The Space Between (10 page)

"Apparently so," Isaac answered, taking a drink and wiping at his mouth with the back of one hand. "He said he used to work for Mr. Willoughby back when he was just a young kid. He..." and Isaac paused, not sure if he was willing to put his appearance of being sane up on the chopping block for Walter to get in a few good whacks.

"He what?"

He sat silent and Walter waited.

"He said Mrs. Willoughby had gone missing. Seemed like there was a lot more to the story that he wasn't telling or willing to speculate on."

Walter sat up straight, an obvious interest showing in his visage now.

"What does this Harold...?"

"
Soseby
," Isaac provided, and thought he saw Walter's eyes light up, though it could have been sparks from a tumbling log in the fireplace on the back wall of the cabin.

"What does Harold
Soseby
think happened?"

"He didn't say. But he mentioned a daughter, Elizabeth. From the way he was talking, I'd guess some bad things happened down there."

Walter's eyes narrowed and that faraway look returned as he stared off into nothing. Isaac's mind was revving up again as well, and he tried to keep all the puzzle pieces from demanding his attention again. That could wait for a little while. When he looked back up, Walter was staring at him, but it felt more like the old man was looking
into
him, a question forming on his lips.

"And what do you think happened there?"

"Me?" Isaac asked, surprised by Walter's insinuating tone. "I'm pretty clueless."

It was a lie for the most part, but his experience thus far in Holden had felt more like a dream than anything. He believed that justified his lack of confidence in the slipshod theories that had developed in his muddled thoughts.

"You need to tell me anything?" Walter asked, leaning closer to him. The look on his face was warm, understanding. "You seem to be holding something back yourself."

The old guy was keen, no doubt about that. Isaac had always thought he was good at keeping his composure, but Walter had apparently seen right through Isaac's self-imposed denial. He wanted to tell his kindly neighbor about what he'd gone through since arriving in town, what horrible events he believed had happened in that house down the hill, and the incredible things he'd experienced firsthand with that mysterious door.

But could he trust him? Walter wasn't from around here, so that stood in his favor. Some towns didn't like people coming in and digging up old dirt. Maybe with Walter on his side, he could at least validate the strange episodes he'd had in that upstairs hall.

"Tell me what's on your mind, Isaac. Maybe I can help you."

The offer of support was warm and genuine. He felt his pulse calm under the influence of Walter's deep, soothing voice.

"If I do, you might be calling the nearest psychiatric ward to have me picked up."

Walter laughed, reaching out to put a hand over Isaac's. "Don't bet on it. I've had my share of interesting times over the years. Maybe I can help you deal with yours."

Isaac looked down at the table, fighting the urge to tell everything while still fearing for his reputation in the other man's eyes. It wasn't likely Walter would run off to phone the tabloids as soon as Isaac related the recent insanity he'd been subjected to, but you never really knew.

But you know; just look at him
.

If there was the slightest trace of trickery or dishonesty on Walter's person, he couldn't see it. He glanced between the old man and the journal a few times, his leg beginning to bounce under the table. He wanted so badly to share what was happening. While Walter seemed like the understanding type, Isaac knew that looks could be deceiving. Still, he was drawn to this man like he'd been to his own grandfather. There was trust to be had between these two men, and he decided to test it out.

He met Walter's gaze and held it through the entire story: his first encounter with Harold, the discovery of the journal, the two separate visits through the door, and finally his last conversation with Harold. By the time he was done, he and Walter had already finished off a bowl of chili each, as well as the six-pack. Isaac's head was as warm as the right side of his body, which had been exposed to the fireplace since he'd arrived.

Walter had listened in silence, reacting only once or twice at the mention of the trips through the door and the visit with Elizabeth. He had eaten his chili slowly, apparently not wanting to miss a single word from Isaac's mouth. When his chili was gone, and his third and final beer half gone, Walter leaned back and stared at him, not with surprise, but with more of a satisfied sense of wonder.

"So, do you think I'm crazy yet?" Isaac joked, though his voice cracked slightly and belied his need for an honest answer.

Walter shook his head and finished off the beer in three quick gulps.

"I don't know about that," he answered, remaining calm and purposeful. "And I sure don't know enough about life in general to call you a liar. But that is one damn interesting story." Isaac laughed and Walter continued. "Things like this don't happen often, but when life throws you a mystery, you'd be doing it a great injustice by not trying to figure it out."

Isaac thought that was a peculiar response. He'd expected something more placating, or even a suggestion to seek medical attention. Instead, Walter was telling him to keep looking until he found the answers. To hear someone else suggest it, even indirectly, fueled his desire to know. There was also Elizabeth to investigate. If he could at least prove her existence at one point in time, then there was a good chance he wasn't delusional and on the verge of insanity.

"I understand," he told Walter, and finished off his own beer before settling into a staring match with the table.

Eventually, Walter stood and took the empty bottles, tossing them in the trash next to the counter. He stood in front of Isaac, who was still sitting at the table looking both excited and frustrated. Walter reached out and put a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Just try to look at it as an adventure. If you turn out to be crazy, at least it was an interesting journey there, am I right?"

When Isaac didn't answer, Walter squeezed his shoulder and walked off toward the bathroom. Instead of going through the door near the stairs, he bent down and pulled out a guitar case from behind the couch. He walked back to the table and set it at Isaac's feet.

"I've heard you could play a guitar and do a little singing."

Isaac smiled and nodded, trying to get back into a friendlier state of mind. Walter smiled back and pulled a harmonica from his front pants pocket.

"Think you'd mind playing me a tune before you headed back? I'd sure love to have something to play along with other than those damn dogs."

Isaac nodded. "Sure thing, Walt. I'd love to."

§

Isaac had completely forgotten to ask Walter about having his phone number until he was back at the house getting ready for bed. In fact, since leaving Walter's place, he could only think about the three songs they'd played together. They were all songs from his first album, so ingrained in his person that Isaac could probably play them blindfolded while hanging upside down over a pit of alligators. They were his songs, and each time he played them they revived whatever inspiration had brought them to life. It was reliving a moment passed: the happiness, the despair, and all the emotions in between.

But this had been the first time in a long time he had been able to enjoy his music on such a level. The feelings behind the songs were still there, but when Walter started playing along on the harmonica, Isaac felt each one had transcended to a whole new level. It was as if his song was one voice, calling out into the darkness until it was answered by another, harmonizing with its own unique voice and emotion to create something even more beautiful than the sum of its parts. For Isaac, it was like listening to each song for the first time, something he belonged to rather than it belonging to him.

Walter must have felt it, too. By the time they finished the third song — Isaac blinking away the tears that had gathered in his lower eyelashes — Walter put the harmonica back in his pocket with a hand so shaky that Isaac began to worry. But the old man smiled and his eyes glistened in the firelight. He coughed into his hand before speaking.

"You're a damn fine musician."

Isaac sat there, his mouth working like a fish out of water until he could gather his thoughts. "I need to take you into the studio with me, Walt. That was amazing."

"Aw, it's just a little hobby I like to pick up now and then." He looked over at the digital clock on the stove. "I hate to run you off, but I'm feeling a bit run down after those three beers. It's almost past my bedtime, anyway."

"No problem," Isaac said, putting the guitar back in the case but not taking his eyes from Walter. He was not exaggerating the man's talent on the harmonica. And after a performance like that, he didn't know how he'd ever feel competent enough to write songs knowing how much more powerful they could be.

Walter walked him to the door, Isaac following along in a dreamlike state until he found himself standing outside his car, the chill of the night air gripping his face and snapping him out of his daze. The next thing he knew, he was standing at the front door of the Willoughby house, trying to capture even a snippet of Walter's harmonies that had merged so well with his own songs. The three beers and the effect of his duo with Walter left him feeling drugged. He was unable to focus clearly on anything until he shook his head a few times, the afterimage of the evening finally scattering like a tenacious cloud of gnats.

Inside, Isaac stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing his teeth and looking at himself. His eyes looked strained, drawn down by the weight of the day even after a shave and another shower. So many things were fighting for attention in his mind. The things that had happened, the things people had said, his own theories on just what the hell was going on. It was all beginning to be too much, and Isaac worried that even a good night's sleep wouldn't allow him to sort it all out in the morning.

And then there was the question of whether or not he would go home tomorrow. As he lay down in the bed and slipped between the sheets, he felt the tension cranking up behind his eyes. He didn't have to be back for a few weeks yet, but how much work was he willing to put into finding out just why he was in Holden? Would he be satisfied if, after another week of digging and asking around, he came up with plenty of information but no real answers? He could go down to the courthouse and find out who had owned the property before its transfer to the trust; he knew that much. But what if it was the
Willoughbys
? What then? He would have to dig through his own family history to see what connection he may have to this part of the world.

Isaac felt lost. He was in a strange room, full of unfamiliar darkness, shadows cast in the glow of an alarm clock that wasn't really his. The feeling, however, was familiar. It reminded him of the first few weeks after his album had been released. The nervous tension as radio stations across the country had picked up the single, and Isaac knowing that every day could be the one when he learned just how his introduction to the listening audience at large had gone over. He would lie in bed at night, feeling the sweat breaking on his brow and rolling across his temples to tickle his ears. And just before he believed his breathing would stop, leaving him to lie in panic and paralyzed, he would reach across the bed, his fingertips brushing against Emily's thigh or back...

His breath would slow, his panic slough away, and all the worries that had crept up to drag him down would disappear. She had been his talisman, his cure for the insecurities and worries that he knew deep down didn't really matter, but somehow had always managed to get the best of him. He liked to think that, on some level, he had done the same for her. But Emily had always been the sensible one, able to detach herself when necessary and pull him out of whatever emotional quicksand he'd allowed himself to sink into.

So when Isaac, one foot already in the realm of sleep, reached over to find her hand in that strange bed, but felt only the cool sheets where he'd hoped her warm body would be, he gratefully allowed sleep to overcome him in her stead. And for the night he forgot about the door. He forgot about Elizabeth, Harold, and Walter. He forgot about the room under the barn and the journal he'd left in the car. And, sadly, he lost forever a bit more of how his world had felt with Emily as a part of it.

Isaac's night of restless dreams in an otherwise comfortable bed began with finding himself back in the barn, trying to find the entry to the underground room. He circled the floor for what seemed like hours, pushing away bales of hay and old boxes that came from nowhere, reappearing in his way each time he made a complete circuit. In another dream he found himself frantically trying to get to Elizabeth. He hadn't been sure why, just that he needed to see her. But no matter where he stood in that hallway, he could not find the mysterious door. Eventually he tried to bust his way through the wall, only to become bloodied and beaten.

Most of the other dreams were less emotional and far more annoying. However, the dream that stayed with him throughout the morning was of Elizabeth, leaving him with an echo of such strong yearning for her. He'd dreamed of simply lying next to her in bed. They were under the covers, their clothes scattered around the floor. Her hair was down, running around her face and shoulders like a river of gold as she laid there, her eyes locked with his. The cover was pulled up just enough to cover most of her breasts. She was on her back with her legs turned toward him. Both arms were back above her head, giving her a look of total abandonment. Her eyes spoke to him of love and trust, satisfaction and wonder.

It was that look that stuck with him as he showered and later prepared his breakfast. His eyes stared a hole through the table as he slowly picked through his eggs, taking a bite here and there out of habit until he realized his food was getting cold. Isaac ate the rest quickly, washing it down with hot coffee. He was getting sidetracked, letting the dreams affect him too much. The morning was already inching toward noon, and he wanted to read from Mary Jane's journal before driving into town. If he was lucky, it would have some answers for him, or at least give him some ideas for where to look.

The temperature had dropped significantly overnight. Isaac made a quick trip of retrieving the book from his car and let it sit on the dinette table for a few minutes just to take the chill off of it. Meanwhile, he made another cup of coffee and relieved himself of the first cup. Back at the table, he sat and held the book in his hands, turning to the first page and reading the inscription again:

The personal diary of

Mary Jane
Crosson

A wedding present from her mother

On this July 23, 1910

The fact that the journal was close to one hundred years old was difficult for Isaac to accept. If he had some connection to the Willoughby family, and it went back that far, how could it possibly have ended up affecting
him
? Who would have kept track of everyone well enough to be able to trace the lineage to him? And why now? It's not as if he had inherited the property as the last living descendant of the Willoughby family. Such an event wouldn't have been handled under the cloak of mystery the attorneys for the trust had been required to use.

Isaac eased back in the chair and turned a few empty pages until he came to the first entry. The handwriting was different from that of the inscription, though there was a slight resemblance. This writing was more elegant, with the long sweeping letters of a romantic hand. The entry was dated July 25, 1910.

Obediah
and I were married today. I could not be any happier. He is a hardworking man whose faith in God is inspiring. I only hope I can be as devout a wife as he deserves.

We are back at home now. Our hasty return, he says, is due to some matters with the church. I do not mind. God's work is more important than a few days of hedonism!

Isaac flipped through the journal, reading through the mundane tasks of wifehood in Holden during the early 20
^th
century. He had to give Mary Jane credit. Her prose was rich and evocative, giving her life a sense of magic that most would not see or appreciate in this day and age. However, he began to notice that the dates of the entries were growing further between, and her handwriting was losing the romanticism so obvious in the first entries. Perhaps she had finally let the repetitiveness of housework catch up with her, and married life was losing its charm.

He was about to set the book aside and drive into town when he reached an entry that was very different from the rest. Though the hand that wrote it was the same, the words seemed hurried, crammed together in an urgent manner not evident in any of the other passages. Isaac finished off his coffee and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table so that his face hung directly over the book.

It has taken me much time and many prayers, but God has answered them. I am with child! Mother is beside herself and plans to visit soon.
Obediah
seems pleased. He acted a bit put off at first, but I reminded him the Lord works in mysterious ways. I believe it is finally our time to bring another soul into the world for Him. I am sure once he holds this new life in his hands he will see the wisdom of our Lord. If anyone could, it would be
Obediah
.

He was a bit thrown by this last comment. Was Mary poking fun at
Obediah
and his devout ways? It could certainly be interpreted as such. But without hearing the way in which the words were meant to be spoken, he couldn't be sure. Obviously, the man was devout, but to imply he alone could interpret God's plan seemed a bit out of place to Isaac.

He flipped through a few more pages until he found an entry regarding the child.

Obediah
has been acting quite strangely around little Elizabeth, as if each time he sees her he has to remind himself of her presence. He's also been very protective over me. Even now he is off to town to pick up some necessities and has called upon Miss Rose on her day off to sit with Elizabeth and myself at the house. I only call it being protective, however. It feels more like I'm being watched over in his absence.

Worst of all, he has left the church. He seems to be getting angrier about it every day and I am the most convenient target for his frustrations. Whenever something is misplaced, I am to blame. And I never seem to be good enough for the Lord in
Obediah's
eyes. I don't understand how he can even think such a thing. Am I not a good wife and mother?

And he forces me to pray all of the time, as if my nightly prayers and those before every meal aren't sufficient enough. He's certainly gotten worse since his separation from the church. Though I don't mind the family sermons he gives Elizabeth and myself each Sabbath, he's begun testing me on the lessons. I do not mind learning God's word at home, but a grown woman should not be tested like a child in school, or punished if she fails to meet expectations.

I mostly fear for little Elizabeth. She is only two now, but how much longer will it be before
Obediah
decides she is old enough to be put under such duress in the name of God? I cannot let that happen to my child.

I'm thinking of talking to mother about
Obediah
before he gets any worse. Perhaps she will have some sound advice for me.

Isaac turned to the next page, caught up in the words that narrated
Obediah
Willoughby's descent into madness. But instead of seeing more words, he was once again gazing upon the soft, feminine features of the girl he believed was
Obediah's
daughter, Elizabeth. The photograph was old and faded, but unmistakably her. She looked to be roughly the same age as when he saw her, possibly a year or two older in the picture. Her hair was down, falling upon her shoulders. Even in the gray tones of the photograph Isaac could see how her hair had shimmered. Her eyes looked out at him with a hint of sadness, yet there was the slightest smile upon her lips.

A chill ran up Isaac's back, and he reached for his cup of coffee only to realize it was empty. Seeing Elizabeth's face in the picture awakened those feelings the dream had stirred within him. It didn't help that she seemed to be looking directly at him; not at the camera, but at Isaac himself, as if she knew he would someday see the photograph. She was beautiful, and the sensation she caused in his stomach was one he hadn't felt since being with Emily. It was difficult to avoid guilt from associating the two, but the way Elizabeth stared into him from a simple picture made every other distraction fall away.

The phone rang and Isaac struggled to keep his chair upright. He caught himself on the table just before tipping over.

"Damn it!" he yelled, more frightened than angry. His voice boomed in the quiet kitchen.

The second ring sounded off. He stood and hurried over to pick up the handset. The ringer was so loud that he imagined it waking up things inside the house that should remain undisturbed.

"Hello?" he answered, curbing the annoyance in his voice before speaking.

"Hi, neighbor. I just wanted to check in on you, make sure that chili sat well."

It was Walter. And he was damn chipper, at that.

"Hey, Walt. I haven't had any problems yet, other than some crazy dreams. I don't think the chili had anything to do with that, though."

"Good. I slept like a baby, myself, though I did have to get up a few times thanks to those three beers." He let Isaac get in a laugh before finishing up. "Anytime you need to drop by, feel free. I can always whip up a little extra of whatever I'm having, and the effort is well worth the company."

"I appreciate that. I was thinking of leaving today, but decided I had nothing better to do back home. Plus, I'd like to find out some more about this place." Isaac paused, an idea suddenly coming to him. "Listen, I'm about to drive into town for some groceries and see what I can find out down at the courthouse. Might even stop by the diner. You want to tag along?"

There was a short pause on the line before Walter answered.

"I'd just as soon stick around here. I have a little work to do that I've been putting off for too long. Maybe next time?"

"Sure, Walt. If you change your mind in the next ten minutes or need me to pick up anything, just give me call."

"Will do. Take care."

Isaac was about to hang up when he remembered the question he had for his neighbor. "Hey, Walt!"

"Yeah?"

"How did you get my number? I'm guessing it's only been turned on recently since no one has been here for a while."

Another pause.

"Walt?"

"I was just trying to remember. My mind doesn't work as fast as it used to." He laughed, but Isaac thought it sounded a bit forced, nervous. "I was coming home one day when I saw the phone truck out at your place. I stopped by to see what I could find out, you know, since not much happens out here. Turns out the kid doing the work was the grandson of an old friend. I asked for the number in case I needed it for an emergency or something."

There was a much longer pause on the line as Isaac thought over the explanation he had just been given. It sounded logical, and made perfect sense considering the mentality that was prevalent in Holden. But, at the very least, the way Walter had spat the information out in a frenzied rush of words was conspicuous. Isaac thought about calling him on it, asking him if maybe
he
had something to confess. Instead, he decided to wait. If Walter was holding something back, Isaac thought it would be easier to coax it out of him over another bowl of chili, face to face.

"Okay. Just wondering," Isaac said, trying to keep his voice light. "I'll catch up with you later."

He hung up the phone and checked his watch. If he left now and went straight to the courthouse, he might finish up in time to grab lunch at the diner around noon. After that he could stop for groceries and head back to the house. He might run into Albert at the diner, though he was hoping more for Harold. He still had some questions, and maybe the old guy had cooled down enough to be approached again.

Isaac glanced at the journal, anxious to get back to reading. It could wait, however. He just might grab himself a six-pack and settle back into the recliner this evening, book in hand. If he discovered nothing new in town today, he was sure to gain some further insight into the Willoughby family through Mary Jane's writing.

He gathered his jacket and keys, headed into the drab, cold day outside.