Authors: Joan Lowery Nixon
The Haunting (3 page)
We made it to the office of Gerald R. Clayton, attorney-at-law, exactly on time. It didn’t surprise me. Mom and Grandma were always prompt.
Mr. Clayton was a tall, very thin man, who was wearing a charcoal gray pin-striped suit that made him look even thinner. He came to the waiting room to greet us and led us down a hallway to a small conference room. “That was a lovely memorial service for Sarah,” he murmured.
When we were all seated and the receptionist had placed glasses of ice water for each of us on the table, Mr. Clayton said, “Sarah was a remarkable woman. Did she tell you that she gave me flying lessons?”
He went on to tell us about the flying club Sarah had founded. It was an exclusive club with high dues, but the dues went to provide summer camp for children who wouldn’t have been able to go.
I wished I had gotten to know my great-grandmother. I wished she’d had time to know me. I felt certain that I would have liked her even if her accomplishments seemed overwhelming.
Grandma impatiently shifted in her chair. She cleared her throat, and Mr. Clayton changed the subject. “How long will you be in San Francisco?” he asked.
“Only as long as it takes to dispose of Mother’s things,” Grandma answered. “Then I’ll return to my home in Baton Rouge.”
Mr. Clayton nodded, then looked at the papers
in front of him. “Are you ready for me to read the will now?”
“If that’s what should be done. Yes,” Grandma said.
“It’s not a complicated will,” Mr. Clayton began. “If you’d like, I can skip all the legal statements in the beginning and summarize it for you. I’ll give you a copy to read later.”
“Thank you, that will be fine,” Grandma agreed. She settled back in her chair to listen.
“Sarah Langley made some provisions for special gifts to a few select friends as well as her longtime caregiver. She has left a donation to the summer camp program, her favorite charity. And now for the family. She has left you, Mrs. Moore, as her only child, her house, most of the furnishings and property within it, and her stocks and bonds.”
Grandma nodded. She threw a quick glance at me, as though challenging what I’d told her, and said, “And Graymoss, of course.”
“Indeed, she has left property called Graymoss, which consists of a house, all its contents, the outbuildings, and land, to her granddaughter, Anne Starling.”
Grandma sat upright, clenching her hands. She stared into Mr. Clayton’s eyes. “Are you sure my mother knew what she was doing when she made that provision to her will?”
Mr. Clayton didn’t look surprised. I wondered if Sarah had warned him how Grandma would react. He stared right back and said, “This will was dated ten years ago. If you are concerned about whether
or not Sarah was of sound mind, I can assure you that she was.”
Grandma thought for just a few seconds, then gave in. “It doesn’t matter who inherits Graymoss,” she said with a voice of authority, “as long as the house is destroyed.”
Mr. Clayton picked up the will, turned a page, and continued, “Graymoss comes with a few strings. It was Charlotte Blevins Porter’s wish that the house be kept standing and well cared for, and it was important to the dear departed that this wish be carried out to the letter of the law.”
“A wish is nothing more than a foolish notion,” Grandma retorted. “It wouldn’t be binding by law.”
“Graymoss has been left to Mrs. Anne Starling conditionally,” the lawyer reiterated. “That means she must—”
“We know what
conditionally
means,” Grandma snapped. “Just what are these conditions?”
“That Graymoss must continue to be cared for,” Mr. Clayton answered. “If Mrs. Starling can’t agree to this, then possession of the house and property passes to Mrs. Starling’s daughter, Lia Starling, to be held in trust for her until her twenty-fifth birthday.”
I started in surprise. “To me? Graymoss?” I could see myself in my daydream again, rocking and reading on the quiet veranda. “Wow!” I whispered to myself.
“That’s ridiculous! The house
must
be destroyed!” Grandma insisted.
“Wait a minute,” Mom interrupted. I could tell
she’d been thinking hard, because her eyes were wide. “Graymoss is a large place. About how many rooms, would you guess?”
“What has the number of rooms got to do with anything?” Grandma asked.
“It has to do with making a dream come true! If the house is in good condition, or can be repaired without too much expense, I know what we must do.”
I sucked in my breath. I knew Mom’s dream, and I didn’t like it one little bit.
Grandma said, “If you’re talking about that notion you and Derek have of adopting a houseful of what are considered unadoptable children—”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Mom exclaimed, grinning and clapping her hands like a little kid. I was embarrassed, but she didn’t seem to care.
“But you can’t, Anne! I told you, Graymoss is evil!”
Mr. Clayton raised an eyebrow and looked at Grandma as if she’d just claimed there were UFOs on the roof. “Evil? You have firsthand knowledge of some kind of evil?”
Grandma turned red. She looked down at her hands and said, “This is very complicated—it’s family business.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Mom said firmly. “But I do believe in trying to bring happiness to as many children as possible.”
I groaned. I could see what was going to happen. The quiet rooms, the peaceful veranda—forget it. Graymoss was going to be filled with a crowd of noisy kids for Mom and Dad to care for.
“I can’t wait to call Derek and tell him the news,” Mom said.
Mr. Clayton broke in. “Don’t rush into anything,” he said. “There’s one more condition to meet. Before you agree to accept Graymoss you must read Charlotte Blevins’s diary.”
Grandma looked smug. “The diary. That’s right. Read it, and you’ll soon change your mind about wanting to live in that house. All the others did.”
“The others?”
“Elizabeth, Sarah, and even Charlotte herself. Why do you think none of the women in our family ever resided in Graymoss?”
“Because they were scared?” I asked. The mental banner I’d created for the Women Who Are Exceptionally Brave began to fray. I didn’t mind.
Grandma frowned at me. “Not
scared
, merely sensible.”
Mom looked at Mr. Clayton. “Have you read Charlotte’s diary?”
“No, I haven’t,” he answered. “I am in possession of it now, but the contents of the diary are private.”
“It’s private because it tells of the terrible evil within the house,” Grandma said.
Mr. Clayton held out a book covered in padded cloth. Once it must have had a flower pattern in bright colors, but now it was faded, and there were ragged threads at the edges.
Mom didn’t move, but suddenly I found myself standing up. I reached across the desk and took the diary from Mr. Clayton.
Maybe it was because I wasn’t like the other
women in the family. Or maybe it was because I read. Or maybe it was because I did believe in ghosts. I sat back down in my chair, the book in my hands, and I shivered with excitement.
I planned to read the diary before Mom ever got a chance to, so that she couldn’t tell me not to read it. If there really was evil in Graymoss, I wanted to find out where it had come from. In fact, I hoped to become acquainted with the ghosts that haunted the plantation. Someday, when I was grown, the quiet, peaceful Graymoss—ghosts and all—would be mine.
I
had plenty of time to read Charlotte’s diary. Mom kept arguing with Grandma about the future of Graymoss, and talking on the phone to Dad. No one was the least bit concerned about where I was or what I was doing, so I found a hideaway in Great-grandmother’s house—an upstairs sewing room that probably hadn’t been used for anything but storage for years and years. I pulled an old quilt off a Boston rocker, settled down, and began to read.
The first part of Charlotte’s diary detailed the horrors of the War Between the States, and then Charlotte poured out her heart about how much she missed her parents and grandmother. She wrote a great deal about her grandfather, Placide Blevins, who must have been kind and good to her, because she loved him very much. He liked to
read aloud from his most cherished book:
Favorite Tales of Edgar Allan Poe.
He read it so often to Charlotte that the two of them had practically memorized the stories.
Charlotte wrote in her diary:
I have often wondered, What kind of a man was Edgar Allan Poe who could create such strange, frightening tales?
Grandfather told me that Poe’s poetry and stories came from a tortured soul and someday I’d understand.
Perhaps I will. But for now I’m content to read Poe’s stories simply for the pleasurable excitement they stir within my heart and mind.
“Oh, Charlotte! You loved to read, too!” I said aloud. I felt close to this relative who shared her own love of books with me by providing me with her own diary to read.
As I read, it became obvious to me how very much the Graymoss plantation meant to Charlotte. She had been born in Graymoss. She loved the beauty of her home and described the ornate ceilings with special moldings that were full of designs with swirls and flowers, yet looked like eyes and mouths and even noses of strange people and animals if the light was dim.
I love to use my imagination, too
, I thought, delighted that I’d discovered an ancestor so much like myself.
Charlotte wrote about her best friend, Lenci Cavanaugh, but there was very little about games or boys, because the miseries of the War Between the States dominated their lives. The Blevinses
and Cavanaughs had field hands who had run away, heading north to freedom, so everyone had to pitch in and help since crops still had to be planted and harvested, although most of the vegetables and fruit they’d grown had been taken by army troops to feed the soldiers.
Charlotte’s grandfather was desperate for help and hired a foreman, Morgan Slade. Charlotte renamed Mr. Slade the Cat.
He sneaks in and out of the house as quietly as a cat slips through an open window. His eyes dart from one side to the other with a glitter to them, yet he never misses a thing. I suspect him of snooping around our house. I wouldn’t put it past him. When Grandfather isn’t nearby Mr. Slade is mean to the workers. I’ve heard him yell and curse them if he finds something not to his liking. Grandfather must have heard about this from someone because he has had words with Mr. Slade. It hasn’t helped. Mr. Slade is even more surly. I know that Grandfather is desperate for hired help, so he hasn’t fired Mr. Slade. I wish he could because I don’t trust Mr. Slade.
There were breaks in Charlotte’s diary, and the entries grew shorter.
I can’t help worrying how we will manage to survive, although Grandfather keeps assuring me that things will turn out all right eventually. He insists they always do.
I worried along with Charlotte as I read her diary. As the South suffered great losses, Charlotte grew even more fearful about the future. Food became
scarcer. I ached for Charlotte as she described her sixteenth birthday:
The day began happily. After we had breakfasted, Grandfather took me to a lovely spot in the side yard that was mottled with sun and shade. He knew I had long wished for an herb garden, so he had made and planted one for me. Thyme, dill, rosemary—all were bordered with a graceful brick edging. Grandfather had helped to build Graymoss, so I knew how much he loved to work with brick and mortar. Sharing his talents with me had been a real labor of love, and I was delighted with his gift.
Later, Grandfather came in with a hen—one that had escaped the last group of foragers by running into the woods. The bird looked old enough to be tough, but Grandfather and I cleaned and plucked it and baked it slowly for two hours in half a bottle of his best white wine. With a bouquet of wildflowers on the table, the candelabra filled with glowing candles, and the chicken on a platter, I could ignore the usual turnips and boiled potatoes that accompanied the chicken and call the dinner a birthday feast.
Mr. Slade suddenly appeared. Greedily eying the chicken, he bluntly said that he wanted to share the meal, but Grandfather respected my wishes and told him we were having a private family dinner.
Mr. Slade eyed the silver candelabra and smiled. “It won’t be long now until the Federals march in,” he said. “Those fancy candlesticks and the rest of your silver will make pretty souvenirs—that is, if they’re still here when the Federals arrive.”
“What do you mean by that, sir?” Grandfather demanded.
“
I mean those valuables could set a man up for a better
life—one in which he wouldn’t be turned away from a dinner table because he wasn’t good enough.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m just making a point, so to speak,” Mr. Slade said, and his narrowed cat eyes swept the room, coming to rest once more on the candelabra. “You—with your elegant house and fancy furniture and rows of expensive wines in your fine cellar—might not understand how a man with a simple life might feel. Someone like me should be treated with respect, too.…”
I was shocked and horrified at Mr. Slade’s rudeness. “This is my birthday dinner, sir,” I told him. “It’s my own wish that my Grandfather and I share it in private.”
The cat eyes turned on me as he smiled, It wasn’t a pleasant smile. It was so evil that I trembled. “Be careful, Miss,” he said. “You’re a treasure, too, and when men are at war anything is fair game.”
“That’s enough, Mr. Slade,” Grandfather ordered. “Please leave this house.” Grandfather’s eyes blazed as he watched Mr. Slade saunter out of the room.
With gallantry Grandfather seated me and filled my plate. It was difficult, but we pretended nothing unpleasant had happened and we were having a lovely celebration.
I am afraid of Mr. Slade. He surely doesn’t mean us well. Now I fear he’ll do exactly as he threatened and steal everything of value in our house. How should we protect ourselves against him? I can’t think of a single way to do so.
