The Visitor (14 page)

Twenty-Five

M
y heart thudded painfully as I picked up the congealing tea to calm myself, only to set the cup back down with a clatter. I wouldn't have thought it possible to be more unsettled than I had been earlier when I'd trespassed into Devlin's memory, or even later on the Battery with the smell of ozone in the air and dread in his eyes. But the notion of mass murder, mass rage, mass
possession
went far beyond doubt and disquiet.

I wanted nothing more than to pull Papa's rules over my head and bury myself in the twin defenses of denial and pretense. But it was too late for that. The ghost and the in-between knew that I could see them. No amount of make-believe would send either away. I hadn't yet suffered any physical ramifications of a haunting, but it was only a matter of time before the drain on my life force weakened me.

“My dear, are you all right?”

“I don't know.”

“It seems I've upset you once again, and I'm sorry for that, but I felt I had to warn you. If you're to visit that cemetery, you must be forearmed. Perhaps under the circumstances, it would be better to postpone your trip.”

“No, I can't do that. I
have
to go. The sooner, the better. I have to find out what they want. I can't hide or run away from this, Dr. Shaw. That would only make things worse. Following the clues may be the only protection I have left. For whatever reason, I'm being summoned to that cemetery. I think there's a message to be found on those headstones. Maybe you were right the other day when you asked who better than I to solve the riddle. I'd like to think that nothing more will be required of me than my professional expertise.”

“I hope so, too,” he said, the foreboding in his voice an echo of my own trepidation. “But promise me you'll take care when you get to that cemetery. I've no special intuition or extrasensory perception, but I do have a hunch that you're approaching a crossroads. A physical and spiritual turning point in your life. I would once again advise that you proceed with the utmost caution.”

We talked for a moment or two longer before hanging up, and then I returned to my research. I heard nothing else in the walls and maybe it was my imagination, but the quality of the silence had shifted. Despite Dr. Shaw's warning, I no longer felt frightened or threatened. It was as if my decision to visit Kroll Cemetery had temporarily placated the interloper.

Even when I rose a little while later to get ready for bed, I didn't feel the need to glance over my shoulder as I walked down the hallway. I wouldn't say that I felt as safe and secure as I once had in my sanctuary, but my mood had certainly lifted. I showered, dried my hair and then crawled into bed, rolling to my back so that I could watch the changing patterns of moonlight on the ceiling until I grew drowsy.

Sliding down between the crisp sheets, I cocooned myself in the covers as the ceiling fan stirred the night air. I was just drifting off when I heard a tap at the window.

My eyes flew open as I lay there, listening to the darkness. The sound came again.
Tap, tap, tap.
Trying to relax my muscles so that I could move more fluidly, I shifted my position until I had a view of the window.

Something dark covered the glass. I thought at first the curtains were drawn, but I didn't remember closing them before I turned in. And once my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see the glisten of moonlight in the upper pane. As I focused on that pale stream, I saw an insect fly to the window and cling to the screen. Then another came and still another until I realized the darkness covering the lower panel was neither curtain nor shade, but a cloud of black moths.

Maybe I wasn't fully awake or maybe I'd become inured to the unusual, but in that first instant of awareness, I was more curious than frightened. I even entertained the notion that the beacon inside me—the unnatural light that attracted the ghosts—might also have summoned the moths.

The quiver of their iridescent wings was hypnotic and my focus became almost trancelike until a dank cold penetrated my fixation. A draft so icy I could see the frost of my breath in the remaining moonlight. And with the plunging temperature came a scent that reminded me of damp earth and old death.

Tap, tap, tap.

My attention darted back to the window. The moths kept coming, kept clinging until all but a sliver of moonlight was extinguished. Now I could make out little more than the vague shape of furniture, but instinct told me not to reach for the lamp. It was best not to see what had entered my room.

Clutching the covers to my chin, I lay motionless as I peered through the frigid darkness. I saw no humpback silhouettes or sightless apparitions, but I knew something was there just the same. I wasn't dreaming or hallucinating. I hadn't conjured the moths or the cold. Or that smell. Whatever had invaded my bedroom was real. Not human, not any longer, but there was no denying a presence.

Mott?

I almost whispered the name into the darkened room but I held my silence as I cowered under the covers.

The chill deepened and the smell intensified as the tiny interloper moved about the space. I sensed her standing over me and I wanted nothing so much as to leap from bed and run screaming into the night. But I clung to my courage as tightly as I clutched the blanket, and I remembered Dr. Shaw's warning that negative energy stirred unrest. I took a breath, trying to calm my racing heart.

Just when I thought I had my fear under control, I felt the frosted caress of dead fingers against my cheek, the brush of frigid lips in my hair. Cloves tingled on my tongue, but I took no solace in the spice. I had come to loathe the taste.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I willed away the trespasser.
Please go. Leave me alone. Leave me in peace.

I heard the low rasp of a breath, a guttural mutter that sounded like
“Mine,”
and then the click of long fingernails against the top of the nightstand as she rummaged through my things. A drawer opened, then another and another.

What are you looking for? What do you want from me?

After a moment, the shuffling stopped, the cold faded and I knew that I was once again alone in my bedroom. I huddled under the quilt as I listened for signs of a retreat. I heard only silence. No scratching in the walls or footsteps out in the hallway. But I knew Mott was gone and with her the moths.

Moonlight flooded the room, but still I reached for the lamp. Blinking in the sudden brilliance, I glanced around, my gaze coming to rest on the nightstand.

The cicada husk had vanished and in its place were three gleaming keys.

Twenty-Six

I
swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat there staring at the keys, all lined up in a row, but teeth turned away from me, as if all I had to do was pick one up and insert it into a lock.

Which one, though? And was I really being given a choice or did each have a special purpose?

A chill lingered in the room, not from the intruder, but from my own fear. I dragged the covers over my shoulders as I scooted closer to the nightstand, wanting a better look, but not daring to touch. Not yet. I remembered the reaction I'd had when the first key had been tossed in the cellar. I'd gotten rid of it in the garden, but now here it was back on my nightstand along with two others.

I wouldn't remove any of them until I had a chance to consider the consequences. I didn't want my actions to be misconstrued as acceptance of this offering. Even worse, a trade or invitation.

I studied each key for a very long time, taking note of the shank, head and bittings as I looked for inscriptions or numbers, anything that would give me a hint of what they might unlock. One was a skeleton key with a long shank and ornate head. The fanciful scrollwork reminded me of the key I'd found in Rosehill Cemetery, right down to the tattered pink ribbon still threaded through the filigree bow. As a child, I'd imagined the treasure chest that key might open, but now I worried about the horrors that could be unlocked if I chose the wrong door.

Then I had another thought. Was the skeleton key somehow connected to Rose? Could this key be my salvation?

What if Rose had left it on that headstone all those years ago as a talisman against the ghosts? Rather than summoning the apparitions into my world, maybe it would have kept them locked out.

The head of the third key had been carved to resemble an eye. Four teeth pointed straight down from the shank like the prongs of a pitchfork. There was something distinctly menacing about that strange key. I found myself both repelled by and drawn to it.

“What am I supposed to do with them?” I whispered into the silent room. “What is it you want from me?”

As I gazed around my familiar surroundings, searching for answers to the unknowable, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the dresser mirror. The sight stopped me cold, the resemblance to Rose filling me with a terrible dread. Our destinies were inexorably linked. What I was now she had once been. What she was I would someday become.

Rising, I walked over to the mirror and leaned in to scrutinize my features—
her
features—focusing on those tiny motes at the bottom of my irises. Had Rose's eyes possessed those same strange markings? As a child, had she ever fancied they were keyholes?

I glanced at the odd-shaped key lying on my nightstand and then back at my reflection. Suddenly, I had the disturbing notion that those pointed teeth matched exactly the dark lines beneath my pupils.

Twenty-Seven

I
was just heading out of the house the next morning when Owen Dowling called. Still on edge from the night's events, I answered cautiously when I saw the store name on the display.

“I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time,” he said. “You asked that I call you the next time my great-aunt came to the shop. She's here now, as it happens. I told her about the stereoscope you found and she's very eager to speak with you about it.”

“Did she recognize the names in the inscription?” I asked anxiously.

“I'll let the two of you talk about that. Would it be possible for you to drop by the shop this morning?”

“What time?”

“The sooner the better as I don't know how long she plans to be here.”

“I'll come right now, then.”

“Wonderful! I'll tell her to expect you. And, Miss Gray? Don't forget to bring the stereoscope.”

Twenty minutes later, I found myself striding down King Street with my backpack thrown over one shoulder. It was not yet ten so most of the shops were still closed, but downtown already bustled with tourists. There were so many people out and about and the sun shone so brightly from a cloudless sky that I felt only mild trepidation as I turned down the alley toward Dowling Curiosities. Devlin's investigation had unearthed nothing suspicious on either the shop or Owen, but even if he had discovered something untoward, I doubt I would have been thwarted. After what happened last evening, a human threat would almost be welcome.

The shop was locked so I tapped on the glass until Owen Dowling appeared at the window. Drawing open the door, he flashed a charming smile as he gave a slight bow. A courtly and old-fashioned greeting even by Devlin's standards.

“Miss Gray! Thank you for coming on such short notice.” He moved back from the door and motioned for me to enter.

Stepping across the threshold, I was once again assailed by the medicinal aroma of camphor. The overhead lights had not yet been turned on and I could see dust motes dancing in the beams of sunlight streaming in through the windows. The effect was unexpectedly cheery given my mood and the bizarre nature of some of the collectibles.

“Thank you for calling me. I'm so happy your great-aunt agreed to meet with me. She's still here, I hope.” I couldn't see anyone else in the shop, but decided his aunt must be in the back.

“She is.” Owen nodded toward my backpack. “You brought the stereoscope?”

“Of course.”

“See, Auntie? I told you she wouldn't forget.”

My gaze darted around the shop, but I still didn't notice anyone until the woman came out from behind one of the display cases. Her dark attire and diminutive stature had rendered her almost invisible in the shadows.

I was so taken aback by her sudden appearance that it took me a moment to recognize her. Then I exclaimed, “Miss Toombs!”

“Lovely to see you again, Miss Gray...Amelia.”

I turned to Owen accusingly. “So you did recognize the inscription when I was in here before. Why didn't you say so?”

He put up a hand in protest. “I swear to you, I wasn't familiar with those names. I've never heard my aunt called by anything other than her given name. I had no idea she was the Neddy in the inscription.”

“He's right,” Nelda said. “Neither of those nicknames has been used in decades. No one in Owen's generation would have recognized them. Still,” she turned to give him a gentle rebuke. “You might have told her who she was coming to see when you phoned her. I'm afraid I gave our visitor a shock.”

“How was I to know that the two of you had already met? It seems I'm the one in the dark here.” He removed a feather duster from a nearby hook and swept it along a row of antique dolls. The slight rustle of their taffeta skirts sounded like rain. “Go ahead and have your talk,” he said peevishly. “I'll just be over here dusting.”

Nelda's dark eyes glittered mischievously as she slipped her fingers through his suspenders and gave them a playful snap. “Don't scowl so, nephew. It'll give you wrinkles.”

“Heaven forbid,” he said in mock horror as he sidestepped away from her.

She turned to me with an encouraging smile. “Let's go back to the office, shall we? We'll be more comfortable there, and I've made tea.”

I followed her through the curtains into a large storage room of neatly arranged boxes and crates. The office was tucked away in a corner at the back of the building. An antique writing desk faced the door, but Nelda led me past the workspace to a small sitting area furnished with a striped settee and two Queen Anne chairs. The upholstery and rugs were in soothing shades of blue and green—sea colors—that complemented the lush courtyard I could glimpse through French doors. It was all very vintage and feminine. Very old Charleston.

“What a charming office,” I said.

“It was similarly furnished when I inherited the shop from a distant relative. I always liked the quaintness, but I expect Owen will redo everything once he takes over. That'll be hard for me. I'm old and I don't like change, but it's only fitting the shop be returned to the Dowling side of the family. Owen isn't really my nephew, you see, more like a cousin several times removed. But he's always thought of me as his great-aunt and I've never been one to stand on ceremony.”

“I understand Dowling Curiosities has been at this location for a very long time,” I said.

“Well over fifty years. I was surprised to find myself in my cousin's will, but our family is nothing if not eccentric and more than a little complex. You've no doubt noticed that I have a different last name than Ezra's.” She motioned to one of the chairs and she took the settee, propping her walking cane nearby and smoothing wrinkles from the smock she wore over her dress. “William Kroll was Louvenia and Ezra's father. After he died, my mother married Harold Toombs, a weak opportunist who left her shortly after Mott and I were born. It was a difficult delivery and our poor mother had many months of recovery. Harold couldn't or wouldn't accept the responsibility for our care so he packed his bags and took off.”

“That must have been hard on everyone.”

“Mother never got over his abandonment. When she died a few years later, Louvenia swore it was from nursing a broken heart for so long. In truth, she succumbed to pneumonia. Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

While Nelda busied herself with the teapot and cups, I removed the stereoscope from my bag and placed it on the coffee table.

She paused, eyes filling with emotion before she reached for it. “May I?”

“Of course.”

She turned the stereoscope over, searching for the inscription. “Ah, there it is.” She ran a finger over the tiny metal plate. “I gave this viewer to Mott on our thirteenth birthday. My cousin found it on one of her excursions and engraved it in this very shop. And now here it is back, after having been lost for so many years.”

“I'm happy to return it to its rightful place,” I said.

“That's very generous of you. The shop will reimburse you for your troubles, of course.”

“No need. The viewer belongs here with you. But I do wonder how it came to be in the cellar of a house on Rutledge Avenue.”

A frown flitted across Nelda's wizened brow. “I've no idea. It just disappeared one day. I never knew what happened to it.”

“And this, as well?” I laid the stereogram on the table facing her.

She picked up the card and studied the dual photographs for the longest time before pressing the images to her heart. “I remember the day these were taken. Ezra had just come from the Colony where he'd been working in one of the gardens and Mott and I begged him to have his picture made with us. We adored him so. But he was always camera shy, especially after he returned from the war.”

“Who took the photographs?”

“Louvenia. Mott showed her how to position the frames at slightly different angles to create a 3-D image just the way Rose had taught her. Mott was always a quick study. She became as obsessed with photography as Rose. Both were in love with stereoscopy. They claimed you could see things in the three-dimensional imagery that couldn't be glimpsed with the naked eye.”

“That's Rose in the upstairs window, isn't it?”

Nelda slipped the card in the holder and lifted the stereoscope to the light. “Why, yes it is. Watching over us as always. Funny, I never noticed her there before.” She returned the viewer to the table and handed me a cup of tea. “You can see why I was so startled by the resemblance.”

“Yes, it's uncanny, as you said. How did you come to know Rose? If you don't mind my asking.”

“I don't mind. I like talking about her. She just turned up in town one day. It seemed peculiar at the time. She had no friends or family in Isola, not even a job at first. Later, I came to suspect that she and Ezra had crossed paths in the past. She moved into a cottage he owned not far from the Colony.”

“Why didn't she live in the Colony?”

“It takes a very special mind-set to adapt to communal living. Rose was much too private. Instead of paying rent, she made arrangements to tutor Mott and me. We had to miss a lot of school because of our health, you see. And there were other reasons...emotional reasons why we lagged behind. But Rose was a wonderful teacher. In no time at all, she had us doing work that was well above our grade level. Ezra was very proud of us all, especially Mott. The two of them were always so close. Sugar?” She offered the small bowl of glistening cubes, but I declined.

“I'm fine, thank you. The tea is wonderful just as it is.”

She smiled, pleased by the compliment. “The secret is just a hint of cloves.”

I quickly swallowed. “Oh?”

“It's a tricky spice. Overpowering if one isn't careful with the blend. I suppose I'll need to pass down the recipe to Owen along with the shop.” She took a sip, savoring the taste with closed eyes before setting aside her cup. “Where were we?”

“You said Rose used to tutor you and your sister.”

“I don't think she ever even saw anyone else, except on those rare occasions when she went into town for supplies. She certainly didn't socialize. I know she must have been lonely, the cottage being so isolated. There wasn't a road and barely a footpath. The terrain was difficult for Mott and me so Rose came to us most of the time. But every now and then, we'd venture to her place. She always made such a fuss when we visited. Treated us like little princesses. After everything we'd endured, Rose's affection and unconditional acceptance meant the world to us.”

“She was a special person, sounds like.”

“Beautiful inside and out,” Nelda said, still with that misty smile. “And, as I mentioned, an avid photographer. For a time, she even had a darkroom in her house. Mott and I spent many a happy hour in that tiny space watching her work. She used to say that looking through the lens of a camera was like peering through a keyhole. All it took was an open mind to see many strange and fantastical things.”

I glanced at the stereogram, wondering if there were things in the images that I had yet to notice. Fantastical things. Ghostly things. “That's a very intriguing observation,” I said.

“Oh, Rose had a lot of such notions even before she became so ill.”

“What was wrong with her?”

Nelda's dreaminess turned to melancholy. “What happened at Kroll Colony hit her very hard. And then only a short time later, we lost dear Mott. So many tragedies that year. It was all too much for her, I think. That and the loneliness. Something inside her snapped and she began to lose touch with reality.”

“She stayed on in Isola after your brother died?”

“Yes, in that same little house. Sister and I always assumed that Ezra had made provisions for her before he passed since she had no visible means of support. He was a generous soul, and like the rest of us, he had a soft spot for Rose. I'm sure she could have lived quite comfortably in town or anywhere she wanted, but she seemed to prefer the solitude. And, of course, she had her work at Kroll Cemetery.”

I leaned in. “What kind of work?”

“The locals were very vocal about not wanting to taint the public burial ground with all those suicides. Some believed it to be a mortal sin, you see. Rose made arrangements for the bodies, even the former soldiers, to be buried near her home so that she could mind the graves herself. She even went so far as to have walls erected around the cemetery and a maze planted at the entrance to keep out the gawkers and mischief makers.”

Or to keep something else in
, I thought with a shiver. “Your family didn't mind about the cemetery? It was built on Kroll land, I assume.”

“No one objected. It seemed the right thing to do and I think Louvenia was glad to have someone else take care of all the details.”

“Was Rose also responsible for the headstones?”

“Yes. She had each carved and engraved to her precise specifications.”

“I've seen photographs of the cemetery,” I said. “All those numbers and keys etched into the headstones—I've never come across anything like them. Do you know what they mean?”

“Rose had a fascination, a fixation, if you will, with keys. She must have collected dozens, if not hundreds, of lost keys over the years.”

“Did she ever explain her fascination?”

Nelda shrugged. “I don't recall that we ever asked her.”

I stared down into the teacup for a moment. “Dr. Shaw said there are those who believe the cemetery is a puzzle or riddle that no one has ever been able to solve.”

Nelda smiled. “Perhaps because it's unsolvable. You have to take into account Rose's mental state when she designed Kroll Cemetery. What made sense to her would undoubtedly seem nonsensical to the rest of us. By the time the cemetery was finished, she was already living in her own world. Withdrawn and paranoid even with me. At some point, she suffered a complete breakdown. That's the only way to explain why she did what she did.”