Round Robin Chapter 5

Find previous chapters here:
One
Two
Three
Four

Chapter Five


The words on the page were blurring. I don’t know how long I’d been staring at this same passage from the Cliffside Chronicle. The newsprint was faded, and the paper yellowed with age behind the protective laminate cover. The article which had so captured my attention was dated August 1868.

Far from the sensationalized stories that abounded during that time regarding Woodbury Manor and its mysterious occupants, it told a plain tale of love and loss, fascinating in its simplicity.

Gerard Holt, son of the man who built the fabled residence, the article claimed, had fallen in love with a woman from the Suquamish tribe. Their clandestine affair was discovered by her brothers, and she was never seen again. The loss of his love made the once affable man crazed, and he shut himself away from the world behind the iron bars of the gate—a recluse in a prison of his own making.

On the surface, it appeared to be just another bit of conjecture to the mystery. Yet the words resonated in me. I couldn’t help wondering if the writer of the piece knew the story first-hand, but that would remain a puzzle as well. No one knew who that was.

I had seen photos of Gerard Holt as a young man. His fair hair and laughing eyes belied the grim backdrop of the grounds at Woodbury Manor. According to the town historical society, the photos of Gerard and his sister Rose were commissioned by Holt’s father, William, in the early 1850’s. But where had they gone?

Though I’d found death certificates for both William and his wife, Cecile, I could find no mention of Gerard or Rose in any public record, save for one. A transfer of the deed of Woodbury Manor from Gerard to a Marcus Holt in 1885.

And it was Marcus Holt who held it still.

Obviously it was a mistake. Whoever Marcus Holt was, he certainly wasn’t the man I’d encountered. Not unless centenarians came that hot and brawny, which I highly doubted. More likely he was a descendent of the man, or a cousin who knows how many times removed. The man did share a striking resemblance to Gerard Holt, so it was a good possibility. Plus, the taxes on the property were paid in perpetuity through a brokerage firm, so it made sense that the house was passed from one generation to the next.

Some family genes!

My mind was wandering into dangerous territory again. Before it drifted away completely, I checked my watch.

9:57.

Shite! I hurriedly gathered my notes and copies, and rehearsed a quick but profuse apology for Angela in my head. She was probably steaming worse than the espresso machine by now.

I lumped all the research materials under my arm and grimaced as I dropped them on the cart. So much for showing the bitchy librarian up. “Next time,” I sighed to myself, and hobbled to the stairs.


***


The blaring of my alarm the next morning at 3:00 felt like an ice pick to my skull. Maya, Angela, and I had only called it a night two hours ago, and it wasn’t until then I’d powered up my laptop and checked my schedule for the following day.

I’d been assigned a story by my editor. Human interest slant about a local clam digger and the effect marine toxin-caused beach closures had on his small business, The Clam Shack. I was to meet him at Broken Ridge Commons, lands that were once a part of the Woodbury estate, but were now entrusted to The Clam Shack’s proprietor, Randall Licton.

Just the thought of being so near Woodbury, on the shore of the inlet below the cliffs on which it stood, made me wish I’d backed out. I did have a valid excuse, after all. I wasn’t supposed to get my cast wet. And besides, it still hurt like hell to stand, let alone walk down the rickety steps to the sandy beach. And once down there, to climb back up. It was the only way into and out of the cove besides by boat, and that wasn’t recommended either, unless you wanted a hull that resembled Swiss cheese.

Still, opportunities like this, to break into “real” reporting, were few and far between in a town as small as Cliffside. And my rent wasn’t going to pay itself. Necessity was a mother, alright. Besides, Jim Waters, a photographer with the Chronicle, had also been assigned to the piece.

Resigned, I got ready as quickly as my battered body would allow, and headed to the arranged meeting place.

The tide, which dictated the time of our arrival, was almost fully out at 4 o’clock, but the sky was pitch black. The Maglite I’d brought with me did little to cut even the smallest swatch through the dark. As I peered over the railing, shining the light futilely in the direction of the beach below, the howling wind whipped my hair around my head and made the stairs leading down creak and groan.

I glanced nervously toward the imposing spike-topped stone wall surrounding the adjacent grounds of Woodbury, but saw only the violent sway of tree limbs. I waited ten minutes in the bone-chilling wind, letting doubt creep over me like a slinking vine. Just as I had convinced myself to jump back in my car and race to the nearest sign of civilization, a firm hand grasped my arm hard, and pulled me back from the railing.

I screamed, the sound carried away on the brutal wind. I struggled in the steady grasp, and turned to face the man who held me.

The wizened face and twinkling eyes of a man in his dotage surprised me. I suppose I had thought it would be the ax-wielding maniac, come to finish the job. But this man, eighty by my estimation, not only displayed the same remarkable strength, there was something oddly similar about him. The curve of the jaw, maybe, though this man’s jowls had been softened with age. Perhaps the prominence of his brow, or the same hawklike nose.

His eyes, though, sparkling in the flickering lantern light, were much different. Large and bright, and lighter in color. They appeared to dance with mirth.

“Easy there, girl,” he said with a slight smirk. “You were too close to the edge. Tends to give way, you know.”

“Who are you?” I asked, pushing his hand away. I hated to appear rude, but if this guy was some sort of relation to the caged beast next door, I couldn’t be assured he wasn’t in cahoots. And, for an eighty-year-old, the guy was inordinately strong. I wasn’t taking any chances.

“Randall Licton.” He held out his calloused right hand. “I apologize for scaring you. If you’re not used to all this,” he nodded his head, which I took to mean the rising storm, “it can make you a bit jumpy. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that.”

I’m sure my face turned two shades redder, and I hoped he couldn’t tell in the dim light. My first chance at a real article and I was blowing it already.

Determined to salvage my meager credentials, I stuck out my own hand and gripped his firmly. “Mr. Licton, I am sorry. I guess my imagination is running away with me.”

“No worries. But call me Randall,” he said.

“Randall.” I smiled. “It is so nice to meet you.”

Randall offered to wrap my cast for me, and he did so in quick, efficient movements. Then, after traversing the stairs to the beach below, he pointed me in the direction of the entrance of a great cave.

“You’ll find another lantern in there, and an extra bucket. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind getting that for me while I set up down here.”

“Sure,” I replied, eager to make myself as useful as possible after my earlier foible. I shuffled off, flashlight in hand, toward the yawning hole in the rock. Once inside, I began my search for the requested items.

It wasn’t until I was wrapped up in an iron grip, mouth covered by an unrelenting hand, that I realized it had been a trick. Randall stood at the mouth of the cave, lantern raised before him, eyes meeting mine in what I thought might be apology.

“Is she the one, Marcus?”

Marcus?

My nose tingled with the faint scent of Zest, and my body burned as the man I’d fought to escape once before held me tight against him.

After a brief pause, Marcus replied, “Yes, she’s the one. Thank you, brother.”

Round Robin Chapter Four

Round Robin Chapter Four
by Regan Blair

"Watch out for the roots!”

I sat straight up in bed, instantly awake. The memory had come to me in my dreams, as words that register only in the periphery of one's mind often do. His words were a warning. I shivered, the feel of him a cloud floating around me in the air. That rich voice and apple-spice breath. The light, intimate scent of Zest, and shaving cream. Visions of soaped, steaming skin came to mind and I closed my eyes, hoping to shut out my guilty imaginings. The blend of scents lingered, as if he'd been there, standing over me, watching me sleep.

Roots. Strange, I hadn't seen any roots, with the exception of the oak tree roots that arced up out of the ground in some places. Was he worried that I'd trip? I rolled my eyes at myself.

“Stupid,” I muttered.

Throwing my covers off, I lowered my bare feet, one tightly bandaged, to the cold hardwood floor. My crutches were just out of reach. I'd have to limp over to them. I stood up and the pressure of my own weight brought me crashing back down onto the bed. “OOOh.”

“Angela!”

I had to get out of here. I had a lot to do. First stop, Woodbury public library.

***

“Just call. I'll be at the Starbucks across the street. I really think you should be in bed-”

“Angie.”

“I know, I know. You're a big girl, you feel fine, blah-blah-blah. This must be really important to you if you're willing to miss an episode of Heroes, I mean how important could it be-”

“Angie.”

“Okaaaay. Get what you need to do done and call me. I'll be right across the street. Are you sure you don't need help?”

“So sure.” I'd never accomplish anything with her questioning my every motive all evening. I glanced up at her. Her expression was hurt. She chewed on a cuticle, avoiding my eyes.

“Wanna order a pizza and rent Worms tonight?” I said, trying to make it up to her.

“You know I do!”

“Okay, later.”

“Later,” she chirped.

I clambered out of the passenger seat, a mess of limbs and crutches. I was already clumsy by nature, and the injury didn't help. I hissed when a crutch slipped and my throbbing ankle took my full weight. Thankfully, Angela had already turned the volume up on her stereo. It spewed forth ska music. I winced. Our taste differed outrageously. I couldn't stand the harried stuff she listened to. Give me alternative, give me pop, but Ska? Spare me. Angela's head bobbed as she sang along. As she pulled away she tapped the brakes to the beat of the music. I couldn't help but smile.

***

“Those records are in the basement, sweetie,” the librarian, a young woman who was clearly trying to look like a librarian, informed me.

Sweetie indeed.

“They're ordered by date.” She smoothed down her pencil skirt and straightened her fitted jacket, checking her appearance in the reflection of the glass double doors across from her desk. She ran her fingers over the corners of her lips, removing smudged lipstick. “I'll show you.” Her nondescript heels snapped against the linoleum floor as she walked, and I looked around self-consciously, as quiet-seekers glared up at us from behind books.

The archives were at the bottom of a set of cement steps. Row upon row of dusty shelves, just far enough apart to walk between, filled the room. A single reading table sat in the corner, a naked light bulb with a pull chain dangled above it, and an old coin slot photocopier stood next to it.

“Photocopies are ten cents each. Will you need change?”

I shook the drawstring purse hanging between my breasts, listening to the satisfying clink of dimes. “I come prepared.”

She raised one perfectly shaped brow at me. I glanced down at the creamy pearls around her neck and tried not to smirk. This was a woman who would never wear a coin purse around her neck. Perish the thought.

“Well, then.” I said, trying to dismiss her.

“When you're through with the research materials, please leave them on this cart. I will reshelve them later.”

What, didn't she think I knew the alphabet? I made a mental note to put everything back myself. “Thank you.” I sing-songed, folded my arms over my chest and gifted her with a sickly sweet smile.

“The library closes at ten. Sharp.” She gave me one more long look and turned on her heel. Seams ran up the back of her legs and disappeared into her skirt. Perfectly straight seams. I snorted aloud. She paused, and then continued to walk without turning.

I turned to my task. I had to find out who the man living in that tower room was before ten. Make that nine. I doubted if even Angela could sit around Starbucks for more then two hours.

“Okay, tall, dark and scary, where are you hiding?”

Round Robin Chapter 3 (they made me do it)

here for ch. 1
here for ch. 2

I heard the water run in the other room. Actually, I felt it, the rumble of ancient plumbing vibrated the worn wooden floor boards under my feet.
“Writer, huh? Journalist? Or is it house-breaker and thief?” he said over the noise.
“Yeah.” I scanned the room. This was freaking awkward. I’d broken in to his room and now he wanted me to wait around for conversation? He was big, weird, and could easily over-power me. No one knew where I was. This was A Sunday Night Murder Investigation Episode in the making. Heart in my throat, I put my foot back on the window sill. Escape being the only plausible option. Either this guy was going to want to call the police, or I was.
“Ashley Whitaker? You write editorials for the Cliffside Chronicle, don’t you?” The water switched off and the pipes stopped their moaning.
Holy crap. Why had I told him my name? I couldn’t stay. Not Safe. Call me super-stupid. I ducked under the frame of the window, reaching for the safety of the thick branch of oak.
“Hey,” He shouted. Right behind me. I felt a grip on my shoulder, firm and unforgiving, pulling me backwards.
I panicked. Kicked out like a bee stung horse. Wiggled to get away and dug my fingernails in to the bark of the tree. I might have been screaming, I’m not sure, I only heard my frantic heart beat as I tried to escape. His hold slipped from my shoulder to my wrist, I twisted and hit him a blow from my foot toa suspiciously soft area. He bit out a curse, something dark and ugly and his grip loosened. I thrust myself out of that window, forgetting the height, forgetting the old creaky tree the tree, and knew only that I was free.
And falling.
I had never broken a bone before. Had never even had a cavity. My body is young, pristine, slightly pudgy and crack free. Or it was. I heard the snap of wood, felt the thundering crack of pain that notified me of damage. Something wasn’t right. Damn. Something really wasn’t right. But if I held my left leg at an angle and didn’t touch it on the ground or try to stand on it, it didn’t hurt at all. Maybe it was just a sprain.
Overhead, the man from the tower room was leaning out the window, his expression murderous. “Are you hurt? Why did you do that? Wait there!”
Like hell I would. I crawled, feeling like young Jamie Curtis in that Halloween movie. I pulled myself up, determined not to be a slash movie victim. There should not have been a tall, able bodied good-looking, man in that room. Some version of the Elephant man, chained to a bed and suffering at the hand of his deranged parents, in need of help-grateful for rescue-that’s what I’d expected.
Maybe I had let local lore get the best of me.
Wouldn’t be the first time. I am a writer, after all.
Past the revolutionary war era stature, past a patch of thorny, half-dead vines, I hobbled and forward. I heard a door open. Angry, male blustering. I turned my head to see where he was-and saw him behind me holding the world’s largest ax. Hefted on his broad shoulders as casually as a Louisville slugger baseball bat, honey colored wood gleaming in the light from the doorway, the broad ax head wickedly curved and ready to cut me up into bite sized pieces.
He said something, I have no idea what. I don’t know how I did it, it’s such a blur. I guess it was one of those adrenalin things. I got out of that yard faster than Red Riding Hood running from the Big Bad Wolf, into my car and drove myself ten miles to the nearest hospital.
XXX
At six thirty the next morning I sat in a room made of blue curtains and called my roommates with an old fashioned rotary phone. Crappy old antique. I had to do it three times before I figured out how to make it work. Maya answered the phone. “I’m on my way.” Her deep alto was grumpy with sleep.
“You are? How did you know? Don’t you have to work?”
“Who is this?”
“Ash!”
“Oh. I thought you were my manager. He’s already called me three times. I was supposed to be at the Bean Bistro at six. Well, too bad for him. Hey. Where the hell are you? You left your cell here again.”
“Yeah.” I eyed the bright pink cast that covered the lower half of my leg. “I left it on purpose, you know how irritated cell phones make the librarian.”
Maya paused to think. I could almost hear the ticking in her head. “Why were you at the library all night? You sure you didn’t have a love connection, huh? Doin’ the frisky in the psychology aisle?”
“I don’t think so, girlfriend. Not only is there no one to have a connection with, why would I make-out in the library when there are all those beautiful books to read? Weren’t you even worried about me?” I stretched, trying to get comfortable. Was that warming feeling in my toes a sign that the pain killers were wearing off? The doctor had only prescribed me six of the little buggers, but said I’d probably want every one of them, with a Tylenol chaser, for the next forty-eight hours. I’d broken my ankle, and bruised my tail bone very nicely. The ankle he could put in a cast, my tail bone…well. He had just looked at me and shrugged.
What does it mean when the doctor shrugs?
“Worried about you? Nah. Should I be?”
I wanted to say yes. Yes, Maya, you worry when your friend and roommate doesn’t come home from the library on a weekend night. But Maya wasn’t my mom and didn’t pretend to be. She had the irritating tendency to treat me like an adult and expect me to take care of myself.
“No, I guess not. But I need a ride.”
“Oh. Your car break down again? No can do. But Angela is still here. I’ll go get her.”
There was a long pause while Maya went to get Angela. A nurse entered the room, looked at my purple toes, and stuffed another pillow under my leg. “You’re going to want to stay elevated for awhile,” she said before leaving.
Angela answered the phone full of her usual morning sunshine and daisies. “What?” Her voice was as welcoming as an empty, dirty, coffee cup.
“I love you too. I need a ride. Can you come pick me up?”
“In an hour, I guess. You need to get your car fixed. I don’t understand why you won’t call your parents. You know they would help you.”
“Strings.” I reminded her. “Everything comes with strings attached. I am at St. Mary’s, just come to the urgent care desk.”
There was suddenly more animation in her voice when she said, “What are you doing in the hospital? Did you get in a car accident? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” I could hear Maya in the back ground, echoing everything Angela said only at a higher, more outraged pitch. I answered with a creative version of the story, leaving out the breaking and entering, omitting the part where I was so desperate to write a story worth selling that I would go where no sane person had gone before, and telling them as little as possible.
Angela, no idiot, knew I was leaving something out, but not even her concern and our long standing friendship was going to get her out of the apartment before showering and coffee. I hung up the phone and leaned back with a sigh.
My entire night consisted of waiting for doctors, waiting for x-rays, the return of the doctor, waiting for nurses to put the cast on, all equaling a lot of time to think. I saw myself standing outside of Woodbury Manor, counting windows, imagining the interior. Replayed walking past the statue. I’d been in such a hurry, hadn’t paid much attention to what it was made of. Stone? Marble? Or some kind of metal, like bronze? It had been an incredibly well crafted piece of art, detailed and frighteningly huge. My library research said nothing about the statue, when it must have been a part of local history. Something like that should have serious history.
I should have gone deeper- looked into the city records to see who presently owned the house, like a mountain climbing, thirtyish guy with an English accent. I could see his face, heavy eyebrows over intense, brown eyes. Proud nose, a bump in the middle suggesting a break. Strong cheek bones brushed by long waves of black hair. Broad shoulders. Nice smell. Holding an ax as he stalked me with a furious expression.
Why would he live in the smallest room of a house old enough to be in the historical registry? Why did no one seem to know he lived there? Why the rumors about siblings and incest?
Cliffside was a small town. Even though I’d only lived here a year, I knew everybody. And everybody knew me. If a tall hottie had recently come to town and moved into the Woodbury Manner it would make the coffee gossip rounds before he finished unloading the truck. But no one knew he existed.
Except me.
XXX
By the time Angela rescued me I was so tired I could barely sit up. I’d spent a total of ten hours in the hospital. Most of them waiting in a cubical made of starched bleach-scented curtains and reclining awkwardly on a five inch mattress with a thin styrofoam pillow under my head. More maternal in nature than Maya, Angela pelted me with questions, her blond cap of hair bouncing each time she jerked her head to look from the road back to my leg. I don’t know what I told her. My tongue felt thick, my eyes crusty and I hurt under the dull hum of numb from drugs. She helped me into the apartment, helped me in to a sleep shirt, supplied me with a gallon of purified water and a package of saltines, and then went off to work. I was grateful to her, and when I felt alive again, I would tell her.
My room was dark when the ringing of my cell phone woke me. Feeling fuzzy and stiff I tried to sit up, and quickly thought better of it as pain exploded in my behind, up and down my spine with all the power of fireworks gone wrong. The ringing stopped after seven times, picked up by the answering service. Only to start again.
And again.
And again.
Damn it. Whoever it was wasn’t going away.

Round Robin Chapter 2

Find Chapter One here.

Chapter Two

“I…uh.”

“Who are you?” he asked again, punctuating his demand with another brief shake. “What is your name, and your purpose here?”

His hands gripped my arms like steel bands, but I had a suspicion he didn’t mean to harm me. Maybe because of his sexy Colin Firth accent, which I am not at all ashamed to admit I noticed right away.

“I’m…” I croaked. The words lodged firmly behind the lump in my throat.

“Speak up, girl. What business do you have sneaking into my house? Into my room? Why have you come here?”

His eyes had a wild glint to them, and his obsidian gaze bored into me. Never had I seen eyes that dark, like the blackest of night skies reflected in slate-smooth pools.

Geez, I’m channeling Bronte now? Angry Brit pulls an outburst that would give Heathcliffe a run for his money, and all the sudden I’m waxing poetic about his frickin’ eyes? Can you say issues?

“My…my name is Ashley. Ashley Whitaker. But my friends call me Ash.” Great! Why the hell would he need to know that? “I’m sorry I—”

“What did you say?” His grip loosened, and he took a hasty step back, holding me at arms length, and looking me over from head to toe. The expression on his face was one of disbelief.

“I’m sor—”

“Your name!”

“A—Ashley,” I replied shakily. “Whitaker.”

“Ash? You said your friends call you Ash. Isn’t that what you said?”

I nodded absently. Whatever he was getting at, he seemed to be having trouble grasping it. A deep furrow creased his brow, and he was staring at me like I’d grown a second head.

Give a girl a complex, why don’t ya?

“Look, I’m sorry for barging in here. I didn’t realize anyone lived here,” I lied. “I thought this place was deserted.”

His hands fell away. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Strange occupation for a young chit like you—breaking into homes you believe to be vacant. In the middle of the day, no less. And just what did you hope to find here?” His tone was casual, but his eyes continued to drill into me.

“I’m a writer. This house has been a subject of local lore for over a hundred and fifty years, yet no one has ever gotten a first-hand account of the interior. I just couldn’t resist.”

He laughed mirthlessly and put his hand to his face, finally realizing it was still half covered in shaving cream.

“Stay right there, please,” he motioned with his foam-covered hand as he backed toward the small bathroom adjacent to us.

My first thought was to flee, and he must have read it on my face.

“I insist,” he said. “I have some questions for you. Besides, you’ve already given me your name.” He did a sort of double take at that. “You did give me your true name, did you not? You’re not pretending to be Ashley Whitaker.”

He didn’t phrase it as a question. It was like he was insisting that I must be who I’d claimed. I suddenly felt very foolish for not thinking of giving him a pseudonym to begin with. Why couldn’t I have said, ‘I’m Jenna Jameson’? Something told me this guy didn’t get out much anyway. I didn’t see a computer, or any evidence of one, but if he’d wanted to Google me, he’d probably get a lot more out of the experience if I had.

“Yes, I am Ashley Whitaker.”

He gave a curt nod, and turned abruptly toward the direction of the bathroom. “I’ll not be but a moment,” he called over his beefy shoulder.

Alone, with only a view of his retreating form, I squandered my opportunity to plan my escape by watching him. I couldn’t find it in me to look away. He was easily the most handsome man I had ever seen.

Tall—probably six-three or six-four—and strong. I’d felt that when he pulled me back from the window ledge, but seeing it, in the way his clothes clung to the contours of his body, gave me a new appreciation for his brawn. He was big, not only in presence, but in sheer physical size.

I found myself puzzling over the incongruity of this large man residing in such a tiny living space. The room I was standing in—his room—could not have been much larger than my own in the small cottage Maya, Angela, and I rented on the other end of town.

I should have told them where I’d be.

I hadn’t. I’d left the library, having spent hours researching this house, my determination fueled by my roommates’ riveting tales of the mysterious doings in the house that defied odds simply by remaining intact. Could any of the lore be true? There were whispers of curses, ancient Indian spells, and always a deranged lovechild from an incestuous union.

I looked again at the man, now leaning heavily against the washstand and scraping a straight razor down his cheek. Our eyes met and held in the reflection of the mirror.

Lucid. He was completely lucid. Not an ounce of dementia in that gaze.

And though I’d never claim to be an expert on inbreeding, the man I beheld was undoubtedly not a product of it. Of that, I was certain.

But who was he?

Where did he come from, and how long had he been here?

Considering the possibilities made me feel strangely exuberant. His wasn’t the story I’d expected to find, yet I sensed, as though instinctively, it was one I’d been meant to uncover.

Was I to be part of the legend of Woodbury Manor?

Round Robin

Hello, readers. The gals at Romance The Write Way have decided to collaborate on a bit of fiction. Who doesn't love FREE fiction? So pull up a chair, grab a drink, and enjoy the first installment of our Round Robin. We may even have a title for it soon. lol.

Regan


Round Robin
Installment #1

I stood beneath the tall cedars across the road from Woodbury Manor, a large ornate house dating from the nineteenth century. Gothic in its appeal. I tried to envision what it looked like inside. Floor to ceiling windows with billowy brocade curtains, four poster beds that required steps to ascend, and fireplaces that dwarfed rooms. I imagined they had a housekeeper, a silver haired matron who kept a tight fist on a giant ring of keys. Especially the key that unlocked the tower room, and the secrets I was sure were hidden there.


Candlelight flickered in the tower window, casting animated shadows over the sheer curtains pulled across the windows, and adding untold layers of mystique to my fertile imagination. I was determined to find the truth.


According to my roommates, Maya and Angela, the people who lived in this house were siblings who had shacked up. They kept their handicapped son locked in the tower room. Very V.C. Andrews. I couldn't rein in my curiosity. This was a story waiting to happen. My stomach rumbled. A story I badly needed in order to pay rent and buy myself something to eat.


The residents of Cliffside came from the town of Derry, a few miles up the coast. Derry was destroyed during a deadly storm. To avoid a similar fate in their new home, the survivors of Derry built their homes upon a high bluff. The plan backfired. The face of the overhanging cliff upon which the houses were built sheered away during the earthquake of 1842, tumbling houses and their occupants into the churning seas below. The only house left standing after the tragedy was Woodbury Manor. This last bit of information I had garnered from the microfiche system at the small public library.


I could hear the ocean now, slamming against the rocky crags ominously.


I pulled my cable knit sweater tighter around me and cinched the belt. A high wind whistled through the branches above. A shiver ran through me, as much from the thrill of what I was about to do as from the cold.


I scurried across the street, like a frightened woodland animal. Fallen leaves swirled around my feet as I ran. I nearly collided with the statue that stood in the middle of Woodbury's vast front yard. The statue was a depiction of a man, hawk-eyed and broad through the shoulders. A billowing great coat, with the collar standing high around his neck, cloaked him. In one hand he grasped a lantern, held aloft against the darkness, while the other held fast to the pommel of his saddle. The horse he straddled was immense, and lean muscled. It reared back, its front hooves dancing in the air as if seeking purchase. The base of the statue had settled over the years, and gnarled roots from a large oak, only feet away, twisted their way around the horse’s legs.


A cold chill ran up my spine, and I back pedaled furiously, trying not to lose my balance. “Get a grip,” I whispered to myself.


There was a tree near the window with knotty protuberances scaling the bottom half of the trunk, followed by long sturdy branches midway up. Strong enough to hold a person, or two. I was fairly certain I could climb to the window and peek inside. My stomach fluttered. Would I find a madman at the summit of that tree, or a broken spirit chained to a bed, like something out of Jane Eyre?


When I got to the bottom of the tree I bent and tightened the laces on my tennis shoes. It wouldn't do for my shoes to unlace mid-climb. I began my ascent. The rough bark bit into the tender palms of my hands, and I cursed. The wind chose this moment to kick into high gear, whipping my hair into my face with a vengeance.


When I reached the bottom branch I looped my arm around it, hefted myself up by the top knot, and swung my leg over it. I squinted against the wind, peering back the way I had come. Down seemed very far. My spontaneity would be my undoing. Another branch was just within my reach. I stood carefully and wrapped my arms around it. Finally, after repeating the process for what seemed like forever, I found myself sitting just outside the tower window.


The sheers were flapping furiously in the wind, and I could see nothing through the partially open window. No specter stirred. My arms shook from exertion, and fear that whatever or whomever was inside that room would hear me. I leaned in closer. There was an unmade bed next to the window, and further into the circular room I made out a desk. Around it on the gleaming parquet floor were tottering piles of books. Some of them looked like they could be antiques. What I had thought to be flickering candlelight was really the lamp on the desk, the bulb flickering as if it were about to expire. I strained to get closer to the window, until my face was pressed against it, and I could see the entire room. There was a large table laden with scattered papers and more books. A few odd pieces of furniture were stacked in the corner. An old globe on a stand stood sentinel.


Above the table were a collage of photographs, what looked to be charts, and typewritten papers that I couldn't read from where I was.


Curiosity piqued, I decided I had to get closer. No one seemed to be inside. I could do this. Piece of cake. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. My fingers fit easily under the edge of the window. It opened noiselessly. One leg swung easily over the windowsill, but I teetered precariously as I tried to get my footing. I unhooked my other leg from the branch and slid easily into the room. My heart beat double time, and I froze, listening to my own blood thrum in my ears. No one sounded the alarm. I was safe, at least for the moment. I tiptoed across the room.


The collage pages were lists, some with check marks beside them. Read Great Expectations, check. Visit the Mayan temples, check. Climb Mount Everest, no check. Learn chess, check. There were a dozen of them. It was like a personal journal pinned to a wall. Reading them felt more intrusive then breaking and entering. There was no madman here. I hurried to the window, swung my leg over the sill, and froze, catching movement in my peripheral vision. I turned towards the movement, wary.


There was a man standing in the doorway to the room, the very picture of the statue in the yard. His eyes were wide with astonishment. He held a razor near his cheek, as if he’d forgotten it was there. Shaving cream covered one side of his face. We stared at one another for a few seconds before I remembered myself. I turned and looked at the tree, measuring. Just a few feet away. Both my hands were braced behind me on the windowsill, my back to the room-and the man. Suppose he decided to push me?


“Stop!” He demanded his voice deep and warm, like thick, dark chocolate. He sounded alarmed.
My heart was skipping in my chest. If I jumped I could latch onto the branch closest to me. Better that then take my chances with the inordinately large stranger who’d just caught me sneaking around his room like a petty thief. I let go of the windowsill, preparing to jump, praying that I would make it.


But he caught me. His arms snaked around my waist and dragged me back into the room. His breathing was ragged against my ear, and I could feel his body heat through my sweater.


“Holy shit,” he cursed. “Are you insane?” I could smell spiced apples on his breath, underlying the sharp tang of Zest, and shaving cream. He turned me around to face him. I’d gone limp with fear at that point. I was dizzy. He gave me a shake. “Who are you and what, precisely, are you doing in my bedroom?”