young, including a daughter who came down with what used to be called consumption. It’s said that the babies were buried in the home’s garden because Mrs. Harrison couldn’t bear the thought of them being far away from her. Then the wife of one of the sons went mad. She drowned in the garden fountain.”
She frowned. “But the worst of it was when Mr. Harrison got caught up in the unpleasantness about those smugglers and that awful Jeremiah Abernathy,” she said, as if it were a story everyone had heard.
Mrs. Morrissey checked the tasteful, diamond-studded watch on her thin wrist. “Oh dear, I’d better run. Stop down sometime at the Archive and I can tell you more. Gardenia Landing’s address has been well-known in Charleston for a long time.”
With that, she bade Baxter and me good night and headed off toward her next social engagement. I watched her go for a moment, then turned back to Baxter, who was eagerly pulling toward the remainder of our route. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I said, letting him take me down the sidewalk.
I was glad Baxter knew the route, because Mrs. Morrissey had given me several new things to think about. If Gardenia Landing had a sordid past, could that have made the items we sold Rebecca ‘come alive’? I wondered. Obviously, I needed to do some digging, and Mrs. Morrissey seemed quite willing to take me on a tour of the B&B’s dark side.
It was late afternoon, and in Charleston’s picturesque narrow streets and historic alleys, the shadows were lengthening. Only when we were halfway down a pretty little cobblestone sidestreet did I realize that the shadows seemed to be a lot darker than they should be for this time of day. I picked up my pace, but the shadows felt like they were closing in.
Baxter has the heart of lion in the body of a guinea pig. He wheeled on the shadows with a snarl and began to bark a shrill alarm. I scooped Baxter up in my arms and started to run, feeling like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz , except instead of flying monkeys, we were being chased by shadows.
I only dared one glance over my shoulder. Shapes were stirring in the shadows, things with long, outstretched arms and grasping hands. I managed a burst of speed, and we ran out into the light of the cross street, right into the path of a Toyota Corolla. The driver slammed on the brakes and laid on the horn.
I was quick to put the Corolla between me and the alley, but the shadows did not venture past the sidewalk. I pantomimed apologies to the driver, and scooted away, glad we were only a block from my house. That’s when I spotted a tall, thin man in a broad-brimmed hat, standing on the corner. I might not have paid any attention, except that he seemed to be staring at me, and although the hat hid much of his face, what I could see looked not just wrinkled, but withered. Something about his silent regard gave me the creeps, and I walked off in the opposite direction as quickly as I could.
No one was around as I unlocked the door, and I let the wash of cold air revive me. Baxter went straight to his water dish, lapping thirstily. I locked the door and pulled the curtains back to look at the street again. I spotted the tall, thin man again. He was slouched so I couldn’t make out his features.
Baxter destracted me for a moment and when I glanced again the man was gone.
After I checked the deadbolt again, I went to the kitchen for some ice water. I poured some kibble into Baxter’s bowl, then opened the fridge to figure out what to make for dinner, and decided I wasn’t hungry.
Trying to get my mind off the attack in the alley and the man outside my house, I flipped through the magazine. One paragraph in an article on organizing closets caught my eye. “Many people hold on to items because they’re really using them as ‘memory anchors’. They’re afraid that if they get rid of the item, they’ll lose the memories they’re reminded of by the piece.”
What if you wanted to get rid of
She frowned. “But the worst of it was when Mr. Harrison got caught up in the unpleasantness about those smugglers and that awful Jeremiah Abernathy,” she said, as if it were a story everyone had heard.
Mrs. Morrissey checked the tasteful, diamond-studded watch on her thin wrist. “Oh dear, I’d better run. Stop down sometime at the Archive and I can tell you more. Gardenia Landing’s address has been well-known in Charleston for a long time.”
With that, she bade Baxter and me good night and headed off toward her next social engagement. I watched her go for a moment, then turned back to Baxter, who was eagerly pulling toward the remainder of our route. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I said, letting him take me down the sidewalk.
I was glad Baxter knew the route, because Mrs. Morrissey had given me several new things to think about. If Gardenia Landing had a sordid past, could that have made the items we sold Rebecca ‘come alive’? I wondered. Obviously, I needed to do some digging, and Mrs. Morrissey seemed quite willing to take me on a tour of the B&B’s dark side.
It was late afternoon, and in Charleston’s picturesque narrow streets and historic alleys, the shadows were lengthening. Only when we were halfway down a pretty little cobblestone sidestreet did I realize that the shadows seemed to be a lot darker than they should be for this time of day. I picked up my pace, but the shadows felt like they were closing in.
Baxter has the heart of lion in the body of a guinea pig. He wheeled on the shadows with a snarl and began to bark a shrill alarm. I scooped Baxter up in my arms and started to run, feeling like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz , except instead of flying monkeys, we were being chased by shadows.
I only dared one glance over my shoulder. Shapes were stirring in the shadows, things with long, outstretched arms and grasping hands. I managed a burst of speed, and we ran out into the light of the cross street, right into the path of a Toyota Corolla. The driver slammed on the brakes and laid on the horn.
I was quick to put the Corolla between me and the alley, but the shadows did not venture past the sidewalk. I pantomimed apologies to the driver, and scooted away, glad we were only a block from my house. That’s when I spotted a tall, thin man in a broad-brimmed hat, standing on the corner. I might not have paid any attention, except that he seemed to be staring at me, and although the hat hid much of his face, what I could see looked not just wrinkled, but withered. Something about his silent regard gave me the creeps, and I walked off in the opposite direction as quickly as I could.
No one was around as I unlocked the door, and I let the wash of cold air revive me. Baxter went straight to his water dish, lapping thirstily. I locked the door and pulled the curtains back to look at the street again. I spotted the tall, thin man again. He was slouched so I couldn’t make out his features.
Baxter destracted me for a moment and when I glanced again the man was gone.
After I checked the deadbolt again, I went to the kitchen for some ice water. I poured some kibble into Baxter’s bowl, then opened the fridge to figure out what to make for dinner, and decided I wasn’t hungry.
Trying to get my mind off the attack in the alley and the man outside my house, I flipped through the magazine. One paragraph in an article on organizing closets caught my eye. “Many people hold on to items because they’re really using them as ‘memory anchors’. They’re afraid that if they get rid of the item, they’ll lose the memories they’re reminded of by the piece.”
What if you wanted to get rid of
Similar Books
