Chapter 11

Annie wedged the straw sun hat harder down on her head and tilted it so the next gust wouldn’t try to carry the thing halfway to Bermuda again.

She and Charlie had spent the better part of fifteen minutes chasing the hat until it finally came to a stop against a sparsely grassed dune. Charlie had pounced on the hat like a cat on a mouse, while she cringed at the shape it would be in after his Olympic effort. Holding it like a trophy, he trotted it back with the green ribbon and bow covered in muck then silently returned to work on his sandcastle.

The red, hard-plastic sunglasses slid down her lotion-covered nose. She jabbed at the bridge, felt the glasses slide again then yanked them off. They weren’t worth the annoyance on a day such as this, her first day at the beach. And after, finally, her first restful sleep without nightmares.

Leaning on one elbow to make sure all sides of her body had equal time in the afternoon sun, she returned to her book. The review said it was a thriller about people trapped on an island at the mercy of terrorists wielding a contagious virus. She turned the next page, glanced at Charlie scraping out a moat around his castle, and was cheered to be on this island rather than the one in the book.

A peek to the watch in the straw beach bag reminded her there was little over an hour left to enjoy the beach before heading back over the dunes, through the shaded foot trail, and to her evening chores at Manchester Place. She wished she could stretch the time, but wouldn’t abuse Sybil Mann’s generous offer of Grandma-sitting services.

What a nice offer it was, too. Completely out of the blue. A chance to get out of the house, be with Charlie, and get a tan was just what she needed. Annie had offered to pay Sybil. But the woman adamantly refused, saying the time she and Winston spent with Charlie was worth more than money could buy. Annie was doing her the favor.

A happy couple by the looks of them, the Manns had taken to Charlie like he was their son. Charlie seemed fond of them, even to the point of cultivating new plans with them. It was unlike him to engage with people who were strangers three days ago. But Annie found herself pleased that maybe now he was opening up and trusting people. She found she was a little jealous, too. Charlie, quite frankly, seemed to have a better time with the Manns than with his mother.

She sighed, tried reading again then finally closed the book in favor of a walk down the isolated beach instead. Waving at Charlie to catch his attention, Annie motioned her intent.

He nodded and returned to his project. The wall erected around the moat was fast losing detail with the incoming tide, so he worked quickly to prevent an imminent mudslide—without getting wet. It was quite the dilemma, the waves, the mudslide and his new obsession with staying dry. He dealt with the problem by running like a sandpiper to avoid the water then returning for a quick reinforcement to the castle. This water business was new. He had flatly refused to go swimming today even with the tempting offer of an inner-tube to ride the waves. In the past, her battles were over him getting out of the water. Now he wouldn’t even go in.

So today, the battle was different. Tomorrow it would be something else, and no matter how hard she tried, she might never know why any of them were battles in the first place. She had long since learned not to push him too far, or he’d seek solace in the dark place in his mind and never come out again.

Annie had pleaded then cajoled him into coming to the beach knowing he’d have a good time, but she didn’t push far. He had conceded finally, but dug in his heels and refused to go into the water when they arrived. It was a trade-off, one of many they negotiated, and it was only the idea of building a sandcastle that kept him here now.

He punched an opening through the moat, maybe for an imaginary arrival of the knights on their horses, and was careful to turn his head away and run with each incoming wave. It was as if he didn’t want to look at the water or was afraid of it for some reason, and Annie had no idea why.

During the fishing trip yesterday, Charlie had gone swimming. Mr. Mann had said as much. She was left with what seemed to be forty pounds of drenched clothing as proof of the spontaneous swim. She thought his clothes would never dry out, and decided from now on bathing trunks would accompany him no matter what the original plans were. That, and a case for his glasses wherever he went. She was only glad he had a spare after losing the first pair from an overzealous water fight, Mr. Mann explained. Charlie, of course, offered nothing by way of explanation.

Today Charlie didn’t feel like swimming. Everyone was entitled to their moods. One thing was sure, if Charlie didn’t want to go swimming now, he wouldn’t go any time soon again, and maybe never. He and his obsessions were like that.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” she shouted. “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

He shook his head and pounded out an opening through the castle wall on the opposite side.

“Okay. I won’t go far. You stay here.”

Wrapping a towel around her waist, and with her hand firmly on the brim of her hat, she walked south. There was talk of ruins of an old mansion somewhere near this part of the island, and now was as good as any to check it out. Her heels sank in the soft, hot sand as she continued past driftwood, shells emptied of their previous inhabitants, and what was left of a variety of crab bodies.

Out in the water, dolphins rolled with the waves, surfaced, dove then reappeared down the shoreline.

“Look, Charlie,” she shouted, but he was clearly more interested in saving the castle.

Further out on the horizon, trolling ships hoisted their great nets and prepared to come in. Other ships headed out into the waters for the start of their day.

They were all so beautiful on the glistening water.

And not one of them was a rowboat with a scarred man, leaving his wife to stand alone on the shore.

****

Sybil scrutinized the drying bowls for any sign of residual vegetable soup. A rock-hard smudge of tomato marred the bottom of one and offended her sensibilities. Grabbing it up, she then turned the water on full force and scrubbed until the brush dropped bristles into the sink, and the bowl was spotless down to the molecular level.

“Cleanliness is next to godliness,” she said over her shoulder to Grandma at the table. “I suppose that saying is just as good for soup bowls as it is for people.” She opened the door to the oven for a quick check on the sugar cookies and turned the fire on under the kettle. “How about a nice cup of tea, Mrs. Cameron?”

There was no answer. The old woman looked out the bay window while her thin, arthritic fingers opened and closed, opened and closed, as if keeping time to some tune only she could hear.

Cabinet doors creaked open, one after another, while Sybil searched for tea.

“Instant coffee, instant cocoa, God help us all, instant soup. No sense in trying to keep a family going on something that only needs water added. Now, my soup, there’s something to write home about. But then, you hardly touched a drop of it, did you?”

Still no answer.

“Well, I did forget to add the sweet basil to it. Makes all the difference in the world, sweet basil.”

Sybil slammed the final cabinet shut, and spat the words out as if keeping them in her mouth would cause a stale taste, “No tea.”

Her hands went to her hips while she contemplated this serious infraction. “I suppose instant coffee will have to do as much as I hate it. Mid-afternoon is a time for tea, not coffee, but we do with what’s given to us.” She glared at the coffee then found two mugs.

“Richard and Winston will get a serious talking to about their shopping. No tea, instant soup, I suppose the next thing will be cookies in a bag.” She shuddered as if the mere thought would turn her to stone. “People can’t wait anymore. Everything has to be now, instant, or never.”

The kettle rumbled to a boil. She poured hot water over heaping spoonfuls of coffee and stirred. “Cream and sugar?”

The old woman didn’t move.

“Both then. You could do with some calories on those bones.” She brought the steaming mugs to the table and pulled up a chair next to Grandma. “Here it is. Be careful not to burn yourself.” Looking at the woman for a sign of conversation, Sybil saw her eyes were closed, figured it for a quick doze after lunch, but reached out to check her pulse, just in case. It beat a small, slightly irregular rhythm.

Sybil buttoned the woman’s sweater then covered her with a bath towel retrieved from the clothes basket in the corner of the kitchen. She cradled the mug between her hands and walked out through the dining room into the living room and foyer.

It had been a long time since she’d been inside this house. There had never been a good enough reason to return. Richard had been kind enough to do most of the work in preparation for the tenants, this time the Camerons, but as of today, he was getting the pink slip. The boy hadn’t even bothered to see there was barely a plate or a glass in the place. Renting took its toll on a house and its contents, but no one should pay good money to eat dinner with their fingers.

And when had the buffet table been moved? She didn’t recall it ever being against that wall before. Now there was something else to talk to Richard about. If a body wanted something to be done right, well, she’d just have to do it herself. Or not. Until she met Charlie, there really was no need to visit the house again.

Now, it was important she see for herself the lifestyle of Annie and Charlie, especially Charlie. A growing boy like him needed lots of attention and more food than he was sure to be getting. It was no wonder he was as thin as a stick, what with all that instant food mush stashed away in the cabinets and no plates with which to eat it.

She snorted at the thought and made a mental list of fresh fruits and vegetables for the pies and soups she would make, and to look for a sale on dishes and glasses. Oh, and some more gingerbread makings since Charlie seemed to like it so much. That is, until the fishing trip with Winston yesterday.

Charlie had scarcely touched the fresh gingerbread then, and hardly said a word on top of that. Winston had been off his usual appetite and steady stream of conversation as well. Something was up, and she had told them as much, but the two pushed gingerbread around in their plates and stayed quiet as church mice. They wouldn’t even look at her, barely looked at each other for that matter, and try as she might, they wouldn’t budge an inch on the story behind the silence.

But that was all right, too. Men needed their shared stories and their little secrets. God knew Winston and Phillip had kept plenty of secrets from her. Eventually, the stories surfaced in the form of practical jokes usually, but they came out in the light sooner or later.

She just hoped that whatever it was Winston and Charlie hid was, in fact, a joke and not something else.

****

Annie adjusted the towel around her waist when a sudden gust of wind yanked the hat off her head and sent it flying inward over a dune. She groaned and started what was bound to be a lengthy chase, especially without Charlie helping this time. Leaping over the dune, she scanned the flat landscape near the tree line for a sign of the airborne hat, and stopped short.

The woman from the park bench waited. A light breeze gently swirled the black veil that covered her face and revealed nothing. The inexpensive material that formed her long black dress danced and swayed in the wind, daring only a brief glimpse of painfully thin ankles, and the severe pointed shoes almost buried in the bright white sand. Her hands, covered in gloves, also deep black, reached out as if to summon an embrace.

A knot formed in Annie’s throat, her legs shook and threatened a fall if she didn’t move away right now. She turned in the thick sand and fought the pull of the beach as if it tried to keep her there. One step away, another, when the voice called out:

“Annie Cameron.”

She froze in place, sank deeper into the sand, then slowly turned to the woman. “Who are you?”

The pause was hollow, emotionless, and punctuated only by a wind that moaned softly and rustled the leaves of small underbrush.

“How do you know me?” Annie asked.

“I know myself,” came the simple answer. Her hands dropped to her sides without benefit of any other movement in her body.

Annie took a deep breath, fought the pull of the sand until she was free, and backed away a step while never looking away from the woman in black. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“I never gave it.”

“And I never talk to strangers.”

“A lesson you’ve taught the boy?”

“You know Charlie?” Annie asked, brushing away a tickle that brushed across her neck.

“His name is Charlie.” It was a statement, colorless, and void of judgment.

“We’re staying on the island for a little while.”

“Manchester Place.”

“Yes. My husband didn’t come. He—” She stopped herself as the tickle across her neck traveled up and down her spine and sent a warning signal to her mind.

This woman, this apparition that stood like a dark beacon in a sea of white sand, was a stranger deft at obtaining nervous-induced information that was none of her business. And, until now, Annie found herself all too willing to talk. She backed another step.

“I have nothing more to say to you.”

The wind died then, and it was quiet. Annie’s steps came faster, easier, and she relished the idea of freeing herself from this strange woman and this uneasy blip in her otherwise peaceful afternoon.

“Wait.” The word was soft but urgent.

“I’m going home now,” Annie said over her shoulder. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“Charlie is in danger.”

Annie stopped as if she had been punched in the stomach. Her hands went protectively to her belly.

“How dare you.” Fear and anger suddenly surged through her sending her back toward the woman in rapid steps. “How dare you stand there looking like a funeral home poster child and tell me my son is in danger. What gives you the right to say such despicable things? You don’t even know me, and I sure as hell don’t know you.”

The woman’s voice was quiet. “I do know you. I know you as I knew myself.”

“Well,” Annie said sarcastically, “I feel so much better now that you’ve cleared all this up.”

“My name is Eleanor,” the woman said, slowly reaching for the black veil covering her face. “Eleanor Trippett. I once stayed at Manchester Place.”

She pulled the veil back over the top of her head and looked at Annie with sunken dark eyes surrounded by deep blue-black circles. Her cadaveric face was little more than a skull with pale skin pulled taut over high cheekbones and a pointed chin. The thin line of her mouth held no color. There was not a single hint of what lay beyond the dark eyes.

Annie recoiled inwardly, but held her position and her gaze. “You said my son was in danger.”

“Yes. As was mine twenty-five years ago during a storm.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was taken from me.”

“Taken?”

“By the woman.”

“What woman?” Annie asked, trying desperately to understand.

“The woman in the house. She’s there now.”

“Look, Ms. Trippett, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if this is so important, why didn’t you tell me before now?”

“I had to wait.”

“Wait?” Annie’s patience frayed. “Wait for what?”

“For you to leave the house. You never left until today, and I can’t go there. She won’t let me.”

“Who?”

“The woman. She’s there now.”

Annie rubbed a hand across her forehead and sighed. “We’re talking in circles, and I don’t mind telling you it’s a bit maddening.” The thought touched her then. “How did you know I was staying in Manchester Place, and that I hadn’t left the house until today?”

“McKenzie’s store. I’m staying in a room above it, and I can hear everything. They talk about you, about me.”

She didn’t doubt for a moment there was talk about the odd Ms. Trippett. That topic alone could probably fuel gossip for weeks, but why would Annie be a source of conversation?

“You’re staying at Manchester Place. They know its past.”

“And what would that be?”

“A woman alone, her husband gone, and a child. When the storm comes, someone will die.”

“That’s crazy.”

Eleanor shook her head. “It sounds crazy, and maybe it is, but it’s the only thing I have left by way of explanation,” she said in a monotone. “For twenty-five years, I agonized over what happened and stayed as far away from this place as I could. When my son was taken, I lost everything, but that didn’t matter because nothing mattered anymore. I went home, pulled the drapes to block the light, and never opened them again for twenty-five years. It hasn’t been long enough.”

“Why are you here now, Ms. Trippett?”

“For you. For me. This should never happen again.”

“Nothing will happen.”

“It will. You must leave while you can.”

Annie pitied this strange woman and her illness. That’s what it had to be, an unbalanced state as a result of her child being taken. Or maybe Eleanor Trippett’s mental status was questioned long before, and led to the child being taken from her. It was hard to say, and their continuous loop of conversation was sure to produce no clear answers. Annie appreciated the woman’s concern, and her need to venture from a dark room, but she refused to play along. Manchester Place was now a lifeline while she decided her next move. Grandma seemed happy here, and Charlie had new friends in Winston and Sybil Mann.

Eleanor Trippett seemed to know Annie’s answer almost before she did, “She’s been watching you, and will use you to get what she wants. That’s her way. Keep an eye on your son. She’s been watching him, too.” Slowly she pulled the veil down over her face. “I’ve done all I can. It’s up to you now.”

“Who is in the house?” Annie shouted.

But the woman was gone, a vision of black merging with the dark woods.

A woman in the house? There was no one there right now, but Grandma and Sybil Mann, and neither one of them could hurt a fly.

Keep an eye on your son.

She looked up at the sky and worried at how long she’d been gone, and if he was all right. Her eyes widened at the fear something might have happened. It was a feeling more than any concrete proof, and maybe it was only paranoia set off by a woman clothed in black. But it was enough to touch off guilt and concern for her son’s well-being. She should have never left him alone. Never.

Tugging her feet from the thick sand, she walked then ran down the beach as fast as she could.

****

Sybil took a sip of coffee and looked around the living room. Nothing had changed at Manchester Place, yet it felt different, lonely somehow. A house like this needed a family who could bring happiness back to its dark walls and deep shadows.

She had been happy here once, happier than she had ever been before or since. Inheriting this place was the answer to their dreams. The moldy apartment on the mainland was tolerated to make Winston happy while he fought to keep his business going. Then the letter came from England. Winston’s uncle, tired of maintaining what he considered to be an albatross from thousands of miles away, finally offered the house and its furnishings free and clear. All Sybil and Winston had to do was say the word.

A smile settled on her lips. It was in this very room where they’d opened the bottle of champagne, an extravagance they could ill afford, and toasted their luck and their love. He told her how much she meant to him, and in the light of a roaring blaze in this huge fireplace, she told him she was expecting their child. Licking her lips, she could almost taste the kiss he gave her that night.

She took another sip of the coffee, frowned at the bitterness, and headed up the stairs. A quick run of her finger across the top of the landing mirror proved Annie Cameron a meticulous housekeeper. That was good; a house should be kept clean and neat. Continuing up, Sybil stopped at the hallway landing to catch her breath. It didn’t seem all that long ago when she could take the steps in minutes without so much as a quick gasp, especially if she heard Phillip crying in the nursery.

Sybil trudged up the last few steps, then stopped at the open library door. The shelves Winston had built were still filled with the hundreds of books he had collected over a lifetime, a fraction of what he had stashed away in shelves and boxes at their other house. He had read every one of them, too, but the ones he’d left here were a select group, a choice he hoped would please any tenant who chose Manchester Place for a vacation. The hours he’d spent picking and choosing just the right books would have made a librarian swoon, she had told him. As usual, he ignored her comments and went about his work with the seriousness of an undertaker.

Undertaker.

Why that word of all words? Maybe because this room had been Phillip’s room? Try as they might, it would never be anything else. Shelves, books, an easy chair, and a small table might make it look like a library, but she would always know it as the nursery for the son who would never grow up to appreciate the house as an adult—or inherit it from his parents.

She pulled the door shut, and cringed at the latch click in the frame. The room would never be used for little boys again. If it were up to her, it would stay locked forever, sealed if possible, like the door to the widow’s walk.

The sound of her feet on the wooden floors mimicked the sudden hollowness she felt. She stopped briefly for a glance into Charlie’s room. The bed was a tumble of sheets and blankets. A brief second of narrowed-eyed disapproval turned to a light shrug. Boys always seemed to have more important things to do than make beds and keep their rooms neat. It was to be expected.

Scanning the room with a discerning eye, she stepped back then squinted for a closer look. An ugly, green fuzzy toy with bouncing paper eyes glared at her from the middle of the dresser. The mirror behind it made it look as if there were two of them, instead of the horrible one. Her face wrinkled in disgust at the awful thing. Didn’t boys like soldiers and trucks anymore? Maybe things had changed more than she knew, but it certainly wasn’t for the better.

Sybil ambled further down the hall to take a look at the master bedroom and smiled at the big bed. She and Winston spent many nights with Phillip snuggled between the two of them. His little feet pushed first him then her until he settled down and slept a contented, peaceful sleep.

A door slammed.

She jumped then tiptoed to the little attic room at the top of a small flight of stairs. The hinge released a delayed squeak, and sprinkled a light rain of rust. Even though the house was a bit drafty, no small breeze could move a door as substantial as that.

Something giggled in Charlie’s room.

She cocked her head to listen. There it was again.

It was a tiny squeak of laughter, muffled, growing in pitch, then dropping as if it were catching its breath for the next outburst.

The room was silent, as it was a few minutes ago, and nothing was different.

Except for the toy.

Standing near the base of the door, it looked up at her from the floor where moments ago it sat in the middle of the dresser.

****

Charlie. All alone on the beach.

Nausea welled in Annie’s stomach, became a burning in her throat. She ran back over the dune and down the beach to where she had left him, all the while telling herself not to panic. He had to be okay.

He was fine, he’d be working on his castle, his sand masterpiece, and she would laugh herself silly when she saw he was having a good time. But right now she had to see him.

The beating of her heart thundered in her ears. The towel slid down her hips, dropped to her feet; she kicked it out of the way, ran faster.

There was her untouched beach bag, sitting where she left it. She scanned the surf. No Charlie. A sharp pain arced in her chest. Her legs cramped, forcing her to slow to a limping trot.

And then she stopped. The mound of mud and sand at her feet was Charlie’s castle, half-washed away by the tide.

Her legs gave way then, and she slumped down in the mud, gasping for breath and holding her sides with the pain. Another cramp caught her in the stomach. She leaned forward and vomited. Water washed up around her knees, pulled the rest of the castle with it as it rolled out again.

“Charlie.” His name came out in a barely audible whisper.

“Mom?”

Standing ten feet behind her on the dry sand was her son.

“Charlie!” She pulled herself up and rushed to grab him with muddied arms. “Thank God you’re all right. Thank God.”

He squirmed away with the attention. “You’re dirty.”

She laughed then caressed his face with sandy hands. “You scared me to death, little guy. Did you know that?”

Pushing her hands away, he started walking inland. He was leaving her.

Relief turned to rage. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” She regretted the words as soon as she spoke them. “Charlie?”

He kept walking.

“Charlie, baby. I was worried, that’s all. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I was just scared. Charlie?”

He hesitated, turned. A split second of hate crossed his eyes, followed almost immediately by wide-eyed fear. Running to her in awkward, floundering steps, he grabbed her around the waist as if he were a much younger child than ten.

“It’s okay, baby. We’re together now.”

“You left me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He shivered then held tighter to her waist.

“I shouldn’t have left you. Forgive me?”

“She was calling me. She laughed.”

Annie knelt in the sand and grabbed Charlie by the shoulders. “Who, Charlie?”

“The lady.” His eyes glazed then, and his thumb went to his mouth.

She shook him. “Charlie!” Then shook him harder.

He smiled a simple baby smile as if he had just been fed and burped, and now was ready for sleep. Sucking noisily on his thumb, he had turned inward, gone inside where she couldn’t touch him.

There would be no more talking; there would be no more hugs.

“My God.” The words were barely a whisper. “Dear God, help me.”

She urged him over to the beach bag, wrapped a towel around him and rubbed his shoulders, arms, chest. “Come on, baby.”

She picked up the bag, hooked it over her shoulder and steered her son to the tree line. “We’ll go home now. I’ll make you something really good for supper. What will it be? You tell me.”

She guided him over the footpath by her shaking hand on his pliant shoulder. He moved easily at her touch with no will of his own, like a marionette dancing on strings directed by someone else. She kept up a stream of chatter as if stopping would lose him to—what?—a dark hole that swallowed scared little boys? There was no emotional place she could make that was worse than the one Charlie could make for himself. He was his worst enemy, his most heavy-handed disciplinarian, the creator of black holes where he could fall and never climb out of again. Unless he went there willingly, out of fear from things, people.

Her.

Annie shuddered. No, she only had high hopes and high dreams for her son. Dreams were supposed to be fun, fanciful, light-hearted. If she were lucky, really lucky, her dreams would come true. An icy chill crept up her spine, and hair stood up on the back of her neck. But then there were the recent dreams, the ones she couldn’t remember, and the waking dreams she wanted to forget.

They walked on as the great house on the bay loomed into view. The big trees, their leaves swaying with the wind and the weight of moss, implied tranquility she didn’t feel. There was something very wrong here now, something dangerous. Manchester Place had changed.

She stopped with the sight, tightened the hold on Charlie’s shoulder that pulled him to stop as well.

A shadow danced and moved with the wind against the graying light of the horizon, skirted the widow’s walk, and reached for the tree overhanging over the walk.

An explosion split the air.

Annie jumped at the sound, screamed, and grabbed Charlie to her.

A large limb from the oak tree snapped, then crashed through smaller branches, plummeting to the edge of the widow’s walk where it tottered then came to rest. A tree limb had scared her, nothing else. There were no phantoms that danced across the widow’s walk, just evening clouds that loomed large, billowed, and swayed then left as suddenly as they appeared.

Relief flooded through her then was replaced by the new, awful thought; she hated this place and what it did to her. The island, the house, deranged people on the beach, they had all turned her into the frightened child she thought she had long since outgrown. Once a child afraid of the dark, she was now more afraid of sleep and the dreams this place brought her.

Adult or child, she was afraid of losing her family, and in some ways, she had even encouraged the loss by not picking up her toys when her mother told her, or refusing to listen to her father.

And she didn’t listen to David when he insisted that having a baby at this point in their lives was a mistake.

She released her grip on Charlie, and moved her hands to her belly.

From the beginning, she knew it was going to be a boy. He would be named Charlie after his great-grandfather, and the three of them would live happily ever after.

If only David could see it that way.

The voice came to her, quiet and calm. I’ll wait for you.

She looked at the house surrounded and warmed by shades of gray as dusk arrived. A soft breeze blew gently, surrounded her, caressed.

“I’ll wait for you,” she mouthed.

It spoke again with sound as soft as the wind that enveloped her in warmth and protection while sheltering her from things that would hurt.

She’s there. In the house. She will take your son.

The front door to Manchester Place flew open. Sybil motioned to Grandma to stay in the doorway then bolted down the steps of the porch. She looked up at the huge branch, tottering on the widow’s walk then to Annie and Charlie standing among the trees.

“Stay back. There’s no telling when that thing is going to give.”

Annie’s jaw tightened at the sight of Sybil Mann. This was the woman Eleanor Trippett warned of. It had to be.

“Are you okay, Charlie?” Sybil asked. Her voice quavered, her hands trembled, concern in her face.

There, just outside the house, stood Sybil asking not of Annie’s welfare, but Charlie’s. Sybil and Winston had certainly tried everything they could to wrest Charlie away with their gingerbread, warm clothing, and fishing trips.

And there was Winston’s strange behavior at the dock when he caught sight of the woman clad in black. He had turned the boat away from her, refused to explain who she was because—Annie fought with the thought, the memory—perhaps the Manns had taken another child twenty-five years ago. Maybe Eleanor Trippett wasn’t crazy after all.

So that was it. There were no specters, no hauntings that could drive people to leave this beautiful house when they had no place to go. Sybil wouldn’t interfere with her, or her family again, Annie would see to that.

A warm breeze touched her again and gave peace to the disturbing thoughts. The house wasn’t hateful at all. She was wrong to think it was bad, or that it would cause her pain. Instead, the home provided protection and comfort. Her home now.

It was his home too and he would be back soon.

Annie would make some bread and wrap it up so that he’d have a little something to eat on the long trip to the mainland. He would like that. And then she would wait. She would stand in the water while the sound of oars dissipated to silence then climb to the widow’s walk for the days to months to years to wait for the light from the boat that signaled his return to her.

Manchester Place was where she could stay while she waited for his return.

“Come along, Charlie,” she said, propelling him to the house. “There are things to do. Important things.”

****

Sybil stared wide-eyed as Annie pushed Charlie’s limp, yielding body closer to the door.

“Charlie? It’s Auntie Syb.”

The child didn’t answer; his face was empty, void of any sign of recognition. Uneasiness washed over Sybil. In the back of her mind, something nagged. “I’m telling you, it might be better to wait a bit. See what happens with the tree.”

“Nonsense, Sybil.” Annie’s voice was even, controlled. “We’ll be fine. You’ll see.” She brushed past Sybil without slowing her pace and guided Charlie into the house.

“Wait.”

Annie turned. “Everything’s fine, Sybil. Couldn’t be better.”

“I just…” Sybil searched for anything that might buy time while she figured out what was happening. “The cookies. Heavens to Betsy, I forgot all about them. They’re probably burned to a crisp by now. I’ll get them out of the oven before you know it.”

The door closed to little more than a crack. Only a fraction of Annie’s face was visible.

“I’ll take care of it.” Her voice became flat, almost monotone. “Good night, Sybil.”

“The tree. Winston and Richard will take a look—”

The door clicked shut, the lock turned in the frame.

Sybil stood in silence then knocked on the door. She pounded, called out, but there was no response, and she knew now there wouldn’t be one. Trying to muster anger, she found nothing but unease. Whatever had happened to Annie today would ultimately affect Charlie.

He was an innocent, just a little boy, Phillip’s age.

Phillip.

Unease grew to anxiety then an impulse to run.

But running makes you run that much harder until there is nothing left but running—

The bad thoughts came back with a vengeance and refused to budge. Not since Phillip’s death had she felt this way, not since the stay in the hospital and the thoughts that kept her there for so long. She rubbed a sweaty palm on her dress.

Sybil stumbled down the front steps.

It wasn’t going to happen to her again. They wouldn’t lock her up and inject her with tranquilizers and anti-depressants until she didn’t know her name or her husband’s face.

Whatever was happening, had happened, she could deal with now. Sybil breathed deep, counted then took another breath. Everything would be all right if she took things slow. Anxiety oozed away with each released breath. Edging around the side of the house, she squinted against the coming dusk for the trail that would lead her home. The crawl space door under the house was open. Odd. It had always been locked in the past. Maybe Winston or Richard needed something that was stored there. She’d ask them about it later when she was home.

She shot a look up at the kitchen window then to the widow’s walk above it. The tree limb stayed where it had fallen, for now. Winston and Richard would take care of it.

Manchester Place wasn’t home anymore. Maybe it had never been her home but belonged to someone else all along, someone that thrived on it. Or someone who thrived by those living in it.

Sybil entered the footpath, looked back over her shoulder at the widow’s walk then faced the darkening woods in front of her. The run-down little house she shared with Winston was her home now.

Now, more than ever, she wished she were there.