The Haunting of Alcott Manor, page 28
part #1 of Alcott Manor Series
Love,
Anna
Henry held both notes in front of him in slightly quivering hands. They were the keys to his happiness, his passes to freedom, his reward for a long-fought battle.
"Thank you.” Tears rolled down his face. "Thank you."
Her throat was too tight to speak, and she knew if she said anything she would completely fall apart. So she let Henry have this moment that he’d waited more than a lifetime for, crossed her arms tightly around herself, and held on.
After Henry read the notes several times, he handed them to Gemma, who returned everything to the strong box. On their way to take in the early morning over-the-ocean sunrise, they stopped in the study. She lifted the coffee-stained mug she'd used as a paperweight and put the box prominently next to it, along with the skeleton key attached to the lavender ribbon.
“Henry." She took the birth certificate from the inside of her waistband. "Asher's wife. I think she ought to have this."
"You've met her?"
“Her name is Layla, she’s this lovely nurse who took care of my dad when he was in the hospital. She wants to see the manor restored, and I think this would help her. It would help us. She would get whatever stock and voting rights Asher would have been entitled to.”
"Okay. If you think it's the right thing." His face was nearly serene now. All traces of his last life were slowly being erased. The note had given him every bit of the vindication he’d searched for over the years.
She slid the folded birth certificate into the handle of the box and tied the ribbon of the skeleton key there, as well. "There's just one more thing I need to show you."
"Something else?”
She nodded, slow and sure. This was most certainly something he needed to know.
He bowed and gestured like the 1880s gentleman that he was. “Then lead the way.”
Chapter 38
Gemma drew in a deep breath and fished her portfolio from the bookshelf. “That night at the museum, after you left, I found all of the scrapbooks and history books on the manor. I was searching for something that might give me some insight into the structure and why it held on to such a dark vibe. I found this."
She laid a yellowed 1830 newspaper article on the counter of the bookshelf for Henry to read. “Cardill Builders’ Business Practices Called Into Question. Why am I not surprised at this?" he said.
“This was a series that played out in the paper for a number of weeks.” She placed several more articles on the counter for Henry. “Apparently, Sam Cardill’s father had already begun building Alcott Manor, as well as a few other majestic homes. He overextended himself in the process and had a hard time getting the lumber he needed to finish the jobs."
She pointed to one paragraph on the top page. "When he was unable to pay his vendors, he decided to harvest the lumber himself. From several of the barrier islands, more specifically, Bloody Coast."
Henry’s mouth dropped open, and Gemma could almost feel a part of him drop to the floor. A disbelieving part, that someone could possibly screw up so badly. "The site of that Native American massacre?"
"The one. So many of the Yemassee tribe were killed in that battle with the English that the sand and the marshes ran red.”
"Don't tell me," Henry said.
"He cut down the trees that had not only soaked up the blood from that battle, but also trees from their nearby sacred burial grounds. At the time, there weren’t any laws protecting the land or preventing him from harvesting those trees, so nothing ever happened to him for doing that—other than being publicly bashed in the papers.
“But that tragedy, the injustice of those Native Americans’ deaths, is imprinted into the very fibers of this home." She gestured toward the hidden passageway and felt the insides of the house—the Yemassee Indian spirits—lean toward her touch. “When he took down those trees, he brought their spirits and their suffering into this house. Both are literally attached to the wooden framework of the manor.”
"Those imprints have continued to attract like experience for almost two hundred years. That’s the original reason why we’ve had such a history of injustice in this house, isn’t it?”
She nodded. "Once I clear the imprints of that injustice and the adversity that’s trapped in the wood, the house should finally have a clean slate.” What she almost said, but couldn’t, was that he would finally be free. With all mysteries solved and his innocence proven, he would move on.
At that very thought, her heart wailed and reached for him, wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anyone.
Just like Lizzie Mae had.
Henry walked a wide circle around the library and pushed his hands through the length of his hair as if there were no words. Just no words for what the Cardills had done and how they had cursed the Alcott family for generations.
Henry was beyond smashing walls and destroying things. He was beyond the anger. He was enjoying all sorts of new freedoms now. As soon as she finished this clearing work, she knew he would enjoy even more.
A while later, Gemma curled into Henry on the gliding love seat she'd had placed among the roses. It was the call of the spirits of the Native Americans that she had first heard, and it was their dark and tortured reach she had felt through the walls. Their suffering and their need had appealed to the Native American heritage she had inherited from her mother.
They knew her ability to clear their tragic imprints would set them free—Henry, too—and bring justice to the land and the Alcott family.
The wind knew that, too, and foretold it.
All truth can be found in nature.
Their spirits had left with an upsurge. The house released them when she sang the ancient chant that freed Native American spirits from an earthbound attachment. This time, it was her intent that ruled the house and dictated what would happen.
She’d never used this particular chant before. Any spirit she’d previously encountered usually just moved on when she cleared the land or the building she was working on. This situation was different.
The chant had worked like a spiritual waterspout, lifting the Yemassee Indian spirits out of the depths of the manor and sending them into the sky and beyond. Where they ought to have gone over a century ago. When it was finally over, the house was quiet—truly quiet—as though everyone had finally left the party and gone home.
A little spent from the final clearings on the house, she rested heavily against Henry’s shoulder and enjoyed the beginning of the sun that rose in front of them.
“I don’t think I got that young girl and the artist to cross over,” she said.
“They wouldn’t go?”
She clicked her tongue. “Well, my process was to free Native American spirits. Besides, I don't think those two are here. I think they’re more there, in 1885. I’m not sure how to reach them—or for that matter, how to close whatever portal this house has in it.”
Henry glanced at the house behind them. “I don’t know, either.”
Gemma decided she’d work on that. Another time, though. For now, she tried to memorize everything she could about Henry—the spiced scent of his skin, the deep, rich timbre of his voice, and the slow, poetic cadence of his words. Soon enough, the memories would be all she had.
Henry caressed her cheek and kissed her. "You've changed my life in ways that no one else could. I shall always love you."
“I guess I could say the same about you. I will spend the rest of my life loving you. And missing you.” She wondered if this was it. If he would simply fade from her view, slip from her arms, cease to exist. She thought her own heart might stop when he did, and she quickly understood how people could die of a broken heart.
Car doors slammed and they turned around in time to see Tom, Paisley, and their attorney, Morris Pate, walk inside through the back door. Gemma didn’t hurry to run inside. Her final moments with Henry were ticking away.
“I guess they’ll find the notes we left for them. As well as the birth certificate,” Henry said.
“Not to mention one other thing.” She decided he ought to know about this last thing.
“What one other thing?”
“Let’s just say that there are benefits for all when you choose to honor your instincts.”
When they finally went inside, Henry and Gemma found them in the study. She stayed close to Henry and hung with him in the background. She guessed that she only had a few minutes left with Henry, and she didn’t want to use that time on work. Plus, she knew they’d find what she left on the desk for Tom, and the ball would start rolling toward final justice.
Morris Pate ran around the lower floor of the house with his cell phone to his ear. Tom and Paisley shook their heads in quiet, wide-eyed amazement while they read Anna's suicide letters.
Gemma nudged Henry. “I guess we've given them a lot to think about.”
“He’s got it.” Morris lifted the phone away from his mouth and whispered to Tom and Paisley. “The security company says there is clear footage of Asher killing the security guard and entering the house. We've got enough to win the appeal.”
“How did they— I thought the cameras were destroyed?" Henry asked.
She smiled with the satisfaction of a war finally won. “The original ones, yes. But the workplace security cameras that my dad ordered were so small that Asher apparently never saw them. Private Eyes? Remember them?”
His eyes glazed over as if he searched his memory banks. “They were here on the day you arrived at the manor."
“I felt guided to organize the desk, and I found a past due invoice from them. I moved it into plain sight and emailed Tom about it so they would check it out. From what Morris is saying, it sounds like the company has recorded proof, and we’ll win the appeal.”
She did a weak fist pump. She was excited that her father’s financial future had been saved, but she was also filled with dread at the prospect of redoing this house without Henry. She wouldn’t be able to touch an inch of this place without thinking of him.
“The newspapers are going to want this,” Tom said and waved the suicide letters. “We are going to turn public opinion to our side with this story.”
Gemma glanced toward the library. She would also give Tom the articles she found in the museum so he could pass copies of that on to the newspaper. The background about Sam Cardill’s father raiding the Bloody Coast and sacred burial grounds to build Alcott Manor would make for award-winning reporting.
And Tom was right. It would also turn the tide of public opinion in their favor. They wouldn't have any trouble finishing the restoration now.
Right on cue, the morning newspapers hit the front porch with a thud. Paisley retrieved them and immediately unfolded the front page of the first paper.
She showed something to Tom, who waved it off.
“I’m not even going to read that. Get that reporter’s name, though, and set up a meeting. ASAP.” Tom waved the birth certificate toward her.
Paisley parked the unfolded newspaper on a round side table in the corner of the office and pulled out her phone. “Do you want me to tell him the reason for the meeting? Or just ask him if he can meet?”
“Just tell him we uncovered…” He finger-combed the puffiest part of his hair and whispered, “Or someone uncovered…” He cleared his throat. “Tell him Anna Alcott’s suicide note was found and ask him if he wants to see it. That’ll get him over here. I’ll be out back with Morris.”
Paisley stepped onto the front porch with her phone to make the call.
Henry wandered over to see what Tom hadn't wanted to read, then he called Gemma over. “You ought to see this, Gemma.” His tone was serious, and she knew it was bad press.
It was a full-page spread entitled The Alcott Manor Curse Claims Another Life. It was a feature on Asher’s death and the destruction of the latest restoration.
On the top left-hand side of the page were photos of Henry’s father and mother, along with a short paragraph about them. There were photos of Henry—Benjamin—and Anna, and their children. The history of their lives was written in condensed paragraphs so that even the shortest attention spans could take in all the pertinent details.
Gemma scanned the story, then her eyes jumped to the top of the right-hand side of the page. Pictures of her, her father, and her cousin were spread under the smaller headline: Stewart Family Members Also Fall Under Alcott Manor Curse.
“What sort of nonsense is that—fall under Alcott Manor curse? No one called me to vet this article. That’s inaccurate and bad PR. We’re overcoming everything that's happened here.” She noted that the paper must have taken the photos from her father’s and her respective websites. “I need to update that photo.”
“Read the article,” Henry said.
She sighed. “The four primary members of Stewart Restoration were among the latest, but not the last, to fall under the Alcott Manor Curse. Asher Cardill was found in Alcott Manor yesterday, impaled on a broken piece of wood after a likely fall from the second-story balcony. After winning the bid to restore the home, Glenn Stewart and his wife Rose worked on the home for over a year before she had a heart attack and died suddenly.
“After burying his wife, Glenn brought his daughter and niece to join the job. The threesome were blindsided by a truck in front of Alcott Manor before they could begin work. The three family members were taken to Mercy Hospital, where the two women died from injuries within the week. Glenn Stewart died two weeks later. Funerals were held in their hometown of Moorestown.”
Gemma’s mouth fell open. “Is this a joke?”
Henry’s stare was the kind of serious compassion she’d seen several times before. It was the this-is-going-to-hurt-and-I’m-really-sorry-about-that look. Her father had this expression on his face when she saw him for the first time after her mother died.
“It’s not a joke, my love. I've just been waiting for the right time to tell you."
“Tell me what? Henry, this is not funny.” Chills spread over her body from the inside out, like she’d swallowed a bucket of ice.
“It's okay.” Henry ran his fingers along her arm. “Just stop and think about it. When was the last time you drove a car or brushed your teeth or ate something?”
“I ate a bagel this morning. I eat a bagel or a muffin almost every morning when I drink my hot tea.”
He nodded patiently. “Are you sure? I used to think I had coffee every morning until I realized it was just a habit I was attached to. It wasn’t real.”
“I think I know when I’m eating and drinking, Henry.”
“When is the last time you remember brushing your teeth?” he asked.
She ran her tongue across her teeth. “My teeth are clean, I—” She tried to remember brushing her teeth that morning—or any morning since she’d been at Alcott Manor, but she couldn’t come up with a specific memory of the simple twice-daily task.
Panic shimmied through the cold in her body at the thought that maybe she’d lost her mind. It was a feeling that she wasn’t really living the reality she thought she was, and that scared her. A rude awakening. Like the one when she thought she was happily—or mostly happily—married and then she learned that her husband was carrying on with one of his grad students.
She really couldn’t remember the last time she’d brushed her teeth. “Teeth brushing is one of those rote habits that you do every day, but you don’t necessarily remember doing it every day.” She said it to console herself, then walked away from Henry. She looked out the grand window at the ocean. The rose gardens she’d designed to celebrate Anna’s life were in full bloom.
“If I’m dead, how was I able to restore this house?” She said it as the perfect retort. The one statement that would prove to herself that everything was fine. She was alive and well, on the job, and saving her father’s business.
“When was the last time you had a conversation with someone who wasn't me? I don't just mean someone who listens to you, but a person with whom you've had an actual conversation.”
“This is so ridiculous. I've had plenty of conversations.” Her hands flew to her hips and she sent him a glare that would make him regret this foolishness.
“Name the last thing that Paisley or Tom said to you. Or any of the workers.” He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, as if he had all the time in the world, as if he were just waiting on her.
“That’s—” She tried to remember an actual conversation, but mostly, she’d told people what to do. “That doesn't prove anything. I'm in charge around here, so I tell people what to do all day.” Her words had taken on a sharp edge, a toothy bite, and the flavor of feminine fume—as they should. This was some fine way to spend their last few moments together.
“At some point, you would have had a two-way conversation, right?” He offered the suggestion delicately. Reasonably. As if he tried to tell her that she had spinach in her front teeth, ice cream on the seat of her pants, or toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
This only pissed her off more and she paced the floor, stuttering over half words that made no sense. This was the most ridiculous argument she’d ever had in her life. “Fine. How did I die?”
“The car accident.” He pointed to the newspaper. His tone was final, and relief drifted over his face, as though he had wanted to tell her that piece of information for a long time.
“I— My dad— If I'm dead, then what in the hell am I doing here?”
Henry shrugged and gestured to the house around them. “Unfinished business?”
Gemma gasped and put her hand to her forehead. It rested there while something sunk in. Something horrifying. “This isn’t possible. If I were dead, I would simply know it. I’m not one of those—unconscious types.”
Her mother’s words about ghosts came back to her. About how most of them didn’t know they were dead. They relived their lives or parts of them, over and over. The few that did know they were dead didn’t know how to move forward or cross over. It just wasn’t automatic for everyone as many often thought. It all came down to what their attachments were.
