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“I know it was terrifying.” I neglect to mention that most nights now when I close my eyes, I picture Joseph’s limp body and his mangled arm dangling out of the socket. I need to be strong for him.
“It’s not what happened up there that scares me,” Joseph says. “It’s the idea that whatever’s up there could harm you and our babies. I don’t know how I would live with myself if something ever happened to you, Eleanor.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I say, but I’m not even convincing myself. The feeling that I’m being watched grows every day I spend in that house. My nostrils ache from the constant, acrid smell of salt and rot. And no amount of stress Googling I do will tell me why, at fourteen weeks pregnant, I’m still craving steaks so rare they’re bloody and licking the grease off chicken bones.
My body aches. I see the shape of a woman out of the corner of my eye, even in the most innocuous places. She wears a tattered dress and seaweed ribbons down the skirt. The damp bodice clings to her bony shoulders, and her dark hair cascades down her back. I know it’s Beatrix. I know she’s coming for me, and I don’t have the heart to warn Joseph. She wants him. She wants my babies, probably the only reason she’s kept me alive this long. I’m nothing but a pawn in her centuries-long game.
Joseph looks down at the tiny table between us, tracing the grain of the wood with his finger.
“I don’t know. People have talked about Beatrix here for as long as I can remember. Then, you come here with dozens of theories, and I tell myself I’ll hear you out to entertain you. But that night in the attic? I believed it all. I don’t know who or what was up there, but it was terrifying,” he says. His voice comes out strained.
“There’s no denying it; whatever it was, they didn’t like me. They wanted to harm me.” He gestures at his sling. “They did! And now, I don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t either. I mean, I could talk to Evan about it.”
“And he’ll do what, exactly? Give you a bibliography on the paranormal?”
“Hey! You heard him at the hospital. He knows his stuff. Maybe he knows someone in town who we could talk to.”
“I mean, at this point, I’m out of ideas. It probably wouldn’t hurt to talk to him.”
“I’ll make a note of it and ask him this week. We’re going to be okay. I promise,” I place my palm over his and squeeze.
I flinch when a voice whispers in my ear: “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
When I clock into work at two, a fresh cardboard box is on my desk.
“I found some microfiche about the original Idylewylde family when I cleaned the back room. I thought it would be of interest to you,” Evan says.
“Thanks, Evan! You thought correctly!” I say, rubbing my hands together in glee. He might as well have handed me a present.
“Let me grab it for you,” he says. He grabs the box off my desk and sets it before the microfiche machine.
I’ve grown to love the finicky old machine. It hums to life with a great whirr as I place the first slide beneath the microscope. I peer into the viewfinder and wait as the first headline adjusts:
January 12, 1835.
LOCAL GIRL DROWNS DURING JANUARY STORM.
A pit opens in my stomach as I read and put two and two together. This article is about Beatrix; it’s about the day she died. I try to maintain my focus as I read, but it’s gruesome. A local fisherman caught her body in a net, and by then, her body was bloated from seawater and decomposition.
My palms start to sweat. My palms start to sweat. A sudden surge of rage takes hold, sluicing through my veins like fire as I remember my latest discovery. The Weatherby Island Gazette's original owner was Timothy Idylewylde, Martin's younger brother and closest confidant. Martin must have paid him off to run the story. I'm so furious that I almost snap the microfiche plate in two.
I hear a chair groan behind me, and I jump, but it’s only Cora.
“Hey, did I scare you? I’m so sorry! I was just checking to see if you wanted me to bring you dinner tonight since you don’t usually work the closing shift.”
My rage subsides as I snap back to reality. “Oh, thank you, Cora, but I’m okay! I think Joseph’s bringing me something.”
“What a dreamboat,” Cora mimes swooning.
“Nah, he’s just kind,” I say as a blush floods my cheeks.
“And dreamy,” she adds, “The two of you are about to have some beautiful babies. God, I sounded like my mom when I said that. Ignore that.”
“It’s okay! He’s a good one, for sure. I'll be lucky if these babies are half as kind as him.”
“How are you feeling?”
