Chapter 4 #2
My stomach growls and I decide to head downstairs, back to the kitchen.
I notice a door outside my bedroom at the very end of the hallway.
I try this knob, and it opens easily. A gust of cold air shoots past me accompanied by the smell of must. I flick on the light switch.
A steep, narrow set of stairs winds down but also up.
Huh. A back staircase. For servants maybe?
I glance up to what must be the way to the attic.
The stairs creak beneath my shoes as I climb.
There is no railing, so I place my hands on the walls.
If I were claustrophobic, this dim staircase would have my heart pounding.
As it is, it’s creepy enough. I peep up at the landing.
There’s another door here, and I decide to explore.
The crusty door creaks as I swing it inward to a large attic room.
I can barely make out a bed in the corner in the light from the staircase.
The air is cold, moldy, as if the room hasn’t been used in decades.
Wind ripples through the rafters, and I shiver, half expecting a family of bats to swoop down on me.
I close the door and head back down. Enough exploring for the night.
After a quick dinner of scrambled eggs, I put on the kettle.
There’s a box of chamomile tea in the pantry.
That will do. Tea in hand, I settle in the front room and click on the TV.
Cable. The eleven o’clock news out of Boston plays.
And the sound from the outside world is reassuring in the old, empty house.
Curled up on the sofa, I look around and sigh. This is just what I need. Peace and quiet, a place where I can work on my writing, and a place where my ex, and the men who are hounding us, can’t find me.
The news ends, and I’m feeling sleepy from the long trip and the emotions of meeting my father, so I decide to go to bed.
I turn off the TV, and in the silence, I hear little noises like tiny gasps.
Just the wind through the old windowpanes.
As I climb the staircase, the heat rumbles on, making more surreptitious noise and raising goose bumps on my arms. I look over my shoulder, but there’s only a dark, empty foyer below.
Despite the groaning of the house in the wind, I fall asleep quickly.
A woman screams, her terrified voice shrill, echoing around me.
My pulse races and I’m pounding down the hallway.
I have to get away. Then I’m immersed in a cold mist, trying to call out, but my voice is trapped in my throat.
I’m desperate for help, but there’s no one here, just the screaming woman somewhere in the dark.
I wake up with a start. My heart beats like a jackhammer.
I’m covered with sweat as I grab for my phone, swing my feet to the cold floor, ready to bolt.
But everything is silent. I was dreaming.
I was caught in the nightmare that has disturbed my sleep since I was a little girl.
Not every night, but when I’m feeling particularly anxious, I dream of the screaming woman.
I never see her, only a gray mist and her terrified voice.
Sometimes I’m running, desperate to get away from whatever has the woman in its grips.
But I never get anywhere. I’m trapped. When I was young and had the dream, I’d often wake up with my mother sitting on the side of my bed.
She’d brush back my dark hair and tell me that it wasn’t real.
I was safe, but the nightmare has never gone away.
In the morning, it takes me a minute to remember where I am.
I’m tired from the dream. It always leaves me groggy the next day.
Still, I need to get up and get going. Weak sunlight filters through the curtains and casts a gray pall over the little room.
I turn on the bedside lamp and check my phone, which seems out of place in this old house, this bedroom.
But no missed calls or texts. That’s good.
Dressed for the day, I help myself to a piece of blueberry pie and a cup of tea. Not exactly a healthy breakfast, but I want to thank Mrs. Harwood, and I want her to know that I enjoyed the treat.
I head next door. The porch creaks under my footsteps, and I notice the scent of cinnamon and pine as I ring the bell. I shove my cold hands in my jacket pockets as I wait.
An elderly woman answers. “Emma!”
“Yes. Mrs. Harwood?”
“Ruth, please.” She steps aside. “Do come in. It’s getting chillier every day, I swear.
Summer is gone before you know it.” She’s not what I expected.
Ruth’s high cheekbones and beautiful smile supersede the lines that trail from her eyes and around her mouth.
Fluffy silver hair brushes her shoulders, and she’s wearing lipstick and mascara even at this early hour.
She’s petite and slim, wearing dark jeans and a hand-knitted sweater.
She reminds me of an actress, whose name escapes me, who starred in seventies films and is still lovely decades later.
I follow her down the hallway, and she motions for me to sit at the kitchen table while she goes to the stove and turns down a burner where bacon sizzles, scenting the air. “Coffee? I just made a pot.”
“Yes, thank you. I really enjoyed the pie. It’s amazing.”
She smiles. “I love to fuss in the kitchen. When Alex is in residence, I really get geared up. There are only so many muffins and cakes my husband and I can eat.”
I wonder how she stays so slim.
“Let me know if I get carried away.” She waves a hand in the air before setting two dark green mugs on the table. There’s cream and sugar in front of me, but I notice she takes her coffee black and, by the smell, strong.
Ruth sits across from me. “Alex said that you were a distant relative.”
Hmmm. I guess he hasn’t broadcast to the neighbors that I’m actually his daughter, which is fine with me. I’m still getting used to it myself.
“Yes. I grew up in New York and didn’t know about the Spencer family connection until just recently.” I smile and sip my coffee.
She studies me closely with dark, depthless eyes.
“Alex is a wonderful man. I always knew he’d make it big someday.
Above and beyond the family fortune, that is.
I watched him grow up, he and his sister, Mary.
” Her eyes shift to the window that looks out on the wooded backyard.
“My husband and I were great friends with his parents.” She taps the table with knotted fingers, the most obvious sign of her age.
“They’re both gone now.” Ruth stands. “Would you like a muffin?”
“No, thank you. I just had breakfast. I wanted to come by and introduce myself and thank you for everything. The stocked fridge was a lifesaver. I was starved when I got here last night.”
“You’re more than welcome.”
A man wearing a plaid flannel robe ambles into the room. His gray hair stands up like he’s been out in a windstorm, and his dark-framed glasses perch awkwardly on his nose.
“This is my husband, Simon,” Ruth says, taking his arm. “Simon, say hello to Emma, Alex’s houseguest.”
He peers at me through thick lenses like he’s trying to place me. His mind seems to clear and he smiles around yellowed teeth and nods. “Hello. That’s right. Alex said she was coming.” He looks at his wife as if for confirmation.
“Yes. Sit, dear, and I’ll get your breakfast.” His cloudy gray eyes meet mine and he tips his head. “Mary.”
Ruth works at the stove, turning bacon with a set of tongs. “Yes. I thought so, too.” She turns, glances at me. “You resemble Mary.”
“I haven’t met her yet.”
“And you won’t,” Ruth says, snapping off the burner and sliding eggs and bacon onto a plate. “She died young.”
“Alex didn’t mention her.”
“He doesn’t like to talk about his sister. It’s too painful.” Ruth sets the plate in front of her husband.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I feel my face redden. I feel like I’ve stirred up something that was meant to stay hidden. I stand. “It’s awfully nice to meet you both, but I probably should get back and get busy.”
Ruth sets a cup of coffee in front of Simon along with a clutch of pills. “I’ll walk you out,” she says, and leads the way back down the hall.
Ruth whispers at the door. “Simon, unfortunately, is not himself.” She sighs. “He does all right most days, but he’s prone to say things that don’t make sense.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” She smiles and squeezes my shoulder before opening the door.