Chapter 27

Elsa’s house was dark as Meredith passed, except for the blue light of a television that flickered in the windows. The street was dark because the street lights were engulfed by fog. Her own house stood shrouded in that mist. Fingers of it, and fingers of cold, brushed around her as she parked the car and walked to the back door.

She figured that she did not have much time, but still she hesitated before opening the door. She wondered how many people had lived in this house before her and wondered how many hopes and dreams had been born or died here. All she could truly say was that this house had seen the death of a young woman’s dreams and the beginning of her own dreams for a child. It had seen two good men, Arthur and Richard, doing their best. As she turned the lock she promised herself a future that would redeem the sadness from this place. She told herself that, as a counselor, her business was to assist those in trouble. Was the human spirit any less deserving just because it was wrapped in the hideous clutches of invisibility and death?

She also told herself that she was prepared for anything when she opened that door. She was prepared for gray walls, for the sobbing decay of dreams, even for an icy force that pressed her toward suicide. Meredith knew she was no longer vulnerable. She thought she had seen all there was to know about the dark heart of the house. Yet when she opened the door she was momentarily stunned by the feelings that lay in wait throughout the rooms.

A nearly overwhelming aura of loveliness seemed to echo in each dark corner. For a few moments she did not even switch on lights because she was so compelled by an air of happiness and hope. The feelings were quiet, but they were true. When she switched on the light the walls were not gray. Nor were they the colors she had painted them.

The paint seemed new. Tidily ironed curtains hung over fog-shrouded windows. Furniture had obviously been bought secondhand, but it shone with polish. From the living room came low strains from an old-fashioned record player. The music came from Broadway shows. The kitchen showed small personal touches; a recipe held to the refrigerator by a magnet, a couple of blooming plants, a worn tablecloth that was clean and ironed. She walked through the living room, made cozy with a plaid sofa and maple end tables. Hand-me-down lace with tattered edges protected the surface of one, and condensation gathered on the shining surface of a bowl of flowers. The feelings of loveliness combined with feelings of hope. This was a house that was deeply loved, a place to live in, a place to bring children.

Steeling her mind against the meaning of what she must do, she gripped the polished brass of the front door and pressed her thumb on the latch to click the lock open. She feared what might come through that door soon, but she did not want the spirit of this house to know it yet. She eased the door open to be sure it would be ready, and a scrap of paper taped to the brass knocker caught her eye.

It was a note on creamy white stationery. Signed simply, “Sally.” Meredith skimmed it quickly in the dim light. “Sorry I missed you, but give me a ring when you get in. I got a call from someone special—be ready for a sexy hunk to come through the door tonight!”

Meredith shuddered. Sally could not know what might happen here tonight. It was a sick joke, perhaps even Elsa had pulled it. Her fingers snapped open, as if the scrap of paper had ignited in her grasp, and it fluttered to the stone floor of the porch. She shut the door, but left the lock unlatched.

Turning back, she paused to study the living room again. For the first time, she noticed the silver-framed picture on the mantel. Patty had not been a plain woman, she saw when she approached it. Patty only thought she was plain. Patty was truly beautiful standing beside the tall and gentle figure of Arthur Watson. She gazed up at him as he touched her cheek with one finger, and that touch looked even lighter, even softer than the white gauze of a wedding veil, which still billowed from the turning of Patty’s head.

Meredith stood stunned. This was the way the house had been before the rape. This was what had been stolen from Patty. Meredith was unable to move, and tears came to her eyes as she thought of the young wife lovingly and carefully putting together her home. There could be no crime greater than the destruction of dreams.

“I don’t know anything about the invisible world,” she said aloud into the emptiness of the house. “I do know about right and wrong. It’s right for me to give an explanation. Something ugly is about to happen here, but it’s not as ugly as what has already happened.” She paused, wondering if she was doing the right thing. At the same time she knew it was the only thing she could do.

She walked through the empty rooms. She knew she should hurry, because surely Ed would show up very soon. At the same time she had to make her own peace with the torn spirits of this house. If Patty was actually here—if the harmed presence of Patty was trapped in this place and unable to leave—then that spirit deserved her attention. The aura of love and hope surrounded her and did not diminish. The very least she could do was respect what had once given life to this house.

“There was never a moment when Arthur Watson did not love his wife,” she said to the empty rooms. “Let me explain.”

She walked through the house murmuring her explanations. Since she knew nothing about the world of spirits she told everything she knew; about Arthur, about herself and Richard, about her own hopes. She told Patty, and as she spoke the words she knew they were true, that she was going to have a child in this house. She promised that the room upstairs would belong to that child and that they would always keep it safe. She talked to the house as if the house itself were Patty. She talked to Patty in the way she might talk to Sally, or at least the way she would talk to Sally when they became better friends.

As she talked she felt the rise of a timid companionship. There was a presence here, and it was becoming stronger. From what she knew of Patty the presence should have been apologetic, but this presence was not. It seemed contained within a greater presence, as if Patty were trapped by the evil that had been done to her. The presence seemed in suspension, granting Meredith full freedom to move about and talk. At the same time, she felt an enormous power. That power might be dark. She would be frightened into immobility if it became manifest.

“There is no reason for you to feel guilty about anything,” Meredith said. “I do not know what rules bind you, but you have done your best. Now I’ll do my best. I have something to say that you have to know.”

She did not want to tell about Ed Johnson, but Ed was the root of sorrow in this house and she felt she must. As she walked through the rooms and began speaking of Ed, the aura of happiness fled like running water. Emptiness seemed to lie all around her, and she felt the presence as a glowering, barely constrained force. It was getting stronger. Fresh paint seemed not so fresh. The rooms lost their feeling of hope and beauty. Low sobbing spread through the house, and Meredith did not know whether the sobbing came from the house or from herself. She was so engrossed in what she had to do that she did not hear the muffled footsteps outside the door. Instead, she was suddenly transfixed. From the living room came a terrified scream, a scream muffled by time and sorrow.