This Is Not a Ghost Story
Dedication
For all the weird girls, with the funny hearts.
For my husband, Sandy, who fights the good fight for the little guy.
And for my son, Wyatt, who has a face like a pie, with bright blue eyes filled with the universe.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
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
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Andrea Portes
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Scarlett Mills Gazette, August 13, 1865
The honorable Dr. Barnaby Quince and his wife, Mary Elizabeth, have perished in the house fire of 221 Stanton Hope Lane on the night of August the third. The cause of the fire is unknown, but it is believed to be due to the high summer temperatures and low precipitation of the season, possibly causing the combustion that sparked the deadly blaze. Services for the doctor and his wife will be held at the Holy Trinity Lutheran Church, Sunday, August 15, 1865, in the year of our Lord.
Chapter 1
Get hit by a Mack truck.
My plan for the summer. Not a goal, exactly. Because that would require a level of commitment beyond my current expertise.
It’s more like a vague hope. Like that someone will invent a climate-change reverser. Or Keanu Reeves will fall in love with me. Or that Michelle Obama will one day be president. A tendril of a thought. A side note.
Still, oblivion was my goal.
You would think that in the summer before my freshman year of college I’d have no reason to be anything other than giddy. But for issues that will become clear, that was not the case for your Daffodil Turner.
Daffodil. That’s me. Ironic, isn’t it. Sunny, yellow Daffodil. As full of promise as a spring day. And yet, I am wading in dread.
I forgot to tell you! Don’t assume anything. I know we are talking now, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I don’t get hit by a Mack truck. Or a city bus. Or even one of those scooters everyone keeps leaving around on the sidewalk.
It also doesn’t mean that what I’m about to tell you, all of it, even the supernatural parts, didn’t happen.
I was like you once. Thinking there was order to the universe, structure, rules we could all count on. But this summer taught me to throw all of that out the window. You’ll see. Consider yourself warned.
Maybe you think this is all a little dark? I don’t blame you. But two weeks into summer, two days into summer break, it somehow feels as if I am looking at the world through the bottom of a peephole. Like those homemade cereal-box glasses we made as kids for the solar eclipse. Don’t stare right into it. Look away.
But at this moment, trying to grasp a thought, like the address I am trying to remember, is like trying to claw myself one of those stuffed animals in a glass case at the Chuck E. Cheese. There. Almost there. I have it. AH! Gone! Dropped it.
Okay, the address is 221 Stanton Hope Lane. Scarlett Mills, Pennsylvania. Yes, that is the address of my engagement. There will be no cell phone service, I was warned. I said I could just put the address in my phone. But somehow that was preposterous. I was instructed to write it down.
And here, standing in front of 221 Stanton Hope Lane, the weight of my commitment hits me. Maybe it’s the giant gray stones at the base of the house. Or the green elm towering into the sky. Or the maple trees on the lawn looking a thousand years old.
This is a big, big place.
It hadn’t looked that big, as I remember it.
Yes, I admit, it’s a little crazy how this all came about. You see, I had intended on arriving at my final destination, Bryn Mawr College, before looking for work. Yes, that seemed obvious.
But somehow, when the train stopped at Scarlett Mills, the petunias and daffodils surrounding the little platform had seemed to be some kind of sign. You see, my name is Daffodil. So, in my mind, I suddenly felt like this was the place. Had to be the place. This was my station.
And in a rash kind of decision, the type of decision I am prone and enthusiastic to make, I jumped out of the train and onto the petunia- and daffodil-decorated platform. When I realized the college was farther up the line, I decided to make lemonade, and began my search for some kind of job. A summer job. A job that would, hopefully, pay me a handsome sum before the advent of September and my new life. The one with which I’d happily replace my old one.
Now, I know I do not get an A for planning, here. But, somehow, as these things sometimes miraculously do . . . it worked out.
Yes, going door-to-door, knocking at every address in town seemed like a positively idiotic plan. Especially with the June humidity and the bugs swarming around me and not even a one, not one door opening. (And, let’s be honest, folks. I know some of those people were actually inside, ignoring me.)
But there was a little bit of luck, you see, just a little synchronicity that somehow led me to the farther reaches of town, even to the outskirts, and to a sweet little stone house up a long winding road. There were daffodils here, too. So you see, it was destined. And, even though it appeared little at first, as I grew closer I realized how, exactly, imposing this home was.
I could hear the sound of a conversation inside. Actually, just one side of a conversation; the man obviously being on the phone with someone who must have been extremely talkative, as he couldn’t seem to get a word in edgewise.
And there was a kindness to it.
His voice.
Yes, I know it seems possibly unsafe and maybe even stupid, but I knocked. Look, I was desperate. I really did need a job, otherwise none of the rest would work.
So you see, dear friend, my dreams were fulfilled when the gentle-voiced man, who happened to be a professor, actually did have a summer job for me. A wonderful summer job! A job that utilized my strong suit, which is daydreaming. You see, all I would have to do is watch the house.
Apparently, there was some sort of renovation to be done in the back. A guesthouse was under construction. (Although, let’s be honest, you could fit five entire families in the first house, but whatever.) And the price was not only right but beyond right. Right enough to pay my entire freshman year room and board, which, combined with my scholarship, would make this academic reality an actual dream come true.
I accepted immediately. It was blissful.
A moment of kismet.
Now, as I stared down that same dirt road, the house, which seemed large, yes, but normal, well-to-do-person large, seems like some kind of (pharoah’s tomb) mansion. And the other houses seem farther away . . . as though the road were longer somehow.
Maybe this was a mistake. I could say I’m sick, I thought. Ate some bad tuna. Or maybe a stomach flu. I could have missed my train. Or lost the address . . .
The myriad ways I could get out of this come cascading down through my brain like those 1s and 0s in The Matrix. But before I can drum up the will to actually turn my body and leave, there he is on the stairs.
The professor.
He waves to me. A showy wave in the shape and size of the arc of an umbrella. “Hey, there. You made it!”
Yes, I suppose I did.
Okay, fine. Human interaction engage.
“Yeah. I’m . . . here.”
“Very glad to see it!” He’s a tall man with a kind of outdoorsy charm. Like he should be eating trail mix, pitching a tent, and going on a hike. A nice guy. A wholesome guy. The kind of guy who gets really excited about a new lentil soup recipe.
Oh, to have a dad such as this! Or even a dad at all. What would I have become? How would the kinks in Daffodil Turner have been ironed out? Maybe instead of feeling this particular and insistent sense of doom, I would be making cookies. Or skiing. Or translating lost texts from faraway lands. Perhaps I would be an archaeologist, dusting off antiquities somewhere between the Tigris and the Euphrates, rattling off facts about the Mesopotamian era.
I would say things like, “These fertility statues are pre-Babylonian. Clearly Sumerian or possibly Minoan.”
Instead, I am staring at the leather-elbowed professor with what can only be described as “lost puppy eyes.”
“I hope the trip out wasn’t too complicated. Sometimes managing these old farm roads can be kind of a Byzantine exercise,” he quips.
See! Like that! I would say “Byzantine exercise.”
“Oh, no, it was fine.”
You can tell I’m real fast on my feet.
But he doesn’t seem to mind. He gives me an encouraging smile. Reassuring. It’s like he’s the human embodiment of a vanilla-scented candle.
“Is this all you have?”
He looks down at my sky-blue suitcase. God, that does look old. I got it from a thrift store. It was probably hot stuff in, like, the 1960s.
Suddenly, I’m ashamed of it, seeing it through his eyes.
“Oh, yeah. That’s pretty much it.”
He takes a moment. “Well, good to travel light. Please, come in.”
He gives me a reassuring nod and picks up my ancient, scuffed suitcase. As we’re crossing the threshold, he turns to me.
“The first thing I want you to do is to set aside any of the rumors you’ve heard. They can be nasty.” He glances out a lead glass window, and continues, almost to himself, “Nastiness seems to be the only thing that thrives in this tiny little town.” And then, more jovially, “But I want to assure you . . . don’t worry, because absolutely none of those terrible rumors are true.”
Chapter 2
“Rumors?”
Now this is something I can really sink my teeth into. I am the largest fan of rumors and scandals and indignities and gossip. The only question in my mind is, what kind of rumors are we discussing here? Are they about the upstanding professor himself? His wife? His students? Some unseemly combination of the three? I’m going to have to pull this out of him.
“Er, I mean . . . Yes, the rumors. I’ve only heard a little bit about them. I can’t quite say that I have the full . . .”
“Oh, dear. Well, let me just say that we have lived here now for over ten years and felt nothing, heard nothing, seen nothing. It’s all quite sensational, really. And insulting to anyone with even the most basic working intellect.”
He plunks my ancient suitcase down on the front landing. Deep mahogany wood, a staircase winding up to the second floor, oil paintings on the wall of people with fluffy white accordions around their necks and white wigs. Like George Washington’s cousins. Arnold and Archibald Washington. Arby Washington. Er, Appleby Washington.
“That’s why it was such a stroke of luck that you came knocking, asking for the job. A student such as yourself, matriculating at a quite exceptional institution”—he smiles warmly—“of course, none of that sensational hogwash matters to you!”
“Yes, totally sensational.” I really am on a scouting mission now. “But you know how these things spread—”
“Oh, indeed.” He sighs.
“Indeed! These rumors are like wildfire online. Such poppycock!”
I don’t believe I’ve ever said “poppycock” before.
“Now unfortunately, you won’t get to meet my wife, as she’s already on the island.”
“The island?”
“Yes, um”—he flushes ever so slightly—“it’s all silly, her great grandfather, um, bought it. Probably won it in a poker game.”
Yes, people win islands in poker games all the time. He seems embarrassed by his wife’s fortune. My stomach churns. I wish I had the opportunity to experience such embarrassment. But I smile. He’s trying to be self-deprecating.
He continues. “They say he made his money as a shipping magnate, but I have a suspicion he was more like a rumrunner. Perhaps a poppy trader.”
“Well, that’s—”
“Alright, so, if you don’t mind, I am in a bit of a scramble to get to the train. I always seem to leave the packing for the last minute. However, we have left a few papers for you, nothing big really, just instructions about this or that. And if you have any questions, I did leave a phone number. Although, sometimes service can be a bit spotty out there.”
“On the island. Yes, of course.”
He’s scurrying around now, looking befuddled and a bit unnerved. His style of dress is straight out of the academic costume department. Tweed. Classic lines. Oxford shoes.
“That’s okay! Don’t mind me. I’ll just . . . make up my room . . .”
“Yes, yes! Take any one you choose! We aren’t fussy about such things.”
With that he scratches the thinning vestiges of brown hair on his head and scurries down the hallway.
“Don’t forget to check the papers in the kitchen! Nothing much. Just some important tips,” he assures me from what looks like a study.
A curious thing. On the bookshelf, tucked between the hundreds of books, mid-shelf, is a frog in some sort of liquid, floating in a jar. The professor notices me looking at it.
“Ah, yes. A strange gift from one of my students. A biology major. Not sure if it was a backhanded insult, honestly.” He chuckles to himself.
But I stay looking at the suspended frog, his legs wading out underneath him as if in an eternal jump. Poor frog. What did he do to live out his afterlife on display in a glass jar, a musing for another, more macabre species?
A cold species, really, to keep such relics around.
“Hope you like reading! We have quite a collection of books around here, feel free to peruse anything. No use in them just sitting around collecting dust,” he shouts out again, organizing, then scratching his head, organizing some more. Under his breath, I hear him talking to himself. “Let’s see . . . oh yes. Right.”
I stand there, not sure if I should go up the stairs or wait for him to leave to start my exploration.
I’ll just wait. Seems more polite.
A cursory glance around the room tells me that someone is a meticulous duster. You could eat off the floor. Is there a maid? Does someone else live here? Or does she come maybe once a week?