Chapter 15 - The Mercy Cage

The fifteenth chapter of our thriller novel, in which Emily discovers one of the neighbors of their new mansion is not who he seems.

Emily- New York City, 1945

***Select chapters are free - this is a free one - enjoy!

Prologue // Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 // Chapter 6 // Chapter 7 // Chapter 8 // Chapter 9 // Chapter 10 // Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 // Chapter 13 // Chapter 14

The mattress whines slightly as I drop my heavy leather suitcase onto it. I exhale in relief and wipe the dew off my hairline with the back of my hand. I’ll be fully at ease once everything is out of boxes and cases, but this will be my last unpacking for the day. I hear a hearty guffaw from outside and wander to the window to see George and Richard still chatting in the drive. Up has walked (I assume) a neighbor who is standing with them both now- Richard has his hand on his shoulder and is saying something about him to George, though I can’t make out his features in the shadow of dusk. I hear myself sigh and it startles me. How either of them has any energy left after today I’ll never know, I feel as if I am about to droop. I gently place my hand on the delicate warbled pane of glass in the large window, remembering the shutter clamoring against it this morning, and marveling that such delicate old glass could sustain such a beating. My gaze shifts from the glass to the distorted figure of the neighbor beyond it and my breath jumps- it feels as though he is staring straight at me. Even more curious is that he has stiffened, could I have frightened him? I back away from the window and chuckle to myself- I must have looked like a haunt of the house staring down at the poor men. 

I shake my head, blinking my dry eyes and turning to face my last obstacle- the suitcase. Another heavy sigh. I unlatch the brass clasps and throw open the case- nothing too expansive, just essentials for the night. I smile at my forethought and allow myself the pride at a packing job well-done. First out of the suitcase is my dressing gown, which I cannot wait to change into. Almost there, I remind myself, as I drape it over the chair by the window for now. Underneath the nightgown is a small decoupage box. I carefully take it out and open the lid, revealing the photographs inside. I pull a few out and place them on the dresser. I feel that items of personal value help make a space more quickly feel as one’s own. A sentimental tie to help the house know it’s in good hands. The next image halts me. My eyes linger for a moment on a photo of myself and someone older- Mother. My heart twinges but the corners of my mouth lift. This one must be on display. I set the picture on the dresser and look back to the window. The men are still chatting politely. My eyes begin to feel heavy- I really must stop for the day. I turn back to the suitcase and place the little box onto the dresser, only a few more photos left to go through tomorrow. And Mother’s letter, I correct myself. In the din of the funeral arrangements and then moving, I had placed the letter she left me where I knew it would be safe among other precious things. I had read over it in my deep grief and feared drenching it in tears, so I put it aside for safe-keeping. I hardly remember any of it, but I don’t know that I’m quite ready to try again. 

On the bed, the sheets are folded into a neat pile. I close and latch the now-empty suitcase and tuck it behind the chair in the corner, eager to distract myself  from the memory box. I wander back over to the bed, and snap open the sheets to throw them open onto the bed.

I shift in the cozy corner chair and flip to the next page of my novel. A silly mystery with a lot of suspects, but I am very curious. A candle sits on top of the armoire now, the air so still that the flame from the wick barely curls and reaches steadily upward. Soft murmurs of the men speaking in the other room soften the otherwise stark silence. It is so different from the city! I look up and see the now-framed pictures along the dresser, sitting on top of one of my Mother’s old lace doilies she crocheted. Long and rectangular, like a table-runner, with such delicate repetitive knots.

I wish I had asked her to show me how.

We used to knit together, but the intricate smaller work had eluded me. I smile looking at the display of sentimental knick knacks, it really does feel like home.  The voice of my husband begins to get closer and I hear his footfalls. The door gently opens and he pokes his head in. I can’t help but smile.

“Darling- you haven't retired yet, have you?” I smile and look up from my book at him, glad that I didn’t yet change into my dressing gown. “No, dear, I've just been settling in.” “His smile broadens and he comes fully into the room. “Good!” Almost immediately I see him look around and begin to fan himself, “Sweltering in here- you aren’t warm?” He crosses to the window and opens it for me then crosses back to the doorway. “Better?” I smile at his consideration, “Much!” “Look, now- I’m afraid Richard left our copy of the deed at his office downtown- I’m going to go with him to collect it. Would you like to join? We can swing by the supper club and celebrate the closing.” I truly marvel at his energy! “Oh, that’s alright. I’ve already got my slippers on. You go ahead, darling.” I smiled reassuringly as he gently furrowed his brow and that little line appeared. “Are you sure?” I nodded and George came and gave me a kiss before heading back to the doorway. He turned and flashed his most charming smile, “I won’t be late,” before blowing me a kiss and softly shutting the door behind him. 

From down the hall I could hear George and Richard gather themselves, chattering, and then close the door behind them as they leave. The cozy hum of activity starkly ended, and a ring of silence filled the room. I leaned back into the chair cushion to see out the window. I see Richard and George get into Richard’s car and start to pull away down the looping driveway. I return to my book, but a yawn swiftly overtook me, so I look to the wooden clock on the bureau and decide it is time to get ready for bed. I lift myself from the soft chair and make my way across the room to the armoire. My nightgown hangs prettily on the door, I remove my day dress and pull it gingerly from the hanger and over my head. With my bare back towards the open window, a sudden wind barges in and hits my back sending a chill up my spine. I gasp out loud as I hear a clatter and the sound of glass breaking. I frantically pull the rest of my nightgown on and turn to see the candle has been blown out, and beside it the framed photo of my Mother has fallen on its face and broken. “Damn.” I hear myself say out loud.

Luckily the tea towels were already shuffled from their boxes during lunch, so I was able to grab one quickly then swiftly make it back upstairs to the bedroom; downstairs was surprisingly chilly compared to the room, and I was suddenly aware of the vastness of the house now that I was alone in it. How silly. I chided myself as I found myself closing the door behind me after rushing back into the room in my slippered feet. I lay the towel on top of the little shards that have fallen from the frame on the bureau and fold them in safely. Once that is secure, I flip over Mother’s frame and see (thankfully) that only a bit of glass has fallen out. The picture is still held in place, but sitting behind spidering cracks now. I shake the broken pieces from the tea towel into the waste bin and use it to wipe and clean the glass over Mother’s side of the picture. Thank goodness the picture itself wasn’t damaged. 

My ear catches something in the silence of the ticking clock and I lift my head to pick it up better. A mumble- George downstairs. He and Richard must have forgotten something at home, or else realized the contract had been here all along? I query. My heart instinctively lifts. I smile, place the frame back down and float over to the door. I crack it open and stick my head out to call, “Did you forget something, dear?” I listen for a response,  but there is nothing but the tick of the clock. Not even murmurs anymore. “George?” I cross the room to the window and peer out towards the driveway. The car is still gone. How curious. Something soft and dim in my periphery catches my eye and my focus shifts somewhere deeper in the darkness, towards the yard. There is something there- someone on the grounds- digging aggressively. A shadowed mass of a man with a spade, sharply plunging it into the earth fast and hard. Frenetically. My spine straightens and I race towards the door staunchly, pulling my house coat off its hook and throwing open the door.