Chapter 4
Side-stepping the rotted wooden steps, they climbed to the top of the steep, rocky cliff. It was only a short climb, but in the heavy fog the precarious ascent left Ramona breathless.
The rough ground underfoot was overgrown with thick vines that caught at her feet like a thousand groping hands. Richardson took her by the arm and guided her across the distance that separated them from the house. She couldn't help looking at what lay ahead of her rather than watching her feet.
There were no sounds of animal life around, none of the scampering or chattering or chirping that usually filled a woodland. For some reason even the birds were quiet. From the distance came a lone shrill cry, as if in warning, as a gull winged shoreward. Involuntarily Ramona jumped toward the tall man walking beside her.
He chuckled and she withdrew, trying to compose herself.
"Guess I'll have to get more cases like this one," he told her. "With estates like this and more heiresses like you, I'd be a happy man."
"You're not?" she ventured, making an effort to share his humor.
"At the moment, I'm very happy," he assured her, his hand squeezing her arm fondly.
She wasn't sure whether she should be grateful or not, but the warm sincerity of his expression told her his remark had been harmless yet honest, so she tried bravely to return his grin.
The house was much bigger than she expected.
It seemed to grow as they approached, lifting its steeply pitched roof higher, like a mighty giant raising its imposing shoulders. The natural, weathered boards of the exterior had never been painted and almost seemed to breathe with a life from within. The dark brown-gray roughness resembled the scales of some ancient reptilian gargoyle. High on the rooftop the wooden balustrade had rotted away under years of nature's torment and had been replaced by metal bars and railing making the widow's walk look more like a prison catwalk.
Ramona dropped her gaze, lest in the mounting darkness she see that ghostly image she feared her human eyes might encounter as had so many others. Perhaps it really had been more a prison than a vigil post to the woman who grieved for her lost husband, she thought. She was shivering, not sure if it was caused by the cold dampness of the air or her own anxiety.
As they approached the house, it seemed gaunt and lifeless except for the bulbous eyes of the bay windows, which seemed to regard them malevolently. It seemed to her that the house hated her and was warning her away, yet her feet kept right on going, stumbling through the tangled vines that criss-crossed the pathway to the front door.
"You still want to go in?" asked the young man beside her as they stood before the imposing front door that had griffin guards with gruesome countenances banking the doorstep.
She nodded and looked at the lion's head knocker on the door, its teeth bared and a worn brass ring through its nostrils. Evidently, at one time someone thought the island a lovely place and built this home with the intention of staying, she mused. But the lion's face was worn and gaunt from the winds and rain, pocked with shadowed holes so it looked almost like the skeleton head of a man, the remnants of his hair streaming backward like the thousand snakes of Minerva's crown.
The only thing she'd ever had to call her own-a haunted house on an island laden with threats of death. Surely, she told herself, it must be much more pleasant here in the summer, and in the fall alive with the brilliant flames of the maple trees and soft vibrant green of balsam and pine.
Richardson viewed the house skeptically, then tried the door. It was unlocked but creaked open with a great deal of difficulty.
"Why wasn't it locked?" Ramona demanded.
"I don't know," the young man said, shrugging his shoulders. "It was open when I first came."
She looked at the lock as she followed him in. It was broken, but whether or not it always had been she didn't know. Maybe her uncle hadn't felt it was necessary to fix it, since there was no one else around. The house was almost dark because only a little light pierced the grime of the window panes. Deep shadows filled the corners as if crouched in readiness against the invaders.
"Oh, let's leave the door open!" she begged as he pressed himself against the creaking mass of wood to shut it. "It's so dusty in here it's suffocating me."
He left it half-open and began to lead her through the rooms. Could he hear her heart beating so loudly? Had her tremulous voice betrayed her trembling body? She followed him silently, hoping he couldn't detect her childish fear.
The living room was long and deep with a big fireplace. The ashes of a long-dead fire spilled onto the Oriental carpeting as though someone had forgotten to close the flue against the wind. Victorian furniture with dark red velvet upholstery filled the room. The color of blood for Blood Island, her mind taunted her. She tried to shake away the morbidity of her brain's teasing. A genuine horse-hair sofa in front of the fireplace caught her attention and she went to touch it.
Her grandmother had told her they scratched terribly. Her hand hung in mid-air. Somehow she couldn't touch it. It was old and represented the past and . . . and death. Suddenly Richardson was beside her, pounding the cushions until the dust rose in little gray clouds.
"Oh!" she cried, stepping backward. She began coughing fitfully.
"I'm sorry," he said contritely, grabbing her by the waist and swinging her away from the swirling dust, "I was just seeing how dirty it was. Thought maybe you wanted to sit down."
Ramona was still choking. The tears in her eyes stung as she insisted, "I . . . I'm all right. Just got a faceful of dust. Whew! Honestly ..." she coughed some more . . . "I'll be fine in a minute."
"Sure?"
He pounded her back and she leaned limply into his embrace. The hardness of his chest felt firm and good. Finally, she was panting but no longer strangling on the cloud of dust that had assailed her. Sighing deeply, she pressed her forehead into the soft wool of Richardson's jacket, trying to regain her senses.
Suddenly aware of the warmth of his arms around her through the thickness of her winter coat, she pulled back. His hands went to her arms as he regarded her with concern.
Flushing darkly, she murmured, "Hadn't we better see the rest of the house?"
His eyes gave question to the utterance.
"I didn't mean to be so childish," she informed him. "Let's look at the rest of the house, okay?"
"Sure you feel up to it?"
She nodded. "Why not?"
There was a whining creak from the hall and the front door slammed. She jumped. And as the lawyer took her hands, she knew they were icy and trembling.
"Just the front door," he said with a grin. "Wind must've come up."
Lowering her eyes to the floor in embarrassment, she was keenly aware of his watching her. When he turned to lead her through the rest of the house, she was glad he hadn't debated her determined attitude again.
Slowly, she began to take some interest in the exquisitely designed Flemish and French wallpaper he showed her with the spearhead beam of his penlight. Bewigged gentlemen, full-skirted ladies, graceful bridges and elegant gardens graced the walls. Antique Dresden china lined the china cupboards and mahogany sideboard. At the long mahogany dining table was a large, delicately turned silver candelabra. The tall, narrow windows of the downstairs rooms reached nearly from floor to ceiling and were hung with rich, dark velvet draperies-burgundy in the living room, moss green in the dining room, and midnight blue in the study to the left of front door, across the hall from the parlor. Unlike the portrait of the stern-faced man she'd glimpsed above the living room mantle, the picture above the library fireplace was of a stormy sea and a clipper ship tossing on its frothy waves. Beneath was a tarnished bronze plaque with an inscription she could barely discern.
The young lawyer took a pair of glasses from his jacket pocket to read, "Let there be no mourning . . . when I cross the bar."
Kipling? The words were vaguely familiar. It was from a poem her grandmother had often asked be inscribed on her tombstone, "Crossing the Bar." Grandmother. The fiery little woman who'd dragged Ramona to funerals to listen to fanciful predictions of Heaven and Hell for the dead, the more interesting of which she kept notes on in a little red notebook. Red for blood, Blood Island.
"Please, let's see the rest," she demanded, hurrying him on, not even waiting to examine the handsome old secretary in the corner nor the crammed bookshelves that lined the walls and reached from floor to ceiling. Not even the deep-cushioned window seats of the front wall beckoned her.
Their footsteps were hushed by the heavy Persian and Oriental rugs. Only occasionally would they step on exposed wide-board flooring and hear the creak of the ancient wood. The kitchen stone fireplace with built-in ovens and a large black crane for holding kettles suggested that this had been a colonial home, added onto by its many owners due to frequent changes of ownership. It could have been such a large, sunny, cheerful room, Ramona mused, looking out the back windows. Overgrown bushes blocked the view of whatever lay beyond.
Upstairs were large, cobwebbed, dusty bedrooms filled with more Victorian furnishings, high poster beds with thick feather mattresses, commodes with chamber pots, and handsome highboys of an earlier day. Each bedroom had a trunk at the foot of the bed, a chair or two, and a narrow closet.
Ramona was surprised at herself for insisting on seeing everything. That included the attic with its many storage trunks, discarded furniture, even a broken old cradle which she rocked longingly.
"Don't do that!" a voice echoed in the back of her brain.
Abruptly she stopped. Over her shoulder she saw the tall blond man fingering some old clothes in the dim light of an attic window whose shutter he'd opened for more light. Her gaze returned to the little wooden cradle and she knelt beside it. She began once more to move it as she had rocked her favorite doll cradle as a child.
"Haven't I always told you?" a thin voice out of the past hissed through her mind.
Grandmother! "Rock a chair or cradle when it's empty and someone will die!"
"No!" Ramona whispered. "No!"
"What's that?" Richardson called.
The sound of his voice made her jump and stumble to her feet, overturning the cradle. Fragments of decayed blankets spilled out.
"Waaaaaahhh!" cried a tiny dark object, tumbling from the depths of the hooded cradle.
"Ohhhh!" the girl exclaimed as she fell back into the arms of the approaching lawyer.
"What is it? What happened?" he demanded as she hid her face in the warm security of his chest, her heart thumping against him through the open front of her coat as he held her close.
When she could stand alone he held her chilled hands in his and let her step away from him to explain that she'd tipped over the cradle.
"Clumsy of me, really," she added. "But something fell from it, wailing like a baby."
Flashing the beam of his little flashlight over the area, he saw nothing. He put an arm protectively around her shoulders and said, "Just a mouse, I'll bet. You disturbed his peace and frightened him away."
Laughing half-heartedly, she joined him to see what he regarded as a treasure find. Pulling out worn, moth-eaten pieces of cloth and eventually a whole suit, he told her, "Look, real Union uniforms from the Civil War. Wouldn't be surprised to find a Confederate outfit, as well."
He flourished the pancake hat of navy blue, its tattered bullet holes fanning the air into tiny currents. Her glance fell to the ripped, blood-stained collar of the uniform. Could he have been one of those guards? Had the man who wore that suit been murdered by the woman from-?
Wind whistled through the thin broken panes of the window behind them, rattling the shattered glass. Wailing like a banshee, it wound around the house, becoming increasingly forceful.
"Storm coming up?" Richardson looked out the window, but it faced the forest of trees on the same side of the house as the library. "I'll go up and check from the widow's walk. That should give me a commanding view of the area."
Ramona had found a handsome, dark satin skirt and was holding it up to her waist, thinking how much warmer these elegant skirts had been than the mini style currently popular. Her own wool traveling suit left little to be imagined of her cold, goose-fleshed legs.'
"You're not leaving me here in this attic alone, are you?" she demanded as he started to mount the winding metal stair that had replaced the original stairway.
"Just for a moment. You'll be all right." He turned and thumped up the echoing stairs.
"Not on your life!" she cried, chasing after him. "Please don't leave me here alone-not just yet!"
It was Ramona who emerged on the turret first, the wind catching at the skirt she still held clutched in her hands and whipping her hair out behind her in long billowing waves.
"What're you doing?" Richardson laughed. "Playing the role of the lady of Blood Island?"
"Hmmmmm?" she responded, looking at him and then at the skirt. "My God! Could this have been hers?"
"I doubt it," he told her, but she'd already flung it from her.
Caught on the wind, it soared like a black wraith until its heavy weight finally took it groundward.
Richardson moved along the walk beside her and she was glad when he put an arm around her and bent close to talk into her ear, though the wind seemed to die somewhat. They were looking down at the dock when he asked, "What do you see? Where's Hansen's boat?"
"I don't know," she answered, trying to see through the fog that had quickly covered the dock and shore. "He wouldn't have gone off and left us, would he?"
"I don't think so," Richardson said with a hint of doubt in his tone. "But you know we're not his responsibility, and the fishermen of the area are. He's supposed to be ready at any time, especially during a storm, to help boats in distress. This could be the beginning of a squall, and he might have had to answer an S.O.S." "Squall?"
"Small storm," he explained. "Remember Hansen telling about a sou'-easter coming up? The old-timers around here don't like these storms. Could be worse than a squall."
"But it's not hurricane season!"
"On the ocean there are other storms besides hurricanes that can be just as violent and as destructive. If the lobster pots are lost, the nets torn and damaged, some boats sunk, it all adds up to a big deficit for a community that depends on the sea for its livelihood."
Ramona nodded silently, pulling her coat tighter around her shivering frame. Mutely, she let him lead her downstairs, stopping to fasten all the doors and shutters tightly.
"We better go down to the beach to check on Hansen," he told her. "He wouldn't have gone off without leaving our things, anyway; my jacket and briefcase and your bags. Say, did you arrange this? I wondered why you insisted on bringing your suitcase."
He was chuckling, but she felt it necessary to say, "Now you know I didn't talk to him privately at all, though it is true I brought my things because I hoped to stay here tonight."
When he returned to the top of the cliff with their things a few minutes later, she shuddered inwardly.
"Looks like you have your wish," he smiled down at her as they returned to the house, "don't look so glum. It's a lovely old house. At least, it was in its day."
"Mister Richardson," she said as she waited for him to push open the door, "I'm truly sorry to have inconvenienced you so much. All this trouble! I feel terrible about it!"
"Call me Carl," he told her, grinning. "Might as well be on a first-name basis since we're stranded here together. Stop worrying about it. I haven't been so lucky since I dreamed I was stranded on a Polynesian Island with Nancy Kwan about ten years ago. And this is for real!"
He put their things down by the broad winding stairway covered with wine-colored carpeting.
"You're very kind to joke about it all," she persisted. "Too bad this isn't a dream. You could have had Nancy Kwan and I might have found a real live uncle."
"Wouldn't you rather be with a real live me?" he queried with a pout of mock disappointment. "At the moment you look more inviting than an ethereal brain image of Nancy Kwan. You're three dimensional. And besides, the only reason I had that lousy dream was because I was under sedation after an appendectomy."
"Oh, that's a shame," she whispered, wondering whether to feel sorry for him or let him continue his efforts to cheer her. "Really, Mr. Richar-"
"Carl!" he said firmly. "And can I drop the Miss Jahn? It really makes me feel ancient and stuffy. How about it, Ramona?"
"Friends usually call me Mona for short," she volunteered.
"Do I qualify?" he demanded.
"Not until you either light some candles or find the electricity, if there is any," she remonstrated. "Can't talk to you unless I can see you."
"Shall I leave?" he teased, withdrawing into the deepening shadows.
"No, no! Please don't!" she cried, reaching out to stop him. "You're . . . it's just that I'm so alone here without you. I need your masculine support."
"That's encouraging." He returned to her with a smile. "I'm delighted to be needed by a damsel in distress."
"Really!"
"Don't spoil my fun, little lady," he pleaded. "I always wanted to be a knight in shining armor, but I was born too late. So now I just get to play Don Quixote."
She socked him playfully on the arm and was surprised at her forwardness, but after a moment of embarrassment, she joined in his laughter. Suddenly she was more alarmed to find herself in his arms, their mouths pressed tightly together. His hands pushed her coat from her arms and shoulders and it fell silently to the carpeted floor. Intoxicated by the feeling of his firm muscles and his masculine physique, she pushed herself against him. His male scent was strong in her nostrils and his breath hot and rushing on her upturned face as his tongue pried at her lips.
Carl clutched her slender body to his, feeling the swell of her breasts on his ribs. His hands savored her feminine contours as he drew her against him. Cupping the soft cheeks of her buttocks he pressed her into his loins, and she could feel the growing hardness of his penis. Her tantalizing perfume taunted him and her mouth and body were yielding.
Their tongues met. His tongue filled her mouth, exploring its recesses and savoring its nectar. Her fingers stroked his neck and pulled his head tighter against hers.
No! Her conscience called out to her. You hardly know him! It's too much. Too soon! You'll be on the floor in two more minutes. Stop it!
Her slender hands reached between them to push at his chest as she pulled her mouth from his.
"No," she whispered. "Can't. We must stop."
"Why?" he asked as his tongue persisted and tasted the salts of her face and neck.
"Got to," she said weakly. "Please. We hardly know each other."
"But here we are," he returned hoarsely, his lips frantically tracing her face, "all alone on an island. What else are we to do?"
There was a whine behind them and they turned to see the door slam shut.
"All alone in a haunted house!" Ramona added, shuddering.
"Except for the lady," Carl teased, pulling Ramona close again. "She seems to have less trouble closing that door than I have opening it. Talk about the weaker sex!"
"Please!" Ramona cried, withdrawing from his embrace again.
Suddenly they heard the sound of footsteps in the upper hall, heavy and plodding. They froze. A door slammed. Two seconds later there was the sound of shattering glass.
"You stay here!" Carl told her, and began to climb the carpeted stairs.
"You're not leaving me alone!" she whispered back, and followed him.
They searched the rooms one by one. In the bedroom closest to the attic stairs they found a wall mirror in pieces on the floor. The bed covers had been torn apart, drawers had been opened and thrown on the floor-it looked like a hurricane had hit the room!
From above came the thumping of feet on the metal stairway to the widow's walk. Carl raced up the stairs with Ramona at his heels, but when they reached the turret, they saw no one. In the distance, through the swirling fog, rose a laughing voice, high and almost shrill.
"The curse! Death to those who come to Blood Island!" ii cackled.
The mist seemed to lay icy gnarled fingers about Ramona's bare throat. Beside her, Carl stood stock-still, his face starkly white, his blue eyes wide with amazement and perhaps fear. She groped for his hand and found it as cold as hers.
When he looked down at her, he tried to smile and ignore the ominous warning. He joked half-heartedly, "Seven years' bad luck for a broken mirror, huh?"
She nodded and answered, "For whoever broke it. Surely not for us."
"No," he agreed. "Surely not for us."
But maybe for me? she asked silently.