Cradled by the Night (4 page)

Amelia stood, her legs shaking. Bile rose in her throat at the thought of seeing the woman again—her mouth, the terror of her expression.

Those empty, dead eyes.

“Stop it. It was a nightmare, or at least, it's not real, whatever it was,” she whispered. The sobbing continued. As usual, it seemed to come from all around her—a product of the very walls of Stormcliffe, embedded in the house's past and sad history.

If it was sad. I don't know that. I just feel it.

She shook her head and walked resolutely out of the bedroom and down the hall toward Lottie's room. As soon as she reached the threshold of the nursery, she knew something wasn't right. The door was closed. She never shut it all the way—just in case she couldn't hear Lottie in the night, or the baby monitor stopped working.

Amelia clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. “This isn't happening,” she whispered.

But it was, and she could no longer deny what she was experiencing.

The feel of her nails against her flesh was as real as anything. Amelia was wide awake now. She looked down at her watch. 11:35. This wasn't a dream. She was either psychotic, or there was something very strange going on at Stormcliffe.

Heart in her throat, Amelia turned the knob, opening the nursery door slowly. “Lottie?” she whispered.

T
here she was—the woman she had seen, the one who haunted her days and nights. She stood by the crib as she had before in an old
-
fashioned black dress. The spectral figure turned to face Amelia.

“Who are you? Why are you in my home?” Amelia whispered. She avoided gazing at the woman's face. She didn't want to see those blank eyes again.

“Beware. Go away. It's not safe here for you or your child. You are weak.” Fury shook the figure's voice.

Amelia dared to look into that face—that horrible, blanched face with holes where eyes and mouth should have been. “No. I'm not. I'm--”

“Weak! You killed your own child. This child is not safe either.” The ghost—for that was what she was, Amelia was certain now, no matter what anyone else said—pointed down into the crib.

She's talking about Lottie.

Then, she advanced upon Amelia, floating toward her in an impossible movement, at least by the laws of physics.

Amelia stumbled backward against the wall, jamming her heel painfully into the baseboard. “Please. How could you know? I didn't mean to--”

“Leave, or your baby will perish.” The woman took another step toward her. She lifted a bony hand and touched Amelia's face with it. The touch was so cold, as icy as the grave. In a wisp of billowing air, the woman in black disappeared as if she had never stood there.

Amelia sank to the floor and stayed there, staring at nothing until Bard found her an hour later.

Chapter 5: A History of Stormcliffe

“What happened in the baby's room last night?” Bard asked as he stabbed his pancake, his brow wrinkled.

Amelia's head throbbed. She felt as if she had run a nightmarish marathon, but her conversation with the spirit at Stormcliffe had been no nightmare. She knew it was real, no matter what anyone would think if she told them. Not that she was going to.

“Nothing. I think I just sat down for a moment and fell asleep.” She tried to laugh, but it came out sounding like a groan.

Bard gave her a hard stare. “Amelia, you need to hold it together. I can't do this right now.” Bard shook his head.

Can't do what? Deal with your wife and the baby you wanted so badly? The first of several, you said?

She wanted to snap at him, but she didn't want him to know her feelings and what had happened last night.

He can't know about me—about the baby before. I don't know if he would respect me anymore or trust me as a mother now.

Bard loved her. She was sure of that, but even she had trouble with her past. How could Amelia expect him to understand her decision, even though it had seemed justified at the time?

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.” He reached for her hand. “I'm just under a lot of stress, but I know you are, too, with the baby. It's tough right now.”

She nodded.

You have no idea what tough is.

“It was probably the meds. I took the first dose last night before bed.” She tried to smile, but wasn't sure it came off the right way. Her mouth felt wobbly and strange.

Bard studied her for a moment, his thoughts inscrutable. “That makes sense. Hopefully, you'll get used to them quickly.” He stood up, dropping his napkin. “Well, I'm off. I'll see you tonight. It might be late, but I'll call if it's going to be after six. I'm sorry I've been missing dinner so often. It will get better. I promise.” He sighed.

Great. It's going to happen again, but at least he seems sincere about the apology.

“Alright. I'm sorry, too. I miss you when you're not around.” She smiled, and he returned the expression, warming her heart for just a moment.

“Have a good day.” She rose to give him a kiss, but he was already walking away.

“You too,” he called over his shoulder.

Amelia wanted to cry again, but she refused to.

I have things to find out about this house if I'm going to stay here and accept things the way they are.

She thought of the woman, her hollow eyes and blanched face and shivered.

The sitter was due in about
15
minutes. She was going to the library in town to do research on Stormcliffe's previous owners and history. Lottie burbled happily from her carrier, a blissful grin on her tiny, puckered face.

“I'll be back soon, baby girl. I'll miss you.” She kissed the baby as she heard the sitter's car pull up.

* * * *

“Stormcliffe. Now that's a house with some history behind it!” The librarian's eyes sparkled behind her thick glasses. Her chipper tone and birdlike movements belied her age, which Amelia guessed as late 70s.

“Oh, really? Please tell me all about it.” She leaned forward conspiratorially.

The woman hesitated as if she had said too much. “Well, I don't want to gossip.” She cleared her throat.

“Gossip away. I've already had one person in town tell me it's haunted. After all, it's not gossip if it's the truth, is it?” She smiled.

Alice Pringle flinched. “Well, I don't know about the house being haunted, but yes. That's  what previous owners have said.” She looked flustered.

Amelia waved her hand. “Please. Nothing you say is going to worry or offend me. We're planning to stay in the house, no matter what.”

Even though the realtor didn't level with us about its reputation.

“Oh, that's a relief. I suppose it's only natural to want to know about such a storied home as Stormcliffe!” The woman clapped her hands together like a small child.

Especially one with a ghost.

“I guess so.” Amelia smiled, she hoped encouragingly.

“Well, there's an especially good history of the house that was written. It's quite juicy, but the woman who wrote it knew many of the family members. She was a servant's child.” Ms. Pringle's  eyes widened.

“I see. I'd love to take a look at that.”

“Of course! Just have a seat, and I'll bring it out to you.” The woman skittered off.

Amelia sat at a table near the desk. The library was deserted, but for a mother and child. Her thoughts returned to the woman in black and to her words.

How could she know about my life...then?

“Here it is! I think you're going to find this book fascinating. Just let me know if you need anything.” Alice Pringle set the tome down lightly on the table and scurried away.

The first few chapters were quite dull. If there had been much drama in the late 1700s, the author didn't tell about it. She probably just didn't know. In the early 1900s, things got much more interesting. Apparently, Hettie Winthrop's husband, the wealthy owner of Stormcliffe,  had been having an affair with one of the servants, a very young woman named Lucy. A scandal had occurred, and Lucy had hanged herself in one of the rooms upstairs.

A shiver ran through Amelia.

What type of scandal?

The book said little more about it.

What would drive a teenaged girl, probably
15
at the time, to kill herself? It had to be something terrible.

“Everything alright, dear?” Alice Pringle's trilling voice made her jump.

“Yes. Do you know any more about this scandal?” She pointed at the page she had been reading.

“No
. I
t is so interesting, isn't it? What would have made a young servant girl do such a thing?” The woman pursed her lips. “I have heard some say they think there might have been a...baby involved—a child that died. The old man Winthrop was very unhappy about the affair. There was some talk of disinheriting his son, I believe.”

“Oh.” For a moment, everything stopped.

“Mrs. Bronson, are you alright? You look quite pale?” The older woman flitted around her.

“I'm fine. Thank you. I just feel a bit warm in here, but it is summer.”

“Yes, and we have to keep the thermostat set higher than many would like.” Ms. Pringle frowned. “Oh, speaking of the scandal, there's a picture of the family at that time a few pages over. The servant girl is labeled—Lucy Vincent—in the photograph. It's quite interesting.”

Her breath in her throat, Amelia turned the pages until she found the somber faces gathered as the Winthrop clan in 1902.

The woman in black who had scolded her the night before stood at the edge of the photograph, grim faced, young.  She wore a plain dark colored dress with an apron over it and looked older than her few years.

Moisture sprang to her eyes as she remembered the tiny grave in the family plot—off by itself. It had to be the baby's grave, or it seemed like a great possibility. There might be no way to know for certain. The child had been unwanted, even damned to some people's way of thinking in those days. The Winthrops had been staunch Presbyterians and likely would have thought the same way.

Lucy Vincent, what happened to you...and to your baby?

* * * *

That night, Bard came home for dinner, all smiles. They passed a good evening together, full of laughter and the old shared jokes that had always come so easily. Baby Lottie went down for the night without protest, capping off a pleasant night.

Amelia expected to rest well herself, as long as Lucy Vincent's ghost didn't return. Instead, she lapsed into an old nightmare—one that hadn't returned in many years.

“Come on, Amelia. Just this once. We won't tell anyone.” Her foster brother was sitting on her bed, just like it was yesterday. But this was
20
years ago now. His dark brown eyes were like hard pebbles, dead things.

I was only
15
.

“No. I don't want to.” She held herself, shivering under her thin nightgown.

Randy was 18 and had been giving her sidelong glances since the first day she moved into the house six months before. He was the star quarterback for the local small-town football team and an all
-
A student. His parents thought he was an angel, but Amelia knew enough about men by that point in her young life to know better. From the first time she met him, she tried to stay away from him as much as possible. She always locked her door
;
but tonight, she had forgotten.

“Come on.” He grabbed her. “Don't scream, or you'll have to leave. I'll tell them you came on
to me.” His eyes were full of insanity, and she had believed him.

Amelia bolted upright, lathered in sweat. The dream stopped as the first instance of abuse started, thankfully. It was horrible every time she had to relive it.

“Honey, you okay?” Bard mumbled, reaching for her.

“Yes, just had a bad dream.” She trembled, suddenly freezing.

“It's okay.” He pulled her close to him.

He knew about Randy and the abuse but not about the rest. The abuse had continued until the day she ran away, pregnant and alone. Even then, Randy had followed her, or tried to, as soon as he had graduated high school. Any time he had a school break, he was dogging her steps—calling, writing letters, threatening her if he ever found her.  She couldn't imagine what he would have done if he had ever found out about the abortion.

She went from city to city, street to street, and shelter to shelter until she finally felt safe enough to get her high school diploma online and start college several states away. Then, she had met Bard, and the rest was history.

Or
wa
s it?

Chapter 6: Two Babies

The next day, Amelia was hanging up some tiny dresses in Lottie's small, clothes press of a  closet while the baby played on the play mat nearby in the room. She wondered if this was the room where Lucy Vincent had hanged herself. It was tiny and certainly could have been part of servants' quarters over a hundred years before.  The house only employed a few servants, and only three of the bedrooms were this small.