Chapter 14

Sybil Mann awakened to the cool, gray dawn and stared bleary-eyed at the bedside clock for the hundredth time. Six-thirty winked at her in a red electric glow as she wrangled the bedspread over her goosebump-covered shoulders. The almost obsessively neat tucked edges of the bed had become a tangle of sheets and bedspread as if a war had been waged while she slept. Rubbing away graininess in her dry eyes, she yawned wide and loud to quell the nausea that gripped her stomach from lack of a good rest. It had been a long time since she had a night like this, and only around-the-clock sedatives had stopped the insomnia before. She wished she had one of the little yellow pills now to help her sleep for an extra hour or two.

Another yawn and she stretched an arm to touch her husband. There was only a cool, empty place where he should have been.

“Winston?”

The bedroom door creaked open, revealing first his disheveled hair then his grumpy face. “You rang?”

“Are you okay?”

“I suppose I should be asking you the question.”

“What do you mean?”

“The way you were flipping back and forth in bed, a roller coaster should have so much activity. I banished myself to the guest room for a little static shut-eye.”

“Sorry. I didn’t sleep too well.”

“That makes two of us, pumpkin.”

“I promise I’ll do better if you join me now. I can’t sleep without you beside me. Bad habit, I guess.”

“There could be worse ones.” He winked and rubbed a hand across his unshaven face. “But I’m awake now, so I’ll just get on up and do a few chores.”

“Mind if I rest a little longer?”

“Good idea.” A look of mischief flashed over his face. “And in a couple of hours, I’ll bring you some juice. Maybe cactus and lily-pond-water juice. Sound like it would hit the spot?”

She pushed away the nausea that rose in her and forced an amiable grin. “Yeah, and the spot would be about mid-way on that wall over there.”

“Turn about is fair play.”

“I get the point, you old curmudgeon. Go on with you.”

“You’re the boss.” He pulled the door closed.

A few minutes later, his deep baritone singing voice competed with what she knew would be a steaming torrent of hot shower water. He tried for a waltz then gave it up for a fourth of a barbershop quartet tune. Sinking into the bed, she listened to his singing while trying to identify the thing that nagged, haunted, and disrupted her sleep. It was more than just the failed talk last night with Annie Cameron; there was Charlie to worry about, too.

She hoped Charlie was okay and decided he would probably sleep most of the day with the shot the doctor had given him. That was best since he and Annie had been through quite a shock. The very idea of seeing him draw pictures one after another as if his hand was guided by someone else—well, it was enough to give a body the shivers for a week or more.

If only she could see the pictures, it might tell her something.

Phillip’s hand-scrawled message.

If only she had a little yellow pill. Just one.

“You still awake?”

Winston tugged at the towel hanging low over his hips and fumbled around in the chest of drawers, then the closet for his usual flannel shirt and corduroy trousers. He dressed, then sat on the edge of the bed and patted her hand.

“You still worried about the Cameron family?”

“No. Yes. In a way.”

“I figured as much. One of my chores this morning is to head over there for a quick check. Will that make you feel better?”

It wasn’t enough. The Camerons had to leave. And there was something else that worried her. “Who is Eleanor Trippett?”

He looked at her as if he didn’t understand the question and quit patting her hand.

“You know her, don’t you?”

“It’s not important,” he said thinly.

“Then tell me.”

“I have things to do.”

“Yes, indeed, Winston. And one of them is telling me about Eleanor Trippett.”

He hesitated, looked about the room as if carefully formulating a plausible story.

“The truth, Winston. Not one of your tall tales this time.”

“She stayed at Manchester Place for a while. That’s all.”

“When? I don’t remember a tenant by that name.”

“It was a long time ago. She only stayed a few days, a week maybe.”

“When was that?”

He acted as if he hadn’t heard her question.

“C’mon Winston, I know I’m making words because I can hear them, and my mouth is moving. When did Eleanor Trippett stay at Manchester Place?”

“While you were gone.”

“Oh.”

“We needed the money.”

“Yes. I understand now.” When she was gone, during the bad times, there had been another tenant. And as bad as things were for Sybil, she would probably never know how awful it was for Winston. Still, she had to ask the question, had to know if her fears were founded. “Did anything happen to her? Anything, you know, out of the ordinary?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

She looked at her husband, his graying hair, the strength in his arms, and thought of the incongruous weakness of his heart. Now was not the time to tell him what she feared most. There would be no further talk about Eleanor Trippett until she was sure there was truth in Annie’s words about her, and until all doubt of a ghost woman connection was pushed aside. Sybil rubbed his hand, then squeezed it.

“Yes. It’ll make me feel better if you check on the Camerons. Thank-you.”

“No problem.” He caught a button that popped loose from his shirt and tucked it into a pocket. “You sure you’re okay? I’ll be glad to stay and watch over you.”

“A nursemaid is the last thing I need right now. Go on. I’ll be fine, but don’t overdo, you hear me?”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

“Enough. Go on.”

Mann patted his pocket then searched the top of the dresser. “Hm. I can’t seem to find my pipe. In all the excitement last night, I must have dropped it somewhere.” He headed for the door. “Well, that’s one more chore, find the missing pipe. You didn’t hide it, did you?”

“Hide it?”

“Yeah, put it away so I wouldn’t smell up the house again.”

“You know I like the smell of your pipe. Besides, if I wanted to hide something, I’d put it on the top shelf, very front of the refrigerator. As oblivious as you are to things, you’d never find it.”

“Especially not there. Never think to look there. But I’ll keep it in mind around Christmas time.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“You do that.”

The door closed. He whistled all the way down the stairs and through the kitchen to the creaking screen door that banged shut behind him.

She leaned back, closed her eyes, and knew that any chance of sleep had passed. There was nothing for it but to get up, face the day and whatever it was that bothered her. What was it?

Phillip?

Charlie?

There was a connection between the two, although her role in all this was vague if she played a part at all. And what part did Eleanor Trippett play? She slid out of bed, threw on a robe, and headed down the stairs for a cup of tea. Holding the handrail for support, her head still foggy from the sleepless night, she winced at the ache in her muscles. The stiffness in her body was equal to a disagreeable round with a sumo wrestler. She snickered at the thought. The islands off the Georgia coast might be known for some things—Loggerhead turtles, bird watching, shell collecting—but not sumo wrestling.

Visitors wanted pastime events that made their home routines and their mundane jobs a little more tolerable until the next vacation. They hung on from one year to the next in hope a trip would erase, at least for a week or two, the pain of day in and day out boredom. Even she had some of that, now and then, but boredom gave way to quiet, time to think and to organize thoughts and plans. Eventually, if one were lucky, it gave way to happiness of sorts.

Sybil was happy, happier than she had been in a long time; that is until the Camerons arrived. Now she was filled with worry for Charlie, for old Mrs. Cameron, even for Annie herself, and concerned that events of her past were now turning to them. But the events she had experienced were muddied, vague in recollection, and presented a difficult challenge in putting everything together.

Phillip…Charlie…herself. Phillip and herself. Now Charlie.

And there was a child by Eleanor Trippett, so Annie claimed.

There was a thread connecting them, a pattern of some sort.

A chill crept up her spine. She shuddered, pulled the robe closer to her, and stumbled across the kitchen to grab the back of a chair.

Mother. Please. Please don’t hurt me.

Phillip?

Nausea gripped her stomach, stung her throat. She collapsed in the chair then rested one side of her face on the cool tabletop. A minute passed, another, the thought faded, and she felt a little better.

A little yellow pill would be nice right now, just one to help her relax. “Amnesia makers,” Winston had called them, and they had been, but not for near long enough. They worked on her mind while her body was confined within the dark, somber, high-bricked walls of the institution. The pills even worked for a few months after she left, until her natural amnesia could push away, bury and hide forever the truth of what happened at Manchester Place.

It has to be done, Phillip. You know it does.

She had convinced herself they were nightmares that tortured only during sleep, bad dreams that went away when the sun rose, and the body stirred. Now, after all these years, she knew they were more—she knew they were real.

Phillip’s death, a house marred by its murderous past, was all at once disinterred from under the shallow mud of a memory-repressed grave.

Where are you, boy? You can’t hide from me forever. I’ll find you, and it’ll be taken care of.

She remembered then, knew it as if it had just happened. Another hand, another voice deep in her mind called her to do those things. They were things she would never have done before, even with the unchecked anger, loneliness, and fatigue that plagued her. The voice spoke of something else, motivated action by something far more dangerous than the anger and loneliness of a young woman.

The voice spoke of revenge.

The woman had preyed on Sybil, then pushed and cajoled her into becoming one with the dark thoughts and one with the woman who gave them life. Sybil did what she had to do. She turned on her family, her son.

I know you’re up there, Phillip. I know you are.

Slowly, so very slowly, she had climbed the steps to his room. It was the room where he and Winston read together, laughed together, the room where the boy lived, and caused a distance between her and her husband.

One more step. There.

The door slammed, the lock was thrown. Behind the door, there was a sound of a book, its pages being rifled.

Sybil fingered the key in her pocket. Phillip was always so predictable. She always knew when he was up to something, and always knew how to correct it.

You’ve been a bad boy, Phillip. A mean, ruthless child.

She had slipped the key in to open the door, then squinted in the dark.

His shadow skittered across the room, disappeared through the alcove and into the next room.

Bile burned in her throat at the act; power filled her at his fear. She was the strong one, the right one, and now his time had come. Standing still, soundless in the doorway, she waited for his next predictable move. She would wait as long as it took, then do what was necessary, what needed to be done.

A whisper of something sounded behind her. She swung on her heel and grabbed his shirt.

“Mother. Please,” he begged. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Confusion crossed her eyes. A second of pain, a moment of distraction from the task at hand, allowed her to see the face of her son, the child born to her, a child she loved more than anything in this world.

He ducked her grasp and bolted down the stairs.

The thing within her screamed with rage and pushed her to continue, to do what needed to be done.

You can’t run from me, boy. I’ll find you. I’ll stop you.

She ran, came close to him, lunged, and missed.

He jumped the last few steps and twisted the front doorknob. It was locked. Glancing over his shoulder, he turned the lock, threw open the door, and was gone.

Into the dark. Into the storm.

The ghost woman had joined Sybil Mann to go after Phillip.

Now, after all these years, the woman was cultivating a liaison with Annie, then she’d go after Charlie.

A soft moan escaped Sybil. She slumped forward on the kitchen table.

A knock sounded on the door.

Phillip was forced out into the storm and the roiling ocean because of her. Errand One had crashed against the jagged rocks that killed him instantly—the only thing that saved him from dying at her hand.

And now it was Charlie’s turn. With Annie’s help, the ghost woman would have it no other way.

Sybil moaned then wailed at the pain that gnawed within her. There was nothing she could do, nothing.

Another knock. It was louder, insistent.

She couldn’t stop this event that ended years before in tragedy but moved relentlessly ahead unfinished now when Annie refused to listen. Sybil remembered what it was like first-hand, the nightmares, the dream-like movements that propelled her up the stairs to the widow’s walk to look out, to wait.

The widow’s walk.

Winston had boarded it up, secured it, and covered it with wallpaper to hide its existence so that no one else would be hurt. It had started there, all of it, and if Annie didn’t get to the widow’s walk, there might still be time to figure something out, to plan against what would otherwise be inevitable if it wasn’t too late.

No, she couldn’t think it, couldn’t bear the thought she had waited a day, a minute, too long.

There was work to do, lots of it. Papers, books, the old family Bible to look through, anything she could find that might put the missing pieces of the puzzle together. Then, perhaps, she would see the answer, and God willing, be able to act on it.

If only she could be sure Annie hadn’t discovered the widow’s walk.

The door opened with a high-pitched wail.

Sybil raised her head from the table and stared open-mouthed at the woman standing in the doorway.

“I’m Eleanor Trippett.”