know, Jenny. I just don’t know,” he said. “But it’s something.”
“You don’t think Vanessa is going to try to get back the deed to the properties, do you, Simon?” Will Wilkins asked.
“How can she?” Simon said. “I’ll wave the deeds in front of her pretty nose. What can she do?”
Simon moved a little away from the heat of the fire and studied his friends for a moment. “We don’t have a deed to Bloodstone,” he said. “The mansion wasn’t included in the list of properties.”
“I wonder why?” Jenny Hastings asked. “They thought Vanessa dead. Who else would Jeremiah and Hester deed it to but us?”
“Us? You mean ‘the town’ don’t you, Jenny?” Martha Wilkins corrected.
“Same thing,” Will said, giving his wife a hard look.
Martha lowered her eyes and fumbled with some imaginary object in her lap.
“Perhaps old Jeremiah deeded it over to some relative we don’t know about...maybe one of Hester’s people,” Sam said.
“There aren’t any relatives,” Simon told him. “Jeremiah; his wife, Hester; his daughter, Vanessa, that’s the lot of them.”
“That old house should be torn down before it falls down,” Will Wilkins said as he adjusted his more-than-ample frame deeper into the soft chair in which he was sitting.
“Lord, I wouldn’t go near that old place for love or money,” his wife said.
Jenny Hastings laughed. “Now, don’t tell me you believe those tired old stories about its being haunted, Martha. Why, this is 1851.” Jenny Hastings was a modern, worldly woman, or so she considered herself.
“The place is haunted,” Martha insisted.
“Nonsense. There aren’t such things as ghosts any more. They went out in our granddaddy’s time.”
Simon rubbed the bristles on his chin. “Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Jenny. Ghosts are ghosts. They’ve always been and they’ll always be.”
Simon Caldwell, however, wasn’t thinking about ghosts. He was thinking about Bloodstone. He was thinking about Vanessa Mallory and the old crone, Tutrice. They were back for no good purpose and he wondered what that purpose might be.
CHAPTER THREE
The storm was raging full force. Vanessa and Tutrice fought hard to control the horses as they sped through the open gates and up the winding drive to Bloodstone.
Vanessa whipped the team forward, toward the carriage house. She struggled to hold them steady while Tutrice climbed from the covered carriage and pushed herself against the howling gale. Between the two of them they sheltered the horses and carriage, not bothering to unbridle the team.
“Father will see to them.” Vanessa had to yell to make herself heard. “Come, let’s get inside before we are swept away.”
“The storm is fighting against you, my child. It does not want you here,” the old Cajun called.
“Be still. I’ve had enough of your grumbling. Come along.”
Their cloaks and skirts billowed out behind them as they made their way slowly up the walkway, under the portico, onto the wide, sagging front veranda. The pillars supporting the second-story balcony were uneven and weak-looking. Their paint had peeled away long ago, leaving them naked and vulnerable to the terrible winds. They, like the house itself, looked tired and weary.
Vanessa stood for a moment staring at the extent of deterioration. It was as if she were seeing her beloved Bloodstone for the first time. It was not the lovely, stately old mansion she’d left five years ago. It was old and creaky and falling into ruin. It seemed impossible that such a change could take place within the short span of five years.
She refused to dwell on such morbid thoughts. If the house were in need of repair, she would see that it was repaired. She gathered her hood tighter around her head and her cloak about her shoulders and went toward the front door. The wind was blowing so hard it made it difficult for her to see. She groped for the door handle but her hand touched nothing but rough wood. She backed away slightly and saw that the door was boarded over.
“You must not go inside that house,” Tutrice warned.
“Be quiet, I say. It’s boarded over. Why?”
“They are no longer here, child. You must have known as much.”
“Of course they’re here. Where else would they be?” She reached out to grab hold of a corner of one of the boards.
“You must not uncrate your own coffin.”
“I said, be still,” Vanessa hissed, raising her hand as though to strike the old woman. Tutrice did not cower; Vanessa would never strike her, she knew.
“Help me,” Vanessa said as again she tried to pull away the boards nailed across the door.
“I will not be a party to this,” Tutrice said. “I cannot help you. I will not be responsible.”
Vanessa said something angry, but Tutrice did not hear; it was lost in the storm. Frantically Vanessa began tugging at the edges of the boards. One by one they finally came away and were caught up by the wind and carried away.
Finally, the last board came free and Vanessa tried the latch, but it did not move. The door was locked.
She snatched her traveling bag from Tutrice and rummaged inside it, searching. Her fingers touched upon the hard, cold metal of her latch key. She pulled it out.
“No,” Tutrice said as Vanessa inserted the key into the lock. “You will never leave once you step inside. You will be a prisoner, like before.”
Vanessa gave the key an angry twist. She pushed down on the handle and the door swung easily upon its hinges.
Bloodstone engulfed her the moment she took a step over its threshold. The interior of the house was as quiet as a tomb. Even the raging storm seemed to refuse to cross the sill and intrude upon the deadly calm that hung like a pall over the inside of the old mansion.
“Bloodstone,” Vanessa said in reverence, staring at the graceful staircase that curved in a perfect crescent. The storm that raged outside did not stir a single prism of the massive chandelier. Unlike the neglected exterior, the house inside looked as clean and lovely as ever. The marble floors were polished. There wasn’t a speck of dust or a stain of neglect anywhere to be seen. The reception hall was as new and bright as it must have been when it was first constructed.
Tutrice remained on the threshold, her cloak and skirt streaming out into the night.
Vanessa took another step deeper into the house. “Father!” she called, looking up toward the top of the staircase. “Father, it’s me, Vanessa. I’ve come home.”
She called several more times, but each time was met with the same ominous, almost unearthly silence. With a shrug of annoyance she set down her traveling case and whirled to face the open door. “Get yourself in
