Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Fifteen
I whirled around ready to fight, but it was only Mrs. Conrad, in
an old-fashioned high-neck nightgown and curlers sticking from her head like
the quills of a porcupine.
“Oh, Mrs. Conrad!” I said. “I thought a big bad ghost had me that
time for sure!”
“What are you doing in this room?” Mrs. Conrad demanded.
“I—that is—”
“Your room is across the hall,” said Mrs. Conrad. “Do you walk in
your sleep?”
“Well, not very often,” I said. “But sometimes I do when I’m sleeping
in a strange bed. I’m sorry I caused you so much annoyance. I’m wide awake, so
I’ll go back to my room now.”
I did not give Mrs. Conrad an opportunity to question me further.
I went back to Emma’s room and closed the door. I heard Mrs. Conrad close the
door of room seven and turn a key in the lock. Then the house once more settled
down for the night.
I was glad that Florence and Emma had slept through the
disturbance. I had no intention of revealing to them what had happened.
Now that I was snuggled down under the covers, I told myself that
my fears had been just a silly moment of weakness, but the truth was that—
although I don’t believe in ghosts— I’d been as terrified by that painting as
Emma had been. But no matter how hard I tried, I failed to convince myself that
I’d been alone in that room. I repeatedly told myself it had been entirely in
my head, but I could not shake my conviction that the eyes in the painting had
really been looking at me.
I finally slept and did not awaken until early morning, when
someone pounded on the door.
“Six o’clock,” called Mrs. Conrad. “Time to get up, Emma.”
Emma slipped out of bed and started dressing in a daze.
“I suppose we may as well get up, too,” Flo said.
I washed my hands and face in ice-cold water from a white
porcelain pitcher and combed my hair.
“Is one of my eyes out of place, or is it this cracked mirror?” I
asked, turning to Emma.
“It’s the mirror,” said Emma.
“I couldn’t be sure,” I said. “After last night—”
“Emma!” Mrs. Conrad called from the foot of the stairs. “Are you
up yet?”
“Coming.”
She started for the door, but I caught her by the hand.
“Emma,” I said. “This will be our last chance to talk. Won’t you
come home with me? I’m sure you’ll never like this place.”
“I know that.”
“Then come back to Greenville with us. You can stay at our house
until you find work.”
Emma shook her head.
“Thank you, Jane, but I can’t impose upon you. I am determined to
be self-supporting.”
Emma pulled her hand away, ran out of the room and down the
stairway to the kitchen.
An hour later, Flo and I were ready to leave.
“I appreciate your help more than I can say,” said Emma. “And I’ll
miss you both terribly. This house is like a morgue.”
“Florence and I will run down to see you now and then,” I
promised. “And remember this, if you should need us for any reason, don’t
hesitate to send word.”
“I’ll remember,” Emma said.
I had made up my mind to talk with Thom Vhorst again, so we went
next door for breakfast. The man did not seem very glad to see us, nor was he
in a conversational mood. Perhaps suspecting our purpose in calling, he
remained in the kitchen after serving us.
“He may not be in the mood to flap his gums, but I’ll force him
from his lair,” I said.
Rapping on the table, I requested a second cup of coffee. He deposited
it by my plate and started to retreat, but before he could escape, I said
quickly: “Oh, Mr. Vhorst, what was it you started to tell us yesterday? You
remember—when Glen Conrad came in.”
“I don’t recollect. Don’t recall I was goin’ to tell you anything.”
“Something about Old Mansion,” I insisted. “Is it haunted?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then what is all this mystery connected with room seven?”
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