32

As the three of them ate dinner, Loretta had a million questions for Carlie. She wanted to know exactly what had happened in each of Carlie’s dreams. For the next hour, Carlie relayed her experiences, thoughts, and impressions of what Andrew had endured in his short life to that point.

When Carlie finally finished, Loretta had Jon relive his experiences with the young woman. When he got to the night of the storm, he told her about seeing the girl standing in the corner holding an infant in her arms.

This bit of information caught Carlie completely off-guard. This was the first time she had heard anything about a baby. She looked at Jon in confusion, but Loretta offered up a possible explanation.

“Listen, you two, I wouldn’t place too much importance on the presence of a newborn child in Jon’s manifestation. Over the years, there have been dozens of miscarriages, premature births, and babies who died of natural causes in this house. There was a woman who lived here in the early 1900s named Abigail Newsome. She and her husband, Robert, had thirteen children, but only one survived past its first birthday. Of course her only living son, Theodore, lived to the ripe old age of ninety-one. He finally passed away in a nursing home up near Ottumwa. The point being, that child could be anyone’s child; it was the nature of the times.

“I imagine, from what you and Jon have told me, that it might be this woman’s purpose to protect them from the spirit of the man who tormented poor Andrew—the spirit that seems to still be here and is still tormenting the other inhabitants.”

Edith, circa 1848. Ireland.

Jon could see by the expression on Carlie’s face that although Loretta’s explanation was reasonable, it couldn’t completely dissuade her from believing that the infant could have been her child.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Jon pulled out the small picture Loretta had left with him the day before. Flipping it as he would a playing card, it hit and slid across the table, coming to a stop directly in front of Loretta’s coffee cup.

“Who is she?” Jon asked.

“I assumed you would have figured it out by now. It’s Edith McPherson. I believe this picture was taken the year before she and Ian left Ireland.”

Before Loretta could say anything else, Carlie’s arm flashed across the table as fast as a python strike and snatched the picture from where Jon had pitched it.

Carlie examined the picture long enough to burn the image of Edith’s face to memory before she set it on the table and looked up at Jon.

Ian and Edith’s wedding picture, circa 1849. Ireland.

Jon only nodded his head at Carlie before he directed his attention back to Loretta.

Loretta had taken that moment to retrieve from her purse a small manila envelope, which she laid on the table next to her. Reaching inside, she pulled out another small picture, which she pushed to the center of the table so both Jon and Carlie could see it.

“This is Edith and Ian’s wedding picture.”

Carlie stood and pulled her chair beside Jon’s so she could see the picture too. Jon was already examining the two young faces. He recognized the girl’s face as being that of Edith, but he wasn’t sure about the young man. He had assumed the ghost in the hall was the ghost of Ian, but maybe he was mistaken. There was no doubt, though, that the eyes were the same eyes he had seen that night. By the terrified look on Carlie’s face, she also recognized the eyes as being those of the huge apparition from the night she had passed out in the hall.

Loretta could see by the look on Jon and Carlie’s faces that there was more than a slight recognition of the images in the photograph. “You do realize that this picture was taken when Ian was nineteen and Edith was fourteen. There are no more pictures of Edith, but there are a couple more of Ian.”

Ian McPherson standing with horse, circa 1900. Iowa.

Sliding the photograph in her hand across the table, she started again.

“This photograph was taken almost thirty years later.”

Carlie missed what Loretta was saying as she stared at the tiny image. As Loretta gave her opinion on the origin of the picture, Jon and Carlie’s attention locked onto the image in the next picture. This was definitely the same person who was currently haunting their house and Carlie’s nightmares.

Ian McPherson, circa 1880. Iowa.

“This is a picture of Ian McPherson,” Loretta said. “I don’t have any idea how old he was when it was taken, but I’d say he was in his mid- to late forties.

Jon was the first to speak. “My God, Loretta, where did you find these pictures?”

“When they emptied the contents of what was left of the house after Ian and Edith passed away, the photos were taken out of the frames and put in the file. There are a few more, but no one can put a name to them. Maybe we’ll be able to identify them after we finish reading Edith’s journals. I’ll leave them here,” she said, pushing the envelope across the table.

Loretta stayed until after the sun had gone down. None of them were able to work up the courage to pick up Edith’s journals and delve into the next chapter of the woman’s life, so they spent the rest of the evening speculating about what had happened to Andrew.

As Loretta was packing up to leave, Jon remembered what he wanted to ask her. “Loretta, after the storm, a really nice young man helped me do some clean-up and repairs that we needed around the house. He said his name was Smitty. Do you by chance know how I could find him?”

Loretta thought about Jon’s question for quite some time before she finally answered. “I do remember Grace telling me about a young man she and William had working for them. His name was Smitty, too. That boy would have to be pushing forty or so by now, though. He may have a son; I just don’t know. Their Smitty was a drifter, I think. He lived here on the farm until Grace passed away. I never heard where he went; he just left. I can’t say that anyone ever saw or heard from him again. I wish I could help; I just don’t know him.”

Leaning down to eye level, Jon crossed his arms on the window frame of her car door and said, “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your help, Loretta. I don’t think Carlie could do this without you. I know I couldn’t. She’s been pretty good the last few days—no new nightmares. She seems to be able to talk to you. I assume it was your idea that she tell me about the baby, and for that I thank you. She seemed to find an inner peace after it was finally out in the open.”

“Sweetie, you don’t have anything to thank me for. I really haven’t done anything that she wouldn’t have done on her own when the time was right. This is a confusing time for both of you. I’m afraid that it’ll only get worse before it gets any better.”

Jon’s look of confusion demanded that Loretta explain.

“Jon, you are also a large part of this quest she has undertaken. Whether or not you like it, or even believe in it, she is trying to get answers to questions and hopefully bring an end to a situation that no one else in all these years has been able to resolve. I’m not saying she can’t do it, because honestly I just don’t know. However, what I do know is, she is compelled to do it and she’s scared to death that she will lose you in the process. Please don’t let that happen!”

“I promise you, Loretta, I will not let that happen. I worry about her, though. I don’t want to lose her—or, for that matter, for her to lose herself in all of this.”

“Then the best advice I can give you is, just be patient with her.

“Tomorrow is my day off from the café, and Cecil is planning on going to Des Moines for an implement sale, so I’ll be out here in the morning. Carlie said she wanted to get an early start on it, so I guess I’ll see you then.”

Jon rested his hand tenderly on her shoulder and thanked her one more time as she put the truck in gear.

Carlie stood on the porch and waved goodbye as Loretta drove away.

When Carlie finished her shower, she found Jon lying with his back to her and already snoring softly. She considered waking him; she desperately wanted to talk about what she had told him the night before. She wasn’t sure what she could possibly say that would help him understand, or what he could say in return to alleviate even the smallest part of the guilt she still felt.

As she stood watching him sleep, she decided that possibly she didn’t need to discuss it any further after all. She had taken Loretta’s advice and told him everything there was to tell, and here he was sleeping as if she hadn’t told him anything that he didn’t already know. Maybe Loretta was right, and there really was nothing for him to forgive. All he needed to do was listen and, hopefully, understand—it was she who needed to forgive herself.

The old maple rocking chair was starting to make a barely discernible squeak when she rocked forward. She attributed the sound at least in part to the chair’s age and normal wear and tear.

Combined with the warmth of the fire and the slight groaning the floorboards made as they compressed under the weight of the chair and its occupant, she found herself fighting to stay awake. Carlie loved everything about this room: its warmth, its sounds, and its security. To her, this was the most relaxing place on earth.

As she rocked, the baby in her arms jerked itself awake and began suckling on her exposed breast again. Pulling the baby’s radiating warmth tighter to her, she stroked its silken hair and inhaled the scent of the soft, tiny object of her affection. The baby’s aroma hinted of sleep and warmth, of comfort and newness. All of this intermingled with the faintest scent of lilac soap.

As the baby nursed, its tiny pink hand reached out from under the cover of its rainbow-colored blanket and explored the texture and lines of Carlie’s face.

Laying her head back, Carlie readjusted her position in the rocker and closed her eyes to the incredible sensation of something so small—and so dependent on her for its every need—sucking quietly on her nipple.

Lulled into a shallow sleep, she could feel the tiny fingers as they scratched, caressed, and explored the tender flesh of her breast. Touching and kneading, the baby used it as a handhold to pull itself even tighter against her chest.

Carlie awoke from her sleep when the gentle sucking became obscenely sexual. Where she had felt the warmth of her child radiating against her chilled skin and its soft lips as it nursed, she now felt hot breath and a flicking tongue as it rotated in ever-tightening circles around her exposed nipple. Violently, sharp teeth bit down on the tiny protuberance before it began sucking again. This time, like no other in her life, the sensation felt dirty; this time, something—or someone—was demanding that she respond sexually to its advances.

Desperately she tried to open her eyes, but she couldn’t. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she tried to push the source of the pain away. She could do nothing to protect her tender skin and aching breasts from the savage attack.

Weakened from the intense pain and exhausted from her efforts, she made one more attempt; she pushed the clinging hands away from her with all her might, jumping out of the rocker and to her feet at the same time.

Her eyes snapped open as the intruder dislodged itself from her breast, and she found herself standing alone in the middle of the darkened living room.

Dazed and confused, she stood in the silence of the empty room as she worked to get her bearings. She couldn’t remember for the life of her coming downstairs. The last thing she did remember was kissing Jon goodnight.

The chilled air in the front room amplified the burning sensation in her left breast, and goose bumps crawled over the exposed flesh of her arms. She couldn’t understand why she was naked from the waist up; the top half of her cotton nightgown cascaded loosely around her hips. She didn’t remember dressing in a nightgown. She had given up wearing nightgowns some twenty years earlier.

A cursory examination revealed that the burning was from a spot about two inches in circumference at the tip of her breast. Tucking her arms back inside the straps of her nightgown, she hurried upstairs to the bathroom to find a possible cause and get a better look at the rest of her body.

Under the glaring bathroom light, Carlie slowly lowered the top of her nightgown. It was impossible to miss the dark purple bruise on the inside of her right breast. On closer examination, she saw what appeared to be teeth marks in the center of the circle. Amazed, she pulled her top completely down. Her left nipple, still burning intensely, looked as if a serrated knife blade had nearly severed it. She slid onto the counter and closely examined the damaged area in the mirror. After wiping the oozing blood from her breast, she couldn’t believe what she was looking at; there was no mistaking the two perfect semicircles—they were large bite marks. Two teeth on the top and three on the bottom appeared to have broken through the skin where it was now bleeding freely.

Just looking at the damage caused the intense burning pain to return. Almost instantly, a wave of nausea overcame her.

In the medicine cabinet, she found the prescription for the pain medication the doctor had prescribed when she broke her nose. Dumping out two into the palm of her hand, she popped them into her mouth and dry-swallowed them. On the top shelf, she located an antiseptic spray and a large sterile gauze pad. After spraying and scrubbing the wound, she rubbed on an antibiotic cream. The pain was excruciating—almost knee-buckling; she wished the Vicodin would hurry up and kick in. She placed the gauze pad over the treated area and taped it to her breast.

The sun was coming up when Carlie finally finished doctoring herself and dressing. She chose an oversize hooded maroon sweatshirt and slinky black jeans. She figured that if she wore a sweatshirt two sizes too large, Jon wouldn’t immediately notice that she wasn’t wearing a bra, and the tight jeans would help keep his eyes where she wanted them—down below her waist—at least until she was ready to share what had happened to her.

As badly as her breast hurt—even under the numbing influence of the pain medication—she seriously doubted that she would be covering her damaged breast with a bra any time in the near future.

Carlie had already set out three cups of coffee and enough breakfast to choke a horse when Jon came into the kitchen.

“Sit down and eat. Have I got a nightmare to tell you about.”

There was a slight knocking on the kitchen door, and without looking up, Carlie motioned for Loretta to come in.

“Good morning, y’all,” Loretta said as she dropped her purse and jacket on the counter. “Boy, something smells good.” Dropping down into the chair between Carlie and Jon, she commented, “I really like what you two have done to the front of the house.”

Jon was the first to respond. “What do you mean? We haven’t done anything new to the house.”

“The new trellis—you didn’t just put up a row of trellises against the front of the house?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well someone did.”

Jon stood and excused himself; curiosity got the best of him.

Carlie just shrugged her shoulders and smiled at Loretta as Jon barreled out the back door and around the house.

Loretta picked up her cup of coffee and took a sip, giving Carlie a long, thoughtful gaze, then said, “So, do you want to tell me about it?”

“Yes, I do, but later. I’m not sure I’m willing to share all of it with Jon quite yet. Don’t get me wrong—I will tell him, but not until I can explain it to myself a little better than I can right now.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Yes, I think it is.”

The door to the kitchen slammed shut behind him as Jon rushed into the kitchen. “Damn, you need to see this, Carlie.”

Jon was standing with his hands on his hips staring at the new row of trellises when Carlie and Loretta rounded the corner of the house. “It’s such a beautiful thing, isn’t it?” Jon asked. “It had to have been that boy Smitty. I don’t remember mentioning to him what I had planned for the trellises, but he must have taken it upon himself to put them to use. These have to be some of the rose of Sharon growing wild out by the fence—you know, the ones out by the garden.

“What baffles me is that, being uprooted like they were, the flowers would surely have wilted a little or showed some signs of stress, but these guys seem to be thriving. You have to hand it to the boy—he definitely has a green thumb. I thought the rose trellis Paul put up was beautiful; these blend the colors perfectly around the front half of the house.”

Carlie thought back to her conversation with Paul. She remembered him being emphatic that neither he nor his men had had a hand in the small, delicate work of restoring the grounds or the outbuildings. Maybe Jon’s Smitty was the son of Grace and William’s Smitty. Maybe it was a form of obligation from one family to another, or maybe it was just a country thing.

Edith’s journal was still lying on the couch where Carlie had pitched it a few days earlier.

Carlie reached down to pick it up, but recoiled as soon as she felt its cool, smooth surface against her fingertips. It no longer held her fascination; she had only contempt for its author and her family.

Loretta saw Carlie hesitate, so she took the book from where it was lying. Opening it to the bookmark, she pointed to the couch and told Carlie to sit down; she would take over and read for a while.

Jon plopped down in his chair, swung his leg over the arm, and waited for Loretta to begin.

Thumbing through the next twenty to thirty pages, she picked a page and began reading and paraphrasing aloud.

“It’s been a month since Patrick’s brutal beating of Andrew. According to Edith, the boys have managed to keep their distance from each other since that day. If you can believe what you read here, even Ian has seemed to lay off the boy. Andrew is still having residual effects from the kick in the head. He’s suffering severe headaches. Edith describes them as blinding-light pains. He sleeps most of the day but roams the farm at night, probably because it’s dark, quiet, and easy on his senses.”

While Loretta relayed the story from Edith’s journal, she couldn’t help but notice how agitated Carlie was becoming. Laying the book down in her lap, she looked over at Carlie and said, ”What is it, sweetie? What exactly is it that’s bothering you?”

“I’m not sure; I’m getting these fragmented impressions. It’s almost as if I know where this story is going and how it’s going to end before I hear it. Edith lived in a world of denial. The worst possible abuse could be going on right in front of her, and if that jackass of a husband of hers told her that everything was perfectly normal, she would shut everything bad out and go on with her little life as if nothing were happening.

“I’m not positive how this relates to the nightmare I had last night, but I’m sure it does. It seems like my nightmares are one step ahead of what we’re reading in Edith’s journals. This little boy wants the truth to be known—not his mother’s version of it.”

Sitting up in his chair, Jon asked, “What happened in your nightmare? You mentioned you had one.”

“I was attacked.”

“Attacked? By whom? Were you Andrew in this dream?”

“No, I think I relived one of the memories of Becky Jacobson, Patrick’s wife. Or it was possibly something Andrew had personally witnessed. ” For the next half hour, Carlie relayed her dream to Jon and Loretta. When she finished, she waited for a response, but neither said a word. Afraid that they didn’t believe her story, Carlie lifted the front of her sweatshirt, exposing her damaged and bandaged breast.

Loretta jumped to her feet, took Carlie by the hand, and directed her down the hallway to the bathroom. Once inside, she closed the door and gently lifted the bulky sweatshirt over Carlie’s head.

Delicately, Loretta peeled back the taped bandage, exposing the red and swollen flesh circling the distinctively eerie teeth impressions. “My God, what in the hell is going on? I don’t understand any of this at all. It sure looks like a bite, but you said the attack was sexual in nature. This doesn’t make a bit of sense. And the violence seems so out of place—so needless.”

“In a way it makes perfect sense, Loretta. Think about it for a minute. These are not your normal family dynamics at work here. Andrew knows the truth about this family—its violent nature and its secrets. He is trying to let me know the only way he knows how.”

“What do Becky Jacobson and her baby have to do with Andrew, other than that her little boy was loved and Andrew wasn’t?”

“That’s exactly what I thought at first. Then it hit me like a sack of bricks: Becky’s son was a replacement for the third son Edith and Ian would never have. After the farmhand raped Edith, Ian wouldn’t have anything to do with her again, romantically or sexually. She was nothing more than a housekeeper for him and the boys. I think Ian was forcing himself on Becky.

“I may be way off base here, but last night I think I was shown a much darker side to Ian and Becky’s relationship.”

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