The Hall of Shadows Page 3

  And then Alex walked away. He stomped down the stairs and I was powerless to stop him. I couldn’t lie to him. I wouldn’t do that. He deserved better.

  And now I was alone.

  Chapter Five

  “You have to take a look at this, Megan. I picked it up at an estate sale last month and have been holding on to it for you. Check out the author.” Loretta’s perfectly arched brows rose, a sure sign that she was excited about whatever it was she’d discovered. Although our friendship had gotten off to a rocky start, I felt that we were now friends. Or at least fellow writers who shared a deep love for Morgan’s Rock. As a way of saying thank you for all the extra work she’d done on my behalf digging up old records about Yancey and Zea Storm, Joanna’s career and a dozen other things, I wrote a recommendation for her one and only book. It wasn’t hard to do; it was a good book. It focused on the legends of the place more than the facts, but then again, the looming question still hung out there.

  What happened to Joanna Storm?

  “You must be joking,” I said breathlessly as I examined the spine. “Is this for real?”

  “It’s authentic. I had my friend Will check it over for me. He’s got a background in antiques, specifically antique books. What you’re looking at is the real deal. That’s a book by Vivian Kemal.”

  I sat down at one of the tables. The library was eerily quiet today, and a light mist of rain tapped on the many windows of the building. “I had no idea this was out there. You say you found it at an estate sale?”

  “Yes, at a small, old home here in Rockville. The Briarton place. This was in a box with some other books, but they were mostly junk. Old copies of some classics. This, though…I found something, didn’t I?”

  I smiled at her. “You found something, Loretta.” I opened the book and was immediately transfixed by the even typesetting, the strange symbols and formulas. “What is this?”

  “Blood Magic: A Spiritualist’s Guide,” she said in a whisper even though we were alone here. “It’s an unusual find, and when I looked inside…” She held out her hand for the book, and I gave it to her, then she put the book on the table between us. “Look, here. There is no publisher. This had to be personally printed—vanity presses weren’t popular at the time—but I don’t see any evidence that this book was widely distributed. I even looked it up in all of my book catalogs. I didn’t find her name at all, and certainly not this book title.”

  “What do you think that means, Loretta?”

  “I think she was very protective of the contents. Miss Kemal wanted to record what she knew, but not for a quick buck. Spiritualism was waning in the 1930s, what with the Depression and all, but there was still quite a bit of interest here in Rockville.”

  I flipped through the delicate pages carefully as I listened to her share what she knew. “I see something else strange.”

  “What’s that?” Loretta pushed her reading glasses up and followed my finger as I browsed a passage.

  “All these references to blood. Granted, I have a shallow understanding of spiritualism, but I didn’t think it involved bloodletting. There’s quite a bit of it in here. Shed three drops of blood, place the liquid in the cup. In fact, look at the corner there. The upper right corner. Do you think that could be blood?”

  “Geesh, I never noticed that before.” Loretta’s bony shoulders shivered beneath her crocheted sweater. She looked like she felt as uncomfortable as I did. Again, I was amazed at how timeless she always appeared to be. She could be forty or sixty. I just couldn’t read her age, and I certainly wasn’t going to ask.

  I continued, “So I think we can say with some confidence that Vivian Kemal was a spiritualist and that she used blood in her work. That would make sense. Her arms were always slashed and cut, and what she did with her fingernails that time…it’s not just coincidence.”

  Loretta leaned back in the leather chair and removed her glasses. “What are you referring to, Megan? I don’t remember reading that anywhere.” Before I could lie to her—or tell her the crazy truth—a gangly teenager tapped the bell on her desk as if he couldn’t see her sitting right here. “Just a second,” she said as she left me to review her find.

  And this was an incredible find. “Who were you really, Vivian Kemal?” I whispered as I turned the page. It was another reference to blood, but that wasn’t all. The title of the chapter intrigued me no end.

  The Hall of Shadows

  But I felt something else too. A deep sense of foreboding. This was wrong, horribly wrong. Reading this book, even touching it. It was against the rules, my spirit warned me, but I had no idea why. I didn’t understand my own fear, and in the end my curiosity won out. I glanced up at Loretta, who was now dealing with not one but half a dozen teenagers. Book reports must be due soon. Why else would so many teens crash the library at one time?

  Whatever the reason, my librarian friend clearly wasn’t going to be free soon. I took the book and left. I wanted to soak up every page of Vivian Kemal’s work, not because I trusted her but because I had to know what she knew…maybe in doing so I would find a way back.

  Perhaps I was meant to have this book. That had to be it. I’d been meant to have it all along. I waved at Loretta once before leaving, just to let her know I was on my way out with her new find. She made eye contact with me and smiled politely.

  I left for Morgan’s Rock with every intention of devouring every page of this book.

  Chapter Six

  January 1923

  I did not have the courage to go out onto the balcony, but I knew that I would. I had to, just not yet. I swilled the remnants of my drink and put another record on the Victrola. This one was a waltz, a rather new piece by one of my favorite composers, Paul Whiteman. It was called Wonderful One. Danny and I danced this one together the last time we visited the dance hall, but that had been some months ago. I rarely saw Danny at all anymore. He behaved as if I had transgressed against him in some way, in a way that was beyond my understanding. I wasn’t going to go searching for him now—not on my birthday—although I was certain I’d heard his banger pull into the driveway earlier. He spent all his time these days with Vivian and sometimes with Mother but rarely with me.

  And why should that bother me so?

  “It doesn’t bother me at all,” I whispered to myself as I set the glass down on the side table. I strolled around the room, my feet moving in time as I swept around and danced with my pretend lover. One day I would love deeply. Completely. I was sure of it. But no one would ever take Father’s place in my heart. Never. When the song ended, I reached for another record. This one, I Could Waltz on Forever, wasn’t my favorite, but it seemed appropriate. I couldn’t shake the sentimentality of the moment. Father and I always danced on my birthday, but as he wasn’t here to spin me about, I danced by myself. Until the tears came.

  Why, Father? Why did you do it? How could you leave me alone? I had asked these questions before, but there would never be an answer that would satisfy me even if I received it from his own lips. A year later and the pain was still deep. I dabbed my face with my handkerchief and then stood before the closed balcony doors. I had to go out. I had to stand in the spot. Maybe he would be there waiting for me.

  The doors didn’t open easily, but I managed it. And of course there was no one out here, certainly not Father. I walked to the balcony edge, and my hair blew around in the tumultuous breeze. I put my hands on the cold stone ledge and waited. I wouldn’t look down. That I couldn’t do. I would never do that for fear I would see him again, his handsome face twisted in shock and facing the wrong way.

  His dark eyes had stared up at me as if I’d pushed him! I blinked against the memory and closed my eyes, forcing the image to leave. When I opened them, I glanced down at Rockville, the small town beneath us, and then out to the ocean. I could hardly believe it, but the fog was creeping in. Just like that horrible night. What had Dan called it? Oh yes, the dragon’s breath. A silly name from a silly boy.

  I
t was so cold out here, just as it had been that night, and here I was wearing the Vivaldi and Father’s coat again. I’d kept his coat and often wore it when I was alone just to feel close to him. I lingered on the cold balcony—yes indeed, it was exceptionally cold tonight. I rubbed the sleeves of the coat, hoping to rub up his fragrance, but there wasn’t anything left of Father’s unique scent. I thought I detected the faintest trace of vanilla from his mustache wax, but that could have been my own longing for him. I closed my eyes, refusing to let the familiar fear of that horrible fog control me. “Are you here, Father? It’s my birthday.” I waited, but there wasn’t any sign that Father was listening or that he could hear me. I stayed on the balcony until the music stopped, and I left no happier than I arrived. I closed the doors and slid the jacket off. I clutched it to my chest one last time and then decided to go see Mother. She’d been sick for days and unable to sit in her chair. The thought of losing her triggered a sense of panic within me, followed by a deep sadness that she had not acknowledged my birthday. She always made such a big deal over birthdays. Until Father…

  Things will never be the same. You know that, and you aren’t a child anymore.

  I didn’t take the elevator but walked down the stairs to Mother’s room. The door was shut, and I tapped it quietly. If she was napping, I wouldn’t want to wake her. I didn’t hear her stirring, so I reached for the doorknob. Just as I did, the door opened a crack and I was staring at Vivian.

  “What is it?” she asked in her deep husky voice.

  “I want to see Mother. Let me in, Vivian.” She disappeared for a few seconds but quickly reappeared only to shut the door behind her. She took me by the elbow and attempted to steer me down the hall, but I wrenched free of her grasp. “What are you doing?”

  “Zea is sleeping now, Joanna. Come back in a few hours, please,” she said with a sniff.

  “You can’t send me away—she’s my mother. I want to see her now. You can’t keep me out, Vivian,” I warned her.

  Vivian’s eyes welled with tears, but I made no move to comfort her. “She is very sick now. Her seizures have become worse; she has several a day. I think you should call someone, maybe her priest.”

  “She doesn’t have a priest, as you well know. What are you saying? Move aside! I want to see her!” I wanted to get away from her, push past her, but that’s when I saw the blood trickling from her nostril. “Vivian, you’re bleeding.” I reached for a towel from the tray outside Mother’s door and offered it to her. “What have you done to yourself?”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong, Joanna. Except try to help. That’s all I have ever tried to do.” The blood was bright red and staining the towel quickly.

  “Please sit down and tilt your head back.” I led her to the chair. Vivian did as I asked, but she was weak…I wondered when she’d last eaten anything. I didn’t ask and frankly was surprised that I cared. And of course, I stole a glance at her wrist. As always, she wore long sleeves and kept her arms covered, but I couldn’t forget what I’d experienced the night she came to attack me. The night I’d vomited in my bed.

  The day after, I hadn’t sought her out, and we had successfully avoided each other for quite some time. When we did encounter one another, nothing else was said. I tried to talk to Dan about all this, but he didn’t want to hear it. He accused me again of being unkind and waved away my concerns.

  I had to admit there were times when Vivian was nothing but smiles and sunshine. She’d come to me privately and insisted that I teach her how to dance the Charleston. Other times she would read with me so that I could go over my lines. I had scored a small part in a local play, Field of Roses. Those times when she was cheerful, she was infectiously so, and one couldn’t ask for a better friend. But then she would become melancholy, refusing to speak or eat. By the look of her, I could well believe that she had been fasting again recently. Why else would she appear so frail? That’s when I saw the strange blue tattoo on the palm of her hand.

  Suddenly she grabbed my hand, and it was a horribly uncomfortable feeling. Then she was in my face, so close that I could hear her ragged breath. “I can bring her back, Joanna. I will do this for you if you want me to, but you should know something. It will cost you. It will cost us both.”

  “What are you talking about, Vivian?”

  “You know. You already know.” Then she released me. I felt as if I’d been dunked in a pool of ice water.

  I walked backwards until I felt the door behind me. Vivian’s wide eyes were on me, watching my every move like she was a cat and I was the proverbial canary. I opened the door and went inside the room.

  How long had it been since Mother had invited me into her room? It felt like a strange place. There were books piled up on every surface. A strange collection of glass jars was on the narrow table at the end of the bed.

  “Vivian?”

  “No, Mother. It’s me, Joanna.”

  “Joanna?”

  Mother’s frail voice came from behind the lacy bed coverings. Why were these hanging here? There were no mosquitoes this time of year. But like all things concerning my mother, I always felt like I was intruding on her privacy, pushing myself into her space.

  “Joanna?”

  “I’m here, Mother.” I sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her hand under the lace. It was cold and stiff.

  “Joanna,” she said in a whisper.

  “Can’t you see me? I’m here, dear. Let me move back these curtains, if you don’t mind. Then you can see me.” She didn’t move or say anything else. The room felt very cold, even though there was a low fire burning in the fireplace. I would need to stoke that up soon.

  I reached for the edge of the lace and gathered it in my hand but not before getting a glimpse of her face. Her eyes rolled back, and her body tensed as she moaned. Mother was having a seizure; drool was pouring from the side of her mouth that was leaned toward me. I could see her trying to grab my hand, but I could not move. I could not move a muscle.

  I let the curtain fall and ran from the room.

  Chapter Seven

  Present Day

  My hand rested on the phone, and I pondered whether to pick it up. This would be the first time I’d actually spoken to Alex since his hasty departure a week ago. I’d received a few emails from his assistant but nothing from him directly. And I knew he wasn’t happy with me. I wasn’t happy with me either, but avoiding contact with him was so much easier than seeing the hurt in his eyes, hearing the anger in his voice. Despite my trepidation, I answered politely.

  “This is Joanna,” I said calmly.

  “Good morning, Joanna. How goes the writing?” Alex sounded as if we’d never fought. Never made love in the morning, never sipped wine or watched movies together. I quietly breathed a sigh of relief and ignored the tiny sliver of my being that hurt.

  “Pretty well. Loretta has been helping me with the research. No big answers yet, but it’s still going to be an interesting read.”

  “We knew from the beginning that there may never be any answers about what happened to her, but I’m confident that you’ll write a wonderful book. Which brings me to the reason for my call…”

  Alex and I chatted for well over fifteen minutes—all business, of course. Despite my essentially breaking up with him, he had managed to get me a guest spot on a talk show on television, and a half-dozen radio stations wanted to interview me. Apparently, people were very excited about Joanna Storm. I hadn’t thought about it before, but it would be the twenties again soon, just in another century. All kinds of nostalgia was popping up, including books about the 1920s.

  “I’m telling you, this is nothing short of perfect timing. Be honest with me, though, will you make the deadline? I don’t want to put undue pressure on you, but it really has to be in no later than…”

  “I know. You sound like Kathy. Yes, it will be in on time and sooner if I can get off the phone,” I joked as I had done in the past when we were still “just friends” and could get a
way with that kind of banter.

  “Alright, alright. I can take a hint. You know what would be perfect for the book debut? What about a party at Morgan’s Rock? We could invite the press, some celebrities. I think I might even get Doug Phantom from Paravision to come.”

  “The producer?”

  “The one and only.” I could hear the smile in his voice. Alex wanted to do this, and who was I to object? I loved a good party, but I wasn’t a planner. Not in the least.

  “You can’t expect me to plan a party and write a book, Alex.”

  “I don’t. I’ve got just the lady that can handle this. And I have a good lead on a housekeeper, if you’re still interested, Megan.”

  Memories of Aimee filled my mind. What a strange experience that was. To this day, I still had no idea who she’d been.

  “Um, if you think she’s legit,” I answered quietly. I didn’t want to open this line of conversation with Alex. No reason to remind him that this place was haunted, or it had been. No reason for him to come back. I liked being alone.

  “I do. She’s one hundred percent legit and as reliable as…well, me.”

  I wanted to laugh, just like I would have done in the old days, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. “If you think she’s reliable, that’s all I need to know. Have her call me before she shows up, though. I don’t like surprises. Is she going to help with this party planning too?”

  “No. I’ll have Becca do that. She’s on maternity leave now, but she’ll be back in a few weeks. I’m thinking an April party? That should line up with the book’s release date.”

  “Make it May. Just to be on the safe side,” I pleaded sweetly.

  “May it is. I’ll have Becca email you any questions she might have, and I’ll ask Lori if she can call you later today. If you’re going to be around.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be here. Thanks, Alex. I appreciate your help.”

  “Hey, what are agents for?”

  “I’m sure not all agents do what you do, but I’m grateful.”