Chapter 29

Cold, wet sand matted his hair. Winston stirred, tasted salt, spat on the ground beside him, then coughed. His chest hurt. He rolled over on the bay beach, groaned with the effort, and looked to the black sky. The searing pain in his chest was responsible for his unconscious state—how long had he been out this time? He couldn’t remember what compelled him to this place to begin with. A sticky line of saliva rolled from the corner of his mouth. His hand clenched around something rough and worn. The rope to Errand Two.

Charlie was on the boat. Winston knew that had to be true more than he knew his name.

“Get up,” he said aloud.

The words sounded as if they came from a feeble old man straining in the last days of a life that had long since ceased to be useful. He had become a pitiful man who could barely feel the rope that lay sprawled across his hand, a rope that had once held Errand Two on the shore, and away from the prying hands of a young boy. A rope that at one time held Errand One as well.

He moaned, tried to sit up, and slumped back with the pain that snatched his breath and pulled queasiness into his stomach. A roll to the side and an attempt at sitting up forced his stomach into revolt. He vomited bile until he was left with dry heaves, and heavy sweat on his forehead, under his arms, and down his back. Night air turned the moisture into cold goosebumps that covered his body like a shroud. He trembled. His chest tightened and ached all the way through to his back.

Mann knew what would have to be done, and that he would be the one to do it since there was no time to find help. If he got there in time and could wade the frigid, strong undercurrent, maybe, just maybe, he could stop the boat before it hit the rocks.

The ghost woman in the water would try again, but on another boy and in another time. This time he would see that she missed at least one young life.

It would be easier if Richard were here to help him, and even better if he could be sure Sybil was all right. But the icing on the cake, the gravy on the biscuit, would be knowing Charlie was safe on the boat and that this was all some little boy prank. He could forgive a prank, overlook the nonsense of a ten-year-old boy, and could even forget any damage to the boat, but never again could he live through the heavy lid of a casket throwing the face of a child into final darkness.

His hand twitched around the rope. Better the deep wood of a coffin shadowed his face than that of a child who had his whole life before him.

Pain poured through him. It was the pain in his chest, the pain of a son taken from him, and a deeper pain of fear for a second child that worried him. Deeper still, was the pain of his ineffectiveness in a task yet accomplished. With every passing second, the task held odds against it being completed successfully.

“No.”

Gathering up every ounce of strength that held him together, he allowed the energy to build on itself.

“No. Not now. Not ever. You’ll not take him!”

He pushed himself up on his knees. Another push and he was standing, leaning into the wind, and holding his chest as if it would open up and spill on the ground if he let go. He staggered the first few steps until his legs could steady themselves, and headed down the shoreline to the rock outcropping far away from Manchester Place.

He wished he had the little pills to curb the pain.

It didn’t matter. He would live without them.

A little pill. Just one.

He wrapped his arms around his chest, caught breath in shallow gasps, and walked down the shore.

****

Warm fur brushed against her hand.

Gasping, Sybil jerked away from it.

A nudge to her leg then one to her foot, was followed by a whisper of motion at her side. A squeal sent little legs scrambling around her, running, circling. They were on the rafters above her, in the walls, in the corner, outside the door, just inside the door. They were next to her. Touching her.

She opened her mouth in a scream that would not come. Frantically, she waved her arms in an arc, hit something solid, warm. Furry. It fell, recovered with a shriek, and scurried off.

Her muscles shuddered then spasmed inward as if they would crack. Sybil closed her eyes and talked to herself. Be calm. Stay calm. Willing her heartbeat to slow, to somehow reflect a steady even beat she didn’t feel, it pounded relentlessly in her chest and her temples. She rubbed her head and worried about the tenuous thread that held her between sanity and the other side.

It was all too much to think about.

She was trapped in a tiny dirt cell with furry things nibbling at her fingers and toying with her sanity, while overhead a drama played out that only she could stop. Death would happen again if it hadn’t already, and she was trapped.

How long had she been here, minutes, days, or a lifetime? It was hard to know.

She crawled over to the locked door yet again, kicked it, pounded at it. A crack and screech of splintering wood echoed back to her, but the door stayed firm.

They were behind her now. Filthy creatures the size of small cats that watched and waited. They smelled her blood, her fear, and knew they would have her in time.

She reached into her pocket to fondle the small bottle. The last pill that could block out the nightmare rattled around in a small, almost tinny sound. After it was gone, there’d be nothing left but the dark, the furry things, and the wait until she died alone.

The ghost woman had waited as well. Her game was almost won twenty-seven years ago, but the light never came. Tonight she would try again. Annie would stand at the widow’s walk and turn toward the bay. And if everything had been set right, all matters neatly handled, and in their place, the light would blaze a tunnel across the water.

Sybil threw her full weight against the door. Searing pain crossed her shoulder, numbness shot down her arm and burned in her hand. Something was broken, fractured into useless pieces. Her shoulder and neck swelled almost immediately. She folded her arm intuitively across her chest and dared not move it again.

A small, curved shadow loomed before her. She kicked out, and it squealed in pain as it scurried off to the back corner. It and others would be back.

She pried open the top of the bottle with her good hand, then grappled with the pill and swallowed before it touched her tongue. Maybe it would help with the pain. Maybe it would calm the seething terror that gripped her spine and knotted her muscles. Maybe.

A breeze crept around the door. It was stronger from the side of the lock. Kicking again, she moaned in pain, and confirmed what she hoped was true: the door had budged ever so slightly. But there was little strength left in her to keep up the battering, and not near enough to outlast the solid door.

Rain pummeled the ground outside. Small rivulets of water trickled in under the door and pooled at her feet. She backed up a few inches, looked over her shoulder at the blackness, and knew the furry things waited for her there. She couldn’t go back any further.

The pool of water widened, lapped at her feet. A single tendril of water rolled away from the pool to start its accumulation beside her.

Wind gusts beat the door and sent more water under the groaning wood to surround her in cold dampness. She inched back slowly, ever so slowly, and checked the dark behind her. Tiny feet and squeaking chatter sent hurried messages of the move.

Her body trembled, the hair on her arms and neck stood on end. Cold from the dampness enhanced the chill from within her. No will or little yellow pills could stop any of this from happening. It would only stop when the ghost woman decided it was over.

She wanted to see Winston just one more time to tell him how much she loved him and how she would miss him. She wanted to see Richard again, too, and little Charlie.

But if it were meant to be, she’d see Phillip first. There was so much to tell him, so much to say.

Water poured in from under the door, saturated her clothes, touched her skin.

Little feet scurried then settled.

****

Eleanor fought for balance every step of the way.

A strong wind pushed her thin frame forward in rapid, awkward steps then just as easily knocked her back and to one side. Reeling in the wind like a foundering kite on a frayed line, she tried to anticipate the random gusts but was wrong far more often than she was right.

She held tight the wool blanket with the flashlight within. The blanket was a small attempt at cold-weather gear if she found need of it, but it was no match for the rain that assaulted her from all sides.

Her black dress clung one minute then whipped around with loud cracking sounds the next. Like a wounded sail on a mast, the dress caught the next gust and pushed her toward a particularly vicious looking mass of underbrush. She fought the wind, stepped out of one shoe, and tried to hold on to the blanket that was sliding from her grasp. Her foot slipped under a fallen branch and toppled her into a deep pile of dead leaves and briars.

A stray branch picked up by the same gust slapped her solidly on the cheek and clung there by tiny thorns. She sat back instinctively, but the thorns hung tight and tore soft flesh. Warm blood trickled down her face from the punctures as she pulled out each thorn. The freed branch swayed freely in the wind for a second or two then affixed itself to her dress with all the others.

There was no time to peel away the briars one at a time. Richard was waiting. She pushed through the tangle of underbrush. The material in her dress tore into thin lines. One shoe was missing, and the wool blanket was gone. Of the few things she had, the flashlight in the blanket was the one thing she didn’t dare lose.

She scouted the area as best she could, using first her bare foot, then getting down on her hands and knees. The flashlight could be anywhere, yards away, or just under her nose. It could be dawn before she found it, but by dawn, it would be too late.

Wandering in the night, she had taken a spill into a briar patch without the benefit of light so she could save what little power remained in the batteries. And now the flashlight was gone, and Richard would be waiting for a signal that never came.

There was no choice. She would have to go on and hope she thought of something on the way. A pat to her pocket reminded her there was something left that might work if the weather cooperated. And if the ghost of Manchester Place let her get close enough to try.

****

It would be all right now. Father wouldn’t be mad anymore since the mittens were back.

Grandma opened and closed her hand around the coin Charlie had placed there. The boy had recognized his meanness and corrected it, so now everything was as it should be.

The nagging in the back of her mind started again. An image of the boy who had stolen her mittens superimposed over the picture of another. The second was familiar, someone she thought she knew and loved. He was frightened, but she couldn’t see what it was that frightened him so. She stirred in bed and touched him with her mind.

He was drawing again. The pictures flowed from some unknown source through to his fingertips and onto one blank page after another. A stack of paper, each with a drawing, told a story of what was and what would be. He didn’t see the drawings or the story. His eyes were open, but he didn’t see.

Look at the paper, little boy. See what it tells you. Look, and you’ll know what you must do.

Gazing through his eyes with her mind, she scanned his pictures. They were disjointed, confusing, nonsense if you took them individually, but still, he drew. Together the pictures revealed a story that had yet to unfold. Or was it unfolding now?

Someone who looked like her was in a picture. Clad in a nightgown like the one Grandma had on now, the old woman in the drawing stood at the top of the stairs looking down, eyes wide and staring, mouth open in a scream. Then the boy pushed aside the drawing and went on to another one.

Grandma rolled over in the bed, tired to the bone. Things were all right now. The mittens were back, and maybe Father wouldn’t be mad anymore.

He seemed a nice boy, the one with the drawings. She just wished she knew who he was.