Chapter 32

Eleanor stumbled in the dark woods and quickened her pace. Something was wrong. She could feel it.

Her nose tickled with the smell. She sniffed the air.

Smoke.

She hoped she wasn’t too late. She pushed herself into a lope and headed in the direction of Manchester Place. The deep shadow of the house loomed on the horizon. She released a caught breath, satisfied there weren’t any visible flames, and found herself counting on the reverse of the adage where there’s smoke; there’s fire.

Walking softly, she looked up at the widow’s walk. Until today she hadn’t been allowed to get close enough—the ghost of Lady Manchester had seen to that—and there had been little desire to approach. She slowed her pace to one tentative step after another.

A blast of unseen energy, angry and revengeful, sent her reeling with the onslaught. Her head snapped back, her mouth opened wide in pain at the dark presence that surrounded her. Warnings to stay away, to leave, pounded in her mind. She rubbed her forehead, pressed fingers deep into the scalp to stop the threats, but they stayed and grew stronger. She squeezed her eyes open to stare up at the widow’s walk.

Annie was there, looking out over the bay in a come-and-go moonlit silhouette. It was almost impossible to be sure, but it looked like she was near the low decorative fence that surrounded the widow’s walk.

Eleanor crept up on the house, pushing herself against the force that tried to keep her away. Pain seared through her head. She gasped at its strength; its will then moved closer still to one side of the house for a clear shot. Bay water glistened with an occasional burst of moonlight then slid into writhing darkness as the waves folded in on themselves.

Annie on the widow’s walk with someone else.

Squinting at the figure on the walk, Eleanor saw the Annie she remembered on the beach. But there was a superimposition of sorts over Annie, of a shimmering face and body. The two became the same, separated then joined again.

Eleanor shivered in the cold rain, and with the colder thought. If Annie failed in the ghost woman’s bidding, there would be another break in the decorative fence. Broken bones and open wounds eventually healed, but the mind stayed in welcome shadow for years, and heavy drapes kept the light away.

She shook her head and reached into her pocket for the box of wooden matches. She slid open the box and snatched three matches before the others fell out and disappeared. She struck the match against the side of the box. The flame blew out almost before it had a chance to start. Now there were only two matches left.

A strong smell of smoke hung on the wind from the direction of the house. She peered into the darkness. There was no fire. There was no light of any kind.

The electricity was out, but it seemed there should be some form of light in the house. Even something as small as a lit candle could surely be seen from where she was standing.

There was something very wrong in this house, so it was best she stick with the original plan. If that were lost, the rest of it would be, too.

She tore some of the shredded material from her black dress and wrapped it tightly around a stick. Using a large tree as a shield from the bulk of the wind, she cupped her hands around a match, struck it against the box, and fired the end of the homemade torch anchored under her arm. The material glowed red but refused a flame; then, a sudden gust blew it out.

Another blast of anger surrounded her and dropped her to her knees near a pile of debris. She screamed at the sudden pounding in her head and rubbed her temples to rid the pain.

The sound of a woman’s laugh traveled to her on the wind then appeared deep within her mind. She writhed in the deadfall and tried to crawl away to a safer distance, but the sound followed her. The firm stalk of a dry branch hit her squarely in the palm of her hand. She grabbed it, raised it high in the air like a weapon.

“You are nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing. You will not hurt me again.”

The laughing stopped then, gone as suddenly as it had appeared.

The ghost, at least for now, was gone.

With the small branch in hand, she crawled to a tree and leaned against it. Taking a deep breath, she allowed the pain in her head to ease away slowly. Loosening her tight grip on the branch, she fingered its length, felt its multiple branches with a few leaves still attached, and formed the last plan.

If it wasn’t too wet, the branch might do. Eleanor pulled herself up to stand and hoped Richard wasn’t a stickler for three shorts-three longs-three shorts. She waited for the wind to die down a notch then struck the side of the box with the last match.

A small flame clung tenuously to the end of the match then encircled the branch with a sputter, a crackle, and finally, a steady stream of flame. She waved the branch from side to side, but within seconds the renewed wind blew out the flame. Hopefully, Richard saw and would take it from there.

Smoke stung her eyes and made them water then flowed deeply into her lungs until she had to cough. She waved a hand in front of her face to fan away the smell, then looked at Manchester Place, and her mouth dropped.

Fire in the living room.

Flames reached almost to the ceiling. Unattended, the fire would light up the sky and gut a frame house built on a tabby foundation in no time.

And it would kill little boys and women before they knew what happened.

Eleanor stood still and frightened in the dark woods, as the sound of a woman’s laughter floated from atop the widow’s walk.