The Space Between (12 page)

He stepped into the cabin. It didn't appear as magical as it had last night, but it still seemed the perfect place to settle into for some real privacy and relaxation. His nose picked up the lingering, tangy scent of chili, causing him to swallow the flood of saliva in his mouth. Flames swayed in the fireplace, dancing their way around a small stack of glowing logs. Walter had pulled back the curtains on the front windows, unveiling the true colors of the cabin's interior.

"What brings you up here?" Walter asked, motioning to another chair at the dinette table as he sat. "Didn't get enough of my famous chili?"

Isaac tried to return the old man's wide, accommodating smile, but felt he was falling short. Walter frowned a bit as Isaac sat, apparently catching on to the younger man's troubled mood.

"You feeling okay? You look like you have something on your mind."

"Actually, I do, Walt." He sighed and sat back in his chair, trying to get comfortable. When that didn't help, he leaned forward and placed his forearms on the table. "I just saw Harold
Soseby
leaving your place like a bat out of hell."

He watched Walter for a reaction, but this time his neighbor didn't seem phased.

"Yeah, he stopped by a little while ago."

"I thought you didn't know him," Isaac said, sounding more accusatory than he'd wanted to.

"I don't," Walter answered, his eyes sticking to Isaac's as if to prove he was telling the truth. "Haven't met the man until today."

"He seemed pretty out of sorts," Isaac countered, not wanting to lose the momentum of the conversation.

Walter kept eye contact, and Isaac noticed the set of the older man's jaw grew tight. "I suspect he did. He was that way when he got here. He seems to think he knows me, but I told him I've only been living here for a little over a year."

Isaac sensed Walter was telling the truth, but he kept at it.

"Who did you buy this place from?"

"The land, you mean?" Isaac nodded. "I believe it's from an estate sale. I bought it from a group of attorneys in
Manchester
."

"Did they tell you who owned it before?"

"Nope."

Isaac continued to stare at Walter until his neighbor leaned forward to mirror Isaac's body language. "What is it you're digging for? I don't think it's too much for me to ask what you're really thinking, is it?"

Walter was right. The tone of Isaac's voice and line of questioning had turned the dining area into an interrogation room.

"I'm sorry," Isaac said, relaxing his posture and leaning back into the chair. "The stuff happening down there, and that strange Harold
Soseby
...it's got me all wound up."

Walter relaxed as well. "I understand. I suppose I would feel the same in your situation."

"I didn't mean to get in your face like that."

Walter frowned and shook his head. "Don't worry about it."

The conversation fell into silence until Isaac remembered what he'd seen at the courthouse.

"You said you bought the land from a trust, right? How many acres?"

"Seven," Walter confirmed.

"That adds up," Isaac said softly. He caught Walter's inquisitive look. "I inherited my forty-eight from the same trust, I'm guessing. And the
Willoughby
place was originally fifty-five acres."

Walter sat and listened, offering no insight. Isaac expected none and was now just thinking out loud.

"It
has
to be the same trust. But why would they sell seven acres?"

The obvious answer was for money. The remodeling of the
Willoughby
place, those new appliances, and any recurring legal fees would have to be paid somehow if there weren't enough liquid funds left in the original estate. Any information kept from Isaac would surely not be disclosed to a complete stranger.

"Seems to just get deeper, huh?" Walter's question halted Isaac's train of thought.

"What?"

"Your mystery. The more you find out the less you know."

"Oh," Isaac said, understanding Walter's previous comment. "I guess so. Though I might be getting some information later in the week regarding the line of ownership. Of course, if I find out that the
Willoughby
family owned everything just before it was put in the trust, I'm still just as stumped as when I got here."

Walter smiled, interlacing his fingers before placing them in his lap.

"I wouldn't give up just yet. I wouldn't be surprised if all the answers you needed were right down there in that house."

Isaac laughed. "I'd like to exhaust all the regular resources before I go chopping through the walls looking for the family secret that ties me to the
Willoughbys
. That wouldn't go over too well with any prospective buyers."

Walter frowned again. "You're still thinking of selling?"

"I don't really know," Isaac answered, suddenly feeling the weight of his frustration. "I'm getting to like the idea of this place, other than the town crazy having a grudge against me, and possibly living in a haunted house."

Walter laughed a little too loudly and stood to clap Isaac on the shoulder.

"You'll do fine, I'm sure. And anytime you need to talk about it, just come on by."

Was Walter giving him a cue to leave? Maybe even he was uncomfortable with the whole situation. If that were the case, Isaac couldn't blame him. Walter was being far more accommodating as a friend and neighbor than should be expected. Isaac didn't want to ruin a good thing by demanding too much of the old guy's time and understanding.

"I appreciate it. And I hope you're right."

"Just keep me posted and let me know if I can help, okay?"

Isaac stood to leave. "Will do. Maybe tomorrow night we can do dinner at my place?"

Walter's face lit up. "That sounds like a plan." He escorted Isaac out onto the porch. "You take care now."

Isaac thanked him again and jogged off to his car. He felt a bit more at ease, but still had the sensation he had just gone two steps forward and one step back. Harold was not a lost cause; he believed that. It may take a few days to come up with a more effective way to approach him, and maybe Albert could even help if it came to that. Until then, he would see what else he could discover at the house and surrounding property.

§

After putting away the groceries, Isaac cracked open a bottle of beer and settled back into the recliner with dinner and Mary Jane's journal. He hoped to make some headway and find a few answers on the yellowed pages before his stomach gave the cue for dinner. He was only having a sandwich and could easily read as he chewed his way through it.

It was easy to find where he'd left off;
Elizabeth
's photograph marked the page. He slipped the picture out of the book, letting the thumb on his other hand hook under and hold his place as he looked at her for a moment. The sudden desire to see her look upon him again with such love and devotion struck him. He could almost feel the soft texture of her nightgown and even softer skin. The smell of her hair lingered just out of reach of his memory and left him with a nervous hum resonating throughout his body, like a child forced to sit in church while the sun was shining outside on a perfectly good summer's day.

"Shake it off," Isaac scolded himself, slipping the picture in the back of the book. It could serve as incentive to finish reading, a reward at the end of the journey.

He flipped up the footrest, leaned back, and fell into Mary Jane's past.

What I have feared has finally come to pass.
Obediah
has begun lessons with
Elizabeth
. Though she is very bright for her age and eager to please her father, there are times when she fails to meet his expectations. His punishments are mostly verbal, but I can tell how badly they wound poor
Elizabeth
. She looks up to him so.

I wish I could say the same for myself. It seems I get punished for so many things these days, especially sins I've not even considered committing. When
Obediah
is in his worst of moods, particularly after he has scolded
Elizabeth
for something, he accuses me of such horrible things I'd rather not mention, even in here. And the punishments I receive are not always verbal. If my father were alive to see the marks,
Obediah
would think twice before he harmed me in such a way again.

I can only keep praying that God, the real God and not the one
Obediah
thinks he knows, will come back into my husband's heart and cure this harsh, wickedness that has taken him over. I only hope I'm not the one who is praying to the wrong God.

Isaac skimmed over two similar entries before coming to the final one. Even from the first sentence, he knew something horrible was about to be conveyed to him.

He has kept me down under the barn for several weeks now. I'm not sure what he's told little
Elizabeth
. I pray every night that she is doing well and not missing me as much as I miss her. He told me if I called out or made any noise then he would make me very sorry I did so. He did not have to say it, but I know he means he would harm my child. I have no doubt about that now.

I have called out, though. I heard little Harold in the barn above me the other day. He was quite shocked to hear me down here. I begged him to help me, but he was too afraid to do anything. I cannot blame him, I suppose. He is just a child and
Obediah
is a big man. A big, evil man. I was only able to convince him to retrieve my journal and a pen for me.

I'm not sure what will happen now. I'm feeling quite ill and
Obediah
has shown no inclination to letting me out. He constantly speaks of the demons he sees around him and even addresses me as one on occasion. I'm afraid if he doesn't overcome whatever illness has beset him, I may die at his hand. He is truly mad at times.

I wanted to at least get some of my thoughts on paper, let
Elizabeth
know how much I love her, and how sorry I am for not being there for her. She may never read my words, but it is all I can do to help quiet my heart in the slightest.

Isaac's heart was pounding in his chest as he turned the page to find empty space staring back at him. He continued turning the pages, thinking he might find another entry. But they were blank as well, and Isaac felt his stomach sink down to lie across his spine. It was as if he'd just witnessed the murder of Mary Jane
Crosson
, unable to do anything but sit there and watch it unfold.

And Harold, a young boy of ten, pulled into that nightmare and unable to do anything for fear of retribution. He must have never told a soul. If he had, Isaac would certainly have heard the story from Albert. That kind of story hung around small towns like unhappy ghosts, whispering in anyone's ear that would take a moment to listen. For Harold to keep such a secret for so many years, dealing with the guilt he must have felt...it was no wonder the man never smiled.

Had
Obediah
left her to die down there? Had he at least fed her? Isaac shivered as he considered to what level the punishment and torture might have escalated. He could have beaten her or, considering his suspicion of infidelity, done even worse things to pave her road to salvation. Isaac's heart twisted as he imagined Mary Jane, emaciated and sick in that cold hole as
Obediah
Willoughby exacted God's punishment upon her weak, frail body.

His stomach lurched, and suddenly the image of the blood-soaked room came to mind.
Obediah
might have even taken Mary Jane into their daughter's room and sacrificed her right there as an ultimate penance imposed upon his wife. Worse yet, it could have been some twisted display of God's wrath played out for the young
Elizabeth
. If that had been the case, Isaac suspected it happened at a time of her life when she could have eventually repressed it.

No matter how it had all played out those many years ago, Isaac was sure of one thing: Mary Jane died at the hands of
Obediah
Willoughby. The same fate might have easily fallen upon
Elizabeth
.

"Unless someone stopped it from happening," he whispered, beginning to see a purpose to the madness he'd encountered since entering Holden. "Unless someone
stops
him."

Isaac hoped he wasn't too late. It occurred to him if he actually knew what had happened to Elizabeth Willoughby, then he might know if he were wasting his time. It brought up the whole sticky situation of changing the past and whether it was even truly possible, but he was in no state of mind to consider it on a level deeper. If he was dealing with the spirits of people long passed, then he supposed the most that could come of his attempt to help her would be letting those spirits finally rest. He could be happy with
that
, especially as it would rule out his insanity. Maybe even that would pass if he did what he felt he needed to do in order to protect
Elizabeth
(whatever
she
really was) from her father. But there was one thing Isaac considered as he made his way to the foyer and up the stairs, something that gave him even more reason to worry.