Sarah leaned back in her chair and blew out a long, heavy breath.
She had followed Will’s links and read articles posted by journalists who clearly had an open mind when it came to paranormal possibilities. She had also read two forums where several people spoke of second- and third-hand stories about strange, and often tragic, events that occurred shortly after family or friends visited Kerry Manor.
Sarah closed her laptop and walked to one of several windows in her study. She braced her hands on the window ledge and looked at the steadily darkening sky. The sun had set and left a purple horizon, soon to be black.
Something was clearly wrong at Kerry Manor. Sarah felt as if she was staring at a huge table scattered with puzzle pieces, unsure of the image she was meant to create.
CHAPTER 20
Now
Corrie
I was twenty-one and Sammy was twenty-three years old when he proposed marriage on a gondola in Las Vegas. It was cheesy and romantic. We drank champagne, and Sammy sang Moon River in his Sinatra voice. As the gondola veered back to the Strip, beneath the dazzling lights of the Venetian, Sammy fumbled onto one knee and pulled out a ring - a woven band of gold with an emerald in its center.
“Will you be mine, forever?” Sammy asked, and I stared into his earnest eyes and tried not to burst into tears.
“Who else would have me?” I grinned, wanting to joke through the spasm of happy grief that overwhelmed me.
“Nope, it has to be proper,” he said. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes, in a heartbeat.”
We ate caramel crepes at the Paris to celebrate, and then returned to our own, less fancy, hotel in downtown Las Vegas. We sat in our room at the Golden Nugget, on a comforter that smelled of cigarettes, and plotted our future adventures.
“Sammy, what if we become like all those other boring married couples who resent each other, but stay together because it’s easy or comfortable or they have kids?”
Sammy lay half-naked on the bed, wearing a pair of sagging gray briefs. We had barely made it into the hotel room before we tore off our clothes and made love on the bristly carpet.
“That will never happen to us, Corrie,” he said in a rare serious moment. “This love we have is cosmic, lifetimes in the making. This world,” he waved his hand dismissively, “can’t touch what we’ve got.”
“Cookie!” Isis announced from the back seat, pulling me from my memories.
I glanced in the rearview mirror at Isis holding a partially eaten cookie she’d found in her cup holder. Someday I would take her to Las Vegas for a gondola ride. I would repeat that day with our daughter.
“And maybe with Sammy too,” I whispered, turning into the empty parking lot of the last bookstore on my list.
The Antiquarian was a squat brick building with a wooden sign and a wrought iron eagle perched near the door. I glanced at the other five bookstores on my list - a slash through each of their names. No one had the book.
I unloaded Isis from her car seat.
“Last one, honey, I promise. Then we’ll go get a snack.”
“A cupcake?” Isis asked, her brown eyes growing wide.
“Sure, baby.”
I pulled up her hood and tucked her tiny hand into my own. She hopped up and down as we hurried across the parking lot. The bookstore was in Ludington, two hours from Kerry Manor, and further than I had intended to travel. I should have called ahead, but the experience of driving, having a purpose outside of Kerry Manor, was oddly seductive. I dreaded returning to the shadowy house.
I pushed the door open into a dimly lit store stuffed with old books. Bookcases stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed so close it was more like a maze than a store. As we meandered through the space, Isis trying to touch stacks of books I feared would topple on her head, a middle-aged man stepped from the shelves.
Startled, he dropped the books in his hand.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “You must not have heard us come in.”
He bent and scooped the books up.
“Nope, these books are as good as earmuffs.” He adjusted his glasses and smiled. “What can I help you with?”
“I’m looking for a book: The Summoning by Fletcher Wolfe.”
The man stared at me, his eyes searching, and I knew he had the book.
“You have it?” I asked, breathless.
He nodded and frowned, patting the books in his hand.
“It’s rather strange that you’d ask. I received this donation of books this morning. I had just set out to put them away.” He lifted a book from the top of the stack. I saw the black title on a dull gray background, an ethereal white figure set deep into the background.
“May I?” I asked, reaching my hand out.
He handed me the book, his expression curious.
“How much?” I asked, though I didn’t care. I would pay a thousand dollars if he asked. Ten thousand.
“It’s yours,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s meant to be yours. I couldn’t possibly take any money for it. But how about you, little lady? Every child gets a free children’s book just for walking in the store.”
Isis tucked herself behind me, peeking between my legs.
“She’d love it,” I said. “Isis, would you like a new story book?”
She grinned and bobbed her head, yes.
Isis picked out a worn copy of The Giving Tree, and we left. As we drove home, I fought the urge to pull over and open the book. I wanted to devour the pages, and yet felt strongly I had to read The Summoning at Kerry Manor.
Sarah
“THAT WAS A VERY LONG TIME AGO,” the woman said, tilting her head to look at Sarah through narrow spectacles with stylish black rims. Her lips were painted a dark red, and silver streaked through her waist-length black hair. She wore a long black dress, and Sarah thought if she’d ever met a witch in real life, this woman was it.
In Will’s Kerry Manor document, Sarah had found Delila’s story especially intriguing. After looking up her number online, she called the woman and asked for a meeting, surprised when she readily agreed.
“But it happened? You’re the Delila from the story?”
The woman laughed and shook her head.
“Oh no, not at all. That Delila died many years ago, in Kerry Manor perhaps. But I share her name, yes, and her memories.”
Sarah sat in the woman’s kitchen. A wall window revealed the forest, branches tangled, a little glass greenhouse nestled at the edge, bursting in green and color despite the November chill.
Sarah drank warm cranberry juice sweetened with agave nectar - Delila’s secret recipe, she claimed.
Delila held up her gray coffee mug cup painted with dark swirls.
“I made these,” Delila said, nodding at the glass. “After that summer, I did so many things. For a moment, I feared I’d lost everything. Some days I expected to die, and other days I imagined I’d lost my mind and I would live forever in that huge asylum, listening to the mad cries of the other patients.”