Shiver (21 page)

Finally, she’d been unable to lie still another second and had thrown back the thin sheets. By the time she’d left her room and stood in the hallway, water was seeping from under the bathroom door, running along the old plank floors in slow rivulets tinged red…

Now, as she hurried through the thickets surrounding what had once been manicured lawns, Abby’s throat tightened and raindrops slid beneath her collar. In the back of her mind, she’d always thought her mother’s first stay at the hospital had been her fault…that if she’d been braver, if she’d gotten out of bed earlier, if she’d somehow stopped Faith Chastain from locking herself inside that bathroom, some of the tragedy that had become her mother’s life might have been averted.

I forgive you…Abby Hannah, I forgive you…
Her mother’s voice, soft and whispery as it always was in the dream, slipped through her mind. She felt the first cool drops of rain fall from the sky and she stepped around a weed-infested hedgerow to look at the back side of the hospital.

How many times had she stood in this very spot, anxious as she’d slipped away from the shadows of the woods, hoping beyond hope that none of the nuns, especially stern-faced Sister Rebecca or ever-exasperated Sister Madeline, would catch her?

Again she lifted her camera, took pictures of this side of the old building, the willow tree and the long, open verandah where now only one forgotten chaise, rusted and broken, lay on the splintered flagstones.

Creeaaaakkk!

Looking up, she spied a gutter, bleeding rust and heavy with years of debris, leaning away from the roof, the metal being pushed from its eave by the wind. A gargoyle, eyes bulging over its spillway of an open mouth, glared down at her.

God, how those stony, medieval monsters had scared her as a child. She’d been certain any bird or squirrel foolish enough to step close to that gaping, dark mouth would be snagged and swallowed by the evil creature.

Of course, it had all been her childish imagination, she thought now as she walked to the front of the building.

She glanced to the upper floors and the third-story window poised directly over this spot. That window, shattered when Faith had flung herself through the old panes, had been replaced and was one of the few sheets of glass still intact. No bullet hole, no cracks, no graying plywood tacked over it.

Once Faith Chastain had fallen through, the window had been replaced quickly and now remained. Abby turned her camera to the window, and stepped back toward the end of the drive to make certain that the entire building and the fountain were included in the picture. Shadows moved and shifted, the dark reflection of the surrounding trees in the gloomy light. For a heartbeat, looking through the camera, focusing and snapping the first shot, she thought she saw a dark figure standing in the window of her mother’s room. She lowered the camera and studied the panels of glass with the circular, stained wheel of glass above them, but no one stood behind the panes.

“Of course,” she growled at herself. She was determined not to allow her own wild imagination to take hold of her. Yes, this was a depressing place, the very spot where her mother had lost her life, the building where Abby’s life had shifted forever, but it was time to deal with it.

Setting her jaw, she forced her heart rate to slow and clicked off several shots of Faith’s room, getting lost in the play of shadows, shapes, and images she saw through the viewfinder. She took pictures of the hospital as a whole, then separate shots of the component parts, the lifeless fountain with its mossy weeping angels, the skeletal remains of the ancient fire escape, and the large, looming front door where she had raced, eager to see her mother, her heart pumping with excitement as she was anxious to confide her latest crush to Faith on their shared birthday…

Or had she?

Her brow knit as she thought, the years tumbling backward. Was that what had happened? Or just the way she wanted to remember that day?

The rain increased as she stopped at the very spot in the cracked, wet concrete where her mother’s body had landed with a heart-stopping and sickening thud.

“Oh, Mama,” she whispered.

Her throat closed in on itself. She felt slightly ill remembering the horrifying scream and turning to spy her mother land, head cracking, bones breaking, blood pooling a thick, dark red.

“Jesus,” she whispered now and sketched the sign of the cross deftly over her chest. She knew the exact spot where her mother had landed, and when she closed her eyes, she still heard the rush of noise, her father’s shout, the cries and thunder of footsteps as others rushed to help.

Too little, too late.

Even the shriek of the ambulance’s sirens was just useless loud noise, part of the cacophony that seemed to announce to the world that Faith Chastain had finally escaped from her pain.

Abby backed up, away from the precise point, where, if she let herself, she could still see the blood flowing, her mother’s face, turned at an impossible angle. Staring up at her…as if from a far distance…as if Abby were on a mountaintop. Her mind, as always, played tricks on her as she, still staring at that horrid place, forced herself backward.

Her heels hit the steps leading to the main door. Abby tore her gaze away from the area where Faith had lost her life. There was no use standing in the rain, reliving the tragedy. If seeing that precise slab of concrete had been the point, she’d accomplished it. She turned and mounted the stairs at the door, she reached for the handle, then pushed with her shoulders.

Locked.

Of course.

The clouds were beginning to open up, raindrops bouncing on the ground, the sky as dark as twilight. She should just go back, call it a day, hope that just being here was enough to satisfy whatever psychological and emotional need was necessary to find the closure of her mother’s death. But as she glanced up toward the window of Faith’s room, she knew she would always have questions, be plagued with doubts if she didn’t find her way into the bedroom where her mother’s madness had escalated to suicide.

And she was here, wasn’t she?

She walked the perimeter of the building, testing doors and finding them all locked, the French doors to the verandah, the kitchen door where deliveries had been made, the two opposing hallway doors beneath the old fire escapes…all locked tight.

She was about to give up, deciding the Fates were against her, when, at the back of the building near a service parking area, she noticed an unlatched window, one where the glass hadn’t yet been shattered.

Maybe the Fates had changed their collective mind.

She stepped onto the crumbling stoop leading to the kitchen and tried pushing the window upward. It gave slightly. Slinging her camera to her back, she pressed closer and, using two hands, shoved hard. Nothing happened. It didn’t even budge. “Come on, come on,” she urged, wondering how many laws she was breaking and, ludicrously, imagining herself explaining to Detective Montoya why she was breaking and entering.
That
wasn’t a pleasant thought. After taking several deep breaths, she tried again. This time she strained so hard, the muscles in the backs of her arms burned and her shoulders and upper back began to ache. She gritted her teeth. Pressed harder.

Suddenly, without warning, the window slid upward and Abby nearly tumbled off the stoop. Stale air escaped and she had another moment’s indecision before thinking,
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Using the strap on the camera to lower it, she set the Minolta inside. Now it was her turn. With more agility than she had expected, she pushed herself up and through, using her hands to catch herself as she landed on the dusty floor of what had once been a dining hall. It was empty now, the three chandeliers dark, the floor stained from water that had oozed through the window, down the wall, and into the cracks between the once-glossy planks.

It was dark inside, not only from the gloomy day but because she didn’t dare try any lights. She suspected the electricity had been turned off a decade earlier. The few windows that were still intact let in some natural light, but as she crept through the old dining area, she tried to be as quiet as possible, as if in making any noise, she might alert whatever ghosts and spirits abided here.

Which was just plain stupid.

She didn’t believe in ghosts.

So then why not run through the old hallways shouting? Did she think someone could hear her? Who? The nuns cloistered in their convent a quarter of a mile away? Did she feel the need to remain quiet out of reverence for the dead? Or fear? Of what? Possibly scaring up a snake that had taken up residence and now was coiled in some dark corner? Seeing a rat streak across the dusty floor?

Or simply because she knew she shouldn’t be here. Not only was she trespassing, but if she was honest with herself, she was afraid.

Of what she would find.

Within herself.

When the going gets tough, the tough get going…
Her father’s words again echoed through her mind, replaying like a mantra as she stepped from the dining room and through a butler’s pantry that separated the eating area from the kitchen. She remembered being here as a child, the gleaming china, the glistening glassware that guests and patients, if they could be trusted, were allowed to use.

The kitchen was dark and dingy, the old stove covered with grease and a decade of dirt and, she assumed from the droppings she spied, home to any manner of rodents that had obviously scampered across the counters and into the drains. She tried the door to the basement, but it was locked solidly and she felt instant relief that there was at least one dark place she didn’t feel compelled to explore.

Enough with the facing of demons here in the kitchen
, she thought and made her way to the foyer where, she remembered, an ornate grandfather’s clock had stood at the base of the stairs. The spot it had occupied was now empty, the reception desk unmanned and forgotten, the offices behind like small, airless tombs.

The parlor, with its high ceilings, had once seemed elegant and grand. It now reeked of decay and disrepair, its faded velvet curtains tattered and torn, the one remaining chair once a deep maroon now a dull orange, its batting spewing out of the cushions and littering the floor.

The whole damned place was depressing. If she were supposed to find any great epiphany of the soul here, it had yet to arrive.

But then you haven’t visited her room yet, have you, Abby?

Nothing else matters, does it?

You need to see the room where she lived, the room where she spent her sleepless nights, the room where she finally cast herself through the glass and gave up her life.

“Damn it,” she whispered and walked to the stairs. She climbed each riser slowly, as she had as a child, when Sister Rebecca had insisted that there was to be “No running. No jumping. No scampering about like wild hooligans.”

At the second floor she stopped and looked down the dark corridor. All of the doors to the private rooms were open, sagging against old hinges.

She grabbed the rail, started toward the third floor, and stopped when she thought she heard something—footsteps?—on the floor below? Or above? Holding her breath, she waited. Listened. But there was no sound save for the rain falling against the roof and water running through the gutters. The rest of the old hospital remained silent aside from the sound of her own footsteps creaking up the staircase.

Get hold of yourself,
she silently admonished, her heart hammering as, at the final landing, she looked at the stained-glass window and wondered how it had survived. Why hadn’t it been sold? What had saved it from being broken? She remembered staring at the image of the Madonna when bright summer sunlight had streamed through the colored glass, illuminating Mary’s golden halo so that it seemed to glow as if touched by heaven. Now it was dim and dark, no sparkling reds, blues, or greens on this dreary day.

She turned and walked up the final few stairs to the third-floor hallway and froze, her heart squeezing painfully. Every door was shut, not one open as they had been on the floor below.

“How odd,” she whispered and wished she’d had the presence of mind to bring her flashlight with her instead of leaving it in the glove box of the car.
Just do this. Get it over with.
She stepped into the hallway and walked directly to the door of her mother’s room. The numbers 307 were intact, and only when she slid a glance at the room next door did she find it strange. The neighboring room had no numbers on its door at all, and the one across the hall was missing the zero, so it looked like Room 36 with a gap between the digits.

So what?

Big deal.

Go on, Abby, quit being such a wimp! What do you expect to find in there anyway?

Mentally pumping herself up, she reached for the handle and tried to turn the knob.

It didn’t move.

She tried again. The door was probably just stuck, swollen against its frame from years of neglect. She tried again. The knob didn’t turn. It wasn’t the door that wasn’t moving; the lock had been turned.

“Great.”

She rationalized that there must be some valuables left on this floor, so the rooms had been locked. The stained-glass window was proof enough of that. Obviously whoever was cleaning out this old place had…

Again she heard a noise, a shuffling, and her heart lurched painfully. Was someone walking downstairs? Slipping through a door? Shutting it behind him?
Oh, God.

She melted against the neighboring door.

It gave way.

Opened under her weight.

She fell, stumbling loudly into the empty room. A gasp flew from her lungs as she caught herself. Over the knocking of her heart, she strained to hear any noises in this huge, nearly empty building.

She heard nothing.

Or did she?

She licked her lips. Was there the slightest click of a door latch?

Her hair nearly stood on end.

It’s your damned nerves, Abby. Nothing more. You’re paranoid.