Haunted Ground (24 page)

I was still grinning from ear to ear as I closed the door behind Aidan on Sunday night.  He’d been with me for nearly twenty-four hours and had to go home and feed his cat, Leomhann.  When I asked Aidan what the name meant, he informed me that it translated into ‘big cat’ from Gaelic. 

“Very imaginative you are,” I said laughing.  “So, if you get a dog, will it be called ‘big dog’?”

“Neh.  Dogs are easier since they show more of their personality.  Cats are an enigma, and I wouldn’t want to give the wrong name.  Leomhann is the perfect name for that self-absorbed, lazy brute.  He’s probably going to give me the cold shoulder when I get home for not being there last night.  He’s very territorial and views me as his property.”

“Well, you’d better get him something yummy to make up for your desertion.  Can’t wait to meet him.”  I actually wasn’t a fan of cats, but this one sounded like quite a character.

I was actually in very good spirits as I climbed back up the stairs.  The past weekend had been unexpectedly wonderful and I knew I would sleep soundly tonight, knowing that it was only a few more hours until I would see Aidan again.  He said that the work would continue as planned, and he might have to hire an additional man to take Colin’s place.  I didn’t want to talk or think about Colin.  I’d give my cooperation to the police, but I couldn’t care less what happened to the man after that. 

I glanced out the window at the gathering clouds.  It looked as if it might rain again, so I went around closing the windows to keep the rain from drenching the floor.  The air in the rooms was flat and heavy, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out by the coming storm.  I supposed it was the calm before the storm that people talked about, when everything was strangely tranquil, as if the world was holding its breath.

I walked into the room where Aidan had spent Friday night.  He’d taken his sleeping bag, but the window was still open, the ashtray on the sill.  I shut the window and turned to leave when I noticed the box.  There was a torn sheet of paper tucked into the flap.  It read:

Lexi,

This is the box of albums you’d asked about.  I brought it down from the attic while you were sleeping.

Cheers,

Dot

I was grateful to Dot for remembering about my interest, but honestly, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to look at the pictures.  I realized that subconsciously, I’d been putting it off, afraid of what I might find.  I didn’t really want to see the faces of the Hughes women, but I needed to put my mind to rest.  Were people really seeing something that wasn’t there because they wanted to find a connection, or was there really some resemblance between myself and Kelly? 

The box was just sitting there in the corner where Dot had left it.  There was nothing to sit on, so I sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled it toward me.  There were several albums and a few framed photographs that someone had carelessly thrown on top as they packed away the photos.  I picked up the uppermost album and turned back the heavy brown cover to find black-and-white snaps dating back to the war.  There was a man in uniform, a young woman in a polka dot dress with her hair in a Victory roll so popular during the war, and pictures of an older couple who might have been either of those people’s parents.  I flipped the pages until the pictures became more current.  There were lots of shots of two little girls, who I assumed were Kelly and Myra, and an attractive woman who must have been their mother. 

I felt a wave of melancholy as I looked at the old snaps.  At one time, these people were happy, blissfully ignorant of the future that was to come.  They were laughing and posing playfully, the girls now in their teens, sitting on the couch with their arms around each other.  I pulled out the photograph and held it up to the light as a shiver of apprehension raced down my spine.  I didn’t have to ask which one was Kelly and which one was Myra.  Myra was dark-haired and a little chubby, her dark eyes smiling into the camera as she rested her head on her sister’s shoulder.  Kelly was a redhead, her eyes either blue or green, and a sprinkling of freckles across her pert nose.  She had a wide mouth that gave just a hint of a smile as she looked into the lens. 

My hair was darker, more auburn than red, and my eyes hazel, but the girl in the picture could have been my sister.  It wasn’t just her features, but the expression on her face.  There was many a picture from my teenage years when I looked just like that, as if I were hiding some great secret and I could barely contain the enigmatic smile that resulted in that playful look.  How was it possible for us to look so alike when there was no connection between us whatsoever? 

I flipped the page and looked at some more pictures.  Toward the end of the album, there were pictures of Kelly with what I assumed was her husband, her belly round and her face filled out with the glow of pregnancy.  The man looked at Kelly with a look of such devotion and love that it was hard to believe what I’d heard only a few days ago.  What had gone wrong between these two young people who looked so content?

I got to the end of the album and two loose pieces of paper fell out into my lap.  I picked them up and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the summer evening.  I was suddenly sick to my stomach, my hand shaking violently.  What I was looking at were the drawings of a child.  The first one depicted a mom, dad, and a little girl between them with the house in the background.  It was almost identical to the picture I had given my dad years ago.  The signature at the bottom was written in a childish hand, the N drawn backward, and the letters crooked and slanted.  It said, “Sandy,” with a little flower drawn underneath. 

The second drawing was even more disturbing.  It showed the ruin and a man kneeling beneath a tree.  He was just a stick figure with long hair, but what it meant was unmistakable.  Sandy had seen him, and maybe her mother had as well.  Despite my reservations, I pulled out the second album.  This one was full of baby pictures, the baby growing older with every page.  I kept looking at pictures of a blissful Kelly, her daughter in her arms as Neil looked on contentedly.  My eyes slid to the little girl.  I hadn’t focused on her at first, eager to see Kelly with her husband, but as I looked at the child’s face, I felt the hairs stand at the back of my neck, cold fingers of dread closing around my heart.  I’d seen that little girl many times before in the pictures all around my parents’ house.  There was a portrait of her by my mother’s bed, only the child was slightly older.  I was looking at a picture of myself, my face alight with happiness as I posed with my parents. 

I took out the picture and slammed the album shut before carefully placing it back in the box, but the damage had been done.  Memories came rushing back like an incoming tide, fragments of the past that I had somehow suppressed all these years.  I squeezed my eyes shut and put my hands to my pounding temples, but I couldn’t stop the onslaught.  The images came in a flood, flashing before my eyes with alarming frequency. They weren’t in any chronological order, but rather like colored pieces in a kaleidoscope, shifting and rearranging themselves into something different every few seconds.  I had glimpses of being put to bed by my mothe
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my real mother.  My father reading me a bedtime story and my grandmother handing me a cookie that was still warm from the oven as I gobbled it up and licked my fingers.  I was playing in the yard, chasing a ball, then putting my doll to sleep in her dollhouse.

I rested my head on my knees and wrapped my arms around them to keep myself together, but nothing I could do would make any difference now.  I was standing in front of the ruin by myself, a doll hanging from my chubby, childish hand as I stared at the man in front of me, his face twisted in anguish and tears running down his lean cheeks.  I was crying too, but I wasn’t sure why because I wasn’t afraid of him.  Perhaps I simply felt sorry for him.  I wiped my tears with the back of my hand and offered him my dolly, but he didn’t seem to notice me; didn’t accept my heartfelt offer. 

And then the image melted away and was replaced by another.  My parents screaming at each other in the front room as I played with my dollhouse in the corner; my mother’s voice shrill and taunting as my father’s face crumpled and fell, before being replaced with a look of such rage that I hid behind the sofa in terror. 

“Are you so blind that you can’t even see that she’s not yours?!” my mother screamed.  And then I heard her cry out and crash to the floor, and all was quiet for a moment as I crept from behind the sofa, thinking the argument was over.  My mother was lying on the floor, a pool of blood spreading beneath her head as it trickled from the gash at her temple.  I could see my three-year-old self throwing myself at my mother, crying and begging for her to wake up; my beautiful mother who was staring at the ceiling with sightless eyes as my father fell to his knees, his head buried in his hands as he cried like a child. 

I could hear the anguished scream of my grandmother as she came running into the room and wrenched me from my mother’s body, her own slight frame shaking violently as she carried me up the stairs and locked me in my room to keep me from returning downstairs and seeing what was left of my mom. 

The pretty colors of the police lights were now flashing before my eyes, reflecting in the pane of glass as I pressed my nose to its soothing coolness in an effort to understand what was going on.  There were people coming and going, and I saw my father being led to a police car, his hands behind his back as a stern man put a hand on his head to prevent him from hitting his head as he got into the back of the car. 

Later on, all was quiet, except for my grandmother’s weeping as she held me against her and rocked me to sleep, repeating over and over that everything would be all right somehow.  And then everything went blank.

I grabbed the photograph and the drawings and ran from the room.  I couldn’t bear to be in that house any longer.  The ghosts were all around me, not outside as I suspected.  They were in every room, suddenly clearly visible to me now that the veil had been lifted.  I grabbed my purse and ran outside without even locking the door.  I had to get away; had to flee to a place of safety where I could come to terms with what I’d just discovered.

I ran down the dark lane, the wind whistling in my ears as the first fat drops began to fall.  The sky was overcast, the stars and moon hidden behind a thick cloud cover, and I stumbled and almost fell several times as my foot landed in an unseen hollow.  I wouldn’t have been able to see them even if it had been light outside.  I was blinded by tears; could taste their saltiness as they rolled into my mouth and down my throat.  My chest was burning, so I eventually slowed down to catch my breath, but no amount of gulping in air could seem to fill my lungs.  I was suddenly an entity unknown to myself.  I didn’t feel right in my body, and I didn’t recognize my mind or my soul.  My whole life had been a lie perpetuated by others, and now I had no idea who I was.

October 1650

England

The dining room of the tavern was unusually quiet for early evening, the fire glowing in the hearth and the serving wench eyeing Sexby with a practiced eye, wondering how much she could take him for if he invited her up to his room.  He looked like a man who had money and would pay generously for her services.  Sexby gave the girl an appreciative smile and turned back to his mutton and boiled potatoes.  The girl would wait; she wasn’t going anywhere, and at the moment, neither was he.  Will drained his tankard of ale and motioned the girl for a refill as he tucked into his food.  Sexby never failed to marvel at how much Will could drink without showing any traces of intoxication.  Sexby, himself, preferred to stop after one tankard in order to keep a clear head and quick reflexes.  One never knew when either would come in handy. 

“I think he’s long gone, Edward,” Will said through a mouthful of mutton.  “We’ve been asking for days and no one has seen him.  Maybe we should return to Scotland.”

Sexby speared a piece of meat on his knife and looked at it for a moment before putting it in his mouth.  This was the best meal he’d had in weeks, and he meant to enjoy it.  “I disagree, Will.  The men Carr killed were found almost five miles away from Lakeview, and we know that Carr didn’t go back home.  He’s a fairly good swordsman, but I refuse to believe that he got away from that skirmish unscathed.  One against three is not good odds in a fight.  He must have been wounded, so he couldn’t have gotten very far.  According to Jasper Carr, his brother never showed up at the uncle’s house, but suppose the uncle was lying?  Brendan Carr might have deduced that this wasn’t a random robbery.  If he thought his brother might be behind the attack, he’d make sure his whereabouts weren’t made public, especially to his brother’s man.  No, Will; I think Brendan Carr is wounded and in the vicinity of Caleb Neville’s house.  And that’s where we go next.”

Will smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth.  “Sometimes, I wish I had your brains, Edward,” he said without any bitterness.  “I see what’s in front of me, but you look three steps ahead.”

“That’s what’s kept me alive all these years.”  Sexby pushed away his plate and rose to his feet, signaling for Will to remain in the dining room and finish his meal.  Will grinned in understanding, turning his attention back to the tender meat.  Maybe he’d have a turn after Edward was finished.  He watched as Sexby whispered something in the girl’s ear that made her smile before following her up the stairs.  She was a pretty little thing, with big tits and a plump ass.  That’s just the way Edward liked them.  He was surprisingly gentlemanly when it came to women, whether dealing with a lady or a whore.  Will finished his ale and shook his head with confusion.  Edward was a very complex man, which made him extremely dangerous if you got on the wrong side of him.