The Evening Spider (21 page)

“Don't fuck with me,” I said into the air.

But my heart was unconvinced. It raced a bit faster. It
would
happen. When I fell asleep.
If
I fell asleep.

I took a deep breath.
If.
I had a choice. I did not
need
to sleep. Of course, I needed to sleep
eventually.
But I didn't need to sleep tonight. Not if I thought it best for Lucy if I stayed awake.

I set aside Dr. Graham's journal and pulled my laptop onto my thighs. I opened up Google and typed
Mediums Connecticut.

I paused after typing it—as if to give the house around me a chance to respond to what I'd just done. It didn't—so I continued.

There were a couple of directories of psychics and mediums. Then there was something called “Bob Olson's ‘Tested as Legitimate' List” of psychics and mediums. Bob Olson was apparently a big name in the afterlife business.

I went to one of the more general directories and began to scan through the faces.

There was a woman with spiky dark hair and a jade scarf knotted at her throat. Said she was also a hypnotherapist, grief counselor, and Reiki master.
Nope.
Cross her off the list. Fingers in too many psycho-spiritual pies. I just had a feeling my ghosts wouldn't go for that.

Below her was a good-looking young man with a mop of wavy brown hair. There was a hint of Jim Morrison to him.
Not a plus for me. I didn't think I could trust him.
You deserve answers!
Said his description.
I am a born psychic medium and clairaudient. I connect most effectively with the recently deceased.

There was a white-haired lady with an exaggerated, pink-cheeked Mrs. Santa Claus smile. Adding to the cute, psychically innocuous little-old-me package was the fact that she specialized in “lost pet connections.”

Lucy shifted the position of her head and indulged in a few sucks on her pacifier. I watched her until the sucking stopped, then continued down the list.

Next was a double-chinned lady with bleached hair and a closed-mouth smile that was almost a pout. She was wearing a navy blue T-shirt with a crew neck that looked too tight. Her description said:
I have been a psychic medium since age 6. Specialize in haunted spaces and missing persons. Do not charge except for travel expenses. I only take selected cases in which I believe I can be helpful. Call (203) 555-2223.

She was from Hamden—very close to Haverton. An added bonus.

Her name gave me pause. Fonda Manning. There was something phony sounding about “Fonda
.
” I wrote it down anyway. Maybe psychics had made-up names, like stage names, to keep their paranormal work separate from their normal lives? I wrote down the phone number, too, then kept looking down the list.

A young woman with a lip ring who did Tarot readings and psychic parties. A bald guy who specialized in “Energy Clearings.” Several people had the word “healing” in their descriptions. Only one other person claimed to specialize in “haunted spaces”—a guy who also listed Chakras and “angel readings” as his other services. The more I read, the more I was drawn back
to Fonda Manning. There seemed a distinct lack of positivity to her profile. For some reason, that made me feel better about her than the others.

BZZZT!

“Shit!” I practically jumped off the bed.

My cell phone. Next to the bed, by the lamp. It was Chad.

“Hey,” he said when I picked up. “I figured the cell was less likely to wake Lucy.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Yeah, she's fast asleep.”

“What're you up to?”

“Just fooling around online. How's your hotel?”

“Good. There are white robes hanging in the closet.”

“Great,” I said. “You can start a cult while you're there.”

“Yup. You watching anything tonight?”

“Old Conan clips,” I said.

“Oh. Your boyfriend.”

“Well, you
are
about a thousand miles away. It's a little lonely.”

“Well. Less than a thousand.”

What good would the truth do, in this moment—with Chad so many miles away?

“Did you have a meeting today?” I asked. “Or is the first one tomorrow morning?”

“We had dinner with the client. The guy had a giant steak, so rare he might as well have just taken a bite out of his own arm. I try not to overanalyze these things, but I wonder if he's going to be . . .”

I got up and stood over Lucy's portable crib as Chad spoke. She'd dropped her pacifier, but her lips formed a little circle
where it had once been. I smiled to myself and then realized I had no idea what Chad was saying anymore.

Were Lucy's lips the usual perfect pink? Or were they a little blue? Lucy's chest was gently rising and falling, but I wondered if the room was getting colder. I touched her hand. Not warm, but not especially cold.

“So I might be out late tomorrow night,” Chad said. “But I can probably call you before dinner if you want.”

But
was
the room getting colder? My arms felt cold beneath my long-sleeved T-shirt.

“Sure,” I said, opening a dresser drawer for a cardigan.

I tugged on the cardigan as we said good-bye. Once I heard the click of Chad hanging up, I felt the cold in the room even more sharply. I'd forgotten how drafty this house got in midwinter—which was almost upon us. I decided to go downstairs to check the thermostat—and possibly nudge it up a degree or two.

I turned on every light in my path down the hall, down the stairs, and into the living room. I overrode the thermostat's automatic night temperature and set it for an indulgent 67 degrees. Then I stood still for a moment, listening for the basement heater to kick into gear.

THUMP.

I jumped. The sound didn't come from below, as I expected—but above. Upstairs, where Lucy lay by herself.

Upstairs.

My legs couldn't move fast enough to keep up with my heart. Up the stairs. Down the hall. All the lights on. Lucy!

Lucy!

By the time I reached the bedroom, my chest was throbbing.

Lucy was still asleep in the portable crib. I reached out to touch her hand, which twitched and curled itself around my finger. Resisting the urge to pick her up, I slid my hand away. Looking around the room, I couldn't find much explanation for the loud noise: fallen curtain rod or broken blinds. The bedcovers were as I had left them, with the laptop still open to the list of psychics.

Before I had a chance to exhale, I felt the distinct sensation of being watched from behind. For a moment, I pictured Florabelle standing in the doorway—mournfully, headlessly disapproving.

I turned around to look behind me—slowly, still holding my breath, and praying I'd see Monty there in the doorway instead.

The bedroom door was open wide—resting all the way against the opposite wall. As if it had been slammed open. I couldn't remember now if I'd opened it that far. I'd been anxious to get downstairs and back up to Lucy as quickly as possible.

I sat gingerly on the bed, taking a deep breath.

“Houses settle in cold weather,” I whispered to myself. It made me feel better, so I whispered it again.

“Houses settle in cold weather.”

The sound of my own whispering made a shudder creep up my spine and rattle my shoulders.

Because that's probably what a ghost would sound like. Ghosts talked in whispers. Whispers and shushes. Talking any louder, though, might wake Lucy.

Houses settle in cold weather.

But if I thought this fact was really relevant to my situation, I wouldn't be staring at this picture of Fonda Manning and starting
to run her phone number through my head as if it might save my life.

“Two-oh-three, five-five-five . . .”

Don't whisper it. You sound like a ghost.

You sound like a fucking ghost.

I could call Chad, to keep me from calling Fonda Manning.

I really shouldn't call this Fonda person until tomorrow. Or ever?

But I couldn't call Chad because when he worried a lot—really a lot—he started to look like a skeleton.

And what a gruesome pair we would eventually be, with me sounding like a ghost and him looking like a skeleton.

I wrote down Fonda Manning's number on an actual piece of paper—in case my computer froze or the power went out or any of those things that are apt to happen in a haunted house. I'd call her tomorrow, no matter what.

As I resolved to do this, Monty hopped up on the bed, curled up next to Chad's pillow, and set to cleaning at one of his haunches. The licking noise diluted the silence. I didn't know where Monty had come from, but I was grateful he was there. Even if he hated me.

We'd be fine. I pulled up some Lewis Black comedy on my laptop and put an earbud in my left ear so I could keep my right one open for Lucy. We'd be fine as long Lucy slept and I didn't.

Northampton Lunatic Hospital

Northampton, Massachusetts

December 20, 1885

A
nd so, despite the dropping temperatures and the threat of snow, I managed to plan another trip to New Haven. I missed my brother, I told Matthew. And I missed Mother, in my own way. And there was shopping to do for Christmas! I explained that to him most exuberantly. I wished to lavish my baby daughter with gifts that could not be had here in Haverton. Oh! How girlishly bubbly I made my needs appear. Matthew had business to attend to in New Haven, so it worked out well for us all to travel and lodge with Mother together. There would be plenty of shopping time in which I could claim to have been searching for just the right doll or dress for Martha, to no avail. When, in fact, I'd be searching for a man named Price.

It is difficult for me now to remember if I felt any guilt for my deception. I suppose I was too determined—and perhaps too desperate—to feel guilt.

The travel with Matthew went smoothly as Martha slept most of the way. I recall Matthew kissing my hand as we came close to the city. Mother served us a stew of beef and potatoes,
and perhaps the heaviness and familiarity of it helped me to sleep despite my apprehensions.

I do not know how long I slept. I awoke in the middle of the night, feeling something burst in my middle.

I lay still for a few minutes afterward, thinking the sensation had lingered from a bad dream. Then I felt a distinct ache. I crept out of the bed and down the hall to the room where you used to sleep. There was comfort there, in that place where you and I used to play and conspire.

I peeled off the stained layer of clothes, and wrapped myself in a blanket. Rarely had I ever seen so much blood. Only once before, perhaps.

Blood on my kitchen floor.

Blood in my best cake pan.

“Corpuscles!”

The audacity of that word, coming to my lips at such a time! I was a crazy woman, surely. So crazy that I resolved not to share this pain with anyone. I did not feel I was experiencing it correctly, and therefore decided it best to endure it alone—if I could.

I lay there for an hour or two. I was surprised at how quickly the ache subsided.

I crept back into the room where Matthew lay. I rolled the bloody clothes into a discreet ball, changed into a different nightdress, and lay down with a towel. The ache lessened even more, and became relief. And then, after only an hour or so, decayed into guilt.

I had not such a cruel master after all.
I
was the cruel one. How was it that my heart was so different from those of other women? I'd surely have found my Dr. Price if I'd needed him.
Him or someone like him. That was how dark my heart was. Despite the change in my fate, I couldn't deny that now.

Now I didn't need my Dr. Price. Now I had four days in New Haven with little to do but pretend to care about the most precious of children's dolls, and the most delicious of Christmas cakes. How, now that I didn't need the likes of Price, would I spend those days?

Haverton, Connecticut

December 18, 2014

O
nce the sun came up, my body seemed to relax a little—in spite of itself. The feeling was like that of a fever breaking. I could sleep a little, couldn't I? If it was daylight? What else was there to do with Lucy still sleeping, and a couple of hours to go before I could reasonably call Fonda Manning? I leaned back on propped-up pillows and dozed for about an hour—until Lucy woke up with a little moan.

When I got out of bed, another penny fell out. As I lifted Lucy out of the Pack 'n Play, the penny circled the wood floor a couple of times and clattered to a stop beneath Chad's dresser. I ignored the sound while it was happening, but after it stopped, it echoed in my ears for a moment, making me forget what I was about to do next.

Wendy.

Wendy and a circling hubcap.

Wendy came back to our room one night with a shiny hubcap in her hands. She had walked all the way to the outskirts of campus to go to the convenience store with the superior candy selection. Sour watermelon candy, I think, was what she was after. A car had peeled out of the lot while she was standing
there with her candy, she reported breathlessly. And its hubcap had flown off and circled her once, twice, three times, before coming to a stop with a loud clatter practically right at her feet.

It was really cinematic,
she said.
I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to keep this thing. I just don't know why.

Maybe you ought to clean it up real nice and start eating from it,
I said, and then immediately regretted it. She'd mentioned she'd been anorexic in high school, so eating maybe wasn't a laughing matter.

But she didn't seem to notice. Instead, she nodded.

I'll wash it a couple of times if you make a bag of popcorn.

I had obliged, and we'd eaten the popcorn together while I typed away at my computer and she highlighted several pages of a psychology textbook and then took out her seashell stationary to write more letters to old high school friends. The next day, I came back to the room to find the hubcap hanging on a nail between our desks. Occasionally it would come loose from the nail and startle us both with a
CLANG
and I'd try not to glare at Wendy because I had to admit the hubcap was kind of cool.

And after her brother and father emptied out her side of the room, I'd wanted to tell them the hubcap was hers. They hadn't been sure, apparently—because they'd left it—and I wasn't around for them to ask. And yet a hubcap didn't seem enough of a reason to bother a bereaved family. Not then. Not now. I still had it somewhere.

Where? I couldn't remember. Did it matter now, with Lucy so hungry and me so in need of coffee?

By the time I was done with baby oatmeal, cleanup, and coffee, it was almost eight-thirty. And what grown-up wasn't
up by eight-thirty? I wasn't going to grandstand and wait until nine. I'd waited all night.

Hello. You've reached Fonda Manning and the Happy Highways Driving School. Please leave me your name and number and I'll get right back at ya.

I did as instructed even though the “Happy Highways” threw me—reminding me vaguely of the old show
Highway to Heaven
. Maybe Fonda Manning was more stickily religious than her web profile had implied.

Before I had a chance to worry much about it, Fonda called me back.

“Hi, Abby,” she said. “Thanks for calling. Sorry I didn't answer. I never answer if I don't know the number. So, you said you found me through the Connecticut Psychics Resource page. What can I do for you?”

“Well . . .” I took a deep breath. “I live in Haverton, and I have a situation with my home.”

“A situation. What kind of a situation?”

I sniffled. “A . . . possible haunting situation, I suppose, is the best way I can put it.”

“Sure. Okay. You want to set up an appointment for a home visit then?”

“I think so.”

“All right. Well, as long as you understand a couple of things. First and foremost, I'm not an exorcist and I don't associate with anyone who identifies as one.”

I hesitated. “Okay.”

“Next, I'm not an entertainer. I don't do parties. I prefer that no one else be present but the homeowners—or residents, if you don't own the home—when I visit.”

“It'll just be me and my daughter when you come. Um, assuming you can come soon. My husband is away.”

“How old is your daughter?” Fonda wanted to know.

“She's five months old.”

“I see. Okay. I ask because I prefer not to have children present. Not because they affect my reading in any way. I just don't like them to be involved. It can be scary for them. I'm not saying that my eyes roll back in my head or my head spins around—don't get me wrong. I'm just saying I don't like to have to edit what I have to say about the spiritual energy, to keep from scaring a kid, or whatever. But in your case . . . well, of course, it's fine for her to be there. I'm sure that would be a lot easier for you. Oh, and the last thing is that I have to ask that you not use any artificial air fresheners or scented candles—or spray any perfumes or whatever—for a few hours before I come. Like, three hours.”

“Okay.” I wondered if she was allergic or if it interfered with her psychic abilities but thought it might be unwise to ask. “Do you have any availability today?”

“Today? Um, that might be a little rough.
Maybe
around five, since one of my driving appointments said he might have to cancel. Otherwise, we'll have to look at tomorrow or the next day. I'll have to get back to you later in the day. You said you're in Haverton, right? Why don't you give me your address?”

Wallace called while I was gathering a load of laundry—a frustratingly slow and awkward task with Lucy strapped to my chest, since I had to reach for everything sideways.

“Did you know that Dr. Graham saw Martha Barnett a few
days before Frances was put away?” I asked. “Because she was having a problem with vomiting?”

Wallace was silent for a moment. “Martha . . . the baby? The Barnett baby?”

“Yes.”

Of course
the baby.
It seemed to me Wallace was evading.

“I was rather focused on finding entries with
Frances
in them the one time I looked, and perhaps wasn't being as thorough as you.”

“Uh huh.” I sorted through the tiny, mostly pastel clothes in the laundry basket, pulling out the few darker clothes for a different load.

“I wouldn't jump to conclusions about that. Babies
do
have a tendency to vomit. As I'm sure you're aware.”

“
Jump to conclusions?
” I repeated. “I don't know that I need to do a very big jump here. Frances was probably giving her daughter arsenic.”

Another long silence. I thumped down the stairs and opened the washing machine in the pantry.

“Abby.”

“Yes?”

“Let's take a step back here, now. Have you always considered yourself a historian?” Wallace asked.

“No. Did I ever say I was a historian?” I pulled down a box of detergent pods.

“Aren't you a history teacher?”

“That's not the same thing.”

“It's not?” Wallace asked.

“Let's see now. To answer your question, there was a brief
period in the beginning of college when I thought I wanted be a documentary filmmaker. Historical documentaries. So there was a point when I thought I was a historian, yes.”

I stared down into the washer. Then I remembered something. Lucy's pajama bottoms on my bedroom floor this morning. They hadn't made it into the hamper, because I'd changed them late at night when she'd gotten pee on them. With her sleeping in my bedroom, the laundry just wasn't all staying in one place.

“So why didn't you? Become a documentary filmmaker?”

I hated it when one half of something of hers got washed, and the other didn't. I knew it was likely a form of OCD or corporate mind control—this belief that I had to clothe my tiny drooling human in “matching sets.” And yet I couldn't shake it. I started to mount the stairs again.

“Well, I transferred out of the small fancy-pants college I was going to and went to a big state school. And there I figured out that I wasn't such hot shit. So I got my teaching certificate.”

“Well, teaching is a noble profession, of course.”

“Of course. More noble than being another twenty-year-old who thinks she's going to be the next Ken Burns, at least. Now, why were you asking this again?”

“Umm . . . I don't remember now. I was going to make some point about objectivity, I suppose.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I'm a little out of it this morning, too. I didn't sleep much last night. Or the night before, for that matter.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Did Lucy keep you up?”

I snatched the tiny pajama bottoms from the floor. “No. Frances kept me up.”

“Oh, dear. Poor Frances. What will she be blamed for next?”

I rolled my eyes. I wanted to tell him about Stephanie's story, but thought better of it. Though she hadn't said so, it felt like it had been told in confidence. It was one thing for her to tell the poor unsuspecting recipient of her aunt's spook house—another for me to turn around and tell a big-time townie familiar with her family.

I tried to sit on the bed for a moment, but Lucy grunted in protest. She hated being on my chest if I wasn't up and moving around. “Wallace, I meant to ask you when you were here last. Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Hmm. Good question. I believe that a house . . . a building . . . can retain certain . . . oh, ‘auras' is too woo-woo of a word. Certain feelings, certain tones?”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“I have no idea, Abby.”

“Okay. Great. I was just wondering. Oh! So, the other thing I wanted to tell you is that I think a page or two was ripped out of Frances's journal.”

“What? When?”

“I mean, before we ever read it. I was looking at it the other night. There is a bit of paper left behind in the binding. It would've been just a page or two, it looks like. There's not a huge gap from a chunk of it being ripped out, but—”

“Maybe the Barnett fellow who gave it to you . . . ?”

“I doubt it, but I should call him and ask if he knows about it. My feeling is that he really never read past the first couple of pages.”

“Of course, there are several possible explanations. Maybe Frances made an error and ripped a page out and started over.”

“Or . . .
or
someone . . . over the years . . . saw something they either wanted to keep for themselves or . . . destroy, perhaps.”

“The matter of the ‘unspeakable act' cropping up again. I see. Hmm. Where are the pages taken out? In just one spot?”

“Yes,” I told Wallace. “Right before the end. Around Christmas of 1879. Before her . . . final entry.”

“Hmm. Interesting.”

I stared around the bedroom, trying to remember why, exactly, I'd come up the stairs when I'd been about to start a load of laundry. “I guess you'll want Dr. Graham's log back soon?”

“Oh. Well, yes. But I suppose you can hold on to it for a day or two more if you guard it with your life.”

“I can't meet today anyway,” I said. “I have someone coming over.”

I was hopeful that Fonda would call me back, and I wanted to leave things open in case she did.

“Oh! Well, good. It's not a priority. Tomorrow might be out of the question, of course, but . . . we'll meet soon, I'm sure.”

“Sure,” I said.

After we hung up, I glanced down at the item hanging loosely in my hands. Of course. That was what had brought me up the stairs. Tiny peed-on pajama bottoms.

Night fell before suppertime—even before Lucy's suppertime, which was typically around five. Fonda Manning called me when we were halfway through a jar of organic pureed peas.

“Sorry I didn't call you earlier,” she said. “My driving appointment didn't cancel. So we're going to have to do tomorrow. Would three work? I could do later, but I don't want to press my luck—”

“Three works,” I interrupted.

I thanked her, and we hung up. I pushed more peas into Lucy's mouth and stared out the kitchen window but couldn't see much beyond my own reflection. I turned away from the length of my face and the limpness of my hair. I hated such early darkness. I didn't realize till now how much I had been counting on Fonda Manning coming—and breaking the isolation before I'd have to endure another night alone. I gave Lucy another spoonful of peas, then had one myself. I was hungry but too tired to prepare much dinner.

“Protein,” I murmured to myself and got out a spoon and a jar of peanut butter.

We sat in the living room after that—Lucy with her board books and squeaky toys, me with my Comedy Central and CNN. I was too tired for anything else. I turned on the Christmas tree lights, but Lucy seemed more mesmerized by all of the talking heads.

“It's fine,” I said to Lucy. “You should've seen how much TV they let babies watch in the eighties, and look how good I turned out.”

Lucy said “Mmmmm,” as if savoring something delicious. When she seemed to grow annoyed with Anderson Cooper, I brought her upstairs and started to change her diaper. Lately, since she'd been sleeping in my room, I'd been changing her on a towel on my bed instead of on her bedroom changing table. After I laid her down, I discovered that my stash of diapers was depleted. I moved both her and her towel to the floor while I ran to get a few more. From the floor she couldn't fall anywhere.

When I came back and moved her back up to the bed, I
noticed something in her hand. It was a familiar translucent toothpaste-blue.