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They’re both talking over each other, and I can barely keep up.
Joseph looks over at my stunned expression and shakes his head. “Mother, she's supposed to be here for six months. You're going to scare her off before her contract even starts.”
“No, no. This is good actually. I want my research to represent varying opinions, I don’t want to be biased one way or the other. I must remain objective.”
“What are you, some sort of anthropologist?”
I shrug as I eat another forkful of meatloaf. “I almost went to school for anthropology, but I found that I like the material aspects of research and preservation.”
“I’m gonna pretend to know what that means and save you a lot of trouble: we’re not cursed. If you want to digitize some records of the town square, go for it. But we’re not haunted by anything or anyone. My ancestors made up the curse to justify their terrible decision-making skills. They needed a boogeyman because they refused to admit that their stocks plummeted with the Great Depression, so they pinned it on a young, poor girl who my great-great grandfather knocked up. End of story.”
“Joseph has no space for whimsy,” Iphigenia chides.
“I’ll tell you the true story of Beatrix if you want,” Iphigenia offers as she clears our plates. My curiosity wins out as Iphigenia brings out shallow dishes of peach cobbler for dessert.
“Okay, tell me everything you know.”
“Idylewylde Hall was supposed to be a wedding present. Martin’s young bride, Adelaide, disliked the city. She found it stressful, and her doctors said that the sea air would do her good. Martin purchased Weatherby Island from Carlton Weatherby in 1830, long before he met Adelaide, but when they became betrothed, he decided it would be a suitable place for their estate. Martin wanted plenty of space for their growing family. They married in 1835, and Martin decided to stay on the island to oversee the hall’s construction. It was there he met Beatrix, the younger sister of one of the men on the construction crew. She was a servant of sorts. She’d cook and clean for the men building the house. Martin took a liking to her. Though she was poor, she was feisty. She could read and write. She was beguiling. Martin called her a changeling and said she was sent to tempt him.”
“He was old and horny,” Joseph cut in.
“Joseph! Stop! You’re wrecking the narrative buildup,” Iphigenia pouts.
“Eventually, Martin did give into temptation. He and Beatrix began a torrid affair, and as the date of Adelaide’s arrival grew near, their affair only grew more passionate. Beatrix became pregnant, and Martin was beside himself. It was August, and Adelaide was supposed to arrive in January. He couldn’t ring in the new year by telling his wife that he’d gotten another woman pregnant. Martin begged Beatrix to get rid of it, and she tried. There were teas and tinctures, but she couldn’t go through with it. Martin grew cold and cruel as her belly grew. He stopped talking to her, threatened her job, and threatened to send her back to the mainland. Eventually, the stress became too much for Beatrix, and she miscarried the week before Adelaide was supposed to arrive. Bereft, without her child or her lover, and forced to serve Adelaide, Beatrix drowned herself during the first week of January. There was no such thing as forensics back then, but the water was so cold experts suspect she died due to hypothermia and water in her lungs. Now, it's said she walks the shores desperately clinging to the place where she fell in love, looking for a sympathetic ear to tell her story. Sometimes, at night, you’ll hear her in the attic, too. That’s where Beatrix and Martin had a lot of their trysts.”
Joseph rolls his eyes so hard I think he’s about to pull a muscle. “So, my family is cursed by a horny ghost who refuses to get over a breakup. Classic.”
“Joseph doesn’t know how to cope with tragedy, so he uses a lackluster sense of humor. Please, forgive him. Idylewylde men have it particularly rough. Sources say that Beatrix’s baby was a boy. She’s always wanted an Idylewylde son.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means my family likes to blame a ghost every time one of my elderly uncles throws a clot.”
“Charming, Joseph. You really know how to make people feel welcome. Now, make yourself useful and grab these dishes, will you?”
Joseph huffs like a petulant teenager as he cleans, and Iphigenia beams at me from across the table.
“We are so delighted that you’re here, don’t let Joseph’s misanthropy fool you.”
“All I’m saying is, do we even know if Beatrix is real? Yeah, there are records of Martin and plans for the house, but nothing we’ve found has her name on it. There are no records of the servants,” Joseph states as he reenters the room.
I immediately think back to the diary I found, but something tells me to hold off on telling Joseph about it.
“Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about. I’m starting to figure out what I’ll need to look for,” I say diplomatically.
“We’re happy to help,” Iphigenia says.
Joseph scowls again. “Did you ever think that what you’re looking for doesn’t want to be found?”
The sound of the rain soothes me as I get ready for bed. I wash my face and change into my pajamas. The bed is old but cozy. The mattress is soft, and the quilt smells like moth balls. I snuggle deeper into my pillow and fall into a dreamless sleep.
I jerk awake with a jolt. I can’t breathe. It feels like someone is sitting on my chest. I can feel their kneecaps pressing into the space between my breasts, their weight shifting forward. I try to roll over, but I’m stuck flat on my back starfished like a dead frog readying for a science class dissection.
I try to take a deep breath, but my lungs only fill up part way. My throat closes. My airway is shrinking, becoming smaller and smaller. I try to focus on my breath. I open my eyes, and I see her.
Beatrix’s face is waterlogged and bloated. Her dress, once white, is now the scummy gray of ocean water in the dead of winter. It hangs off her emaciated body in ribbons. I hear the slow drip of water and look over the side of my bed. Her dress is soaked. It’s leaving a puddle. I smell the salt of the ocean.
I try to tell myself that this is a dream and will myself to wake up, but I can’t.
