A Cry at Midnight (2 page)

Randi smiled, knowing her mother had an even worse grasp of history than she did. She hadn't liked school, hadn't wanted to do anything but graduate and marry Curtis Galloway. Three babies had quickly followed, and her parents were happy with their lives.

Randi wanted more. She had goals she'd put off long enough.

"Food's gettin' cold, Honey."

"I know. Let me just show you one more thing," Randi said, turning the pages back to a section earlier in the book. "See here, Mom? The reproduction of the house that they've just built is based on these sketches that a former slave donated, years after the flood. I wish the pictures in the book were bigger so I could see the detail. They look so wonderful, though, Mom."

Her mother leaned over and peered at the book. "Those are awful small, but look like they've got lots of detail."

"Imagine making drawings of a place from memory," Randi said, running her fingertips across the glossy paper as if she could absorb the talent into her own body. If a former slave, probably without a formal education, could do that, surely she could too. After all, she had
some
training. Just not enough to get the job she wanted.

"You will, Honey. You've got talent."

"I hope so, Mom. I really hope so."

Her mother gave her another pat on the shoulder before heading back into the kitchen. "The Good Lord wouldn't have given you the will without givin' you the talent to go along with it."

Randi closed the book, then placed it across the table so she wouldn't splatter food or spill tea on it. With a sigh, thinking about drawings of a long-destroyed house and a long-dead family, she reached for her supper.

#

Later that night, after cleaning the restrooms and dusting the museum, she pulled the big, vacuum out of the janitor's closet. Darn, but the thing was heavy! She unwound the cord, plugged it into the hall wall outlet, and tackled the long, threadbare runner that led to the dollhouse.

She'd decided to call it a dollhouse. Somehow, that made the replica more friendly. After her overactive imagination last night, coupled with the haunting story of the family who had once lived right on this land, she needed all the normalcy she could get.

The loud whine of the engine drowned out her thoughts as she pushed and pulled her way toward the beam of light at the end of the hall. When she finished, she gratefully switched off the vacuum, resting her arm on the handle while she stared at the dollhouse.

"I didn't hear anything last night," she said aloud, trying to convince herself but not sounding too confident, either.

As though on cue, she heard the faint cries of a baby.

"Oh, no," Randi moaned. She put her hands over her ears, but couldn't block out the sound.

Unable to ignore the wailing, she opened the hinged front and looked inside. Quickly she took in the general layout, her gaze resting on the nursery upstairs.

The crying stopped.

"This is too weird," she mumbled.

The little pink plastic baby still lay inside her crib. The quilt was folded on the bed, the vase of flowers rested on top of the chest. Nothing had changed. Nothing was weird . . . except that darned crying. Was someone playing a trick on her? A sick trick to make her remember her loss? She didn't know anyone who could be that cruel.

Certainly not the only person who hadn't grieved over the loss, Cleve Sherwood. He hadn't wanted any responsibility, she reminded herself. She'd been such a fool, such a stupid, gullible, fool.

With a shake of her head, she reached for the panel to close the dollhouse until something caught her eye. She didn't know what for a moment. She scanned the rooms, the intricate detail and beautiful furniture. What was different? Then she realized . . . the riding boots and crop she'd noticed in the hall yesterday were gone. Her breath quick and hot against the plastic, she stared inside the depths of the house. Nothing. No boots, no crop.

With shaking hands and trembling legs, she looked all around the platform for extra wires, for signs of tampering, for anything that would explain why she was hearing a baby's cries and why things inside a sealed replica were moving. But she couldn't find any clues. No extra wires, no tape recorders, no broken seals on the clear plastic.

Damn.

Something strange had happened in that dollhouse. Tomorrow, she was going to find out what was going on.

#

"Ms. Williams, may I have a word with you?"

"Of course. Come in, Randi."

Randi entered the small, tastefully decorated curator's office.

"What can I do for you?"

"I noticed something kind of . . . odd last night, and I wanted to ask you about it."

The middle-aged, friendly woman cocked her head and folded her hands on her desk. "What kind of odd thing did you notice?"

"Well, you know the new replica?"
Of course she did, you ninny,
Randi scolded herself. This wasn't going well. She was too nervous. "Anyway, when I was cleaning, I looked inside two nights ago, right after ya'll set it up."

"It's a wonderful reproduction. The artisan crafted it for years."

"Yes, it's a wonder. All that detail . . . But you see, I noticed a pair of black riding boots in the second floor hallway that first night. Oh, and there was a riding crop on the table."

The curator frowned. "I don't recall those on the inventory."

This was getting weirder by the minute. "That's just the thing, Ms. Williams. I looked again last night, and the riding boots were gone. Did someone rearrange things?"
Or is someone trying to drive me crazy with the sound of a baby crying
? she wanted to ask.

"No one has touched the model since it was set up. Are you sure of what you saw, Randi? You could have been tired."

She started to shake her head, tell the woman she knew what she'd seen, what she'd heard. But she wasn't ready to reveal the sounds. Seeing the riding boots one night and not the next was enough for now. "I'm pretty sure," she answered.

"Well, I'll check on the model later, before I go home." Ms. Williams glanced at her watch. "Which is just about now," she added, rising from her desk chair. "You came in early, didn't you?"

Randi shook her head. "I just stopped by on my way home from my day job to talk to you."

"You've been working awfully hard," the curator said, walking around the corner of her desk and smiling.

Randi knew the lady was being nice, but her words and actions seemed a bit patronizing. She knew she worked hard, but how else was she going to pay off her bills and save enough for this fall?

"Sure, Ms. Williams. Well, I'll be going. My mom is expecting me for dinner." She turned and stepped toward the door. "No one else has reported anything . . . odd about the replica, have they?"

"Odd?"

"Oh, like maybe noises or something. I just thought I heard a sound the other night."

"No, no one has said anything. The model was sealed by the man who created it. There shouldn't be any wind passing through, or anything like that." Ms. Williams looked at her, a hopeful expression warring with the concern etched on her face. She no doubt wanted Randi to say that she was just kidding.

She couldn't tell that big a lie. "I'm sure the sound came from somewhere else," she finally said, hoping that was enough.

"You're probably right." Ms. Williams released a sigh of relief.

Even though the curator seemed appeased, Randi knew she'd nearly stepped over the line. Now the woman thought she was a little weird, hearing things from inside a sealed-up model. The best thing to do was leave before she said anything else to worry her employer.

"You're doing a great job, Randi. I hope you're not working too hard." Ms. Williams followed her across the carpeted floor.

"No, of course not."
If you don't count that huge, heavy vacuum cleaner
, she felt like adding. She'd save that for another day, though. No sense making the curator think she was delusional and whining at the same time. Randi paused and smiled weakly.

"Thanks for mentioning the . . . situation. I'll go right now to check on the model."

"Thank you, Ms. Williams. Good night." Randi turned and stepped onto the wide plank flooring of the hall.

"Good night, Randi," the curator called from her doorway.

Randi frowned as she strolled slowly down the familiar hall toward the front door. A few tourists wandered toward the gift shop. The sound of paper bags rustling and people talking came from that direction. Familiar noise, along with the same smells of old furniture, books, and linens. Nothing strange.

She should take a clue from Ms. Williams and chalk this up to a mild case of exhaustion. The only problem was, Randi didn't feel too tired. As a matter of fact, she couldn't wait to finish reading the book she'd borrowed two nights ago. Surely there was a mention of the baby's mother somewhere in the darn thing. How could they have a "family" without a mother for the little girl who drowned in the flood?

#

She varied her routine that night, hoping she wouldn't hear the sounds that haunted her. First, she vacuumed, then dusted the display rooms, cleaned the restrooms, and headed for the gift shop.

She straightened the trinkets, post card racks, and cleaned the glass counters. Then, with a regretful sigh, she placed the borrowed book back on the bottom of the stack. She'd enjoyed reading about Black Willow Grove, even if the book hadn't mentioned the baby's mother. It was almost as if she'd never existed, or if she'd simply vanished into thin air, erasing herself from everyone's memory.

Randi finished emptying the trashcan from Ms. Williams office, then returned to the janitor's closet for her fanny pack. Tonight, she wasn't going to be haunted by the sound of the baby's cries.

Nonsense. There were no cries. She'd imagined them. Plastic toy babies didn't cry.

Still, before she fished her keys out to lock up, she felt compelled to check. The end of the hallway beckoned, the light calling to her as surely as the sound of a baby's tears. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and clenched her fist around the zipper. She should leave right now. Walk out the door. Lock up. Drive home. Forget the dollhouse and the lonely baby in the third floor nursery.

As she stood in the hall near the front door, the clock chimed midnight. The heavy tones reverberated through the museum, sending shivers down her spine.

Lonely
? Here was some concrete evidence she really was exhausted and delusional. There was no reason to place such a human emotion on a dab of plastic with human features. No reason at all.

Still, she couldn't leave. Not without checking.

Her tennis shoes felt like lead boots as she walked down the hall toward the "model," as Ms. Williams called the replica of Black Willow Grove. To Randi, it was simply the dollhouse. And inside, the little pink doll.

She brushed her bangs back from her forehead and advanced, already knowing what she'd hear. Already sensing the faint cries as she neared the dollhouse. She didn't realize her eyes were full of tears until a drop ran down her cheek.

"What's going on?" she asked, resting her head against the wooden shingles of the roof. "Is someone playing a sick joke? Why is this happening to me?" She didn't know anyone who would want to make her think she was going crazy, or torment her with her loss. No one hated her that much. Which left other explanations . . .

Only she wasn't exhausted. She wasn't hallucinating.

She was angry.

With a moan, she dashed the tears on her cheeks, then flipped open the catch and looked inside the dollhouse. Her heart pounded so hard she couldn't tell if she still heard the baby's cries. All she knew was that she had to find out what was going on.

As usual, the interior looked . . . normal. No other figures inside the house, no boots in the hallway, a pink doll in the bassinet. The baby wasn't real, but she still heard the cries. This time, they seemed to come from inside her soul.

She couldn't stand this any longer. With an angry shriek, she pried the plastic away from the wooden frame, not caring that she might damage the valuable replica, not caring about anything but getting inside to discover why she kept hearing the baby cry. Why was
she
the only person who heard the sound?

The covering began to give. She managed to get two fingers between the plastic and the wood, then pulled harder. The dollhouse rocked despite its size and weight as the plastic pulled away from one side. Randi realized the miniature bassinet was tipping over. She couldn't let that happen! She had to catch that little plastic baby before it hit the floor of the nursery . . . just as though it were a real baby.

She reached inside the dollhouse, her hands cupped to catch the tiny infant before the bassinet pitched to its side. The first sensation she had was of warmth, as though the air inside the dollhouse was warmer than the rest of the museum. Along with the warmth came a burst of light. Then her fingers connected, and she felt lacy fabric against her outstretched fingertips.

The whole incident happened so fast she didn't know if she'd really kept the doll from falling for just a moment. Her mind spun blindly for a second. She closed her eyes, shook her head, and suddenly became aware of her surroundings once more.