The Haunting of Alcott Manor, page 14
part #1 of Alcott Manor Series
When the maid finished Anna’s hair, she went to the closet and retrieved a long white dress with a high lace collar and blue sash. She laid it on the bed and brushed the wrinkles from the fabric.
“No,” Anna said flatly. “I want the red one with the rose.” She waved the glass of wine carelessly when she spoke, and the liquid sloshed toward the rim.
“Oh, no, ma’am. The senator said you were to wear the white—”
“The senator isn’t here.” Anna took a sip of wine beneath her glare. “Get the red dress.”
The young maid dropped her head and curtsied. “Yes, ma’am.”
She returned the white dress to the closet and brought two new dresses: a red dress that was cut low in the front with a matching rose sewn into the deepest point of the V, and a long, purple sateen dress with a high neck.
“This one would be nice to wear to meet the President of the United States. Don’t you think, Miss Anna? It’s so lovely. I think it looks especially nice with your skin.” The maid drew her short, thick hand down the dress to show it off.
Anna stumbled when she snatched the purple dress from the maid’s hands. She threw it toward the closet. “Put it back.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid pressed her lips together and gathered the gown from the floor.
When the purple dress was out of sight, she helped Anna into the red dress and buttoned it up the back. Anna pressed the stiff red collar to ensure that it would stand up, then lifted her breasts inside the bodice so that they would lead the way. They would not be a sight unseen.
“Oh, but Miss Anna, the President will be downstairs, and this is a very important night for the senator.”
"Yes, Della. It’s always an important night for the senator. Now leave me alone.”
The maid curtsied and hurried out of the room. Gemma moved aside when she passed, and she wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t.
Anna threw her glass against the closed door, and it shattered with a high-pitched crash, the red wine bleeding onto the door and rug. She slumped into a chair with her head in her hands, her body shaking.
The gas lamps hissed and the fire’s low flames crackled. Gemma wanted to tell Anna she was going to be okay, even though she knew this story didn’t work out well for her. She walked slowly toward the vision of Anna, whose sadness touched Gemma’s heart in a familiar ache. Unable to do nothing in the presence of her suffering, she placed her hand on Anna’s shoulder. Anna shot up with a gasp. “Who’s there?” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
Gemma’s hand flew to her mouth to cover the scream that wanted to escape. She’d touched Anna, felt the coolness of her smooth shoulder. Somehow, she was here.
Or, Gemma wondered, was she within the house's memory somehow?
"I've lost my mind in this godforsaken house." Anna yanked on the right-hand drawer of her vanity and removed several paintbrushes and four glass jars, each nearly full of a different bright color. She spread a cloth on the bedside table and arranged the jars and brushes. Then she leaned across the edge of her bed and began to give life to the odd-looking flowers Gemma had seen on the bottom of the headboard just moments earlier.
She watched while Anna carefully colored a combination of light and dark purple hues on the petals and added rich black centers. Anna was calmer now, not scared or frustrated. The anger was gone. Even the earlier drunken imbalance was missing. It was just her and her flowers, her private world. She sketched the dry, dead, and crumpled leaves Gemma had seen just a moment ago. Anna's focus was unmovable.
Gemma stepped away, careful not to make any noise or knock anything over. Both because she didn’t understand how she could create a disturbance in this 1880s world, and Henry had said he thought these live memories were dangerous somehow.
Too, she didn’t want to disturb Anna’s peace. Flowers and painting must have been her solace.
She felt safer in Anna’s room than she had in Benjamin’s. And though she couldn’t believe that she was going to do this, she was. If this was the night when Anna died, and if there was a note, maybe it was nearby.
She tiptoed to the open secretary on the off chance that a suicide note would be there. On the desk were several balled up pieces of white paper, a black fountain pen, an open bottle of ink, and a skeleton key tied to a ribbon. A stack of white stationery with gold double-scripted As at the center top were housed next to matching envelopes. One letter was askew, and the words Dear Sam were written across the upper left-hand side of the paper.
No suicide note.
She checked on Anna, whose concentration remained fiercely devoted to her painting. Gemma swallowed hard. The delicate knob on the desk was smooth and the narrow drawer slid open easily, quietly, and she sighed. She knew Anna didn't see her when she touched her. She couldn't imagine the stress she would cause if Anna suddenly saw her desk drawers opening and closing.
Inside the first drawer were two fountain pens. The other narrow drawer was empty. There were four drawers on each side, and she opened them all with the same disappointing result.
Anna finished the painting and examined her work from three steps away. Seemingly satisfied enough, she sat at her vanity and applied too much red to her cheeks and lips in rote movement. “You ruined my life, Benjamin. With one callous shake of your head, you took away any chance of happiness I could have had in this life.”
Gemma glanced at the clock on the mantel: nine thirty p.m. Adrenaline poured too freely through her heart. That had to be Anna's time, not her own.
A rapid thump-thump-thump sounded from the downstairs, and she spun toward the open door, half expecting to hear or see Benjamin. No one appeared. There was only the quiet.
She twisted to see if Anna had heard the noise, but found that she was in the room by herself. The warmth from the fire was missing, the perfumed scent was gone. A tiny wisp of smoke spiraled from one of the wicks, then disappeared into Gemma’s memory.
She scanned the room, stunned by the drama that was held hostage within these walls. The house was teeming with this story, and she tried to think how she would heal the imprints that were left here. Nothing she could do seemed like enough.
A visit from the President of the United States, his announcement of the senator’s candidacy for the presidency, a slightly drunk wife who had lost hope and was bent on revenge—this sounded a lot more like Benjamin’s motivation for murder than a case for Anna’s suicide.
She crossed the room to a full-length portrait of Anna that hung on the side wall. She wore the lavender dress the maid had shown her, with a white lace collar and fabric-covered buttons down the bodice. She held a small bouquet of white flowers and red tulips wrapped in white lace—the same flowers painted on the growth chart and her headboard. A closed-lipped smile graced Anna’s gentle face, but her eyes held hints of the watery sadness Gemma had seen tonight.
The wind whipped through the branches and rattled the shutters on either side of the bedroom windows. She checked the clock again, and her heart clenched with the pain that fear brought. Ten p.m.
Impossible that it was that late.
With one last look about the room, she decided she had to make a run for the downstairs. There was no other way out, and she sure as hell wasn't going to wait in this room until morning.
Her carpeted footsteps seemed loud in the hallway of this house that was so different at night. In fact, every noise held more strength in the manor after the sun set. She kept forging toward the stairwell, one foot in front of the other. Drafts meandered effortlessly around her like ghosts looking for someone to play with.
Another thump from downstairs stopped her. “Okay,” she whispered. “Just keep moving.” Her steps came slower than she wanted them to.
One, two, three, four…
She knew if she ran her fear would quickly ramp into panic.
Five, six, seven eight…
She paused at the top of the back stairway and glanced at the light shining beneath a narrow door. A shadow passed from right to left under the doorway.
Thump.
God. Please. Please, please, please.
She squeezed her hands into fists and placed one shaky foot on the top step, then the next. Rapid thump, thump, thumps echoed from downstairs. All her stomach muscles tightened into concrete and stayed that way. She planned her escape to the outside. Two turns, then a straight shot to the door.
She was almost out. When her foot hit the last step, she blew her nerves out on a quiet breath.
Silence.
Keep moving forward, Gem.
The wind whistled alongside the house. She wondered for a moment if Asher or some member of his clan were at the house again and working to keep Henry from meeting his deadline.
She just had to get past the library and the study, then she'd make a dash to the kitchen door that led to the outside.
She listened at the threshold.
Quiet. Whatever it was it had stopped. Her eyes closed and relief poured through her.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
They were louder this time, and she crossed her hands over her heart that beat so hard and fast it threatened to break a rib.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It sounded like cabinet doors slamming shut, but not quite. She drew in the deepest breath she could. Then she stepped lightly down the long hallway, her feet picking up the pace with each step.
The grunting noise surprised her most. A homeless person looking for shelter or something to eat? Her father had suggested that the homeless might have been on site at night and responsible for that girl’s death.
When she reached the library, several hardback books were scattered in the hallway. The title on one of the covers was illuminated in gold. Distractedly, she picked it up, along with the other two that were near it, and clasped them to her chest. The noises were the books hitting the floor.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She inhaled sharply and more audibly than she planned. She felt his presence, heard his wheezing.
Another memory from the house?
He grunted again, and two more books fell to the floor.
Thump. Thump.
It was a stupidly rational thought in light of the danger she was in, but she thought it anyway. About how Henry had been right about his prediction that the books would end up on the floor again. Her breath shook in small, captured fits at the idea of what she had to do.
She wasn't going back upstairs—the only way out from here was to pass the wide opening to the library. She wasn't going to take off running or tiptoeing until she knew where Benjamin was.
One, two, go.
She leaned to the right. A man in a long-tailed tuxedo—the same one she'd just seen—clawed at the bookcase and threw books to the floor one by one.
Thump.
Thump.
When the shelf was empty, he pounded his fist at the backboard of the bookshelf until a hole broke through. He grabbed the edge of it and ripped an entire length of board, then gave it a toss.
He peered inside the hole, then without warning, he faced her. He had been dead for some time. A noose of rope hung around his neck, the length of it dangling against his suit, the ends of it frayed. A red, angled furrow spread upward across the side of his neck. Half his face was missing, and blood ran down the front of his neck and suit. The damaged flesh and muscles moved when he spoke.
“Get out,” he growled and took a step toward her.
The scream she wanted to give, in warning and for help, never passed her lips. Instead, it fell backward and inward and somehow became a part of her and made her feel the victim all over again.
“Get out!” he roared. Heavy footsteps clomped, and she ran toward the kitchen at breakneck speed. When she finally reached it, she slammed the door behind her and kept running. She didn't stop until she reached the beach.
Chapter 18
In the full light of the bright moon, Gemma paced in front of the rising tide, the books still clasped tightly to her chest. As much as she tried to let the medicinal crash of the waves calm her, all she had seen stood firm and wouldn’t allow it.
Why had she seen him?
She stopped, and the ocean spilled over the toes of her black boots.
She didn’t see ghosts.
Never had.
Unlike the other people she’d met this haunted evening, he wasn’t a memory that the house had cast forward.
He was a ghost, pure and simple.
How was this even possible?
She stared at the back of the historic home that she was charged with restoring. It challenged her with a menacing glare and shadows that morphed with unexpected life.
Trees blowing.
Shifting moonlight. Clouds. Ocean breeze.
A tall figure approached her from the side of the house. She backed toward the waves and prepared to break into a run down the beach.
Shadows, she tried to rationalize. But she saw him more clearly this time. A man running at her. It was happening again.
She took off in a wild terror, certain she would outrun him. But she didn’t get very far before he grabbed her.
He spun her around, and her scream that had lost its way earlier found its voice.
“No!” Her voice echoed over the waves, and she wrestled against his hold.
“Gemma!”
She stopped everything and realized that it was Henry who had run to her, not Benjamin. It was Henry who stood there and tried to keep her from getting away.
“Oh,” she gasped.
He pulled her into his arms and held her close, and it didn't take long for his embrace to calm her. His soothing effect was almost immediate. He was her ally, her defending force, the one she could trust.
“Where have you been?” His hand stroked the back of her head. “I’ve been searching for you for hours.”
“I was just upstairs to look at the furniture and— I’m not even sure how to describe what just happened.”
He held her at half an arm's length to see her face. “You saw Benjamin?”
She nodded.
“Did he hurt you?” There was a protectiveness in the way that he said it. An urgency, a quickness to his phrase.
She exhaled and noticed her breath was shaky. It wasn’t just Benjamin or the fear of him. Something about unexpected comfort, she thought. She felt a little weak-kneed in the presence of it. An unusual response for her. She typically preferred to take care of herself. Now all she wanted to do was fall into the safety of Henry's arms.
Maybe in light of the fact that she didn’t know how to defend herself against someone as terrifying as Benjamin, his protection was more welcomed and appreciated. Or maybe it was because it came from Henry and in a way that said he cared.
The memory of the man who lacked most of his face and chased her from his home was bright in her mind. “I’m fine. I'm okay.”
“Damn it, Benjamin.” He held her close to him once again and guided her toward the side of the house. “Come on.”
They were headed toward Anna’s winter garden, she knew.
When they arrived, Gemma looked at the iron and glass ceiling of her sanctuary. She thought about how this same room had served as a refuge for a woman a hundred years ago and now, once again, for her. Ironically, they were both hiding from the same man.
She and Henry sat together on the pillows and blankets. The low fire crackled, and its shifting light painted itself across the concern on Henry's face.
“You didn't notice the time passing?”
“It didn’t pass. I wasn't upstairs for more than a few minutes, an hour at most. Time was just on its own schedule.” She held on to the books she'd picked up in the library.
“When you weren’t down by the end of my meeting, I went upstairs to look for you. You weren't there.”
“I was in the master bedrooms and the hallway.”
Henry shook his head slowly as if he didn't want to upset her. “Tell me what happened.”
She ran a hand through her hair and tried to explain the kidnapped memories she’d seen and how they had come to life in front of her. She described Benjamin and Anna, how she wanted the divorce, the dress. "I touched her, Henry. Anna. I touched her shoulder and she felt it. She reacted to my touch. This house holds some sort of cross between this world and that one. Whatever that one is.”
Henry shut his eyes for an inhale. “You shouldn’t be in that part of the house at night.”
"I wasn't. I mean, I was, but… It was three o'clock in the afternoon when I went up there to inspect the furniture, then there was this tuxedo, and next thing I knew, it was six something. After a few more minutes, it was nine thirty. It was the strangest thing. When I came downstairs, it was dark and late, and for the life of me, I don't know how that happened. I don't know how any of that happened."
Worry clouded his eyes. "Just promise me that you'll stay out of that part of the house at night. It's dangerous."
She stifled a pang of terror before it ran away with itself.
“It's hard to predict what the house will do. Especially now that we’re so close to the anniversary of Anna's death. Remember what I told you. The house makes things happen. It pulls people into its world. You mustn't interact with those memories,” he said.
She thought of the connection she'd felt from the house on the first day she'd arrived when she'd touched the pillar. She also thought of how the house welcomed her, pulled her inside. She had originally taken this as a good sign. Now she wasn't so sure. "I thought perhaps my reason for being here had a higher purpose. Now I'm wondering if the house is playing me for a fool.”
He brought his hand to her face and pressed his lips gently to hers.
“True confession?”
He nodded.
“I haven't felt this frightened in a very long time. How is it possible that I could have touched Anna? Or that she could have known that I did?”
He shook his head and inhaled loudly and deeply enough that it took up a good two seconds. "There's something about this house that joins this world with the one that used to be. I don't know how, but there's a connection, almost like a portal. If you should ever see these memories again while you're here, you have to promise that you won't touch anything. Or anyone."
