Page 52 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
“True,” I agreed. “And our house.”
“For now,” Jack said under his breath as he began to walk back down the stairs.
Before following him I paused for a moment, looking back at Eliza’s portrait. Her gaze seemed to meet mine, and I had the sense that she was somehow disappointed in me. As if she were speaking loud and clear in a language I should understand, and I was still missing the point.
Quietly, I asked, “What lies, Eliza?”
I startled at Jack’s hand on my arm. “We’ll find out. Hopefully, itwill lead us to whatever hidden treasure Marc Longo is after. And if not, to a bestselling book that gets made into a movie. I hear that happens sometimes.”
“Yeah. I’ve heard that, too,” I said, allowing him to lead me down the steps, feeling Eliza’s eyes following us down the stairs.
As we headed out the door, Jack and I filled Anthony in on the details of what we’d learned so far from Yvonne, and then Jayne told him about my encounter with Eliza. She spoke calmly and concisely, which was why I allowed her to tell him about it, and because I wanted to make sure that Anthony knew Jayne had all her faculties. Not because I thought they should be dating, but because Rebecca was his sister-in-law, and I wanted to be sure he knew we weren’t all crazy.
The late-afternoon sun slanted shadows across the drive, warping the shape of the house’s shadow on the shell-and-dirt drive. What little warmth the sun offered disappeared as we walked toward the cemetery gates, the temperature dropping by degrees as we got closer.
The gates were closed but unlocked, and we stopped in front of them by unspoken agreement. Jayne and I shared a glance with each other, my concern mirrored in her eyes. I didn’t smell anything or see anything unusual. But the chill in the air had nothing to do with the season. It worried me. Someone—something—was here, waiting and watching. And the absence of everything but the chill meant the unknown entity was storing its energy.
Jayne turned toward Anthony. “When do you normally sense you shouldn’t go any farther?”
“Right here. As soon as I reach out to open the gate, I feel pressure on my chest. Like someone has a hand on me, holding me back.”
“Is it just pressure, or a punch?” Jack asked.
“Just pressure—at first. But if I keep going farther, the force of whatever’s holding me back becomes stronger, almost like someone’s trying to protect me. But if I keep pressing forward, the pressure on my chest...” He stopped, taking a deep breath. “It becomes almost suffocating. Like I’m being squeezed between rocks. And the few times I was able to make it inside the mausoleum, it became full-blown punches and scratches.”
We all looked toward the mausoleum as if expecting someone to step outside and challenge us.
“And Marc was able to go inside without a problem and dig around?” Jack asked.
Anthony nodded. “I was, too—up until recently.”
“Around the time of the heavy rains,” I said. “When the cistern collapsed in our backyard.”
Jack looked at me. “I’m sure that’s not a coincidence.”
“Probably not,” Jayne said. “Since the cistern’s bricks came from here.”
“And because there’s no such thing as coincidence,” I said sharply. I wasn’t sure if it was the growing unease that made me snap at her or just her general air of confidence in almost every area of her life. I hadn’t been that way when I was her age. I had doubts that I was that way now.
Her eyes met mine with understanding, which was even more irritating. I loved my sister; I did. I remembered being a little girl and telling whoever asked that what I wanted for all birthdays and Christmases was a sister. I was thrilled she was in my life. I just wasn’t as thrilled to find her moving into it like Goldilocks into Baby Bear’s bed.
Feeling ashamed at my own thoughts, I gave her a big smile. “According to Jack, I mean.”
She smiled back, making me feel even worse. “And you’re both right. Thanks for reminding me.”
I caught Jack watching me with a questioning look and quickly turned toward Anthony. “I’m going to suggest that you wait here with Jack while Jayne and I try to get inside the mausoleum. Do you have the key?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t been able to get close enough to relock it since the last time I was there. The gate is shut, but it shouldn’t be locked.”
I noticed for the first time the oak tree looming over the fence on the opposite side of the cemetery. Its ropelike roots pushed up the iron spindles of the fencing, slithering under the ground like invisible snakes, forcing headstones to lean haphazardly and give the impression of crooked teeth.
“That’s probably the tree,” Jack said quietly.
I nodded, liking the way our thoughts often worked in tandem. I examined the circumference of the tree, the heavy elbows of the branches bent to hold drapes of Spanish moss, and I estimated the tree’s age to be close to three hundred years old. “It’s definitely old enough,” I agreed.
“Old enough for what?” Anthony asked, his voice too loud.
“To be the tree from which Eliza hanged herself,” Jayne said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried through the empty cemetery like a last breath.
