20

HAND SHAKING, I LEANED CLOSER, angling my cell phone flashlight through the opening, and on the wall opposite me, scarcely five feet away, sat what appeared to be two antique trunks stacked atop each other. I panned slowly, illuminating a labyrinth of cobwebs and dust motes dancing over rustic shelves lined with bottles and neatly stacked wooden boxes. I spotted two large candelabras on a high shelf, and a thrill shot through me. What was this space? How long had it been closed off? And why had someone walled it up?

I grabbed the sledgehammer again and carefully tapped through nearly two inches of lath and plaster. A half hour later, my admiration for Victorian builders increasing by the minute, I’d made an opening large enough for me to slip through—once I was certain the floor was safe. Covered head to toe in dust and plaster, I realized it probably wasn’t wise to be breathing this stuff. But it was a little late now.

Phone in hand, I peered inside the opening again. The floor, layered in dust, resembled the wide planks in the bedroom and looked trustworthy. Still, I hurried downstairs and grabbed a broom.

Back upstairs, I reached through and rapped the floor with the broom handle. It felt solid. I swept the air in slow, smooth strokes, mindful of the large, wooden beam running diagonally from floor to ceiling—and of anything else I hadn’t yet seen.

I took my time and wasn’t quiet about the task, wanting to clear the way, but also wanting to announce myself to any lingering creatures, living or otherwise. I set the broom aside and ducked as I entered, testing the floor with my full weight. My cell phone light seemed even brighter in the pitch darkness. The heat was oppressive. No air movement whatsoever. For a moment, I stood stock-still. How long had it been since anyone had stood here? Likely several generations. As that thought sank in, I listened for any rustling or scurrying, but it was as if time itself had forgotten about this space.

The stacked trunks directly in front of me left little room to move. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling wooden beam was a blank wall—the exterior wall of the house, I was certain. I turned to the right and froze at a specter looming in front of me.

I screamed and dropped the phone. Stumbling back, I smacked my head on the beam, and my vision swam as the wraithlike figure swayed and reached for its head at the precise moment I reached for mine. I squinted. It was me—a reflection covered in dust and plaster.

“Oh, for the love . . .” My pulse still racing, I rubbed the back of my head, the spot already tender. Apparently, I was more on edge than I’d thought. I wiped my forehead on the tail of my T-shirt, which was already soaked through.

I picked up my phone and pointed the light on the short wall in front of me. The source of my ghost was an antique dresser with an arched dressing mirror. The dresser, with its drop center chest and flanking drawer towers, was topped with white marble, and etagere-style shelves accented the mirror. It was stunning, even layered in grime and the mirror distorted with age.

Despite the times I’d been threatened with all but dismemberment for touching historical pieces of furniture, I placed my hand on the marble and shivered. My own distorted reflection still filled the mirror, but I felt as though I were gazing back through time.

I carefully tugged open the top middle drawer, disappointed to discover it empty. Had I expected a bundle of love letters or a journal written in code, perhaps? Maybe a newspaper from a bygone era? I’d watched one too many Hallmark movies.

The next drawer wouldn’t budge, so I moved to the two stacked trunks, the top one taller and bearing handsome decorative iron strapping. Twin iron plates fit over hooks intended for padlocks, but there were no locks. I lifted the iron plates, but the lid held fast. I put down my phone and attempted it again, then sighed. Perhaps the lid was rusted shut from years of humidity and heat. I moved to the open shelving.

Dust-covered oil lamps with blackened lanterns lined a bottom shelf, an assortment of handcrafted bowls and pitchers beside them. Bottles of varying shapes and sizes, perhaps containing wine or other spirits, crowded the second shelf. The third held wooden boxes. On tiptoe, I lifted several of the lids and aimed the light inside, revealing tarnished cutlery that appeared to be made of tin. One box held folded strips of cloth, scissors, and curved suturing needles. Sheets of paper and pencils filled another. A larger box contained tools, some of which I recognized.

The more closely I looked at the space, the more I became convinced it had to have been part of the original master bedroom. But how could so many people have since lived in this home and not have known of it? And why would someone close off part of a room by permanently walling it up?

Two reasons to build a wall—to keep something out or to keep something in. My gut told me it was the latter. What was so valuable in here that someone would wall it away? My gaze slid again to the trunks, then to the dresser. I’d seen similar antique pieces with marble going for thousands of dollars. But this dresser would not have been that valuable back then. So maybe something was in the trunks. Sweat pouring, I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I’d discovered what they contained.

I ducked back through the opening, and immediately my skin tingled from the cool air. But the bedroom was considerably darker now. And no wonder—it was nearly eight o’clock! I’d been in there for almost an hour and a half. My cell battery was down to four percent.

As I plugged my phone in, it rang, and Maggie’s smiling face filled the screen. Grateful she hadn’t opted for FaceTime, I determined to keep every trace of this second worst day of my life from my voice.

“Hey, sweet girl! So good to hear from you!”

“Mom?” she sobbed.

I squeezed my eyes tight. Stephen had told her? Would I never stop underestimating what that man would do? I sighed. “Honey, are you all right?”

“No!”

I started to sit on the bed, but being covered in plaster and dust, I opted for the floor. “Listen to me, sweetheart. This is not your fault, all right?”

“That’s what Dad said, but I still feel bad.”

“I know, and I understand, but you will get through this. I promise you.”

“I guess.” She hiccupped. “Dad said my rates won’t go up, but I don’t know for sure. I’m so sorry, Mom.”

In a blink, the direction of the conversation swerved, and I realized my misassumption. I raced to catch up. “Just take a breath, babe. You’re not hurt, right?”

She seemed to take forever to respond. “No. But Angie is.”

Relief poured through me, and I had to smile at the name she’d given the little Mazda we’d bought her. “Tell me exactly what happened. I know you’ve already told Dad, but I’d like to hear it from you, if you can.”

She sniffed. “I was headed home after my last class. I promise I looked both ways, but when I pulled out of the lot, a car slammed into me on the passenger side. Even the cop said it wasn’t my fault.” Her voice caught. “But I’m not hurt. Only bruises on my shoulder from the airbag and the seat belt.”

Thank you, God, I mouthed, wondering what I’d been doing at that moment. Arguing with Stephen? Smashing our wedding portrait? I closed my eyes, listening to Maggie’s fragile voice and so grateful she wasn’t seriously injured. The accident must have triggered a twinge of homesickness, because we talked for two hours. I loved every fluctuation of her voice and tried to share as many happy memories as I could. Her laughter was a balm.

I attempted to stifle a yawn and failed. It was almost ten o’clock.

“You sound tired, Mom.”

“Oh, I am a little. It’s been a long day.” I’d debated whether to tell her about the hidden room, but for reasons I couldn’t explain, I didn’t want to share it with anyone just yet.

“I drove by the house the other day,” she said.

“Oh? Has the new family moved in?”

“Based on the massive stone lions out front, I’d say yes.”

I laughed. “Lions?”

“Yep. Two of them. Sitting on either side of the porch, snarling for all the world to see. And they were wearing coconut bras, too.”

I was still laughing when we hung up a few minutes later. I lay on the floor for a while, letting my thoughts and emotions settle as I stared up at the ceiling. “Why did you do it?” I whispered, willing my words to travel back through time to whoever had walled up that hidden space. “Who were you?”

I stood slowly, my strength spent. I looked at the opening in the wall, accepting that the trunks would have to wait until tomorrow. After cleaning up the worst of the broken glass strewn on the floor, I took a shower and readied for bed, then slid between the cool of the sheets. Alone. As I would be doing for the next forty years or so, I guessed. Because no way would I ever allow Stephen to do to me again what he’d already done twice.