The Sound of a Scream (22 page)

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Authors: John Manning

BOOK: The Sound of a Scream
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Daphne nodded.
“I have been so lonely in this house,” Ashlee said. “I know it’s wrong, but when ... my friend ... kisses me, I feel like a woman again.”
“What’s his name?”
There was the slightest hesitation on Ashlee’s part. “John,” she said.
“And he lives in the village?”
“Yes,” Ashlee told her, “he does.”
“How did you meet him?”
“He knew who I was. He came over and introduced himself. ‘Hello, Mrs. Witherspoon, my name is ... John.’ ” Ashlee smiled. “And so we became friends.”
Daphne just sighed.
“Please, you must understand... .” Ashlee pleaded.
“I know how hard it must be, with your husband always thinking about someone else. It’s what his first wife went through, as well. Peggy. She killed herself because of it. Gregory told me.”
“I know,” Ashlee said. “I didn’t tell you because ... well, I thought you might start asking questions why, and that just got too close to my own situation. I pretended I resented Peggy, because she’s the one Abigail and Louella always talked about so fondly. But in reality, it was this Maria who I really resented.”
“Ashlee,” Daphne asked, “was it possible that ... Pete and Maria had a child?”
Ashlee looked at her intensely. “Why do you ask that?”
“I found some letters downstairs, written to Mr. Witherspoon from someone who signed themselves ‘M.’ The person writing the letters seemed to be giving him updates about a child. And in the box there was a photograph of a baby.”
Ashlee was quiet. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you further.”
They were quiet for a few seconds. The candle flickered.
“Has he left?” Daphne asked.
“Has who left?”
“John.” She paused. “Your friend.”
“Oh, yes,” Ashlee said. “He just came to bring the food. I told him we were fine, that we had a fully stocked pantry. But bless his heart, he just wanted to make sure.”
Daphne looked out the window. “I didn’t hear his snowmobile, or see any light,” she said.
“Of course not,” Ashlee replied. “He didn’t want Pete, or anyone else, to know he was here. He’ll walk the snowmobile down the hill a bit before starting it.”
Daphne nodded.
“Anyway,” Ashlee said, “you really don’t think any less of me?”
Daphne looked at her. “It’s not my place to judge anyone else.”
“Thank you, Daphne,” Ashlee said, and embraced her.
“Maybe,” Daphne told her, “your friend should have taken us all out of here, one by one, on his snowmobile.”
Ashlee let her go, looking into her eyes. “What do you mean?”
Daphne told her she suspected Boris was the clown, and filled her in on what had happened in the basement. A look of terror crossed Ashlee’s face.
“If that’s the case,” she breathed, “we’re all trapped with a killer in the house.”
Daphne took a deep breath. “I need to find Mr. Witherspoon. I want to find out about any secret passageways through the house. I’m convinced that whoever was dressed as that clown got out of the storage room by some means as yet unknown. It’s the only way to explain it.”
“The only way to explain it if it’s a living person,” Ashlee reminded her. “If it’s a ghost, then I don’t think we need secret passageways to explain anything.”
Her observation was punctuated by a derisive laugh.
“I should have known coming on the two of you I’d stumble in on a conversation about ghosts.”
They looked up. Suzanne had opened the door of the library and now stood looking at them, holding a candle in her free hand.
“Hello, Suzanne,” Ashlee said.
“I just wanted to let you know, Little Miss Governess, that your charge is sitting back in the parlor crying his eyes out for you.” Suzanne frowned. “It wasn’t very wise of you to fill his head with stories of murderous clowns.”
“I didn’t fill his head with it, Suzanne,” Daphne told her. “He experienced it himself.”
“Oh, please,” Suzanne spit. “I’m disgusted by the both of you. Look at you. Grown women in here talking about ghosts.”
“For your information, Suzanne,” Ashlee said, and Daphne could hear the anger surging in her friend’s voice, “what Daphne and I talk about is our own goddamn business. You had no right to come barging in on our private conversation.”
Suzanne laughed at her. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Miss High and Mighty White Trash, we are in the midst of a blizzard. The power is out. There are things that need to be done. We don’t have time to be hiding behind doors telling ghost stories.”
“Who’s calling who white trash? What are you, sugarplum, Korean trash? Because let me tell you, I know very well that the main reason you’re shedding tears over poor, dear Donovan is because you’re never going to be his rich bride now.”
“Ashlee, don’t,” Daphne said. She didn’t like Suzanne either, but that was no reason to claim her grief over her fiancé wasn’t authentic.
Suzanne seemed to take no offense, however. She just got up close in Ashlee’s face and started in on her. “Well, looky here, bitch. Takes one gold digger to know one, I guess. Like you married old Pete out of love and affection!”
“Suzanne!” Daphne scolded. “Stop that!
“Oh, don’t get me started on you, baby.” Suzanne turned her venom on Daphne. “If not for you, Donovan would still be alive. Don’t start talking to me about ghosts and whatever crazy killers you’ve got running around through the secret passageways of your mind. I know you got Donovan killed, and someday I hope to prove it!”
“Me? How did I get Donovan killed?”
“You decided he was a goner that night in the stable,” Suzanne barked at her. “I heard it in your voice, saw it in your eyes! And you got someone to do the dirty deed for you!”
“And who did I get, Suzanne?”
“Your sweet little boyfriend, Gregory Winston!”
“You think Gregory killed Donovan?”
Suzanne put her chin in the air and looked down her nose at her. “I most certainly do. I saw the way he came rolling in here, all Mr. Good and Noble. I know what men like that do. They kill anything they think has offended their sweet little lady’s honor.”
“You are crazy,” Daphne told her.
Suzanne turned to Ashlee. “And you were in on it, too, bitch. The two of you just happen to wander into the tower and come across Donovan’s body! You probably had just let Winston out of the door before you did so.”
Ashlee was smiling. Her anger was gone. She seemed genuinely amused by Suzanne’s paranoid imagination.
“Well, it wasn’t right after we let Gregory out that we went into the tower,” Ashlee told her. “We let him get away on his motorcycle first, didn’t we, Daphne?”
“Oh, Ashlee, don’t joke about such things,” Daphne said.
“I’ll prove it!” Suzanne ranted. “You just wait! I’ll prove you were both involved in Donovan’s death! I’ll make you both pay!”
“Eat me, Suzanne,” Ashlee said, turning away.
Suzanne huffed back out into the dark corridor. Daphne watched her. Almost as if in slow motion, she saw Suzanne turn away from them, and in that very same moment, her candle was snuffed out by a gust of air. In the instant before all light was gone, Daphne saw a shadow descend upon Suzanne, a shadow that possessed both substance and speed. Then a scream punctured the darkness.
Daphne snatched the candle from the table and rushed forward. She held the candle out into the hallway.
Suzanne lay at their feet, her body twitching in its death throes.
Her throat had been sliced clear through.
And in the distance Daphne could hear the tune she had come to dread:
All around the mulberry bush ...
EIGHTEEN
The whole family was gathered in the parlor, white-faced with terror.
“It would seem,” Pete announced, his voice trembling, “there is a killer in the house. How he got in here is unknown, but after what happened to Suzanne we can no longer deny that we are facing a very serious threat.”
In his quivering hands, he held his hunting rifle.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Abigail shrilled. “Out of the house!”
“And how would you suggest we do that, Abigail?” Pete asked. “There is a monster storm raging outside. We can barely get out the front door, let alone down that long, narrow, twisting, treacherous road into the village.”
Daphne glanced out the window. The snow had already reached the center of the glass panes. Ben had forged outside, and reported the drifts were nearly as tall as he was. All he could see of the stable was its roof. The view of the sea was obliterated in a swirling whiteout of snow.
“We could get out with snowmobiles,” Daphne said, looking over at Ashlee.
“I wish we had one,” Ben said.
Daphne kept her gaze on Ashlee. “Maybe someone who has one could come up for us. Or several people. Take us all out of here.”
“That’s a brilliant suggestion, Daphne,” Ashlee told her. “Only problem is, how do we contact said persons with snowmobiles?”
“None of the cell phones will work?” Gabe asked anxiously, clenching and unclenching his fists in his wheelchair.
“Nope,” Ben told his brother. “I took my phone up to the tower room to try to call the sheriff, but I couldn’t get a signal.”
“And with the power out,” Ashlee said, “our modems are down. We can’t connect to the Internet to even send an e-mail.”
“Why does everyone want to leave?” Louella asked, sitting off to the side in a wingback chair. Pete had insisted she be brought down to join them in the parlor. There was safety in numbers, he said. But Louella was just as dazed and confused as ever, the result of the medications she’d been taking since Donovan’s death. “Why should we want to leave Witherswood?”
“Hush, Louella,” Abigail snapped at her.
“It’s for the best, Aunt Louella,” Ben told her. “And it will just be temporary.”
“Will Donovan be leaving, too?”
No one replied.
Daphne noticed that neither Boris nor Axel were in the room, and she inquired about the servants’ whereabouts.
“They’ve gone to get more candles and search for some kerosene lamps,” Pete told her. “As you can see, our supply is running out, and we have a long night ahead of us.”
“Are there any more guns in the house?” Ben asked.
“This is it,” Pete said, gripping his rifle tightly.
Ben made a face of concern. “Uncle Pete, I appreciate your desire to protect us, but with the way your hands shake, maybe I ought to take the rifle.”
Pete scowled. “You? You don’t know how to shoot. Only Donovan took the lessons I requested. You said you didn’t like guns.”
“Uncle Pete,” Gabriel interjected. “
I
know how to shoot.
I
took the lessons. Why do you always refuse to acknowledge that
I
did what you wanted? Not only on the rifle lessons, but so much else. Why do you only remember Donovan, and never me?”
The old man looked over at him, then looked away. “You’re right, Gabe. You know how to handle a gun.”
“Then give it to me,” Gabe said.
“You?” Pete made a face. “I can’t give it to you!”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re in that ... chair!”
Gabe frowned. “This chair has no bearing on my trigger finger.”
“But still ...”
“Goddamn it, Uncle Pete! This whole family has never seen me as worth anything! Even before I was in this chair! But I am just as good as Donovan or Ben or anyone else!”
The room was silent.
“Give me the rifle, Uncle Pete,” Gabe said. “I will keep it trained on the parlor doors. If anyone comes in, I’ll shoot him through the heart. I’m a good shot. You’ll see.”
Abigail wasn’t happy with the idea. “I’m not comfortable being protected by a cripple. What if the killer moves around and you can’t follow him?”
“Then I’ll throw the rifle to you, dear Aunt Abigail.”
“Really, the disrespect!” the old woman sniffed.
“Give him the rifle, Uncle Pete,” Ben said. “I’ll be at his side. If needs be, I can get it from him and use it myself, or toss it to you.”
The old man hesitated.
“No,” he finally said. “The rifle stays in my hands.”
Daphne saw Gabe’s eyes fill with tears, but he bit them back. His lips curled in a furious scowl.
From outside the parlor doors came a short series of four raps, the signal that it was Boris or Axel and not the killer—though Daphne was still convinced the butler was the one they had to fear. Ben let Boris into the room. The butler carried a large kerosene lamp.
“You found one!” Ashlee exclaimed.
“Yes,” Boris said in his high voice. “There are so many treasures down in that basement.”
“Is there enough kerosene?” Pete asked.
“Enough for a few hours, I think,” Boris said.
Once the lamp was burning, they snuffed out all the candles to conserve for future use. This blackout could go on for days, after all.
Daphne was sitting on the sofa, Christopher at her side. He rested his head against her shoulder. “You smell like my mother,” the boy whispered, dreamily, as he fought off sleep. Daphne put her arm around him and pulled him in for a hug.
She knew Gregory must be worried about her, but even someone as resourceful as Gregory couldn’t overpower a storm like this. There was no way he could reach her. It was too bad that he didn’t own a snowmobile like Ashlee’s paramour.
She hadn’t had much time to reflect on the discovery that her friend was cheating on her husband. Maybe it was just a kiss from time to time, but Daphne doubted it. Besides, even if it was just a kiss, it was still cheating. It was wrong. No question about it. Yet Daphne really didn’t blame Ashlee. Pete’s undying love for Maria had led poor Peggy to take her own life. Daphne supposed having an affair was a healthier way to deal with the heartbreak and rejection.
As they sat there in the parlor, not speaking much, listening to the wild whooping of the blizzard outside, Daphne speculated that this Maria must have been quite the woman to have held Pete’s heart for so long. How tragic that the actions of Pete’s nefarious father had prevented the couple from ever being together.
But ... might they have been together, at least once?
Daphne tried to make sense of the box marked M that she had found in the storage room. Had Pete and Maria had a child? A daughter? Did Maria write to him, anonymously so no one would ever find out, giving him updates on the little girl?
And if so, where was that child now?
The blanket, of course, had given Daphne pause. It was exactly like the one she had been wrapped in when she had been left at the door of Our Lady. In her romantic imagination, Daphne imagined that she was the little girl Maria was writing about, that she was Pete’s daughter. It would make sense on some level, would explain why he had sent for her to come live at Witherswood. But there was a catch to the theory.
Maria, as reported in her letters, had kept her child. She watched her grow. Daphne had been raised by nuns.
But the blanket seemed to confirm that somewhere in this house, somewhere among all its many, many secrets, was the story of Daphne’s own origins.
Whether she’d survive this night to discover the truth, however, remained to be seen.
Suddenly, without warning, one of the windows that overlooked the cliffs came flying open, and a ferocious gust of wind and snow and freezing air blew into the room. Louella screamed and Christopher yelped in Daphne’s arms, and in the melee, the kerosene lamp fell over on its side. They were plunged into darkness amid a cyclone of swirling snow.
“Everyone stay calm!” Ben yelled, though Daphne couldn’t see him through the blinding wall of snow. She could barely hear him either, over the terrible shrieking of the wind. In that single instant, the blizzard had rushed in to fill the entire room. Christopher clung to her tightly.
“It’s okay, Christopher,” Daphne shouted over the wind. “It will be okay.”
All around them was a sense of confusion as several people—Ben, Ashlee, maybe Pete, maybe Abigail—struggled against the elements toward the window. Daphne remained on the couch holding Christopher. The snow swirled furiously around them. It was almost as if they were outside.
“Push!” she heard Ben command, and finally she heard the window bang shut.
Silence suddenly replaced the shrieking of the wind.
“Dear God,” Daphne uttered, looking around.
Snow was everywhere. On the tables, chairs, bookcases, crusted around the frames of family portraits. The fireplace had been nearly extinguished. Daphne and Christopher were covered in a layer of white stuff, as was Louella, opposite them in her chair. Gabe, however, seemed to have escaped getting a snow bath, though he sat huffing and puffing, completely out of breath, in his wheelchair.
“Look at this room!” Ashlee exclaimed, after she’d gotten the kerosene lamp lit again. “This is all going to melt and we’ll be sitting in a cold mess. We’re going to have to move to a different room.”
Pete was still standing at the window. “How did that damn thing fly open?” he groused, snow and ice on his wrinkled old face making him look like a cartoon character. “I latched those windows myself. They should have been secure!”
“I don’t know how it happened, Uncle Pete,” Ben said, “but it did, and Ashlee’s right. We need to move down to the study.”
They were all shaking snow off themselves when Daphne noticed Boris wasn’t in the room. When had he left? Before or after the window blew open? And where was he now?
“Are we all going to die?” Christopher asked her suddenly.
“No, we are not,” Daphne told him forcefully. “I promise you that.”
They were startled by four knocks on the door. Abigail went to open it.
As she did so, she screamed.
The dead body of Axel came tumbling in, his throat slit.
Pete immediately rushed through the doors, brandishing his rifle, but he saw no one.
Ben stooped to inspect the body. Axel lay on the ground, faceup, eyes open, blood pouring from his throat, staining the snow on the carpet a bright pink. “It’s a fresh wound,” Ben said. “This just happened.”
“It’s Boris,” Daphne said, standing. “Don’t you all see? Where is he? It must be Boris!”
No one said anything. The butler’s absence did seem to implicate him.
“Axel told me that Boris talked about the first Mr. Witherspoon all the time, even sometimes spoke in his voice,” Daphne said. “Don’t you see? He’s trying to re-create his killing spree.”
“Dear God,” Pete groaned.
Louella had stood from her chair, and was now walking around Axel’s body on the floor. The fat little woman had shaken off none of the snow that had accumulated on her, and she looked like a snow creature come to life.
“Father’s ghost,” she said dreamily. “Father’s ghost.”
“Not a ghost,” Daphne told her. “The killer is all too real.”
“Father’s ghost,” Louella insisted. “He said he would come back. I went to see him in the jail cell, and he told me what he was going to do.”
“He told you he planned on killing himself?” Pete demanded to know.
Louella smiled. “Yes, he did. I was his favorite, you know.”
“And you didn’t notify the authorities?” Pete was horrified. “They could have stopped him! Forced him to stand trial for everything he did—for all the pain and suffering he caused—for all the shame he left us with!”
Louella seemed not to hear him. “He told me he was going to die that night,” she said, looking down at Axel’s body. “And he also told me that he would come back to us.” She looked up and smiled at the group. “He said he’d come back to us when we least expected him.”
“Enough of this, Louella,” Abigail snapped, gripping her sister by the arm. “Well, are we moving to the study or not?”
“Yes,” Pete said, “go along. I’ll follow with the rifle.”
“As if he can actually shoot that damn thing,” Gabe snarled under his breath so only Daphne could hear him.
She walked alongside his wheelchair, holding hands with Christopher, as they scooted around Axel’s body out into the corridor.
“Poor man,” Daphne said, looking down at his dead eyes.
“He was with our family a long time,” Gabe said. “But I used to see him cheering on Donovan in our relay races. They all preferred Donovan over me. Even the servants.”
Daphne thought it was odd that Gabe should cling on to such bitterness even at a time like this.

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