Page 56 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
That is what I am perhaps afraid of the most. What brought me comfort here in this life will stay here in this life. What I hoped to acquire will be the death of me, and what I hoped to avoid such as death will come whether I wish it to or not.
In the end, I am powerless. I am barren. I own nothing, I hold nothing, I take nothing. It is me. God. My sins.
I rise from the grave, although my eyes continue to stare at the unfamiliar name of the unfamiliar person who lived an unfamiliar life.
One day my name will be carved into stone.
But where will my spirit be?
19
NORAH
Present Day
Shepherd, Iowa
THEREWASSOMETHINGabout an old farmhouse in the night that was creepy, even if you’d grown up there. Norah padded down the hallway, lit only by a small night-light plugged into an outlet. She was thirsty and had forgotten to take a bottle of water with her to set next to her bed. Today had been grueling. She needed something stronger than water, but that was a recipe for disaster.
Unless it was coffee.
Norah glanced into the dining room, pausing in the doorway. The case files were spread across the table, pieces of her past scattered like dirty laundry. Then there was the folder with bits of Isabelle Addington’s past. A newspaper clipping. A copy of a handwritten note explaining what had been found in this very house over a hundred years ago.
A creak behind her made Norah look quickly over her shoulder.
Nothing there.
She was creeping herself out. No one in their right mind looked at cold case murder files at two in the morning. Especially ones that she was specifically related to or involved in.
Another creak, like a floorboard protesting the weight of someone’s presence. Norah turned, squinting down the hallway. No one was there. The stairs leading up to the second floor rose like a dark tunnel, but there was a night-light at the top landing where the stairs turned to continue their journey up. No one there either.
Norah shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts—and her ears—from imagining things. It helped that she was wide awake this time. At least she wouldn’t see spirits moving around her bedroom.
She turned her back to the dining room and went into the kitchen.
Sebastian had made coffee earlier that evening, and the light on the heating component was still on. Which meant it was still hot. Granted, Norah was sure he hadn’t done so on purpose, but it served her well now. Forget water. She was going all in tonight.
Pouring black coffee into a mug with a yellow sunflower on the side, Norah stared out the back window as she sipped the brew. The moon was out tonight, just a fingernail of light that glowed just enough to make the tops of some of the old gravestones visible.
The glowing gravestone.
Norah smiled to herself. As kids, she and Naomi had told all their friends that if you visited their aunt Eleanor’s graveyard at night, sometimes a stone would glow. It was the spirit of a dead soul hovering over their resting place.
It was, in fact, the moon reflecting off a glossy marble surface. But for a ten-year-old, the sight was the creepiest thing ever.Aunt Eleanor had chased many kids from her backyard in the wee hours of the morning because of Norah and Naomi’s tales. She’d always scolded them, but she’d always smiled while she scolded too.
Norah remembered her aunt as a sweet lady who’d been old for as long as she could remember. It seemed Aunt Eleanor had always had white hair, always had horn-rimmed glasses, that she’d always spoken in a voice with the vibrato of age in its notes. She’d been feisty and fun, ever patient, devoted, and wise. She’d told the story of Isabelle Addington’s ghost as if it were as entertaining a tale as the headless horseman and Ichabod Crane.
A murder. At 322 Predicament Avenue.
“The blood. Ohhhh, theblood.”Aunt Eleanor always dragged out the wordohto bring more terror to the story.
Spattered on a mirror, hidden under a dresser. Blood everywhere once folks saw fit to finally move the furniture around. Whoever had murdered poor Isabelle had done a stand-up job of making sure she was dead. No one could survive losing all that blood. It was found behind paintings hung over the spatter on the walls. Found beneath the bed. Found dried and crusty along the wainscoting behind the dresser.“Blood. Ohhhh,the blood.”
At twelve, Naomi had sat perched on the edge of her chair, eyes wide with intrigue. Norah had resisted the urge to dive under the table and cover her ears. Yet Aunt Eleanor was the old lady who watched every episode of the TV showUnsolved Mysteriesand then watched them all again. If Aunt Eleanor were alive today, she’d be in front of her old computer with its dot matrix printer, printing out sheets of “What Happened to Naomi?” and stapling them to the telephone poles around town.
Aunt Eleanor had beencrushedwhen Naomi was killed. Her smile had disappeared right along with Norah’s. They never spoke of Naomi again. Eleanor existed. Norah hid away. Eleanor died. Norah refused to leave the house for her funeral. Eleanorwilled 322 Predicament Avenue to Norah ... and the nightmare continued.
Another sip of now-lukewarm coffee brought Norah back to the present. Sleep was elusive as usual. But standing there looking out into the abyss of the backyard’s graveyard was going to accomplish nothing. Neither was drinking Sebastian’s highly caffeinated coffee. She moved to leave her spot at the window when something caught her eye.
