The Mansion of Mystery, Part Three

I run as fast as I can up the once grand staircase to the second floor of the house on the hill. I am panting, almost gasping for air because of the shock at what has just happened and the exertion of running. I stand at the top of the staircase in the hallway and listen, trying to stop my breath from coming in ragged gasps so I can hear. There is an eerie stillness and suddenly, what I hear is a frightened shout.

VICTOR!!

I turn toward the sound and at first only notice with slight annoyance that the curtains at the end of the hallway are closed once more. Then in the dimness I see her. She is frozen where she stands two-thirds of the way down my hallway. Her eyes are open in surprise and her short, straight, blonde hair falls in a blunt cut around her young face. She seems pale, like all the color has been washed away with time. Her hair, her face, her clothing are eerily pale. Her clothing is strange, I have time to think, when I see her intake of breath and I know she's going to scream.

I reach my hand out toward her and hear myself say, "Shh. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you." I hold up my other hand as well so she can see I'm not armed in any way. "And why aren't you?" that voice in my head screams in fear.

I take a careful slow step in her direction, walking kind of hunched over like you do when approaching an animal caught in a trap: moving slowly so it can't hurt you, but letting it know you're coming and you're going to help....

She doesn't scream and takes a small faltering step backwards, still afraid. I try to smile and I softly say, "It's all right. My name is Catherine. This is my house now. What is your name?"

I see the fear in her expression turn to surprised curiosity and she takes three small strides toward me in the hallway. She tilts her head to the side slightly and almost whispers, "My name is Chloe. This is my house. I live here with my family."

It's my turn to look surprised. There hasn't been anyone in the house for eighty years, and the last three people were the tycoon, his wife and her mother. There were no girls Chloe's age (I guessed she was about five) and certainly no "family". I opened my mouth to ask her more, but just then, whatever was connecting us tore us apart and Chloe faded right before my eyes.

I stood, confused, in the dimly lit hallway with my mouth open. Then, regaining some composure, I walked down the hallway to the spot where she had been. I felt a cold breeze and heard a far away whisper "She was right here." Then I walked to the window and opened the curtain and once again made my way downstairs, determined to figure out what was going on and who Chloe was, and wondering why she was here. I had to get to the library. Under the carport I flipped open my cell phone and called a cab.

Beneath the yellow glow of the library's desk light I search through old newspaper clippings. The librarian, Richard, is helping me, looking relieved at having something to do for a change. He's been bringing out old journals, files of clippings and old photos of the house and the people who lived there.

It seems I was right, which only confuses me more. Victor Hewitt was in his forties when he built the house on the hill for his bride-to-be Miss Elizabeth Wilton-Turner, then twenty-four. Elizabeth's mother (the stuffy and slightly overbearing) Evelyn Wilton-Turner was a widow, and was not easily separated from her daughter. There is no information about her husband or how or when he died.

The house was completed in January of 1927 at which time Victor began receiving furnishings from all over the world. In March they were married and after a honeymoon trip to Europe, moved into the house on the hill in April. Elizabeth, in June, had a small showing at the house on the hill of her artwork which was covered by the local newspaper. There is the occasional newspaper clipping about Victor's contributions to the local economy, his next business venture (he wanted to open an art gallery), and the occasional society sighting of the Victor Hewitts (mother-in-law in tow).

I gasp as I look at a picture of Elizabeth's showing at the house on the hill. Elizabeth and Victor standing arm-in-arm in front of her painting of a young, pale girl in odd clothing with straight blonde hair cradling her face. Richard lifts his head and stares at me and only looks confused as I whisper, "Chloe."