mind as Philip and I toured the top floor, which consisted of a long hall with many rooms branching off from it. And I had thought my uncle’s house was large!
I was glad for Philip, not only because I could easily get lost in a place like this, but also for his solid presence, which helped to keep my imagination in check. I found myself wondering what this place had been like when my mother explored it. Not abandoned, I knew; yet not lived in, either. So it had probably been very similar to this, and I wondered at my mother’s courage to roam through here alone.
The upstairs rooms were as lavishly furnished and ornamented as the downstairs. The master bedroom looked the way I would expect a palace room to look. I gaped at the ornate tables and chairs, the heavy canopy above the bed, and dared not touch anything for fear I might disturb it from its ancient sleep.
Apparently, Philip had no such qualms. In the corner of the room, I found him poking his finger into a spider web. Watching the spider scurry away, he said, “That’s what most people do when something scares them. Run away and hide.”
“But it will start spinning a new web as soon as it feels safe.”
“It shouldn’t wait. It should conquer its fear and start spinning now.”
“Then you’d get tangled in the web, wouldn’t you?”
“I guess so,” and he laughed, as if this thought were appealing.
At the end of the hall was a room—small compared to the master bedroom, but small by no other means—laid with faded, rose-colored carpet. Intricately carved antique furniture stood powdered with dust, and rambling roses, painted on yellowed wallpaper, bordered the room. Silken draperies, tied back with braided cords, matched the pink canopy over the bed. Ridiculing all this beauty was a terrible musty smell, which I somehow didn’t mind because I knew it belonged here . . . another testimony to the mansion’s age.
The mansion was like a fairy tale castle—asleep for more than a hundred years. Thinking this, I was suddenly overcome by how exactly like Sleeping Beauty’s room this was. Or at least, how I imagined it to be. My mother used to tell me the princess story every night before bed. “Don’t you want to hear about Cinderella or Snow White?” she’d sometimes ask.
My answer was always the same: “No—Sleeping Beauty!” This was my favorite bedtime story because I would fall asleep imagining I was Sleeping Beauty, hoping that when I awoke, I would find my own prince waiting to take me to a castle in the clouds.
Now I felt a tingly sensation along my spine as I crossed the carpet and passed a fireplace to stand before a large, gilded mirror. I could not resist running my finger over the cloudy surface. It left a silver streak of reflection, and that’s how I noticed Philip was no longer with me.
I whirled around. W
here had he gone? I told myself to remain calm, but I felt the blood draining from my face.
“Philip?”
No answer.
“Philip?” I crossed the carpet to a pair of etched glass doors through which weak sunlight filtered. Perhaps Philip had gone through those.
“Philip?” I put my hand on the cold latch, ready to lift it, when a dark shape lunged up from the other side. I stepped back and stifled a scream as the door swung open.
Philip stood there, his face illuminated. He had no idea how badly he had just scared me.
“Take a look at this view!” he exclaimed, dragging me out onto the balcony. To keep myself from tripping, I pulled my arm away, wishing he didn’t have to do everything at such an alarming rate. I was still trying to catch my breath.
But I lost it again when I looked off the balcony at the fertile expanse of land which rambled down into a distant valley, and I was suddenly imagining how enchanting a sunset would look from here. But at the moment it was only early afternoon, and the sky was baby blue, dabbed with powder-puff clouds. Birds twittered carefree songs into the wind, wind that was still rustling the leaves of the trees . . . Among all this, an unpleasant thought slithered into my mind. “You don’t think this is the balcony that—that Connie fell from, do you?”
“Could be,” Philip replied.
Then the rose room is hers, whispered my mind.
I rested my hand on the white wooden rail and looked directly down, far, far below to a rocky garden overgrown with grass and dandelions. Some kind of pink flowers mingled with the weeds and rocks.
Suddenly the world—which had seemed so bright and real a moment ago—transformed into a mirage. Still looking down, my head swelled with dizziness as yellow, pink, and green swam before my eyes. My hand, still on the rail, tightened until wooden slivers pierced my palm. The rail seemed to give way, and—feeling a sensation similar to when you’re just drifting off to sleep and something subconsciously alarms you, reflexes react, lurching you awake—I jumped back.
Philip stared at me, probably wondering if I’d gone crazy. Maybe I had.
“Robin? Are you all right?”
I nodded. I didn’t know how to explain the fear; I didn’t understand it myself. “Let’s go back inside.” My voice seemed to come from very far away. I could barely hear it for the ringing in my ears. I realized I was about to faint.
I battled it, but my head felt as if it were floating off into the air like a balloon. I even flailed my arms, trying to retrieve it. Blackness flickered before my eyes. I shook it away, but in doing so, lost my balance. I fell, my eyes seeing nothing.
Someone caught me. Held me tightly. But for some reason this increased my fear, and I fought against the restraining grip, fought to push the arms away—
“Robin!” The voice broke through my terror, and I felt someone shaking me. “What’s the matter?” I opened my eyes and saw Philip.
My swirling mind gradually subsided. Even so, Philip’s hold on me was painfully tight, and I pulled away.
Philip stared at me, his brows furrowed. Extremely embarrassed, now that I had my wits back, I fumbled to explain. “I—I don’t know what came over me. But the balcony and—and the height—” we were inside now, my fear dissolving fast, and the more I spoke, the more foolish I sounded—“it just scared me, I guess.”
Philip’s eyes searched mine. “But you’re all right now? You’re sure that’s all it was?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” But I was thinking how I’d ruined everything. Philip would never want to see me again. “Look, I’m sorry, Philip.” I rubbed my head. “It’s just—” but I still couldn’t explain—“thinking about Connie and her fall . . . I guess it just got to me.”
To my relief, Philip grinned. “Sure, I understand. But don’t let it. You don’t even know if this was her room or if that’s the same balcony.”
True. But that didn’t change how I felt. And I felt that this was Connie’s room. The air hung so thick with tragedy, I wondered how Philip could fail to feel it. But he seemed satisfied with his conclusion. As much as I wanted to be, I wasn’t. I wanted to get out of this place. I’d had enough. This expedition had lost all its charm; there was nothing fascinating about the mansion anymore. Only morbid. My mother’s life had been ruined here!
Before I knew what I was doing, I was slumped against the wall, crying. I didn’t know what Philip’s reaction was; I couldn’t see through my tears. But I felt him near me, though he didn’t try to touch me. I heard him say, “It’s okay. Let it all out.”
But I wanted to give him some sort of explanation so he wouldn’t think I was a weak, emotional, blubbering fool. “There’s something I didn’t tell you—my mother . . .” and it came pouring out between shuddering sobs, all that my uncle had told me about the accident, until, by the time I was finished, my tears were used up and I felt sick. Why had I ever wanted to come here?
All I knew was I needed to go back to my uncle’s house and think things out. By myself. I wiped away the remains of my tears and asked Philip to take me home, and he agreed, reaching for my arm.
Automatically, I pulled away.
I flushed under the hurt, almost accusing look in Philip’s eyes. But this time I didn’t try to explain. I didn’t have the energy.
On our way down the stairs, I noticed a portrait on the wall, one of a young woman. Connie Ingerman? I wondered. Her light hair was swept up in an old-fashioned style, quite becoming to her fine-featured face. So smooth was this face that I got the impression it was a mask. Perhaps it was just my current state of mind, but I thought I could detect something hidden behind her face, and that’s why I thought of a mask. The individual features did nothing to suggest this—lovely eyes, full lips with just a hint of a smile—yet her face as a whole appeared tragic. I decided it was definitely a portrait of Connie Ingerman.
The moment I thought this, it was as if her eyes moved and met mine. And those lips—they looked as if they were about to separate and speak. I found myself pausing on the stairs, waiting to hear her impart some vital message.
“Robin? Are you coming?”
I started, and ran down the stairs to catch up with Philip.
What a relief to be outside. I breathed the clear air and exhaled strongly, hoping to expel all the dust that had accumulated in my lungs.
Cleansing my mind was another matter. Even as we drove away, my uneasiness told me that I had started something back there at the Ingerman Mansion, something that would eventually come back to haunt me . . . and no matter how far away I ran, I would not be able to escape it.
Chapter Eight
Four o’clock that afternoon, I had to get out of the house; the ticking clock was driving me crazy. So I walked into town, picked up some groceries, then kept myself busy making dinner. Over the meal, I told my uncle I would have come to work that morning if I hadn’t overslept. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You have an alarm clock.”
So I started using it, even though I hated alarm clocks. This one was especially obnoxious, because I couldn’t even set it to wake me with music. I detested the beeping noise which jarred me awake so violently I needed another night’s sleep to recover.
The mansion remained in my thoughts. Or, more precisely, the balcony room and the young woman’s portrait. I was convinced that the room belonged to Connie Ingerman, and equally convinced that the portrait was of her. The mansion followed me into my dreams, where I walked alone through the vast rooms, yet not alone. The darkness echoed with laughter. Ghostly laughter. I ran, searching for a way out, and came to a glass door. Instead of pausing to open it, I broke through; glass splintered around me, piercing my skin. In my haste to escape, I realized too late that the door was not a way out. It led to the balcony, and suddenly I was falling.
I was thankful for the alarm clock when it woke me from that dream.
During the day, uneasiness hovered near, like a shadow ready to cast its coldness on me at the slightest fa
ding of sunny thoughts. I was afraid I would be haunted by these feelings as long as I remained in Lorens. So I made sure I worked, putting in eight-hour shifts, earning the money that would take me back to California.
As the days passed, I was disturbed by my contrasting feelings, which were pulling at me from two sides: the yearning to find out more about my mother’s past and how it was connected to the mansion, and the part of me that resisted, not wanting to know. I stayed away from the chest in the closet. Yet I told myself I would go back to it when I was ready.
For now, I worked. And when I woke up early on Sunday morning, I walked by myself to church, arriving just in time for the first Mass. My uncle went to the second.
By Monday, after only one day off, I was finding it difficult to get back into the dreary work routine. Most of the morning I spent gazing out the narrow bookstore windows, longing for sunlight. I did my best to subdue my restlessness, but by noon I could stand it no longer. Hoping my uncle would not ask questions, I told him I was going to take the afternoon off and spend it in the park. This was the truth, but I wondered if my uncle believed me. I could never tell what he was thinking.
“Go ahead,” he said. “You can have as many days off as you want.”
I’m only asking for one afternoon, not a whole day. But I kept this thought to myself. Clutching my sketchpad and pencils, I left the store and headed for the park. Heat from the sun radiated from the sidewalk onto my legs, and I felt warm with the prospect of a whole afternoon to myself. I wasn’t sure how many days had passed since I’d last drawn, but I remembered where I’d been: in California—sitting atop the sand dunes, drawing the seashore, the palm trees, and the gulls. That was the night I’d gotten home late, the night my mother was rushed to the hospital. Taking a deep, tremulous breath, I closed my eyes tightly and then opened them, trying to clear my mind.
I had been away from my drawing for much too long. Maybe that was why I felt so lost lately. Drawing was a part of me, and I needed to keep it alive if I wanted to feel satisfied. My fingers weren’t used to going for such a long time without creative release—I could almost feel them tingling to begin. And from what I’d glimpsed of the park, I knew they wouldn’t be disappointed. Like all of Lorens, the land was a luscious green, speckled with dandelions and endowed with trees blooming pink or white blossoms. There was a pond in the park, maybe even a river—but I wasn’t sure about that because I hadn’t had time to see everything when Philip drove me past.
Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense) Page 8
