Winds of terror (7 page)

Some of the puzzlement left Mark's gaze, and he nodded amiably now. "I agree, but everything in that room has probably gotten covered with inches of dust, and any food left there has long ago rotted and disintegrated. It will remain sealed until the house is destroyed or torn down, the way Aimt Addie has requested. As for your dog, I am sorry, Melly. Will you forgive me?"

He looked so repentant and sounded so sincere that Melanie nodded, reluctant to harbor any hard feelings.

"Suppose you do keep Butch downstairs from now on, though, okay?" Mark smiled at her as he headed outdoors. "He might disturb Auntie."

Melanie stared at the closed door thoughtfully. Mark

was an odd one. At first, when confronted with her accusation, he had pretended not to know what she was talking about. Or maybe he really didn't, she thought in wonder. Maybe it was possible that subconsciously he had done something that his twin brother would have done. But no, she wouldn't let herself start thinking things like that The superstitious ramblings of an old woman would not affect or influence her thoughts; she would not permit it.

She got out the box of sugar cookies and arranged some on a tray. Butch whimpered, begging for a cookie, and he gave her a grateful lick as she leaned over to give him one.

Then something stirred within her. She straightened, trying to gather her thoughts. Something was clicking, and she couldn't quite grasp what it was. Then it dawned on her! For a dog who'd just been kicked painfully. Butch had been quite nonchalant towards his attacker. In fact, she recalled that Butch had limped over to sniff Mark's leg quizzically and even nudged him in greetingl That was weird—^very weird, indeed.

Now she felt a fearful sense of apprehension. It had to be a harmless incident, she told herself. Mark was not possessed by his dead twin, and even if he were, a dog could not distinguish between their scents. Would a demon have a scent at all, she wondered. This was the silliest notion she'd ever had; her imagination was really working overtime to come up with such an idea.

She arranged the tray, silently admonishing herself all the while. It was quite easy for the eerie old house to get to her, to make her imagination run away with her, and she could not let that happen anymore. Just because there was a locked and sealed room upstairs, there was no reason to believe that demons were walking the corridorsi

She decided she would make herself view the whole situation with a tongue-in-cheek attitude. She did not believe in ghosts or demonic possession, and, in fact, she knew very little about such things.

She started for the door, but then she paused. Setting the tray on a sideboard, she led Butch across the kitchen and opened the back door to let him out to romp. Maybe it would be best if he didn't go back upstairs, she decided, telling herself it had nothing to do with the sealed room.

Chapter 6

After taking the tray in to her aunt, Melanie returned downstairs and placed a call to Dr. Ambrose to request that he stop by the house after dinner. His office nurse said that she would relay the message to him. She went back upstairs to tell her aunt that the doctor would be coming, but on her way to Addie's room, she heard a door open at the end of the hall.

"Melanie, could you stop by here a minute?"

It was Cale. He was in his wheelchair, and he rolled himself back in the room, bidding her to enter. Once inside, he closed the door.

"I wanted to ask what all the commotion was out in the hall a while ago," he began. "I was lying down, and when I'm in bed, it takes several minutes to hoist myself up and into my chair. By the time I got to the door, the hall was clear."

"Butch was scratching at the door to Uncle Bartley's room, absolutely determined to get in," she told him. "Mark came up and kicked him. He could have hurt him badly, but thank goodness he didn't."

Cale sighed and shook his head. "Mark sure isn't himself since Todd died."

"Not you, too," Melanie scoffed. "Listen, I just heard some weird notions from Aunt Addie, and I hope you aren't going to come up with some equally zany ideas to explain our cousin's strange behavior."

They laughed together affectionately, and then Cale glided his chair about the room to show her his whittling. He was good at it, Melanie thought, but whittling seemed

such a pitiful activity for one who should be out enjoying life to its fullest.

Her heart went out to him. Cale was handsome and strong; he just wasn't the type to be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

Cale, sensing her pity, said, a bit sharply, **One of these days, I'm going to get up and walk right out of here. I'll leave this moldy old mansion and everything in it."

"I hope that day is soon, Cale," she said gently. She liked this young man more each time she was with him. He was a lot like Robert, she thought, wanting so much out of life, wanting to savor each and every moment. She hoped that Cale was more fortunate than Robert had been, though. She hoped that he would get a chance to really enjoy life.

"Your carvings are very good." She picked up one and examined it closely.

"You can have the whole collection if you like." He reached for a cigarette and lit it, offering one to Melanie, which she refused. "When I leave this place, I don't want any memories of it. I never intend to look back. Sometimes I think I'd be better off if my grandmother would just put me in a rest home someplace. I think I hate it here. It reminds me of my father, and the shoddy way my grandparents treated him just because he happened to fall in love with my mother."

"You shouldn't feel like that. It all happened a long time ago. Southern people are proud, and they're stub-bom when it comes to their families. You shouldn't hold a grudge against your grandmother, Cale. She did help you when you needed help—when you had no one else. Now she needs help. She needs us."

"Maybe," he shrugged. "I guess you're right. I try not to be bitter, but it isn't easy with so much time on my hands."

She crossed the room and knelt beside him, smiling up at him. "One day you will leave this place, Cale. I just know you will. You'll walk again ..."

"I'm sure I will. Right now, though, I want you to be happy, little cousin."

She laughed and rose to her feet. "I'm doing all right, Cale. I'm taking each day as it comes and not thinking

too much about anything except the day in front of me. That's the way to face grief, I guess."

She wandered about the room. It was large, as were all the rooms in the house. The furniture wasn't quite as antiquated as the other furnishings in the house. There was a dresser, a chest, an iron-postered bed. Some racing pictures were hung sloppily on the walls. It didn't look like a happy room at all, and Melanie wondered how Cale could stand spending so much time in so gloomy a place.

"Why don't you leave here now?" he said.

Melanie swung around, surprised, and saw Cale staring at her thoughtfully. He nodded.

"I mean it. Why don't you get out, Melanie? Mark can manage with Addie. That's what he really wants to do anyway. Sooner or later, he'll succeed in his attempts to have her declared incompetent, and he'll take over the plantation legally. She'll be put in a nice rest home where people won't deliberately try to drive her insane. She can die in peace. She probably isn't going to live much longer anyway.

"Why should you sacrifice your young life?" he went on, his eyes burning into hers. "You've got everything ahead of you now. You can go on, meet and fall in love with someone else, make a life for yourself. You can't accomplish anything by moldering here along with everything else."

"I know Aunt Addie can't have much longer to live,'* Melanie agreed. "But while she's alive, I must honor the promise I made to my mother. I promised to take care of her sister should she ever need me. Well, she needs me now, and I'm not going to desert her. I owe it to Addie, and to my dead mother, to do whatever I can. And I intend to do it, Cale. I wish everyone would understand that."

"Everyone?"

"You, Mark, the people in town," she told him. "No one thinks I should stay."

"Yeah, I would imagine Mark's done a good job of spreading the word that Addie is crazy," Cale said, more to himself than to her. "I still think you should go, though. You're just being stubborn in wanting to stay."

"I can't understand why everyone wants me to leave!'* She smiled at him affectionately. "We can be friends,

Cale, and we'll be good company for each other if you'll let it happen."

"Oh, m let it happen," he laughed, reaching to tweak the end of her pixielike nose. "I never could say no to a pretty girl. Who knows? I might wind up chasing you in my wheelchair!"

Melanie blushed and left to go downstairs. She had to think about preparing dinner. She wanted to make an apple pie, and she'd spotted some fresh green apples on a tree just outside the back door. Cale promised to come downstairs for dinner, and Melanie said she would like Mark to join them, too. Soon, perhaps, Addie could come down, and they could all eat in the formal dining room as a family. Melanie looked forward to that day.

Nothing seemed to go right. The apples proved to be too green for a pie. The dumplings for the stewed hen were lumpy and soggy. The mashed potatoes were like the dumplings. Mark didn't even show up at the dinner table. And Addie, angry because Dr. Ambrose had been summoned, refused to eat. As it turned out, Cale was the only one to show any interest in eating, and he pretended dinner was delicious.

Dr. Ambrose arrived shortly after the disastrous meal, and Cale returned to his room to read. Mark still hadn't appeared, so Melanie took the doctor up to her aunt's room, and as they walked upstairs, she told him about the incident of the night before.

Dr. Ambrose clucked and shook his head. He seemed too old to still be practicing medicine, Melanie thought as she stole a look at him. He was tall and stoop-shouldered; his eyes hidden behind thick bifocals; his face was a mass of wrinkles. He was almost seventy, she figured, but to the folks in and around Linville, he seemed ageless.

"Addie is going to have to calm down," he said. "That heart of hers won't stand much excitement. I've told her and told her, but she won't listen. That nephew of hers, Mark, thinks she should be put in a hospital for old folks, and maybe that's the place for her. I can't be the one to come right out and say so for sure, though, not when she cries and begs me not to do it to her. She says Mark wants to get control of her money, and she's not ready for that to happen yet. She's waiting to see if Cale shows any signs of settling down, I think."

They reached the second floor and turned down the

hall towards Addie's room. "Well, we'll just have to wait and see what happens," the old doctor finished, pausing outside the door. "But we sure can't have her getting upset. It's a small miracle she didn't drop dead when she found Todd hanging by his neck!"

Melanie shuddered as he opened the door. It must have been a terrifying experience; it was a miracle Addie hadn't died of a heart attack then and there.

They found the old woman propped up in bed against some pillows. She had been reading, and she put the book in her lap and faced them squarely as they entered.

"Don't come in here giving me some nonsense about a hospital," she said, pointing an accusing finger at Dr. Ambrose. "I won't be moved. There's nothing wrong with me, and you know it!"

"Oh, I agree with you one hundred percent." The doctor hoisted his worn leather bag onto the foot of the bed and opened it, pulling out his stethoscope. "There's not a thing wrong with you, Addie Beecher, except meanness. You're too mean to die. You'll live forever."

"I'd rather have a horse doctor than the likes of you!** Addie snorted as he put the stethoscope against her bony chest. "Next time I need a doctor, I'll call that young vet in Talladega to come. He probably knows more than an old fool like you, anyway."

"Be quiet so I can hear that ticker of yours thundering away," Dr. Ambrose snapped. Melanie put her hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles. It was obvious that there was great admiration and respect between these two old people, and their bantering was merely a cover-up.

The doctor moved the stethoscope higher on her chest, then motioned Addie to lean forward so he could place it on her back. Then he removed the apparatus from his ears and returned it to his bag, bringing out his blood pressure instrument. Melanie stepped forward to help him, and in a few seconds he was watching the readings with interest as he squeezed the black rubber bulb, held it, then released it.

"Just as I suspected," he said finally, unstrapping the band around Addie's arm. "Pressure is up again."

"Well," she snorted, "I'd hke to know how a body is supposed to get any rest around here with ghosts standing at the foot of my bed all night, shaking me till my teeth

rattle and telling me they're going to take me to their grave with them!" She glared at him indignantly.

Dr. Ambrose just laughed at her and said that Melanie had already told him all about the events of the night before. "It was just the Devil after you, Addie. IVe told you all your life that you're so mean the Devil will come for you one day."

"It's a wonder I'm still alive with an old goat like you to treat me. Why don't you get on out of here and let me die in peace?"

"Just what I plan to do.** He nodded to her and signaled to Melanie that he was ready to leave. Outside in the hall with the door closed behind them, he lowered his voice and said, "Her blood pressure is up too high, Melanie. I'm going to give you some pills to give her at bedtime that will make her rest. She needs to rest. Td like to see her back in the hospital, but I know she'd have another stroke if I even suggested it. It's going to be up to you to do the best you can to see that she gets plenty of rest and doesn't get upset."

As they started downstairs, Melanie told him she doubted that she could do much with Addie, because her aunt was so stubborn and set in her ways.

"Well, I know it's diflScult," the old doctor agreed, his face crinkling. He set his bag down and started runmiag-ing through it. "Addie always was one with a mind of her own, and I guess the older she gets, the worse she gets. That's the way it is with old folks. Some say I'm just being stubborn not to take down my shingle and retire to rock on the front porch till death comes a-callin'." He shook his head firmly. "Not me. I'd have been dead a long time ago if I'd done that. I have to keep movin', keep livin*.*'