Cradled by the Night (3 page)

“I'm not trying to offend you. I just want you to take care of yourself, okay? That stuff can be serious. It can turn into psychosis, and you don't want that. I had an aunt who had it in the 50s. Things didn't go well, but I won't scare you with those stories.” Lark scribbled on piece of paper and handed it to Amelia. “My number's on here, too. Call me anytime. Seriously.”

“Okay, great. I'll call you. The doctor...I don't know about.”

“Amelia, really. We girls have to look out for each other.” Lark touched her hand. “Promise me you'll see her?”

“Okay, I will. I guess it's better to be safe than sorry.” Amelia sighed and rolled her eyes.

At that moment, the group leader whistled everyone to silence. “Okay, we're going to get to know each other! I see we have some new faces.” Her voice rang with a chipper note.

“Oh, yay. My favorite part,” Lark grumbled.

Amelia smiled, but all she could think about was the ghostly woman at Stormcliffe.

* * * *

The windows rattled as another rumble of thunder went through the house. Lottie mewled at her breast.

“Shh. It's okay, baby. Just a little storm.”

It was early afternoon, and the bad weather had rolled in suddenly. Perhaps that was how the house had gotten its name. It had likely seen many terrible storms and weathered them well.

Lottie settled in her arms, and Amelia slowed the rocking chair. It had been a good morning, even if she was tired from the night before. She felt like she had made a friend in Lark.

Maybe.

The baby's breath warm on her arm, she rose slowly to place her in the crib, oh so carefully. Lottie grunted and spread her arms before going still again.

Amelia smiled. “Now, what to do?” Although she was tired, she didn't want to nap, at least not yet. Maybe she would catch a cat nap in a bit.

Her thoughts turned to the ghostly woman the night before, and she shivered. She had stood on this very spot. Amelia remembered her mouth, pulled back in horror and the eyes that weren't there. Her palms grew sweaty.

“Stop it. It wasn't real.”

S
he didn't even believe herself. She felt like she had to do something—to find out who the woman was. The dress was old fashioned, but it could have been from any time before the 19
20
s, most likely. She hadn't gotten a look at the front of it.

“The family graveyard,” she whispered as she hurried out of Lottie's room to find her sneakers.

* * * *

Grasping the baby monitor in one hand and her keys in the other, Lottie pushed open the back door. She locked it and doubled checked the knob. She was glad now that Bard had insisted on buying a monitor that worked up to
50
yards away, but that might not be far enough. The trip would be short, just in case the baby woke up. She hadn't explored much past the patch of yard here with its shrubs and poorly tended yellow tulips. The graveyard lay some distance to the right, carved out of the woods.

Amelia trudged through grass that was too high. Bard was supposed to be hiring someone to cut the lawn later in the week. She hoped he hadn't forgotten.

The clearing ended, and the woods began, dark and impenetrable.

That's silly. They are not.

She shivered, in spite of the warmth of the July day. To her surprise, a tiny sign marked the direction of the family plot with a name etched in black and an arrow pointing into the woods.

Winthrop Cemetery

“Okay. It should be right back here.” Her heart thudded at the silence of the woods. Not a bird chirped, and the brush underfoot crunched like gunshots. She walked
15
yards, and a clearing appeared, complete with a few dozen sagging tombstones and a gate, hanging slightly open.

As if they were waiting for me...

Amelia shook her head at her morbid fancy and walked through the gate, letting it swing with a creak behind her.

The divide between servants and Winthrops was easy to see. The family was on the right with tall, auspicious headstones, and others were on the left with modest, flat gravestones to mark their lives. Many of those stones were engraved by hand. It was clear the family hadn't spent money on their inscriptions. The Winthrop gravestones were solid, if aging, with clear engraving on all but the oldest from the first quarter of the nineteenth century.

Hettie and James Winthrop and two older sons' resting places lay in the front, looking newly polished. The dates of death confirmed that they were the most recent inhabitants. Amelia meandered to the last two rows of family stones. She was disappointed to find just one young child's grave there. He had been born in 1900 and had died at age seven.

What did I think I'd find? The crying baby?

She shook her head, wondering again about the woman she had seen guarding over Lottie—if that was what she had been doing.

Unease ran through Amelia at the thought of the baby. The monitor was quiet in her hand.

I need to get back. What if the distance is too far, and I can't hear Lottie crying?

She ran out of the graveyard, feeling a sense of urgency she couldn't explain. All she could think about was her baby and the shadowy woman who had stood over her the night before.

Why did I leave her alone? I'm a horrible mother.

Her palms were slick, and tears of fear ran down her face. Images of a woman with a gnarled hand reaching for her baby flooded her mind. The images came with abandon, terrible in their specificity. Lottie was falling. Lottie was screaming. Lottie was careening down the stairs, thrown by an unseen hand. Lottie's head was smashed against the wall.

“Oh my God!” She gasped as she lunged through the back door. The house stood silent, as did the monitor in her hand. Hand on her chest, Amelia surged upstairs to the nursery. She wrenched open the nursery door and doubled over with relief. Lottie lay in the crib, tiny hands thrown over her head, peaceful and asleep.

“Oh, thank God.” Amelia smoothed the tendrils of hair on the baby's forehead.

Am I losing my mind?

She knew it was irrational to think that leaving the baby for twenty minutes so close to home would bring her to great harm. She was behind the house after all, but the panic she had felt had been real.

I still don't feel myself, and it's been over seven weeks now since Lottie was born. Maybe Lark is right. Maybe it's time to see a doctor.

Chapter 4: One Pill

* * * *

“I'm going to prescribe you a lose dosage of an anti-depressant. I think it will help.” Dr. Marple said with a gentle smile.

Lark was right. She's great.

“I hope so. I just feel so...weird coming here. I had a tough life, but I never needed medication until now.
T
his is the best part of my life so far.” Amelia clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

“The postpartum period is full of joy, but it's difficult physically and emotionally. Make sure you take your meds. In six months or so, you can  probably come off of them. This is fairly common. Don't beat yourself up. You came to see me, and that means you're a wonderful mother.” The doctor patted her shoulder and wrote out a prescription.

“Thanks. I will.”

“So, how are you enjoying the house so far? Stormcliffe? It's a lovely old place.”

“It's great. Well, mostly.” Amelia bit her lip.

How much should I say? If I tell her what I saw, she's going to think I really am nuts—not just a mild case of postpartum depression.

“Mostly?” The doctor smiled and waited.

“We just have a lot of things to spruce up. That's all.” Amelia gave her what she hoped was a bright smile.

That was close.

“You'll get it all done. One project at a time. You take care, now. I want to see you back here in a month for a check up. Call me if you need anything, and I mean anything. Enjoy your little one. You are free to leave when you're ready.” Dr. Marple handed her the prescription and closed the door behind her.

Maybe these little pills will get rid of the crying baby and the scary woman.

Amelia sighed and slung her purse over her shoulder. The sitter would be waiting, and she wanted to get another look at the family graveyard before she left for the day.

* * * *

She called the babysitter on the way and told her she needed to do some things in the backyard before she came in the house. Sally had agreed to stay with the baby for another hour at most.

Amelia parked in front of the house and strolled toward the woods behind the house. The sun sizzled overhead—a hot day even for July this far north. She didn't know what she was looking for—exactly, only that she meant to find out what was happening in her home.

If it's not all just in my head.

The alternative of postpartum psychosis coming on was too frightening to contemplate. She had chosen to keep her mouth shut at the doctor's office, knowing what admitting to hearing noises and seeing visions would bring. Amelia just knew what she was experiencing was real. It wasn't depression. Her worries about what was going on led to the mood and exhaustion.

Assuming I can trust my own mind...

The woods parted in the clearing. The gate to the graveyard was shut. Amelia knew she had left it open in her haste to get back to the house the last time she was here.

How did that happen?

She wondered if Bard had been back out here and hadn't told her. He had been distant the past few days—busy with work, he said.

Amelia meandered to the servants' side of the graveyard. The tumble down stones were in a poor state. Some were broken entirely. She immediately focused on a small stone jutting from the ground.

A baby.

Heart hammering, she bent down to see if there was any writing on it. It was off to itself near the fence.

That's strange.

The crude lettering was legible:

Infant

No birth or death date was inscribed.

“How strange,” Amelia whispered as the breeze stirred the trees. The leaves murmured their secrets amongst themselves.

She knelt for a moment longer, running her fingers over the top of the headstone, but there was nothing more to learn from it. Amelia walked over to the grouping of other servants' graves. She couldn't read their inscriptions. They appeared to either have none or to have been poorly inscribed by hand in the past.

“Sad. I guess I'll never know much about them.” But an idea grew in her mind.

The library might have some old newspaper articles and information about this house and about who lived here, their lives and histories.

She decided to go the next day. It would require the sitter again, but she knew Bard didn't mind, and she needed the breaks during the week. The doctor had practically ordered her to get out for her moms group at a minimum once per week.

Amelia hurried in, ready to see Lottie, her mind on the mysteries of Stormcliffe's previous residents.

* * * *

“I'll be getting in late tonight. Don't hold dinner. I'll warm it up,” Bard said. His voice was tight.

Amelia could tell he had already left the conversation. She had called him two minutes earlier—at 6 pm when there was no sign of him. He was often late coming in, but he either texted to let her know a few hours beforehand or told her he would pick up takeout on the way home.

“Oh, okay. Well, I miss you.” Her eyes filled with tears. She found herself this way a lot lately—emotional, where she had never considered herself that type of person before.

Is it postpartum depression or just being alone so much?

“Miss you, too. Gotta run. I have an experiment to set up before I leave.”

Amelia sat on the couch, listening to the click  as he hung up. Lottie cooed on the floor on her play mat.

“It's just you and me baby...again.” She sighed, fighting back tears. “My medicine. Surely, that will help.” She sighed and went to take her first pill.

* * * *

At 10:30, Bard still wasn't home. The baby had gone to bed in her crib over two hours ago, and Amelia was tired of fighting exhaustion to wait up for him. She climbed into bed, wondering what her husband was doing.

Working, silly. It's a new job. He's very busy.

She refused to text him. It looked needy and sad, and she had sworn long ago she was done with being dependent on someone else for happiness, even the man she loved.

I am needy and sad lately.

She lay in bed, wide eyed, her body tired to the core. Every sound seemed magnified. Eventually, her eyelids grew leaden, and she must have drifted off.

Some time later, she became aware of being awake again, but quite groggy. The baby was crying softly. No, that wasn't Lottie's soft wail.

It's the other one.

Amelia groaned. “Not this again. I am not crazy. I know I'm not. I am going to find out what's going on.” She pushed herself up in bed, fighting the haze of sleep.

The baby continued to sob.