Familiar Spirit

Was it an unconscious mistake? Or was Jade calling her, reeling in the line? Sarah shivered, remembering Valerie’s words again. Was it true? Did Jade have a hold over her that she had not recognized? Looking at the house, Sarah realized that she still felt the desire to go inside, although she could not justify it to herself.

A dream-fragment flashed vividly into her mind. She had been married, and living in this house. The house had been furnished differently, with chintz curtains and rag rugs on polished, new wooden floors, and there had been an open fireplace, and, in the dining room, behind the glass-fronted doors, pink and white china had been on display. And in that proper, old-fashioned household, she, Sarah, she, the dreamer, had been down on the floor, on her hands and knees on one of the rag rugs, her skirt and petticoat pushed up to her waist while behind her, thrusting himself into her with groans and curses, was a man she could feel but not see, a stranger, her husband.

“You whore,” he whispered furiously. “You like this, don’t you?”

Yes, yes, she did. She liked this brutal act, being driven like an engine, every thrust pushing her closer to the edge, to the end, when she would take leave of her senses, fly out of herself . . .

Her hand was on the kitchen door.

Sarah came back to herself with a shudder, almost leaping off the porch in her haste to get away. Her heart was pounding painfully and she felt feverish. It was a dream, that was all, only a dream. It had never happened.

You need a new boyfriend, she told herself grimly. Celibacy is driving you crazy.

Keeping her thoughts under strict control, Sarah went to her car, got in, and drove away from the house to Seton Hospital, where Mrs. Owens was resting in a private room.

“She’s doing much better, but she tires easily and her mind wanders,” explained the nurse who escorted Sarah. “So you mustn’t get upset if she seems to forget who you are, or talks about the past as if it has just happened.”

“Does she remember what happened to her? When she had her stroke.”

“No. She understands what has happened to her because we told her, but her memories are confused and mixed up with dreams. I’m not certain whether or not she’ll ever remember exactly what happened, but it won’t hurt to ask. It may come back to her. It’s often the case that stroke and accident victims suffer a partial amnesia.”

The door to the room was open. Knocking lightly on it, the nurse led Sarah inside.

“Well, Helen,” she said brightly. “You have a visitor this morning! This is Sarah Cole, the young lady who found you and called the ambulance when you had your stroke.”

Sarah stepped forward and saw a frail, white-haired woman lying in bed. She looked smaller than Sarah remembered, and her skin was grey against the white sheets. But her blue eyes were still bright and alert in the old, sagging face.

At a nod from the smiling nurse, Sarah reached out and lifted a limp hand from the bed. “Hello, Mrs. Owens,” she said. “I’m Sarah. Do you remember me?”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” the nurse said softly. And, pressing Sarah’s shoulder quickly, she was gone.

Mrs. Owens moved her head on the pillow: a bare shake of negation. There was no recognition in her eyes.

Sarah said, “I live in the house on West Thirty-fifth Street. The one you rented to Valerie.”

Something sparked in the eyes: alarm. “Valerie,” said the woman in a faint voice. She shuddered. “Valerie, the spiders! They’re on my face—” Her voice rose in pitch, although not in strength, and she pulled her hand out of Sarah’s and made swiping motions at her face, as if brushing something away.

“It’s all right,” Sarah said. “There aren’t any spiders here. You’re safe—you’re in the hospital.”

The panic faded. “I know.”

“But you were remembering something just now, something that happened to you. Something about Valerie. What did you mean about the spiders?”

“All over me,” Mrs. Owens murmured. “On my face, spinning . . . I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I fell down, and they were all over me . . .”

“Where was this?”

“The house . . . my husband’s house. On West Thirty-­fifth Street. The rent-house. We always rented it out. He would never go there, because of the awful things that happened there when he was a child. You couldn’t blame him. Such things make a terrible impression on a young mind. And it was his own mother, after all. He never would live there, afterwards. But he didn’t want to sell it, either. So we always rented it out.”

“Why? What awful things happened there?”

“There was never any trouble. We rented it out for years and years without any complaints or trouble. And why should there be? I don’t believe in ghosts. Only memories can haunt, and they don’t haunt places—they haunt people. My husband doesn’t believe—didn’t—” Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, my dear. I forgot. I’m always forgetting. I can see him so clearly, still, in my mind, that it’s like he’s alive. But my husband has been dead for five years. I’m alone now. All alone.”