Tymber Dalton (16 page)

Around seven, Steve made his way downstairs. “I can’t take those pills. They knock me out.”

“If the doc says you need them, you take them. I’d rather have you comatose than in pain.”

He walked over and kissed her. “What’s that?”

“The information on the house Jane McCartyle gave me.” She closed the folder and sat back. “You ready for dinner?”

He made a strange face. “How about some soup? I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s chicken noodle. Want some?”

He nodded. “Can you bring it to me in the study? I want to work for a little while.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks.” She watched him walk down the hall, absently rubbing his right side.

How
could
she tell if he acted strange? He was pretty odd to begin with. Maybe his appointments with Dr. Raymond would help.

* * * *

The weekend passed uneventfully. On Sunday, Sami cleaned the attic while Steve played catch-up. They hadn’t tried another romantic interlude. Between cleaning, her writing, and going through the folder of material about the house, romance was the last thing on Sami’s mind.

If her totals were right, at least twelve deaths had occurred either in, around, or in some way related to the house. And she wasn’t even halfway through the folder yet.

Knocking down more cobwebs from the rafters, Sami tried to digest the information. What was it about this house that attracted so much trouble? This wasn’t a horror novel. This was real life.

Were there other places like this house with the same kind of track record?

That was an interesting idea, maybe a story on “bad luck” locales.

The sunny day had turned the attic uncomfortably hot. She decided to open the turret window, and knelt on the window seat for better leverage. It opened a few inches before firmly sticking.

She didn’t want to go all the way downstairs for tools and looked around for something to use. She didn’t find anything and lifted the window seat as a last option.

Nothing.

She was about to close it again when a cold chill brushed against the back of her neck. She shuddered.

Whirling around, she found herself alone in the attic.

She almost closed the lid when something caught her eye. Sami dropped to her knees and worked her fingers into a small notch in a panel at the bottom and wiggled it.

It moved!

That chill against the back of her neck returned, along with an urgency.

I have to open it now, before he returns!

He who?

She sat up.
Why did I think that?

Steve was downstairs working. Why should she care if he came up here?

Sami shook her head and knelt to her task. A few minutes later, she worked the panel loose and found a hidden compartment between the floor joists holding three old, bound journals and an antique-looking pencil.

Her heart raced as she pulled them out. Inside the first was a name and date. Evelyn Beaulieux, 1898.

Evelyn… The name was familiar. She looked at the others, dated 1901 and 1906, but the name was different.

Evelyn Simpson.

Her journals!

Sami’s heart raced as she replaced the secret panel, closed the window seat, and hurried downstairs to her office. Steve still worked behind his closed door. She tucked the tomes into the bottom of her filing cabinet, under income tax paperwork.

Why am I hiding them?
she thought as she closed the drawer.
I should share these with Steve.

She reached down to open the drawer again and was immediately seized by an unnatural fear.

No!

The voice spoke inside her head but sounded like it came from elsewhere. She looked around, startled, and decided the journals could wait for a while.

Maybe after Steve went to bed.

Steve drove to town Monday morning, leaving Sami alone. She encouraged him to go and take as much time as he needed for his appointments. He was headed to AA. She headed to her office as soon as the truck’s back bumper disappeared into the woods.

Sami resisted the urge to start at the end of the journals and work her way back. What exactly happened to Evelyn remained unknown. The local papers speculated that George killed her and the kids. Back then, it was far from the days of
CSI
and crime labs. Some folks surmised she took the kids and ran after shoving George down the well. Others discounted that theory, because she didn’t take any personal effects from the house. Also, investigators found some ominously shredded clothing remnants in the master bedroom. And no one ever heard from her again.

Sami’s hands trembled as she opened the first journal and began reading. The first few entries were penned by an Evelyn fresh out of college. She graduated with a degree in English literature from Florida State College, quite an achievement for a woman back then. Her words sounded happy and full of hope.

Then she met George Simpson.

Encouraged by her parents—pressured was more the word Sami would have chosen—she married the rich shipping baron. She took it in stride and made the best out of the situation. She appeared relatively happy. Things seemed okay for the first year or so.

Then they went downhill.

George became increasingly short-tempered and jealous. When he was home, she wasn’t allowed to go anywhere alone, otherwise she was accused of infidelity. Only when he was at work could she go out and do household errands. She wasn’t allowed to visit her family in Miami, unless he went with her.

Two hours later, Sami made it halfway through the first journal. It was difficult to read, partly because most of it was written in ink that had badly faded over the years, and partly because of Evelyn’s narrow, sinewy script.

Sami stretched and took a break, careful to hide the journals in the bottom drawer and lock the cabinet. It wasn’t unusual for her to lock their personal papers, so Steve wouldn’t suspect anything.

She wondered how Steve’s appointments were going and how much longer he’d be. Which set her mind on a dangerous path which she didn’t want to tread—did she have time to snoop?

Once thought, the idea wouldn’t go away, growing like a bad itch to scratch until she finally gave in to the urge to check his computer. She went into his office and turned on the computer, remembering the password from the other night.

He hadn’t changed his password, so maybe he was telling the truth. She mentally smacked herself for not asking Matt about it, not that it mattered now. Steve was trying.

Wasn’t he?

She searched the files and found the file he’d worked on last. It wasn’t bad, certainly a lot better than the last time she checked. He’d made quite a few changes and it flowed much better.

A little more snooping, and she found and opened another file he’d worked on that weekend.

* * * *

Steve and Dr. Raymond walked the short distance from the meeting to his office. When they were settled, Dr. Raymond asked him about the weekend. Steve recounted the gallbladder attack. Then he told him about Dr. Smith’s observation.

“What do you think?” Steve asked.

Dr. Raymond leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers. “My opinion isn’t important. What’s important is what do
you
think about it?”

“I don’t understand.”

“What do you think about the fact that you’re lying to your wife about wanting kids?”

“I’m not lying to her…exactly.”

“You told her you wanted kids, and now you don’t. Instead of being intimate with her, you push her away and make excuses.”

“If I tell her, she may leave.”

“I can play Devil’s advocate and ask what do you think would happen if you don’t tell her.”

He sighed. “If I don’t tell her, she might leave. No woman who wants to have sex with her husband will tolerate being turned down all the time.”

“True.”

Steve chewed on that. “It’s not that I don’t want to sleep with her. I’m afraid to. Do you think the gallbladder attack was my body trying to create an excuse?”

“What do you think?”

“Would you stop that?”

“Sorry.” He smiled. “Do I think your body was trying to send you silent signals? I doubt it, not in the way you’re thinking. But the accumulated stress and conflicting feelings you have possibly contributed to the severity of the attack, yes.”

“We’ll be married seven years at the end of next week.”

“Do you think you owe it to her to be honest? Maybe you’re not giving her enough credit. Maybe if she leaves it’ll be because of how you’re treating her, not because you’ve changed your mind about having children. Perhaps you’re taking away her ability to freely choose her path by not giving her all the information.”

Steve couldn’t argue with that.

They tossed it back and forth for the rest of the session. Afterward, Steve got the lab work done and returned home.

* * * *

At first, Sami didn’t understand what she read. Most of it was garbage, random letters and spaces mixed in with regular prose, like a monkey trying to type
Macbeth
and missing the works of Shakespeare by a country mile. Toward the end of the file, more things popped out through the garbage. A word or phrase here and there.

Evelyn…George…poison…bitch.

A chill settled over her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move. Wheeling around, she thought she caught a glimpse of a woman standing in the office doorway.

She blinked, and it was gone.

A full-body shudder enveloped her and she shut the computer down. No telling what it was, probably sleepwriting to go along with his bouts of sleepwalking. Nothing to worry about.

She closed his office door after checking everything was in its correct place. Sami made it back to the kitchen in time to hear the Ford in the driveway.

Perfect timing, she thought, shuddering again.

* * * *

Steve sat in the Ford for a moment, staring at the house. A wave of rage washed over him, scaring him. He wanted to get out of the car and storm into the house, but at the same time fear of his actions forced him to remain still until it passed. Something about a woman in the turret window—he looked and saw no one, but it stood slightly ajar. Sami probably left it open to air out the attic.

The taste of whiskey in his throat again.

God, does this
ever
end?

He swallowed hard. Another wave, this time of pain, ran through him. Like someone stabbing a red-hot poker in his side. He gasped for air, slumped over in the seat, unable to move.

Eventually the pain subsided and he climbed out, stumbling. Sami must have seen him because she met him halfway.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hurts.”

Worry painted her face. She helped him the rest of the way and settled him on the couch.

“Let me call an ambulance.”

“And tell them what?” He cut her off more harshly than he intended. He took a deep breath and tried again. “I’ve got another appointment on Thursday with Dr. Smith. If I can make it until then, I will.” He tried to smile to relieve her concern and barely succeeded. “I guess I’ll take a pill after all. Can you get it, please?”

She raced to oblige and soon returned with a glass of ice water and the medicine. After helping him off with his shoes she went upstairs and returned with several pillows. “Rest down here. I’ll bring you your computer later, if you want.”

Sami leaned over and kissed him on the forehead and handed him the remote. A wave of guilt swept through him. She would be a good mother, but he couldn’t say the same about his potential parenting skills. He was too afraid to find out the hard way, after screwing up a baby.

“Thank you, Sami.” She smiled and returned to her office.

With the TV tuned to HBO he tried to lose himself in
Sopranos
reruns, miserably failing. Pain, and a little nausea, washed over him, but at least in ever-gentler waves. Eventually, the medicine caught up with him and he fell asleep.

* * * *

Steve found himself in a small, dark room. An old kerosene lamp sat on the table, and his clothes smelled smoky. His dream double sat writing a note at the table.

“Old bitch thought she’d POISON me,”
his dream self said.
“Showed her. And those kids. They were in on it. Just wanted my money. Well I showed them all!”

He slapped the pencil down on the table and turned to the shelves behind him. Boxes of currency, bills and coins, and various things stacked in no apparent order.

He smiled, not in control of his actions. It had to be a dream, but he couldn’t pull himself out of it no matter how hard he tried. He rubbed his side and shoved his chair back from the rough-hewn table.