Gem of a Ghost: A Ghost of Granny Apples Mystery (11 page)

f
ourteen

The air was chilly, and her bare feet were cold on the hardwood floor. Emma pulled the folds of the flowing silk dressing gown around her and tightened the belt before scurrying to the area rug with its exotic pattern. The runner ran the full length of the long corridor, which was illuminated by the soft, buttery glow of wall sconces. The hallway was empty, dotted on both sides by closed doors painted white. She heard talking from behind one and stopped in front of it, her hand hesitating on the ornate glass doorknob before going in.

Inside, a group of people in stylish but old-fashioned clothing were gathered in a well-appointed parlor. A fire burned merrily in the hearth. Three men stood by it with brandy glasses and cigars. On the other side of the room, three women were seated, two balancing teacups. One of the women, the one without a cup, looked up as Emma came in; the others ignored her. She was not much more than a girl—barely twenty, if even that—with a round, pretty face and dark hair piled high on top of her head. She was seated in a chair in a corner. Her large oval eyes brimmed with sadness as they stared at Emma without concern or fear.

“Just a firm hand,” one of the older men said to a younger man with dark, slicked-back hair and a clipped moustache. “That’s all the girl needs is a firm hand to get past this nonsense.”

One of the women, an older woman, agreed. “Now that you’re married, she’ll calm down. You’ll see.” She took a delicate sip from her cup.

The young man glanced over at the young woman, then turned back to the others. “I’m sure Addy will come to her senses. She’s a smart girl.”

They were talking about the young woman in the corner as if she wasn’t there. They couldn’t see Emma, but the girl never took her eyes off of her. Behind the sadness, Emma saw and felt the anger in the girl’s heart. It smoldered like hot coals waiting to burst into flames at the first stirring of a poker. The young woman watched Emma in silence until her face changed, and Emma was staring at herself. She gasped as she felt firsthand the festering hate fueling the anger.

It started as a moan. Then the crying started, a barely audible weeping at first, building into a succession of groans and sobs. Emma twisted and turned in Phil’s grasp.

“Emma,” he said, coming instantly awake. “What’s wrong?”

Running out of the parlor, Emma dashed down the corridor and opened another door, looking for a way out. It wasn’t an exit but a closet, empty except for a coarse rope hanging from somewhere near the top. The rope was a hangman’s noose. Emma slammed the door. Going to the next door, she jerked it open. Another closet, another noose—this one made from a long, silken sash. Emma backed away.

“No,” moaned Emma, her eyes squeezed tight. “No.”

Phil shook her again. “Darling, please, wake up.” He snapped on the bedside lamp. “Wake up, Emma,” he said with more force.

The corridor had lengthened, seeming to go on forever, closed doors lined up on either side like soldiers at attention. She went to the opposite side of the hallway and jerked another open. Inside was the man with the moustache and the young woman. She was in a dressing gown like the one Emma wore, her thick, long hair undone and cascading down to the middle of her back. The man had his coat off and his sleeves rolled high on his strong forearms. In one hand was a strap. He lashed at the girl—at Addy—over and over as she cowered on the bed. One blow after another, the strap hit her back, her shoulders, her legs. He leered at his prey as the strap whizzed through the air to land painful blows upon its target, tearing the fine silk of her robe. Emma ran her hands down the folds of the dressing gown she was wearing and found it now torn to shreds.

“No!” Emma’s voice climbed to a screech. “Stop it!”

Phil hopped off the big bed and rounded it, coming to sit on the edge on Emma’s side. He grabbed her shoulders, lifting them off the bed several inches, and shook her gently. “Emma, it’s Phil. You’re having a nightmare.” He shook her harder.

She screamed, her eyes still shut, and fought him. “No! Leave me alone!”

Running down the corridor, Emma came to the end and yanked open the last door. Inside were the two nooses—the rope and the silk sash—hanging side by side. At the end of the rope hung the corpse of a young man. At the end of the silk sash hung Addy, limp and lifeless. Emma stepped back in silent horror and clutched her middle, noticing that the sash from her own gown was missing. Addy’s corpse lifted its head and, before Emma’s frightened eyes, changed into Summer Perkins.

Emma screamed.

Outside the room, Phil heard footsteps. There was one short, hard knock on the door before it was flung open. Dr. Miller stood in the doorway in his pajamas. Behind him was Emma’s mother in a long summer nightgown and robe. They looked with horror at the sight of Phil Bowers shaking Emma.

Emma’s father grabbed Phil by the shoulder, but Phil shook it off. “She’s having a nightmare,” Phil explained. “I’m sure it has something to do with that damn ghost, but I can’t seem to snap her out of it.”

The padding of several small feet announced the arrival of Archie. Hearing the commotion, he’d left his bed in the utility room off the kitchen and had come up the back steps, his collar and tags jingling. As soon as the dog entered the room, he whined and took cover behind the upholstered chair.

“It is a ghost,” Elizabeth announced, pointing at the dog. “And it’s not Granny.” She stood next to the bed, chilled to her bones by Emma’s state. “Emma, dear, it’s Mother. Wake up.”

Emma fought her way out of Phil’s grasp and shoved him with ferocity. “No!”

“Don’t startle her,” Dr. Miller ordered. “She’s deeply asleep.” Going to the other side of the bed, he sat down. “Phil, get ahold of her again, but in a tight embrace so she can’t thrash.”

With some difficulty, Phil managed to corral Emma’s flailing arms until he held her in a tight cocoon. As Emma fought, Phil began to rock her gently.

“That’s it,” Dr. Miller said. “Calm her down.” He turned to his wife. “Talk to her, dear, softly. And keep saying her name.”

Elizabeth, her eyes wide with fear, starting cooing to her daughter. “Emma, it’s Mother.” She reached out and stroked Emma’s hair, now damp with sweat. “You need to wake up, Emma. It’s time to get up.”

Between her mother’s voice and Phil’s rocking, Emma began to calm. Her crying lessened, and her jerky movements slowed.

“That’s it, Emma,” Elizabeth continued, fighting her own tears. “You need to wake up. Daddy and Phil and I are all waiting for you.”

Between gulps of air, Emma softly wept but continued to keep her eyes shut tight, as if they were both sewn shut.

“The ring,” Phil told them. “She had the ring on when we went to bed.”

“Why in the hell would she do that?” Dr. Miller asked.

“Never mind that now, Paul,” Elizabeth said.

“It’s on her left hand. See if you can reach it and pull it off.” Phil kept his arms wrapped tight around Emma.

Elizabeth grabbed Emma’s left forearm and followed it until she found her hand. Phil shifted so she could get a better angle on it. “I have my hand on the ring,” Elizabeth told them. “It feels hot.”

“It did earlier, too,” Phil said. “Now slip it off, but don’t put your own finger through it.”

While Emma continued weeping, Elizabeth twisted the ring and slipped it off. Emma went limp against Phil, and her crying ceased. He laid her back down against the pillow and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a hand.

Emma’s eyelids fluttered before she opened them wide. Just as quickly, she shut them and moaned, turning away from the light of the lamp. “What time is it?”

Her parents and Phil looked at each other with relief. Emma was back.

“Wake up, Emma,” her father told her. “I need to make sure you’re all right.”

Emma threw an arm across her face. “Of course I’m okay, Dad, except for this blistering headache.”

Removing her arm, she fluttered her eyelids again until she got used to the light. “What are you all doing here?” She sat partially up. “What’s happened? Is it Kelly?”

“Kelly’s fine,” Elizabeth assured her. “It’s you we’re worried about.”

Emma ran a hand through her short curls. “My hair’s wet.” Her hands traveled down over her nightgown, finding it stuck to her body in places. “So’s my nightie.” She looked to everyone, searching for an explanation.

“You were having a nightmare,” Phil explained, “and we couldn’t snap you out of it—at least not until we snatched that ring off your finger.”

Her right hand clasped her left. “Where is it?”

“I have it, dear.” Elizabeth opened her palm to show her the ring.

Falling back against her pillow, Emma closed her eyes, trying to remember what had happened.

“Did you see the ghost?” her mother asked.

“I think so.” She opened her eyes and sat up again. Her mother put the ring down and adjusted the pillows against the headboard to help her.

“It was like a montage of creepy and frightening things. At one point, I didn’t know if I was seeing Addy or if I was her. Then she became Summer. It was horrible.”

“Addy?” questioned Phil.

“Addy?” parroted Emma. “Who’s Addy?”

Again the Millers and Phil exchanged glances. “Just now, Emma,” Phil said for them all, “you said you either saw Addy or was her in the dream.”

While Emma tried to remember, her mother retrieved a cotton robe from behind the bathroom door and draped it over Emma’s shoulders.

Emma thanked her mother, then tapped her forehead with a hand. “Addy—of course. That’s the ghost’s name.” She pointed at the ring, which now rested on the nightstand. “The ghost in the ring is named Addy.”

“Did you learn anything else about her?” asked her father.

“I … I don’t know. There was a long hallway lined with doors, and behind each door were horrible things, until the last one, which was the worst.” She closed her eyes again and swallowed back fresh tears as the memory of the nooses returned. “Could I have some water?”

“Of course, dear.” Elizabeth went into the bathroom and returned with a full water glass and two tablets. “Here, take these for your headache.”

Emma popped the pills and slurped down the water, emptying the glass. Her mother left and returned quickly with a refill and a damp cloth.

“I saw a hangman’s noose,” Emma told them as her mother fussed over her, wiping her sweaty forehead. “Actually two.”

“Were they hanging from a tree or scaffold or something like that?” asked her father.

She shook her head. “No, they were floating from above. One was made of coarse rope, the other was fabric. Silk, I think.”

Phil cleared his throat. “Uh, anyone hanging from them?”

Emma nodded, her chin almost reaching her chest, and started crying again. “A young man hung from the rope. Addy was hanging from the silk one.” She looked up. “She was dead. Then she came alive, and her corpse turned into Summer Perkins.”

“Summer?” Elizabeth’s hand went to her mouth.

“Yes, but before that—behind the door just before that one—I watched a man beating Addy over and over with a leather strap.”

Emma stopped short. She lifted her face and looked toward the window. “Addy?”

Everyone turned to see what she was looking at, but only Emma could see the fuzzy outline drifting by the drapes. It was too close for Archie, who scooted out from his hiding place to cower by Elizabeth’s legs.

“Addy,” Emma said to the ghost. “Tell me what it means. How can I help you? Who was beating you?”

The fuzzy outline started filling in, and soon Emma saw the form of a woman, a young woman, in a long, old-fashioned, torn dressing gown. It was open in front, its sash missing, revealing a floor-length nightgown with lace around the neckline. Her hair was down, like it had been when she’d been beaten and hanging dead. She stared at Emma, her large eyes edged with tragedy and despair. Then she disappeared.

Exhausted, Emma dropped back against her pillow. “She’s gone.”

“Any idea where the poor girl is from?” asked Elizabeth.

“None,” replied Emma. “But from the way the first room looked and the clothing the people wore, the time period was a long time ago.” She looked at Phil. “Behind the first door was a parlor that looked a lot like the one at the Julian Hotel. It wasn’t the same—it was much fancier—but it had the same style of furnishings.”

“Hmm.” Phil thought about the hotel in his hometown. Today it was a well-known bed and breakfast, but it was quaint and furnished to replicate the time when Julian was a booming gold-rush town. “I believe the period of those furnishings would be the late 1800s or early 1900s.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Maybe you’re channeling another ghost from Julian,” he suggested. “Maybe Granny knows this Addy.”

Emma considered that option, but something about it didn’t feel right. “I don’t think so. Although I didn’t see the house I was dreaming about, the rooms I saw looked rather grand—the type of rooms and furnishings found in a mansion. Plus, the clothing they wore seemed expensive and fashionable for that time. A bit more upscale than that worn in a small country town.”

Phil laughed. “Don’t let Granny hear you calling Julian a small country town. She’ll box your ears, or at least try to.”

Dr. Miller looked at the clock. “It’s nearly two in the morning. Why don’t we all get back to bed?” He checked Emma’s pulse. Satisfied it was normal, his hand moved up to stroke her face. “You sure you’re okay, honey?”

“I’m much better, Dad, and my headache is going away. I’m sorry I woke you and Mother.”

“Nonsense,” said Elizabeth. “We’re just so worried about you. Talking and seeing ghosts is one thing. I don’t like this whole idea of you dreaming about them, too.”

Emma reached out, took her mother’s hand, and squeezed it. “Don’t worry, Mother. The ghosts can’t hurt me.”

Her father wasn’t convinced. “Tell that to Summer Perkins.”

Shortly after the Millers and Archie left Emma’s bedroom, Emma went into the bathroom to freshen up. When she crawled back into bed, Phil drew her into his arms and held her tight.