| |
Abigail was up early that morning, leaving Frank snuggled sleeping in their bed. She’d left a note for him telling him where she’d gone. She wanted to get to the Theiss house as soon as she could and begin her first large canvas. On the news the night before the weatherman had said there would be rain by afternoon so she wanted to get as much accomplished as she could before the wet weather moved in.
She’d gotten out of bed, showered, slipped into her summer clothes, gathered her art supplies, the five by seven foot canvas for the day’s work, and had gone out to the car, grabbing an apple and a peach for breakfast on the way. She also had a go-cup of coffee. The canvas barely fit in her hatchback but she carefully inched it in. Figuring she could start the painting on scene and then she could finish it at home. It was important to begin the creative process onsite so she could feel, capture, the ambiance of the place.
When she had left the house she’d silenced her inner voice as it tried to caution her. Sure, the house had given her the willies every time she’d been there. Sure, Myrtle, Glinda and Frank didn’t like the place and wanted her to stay away from it. But what evidence did any of them have that the location was dangerous? None. So she would finish what she’d begun and paint what she wanted to paint. The house.
Everything packed in the car, getting ready to slide behind the wheel, she glanced up and saw a huge black crow squawking at her from a tree limb. Caw, caw, caw. It had its feathery head cocked down at her and was bouncing on the limb from foot to foot. Swatting its beak back and forth. So angry at her for something. She looked around. No other birds or people anywhere around she could see. Yep, it was shrieking at her all right. A frightening scene of birds swarming down to peck at humans from the old Hitchcock movie The Birds suddenly careened in and out of her mind. Yikes. The sooner she got in the car, the better. She was scared the crow was going to swoop down and attack her.
Frowning, looking away from it, she hoped the angry bird wouldn’t come after her.
Some people believed seeing a crow was a bad omen; it meant someone was about to die. Some said the crow was an omen of change for they represented ancient magical laws and wisdom, and when a crow called to someone, that person might have a flash of their authentic self because the crow saw their soul self. Abigail liked the latter portent better than the first. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the crow was still staring straight at her. It cawed again, and then, taking wing like a demented avenger, it flew straight for her.
She escaped into her vehicle as the crow swooped not more than three feet away from the closing door. Then the bird shifted direction and, after a sharp curve in its flight, disappeared up into the sky. Crazy bird. What had possessed it to fly at her? She had no idea. Good thing the car had been so near.
The sun, pulsating like a furnace in the sky above her, had already made the day hot. So she was glad she’d brought her wide-brimmed straw hat along. She’d need it, until the rain came anyway.
*****
THE DRIVE OVER WAS pleasant and, humming an old Tom Petty song, Running Down a Dream, she allowed herself to appreciate the lovely day. Nothing bad could happen on such a day, she thought. Crow or no crow. She couldn’t wait to arrive at the house and begin painting.
Once on the premises she set up her largest easel and gently balanced the over-sized canvas on it She was grateful there was no wind to knock it off, just a slight breeze drifting around the property. Second thing she did was bring out her iPhone and snap pictures of the house from different angles. She’d initiate the paintings at the Theiss house but finish them at home, so photographs would be essential. Strolling cautiously on tip toes around the building so as not to step on any jagged glass or a, heaven forbidden, snake, she procured in photos not only the main structure but the well in the front yard, the trees around it, and the rusted swing set. She knew Frank wouldn’t be happy to learn she’d trespassed into the yard, no matter how careful she’d been, so she wouldn’t tell him. It was, after all, the only way she could have gotten the photographs she needed.
When she finished taking pictures, she prepared her paints then began sketching in pencil on the canvas until she had the house and yard outlined, soaking in the mood of the scene. The building and everything around it looked pretty much as it had the last time she’d been there, except she could have sworn somehow it felt, it appeared, different. The building looked...if possible, even more decrepit, more forlorn. If a house could weep, this one was weeping.
As often occurred, as she sketched and then switched to the paint, she went into a sort of trance where there was nothing else but her and her art in progress. There were only the canvas, the paint coming off the brushes onto it, and the fever of creating.
She’d gotten so much done in such a short time, the entire drawing and a portion of the painting, so she took a break to wipe the sweat off her face, arms and hands, sip some cold coffee and then, quite by accident, she happened to catch a glimpse of the upper level of the house.
Something, somewhat in the shape of a human, stood in one of the upstairs windows.
All she could make out was a shadowy outline, no details, no distinct features. It resembled a man but she wasn’t sure. Really? No one lived in the house any longer, it was falling apart, supposed to be empty, so who was in the window? The figure was there and gone a moment later.
The next thing Abigail knew, after hopping over the broken step, she was at the front door, her hand on the handle.
Don’t go inside. Frank had made her promise. Yet, she couldn’t stop herself, something beckoned her into the house, she moved into the murkiness of what must have been the entry hall. She stood there, breathing heavily, her eyes searching the flaking walls, and then took a few steps, her feet crunching on the brittle floor. It was stifling inside as if the outside heat had pooled within. She could see dirt swirling in the air around her, but the windows let in just enough daylight she could see what she had to see. Something, the sound of footfalls above her somewhere, caught her attention. Someone was walking around on the second floor. Someone or something.
She went through the entry way and into what appeared to have been the living room. The faded furniture, coated in spider webs and decades of dust, filled the room. It surprised her that everything had been left as it must have been when the previous residents had lived in the house. Over forty years ago. Had no one claimed any of the family’s possessions or cleaned the place out? Had there been no other family members to empty it? It was so creepy. So sad. The sofa, an uncomfortable looking boxy print-patterned thing, reminded her of one her family had had when she’d been a child. There were filthy lamps on the side tables, tattered magazines on the coffee table. One of the magazines, Redbook, had the date of May, nineteen seventy-nine, on the cover. An antique console television set of light colored oak wood squatted in one corner with old bunny ears on it, and the rugs on the floor were so covered in grime she couldn’t guess their original colors. The heavy dust made her sneeze. She covered her nose with the fingers of one of her hands.
All of a sudden the room was so chilly. Goosebumps popped up on her skin. She could hear strange moans and groans within the walls and beneath her feet, all around her, as if the house was sighing.
What was wrong with this house?
The footsteps above her halted, then resumed. She had the urge to climb the steps to her right and see who or what was up there. She had no light, though, and the upper floor would be darker than the first floor. Even on the ground level shadows lurked in the corners and spread across the walls like murky ghosts. She shivered. If she wanted to explore the upstairs she should have brought a flashlight. She should go.
She paused at the bottom of the steps. Again something pulled at her, and she began to ascend the stairs, the wood creaking torturously beneath her feet. This is not a good idea, she thought, but kept climbing. Soon she came up to and moved into the hallway, staring at the doors lining the upper level. Four doors. All closed. There were whimsical hand written signs on the doors. Jeanette and Imelda on one. Lucas on another. The door at the end of the hallway was just: Mom and Dad. How quaint. There were daisies bordering the signs. Daisies, as she recalled from old television shows, had been popular in the nineteen seventies.
Seemingly all on its own, the girls’ door creaked open barely a sliver. Another shiver crept across her flesh.
Walking toward the room’s door she was almost there when it abruptly and violently slammed shut. She jumped. The stillness of the hallway couldn’t have slammed that door shut. Her heart raced and a wave of dizziness hit her. She wrenched at the doorknob and, after fighting with it, tugged it open.
The room was a young girls’ room. It was painted a soft pink. The curtains had once been white with yellow daisies on them, now they were grimy and washed-out. There were cardboard daisies pasted across one wall. Framed horse and kitten pictures, along with macramé wall hangings, also decorated the walls in between the pictures. Some macramé purses hung on a hook on the inside of the door. There were two beds, and two dressers with the kind of fancy mirrors on the top of them that young girls would appreciate. Two night tables with lamps on them snuggled beside the beds. Both beds had washed out quilts on them. An oval pink rug covered the floor. A fan hung in the middle of the ceiling. There were pink shelves on the walls above the beds. One shelf had plastic dinosaurs of various sizes and colors, and some of those monster models kids had liked back in those days, on it. It looked as if the occupants had recently vacated the room, except everything was dirty with age.
But the room was empty of anything living, besides her. Whoever or whatever had been standing outlined in the window, just seconds before, was no longer there. The emptiness of the room created an eerie sensation.
She moved closer to the window, and her fingers wiped off a circle of dirt on the pane so she could peak out. The window overlooked the front of the house and yard. The wall around the window was riddled with cracks, some large and some small, from the ceiling to the baseboard. The wooden frame around the window also appeared fragile as it was surrounded by a yawning gap. The whole wall, now that she looked hard at it, appeared to be on the edge of crumbling. She stepped away from it. The house was disintegrating from the inside out.
Leaving the room, closing the door behind her, she returned to the hallway. The passageway was now freezing...and then she heard someone crying in whispery sobs behind the door she’d just come out of. She reopened it; her eyes scanned the room. It was still empty. She shut the door again. But the weeping in the room continued, growing louder. She couldn’t tell if it was a man, woman or child. It didn’t matter. The sobbing unsettled her more than the creepiness of the room she’d just left. What was wrong with this house?
But that last trick had done it. Time to get out. She pivoted around in the hallway and practically ran down the stairs, not looking back once, through the living room, entry hall and out into the darkening day. She stared up at the sky. Charcoal hued clouds raced across it and, as forecast, raindrops were beginning to fall. She must have been in the house longer than she’d thought. The day felt so much later. The sun was heading downwards.
Grabbing up her canvas, easel, paints and folding chair, she dashed to the car as the rain erupted into a downpour. After loading everything in, she drove away faster than she’d come.
She scolded herself for being such a fraidy cat, but the peculiar feelings she’d had in the house wouldn’t leave her. Frank had been right when he’d advised: Don’t go into the house. She should have listened. Yet, she wouldn’t, or couldn’t, understand what had made her go in and explore the interior, even go upstairs, when she’d been so adamant she wouldn’t. It was best if she didn’t dwell on that trivial detail. But she’d make sure it wouldn’t happen again.
*****
THE RAIN THUNDERED on the windshield as she drove into town, the wipers working hard to keep up. More than ever she wanted to talk to Irma Appleton and learn about 707 Suncrest’s past inhabitants and their histories, so she was driving to Irma’s shop. After her strange sojourn into the house’s depths and what had happened to her while she’d been wandering its rooms, she was even more curious about the family who’d lived and died there, and the son who had been sentenced for the crimes.
Parking the car in front of Irma’s place, she sprinted through the raindrops, through the opened door with the bell tinkling over it, and into the tiny store. The Fabric Shop, Claudia had informed her, had been there now for going on fifty years. Irma had always owned it but it hadn’t always been a fabric store. It had begun as a thrift shop where people purchased or traded for used items cheaply, then it had been a kind of craft shop during the macramé hippie days where someone could buy the needed supplies for their macramé owls and beaded wall hangings.
In the end, the shop had morphed into what it was now, a smorgasbord shop that sold practically everything all jumbled up together that the previous incarnations had sold. These days it was called a fabric shop but it also offered second-hand stuff, crafts and trinkets; shelves lined the walls full of old-fashioned penny candy like John Mason’s old general store used to carry. Abigail wondered if the glass containers the penny candy was in were from Mason’s old store, because they looked the same, but she’d never asked Irma if they were. All in all, the shop was a real hodge-podge of whatever Irma felt like selling. Rumor was she frequented the yard sales in the nearby towns and carted home the junk she bought to stock her shop, putting price tags on them. That made sense because there was a lot of junk stuffed in every nook and cranny of the store. It reminded Abigail of an indoor yard sale.
The shop, as small as it was–more like a narrow box between two bigger stores–was stuffed with merchandise from floor to ceiling. Abigail loved the store because of all the oddities it sold. She was always teasing Irma she should call it a What-Ever-In-The-World-You-Need Shop instead of what it was called. Irma liked that name but thought it was too long a moniker to put across her tiny store front. She was probably right.
Abigail also patronized the place because Irma sold the paints and art supplies she needed. Abigail got her watercolors, her tubes of oil paint, canvases and brushes, or anything else she required, there. Irma ordered them in special for her from a large art store up in Chicago. Abigail could have ordered everything over the Internet and had it delivered to her front door, but it seemed to give Irma a kick ordering and stocking the supplies for her. She said she enjoyed helping an artist. Plus Irma had an amiable contact at that Chicago art store, an old friend, who gave her a huge discount on everything. So Abigail ordered everything she needed through Irma.
“Hi there, Abigail,” the elderly woman greeted her. Her body, bent with age, was perched on a stool behind the cluttered counter. Irma was probably as ancient as Myrtle, or a few years younger. It was hard to tell. Irma’s body, too, was fragilely tiny, but the eyes in her wrinkled face were those of a younger woman’s, as was her energy level. She had a gift for life, she loved people and she loved selling one-of-a-kind unique items to them. It made her happy.
Abigail knew Myrtle and Irma were good friends from way back, having known each other as young girls. Irma was sometimes Myrtle’s side-kick on jaunts to the local casinos or on her cruises. Both women loved to gamble and travel. Loved to eat good food and experience new things. The two women amazed Abigail. She only hoped she had half as much life in her when she was their ages.
“Hi Irma. How are you doing?” Abigail, walking up to the counter, smiled at the old woman. Irma was dressed in her normal uniform of baggy slacks and T-shirt, her long gray hair pulled up in a loose bun at the top of her head, a leather barrette struck through with a stick to hold the bun in place. Her eyes were a soft caramel brown. Often a lollipop or a flavored piece of candy cane rested between her thin lips. A chain smoker most of her life, until she’d had serious respiratory problems in her seventies, sucking on hard candy, she said, kept her from the cigarettes. Today she rolled around a cherry Tootsie Roll Pop between her lips.
“Ah, you know,” Irma waved her hand casually in the air, “I’m still here, still alive. So it’s a good day. When you get my age that’s the best you can hope for. Staying above ground. Have you seen Myrtle lately?”
“I saw her the other day. She’s doing just fine.”
“Good.
“So, Abigail, what can I do for you today? You need something?”
“Yeah, I do need something. I’m doing this series of paintings of this empty house on the edge of town Myrtle showed me when we were scurrying home the other day during that awful storm, that tornado, we had.”
“Yep, that storm was a dilly. For a while I was afraid that dang tornado would take half the town and my little shop with it.” Irma tsked-tsked as she shook her head. “We were sure lucky. God was watching over us.”
“We sure were and He sure was.”
“Well, when you see that old wanderer Myrtle again tell her to come visit me. It’s been too long. Tell her I’m ready for another cruise. Someplace cool this time.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her.”
“Maybe even a freezing destination like an Alaskan cruise. Heck, or even a river cruise. It don’t matter to me. I’m sick to death of this hot weather. And the air-conditioner in here hasn’t been working all that well lately. I could use a vacation somewhere else.” Irma took her free hand and picked up a fan, one of those brightly-colored paper kind a person unfolded to use, and she waved it in front of her face.
Someone, she thought it might have been either her godmother or a grandmother, had brought three of those paper fans home one year from their vacation in California, and given one to each of her sisters, Carol and Mary, as well as herself. Abigail’s fan had had flowers intertwined with peacocks, vibrant colors and delicate silvery lines all over it. It had been so pretty. What had ever happened to it? She couldn’t recall. Like a lot of things in her early life, it had disappeared somewhere, forgotten and left behind in the baggage of the years.
Irma’s gaze had gone to the windows, where the rain flooded down in torrents on the outside of the glass. “What’s important enough to brave venturing out in this atrocious weather? You a duck or something? Quack, quack.” Putting the fan down on the counter and taking the lollipop out of her mouth, the old woman grinned at her.
Abigail chuckled. “Not last time I looked.
“Anyway...I’ve come in for another reason. I need to pick your brain. Information, not something to buy.” She caught the expression of disappointment on the old lady’s face. “Unless,” she amended, “I see something that I need.” To reinforce her words Abigail’s eyes examined the objects on the counter as if she were looking for something she might purchase.
Irma recaptured her smile. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. For a while anyway.”
As Abigail continued to peruse the items on the counter, she said, “I actually stopped by to ask you something Claudia, at the bookstore, said you might know more about.”
Instead of asking right off what Claudia had divulged, Irma probed, “How is Claudia today? Last week she was complaining her legs were killing her. She’s got rheumatoid arthritis something awful, you know. Takes medicine for it and everything.”
“I know. She didn’t mention it when I last spoke to her at the bookstore and she didn’t seem in too much pain at the time. Her emotional mood was more what she was concerned with when I saw her last.”
“Yeah, what’s wrong?”
“Her husband has left on that mythical African photo safari he’s been talking about for years. I think she’s afraid he won’t come back. He might get hurt, have a heart attack, get eaten by a tiger, or something.”
“Men!” Irma made a little huffing noise. “Always finding some stupid way to knock themselves off. Ryan has no darn business traipsing around in the jungle chasing tigers and hippopotamuses with a camera. At his age? That’s dangerous. People die out in the wild places. He should have stayed home where he belongs. No wonder Claudia is upset. I would be, too. That is if my sweet Rosco was still alive. I wouldn’t have let him go off to Africa. Ever. No way. No how.”
Abigail had heard all about Rosco Appleton from Myrtle. A shy scholarly man, he’d been married to Irma for over half a century and had never left her side their whole married lives, except to go to work each day at the local community college where he was a mathematics professor. He’d died of a sudden brain aneurysm on Irma’s seventieth birthday and had been dead a long time. Myrtle also said that sometimes, when she was with her, Irma even talked to her dead husband as if he was right there with them. Myrtle, being how she was with ghosts, didn’t think that was all that strange.
“Okay,” Irma was stretching her body on the stool, her skinny arms rising toward the ceiling and then out to their sides, “why did Claudia send you to me? What do you want to know? What’s going on?” There was a second stool on the other side of the counter and Irma gestured Abigail to it. “Sit down. You look tired.”
Abigail claimed the stool gratefully. “I am a little tired. I’ve been out painting all morning, before the rain came anyway. That’s why I’m here. I was out at the old Theiss place on Suncrest. You know, the abandoned house at 707 Suncrest?”
“Oh, that house.” Irma’s expression was suddenly grave. “That house is cursed, you know?”
Oh boy, shades of Myrtle.
“So I’ve been told. But I don’t believe in cursed or haunted houses. A house is just a house.” But Abigail knew, even as she said those words, it wasn’t necessarily true. The Theiss house affected her in some mysterious ways and she couldn’t deny it didn’t. “Anyway, Claudia mentioned you used to be friends with the two Theiss kids, the ones who were killed. She also said you knew all three of the children well.”
Irma tilted her head and released a sigh, her expression softening. “Yeah, I was friends with all three kids. They were really sweet kids, too. Let’s see. Imelda was about eleven, Jeanette sixteen, when they were murdered. It was a terrible, terrible thing. I didn’t know the parents as much, but I’d met them a few times and they seemed like nice people. The father was a doctor at the local hospital and the mother was a stay at home wife. With three children she had to be, though I think she sold Tupperware, and had home parties, on the side. She made good money at it, too, as I recall.
“I had the shop here, of course, it was strictly a craft store at the time, and the children came in regularly to buy things. Jeanette made these cute small macramé owls and beaded macramé purses with colorful beads, feathers and stuff. She was really good at them and sold them to her family, or friends at school, for extra money.
“Imelda, the younger girl, loved those wildly popular, at the time, plastic monster or dinosaur kits you put together and hand paint. She had a whole collection of them. Dracula, Frankenstein, and a herd of dinosaurs. She bought each one of them from me and then, when she was done assembling and painting them, she’d come in and show them to me. She really did a good job.”
The model monsters and dinosaurs on the shelf in the girls’ room, the macramé purses hanging on the door hook drifted, uninvited, into Abigail’s mind. Slowly the girls, the family, were becoming more real to her. That might not be a good thing.
“And Lucas,” Irma prattled on, “the son, was obsessed with and built those balsam airplanes. Remember those?”
Abigail moved her head in affirmation. Her late brother, Michael, had also loved to build those flimsy balsam planes. Being reminded of Michael made her sad. Her brother had been gone a long time but his memory would be with her for as long as she lived. A fleeting image of Michael as a small boy cradling his latest airplane model in his arms, smiling, took the melancholy away. They’d had many happy times together before the hunting accident stole him from her and the family. The most intense heat of the summer reminded her of how she and Michael would forage deep into the woods near their house for patches of wild strawberries or big plump blackberries. They’d ramble the gravel roads, singing songs of the day out loud, and explore the forest and the creeks together, laughing. Ah, she had a ton of precious memories just like that. Her attention circled back to Irma and what she was saying.
“So I knew the Theiss children fairly well. They were a nice family. To this day I’ll never believe Lucas murdered them all. It wasn’t in him. He was a gentle boy. A good boy.” Irma was rocking her head back and forth, her lips a tight frown.
“He went to prison for life for the crimes, I’ve been told. Frank checked on him through his old police connections and Lucas is still in prison forty years later.”
“I know he’s still in prison,” Irma responded. “I think of him often. Say prayers for him. I’ve even sent him letters, cookies on Christmas, a couple of times over the years. He answers me. He still maintains his innocence.
“What a tragedy all around. His family murdered and he’s been locked behind bars all these years. Poor boy. Not many in town believed Lucas was innocent, but I did, because I knew him. During Lucas’s trial I was asked to give a character reference, but it didn’t help. Everyone’s mind was made up that Lucas had done it. So they locked him up. The way I saw it, he didn’t have a chance.”
“Do you know,” Abigail probed, “what really happened to the family that night? The night they died?”
“Well, I wasn’t there, yet as the newspapers printed, and the town scuttlebutt of the time confirmed, each one of the family was shot in the head, even Lucas. Which is why I don’t believe he did the crimes. Why shoot himself, almost die, when he could have just skedaddled? It made no sense. Any other reason for killing his parents and siblings also made no sense. Lucas loved his sisters, his mom and dad. Thing was, Lucas had another theory. One as bizarre as him murdering off his whole family.
“The boy swore up and down, testified about it on the stand, that Jeanette had had a demented stalker and he had killed the family. Someone who used to send her sickening and graphic love letters–which she would not reply to–and gifts, which she threw away, but he never showed himself. Well, other than Lucas said the stalker would creep around outside Jeanette’s window in the night, spying on her. During the court trial Lucas swore he almost caught him one night. And that after a while when Jeanette wouldn’t answer his letters the stalker started leaving dead animals. First big tip off. Lots of serial killers start out butchering little critters.”
“But Jeanette was only sixteen.”
“Makes no difference. She was a gorgeous girl, and she looked a lot older than sixteen. And, besides that, evil psychos don’t care how old the object of their obsessive desire is. They’re depraved. Could be this one liked them young.”
“So,” Abigail shifted on her stool, “no one believed Lucas’s stalker story, huh?”
“They did not. No one listened to him. They thought he was lying to cover up what he’d done.”
“Then the police never found out who that alleged stalker was?”
“They didn’t believe there was one,” Irma said. “No concrete proof other than Lucas’s word. So I don’t think they even searched for him.”
Abigail peered out through the windows. The rain was still falling. She wanted to get home and do more on the painting she’d begun at the Theiss house. Her fingers were itching to work on it. The memory of what she’d seen and heard that morning at the house came back to nag her. The shadow in the window. The slamming door. The feeling something or someone had been watching her.
She and Irma talked more, mostly about town stuff, and, after picking out something to buy, an umbrella, Abigail took her leave. “I’ll need more art supplies pretty soon, Irma. I’ll email you my list tomorrow.”
“Painting up a storm, huh?” Irma winked at her before glancing outside at the rain. She picked up another lollipop, unwrapped it, and struck it in her mouth. It was a grape one.
Abigail laughed. “Trying to. I’m going now but I’ll give Myrtle your message about the cruise and you’ll see me again by the weekend. Bye for now.” The painting in her car was calling to her. She wanted to go home and work on it.
“Bye Abigail. You be careful out there, ya hear? Be careful at that cursed house, too. There are more things in heaven and earth, Abigail, than are dreamt of in your philosophy....”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Frank said the same exact thing to me just the other day,” Abigail tossed out the words as she popped open the umbrella, waved goodbye to Irma, and went out the door.
*****
SHE WAS AT THE END of Main Street when she spied Glinda hunkered beneath the awning at Stella’s Diner, trying to avoid the rain. The psychic waved at her and Abigail swung the car around. There were something she wanted to discuss with Glinda anyway. It wouldn’t take long.
She parked the car in front of Stella’s and waited as Glinda made her way to the passenger’s side, opened the door and slid in.
“I knew I’d see you in town today,” was the first thing Glinda said to her. Looking cool in a sheer sleeveless sundress covered in a delicate pink rose pattern, her silver hair was piled on top of her head in a circled braid; her green eyes were twinkling with a secret she could no longer keep. There were pink sandals on her feet. She laid her purse and umbrella on the seat beside her and turned to Abigail.
“The tarot cards tipped you off?” Abigail cocked her head, her eyes focusing on Glinda. The young woman looked more beautiful than ever. That’s what being in love did to a woman.
“Not the cards. Just a hunch.”
“What’s new?” Abigail twisted around in the seat to face Glinda. The rain beating on the outside of the vehicle was a comforting background because they were inside and it was outside.
Glinda’s lips formed a mischievous grin. “Well, I might as well tell you, you’ll find out soon enough. Kyle proposed to me last night. I accepted and we set a date.”
Abigail didn’t wait for another word, but warmly embraced the young woman. “I knew it. Myrtle and Frank did, too. We knew you two were heading for the altar. I’m so happy for you, for both of you,” she exclaimed. “So, when is the wedding?”
“September thirtieth this year.”
“So soon?”
“Yes. There’s a couple of good reasons. For one, Kyle will be settled into Doc Andy’s practice, will need to be living in town, and we decided why should he rent an apartment, pay out all that money, when I have a nice big house close by? If we get married he can move in with me. It’s the only practical solution. September thirtieth is also when Laura will be back home visiting after her internship and before her new year starts at the art college. Kyle would like his sister home for the wedding.
“That...and Kyle and I want to be together. We’ve waited long enough. It’s time.”
“Yeah,” Abigail spoke, “we’ve all waited long enough. Myrtle is going to be so tickled. She’s been trying to get you two hitched since you first came to town years ago.”
“I know, I know. But the cards told me about Kyle long before that and I suspected he would be the one I’d marry the first time I met him.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh.”
Abigail, as usual, was impressed with the things Glinda seemed to know ahead of time and how she’d know them. Until Glinda had come into their lives, Abigail had in no way believed in clairvoyants. She was more of a believer now. “Where are you having the wedding–or don’t you know yet?”
“Oh, that’s a simple decision. The wedding will be at Myrtle’s and my house, after a church ceremony at St. Paul’s, of course. I’m sure Myrtle will insist on both. She’s talked about it many times.
“‘When you and Kyle get married the wedding will be at my church, reception will be here, my aunt always says, “and I’m paying for all of it. Honeymoon, too. Every young couple should have a memorable honeymoon. Go to Paris or Rome...those are both lovely destinations this time of year–or some tropical island with fancy drinks and a sandy beach.’”
Glinda laughed.
“Well, I’m so happy for you and Kyle. For all of us. Frank will be ecstatic. Since Kyle first went off to medical college, he’s been praying his son would someday come home and set up a medical practice in Spookie, be the town’s doctor, which he is doing; and since you came to town, that he’d marry you. Have you or Kyle told anyone else?”
“When I spoke to Kyle earlier today he said he was going to call his father and tell him the good news.” Glinda slumped back against the seat and exhaled, as if she were exhausted. “So, yes, Frank probably knows by now. I’ll tell Myrtle as soon as I get home.”
“She’s not going to be happy you didn’t tell her first, you know?”
“Ha, yeah, she would have loved it if I had told her about getting married even before I had told Kyle.” Glinda laughed and so did Abigail. “But she’ll get over it quick enough...planning the wedding.” They knew Myrtle so well.
Abigail laid her hands on the wheel. “You need a ride home, Glinda? It doesn’t look like this rain is going to let up any time soon.”
Outside the vehicle the downpour was heavier than ever. Abigail wished it would stop. She was sick of the crazy weather. Either rain or tornados. Enough already.
“I won’t turn the offer down,” Glinda replied. “When I walked into town earlier the rain hadn’t begun yet. I stayed too long at the bookstore buying books and yakking with Claudia.” She tapped the oversized purse beside her indicating where the books were. It made sense because Abigail had thought Glinda’s bag purse was unusually lumpy and fat. She either had books in there or a stray cat.
“Well, it’s raining as if the second flood is coming, so I’ll happily get you through it and safely home. We’re off.” The car’s engine rumbling softly beneath the hood, Abigail pulled out onto the road.
“By the way, how is Claudia doing anyway? You know her husband Ryan is galivanting around in the African wildlands on safari?”
“Oh, she mentioned it. She’s a nervous wreck she’s so worried over his welfare. She has this fear he won’t be coming back...alive. That’s half the reason I went there today, besides the books. She called me, asked me to bring my tarot cards and do a reading on her husband. See if everything is okay with him.”
“Is he okay?”
Glinda fell silent. Abigail shifted her eyes off the road long enough to look at her passenger. “Is Ryan okay?” she repeated.
“The cards said he isn’t okay. There’s trouble coming. I didn’t tell Claudia that. I fibbed like crazy and told her all was well. I didn’t want her to fret more than she already was when the cards couldn’t show me what was wrong. And if they had, what could she have done about it, thousands of miles away?” She shook her head. “Lately they’ve been way too enigmatic on a score of subjects. I’ll take another reading later and hope I get better answers.”
“Oh, no,” Abigail murmured, “that’s not good news. I pray Ryan’s all right. Claudia would lose it if anything happened to him. She didn’t want him going to Africa in the first place.”
Abigail paused before asking, “By the way, did you ever get a clearer reading on the Theiss house for me?”
Again Glinda didn’t reply immediately. Oh oh. “Glinda?”
“I’ve read your cards numerous times. There’s no denying it. When it comes to that house my cards are adamant...the house isn’t safe. Whether it’s physically unsafe, haunted, evil, or whatever, the tarot won’t tell me. Just that it is...bad. If you want my honest opinion, you should just stay away from it.”
“Nothing specific though?”
“No, nothing the cards are willing to reveal.”
“I can’t stay away from that house because of vague fears. I’m determined to paint it. Nothing is going to happen to me there if I’m careful. And I promise you, as I have Frank and Myrtle, I will be.”
“So you say.” The psychic’s tone serious, she finished with, “You said you have photos of it? Can’t you do the paintings from them and not go back there? I know you use photos for your work all the time.”
Abigail didn’t want to keep making excuses, defend herself, for what she was doing, didn’t want to discuss it anymore. She was tired of people warning her about 707 Suncrest. Really sick of it. “I could, and I will when I get to a certain point, but I have to return at least another time or two to get the paintings started; for the tiny details I can’t pull from photographs. This preliminary work won’t take long. I’ll get them done quickly. Then I’ll be out of there.” She gave Glinda a grin to ease the other woman’s trepidation.
“You better,” Glinda grumbled.
She’d been ready to admit to the strange happenings she’d endured at the Theiss house that morning but seeing the disturbed look on Glinda’s face, and feeling the seriousness of the psychic’s earlier warning, stopped her. If she confessed anything about hearing bodiless voices, seeing shadows in the windows, witnessing doors slam when no one was there, Glinda wouldn’t leave her alone until Abigail would promise to stay away from the place. So no, she wouldn’t tell her.
“I can’t make you do anything, Abigail. It’s your life. Your art. But, do not go inside the house. Ever. I mean it. Stay out. The cards did tell me one thing for sure. Secrets lie within the house and some are deadly.”
A chill skimmed up Abigail’s spine, but she shook it off. Was she a child to be afraid of an empty house? No, she wasn’t. Not a child and not afraid. Why were so many people so riled up about an empty house? An empty house couldn’t hurt her. It was only a house and she’d be done with it soon enough.
“Glinda, why don’t we stop by your place, pick Myrtle up and you both come home with me? Have supper with us? We have to celebrate your upcoming wedding. Frank and Nick should also be home by now. Call Kyle and have him come over, too. The whole gang should be there. Well, all except Laura, but we’ll telephone her with the good news.”
“I’d like that.” Glinda’s smile finally emerged. “Kyle was supposed to stop by my house anyway after he finished at Doc Andy’s office. He won’t mind changing plans and coming to your house for supper instead. I’ll call him.”
As Glinda spoke on her cell phone to her husband-to-be, Abigail took the road to Glinda’s house. She put thoughts of 707 Suncrest and the new worry for Claudia’s husband out of her mind; concentrating instead on the news of Kyle and Glinda’s upcoming wedding. It was nice to have good news.
*****
THAT EVENING THEY GATHERED, had supper and bathed in the happy couple’s bliss as Glinda and Kyle unveiled their plans. The two discussed the wedding, where they wanted it, who they were going to invite, and where the reception would be. Glinda talked about wanting at least a three tier chocolate cake hand made by their friendly baker, Kate. Both young people wanted the wedding and reception to be intimate, with just the families and some of their closest friends. But Frank pointed out that with Kyle becoming the new town doctor, the reception, at least, should accommodate more of the townsfolk, especially Kyle’s new patients.
In the spirit of the happy occasion, Myrtle excitedly announced to everyone how she was going to pay for everything as her wedding present to the young couple.
“That’s too much, Myrtle,” Kyle protested. “We appreciate your kind generosity but–”
“Heck, I have more money than I can ever use in what’s left of my life,” Myrtle interrupted, cajolingly, “so make an old lady happy and take my gift.
“And Glinda is my blood, the last of my kin. I want to do this for her. For both of you. Kyle, I’ve known you since you were a boy. So let me do it. Please?” Myrtle gave the couple her pathetic pleading face behaving as if she’d be devastated if they didn’t take her gift. Then she threatened to throw herself off the porch if they didn’t and, in the end, they accepted.
“And I’m paying for your honeymoon, too...wherever, anywhere, you two want to go and for as long as you want to be gone,” Myrtle tossed in. “Two weeks, three weeks. Money is no object. Sky’s the limit. Long leisurely cruises are nice. I should know.”
“We won’t be going too far away, Auntie.” Glinda was smiling at Kyle when she said, “It can’t be a long honeymoon, either. Kyle is getting ready to open his medical practice, meet all his patients. He has to move into the house. There’s so much to do. We’ve decided to take a short honeymoon right after the wedding, mainly because Doc Andy wants to retire as soon as possible and Kyle will have to step in. Then we’ll try to have a longer, a real, honeymoon sometime next year when he’s settled into the job.”
“That’s okay, too,” Myrtle conceded. “When you get married I’ll gift you the money for both honeymoons, the short and the long one, as your wedding present.”
“We can’t accept–”
“I won’t hear anything else about it, Niece. I’m giving you and Kyle a wedding you’ll remember all your long lives and two honeymoons. And I don’t want to hear another word about it. You hear me!” The old woman glared at both of the soon-to-be-newlyweds.
And so it was settled.
Following supper, after it had cooled down outside, the group lingered on the covered porch in chairs, watching the rain, and chatting about the Summer Festival coming up at the end of August.
“Hey all,” Nick reminded everyone, yet looking at Glinda, “my band is playing at the festival. We’re going to be under the new outdoor pavilion Mayor Samantha just had built in the courthouse park and we will be on the main stage from two to four. You are all coming, aren’t you?”
Abigail had known for a while Nick had a minor crush on the psychic, but it was a young man’s infatuation and he was happy she was marrying Kyle. She’d be a part of the family.
“Of course, Nick, we’ll all be there,” Glinda assured the boy. “We wouldn’t miss it. One day you will be famous and we’ll be able to say we knew, and heard, you when.” Her chuckle, beneath her smile, was understanding. She was an insightful woman.
The party ended early, everyone leaving with smiles on their faces. They had a festival and a wedding to look forward to. Life was good.
*****
AFTER THE PARTY, WHEN everyone had left for their homes, Nick was in bed, Frank had gone up to his office to, as he put it, wrap up loose ends on a new project he was working on, Abigail sat at the kitchen table and added to the painting she’d begun that morning. She used the photos she’d taken of the house to put in the tiny details. Outside the rain slowed to a drizzle. With the quiet house around her, she contentedly painted and sipped on her cup of coffee.
As she worked she brooded on what she’d seen that morning in the window at the Theiss house; what she’d heard and how strange it had made her feel. Though she’d about convinced herself, once more, it had been her imagination and hadn’t been that strange at all. The shadow in the window could have been the sun passing by, the slamming door could have been a stray draft in the house. Shadows and noise. What harm could any of that do to her? None.
By the time she climbed the stairs to bed, she was pleased with how the painting was progressing. She’d portrayed the dilapidated house as she’d first glimpsed it in the storm with the rain and wind whipping around it, the sky avocado ebony with clouds, undulating with lightning; the tornado hulking behind it like an angry monster. She’d worked hard to recreate the scary ambience, the gloom haunting the house and the property, on the canvas. She believed she’d achieved all that. The painting was turning out even better than she’d hoped. The painting was nearly done and she’d finish it at her leisure in her own kitchen. Now she needed to start another.
The day after tomorrow, because she had shopping and laundry to do the following day, she’d get up early to beat the heat, drive to 707 Suncrest and begin her next painting. This one, she’d thought, would be the old house broiling under the hot August sun, and from a different perspective. Showing a three quarter view of the building, perhaps. The sky would be bright and sunny, the clouds wispy with touches of pinkish mauve. The house would be cheery. The opposite of the painting she’d just completed.
She would finish the series of haunted house paintings. To address everyone’s concerns, she’d made the concession she wouldn’t go inside again. No matter what. Even if she saw something in the window or heard an eerie voice...she would not go inside. There, that was that.
When she went up to bed Frank wasn’t there. Working in his office most likely on that new book of his. When he got going he was as bad as she was, obsessed, until his task was completed. It did cross her mind he might not be working on his book. The image of the fat envelope she’d received from Andy Bracco’s daughter days ago passed through her mind. She’d told Frank to throw it in the trash can but she had a hunch he had not. She feared, but suspected, Frank was doing something with it and its secrets.
Damn, she knew she should have snatched Bracco’s file from him right away and burned the thing. Too late now. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know exactly how Joel had died. If it had been accidental or, as she had thought in her darkest times, an intentional murder. What would she, or Frank, do if they found a suspect–or a killer? The insanely invasive media coverage would resume, there could be, heaven forbid, a trial. She didn’t want to be reminded of those horrific days and her broken heart. It was the past and, heaven knows, had hurt her enough.
Joel going missing. The endless days and nights she suffered waiting for him to come home and walk through their door again. Slow torture. Joel being found dead in his car. As she laid in bed she fought back the panicked feeling she remembered all too well. The dread, the feelings of hopelessness, helplessness, that had made her so ill for so long. For two seemingly endless years, while Joel had been missing, she’d searched for, desperately longed for, and worried about him. Not knowing what had become or what had happened to him had nearly driven her insane. She couldn’t relive any of that again. She just couldn’t. She’d have a truthful conversation about it with Frank. The past should stay buried. She didn’t want whatever he might be doing to ruin the life she had now. Her and Frank’s good life. Frank would just have to understand. She had to make him understand. He couldn’t keep digging into Joel’s death.