I could feel the tendrils of panic rising into my belly. Soon they’d wrap around my lungs and squeeze. After that, I’d see the black spots begin to dance behind my eyes. I needed to get to the car before that happened.
I fumbled money to the cashier and hurried toward the door, glancing at the bulletin board heavy with fliers advertising everything from free kittens to reiki massage. One image caught my attention and I paused, my panic momentarily forgotten.
A spectral figure, almost transparent, stood beneath three bolded words: “They’re Not Gone.” I read the paragraph beneath quickly with Isis pulling on my arm. The flier described a gathering for those who had lost loved ones and wanted to reach out, make contact.
At the bottom of the paper, small tabs held a web address. I ripped one off and stuffed it into my pocket.
Isis dug through the paper bag of groceries, searching for the cookies.
I took a deep breath and lifted the box from her hands, oddly calm. The panic attack had not taken me. I no longer felt the vice surrounding my lungs.
“Here, honey.” I handed her a cookie and pushed the cart into the cool November day.
Sarah
“MR. PULVER?” Sarah stood on the sidewalk in front of the old house.
A thin man, with an orange hunting cap tucked over his ears, likely nearing ninety, sat in a rocking chair reading a book. He looked up and squinted toward Sarah.
“Who’s there? Melissa with the Girl Scout Cookies?”
Sarah walked closer and waved.
“Sorry, no cookies here. My name’s Sarah Flynn. I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
She glanced at the cover of Mr. Pulver’s book, which read “Fancy Cat Breeds” in tall black letters. In a photo beneath the title, a woman held a huge, fluffy gray cat with yellow eyes.
He sat up in his chair and set the book aside, tapping the cover.
“Ever seen a Norwegian Forest Cat, Sarah? Big as a bobcat, and fierce too. Thinkin’ bout gittin’ one fer security.”
“A cat?” Sarah asked skeptically. “I hate to tell you, sir, but my impression of cats is when trouble arrives, they run and hide under the bed.”
He stared up at her, his little blue eyes watery, and chuckled.
“True enough, but it’s not burglars I’m worried about. They say cats can sense evil. Did you know that?”
Sarah sat on a wooden porch swing.
“Yeah, I have heard that. Funny you should mention evil, Mr. Pulver. I was hoping to ask you some questions about Kerry Manor.”
The man frowned and picked the book back up, holding it against his chest like a talisman.
“Sure, sure. I’ve got stories and memories. What would like to know, Miss Sarah?”
“Everything,” she admitted.
He grinned and reached into his mouth, popping out his bottom dentures.
“These lowers give me trouble when I’m talkin’ too long,” he admitted, plopping them into a water glass. “James and Winifred Kerry built Kerry Manor in 1883. Winni, as they called her, was pregnant with their first child, a girl they named Stella.”
Pulver leaned back in his chair, eyes half closed as he talked.
“In 1872, Traverse City saw its first railroad, and life was booming in these parts. James Kerry was a businessman and realized there were opportunities to be had. He moved his growing family from somewhere out east. Rumor says an Ottawa trapper told Kerry of the rugged beauty at the tip of the Leelanau Peninsula, and the man became obsessed with building his mansion at the place where civilization ends. Back then you were hard-pressed to find a doctor, or even a grocery to buy a loaf of bread, up there. I can’t say how his wife felt about the move, but he constructed his mansion and they moved right in. According to my pa, there was never no trouble at Kerry Manor until after the girl-child, Ethel, went into the asylum.”
“Why was she institutionalized?”
Pulver shrugged, spotting something over Sarah’s shoulder and twittering his fingers.
“Here kitty, kitty, kitty. Come here, Mickey.”
Sarah turned to see a fat tabby cat lazily wandering from the neighbor’s yard. He trotted up the steps and planted himself just out of reach of Pulver’s outstretched fingers.
Pulver sighed and waved his hand dismissively.
“He likes to play hard to get. Five minutes and he’ll be in my lap, purring like a lawn mower.”
Sarah smiled, watching the cat crane his neck and vigorously lick his belly.
“My pa knew Ethel, went to the same school, though he was a few years younger. Said before she went to the asylum she was a pretty typical kid, got into a few scraps now and then. But after they released her, she was odd, real sneaky-like. He saw her push another little girl out of a tree. The girl broke her arm, and it could’a been worse according to my pa. Could’a killed her if she’d landed on the rake lyin’ down below.”
“What did everyone think at the time?”
Pulver shrugged.
“It was a different time. People didn’t sit around mullin’ over why a kid was bad or good. Kids was just kids. But after she burned her family up, well, that changed things, didn’t it? They decided James Kerry must have been beatin’ her or somethin’. Not that it was out of the ordinary to take a belt to your young ones in those days.”
“I’m curious how they knew Ethel Kerry started the fire?” Sarah asked.
“She nailed the door closed on her family and hid in the dumb waiter upstairs. Hammer and nails was on the floor in her parents’ bedroom where they found her dead, so they put two and two together. I ain’t no detective, but the writing was on the wall.”
“What happened to Kerry Manor after the fire?”
“It sat. There was a lot of superstitious folks in those days. Nobody wanted to live in that house. Later on, other kinds of stories came out of the house. People who went there and came back funny-actin’. Almost like there was a bad luck charm on Kerry Manor, and if you got too close, it’d grab hold and follow you home.”
“By the time I was growin’ up, my pa was right spooked by the old place. Me and my brothers wasn’t allowed anywhere near it. Course, that made it all the more enticing. I went once in high school with a few buddies. We threw some rocks at the windows - that kind of thing.”
“Did anything happen?”
Mickey hopped into Pulver’s lap, turning twice before settling into a little ball of fur, head tucked near his back legs.
“Not to me, per se, but my friend Jerry went up real close to the house to peek in. He came away screaming, blood runnin’ down his face. Somethin’ stabbed a piece of glass into his face. He thought he saw someone movin’ inside, and then a hunk of glass came flyin’ out the window and lodged in his cheek. We ribbed him about it good, said he prob’ly stuck his face too close and a piece stickin’ from the frame got him.”
“Do you think that’s what happened?”
“No.” Pulver smoothed his liver-spotted hands over the cat’s back. They seemed to stiffen, and he massaged his knuckles, opening and closing his fingers. “Jerry was the toughest kid I knew, and he didn’t tell no lies. I don’t think a one of us doubted his story. It was just our way to rag each other.”
“Did you know they restored Kerry Manor?” Sarah asked.
“Heard somethin’ bout that.” He nodded, his hand drifting to the side to rest on his book of fancy cats. “Damn fool thing. That house is as haunted as a plague graveyard. Best if they’d burned the whole place to the ground, trees and all.”
CHAPTER 17
Now