20

 

Sandra came again the next day. Ted and I hauled the trunks out of the attic. With each trip, I expected the evil spirit to appear, and by the time we had made a dozen trips, my gut hurt from the continual tension, and my legs and back hurt from the work.

Although the demon seemed to be following me, today he remained quiet. Why would a monster choose to hide when he could be frightening the daylights out of all of us again? Ted might think the bulb burned out because of the heat, and Sandra might think the box fell off the chest by itself, but I knew better.

I thought about what Pastor Steve had said at Sandra’s party: Satan waits patiently to destroy God’s children.

The girls sorted and cleaned what Ted and I carried down, mostly linens, some dishes, and tons of old pictures. Sandra stayed for supper--crock pot lasagna--and after the dishes were done, we settled on the front porch.

Late evening sun cast dappled spots of light on the wooden floor. A breeze shifted the oak branches, creating an ever-changing kaleidoscope of patterns. The sound of voices drifted our way, muted and distant. A car drove by, its radio, bass turned to max, blaring a rap tune. Chain rubbing against the bolt made a squeaking sound as I pushed the swing back and forth. The effect on our tired bodies was soothing, and we soon settled into a comfortable silence.

“Might have a storm tonight,” Ted murmured.

Sandra, sitting beside me, looked toward the sky. “That would be good, y’all. We need the rain.”

Strange how everyone claims the same spots on the porch.

“Hmm.” Trina looked up from the diary she was reading. “Listen to this:

They came for more furniture today. Father said we could buy them back when the hard times are over. Father lived in the mountains when he was my age. The war must have been very bad. He walks away when I ask him about it.

I cried when the men came for my bed. Father said to stop crying, we are more fortunate than most families. He is right. We have food to eat and a house to live in. Mother is stuffing me a mat to sleep on tonight.

Now I have to find somewhere else to keep my diary. I do not want William to find it.

A dreamy expression covered Trina’s face. “I thought Isabelle was an adult, but she must be a young girl.”

“You were meant to come here,” Sandra murmured. “That journal’s been waitin’ all these years for you to find it. Isabelle must have a story she wants to tell you. Do you have a last name for Isabelle yet?”

“Not yet, but I’ve hardly gotten started on this journal.”

Trina tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder. I loved it when she wore her long hair down. Too often, she tied it up in a ponytail. Tonight she almost looked like her usual self. There was some color in her face, and she had put on a loose summer dress for dinner.

“That partially explains how the table got to Scarlet’s,” Sandra added. “And it fits so nice in our dining room.”

“Sounds like her family went through some hard times.” I added my part to the conversation but was more interested in looking at my daughter’s hair, and how the sun revealed hints of gold.

The wicker chair crackled as Trina unexpectedly jumped up, dumped the journal in her chair, and raced toward the door. “I know where I’ve seen that name before!”

When she returned, she held the tattered Bible.

“Slide over Dad.” Trina handed the Bible to Sandra and wedged herself between us.

Sandra opened the cover of the shabby Bible. “Where did you find this?”

“In one of the dressers upstairs. I’ve been meaning to give it to you, but keep forgetting.” Sandra cradled the book while Trina gently turned the pages. “Look, it has a family tree from back in the early 1800’s. I think there’s an Isabelle in it.”

Sandra stared at the Bible. “Isabelle might have been a common name back then.”

“I know, but what if they’re the same girl?”

Heads almost touching, the two women scanned the yellowed page.

Sandra pointed. “Here she is! Isabelle Sophie. Born January 11, 1880. Died April 4, 1957.” The two women stared at each other.

“Is it possible?” Sandra murmured.

Remember when we carried the table in?” Ted said. “It was a perfect match for the old marks on the floor.”

“What’re the odds of that,” I stated, knowing where the girls were taking this discussion and not liking it, “finding the same table that used to belong to the house? It’s just coincidence. There are lots of tables that size.”

From the scowl on Trina’s face, I knew she disagreed with me.

“Does the Bible have any more information on Isabelle?” Ted asked.

“Look,” Trina cried. “She had a brother named William!”

The women again focused on the faded page.

“She married Paul Studler in 1896,” Sandra added.

Hearing the familiar name, I glanced at Ted.

“You don’t think…” he asked, looking my way.

“Nah,” I replied, shaking my head.

Trina held her finger to the browned page. “Isabelle had two children, David and Sarah.”

Sandra smiled. “Sarah was the name of Uncle Carl’s mother. If this is the family’s old table, you found Uncle Carl’s grandmother’s journal!”

 



 

The grating of Mitch’s truck woke me. Although the sound had recently been invading my nightmares, this time the sound awakened me from a dreamless sleep. I listened. The noise of the truck, or whatever the sound had been that had awakened me, was gone.

As I turned over, regretting the loss of dreamless sleep, faint scraping footsteps filtered into the room.

I assumed they were coming from outside, until I heard them again. Soft and slow-moving. Had Trina gone downstairs? Lately she had been getting up at night for a snack. I slipped into my jeans. Maybe she would like some company—or a chance to talk to her dad.

The hall was dark. Why didn’t she turn on a light? She needed to be reminded that most accidents happen at home. As I moved down the stairs, I expected to see Trina in the kitchen, but the doorway was black. At the bottom of the stairs, I peered around the corner toward the parlors. The entry was draped in nighttime shadows.

A faint sound, like footsteps grinding sand into the floor, seemed to come from the kitchen.

“Trina?”

Looking toward the blackened kitchen, the hair on the back of my neck stood on end, like the cat ready to attack. But I had no reason to be on edge; Trina was neither a ghost nor my enemy.

A shadow moved in the kitchen. Not Trina. Something else. A smell. I tiptoed toward the kitchen door and groped for the light switch.

A sharp pain cut through my head. Flashes of light blinded, and then all awareness left.