The Curse Оf Hollister House

Wednesday

Waking to find that I had absolutely nothing on my to-do list was something I would never get used to. I supposed if I was going to be staying at the lake for an extended period, that I needed to figure out a way to fill my days. I’d known exactly what every moment of every day would consist of since I was a teenager with goals and dreams still to be realized, but now that those goals and dreams were lost, all I really felt was empty.

Sitting up, I glanced out the window. The day had dawned bright and sunny, but the weather forecast indicated there was a storm brewing and we could expect it to make its way over the summit and into the little valley where Foxtail Lake was located by nightfall. I slipped out of bed and pulled on an old pair of sweats. The room was chilly, as it would be through the long winter, and while the heating system in the old house had been on its last legs since I’d lived here the first time, I knew that there was a stack of wood already split and seasoned just waiting to fill the six fireplaces that helped to heat the lake house.

Glancing out the window, I could see that Gracie was already outside tending to her garden. After brushing my teeth and running a brush through my hair, I headed downstairs and poured myself a large cup of coffee. Sitting alone in the large, farmhouse-style kitchen was not how I wanted to start my day, so I topped off my mug and wandered out into the garden. The brilliant color of the aspens and maples that tented the yard provided a colorful backdrop for the beds of flowers that had begun to fade but at one time had created a watercolor of oranges, yellows, reds, and browns.

“You’re up early,” I said as I approached Gracie.

She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Storms coming. It’ll be a cold one at that. I wanted to get the beds tucked in for the winter before the first snow.”

Tilting my head back, I looked toward the sunny blue sky. “Do you think it will snow? It seems early.”

Leaning back onto her heels, she looked up into the sky as well. “It’s hard to say with these mid-October storms. Some will bring snow and others rain. But the flowers are starting to die off anyway, and the forecast is for a cooler than usual end to October, so I figured it would be best to be prepared. Tom went into town for additional hay for the beds along the water. If you aren’t busy today, we could use some help getting everything covered.”

“I’d be happy to help.”

“I have fresh pumpkin muffins in the tin if you want a little something with that coffee,” Gracie informed me.

“Thanks, but I’ll stick with just coffee for now. Do you have an extra pair of gloves?”

“In the garden shed.”

It actually felt good to do something physically demanding yet totally mindless. Once Tom arrived with the bales of hay he’d purchased to complete the winterization of the garden, I set to work transferring the bales to the various parts of the yard, breaking them down and then raking them over the delicate shrubs and flowers, which would die off over the winter but reappear during the longer and warmer days of spring. Gracie’s garden really was a work of art. She had daffodil bulbs that bloomed early in the spring, providing the first hint that winter was finally over. Just about the time they were dying off, the summer blooms—daisies, coneflowers, and wild roses—appeared, and just when it seemed as if they were spent and the garden would lose its brilliance, along came fall flowers like chrysanthemums to close out the year. The lake itself was beautiful in all its seasons. Deep blue water sprinkled with foxtails and lilies provided homes for the various types of wildlife contained within. When I was a child, I’d swim and poke around in Gracie’s old rowboat during the summer; then, come winter, it was on with the ice skates.

As the morning waned and afternoon appeared, I could feel the breeze begin to pick up. Dark clouds gathered above the summit, and the temperature seemed to drop with each passing minute. Storms that crawl into our valley, leaving a layer of snow this early in the season, tended to blow out just as quickly. Gracie was right to cover her garden, but the reality was that once the storm blew through, the snow would melt and the warmer days of Indian summer would set in for a few weeks before winter arrived for real.

“I think we’ve done what we can for now,” Gracie said, pulling off her gloves.

“Hopefully, if it does snow, it won’t be a heavy snow,” Tom added, looking toward the approaching storm. “Early snow almost always brings broken branches.”

I remembered from my days at the lake that a heavy snow before the last of the leaves fell for the year was likely to bring its share of destruction. “Maybe it will just rain.” I leaned on the rake I was still holding. “The temperature has dropped, but I doubt it is anywhere near freezing.”

“Let’s hope so,” Gracie said. “I guess all we can do is wait.” She glanced at Tom. “Would you like to come in for some coffee?”

“I’d like that.”

Gracie looked at me. “Would you care to join us?”

“I have some emails to return, and then I need to hop in the shower to get ready for my dinner with Cass. I enjoyed helping you today. I haven’t worked a garden since I left for the city. It felt good to get my hands dirty.”

“You seemed to do okay today.” Gracie glanced at my left hand.

“I have enough feeling and movement that I am fine doing tasks such as raking. It is my fine motor skills that may never recover. Still, I guess time will tell, and I do feel like my range of motion has improved quite a bit even in the past couple of weeks.”

Gracie squeezed my arm in support and then headed toward the shed with her gardening tools. I gathered up the tools closest to where I stood and followed behind her. The wind had picked up to create a steady force that caused the aspens to quake. I paused and listened to the haunting sound made by nature’s symphony. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed the anticipation of an approaching storm. Sure, it rained and even snowed in New York, but when I’d lived there, I’d spent most of my time indoors, so watching the clouds roll in and the trees begin to sway really hadn’t been a factor in my life.

Once we’d all made it indoors, Tom and Gracie settled around the kitchen table, and I headed upstairs. I didn’t really have emails to return. Telling Gracie that was just my way of offering an excuse to give the friends some privacy. I knew Gracie was happy to have me home, but I was equally certain that my abrupt arrival had most likely put a crimp in her normal routine.

Deciding to log on to my computer anyway, I went ahead and checked my email account to find it filled with spam. I logged off there and logged on to Google. When Stella died, I’d been just twelve. I realized something horrible had happened, but I don’t remember getting caught up in the details, although I could remember the fear that had settled onto the entire community, as it seemed to have now. I remembered the loss of freedom as parents began picking their kids up from school rather than letting them walk home, and late-night games of hide-and-seek had been replaced with early curfews and nights spent in front of the television rather than out with friends.

But I also remembered that after a while, the terror of Stella’s death had receded into the background and life returned to normal. After a time, doors and windows were once again left open, groups of friends played outdoors well into the evening, and children began to walk in groups to and from school. The light returned to our town, and the darkness became nothing more than a distant memory to most.

When I left Foxtail Lake, I rarely thought about my friend or the terrible circumstances surrounding her death. But now… now the fear I’d suppressed for years seemed to be finding its way back into my consciousness, and I was being pulled into the death of Tracy Porter to a degree I couldn’t really explain. I’d never met the girl or her family, but I supposed that the emptiness that permeated my life since the accident had left me with a lack of purpose. If I looked at my situation objectively, it was possible that obsessing about the details surrounding the death of this young girl gave me something concrete on which to focus my attention.

Realizing that I needed to jump into the shower if I was going to be ready for our dinner date when Cass arrived, I logged off and set the notes I’d made aside. Stella had been gone a long time. The odds of her and Tracy’s killer being one and the same were unlikely, yet my gut told me the deaths were connected, and it was in that connection that the answer to who’d killed both girls would be found.