Winds of terror (2 page)

"Exactly," Melanie said. "And I appreciate your choice of words in expressing your understanding, Mark, I always thought so much of you."

For the first time, he smiled. 'Thank you, cousin. But for your sake, I hope Aunt Addie doesn't live much longer, so you won't be imprisoned here like the rest of us."

"Imprisoned?" she asked, startled. "Do you have to stay, Mark?"

'To be blunt about it, yes," he said with a wave of his hand. "All of this, or the major portion of it, will be mine when she's gone. I've held the farms together ever since Dad passed away some years ago. I guess I have more right to it than anyone else. Oh, she left you a token inheritance, and she left a trust fund for Cale so that he will be looked after. But I will inherit the greater portion— and justifiably so."

Melanie nodded, but Mark soimded very cold and calcu-latmg about it all. Well, that was his business, not hers. Anything her aunt left her would be appreciated, but she did not feel entitled to anything. She was only a foster niece.

Then she thought of Cale, her exciting, dashing cousin, and her aunt's only grandchild. "How is Cale?" she asked.

Just then a distant bell began clanging, and Mark gave her a wry smile. "Sony, cousin, but your dear aunt is now awake and demands your presence. Take a deep breath and follow me to her web; the black widow spider herself awaits your entrance."

A cold chill passed through Melanie as she rose to follow Mark. She was grateful to her aunt, but she knew how imkind Aimt Addie could be. She had a feeling that her debt to her mother was going to be repaid with a good deal of interest

Chapter 2

There was a small landing where the stairs curved upwards for the second time, and it was here that Melanie paused to look out the cathedral window at the slope behind the house. In the distance, she could make out the workers in the cotton fields. Scattered about in the woods, like large balls of crispy white popcorn, the dogwood trees proudly displayed.their first blossoms.

It was a beautiful scene, and it was with a sigh that Melanie turned to follow Mark up the remaining steps. It was dark, but she could see that the double doors directly in front of them, which led to the sun room, were closed. It had been here, in the room with the large glass windows overlooking the veranda, that the children had played when they were small.

Melanie glanced to the right. There were four bedrooms down that way—two empty, two occupied. The first on one side had belonged to her Uncle Seth and his wife, Mark and Todd's parents; the second had been Todd's. Directly across from Todd's old room were the quarters Mark occupied now, and next to that was Cale's bedroom.

Mark turned to the left, and, as they walked down the hall, Melanie stifled the impulse to ask Mark if the first door they passed, on her right, was still locked and sealed. She could not stop from shivering. She had been only a child, but she could clearly remember accompanying her mother on the long, urgent, nighttime bus trip that had ended at Uncle Hartley's bedside.

They had arrived by midmorning. Her mother and Aunt Addie stayed in the room all day, while the children were made to play downstairs and be very quiet. People came

and went, and there was a hushed atmosphere of gloom and apprehension hanging over the house.

Towards evening, Dr. Ambrose took off his coat as though he were preparing to stay for awhile. He went upstairs, carrying his worn black leather bag, and Hilda shooed the children from the downstairs haUway into the living room, where a big fire was roaring. Even the children were quiet and subdued.

At last, she was put into one of the bedrooms. It must have been about eleven o'clock, Melanie remembered, when her mother had come to that room to tell her that her uncle had died. Melanie heard weeping and wailing throughout the house, and she buried her face in her pillow, sobbing brokenly.

Her mother had sat beside her, patting her gently, but after awhile, she had returned to Addie. Melanie had lain silently for a few moments; then she had gotten up, put on her robe and slippers, and padded from the bedroom out into the darkened hall. She had stood in the shadows as old Luke Walker arrived with his long, handwoven basket, and she had watched him come out of the room, a few moments later, carrying a sheet-draped mound in the same basket.

She had been standing there, in the gloomy hall, when Aunt Addie came out of the room and announced: "I want this room locked and sealed for the remainder of the life of this house." Her aunt's voice rang out clear and unwavering. "No one shall enter this room again."

Melanie had strained as her mother and her Aunt Claire gently tried to persuade Addie to let them clean the room first. The bed was still unmade, and Uncle Hartley's scarcely touched meal grew cold on the bedside table.

"No," she had heard Addie say, firmly. "No one shall enter here again."

Now, close to fifteen years later, Melanie stood outside the door and wondered if the room were, indeed, just as it had been the night her uncle had died.

Mark sensed her thoughts as she stood rigidly outside the closed door. "It has never been opened, Melanie," he said, quietly. "It's the way Aunt Addie wanted it. She has never even been in there herself."

The bell clanged again, even more impatiently. Mark touched her arm. "We had better go to her now."

They walked on down the hall to a door on the left

Mark knocked, and a waspish voice called out, ''Yes, yes, come in! I've been waiting. Didn't you hear my bell? I could die before anyone came to me when I called.''

Mark opened the door and stood back as Melanie entered. Her aunt, looking old and gray, lay propped up on stacks of pillows in the center of a hand-carved mahogany canopied bed. Melanie took a seat after obediently kissing her aunt on the cheek.

"So you came,** the old woman said with satisfaction. •'Good! At least Ruth taught you to be appreciative, which is more than I can say for my other relatives." She turned, casting a meaningful glance at Mark. "You have been told about what has happened here?"

"Yes, I have." Melanie looked about the room once more. The furniture, though valuable, was old and ugly. The organdy curtains at the long windows hung limp and dusty. The remnants of a fire smoldered in the brick fireplace. The carpet beneath her feet was worn and dirty. Once things had been so lovely here, she remembered, and again she realized that time changes almost everything.

Aunt Addie waved Mark out of the room. "Bring me my lunch. I want hot broth and tea." He left quickly, as though anxious to be gone from the old woman's presence.

'Todd went and killed himself," Addie sighed. Her eyes closed momentarily as though she were reliving the horrible time. "I had to be the one to find him. I read the note he left, blaming me. But it wasn't my fault, child. The boy was evil, no good. He put his father in his grave, and his mother was probably glad to go to hers. He only stayed around here for my money. I let him know he wouldn't get any of it, and so he killed himself . . . like the weak, spineless person he really was."

"I'm not sorry," she continued in a voice so snappish that Melanie sat straight up in her chair. 'T'm not sorry a bit. A boy like that is better off dead than alive making people miserable. He was responsible for the death of a young girl, but I suppose Mark told you all about that.. . ."*

Melanie nodded. "He told me. I'm sorry it all happened, I—"

Addie cut her off abruptly. "Well, I'm not, and I won't listen to anyone say they're sorry, either. I just hate that I let the shock get to me like it did. Dr. Ambrose says my heart won't stand another blow like that. I have to be careful. That's why I asked for you to come. I can't get

anyone around here to help out, and you can see how Mark has let this place go. He's just waiting for me to die so he can bum the house to the ground and use my money to build something new and fancy." She snorted as though such a thing could not possibly happen.

"But rU fool everybody. I'll live to be a hundred, and once I'm on my feet again, I'll enjoy my money myself so there won't be so much left behind to be squandered foolishly."

Melanie fought the impulse to smile. "That's your privilege, Aunt Addie. It's your money."

"Dam right," the old woman said with a nod. "Glad somebody agrees with me on something. All anybody ever wanted me for was my money—except for your mother. I think Ruth did care for me."

"Yes, she did," Melanie said in a quiet, reverent voice.

Addie nodded once more. "That's why I helped her. She needed my help. She wasn't trying to use me. She genuinely needed me."

There was silence as Mark came into the room with a tray. Addie stuck her finger into the soup bowl and shoved the tray back at Mark so abruptly that some of the broth spilled over.

'That's cold. What's the matter with you, boy? Are you trying to finish the job your no-good brother started? You going to kill me by starving me to death instead of worrying me to death?"

Melanie watched as Mark's face clouded. She knew he was exerting every effort not to blow up at the old lady. He tumed quickly and left the room, mumbling that he would reheat the broth.

"See what I mean?" Addie said as the door slammed shut. "I haven't had a decent bite to eat since I came home from the hospital."

Melanie told her she would have Mark drive her into town that afternoon to do some marketing, so that she could start preparing hot, nourishing meals for everyone.

Addie smiled, and Melanie thought how much the old lady looked hke a gremlin. Once, with her tumed-up nose and saucy eyes, she probably had been pbdelike, but time had reduced her to a shriveled-up old being, angry and full of vengeance.

"If I hadn't been put in the hospital, that boy would

never have been buried in the family mausoleum," Addie said.

Melanie stared at her, remembering Uncle Bartley lying in the long pine box in the parior before being taken to his final resting place in the family crypt.

"I mean it!" Her voice was angry. "You think I want the likes of him buried alongside my husband, my ancestors? Land sakes, no! I'd have paid for a lot in the cemetery in town, but by the time I was aware enough to remember all that had happened, it was too late. Mark had that crazy old Luke Walker come out and get him, and the two of them buried him. There wasn't even a funeral. Who would come? Everybody hated Todd! And he has no business being in the family mausoleum!"

Melanie sensed that her aunt was becoming too excited. "It doesn't matter. Auntie," she said, trying to soothe her. "Todd is dead, after all. You shouldn't even think about it. You need to rest and get well. I'm here to help you do that, if you will just let me."

Addie looked at her, miffed for a moment that she was being contradicted. Then her face mellowed and she smiled at the young girl before her, the girl with eyes that r^ fleeted heartache and a loss too great to express.

"My dear, I was so sorry to hear of your loss. I know you loved your Robert very much. I wish I could do or say something to make you feel better, but..."

Melanie looked down. Talking about Robert only made things worse. What she had felt for him was too precious to try to share, and even her grief was too strong for another to try to understand or participate in.

"Please, I know I have your sympathy, but as I tried to say before, the past is the past. We have to dwell on the present and the future. I find I just don't want to talk about Robert."

Addie Beecher wasn't used to being cut short "How long were you two married?" she said quickly, as though she had not heard the girl's plea.

Melanie's answer of "a year" was whispered so low that Addie asked her to repeat it.

"A year," she said again. The words came out in a rush as tears erupted and ran down her cheeks. "We had four months together before he was shipped to Korea. And then I got the telegram saying he had been killed. I took his body to Arlington, which is what he had asked me to

do if anything ever happened to him. That's why I couldn't come when I first got the telegram about Todd*s death . . • I'm tired, Aunt Addie. I'd like to rest." She was crying unashamedly now, her shoulders convulsed in sobs.

"Everything will work out for you, my dear," Addie said, trying to console her. "You can rest here and plan a new hfe."

The door opened, and Mark walked in carrying a tray with the now-steaming broth. He looked from Melanie, tears streaming down her face, to Addie, whose eyes glared at him, daring him to speak.

"Aunt Addie, what have you been saying to Melanie? You know she has her own grief to bear." He set down the tray and went to put his arm aroimd Melanie.

"I'm all right, really." She brushed the tears away with the back of her hands. "We were just talking, and I lost control. I have to start forgetting sometime. Tm sorry." She nodded politely to her aimt and hurried from the room.

Mark caught up with her before she reached the room that would be hers. He took her by her shoulders, spun her around, and gave her a gentle shaie.

Melanie gulped as she apologized for letting herself go. "rm just tired from the trip, Mark. I'd Uke to take a nap. Then I would like for you to drive me into town so that I can do some marketing and prepare a nice dinner tonight"

"I will take you into town," he said, his eyes gazing deeply into hers, "but please let me take you to the bus station. I want you to get out of here, Melanie. This is no place for a girl Uke you. You already have your grief. You don't need more, and that is what you will find if you stay here."

Melanie blinked at him, wiping away more tears. "I don't understand, Mark. Aunt Addie is old and sick, and she needs me. She's a bitter, lonely old woman, but she means no harm."

"She does mean harm." His voice was angry. "And she can do harm. Look what she did to my brother! She put him in his grave! She's evil. This house is evil. And I want you to get on a bus out of here tonight and forget all about Beecher House and all the bitterness and hatred and wickedness within its walls."

Mark had seemed so quiet and subdued to her at first, but now he seethed with smoldering fury. She was con-