The House on Tradd Street (40 page)

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Authors: Karen White

BOOK: The House on Tradd Street
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“Was there something you were about to say?”
I shook my head. “Nothing that can’t wait. Good night.”
“Good night,” he said, the phone already up to his ear. I exited the car, walking quickly as if trying to escape the accusing stare of a woman I couldn’t see but could feel nearby. I listened as Jack’s car sped away, then let myself in at my front door, closing it softly behind me.
CHAPTER 20
I
lay in bed looking up at the plain white ceiling illuminated by the bright white streetlight from outside, feeling completely and totally wide-awake. I was in the middle of doing an estimate in my head of what it would cost to add a ceiling medallion and cornices when a niggling thought interrupted my ruminations. I sat up, startled at the urgency of the thought and half aware that the thought hadn’t come from me. It was almost as if someone had whispered it from behind me, sort of like subliminal advertising.
Look at the christening photograph in the album.
I quickly slid from bed and crossed the room in the dim light, only to remember that I was in my condo with the plain ceilings and that I had left all of Louisa’s albums at the house on Tradd Street. Standing in the middle of my room, I closed my eyes, picturing the photo of Louisa with Nevin in his christening gown, trying to remember the details. Mother and child had been radiant, and both dressed in white, the intricate lace of Nevin’s gown trailing over Louisa’s arms, hiding her hands. Her dark hair had been pulled on top of her head, and she wore no earrings.
My eyes flew open. She wasn’t wearing earrings,
but she wore a necklace.
I reached the phone by the side of my bed in one quick step and picked up the receiver, only to hang it up immediately when I saw the bright readout on my alarm clock that said it was three fifteen in the morning. Not one to analyze my feelings, I didn’t stop to think why my first thought had been to call Jack and not my father or Marc.
I sat on the edge of my bed, all thoughts of finding sleep now completely gone. I figured I could either stay awake all night, tossing and turning, or I could throw on some sweats and head out to Tradd Street now. It was my house, after all, and I was allowed to come and go as I pleased.
Without thinking any further, I tossed on my clothes, brushed my teeth, then made my bed before heading out to my car. Traffic was light, and I found myself pulling onto Tradd Street not even twenty minutes later. Someone had left the outside lights on, as well as a light in a downstairs window so the house didn’t seem as dark and foreboding as I remembered from the last time I’d seen it. Almost as if I were expected.
I scanned the upper windows, willing my heartbeat to slow when I neither saw nor sensed anything staring back at me. I glanced at the light in the lower window, realizing that it came from the first-floor drawing room and that all the furniture and lamps and been taken out over a month ago.
Thanks, Louisa,
I said to myself, feeling comforted by her presence and fortified enough to go inside the empty house.
I unlatched the garden gate and headed up the steps of the piazza, smelling fresh paint and noticing that the missing bricks in the steps had been replaced. I unlocked the front door, satisfied to hear the warning beeps from the alarm before punching in my code 1-2-2-1.
The sleeping house sat still and quiet, the only sound that of the ticking grandfather clock, like a heartbeat. I stepped into the foyer and flipped on the light, noticing that the scaffolding and drop cloths had all been removed. For a moment I thought it was because the work had been abandoned. And then I saw that the wallpaper no longer drooped and the corkscrew spindles all gleamed with fresh paint. Curious, I stepped toward the drawing room and saw the large chandelier hanging from its old spot on the ornate ceiling, its cleaned crystals sparkling and reflecting the gaslight from outside. As I had expected, there was no sign of a light in the room that would have shone from the window.
I spun around the room, smelling the fresh paint and seeing the gleam of the newly waxed and polished hardwood floors, remembering that Chad had once told me he was an expert with an electric floor sander. Apparently, the restoration work had continued in my absence, with Sophie, Jack, and Chad using whatever resources they could find. I was touched but saddened at the same time, oddly wishing that I had been a part of it.
I turned to go upstairs, and my foot kicked something soft, sending it skidding across the freshly polished floors. It was a stuffed dog, dark brown with black spots, and it had pointy, triangular ears and a long, thick tail. Its tail appeared gnawed, and I wondered if somebody had bought General Lee a toy. A red button on one of its paws read
Press Me
, so I did and was rewarded with the dog saying, “Ruh-Roh.” It was life had continued in this house without me, with my friends working on the house and even buying toys for my dog. All without my knowledge or participation. As if everybody had been invited to a birthday party but me.
Feeling foolish, I placed the dog on the bottom step and climbed the stairs to my room. I hesitated only for a moment before I turned the knob and let myself in, reassured by the warm temperature of the room that I was alone. I spotted the stacked albums on the dresser, where I’d left them, the last one I’d looked at—the one with the christening photo—on top. Realizing too late that I’d forgotten my gloves, I reached for the album, feeling the resulting tingle of anticipation race up my arms. I made it to the bed and sat down, opening the album on my lap.
I smelled summer grass and Carolina jasmine, and thought I could feel the soft give of earth underneath my feet as I leaned forward to push the wooden swing. Soft bubbles of childish laughter filled the room along with the summer air, and I felt myself smiling although my face didn’t move. A tall, dark-haired man faced me, holding the Brownie camera. I felt the rope through my kid leather gloves as I gently stopped the swing so we could gaze together into the camera. The man told us to smile and we did, capturing the beautiful perfection of the summer day.
I looked down and saw the scrapbook again, the long-fingered hand I’d grown used to seeing gripping a fountain pen as it scrawled across the page.
 
August 31, 1929
My darling Robert is becoming as much of a camera buff as I am and can hardly resist taking photographs of me and our darling Nevin. I don’t mind, as I can’t imagine ever having enough pictures of our son. However, I do believe we have plenty enough of me, but Robert insists and I humor him. He is so good to us, and is very insistent that the troubled business affairs of most of our friends and neighbors and the high rate of bank closures will not affect us. I do worry, as I feel these difficult times have forced Robert into business associations he would not have considered in the past, but I trust that he will help us all weather this storm. He is a Vanderhorst, after all, as am I now, and this is merely a trifling matter compared to what our ancestors have had to face, and what sacrifices they were forced to make to save our beautiful home here on Tradd Street.
I slid the scrapbook off of my lap and onto the bed, feeling the relief as I slipped back into my own body again. I then used a corner of the sheet to flip through pages filled with photographs of Louisa and Nevin, and still more of the house and garden and even a few of Robert himself, until I stopped on the christening photograph. It might have been my imagination, but it seemed as if Louisa’s expression was less serene this time. It was almost as if she were looking at me from behind the camera, an earnestness behind her eyes that made me look closer.
I squinted as I pressed myself forward, studying the necklace with the huge stone around her neck.
Jack was right.
I looked again, just to make sure, but now that I knew what I was looking for, it was fairly obvious that the jewel hanging around Louisa’s neck was a very large brilliant-cut diamond.
I reached for my phone to call Jack, assuming it must be at least dawn now, remembering as I did so that the plumber had needed the phone in another part of the house. My purse, with my cell phone inside, had been left on the hall table, where I’d dropped it when I’d entered the house.
Damn,
I said to myself as I got to my feet and glanced at the clock. The soft white glow of the numbers read four thirteen. It didn’t matter. I needed to call Jack, and I wasn’t about to hold this in for two more hours. I blinked my eyes, wondering if it was exhaustion that was fogging my vision. I breathed out, a large puff of white air clouding the space in front of me, and I shivered in the sudden cold.
Warily, I started for the door, walking past the dressing table with the large mirror above it. A movement near the mirror made me spin around to face it as my breath left my lungs in a strong whoosh, sending out a cloud of white frost.
I am stronger than you. I am stronger than you.
A dark figure of a man peered out at me from the mirror. He stood behind me, and if I could have moved, I would have been able to reach behind me and touch him. His features weren’t clear, his eyes hidden by the shadow of a hat’s brim. Evil radiated from him like reflected light in a dark well, and I held my breath, not wanting to show my fear.
His reflection began to shimmer as if I’d been staring into a pond and somebody had dropped a stone, warping the image into something more grotesque. I opened my mouth to shout, coughing instead as I inhaled the thick, pungent aroma of smoke. The overhead light fixture flickered once, then twice, then dimmed gradually as if somebody was slowly covering up the bulbs with a black cloth And then they went out completely.
I launched myself at the door, having the forethought to feel the handle first to test for heat before throwing it open. Thin wisps of smoke drifted through the upstairs hallway like clouds from the night sky, the acrid taste of it thick in my nose and mouth. I coughed before bringing the bottom of my sweatshirt over my mouth in an attempt to breathe easier.
I peered over the banister into the foyer below, seeing that the darker, heavier smoke was coming from the back, in the direction of the kitchen. Running down the stairs I became aware of the dreadful silence in the house except for the faint crackling and popping of burning laminate and wood coming from the kitchen and the incessant ticking of the grandfather clock in the front room. The smoke alarms, wired directly to the fire station, were completely silent.
Choking and gasping for air, I stumbled to the front door, unwilling to give in to panic and taking the time to methodically unlock the dead bolts. After ensuring that I’d done them all, I turned the handle and pulled. Nothing happened. Moving faster now, I checked all of the dead bolts again, making sure they were all unlatched and pulled again. The door stuck, as unmovable as if somebody was holding it closed from the other side.
Spots formed in front of me, and I clenched my eyes shut to get the spots to go away, jerking them open again as soon as I realized how very much they wanted to stay closed. I tugged on the door again, slipping down the door to my knees. I gasped again, my lungs desperate now for oxygen, and succeeded only in hyperventilating. The spots danced in front of my eyes again, like a hypnotist’s pendulum, begging me to go to sleep.
Wake up, Melanie. Help is on the way.
I forced my eyes open, wondering if I’d really heard the woman’s voice or if the smoke was getting to my brain. Using the doorknob I struggled to a stand, feeling small hands on my back as if to prop me up. Groggily, I turned to look behind me, then froze as I saw only a dark figure of a man hovering behind the smoke in the drawing room, red pinpricks of light where his eyes should be.
I tugged on the door harder, but I was crying, feeling the helplessness of panic taking hold of me. Exhausted, I let go of the doorknob and slid down the door again, too sleepy to try anymore. I knew that if I could just go to sleep, everything would be all right.
I was vaguely aware of the sound of sirens in the distance gradually growing louder. My head, feeling heavier than I thought possible, dropped down to my chest, and I simply let go of the house and the smoke, and even the incessant woman’s voice calling my name over and over, telling me to wake up.
Something hard hit my hip as a chilled breeze brushed my face. I moaned and tried to remember where my hip might be so I could rub it.
“Melanie? Melanie? Are you here?”
A hard and solid object that could have been a shoe jabbed my ribs and then warm fingers were touching my face. It felt nice, and I tried to turn my cheek into the seeking fingers, pretending that they were Jack’s but knowing that they couldn’t be. He wouldn’t be touching me like that. Unless he thought I was Emily. I groaned and tried to roll over, away from him.
Then strong arms were lifting me up. I fought against my rescuer, wanting the warm cocoon of sleep and the sense of carefree peace it had brought to me. The sirens were louder now, and I tried to move my hands over my ears to drown out the noise so I could go back to sleep, but my hands had become leaded weights, and my arms rubber tubes that weren’t connected to my body at all.

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