Melissa Foster - Chasing Amanda

She opened her eyes and raised her head, her gaze settling first to the windows next to the stairs, and then higher, to the top of the stairs, where looking down upon her was a woman and a young girl—an apparition. She wiped her eyes, certain she had not seen what she thought she had. She staggered to her feet, her breath caught in her throat. At the top of the stairs, stood Mrs. Perkinson, whom she recognized from the portrait, and a young girl. The figures were transparent, yet discernable. The woman’s eyes locked with Pastor Lett’s, her floor-length dress and light apron, tied around her waist, moved as she beckoned her with her arms—motioning her to come forward. Pastor Lett’s legs felt like lead as she moved toward the stairs. She lifted her foot to the first riser, certain her legs would fail her, and yet they carried her up the long staircase. The little girl clung to her mother’s leg, peering out from behind. Pastor Lett stood three steps from the landing, holding onto the railing, her eyes wide, disbelieving. The woman turned and walked down the hall, toward the far bedroom. The little girl held her hand, looking over her shoulder once, then forward again. Pastor Lett forced herself to continue up the risers, and finally, onto the landing. She watched the tail of the woman’s dress disappear into the bedroom. The silence pressed in on her. She made her way slowly down the hallway, telling herself that what she had seen was not real—that she was exhausted. She forced the lessons that she had been taught, that the spirit lived beyond the heavenly body, to the back of her mind. She stood at the entrance to the bedroom and pushed the heavy wood door all the way open. It creaked and knocked against the wall, startling her. In the center of the room, the little ghostly girl played with a wooden dollhouse, a dollhouse that Pastor Lett had seen many times—an exact replica of the Perkinson House. The figures in the house were set up in various rooms of the tiny diorama. The girl moved them with her transparent fingers. The tiny mother figurine stood in the kitchen, next to a miniaturized stove. The father figure was placed in the study, surrounded by a desk and shelves that were perfectly scaled. The inhabited rooms were on the middle floor of the dollhouse. The top floor of the dollhouse had four rooms, each one equipped with a miniature-sized bed and nightstand, a small figurine of a girl lay on a bed in the center of one of the bedrooms. The first floor of the dollhouse had indistinguishable rooms, just bare open spaces. The last figurine, a boy, was placed in the open space of the first floor, next to a plastic candle. Pastor Lett took those images in quickly; mere seconds had passed.

The little girl looked up at her and smiled. Pastor Lett blanched, she could barely breathe.

The girl mouthed, “Thank you.”

Pastor Lett blinked rapidly and swept her eyes toward a movement at the far end of the room. Mrs. Perkinson stood in front of the boarded-up window. Each board appeared to be an oddly integral part of her body. Her hands were clasped in front of her. She nodded, as if in slow motion. A sudden chill whisked through the room, and the woman and child faded away. Pastor Lett remained still, only the ends of her hair moved with the sudden gust of air. Just as suddenly, the chill was gone, swallowed by the walls.

Twenty One

Molly pulled into her driveway to find Steve Moore, the roofing contractor that Cole had hired a few weeks before, sitting in his truck in front of her house. Molly parked her car and walked to the driver’s side door. Steve leaned over his clipboard, cell phone pressed tightly against his ear. He held up one finger to Molly. Molly sifted through her memory trying to recall if Cole had mentioned that he’d forgotten to pay him. A moment later, Steve rolled down his window. Even his large truck seemed too small for his six-foot-five frame. He smiled, a kind, open smile that held no pretense or hidden agenda, simply a welcome greeting. “Sorry, Molly,” he said. “Cell phones: you gotta love ’em, you gotta hate ’em.” He waved his phone in his enormous hand. Molly smiled, “What’s up, Steve?” “I came by the other day to check on a leak. I just wanted to make sure that everything was okay, that there were no issues.”

Molly told him that they hadn’t had any other leaks and that she appreciated his stopping by. On a whim, she turned back and asked, “Steve, do you know anything about the Perkinson family or their house? The one near the lake?”

“Sure, I’ve worked around here for so many years that there ain’t much I don’t know. Which is good and bad if you get my drift,” he cracked a wicked little smile. “What do you want to know?” “I don’t really know. I just have a funny feeling about the house, that’s all.” “It used to be a hotel, and I’ve heard that it has ghosts, too.” He started the engine of his truck. “What do you know about the ghosts?” Molly asked excitedly.

He laughed. “Well, I don’t know them personally, if that’s what you mean. I’ve heard rumors of old Mr. Perkinson walkin’ ’round the house, on the grounds, and of the late Mrs. Perkinson sittin’ in a rockin’ chair, knittin’.”

“Really?”

“Well, there were a few stories that went around for a while, but I doubt they were true. Oh, you know how these things go, everything from Lizzie Borden to the Amityville Horror.”

Molly looked intrigued.

“I’m not sayin’ that it ain’t true, I’m just sayin’ that I’ve heard about a daughter who didn’t really exist, and a son that was born when they were really old, but I ain’t never seen no proof.” He looked away, guffawed, “Stories, they grow like trees around here.”

“Well, you never know what happened back then.”

“You know Newton Carr? He never lets things go undocumented,” he rolled his eyes. “He s’posably asked old Chet Perkinson, you know, to validate the facts? Anyway, according to Newton, old Chet Perkinson ain’t as with it as he used to be. Said the child was never born. So who knows where these stories come from.

“One thing I do know,” his voice grew quiet, “they all died in that house, one by one. They didn’t believe in no hospitals. It’s a wonder old Chet left.” Steve paused, then cheerily said, “Speaking of hospitals, I guess you know about the big indoor yard sale up at the private school to benefit Children’s Hospital. It’s been going on all week. I went up a couple nights ago.”

Damn! Molly had forgotten all about it. “How was it?”

“It was great. I saw Newton there. He was picking up a bunch of kids’ stuff, probably for his grandkids, pants, shirts, dresses—even bought toys.”

Molly recalled the photo of Newton’s grandchildren in his living room: two boys, about ten and twelve years old.

Molly made her way inside, lavishing the dogs with soft strokes and kind words before opening the door and letting them romp outside. She thought about Steve’s mention of ghosts at the Perkinson House, and wondered if she were chasing a ghost, chasing Amanda’s memory. Maybe Cole’s right , she thought. Maybe I am trying to right my wrong . Frustrated, she buried her face in her hands, It wasn’t my fault! she thought, then she stood up straight and said, “I can’t think about this right now.” She leaned against the counter looking for a distraction—anything to take her mind off of Amanda. The blinking light on the answering machine fulfilled her wish.

“Hi, Ma, it’s me,” Molly smiled at his need to announce himself—as if she wouldn’t recognize his voice after listening to it for eighteen years. “Did you find the guy yet? Call me. Oh, and Ma, can you put twenty bucks in my account? I’m a little low. Thanks. Love you. Bye.” Molly’s finger hovered over the delete button, then she quickly pulled away. She knew she was ridiculous, but she always liked to have his voice nearby. Before checking the next message, she pulled out her cell phone and texted Erik, Got ur msg. Dating money? She knew the message would cause an eye roll from him. A moment later her cell vibrated with a reply, Haha. She smugly resumed checking messages.