FIRST DRAFT - Untitled New manuscript - JO Janoski
CHAPTER ONE
My God! I could imagine Justin living here! It was as though the character in her current, inchoate novel stood close, hand on her shoulder and murmuring, "Welcome home."
Sara's next breath stuck in her throat as she stared at the sprawling Victorian dwelling. The dirty wood siding glared at her along with window frames badly in need of painting--why did she want to buy this house? It would need a lot of work. And yet, it seemed so familiar...
"Ms. McNeil? What do you think?" It was the real estate agent, clipboard dangling in a loose grip, eyes captivated by the view.
"It's quite beautiful." Sara hoped her voice did not reveal trepidation. "After some repairs," she added.
"Yes, quite a bit needs done," Julie the agent replied, her clipboard now front and center to review a list of the house's shortcomings. "Let's see...a new fence in the front--that red thing right now is atrocious; new gutters and painting; some brick siding; porch repair..." Her glasses slipped down from a perch high on her nose, sliding to rest on the very tip. "Oh, and a few new shingles."
Sara could not tear her eyes from the long elegant windows to respond. The windows...she imagined being inside looking out. Pulling back snowy white lacy panels that reached to the ceiling like angels in flight, she would look for her love to arrive...his carriage due any moment.
His carriage! What in the world was she thinking?
"Ms. McNeil? Are you okay? I have water in the car."
Sara cleared her throat. "Yes, certainly. May we go inside?"
The other lady smiled and nodded for her to go forward.
The door creaked like an old lady's joints as the agent pushed against it, finally adding a sound hard thump with her knee. The portal sprung wide open.
Sara strained to see, but the lights were off, and only bumps of covered furniture and other ghostly visions filled the dark void. Even when Julie shoved aside the drapes to let soft morning light in, the room emanated visions of gray anonymity.
"It's dusty. The man who lived here died quite some time ago." Julie attacked her clipboard like a hungry animal looking for more information. Perhaps she feared losing the sale if she couldn't put a human face on the dwelling for her customer to relate to. "Two years ago! He died two years ago!"
"I see. I wondered why things seemed so neglected."
"Yes, it says here he was ill before that. That explains the repairs not getting done."
"Yes, I suppose it does." Sara lifted a cover to reveal a beige and gold brocaded chair. Tinges of aged gray filth smothered the fibers. Running her hand along its bumpy contours, visions paraded through her mind of Victorian ladies seating themselves, with cups of tea daintily balanced on their laps. "Is that why it's being sold? An inheritance to be divested among his heirs?"
"I presume so."
"I see," Sara replied. The furniture was old, making it appear no one had dwelled in the house for generations. "Are you certain the man lived here just before he died?" she asked. "It doesn't look like anyone has made this a home since the furniture was still in style."
"Hmmm...I don't know," Julie replied, her eyes darting up and down the columns in her chart of notes.
Sara waited. Julie was a good agent; she trusted her because the woman came recommended by a friend. If something was suspicious about the house, Julie would not be part of the subterfuge. The squat little woman in a red dress probably didn't have an ounce of deceit in her.
"You keep checking. I'm going to see the kitchen," Sara instructed as she pushed through double doors to arrive in a spacious room with a generous row of windows all along one wall. They were designed to offer a grand view of the now defunct apple orchard. These days green overgrown branches reached out attacking one another like warriors in battle, obscuring what used to be neat straight lines of trees like outstretched arms reaching perpendicular from the windows to the horizon.
Once bright yellow, the kitchen was now a dull gold, but it still emanated some of its former good will with sunlight shining through the windows in soft rays and chairs with a table cozily arranged close to the welcoming stove. Sara walked to the room's center and breathed in the golden aura of the place. The oven, boasting a black iron cook top, squatted against one wall, and an undersized porcelain sink with tarnished brass faucet and handles stood next to that. They looked tiny compared to today's standards...like a toy kitchen. Across the room, Sara spied an old-fashioned ice box. She opened a side door to see a cavity where a huge frozen block would be placed to keep food in other compartments chilled.
The floor was linoleum with white and black squares in a checkerboard pattern. The white ones recorded the decades with scuffs of gray disturbing their clean look; while the black squares suffered with white streaks where the black had been scraped away by busy feet. This had been a happy room once, no doubt with the laughter of family and the antics of children. Their giggles murmured to Sara straight out of the walls in eerie cascades of the imagination. The room satisfied the heart and made one smile.
Content, Sara turned on her heel and returned to find Julie missing. A glance out the window revealed that woman in her car, poring over volumes of listings in the back seat. Perhaps she had more info about this house in those papers.
The ornate wood railing gracing the bottom of a staircase in the hallway caught Sara's eye. She dashed across the living room reaching for the shiny brown wood even before arriving. So beautifully sculpted, smooth and cool and rounded. The form surprised her releasing pangs of excitement by her touch. It felt so familiar, as though she had smoothed her hand along the old wood many times before. Cupping her grasp over a scrolled adornment at the railing's end, she closed her eyes to shut out the world for the moment.
For an instant her mind flashed with a memory from the depths. Or was it a memory? She stepped into another time but in that same room. Breathing in air that was still and as quiet as supreme emptiness would be...the stillness of a time before machinery. The persistent lingering of time punctuated only by the distant tick tock of a clock, so every second burst with the potential of that one loaded swing of the pendulum. Nothing rushed her, she needn't hurry...the day was a fulfilling dance, propelled by the self with no other thing to do, no other place to be. Time was burning gently at the hearth of life, welcoming her to stay.
A draft brushed by her rigid hand, still cupped on the railing, the coolness arriving in a sudden rush as its icy flare penetrated her knuckles and reached down in strokes to her elegant fingers. It felt like a freezing hand cupping hers. Dizziness took over as her body reverberated with bolts of confusion and then flashes of electric white joy while she tried to decipher the curious iciness and eerie familiarity of the grip itself. It was unexplained and yet delicious. Should she be frightened? Wavering in place, her mind spun into a blinding ragged shock while a beguiling love...was it love?...jet-rocketed from the cold draft enveloping her hand, to soaring on a direct path to her heart, bursting in an emotion of familiar, yet long lost reverence and awe. What was happening?
A whisper trickled in her ear...was it a whisper? It seemed little more than a spark, but it welcomed her. She felt welcomed to this house. Someone here knew her. It was home.
"Julie!" she called out. "I'll take the house."
CHAPTER 2
Sara pulled up a chair to the computer and tapped out a password. She needed to talk to someone. What was she thinking? Making an offer on that house?
First of all, she couldn't afford another month's rent here plus the down payment and a monthly payment on a new house all at the same time. That meant she would need to move into the Victorian, ready or not. Moving in early guaranteed pounding hammers and grubby workmen would have to be tolerated as part of her existence while necessary repairs were being done.
Sighing, Sara pondered what the disturbance would do to her work. An author needs quiet and solitude to hear the voices of characters emanating in ghostly streams through the writer's mind. How in the world could she concentrate with remodeling going on?
Her first novel, a historical about life in 19th Century America, proved successful, enough so the publishing company paid her an advance for another. That advance was already spent. What was left would barely cover the costs of buying the Victorian, with no room for the luxury of keeping two households at once. So move she must!
To tell the truth, she had acted with her heart instead of her brain. It was just the energies in that house spoke to her. That dilapidated old house begged her to take it.
"Oh, sure! Now I know you're losing it, Sara!" she muttered. "Right! The house 'talked' to you."
The Victorian did seem familiar in a way. Well, she loved everything from that era, bay windows, towers and stained glass; so it didn't come as a surprise the house would be appealing. And it seemed identical to the one in her current book which was, not surprisingly. a Victorian love story. She had reached an impasse with the plot, realizing the tensions were not right. Something was missing. Deep inside, perhaps she wished being in the new house would inspire her. Sara didn't know what she would do if things didn't work out soon, not being in a position to pay back the advance she'd been given.
With a dissatisfied sigh, she placed the headphones on, which flattened the thin sweep of brown hair that hung down in a page boy around her face. Adjusting the small microphone in front of her full, curved lips, she punched out Margot's number in England, pausing while it rung.
"Hullo."
"Hi, Margot! It's Sara in America. Do you have a minute?"
"Certainly! I was just thinking about you. How are you?"
"I think I found a house. In fact, I made an offer."
"That's splendid news! Congratulations!"
Grasping a pen, Sara started a circular doodle that spiraled around the page like a slinky toy gone wild. "Margot, I think the house is haunted." The doodle ran off the edge of the tablet with the pen thumping on the desktop.
Silence at the other end left the air blank between them. Finally, Margot spoke. "What?"
"Oh, I know I sound crazy, but I had the weirdest feelings in that house ... like I'd been there before."
"Well, older homes give off that impression just by virtue of their unique designs and such. They have personalities. It does mess with your mind ... insinuating time travel or something."
"No, Margot! It wasn't that! It felt like I knew this place in intimate detail. Like I'd been there before or knew the ghost who lives there."
"Oh dear! Have you talked to the others? Why don't you try David? I've heard he has experience in these things."
"He has experience in haunted houses?"
"Actually, yes, he does. But don't tell him I told you."
Later, Sara didn't feel so confident. Talking to David about the haunted house was an undertaking she dreaded. David was a professional--a lawyer with money, position, and a cut-out doll of a perfect wife who between PTA meetings and church bazaars had never shown any interest in her husband's unusual collection of on line friends. Sara would feel foolish if David mentioned her haunted house to his trophy wife.
The phone's shrill ring knocked her out of the reverie. She picked it up to make the annoying ring stop.
"Hello, Ms. McNeil? Your bid has been accepted. Congratulations! You're a homeowner!"
Sara's heart dropped to the floor. If she wanted or needed to get out of this deal, she'd have to act soon.
"Ms. McNeil?"
"Oh, yes! Thank you, Julie."
"The closing will be Friday at our office, 9:00 a.m."
"Thank you. I'll be there," Sara murmured.
That afternoon, she made her way to the tiny public library in town square, printouts of real estate records tucked in a folder under her arm. One of the perks of a writing career is the research ... leaving one's usual haunt on a sunny day to relocate in the library among its stacks to find information to add detail and texture to your story. On this occasion, however, Sara simply hoped to find out more about the Victorian. The Internet had provided the names of the most recent owners, all of whom were presumably of the bloodline of the original owner, Justin Sinclair. The Internet had no further information on him, but Sara was counting on the local library to fill in the blanks.
The little library was her favorite place in town. As a girl, she read her fill in the dusty old reading room, frequently pulling musty volumes off the shelves to take home--some of them had not been touched for years. Sara hatched her love for the written word in those warm dark corners.
"Hi, Sara!" elderly Mrs. Johnson called out. The head librarian had greeted Sara every week over the years wearing the same cheery smile.
"Good morning, Mrs. Johnson!" Sara beamed back as she headed to her usual table at the computers. For the next hour, she worked, hunched forward, one hand clutching the mouse, scrolling through titles about local people and places, hoping to find some information about Justin Sinclair. Finally, she found something.
"Justin Sinclair, Philanthropist or Scoundrel?"
The newspaper headline leaped off the screen burning her eyes with its huge blaring letters.
Scoundrel? Sara couldn't suppress a smile at the irony. Her current novel was not near as exciting as the real life story of her own house. Curious to know more about Justin, the scoundrel, she scrolled to find the articles revealed that no formal charges were issued against Justin Sinclair. Only innuendo shadowed his movements, with nothing ever proven. He crept around in the bars and local gambling establishments in his time, and it was implied he lent money out at a high rate of interest to needy gamblers who, desperate, had lost their paychecks. It was not revealed what was done concerning bad noncollectable debts, but a shadowy reference to barter was made. Secondary to that, one article alluded to the growing list of lovers Justin laid claim to, some of which at exactly the same time heavy IOU's were due.
"Well, it looks like our Mr. Sinclair may have been quite a scoundrel, indeed," Sara murmured.
CHAPTER 3
The necklace's gold chain first sparkled and caught her eye at an antique store on Fifth Avenue. It was years ago, when she was just a teenager. The pretty piece cost more than she could afford, forty dollars; but the clerk, perhaps enamored by her fresh eager smile gave the girl a discount, charging only thirty dollars. It was a steal, although at first you might not think so. The gold was dull, and the stones and pearls blackened with filth from the grim passage of time. She had held it up to the light, surveying the tiny gold chains with pearl droplets that dangled down from a center gold and amethyst brooch and chain. It was a magical piece of antique jewelry, a treasure from another era. How could she not buy it?
Fondling it now, her eyes filled with memories of being young and free. The necklace had always been mysterious in what it did to her. Her first wearing instilled a sense of style, culturing a confidence she had never known. A light radiated from her, from deep inside in sparks of exhilaration. Joyfully, she felt like someone else. Someone beautiful from another era, another world. Putting on the necklace, she'd actually taken center stage to play a role. She was a bejeweled and elegant lady from the Victorian era and not a plain schoolmarmish-looking woman. She was a princess.
Sara was wearing the necklace the first time she fell in love. Well, not love at first; but within a few moments of being asked to dance. As soon as Jeff took her hand and led her to the floor, her heart tap-danced, pounding out little tunes of eager infatuation.
It was the necklace. When she wore it, she felt pretty...and worthy of romance. Not like before, when she was only a skittish wall flower. She dared to taste her first kiss that night. But the magic didn't last. Alas, her later dates with Jeff never sparkled again like that first night while wearing the jewelry. The exhilaration must have been rooted in the necklace and not the man.
Even now, as Sara held out the dangling piece to admire, a rush of emotion took her by storm. The necklace mesmerized every time, sending her into a tizzy. Although a delicious sensation, self-control staggered on unsteady feet when the power of the necklace swept over her. For that reason, she placed it in a drawer, to wear only rarely. These days, she hung by the computer to provide comfort and balance when she wrote. Its antique charm inspired her historical novels.
Moving day was soon, and she still wanted to talk to David, the fellow Margot mentioned, since he knew a few things about haunted houses. To be honest, she had been putting it off, thinking perhaps it would be better not to get herself worked up over ghosts before moving to the spooky house. The papers were signed, her boxes were packed, and the movers were coming in two days. This was not the time to become frightened by spirits from the beyond.
* * *
"Why not let me give it a run-through before you move in?"
"Oh, David. I don't know." Sara actually felt like screaming, knowing it was a bad idea to let David frighten her about ghosts on the eve of moving day. Just her luck, David had a chat with Margot on line, and that lady spilled the beans about Sara's creepy new house. "I don't want to scare myself before I've even moved in," she added.
"Oh, nonsense! I'll be right over!" With a click of the phone, Sara's fate was sealed. David was on the way. He lived a short drive from her, so he'd be here soon. She gathered her purse and keys for the new house and settled to wait by the window. Outside, a purple twilight mist was rushing in. It would be dark soon. Normally, a visit from David was a festive occasion. The lanky, gray-haired fellow exuded an energy unlikely for a man in his late 70's. David Martin had no intention of letting old age slow him down. It was not surprising to hear he knew of haunted houses; the man had so many varied interests, it was difficult to keep up with his lightning pace of books to read and documentaries to watch. Heaven only knew how he became interested in ghosts, but one thing was for sure. When he researched an item, he did it down to the last detail. And he was a man of sound instincts. He could announce your words to you before you could speak them. It wouldn't surprise her if he could indeed ferret out elusive spirits in a haunted house.
"Good to see you, Sara!" he declared, his usual brilliant smile preceding him up the walk. "Talking to the ladies on line lately? I've been a bit busy myself."
"I called Margot by Internet phone the other night, but I guess you know that already."
A tiny smile danced across his lips. "Yes, we were talking about you and your new home, I'm afraid. Truly, I can't wait to see it."
Later, when they entered, David reacted immediately. His first step into the foyer, he went rigid, turning on his heel, lips tight, his pale blue eyes punctuated by pupils shrunken to tiny black dots. The usual smile was replaced by tight lips holding back a load of emotion that screamed to be let loose. "Oh my God!" he murmured. "An intense spirit lurks here."
He lifted his eyes, looking to the cathedral ceiling and back down again to the floorboards, clearing his throat with a tiny nervous cough. "Very intense..." Walking into the old parlor, he murmured again. "Intense ... and I'm not sure what this ghost's intentions are..."
"David, what are you saying?"
He turned to make his eyes melt into hers. "Sara, this place is alive with energy. And I don't quite know what to make of it."
"David?" Sara's heart slammed to the floor, leaving her rigid and hollow.
"Usually the energies are nebulous, somewhat elusive. But this ... " Words failed him as he turned around once more in wonder at the surroundings. "Let's try the bedrooms. They are always bursting with vibes," he said heading for the staircase.
"Are you sure you want to go up there?" Sara asked. "You are obviously pretty shaken!"
"Oh yes!" A curious smile crossed his lips. Was the expression greedy in nature or perhaps even evil? Did his tooth-baring grin dance with some sort of malicious pleasure? Sara followed with tiny, hesitant steps. She feared this ghost more and more.
When they reached the second story, David suddenly doubled over as if in pain, grasping the railing at the top of the stairs. "The force! It's almost overwhelming!" He struggled to make the remark through strangled gasps. "I don't think I can continue." He panted like he'd just run a mile.
Sara swooned at the sight of him. Her body, already deadened by fear, now witnessed a man weakened by the forces around him. Her thoughts got tangled in a mesh of confusing emotions and senses. She couldn't feel what he felt, but seeing his agony solidified stabs of panic in her heart. She ran to him and grabbed the poor man by his shoulders leading him back down the stairs in measured steps. "Come on, David! You've done enough!" she murmured. Her legs wobbled on the steps as much as David's. Would they ever get back down? The bottom of the stairs looked miles away.
BAM!
It stopped them in mid-step, loud and sharp, right over their shoulders like it meant to yell at them. Their hearts fused as the two stood motionless. In the quiet of the huge house, the noise had sounded like a locomotive slamming into a wall, crushing metal at furious speed. Surely, the building should be flattened. They waited. Nothing. The waiting continued. Sara thought she could hear their hearts beating in the electrified silence. She bit her lip, it being the only movement she dared.
Finally, a bird chirped outside a window on the landing. Its gentle song broke the spell. David spoke first in a trembling voice. "Ghosts do tend to knock and bump around in these old houses." He ended the remark with a nervous chuckle that contrasted strangely with the deafening crash they'd just witnessed.
"Oh, David! I can't move into this house!"
He turned to look at her, appearing the wizened old fellow that he was. "OH yes! You must! This house is haunted by an exquisite ghost, one that must be explored. You must move in! The sooner, the better! This spirit demands to know you! I can feel it!"
Chapter 4
"This place is creepy." Sara had heard one of the movers, a burly fellow, bearded and sweaty, make the comment as he paused in the hallway to wipe his brow. "You got that right!" his companion agreed, a skinny fellow whose abilities to lift her oak bedroom set seemed dubious. She heard the comments while lurking in a doorway unseen. They were right, of course. The Victorian was a dark, ominous place. Luckily, the average musclebound furniture mover seemed immune from the mystifying powers that had overwhelmed David.
Well, the movers were gone and now she was getting settled. They placed each of the dusty cardboard boxes in the proper room to which she assigned, each one labeled with a location on the outside in black marker. A stringy looking "kitchen" was scrawled across the one she worked in now. Removing an everyday plate, she placed it on the table. In the morning when she'd first arrived, the kitchen glowed, warm and friendly with its cheerful windows and sunshine. Now, as night began to fall, those windows sighed with a darkness to match the night. Gazing out and seeing only black, she realized anything could lurk out there in the shadows. It made her feel weak and exposed. Even worse, later she'd have to go to the desolate second floor for bed. The very idea of spending time in the place that collapsed David turned her veins to ice. On second thought, perhaps tonight would be a good night to sleep on the living room sofa. Or she could write until the wee hours, hugging the familiar glow of the computer monitor.
Her cell phone rang. Its sudden sharp trill made her jump. But her heart gladdened at the idea of someone to talk to. Even a solicitor would be welcome now. She pulled the phone out of her pocket.
"Sara! How are you doing?" It was Brigid, a friend from the on line group with David and Margot.
"Oh, surviving I guess. Did David tell you about this place?"
There was a pause. "Yes, he did. Sara, are you going to be all right there?"
Sara pictured the other woman--comical, all of five feet tall and roly poly, fidgeting on the other end of the line.
"Brigid," she answered, "I wish I could say 'yes' without hesitation."
"Oh, that's what I was afraid of! I'm going to call David and tell him to come over there! You know I'd come myself and sleep over, but I live in another state."
"Brigid, I don't know. He was really rattled last time."
"Nonsense, that's what friends are for. Oooh, I've got to call him. I'll talk to you later."
With that remark, Brigid hung up, leaving Sara enjoying a wave of relief if David actually did come and spend the night keeping her company. If she could just put in this first time overnight in the Victorian, she'd be all right...perhaps. Unpacking the last plate, she laid the box aside and decided to go to the parlor sofa and relax. Enough work for one day and that room had a welcoming air about it with the old fireplace and a beautiful bay window in the front.
Settled in the soft cushions, she leaned back and sighed in exhaustion. Was she trying to replace dealing with her uneasiness by substituting nonstop labor? Her eyes rested on the fireplace. A dizzying sunflower, with electrified petals surrounding a bulbous head and sculpted leaves vining around the stem, decorated the sides of the ironclad mantel. In the center plate above the hearth, two lovebirds posed before a huge sunflower, its petals spread like a halo behind them. These older houses, with such detail, were so unlike today's antiseptic straight lines. Underfoot, the hardwood floor was worn and well-traveled. What memories lurked here? Who put wood in that fireplace and who wore down the floorboards? Leaning back, she closed her eyes and drifted to sleep, enveloped in her surroundings.
A knock at the door interrupted the slumber. Her waking thought was that the room seemed chilly and she'd needed to put a log on the fire. Confused, she stood up and felt the hard floor under her feet. The hardness seemed the proper companion to the fireplace until she realized it was the 21st century and there was now central heating, and a plush new rug was due next week. Shaking off the vestiges of another time, she rushed to the door. But the feeling lingered in her surprise at seeing a modern storm door where she expected there to be no outer door at all.
"Sara, are you all right? You look strange." It was David.
She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. "Yes, I think. I was dozing. Come in."
"So how is it coming with your new house and its resident ghost?"
Sara flinched. "Do you have to be so direct? About saying there's a ghost, I mean."
"But there most certainly is!"
"Well, we'll see. Would you like some coffee? Thanks for coming, by the way. After the last time, I was afraid you might not want to come back." She was already heading for the kitchen to start the coffeemaker.
"Yes, I'd like coffee. I think we may be up most of the night, judging by your obvious nervousness."
She turned to see him smiling at her.
"Don't worry," he said. "This night can't last forever."
The Storyteller
Chapter 5, Part 1
"'Simile'--Let's see, it's on a double word score space...I think that's enough ... .Yes! I've won another game!" Sara leaned back and smiled.
"That will teach me to play Scrabble with a writer. Who else uses the word 'simile?'"
"You look tired, David. Would you like some coffee?" The two were planning to sit up all night, so Sara could spend her first evening in the Victorian with David and a pot of coffee for companionship. Once she put in the first night, and nothing happened, they hoped she wouldn't be afraid anymore.
"Yes, if you don't mind. I could use a shot of caffeine...So how are faring, Sara?"
Sara folded her hands on the table and smiled. "Well, thanks to you, I'm not afraid. If I had been alone tonight, I don't know what I would have done. When you showed up on my doorstep, I felt the fear just drain away. And, of course, yours is always a welcome smile anyway."
"I'm glad."
"I'll get the coffee." She excused herself to go to the kitchen. Warm yellow light blared a welcome from the open doorway. Sara had allowed herself the option of keeping all the rooms lit, so she wouldn't have to enter any dark areas. David had agreed it was a good idea, for this night anyway. Busying herself making coffee, the aroma, after so many cups that day already, sickened her. With a sigh, she considered a cup of tea instead. The idea rushed through her with a stabbing need. Yes, it was definite...tea. Crossing to the cupboard, she carefully gathered two cups and saucers and placed them on the table, next gathering two spoons and napkins. Picking up the kettle, she turned toward the stove and froze. Aghast, her stiffened hand released the metal pot to go crashing to the linoleum floor. It rolled and rattled across the tile as she stood shaking. Staring at the burner, she watched as a tiny flame pulsated around the burner, already lit and instilled there by some magical power beyond herself. It flickered contentedly as though she had just created it, but this flame had materialized out of nowhere.
David appeared in the doorway. "Sara..." He looked at her questioningly.
"That burner...I didn't light it..." she stammered, feeling for a chair to ease into. She sat, holding her hands limply by her sides.
"It lit by itself?" David joined her in the kitchen, rushing to the stove to examine the bluish flame as it flickered and glowed. "Very interesting. I've heard of this sort of thing. What a thrill to actually experience it..."
"DAVID!! Will you quit being so rational? The damned stove lit itself!"
"Calm down, Sara. Now let's talk about it. What happened just before that?"
Sara ran her finger through her short brown hair. "I don't know. I had an urge for tea, and when I turned..."
"Sara, I thought you hated tea."
David knew her well. She hated tea, and now here she was craving it. "I know, David. All of a sudden I just really wanted some."
He sat studying her for a moment. "Sara, I don't want to alarm you, but I think that urge came from outside of yourself. I noticed you've set the table for two, but they're your good china cups, something we never do when we're together. I'm beginning to think you were planning on having tea with someone else."
Sara glared at the place settings. She only barely remembered setting the table. It really wasn't their plan to have tea in the kitchen. They were playing board games in the other room. And she always used mugs for everyday use. The good china was for company dinners. "Are you saying the 'ghost' made me do it?"
"Yes, but don't panic. I think we have a lonely ghost here. I mean, he lives by himself in this Victorian apparently. Can you blame him for wanting to sit and sip tea with you?"
"DAVID, are you crazy?"
"I know. I know I'm thinking of this in a romantic fashion; but for me, ghosts are a romantic notion...poor lost souls between here and there, looking for peace in the unknown. Does life get any more poetic and poignant than that?"
"We're not talking about 'life!' We're talking about the walking DEAD!"
David grimaced. "Touche. But still, the 'unknown' dances with one's sense of whimsy, speculating and filling in the blanks from one's own identity. The ghost is on a wondrous adventure."
"Oh, let's get out of this kitchen." Speechless, Sara stormed back to the parlor and took her seat at the Scrabble board. "I wish you could understand how afraid I am," she murmured as he approached.
He sat across from her and grasped her hand. "I do, Sara. But don't you see, that's the point. In your mind, it's all about you and the fact that you're afraid. In reality, I think the ghost doesn't fear you in the least. I sensed a strong presence here, and not an anxious or malicious one. Your obsession with your fear is pointless."
"What are you saying? I should 'make nice' with the ghost?" Sara stood and threw her hands up in disgust.
"No," he replied in a soft voice, "just give him a chance."
"I don't know," Sara replied shaking her head in doubt, sitting again. "What makes you think it's a 'him' anyway?"
"I can sense it. Now why don't you try and calm down?"
Sara took a deep breath. "Okay, I'll try. If it will shut you up with your nonsense." She paused. "Look, David. I'm sorry if I was short with you, but I'm afraid for my life here. Desperate times, desperate measures..."
"Don't worry, Sara. I'm certain you'll be okay. Now try to calm down." David threw one of his infamous smiles her way. It helped.
What could she do to cope? She remembered the antique necklace. The jewelry had helped her through other little fits of nervousness and added to her creativity when stress was making it difficult. Excusing herself, she soon returned with it, running the gold chain through her fingers in appreciation.
"What's that?"
"Well, I guess I'd call it my lucky necklace. I thought it would calm me down. I always feel better when it is near." She studied the luminous pearls and rich amethyst stones.
"Why don't you put it on? Consider it a talisman," David advised.
"Perhaps I will." She slipped the necklace on and clasped it in the back. Yes, it felt right.
It wasn't long before Sara was asleep on the sofa.
* * *
Chapter 5...continued
The Storyteller
Chapter 5, Pt. 2
Restless dreams haunted Sara through the night, sending her wandering through nondescript busy street scenes, lost and not knowing where to go, but knowing she needed to be somewhere, searching, peering down littered alleys and taking nervous two-steps across thoroughfares. The need took many forms in an endless array of delusions, the same monotonous beat performed by different drummers in a concert that went on and on. Another sequence, she found herself at high school again, an adult out of place and looking for a scheduled class; but she didn't know what room and was running late. Wandering the halls, she observed how the school had changed over the years. Blaring shops filled to brimming with the latest crazes now lined the hallways. Music and gaudy colors spilled out onto the slick marble hallways. So unlike the old days, and the classroom she sought was nowhere to be found. The need to find it ate away at her. In another dream, she wandered the stacks at the library, looking for a book with no title. Not having the book in hand filled her with a sense of loss that struck like a knife in jab after jab. She needed the book. But the cold, relentless thrusts were emotional hits, producing the most tearful, hopeless sadness she had ever felt. In despair, she was fighting her way through clouds of sorrow, thick and sticky, when David's voice woke her.
"Sara! Wake up! He's here!"
The words were cold steel cutting into her dream and dispersing the torment in a splash of relief. She opened her eyes and looked around, glad to be rid of the never-ending loss and melancholy. David sat on the edge of the sofa looking at her.
"Sara! I could sense him! He was here! It woke me up!"
"What?" She rubbed her eyes and tried to focus. The dreams were hard to shake. "You saw who?"
"The ghost!"
She stiffened, now alert. "Oh my God! How do you know?"
David's eyes glistened like stars. "Sara, I was asleep and my dreams got sort of...I don't know...charged and excited. I felt this need to wake up. I had a vibrating sensation...like I was in an earthquake and at the same time about to jump out of my skin. When I woke, I felt a presence. I knew he was here."
"What? How would you know that?"
He smiled in a tiny sliver that put light years of distance between them. "I just knew. I could sense it." He paused as though remembering. "When this kind of thing happens, I feel like I'm filled with this white energy--but this force today--it was full of personality. I mean, it wasn't some vague super-charge--For want of better words, I'd say the essence of this entity met my own spirit, I think, and shook hands. It's a person, not a thing."
"You shook hands with the ghost?"
"Figuratively speaking, yes."
"Right... ." Sara leaned back to absorb the information, reaching for her antique necklace for solace. She ran her fingers along soft skin, but no chain, no gems felt rough under her touch. She cupped her hand around her neck groping for the chain. Nothing. "David!" she exclaimed.
"What is it, Sara!"
"My necklace! It's gone!" A sense of loss did a cruel dance in her heart. The jewelry served as a crutch. Whenever she needed inspiration, it was there--when writing or otherwise; or if she wanted comfort, the necklace was there. Now it was gone.
"It must have fallen off when you were sleeping," David replied, lifting a cushion to search.
"Yes, that's it. It must have." Lifting two more, she jabbed her hands into the sofa crevices, searching every inch. She worked her way back, checking and rechecking, tears welling as the loss of the necklace became a reality. Her heart was squeezed dry.
Finally, David stopped her. "Sara, it's not there."
"Well, where is it?"
"I don't know, Sara. It will turn up. Relax. Let's have some coffee."
"I don't want coffee. I want my necklace."
"I'll make the coffee," he said. "Come to the kitchen with me."
Sara followed, falling into a chair to watch David work. She eyed the stove burner suspiciously, half expecting it to light by itself. It didn't.
"Where do you keep it?" he asked.
"The cupboard over the sink, right side, bottom shelf."
He shot her a glance. "Sara, have you ever wondered who this ghost is?"
She looked back in surprise. Figuring out who the ghost was seemed beyond reach. At the moment, she was simply afraid of the unknown. That was all.
He continued. "I'm just saying if you can figure out who it is. It will help us to understand him better. Did you find out who used to live here?"
Flashes of Justin Sinclair, in an artist's rendering at the library, passed through Sara's mind. Could it be him? She shot David a glance. "Well, there was a rather colorful character who owned this house."
"Do tell? And who might that be?"
"A fellow by the name of Justin Sinclair, quite a ladies' man and a gambler in people's fates, if the historical accounts are true." She fondled the mug David had laid in front of her. The idea of such a rowdy fellow within these walls was disconcerting.
"I've heard of him! He owned half the town in his day. Well, now, see--perhaps we have found our ghost."
Sara felt a cold rush. There was something about the prospect that terrified her.
David saw her and leaned over to touch her hand. "Let me tell you a story," he said. "And perhaps in the process you will learn a little about yourself."
The Storyteller
Chapter 6
Part 1
David shot her a pensive glance and ran his hand through rugged gray hair. "This isn't easy. I've never shared this information with anyone before. I was young, at the university, doing research at the library. It was late. They were due to close soon. I skipped two meals and hadn't had any sleep. Finals were the next day, and I still hadn't figured how I was going to answer the expected essay questions on the works of Plato.
"I was dreary-eyed, poring over reference books and deliriously groggy; but Sara, when I looked up from my studies, I saw a figure of a man leaning against the middle bookcase of the stacks in the next room. His arms were crossed across his chest and he stared at me, directly in the eye. I was shocked because he was wearing clothes from the 1800's I think. I mean, he looked like pictures I've seen from Dickens' times with the pants and funny waistcoats. I just stared, I guess.
"He tilted his head to one side, then sauntered over to where I sat, stopping right beside me, standing tall and imposing, one hand resting on the back of my chair. I swear it started me shaking like crazy. I could feel his hand touching my back, just a flutter, like a butterfly or something. I shot a glance around the room, but the one librarian left on duty was gone, and we were alone--this character and I. I couldn't stop my knees from knocking, but I took a deep breath and turned my head to look up, and the most intelligent, electric, and meaningful eyes looked back. I think my heart stopped in the wake of his gaze, so riveting it was.
"Then I blinked, and he was gone. I was shaken. Who was he? What did he want? Especially with me. My head was spinning, my heart pounding. A flurry of movement to my left revealed the prune-faced old librarian ambling back to her desk. This lady I wouldn't ever confide in because she was rude every time I ever asked her a question. So, I gathered my materials and went home...on rubber legs, I might add.
"I didn't sleep that night. Would you? My eyes were glued open while my mind was totally out of control, whirling with anguish, curiosity, who knows what else? Had I stepped into the paranormal? Who was that apparition? Was I mad?
"My sense of reality was shaken...destroyed. I mean, now in a world where I thought everything is rational, I discovered the great unknown that lurks in the shadows. We think life is so solid and predictable and that we know it all. Then an event like this occurs, and one realizes there is a whole other dimension...watching us."
Sara stopped him. "David, you're not helping the way I feel."
"Sara! I didn't mean to frighten you. I just wanted to let you understand, I know what you're going through. I've been through a similar experience." He looked away for a moment as though those earlier days had grabbed and dragged him off.
"David, did you ever see him again?"
He looked back at her, his expression blank, then replied, "Sara, this ghost is with me to this day. I don't always see him, but I feel him. When I'm in trouble...or need a friend...I'll feel him next to me. In a rush, I'll hear him--in my heart, soothing me." David's words dashed out like bullets. Unstoppable. "When I need it most, he'll 'tell' me information I need to know."
"He tells you things?"
"Well, there's no speaking, but the information zooms into my consciousness, undeniably not my own thoughts, because the information is nothing I could think of. It floods into my mind--sort of warm and enlightening."
Sara studied her friend in silence. What was he talking about? Did he communicate with ghosts? Good grief! Could she make the same claim? In fact, was Justin Sinclair attempting to reach her? Why?
"Sara, you look overwhelmed. Don't be. I want to emphasize this ghost of mine has always been of a high moral character. I mean, I've never felt anything malicious about him. He is sort of a spiritual guide if anything."
She shuddered. Dawn was breaking. A warm morning sun projected its soothing rays through the row of kitchen windows. But she didn't notice, her mind being tangled up in a mass of unresolved questions and jittery emotions. She glanced at David, attempting to decipher his words amidst the racket of her own worries. Clarity pushed it way to the surface. "Did you ever see him again? David, did your ghost tell you that my ghost is a friendly one?"
The Storyteller
Chapter 6
Part 2
When he was gone, Sara reflected how David had answered in the affirmative but insisted the revelation was the usual vague impression without any details. "It's always just a flighty thing," he said. "A thought without words, really."
They had dropped the topic as David, glancing outside to see a new day emerging, stated he needed to go. Now Sara found herself alone, unsettled, and frightened. "Work. I need to work," she murmured. That book wasn't going to be written on its own. Her agent wanted to see more chapters and moving to the Victorian had thrown off her schedule. Resigned to the necessity of it, she made coffee and settled at her newly purchased antique desk. Normally, she wouldn't buy antique pieces, but the old house's cozy air asked for appropriate furniture.
Scouring through shops, she'd found the Queen Anne desk, white-washed, with ample drawer space and a generous top to place her laptop, reading lamp, and reference books. It contrasted with the hardwood floors, an inspiring light space in a sea of monotonous dark. At least her creative mind liked to think so. The parlor's white lace curtains blended with the desk to conjure up an air rife with feminine instincts. Despite those good vibes, the computer screen now lurked, white and empty, with no creative ventures on it.
The novel had lost direction and texture. She felt empty, releasing her eyes and mind to wander the room. Nothing. How could one release creativity when ensconced in a haunted house anyway? Her mind was erratic, confused, frightened. How could she be expected to think? The clock in the hallway drummed out a one-second beat that hung in the air waiting for the next one to sound and rise to linger next to it. Sunlight trickled through the lacy curtains splattering raucous dots of yellow across the floor and up the wall. She watched the spots flutter, like dancers on a stage jumping and pirouetting. Time slipped away as the shadows of history, usually too pale and quiet to be noticed in the din and clatter of everyday life, peeked from the corners and emerged. The worn floorboards released the whispers of women in lengthy skirts swishing along the surface, and emitted the airy lights of happy children--the girls in dainty pinafores and the boys in knee breeches, all squatting on the hard floor to play close to the fireplace for warmth. Kitchen aromas of baked bread and pot roast suggested their presence to greet ghostly family and friends dropping in. Sara smiled. Ideas for her book took shape in her mind.
The room fulfilled her and she became a player, a quiet visitor perched in the corner waiting for company. It wasn't hard to imagine a long ago lady of the house, pulling back the white curtains to peek outside or scurrying to the kitchen, skirts bustling, to check on dinner. She imagined a woman in a dignified gray dress with a flowing skirt, neatly pressed, patting her hair in place and checking her face powder in the parlor mirror; Sara could almost see her...feel her thoughts... know her mind.
It's you...you're seeing yourself...
The words, a whisper, a flutter in the ear. Or was there a sound? The message swept over Sara with certainty and force. White-tinged and electric, in its wake tracing cement trails through her mind, heavy with truth. She was that woman. This was her parlor; dinner in the kitchen belonged to her company. But whom was she waiting for? Her pounding heart make it impossible to latch onto the knowledge. She had known the information once, but no more. And she couldn't grab it back again. If she could, she'd remember. She'd remember who was coming. The waiting was familiar, like a yearning that had lasted forever. It hurt. She needed the joy the memory could revive. She needed it to relieve the pain. The mystery company. Who was it? The longing cut deep as Sara's mind swirled.
And then it was gone. The picture, the senses, the feeling of stepping back in time. But Sara knew she had touched reality, albeit a different one than the one we know. This was her house and that was her life. It had waited a century for her to come home.
Copyright 2007 JO Janoski
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