Dreams of Fire (Maple Hill Chronicles Book 1) (22 page)

Anne had gotten to Marianne before he could. Somehow she blocked his ability to communicate, and it infuriated him. Even after she was gone, he found he could not enter Marianne’s dream state for a time. The girl had stayed away since he’d locked her in the basement and not presented him with an opportunity to remind her this was his house. But Marianne’s energy was remarkably similar to Anne’s. They were becoming more and more alike. He could use that.

Marianne woke with Oscar’s whiskers tickling her cheek as he breathed fishily in her face. His considerable weight pressed the pillow down, and her head rolled toward him. Sleepily, Marianne pushed him off the pillow and stroked him until he settled at her side, staring meaningfully at her. She fancied she could feel his gaze through her closed eyelids.

“Fine, I’ll feed you,” she mumbled after several futile minutes trying to drift off again while Oscar moved restlessly next to her.

He leapt off the bed with a soft thud and preceded her to the kitchen with a meow. Clearly, he felt it was a tough job moving his human out of bed and called to her down the hall as she stumbled after him. Not until she’d put the open can of food on the floor, did he relent.

She managed to drift off again for another hour before waking, feeling more alert than she had earlier. She mused about the fire dream as she showered and decided to write down as much as she could remember. She knew who one of her ghosts was, but she still had to identify the other. It was the weekend, so maybe she could contact Markus Bordman or Adam Sullivan.

After nine she got her notes out and dialed the number for Markus Bordman. It rang several times before a man’s voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Markus Bordman? Hi, my name is Marianne Singleton, and I’m doing some research on Hudson Valley history.”

“Yes? How can I help you?” He said cautiously.

“Well, I’m doing some research on some of the older homes in Maple Hill, particularly 25 Violet Lane. I got your name from a list of owners and your phone number off the Internet. I’m not sure if you are the Mr. Bordman who once owned 25 Violet Lane or not. Are you?”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line before he said very quietly, “Yes. I am. Look, what is this about? It’s been years and years since I lived in Maple Hill.”
 

He sounded on the verge of hanging up and Marianne hastened to reply, “I know. I’m sorry to bother you, but I wondered if you would talk to me about the house. I live here now and, honestly, it’s a little weird. I just wondered if you’d had any strange experiences while living here. I would be glad to take you out for coffee, if you wanted to talk in person,” she offered.

He hesitated before agreeing to meet her at an eatery on Route 9 in an hour. They exchanged brief descriptions of themselves so they could find each other. She thanked him and hung up.
 

Forty-five minutes later she was buying a pastry and a cup of green tea at a busy counter. She stationed herself at a small table with a good view of the door. She waited almost thirty minutes, watching the ebb and flow of people. She’d nearly given up, thinking he had chosen not to come, when a likely candidate entered. An older gentleman with the requisite porkpie hat, he stood scanning the room for a moment before he looked her way. She raised her hand tentatively, and he came over.
 

She rose to meet him and shook his hand firmly, saying, “Mr. Bordman? I’m Marianne Singleton. Thank you for coming. Can I buy you a coffee?”

They sat at the small table a little awkwardly, and Marianne appraised him as he put two sugars in his coffee. He was in his mid sixties with thinning gray-brown hair and a neat mustache and beard. His expression was closed and uncomfortable.
 

Marianne smiled, trying to put him at ease, and said, “Thank you again for agreeing to meet me.”

“I almost changed my mind,” he said candidly, sipping the hot beverage. “It was not a great time in my life and not something I want to think about much. But you said you were living there now so…” he gestured with an open hand, “I thought I should come.”

“Well, let me tell you why I called.” She told him about the sense of being watched, the unaccounted bursts of emotion, the paint, the piano playing, the cold spots, and her fire dreams. “I just wondered if you had ever felt any of those things or had other weird things happen while you lived there,” she finished.

Markus Bordman grew more and more thoughtful as she spoke. He was silent for a few moments before he answered. “I did feel more anxious or sad when I was at home. At the time I attributed a lot of that to my own issues.” He glanced at her and said a little defiantly, “I was wrestling with being gay and wondering if I could ever come out of the closet. I was really miserable.” He paused and added softly, “I even thought about taking my own life a time or two. I always thought it was all me, but you’re saying it might not have been?”
 

She nodded sympathetically and gestured for him to continue.

“Sometimes I thought I could hear a woman crying in the basement. That was not a happy place. I didn’t go down there much. I wondered if I was going crazy.”

“It wasn’t you,” Marianne said, trying to reassure him. “There
is
a woman who cries in the basement sometimes. I’ve heard her. The house is haunted, Mr. Bordman, and I’m trying to figure out when that started and who it might be.”

“Please, call me Markus. You think it’s haunted?” He considered this notion as she watched him reimagine his past. “That would explain some things. Who do you think it is?”
 

“I think it’s Anne Rutherford. She and her husband were the first owners of the house and sold it to you. She was a gifted pianist and taught piano lessons in that house for decades. When she was little, she survived a house fire, but her little brother died. She died in 1963, and I’m pretty sure she’s the one who haunted the house when you were there.”

Amazement lit his face. “That would fit. How did you find all this out?”

She explained her research, concluding, “The thing is I think there is more than one ghost. Did you ever feel more than one person?”

He considered and said, shaking his head slowly, “No. I don’t think so, but then I’m not totally sure. Why do you think…?”

She raised her eyebrows and said, “You’d be sure, believe me. I think the second person is a man who is angry and controlling. What was Mr. Rutherford like?”

He thought about it and said, “He was much older than me. I was in my early twenties but had just landed a very promising job, and he was selling his place. It was a little out of my league, but my parents were willing to help me out a bit, and the bank gave me a loan. Mr. Rutherford was very reserved, a little condescending. I think he’d lost his wife not long before, so I attributed his demeanor to our age differences and his loss.” He shrugged. “We didn’t have much contact. Do you have some reason to believe he is the second ghost?”

Marianne shook her head and frowned. “I’m not sure. He is one possibility, but I only have a few hints at his character.” She smiled. “You were a possibility until I learned you’re still alive.”

He looked a little startled but nodded slightly in unspoken assent.

“I don’t have a lot of other candidates.” She was beginning to feel discouraged. She showed him the list of tenants up to the year 2000 when the registry had ceased. “Do any of these names ring a bell?” Marianne asked.

Markus looked over the list and pointed at the first name. “That’s the only one. I work for a local insurance company. There was an Adam Sullivan who purchased insurance from us in the seventies. I remember him particularly because he lived at 25 Violet Lane after I did.”

“What do you remember about him, if anything? I know you can’t divulge finances for privacy reasons,” she said hastily. “I’m not asking about that. I just wondered if you met him or could tell me anything about him?”

“Well, we sold him accident insurance. If I remember correctly, he was an electrician and perhaps worried about job related injuries. He only came in a few times.”

“What was he like?”

Markus grimaced. “He wasn’t a very nice person. Bad vibe, you know? He seemed very tightly wound, kind of angry all the time. He had enough money to pay the premiums on a good policy but kept trying to badger me into lowering the rate. That wasn’t something I could do, and he wasn’t pleased about that.” He sat quietly remembering the man. “He didn’t seem to like women all that much. Any time one of the secretaries came through, he scowled a lot. There was one female agent in our office, and I remember thinking I was glad he wasn’t her client.”

Marianne nodded as she made some notes. “Well, there is an Adam Sullivan listed locally. I’m thinking about interviewing him to see what he remembers about living in the Violet Lane house,” she said reluctantly, not at all happy about Markus’ opinion of the man.

“Don’t worry about it too much. That won’t be him,” he said with certainty. “We cancelled his policy only a few years after he’d taken it out. He died. I heard later it was a job related accident.”

Marianne sat back, stunned at the revelation and it’s implications.

Markus continued, “I guess he was right to be worried about accidents. People sometimes think buying insurance is like having a shield against the unexpected. It really doesn’t work that way,” he finished a little sadly.

Marianne said slowly, “Wow. If Adam Sullivan was as unpleasant as you say, he’d be a great candidate for the angry ghost in my house. When exactly was that?”

Markus looked at her, recognition dawning. “I see what you mean.” He thought hard and said finally, “I think it was in the mid seventies. Well, at least you have an identity. I don’t know what you would do about it.” He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry I can’t be more specific. It’s been a really long time.”

Marianne tapped her pen against her cheek. “That’s okay. I’m not sure either, but I have a few resources, and I’m hoping to convince both spirits to move on. To heaven, or the afterlife, or wherever one goes after death.”

Markus raised his cup to her in a salute and drained the last of his coffee. “More power to you. I wish you success.”

Marianne sipped the last of her now cold tea and gathered her things together. “Thank you so much for your time, Markus. Can I give you my phone number? If you think of anything else, please call me.” She jotted it down on a piece of paper and tore it out of her notebook.

He stood up and shook her hand again, saying with a genuine smile, “Thank you for calling me. I’m glad I came. It clears some things up about that part of my life.”

She returned his handshake warmly and said, “I’m glad you came too. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

Chapter 19

The house was quiet and sunny when she turned in to her driveway. Oscar looked up from a nap on the couch and put his head back down as she came in the front door. Marianne put her research stuff away and decided to change gears and finish painting the hallway. She made it the same off-white color as the office and did the trim in brighter white. Putting her brain in neutral she let ideas, images and words from her conversation with Markus pop into her head as they occurred to her. Some she mulled over, others she let drift away.

As she rolled paint across the walls, a vague sense of anxiety and a dull hum accumulated in her ears, making her jittery and uneasy. Attributing her feelings to her unseen roommates, she ignored them and broke for a late lunch.

As she put the paint can out on the side door step, Michael approached her, cruising his bike around the cul-de-sac one-handed, the other arm draped over a basketball.

“Hi, Miss Singleton!” he called out.

“Hey, Michael! How are you?” She smiled in relief. She felt better out here, and it was good to see Michael’s lively presence.
 

“Good. Do you need any more help with your yard? I have some time tomorrow.”

Marianne looked at the yard in the early evening light. It looked better than it had when she’d arrived by virtue of having the lawn mowed. She’d done some work too, but so much more needed to be done.

“I have some things I need to do tomorrow,” she replied. “How about you come later this week and do some weeding for me?”

He made a face. Clearly he preferred mowing to weeding.
 
A thought occurred to her. “Hey, Michael, do you have a little time now? I need to move some furniture around and could use a hand.”

He turned the bike, and riding his momentum up the gravel drive with a crunch, he said, “Sure.” Dumping the bike and ball, he followed her inside. With his help she was able to get the office in some semblance of order and things rearranged in her bedroom. After that, all she needed to do was unload boxes and put things away. Their activity dispelled her sense of unease.

“It looks really nice in here. You did a lot of work since I first saw it,” he said, complimenting her. “Hey, I really like what you were playing earlier.”

Marianne paused in her box breakdown. “Oh?” she said lightly. “What was that?”

“I don’t know. It was all flowing like water or clouds or something.”
 

Feeling a little guilty for accepting responsibility for Anne’s talent, she looked at him speculatively and said, “Can you keep a secret?”

He looked intrigued and said enthusiastically, “Sure!”

“I mean it. It’s a dead secret for now. Well,” she amended, “if you have to tell your parents, you can, I guess.”

Sobering, he said more seriously, “Sure. What is it?”

“I’m not the piano player. I mean, I learned as a kid but haven’t played in many years. My playing is terrible.” She paused and then said significantly, “The person you hear playing the piano is a ghost. I live in a haunted house.”

Looking startled, he said incredulously, “You’re serious?”
 

She nodded.
 

His face lit up, and he said excitedly, “Can I see it?”

“
Her
. The ghost is a woman, and I don’t know. I’ve never really ‘seen’ her and the one time I heard her play was in the middle of the night, and I thought it was a dream.”