Out of the Mist Read online

  “I didn’t see a chair either,” I say, rubbing my left knee.

  I notice dragging marks on the floor. They lead to where the chair was. “Look, Edith. The chair was dragged here. Look! Look at the tracks!”

  Surprised, she studies the chair more closely. “It must be teenagers playing tricks. We get a call or two every month of kids hanging around here,” she quickly rationalizes. “Are you okay to walk, or should I call for help?”

  Short of a few bruises, I’m okay. My ego seems to have taken the worst of it. I take the chair and follow the dragging marks in the dust. They bring me back to the seating area. I put it back in its place with more force than necessary.

  “You mentioned we should see the nursery next,” I tell Edith, redirecting us to the task at hand.

  “It’s on the other side of the sitting area, down another short hallway,” she replies.

  I follow Edith into the hall, and cast a spiteful look at the chair. Perplexed, I search the ground for an additional pair of footprints but find only mine and Edith’s.

  The nursery looks different from the other rooms. It is soft, cheerful and unassuming. It doesn’t have the same air of formality. It’s lovely.

  “This is where Mrs. Fisher hanged herself,” announces Edith, pointing at the doorway. “It happened six weeks after she lost her fourth child.”

  I shudder visibly. “Who found her?”

  “One of the maids, Evelyn. The same one who found Mr. Fisher.” She pauses. “Evelyn Brylar was my great-grandmother.” Her tone is guarded, and piques my curiosity.

  “Did Evelyn pass on any accounts of the incidents?”

  “Some. She kept correspondence of that time. Several of the richer families in Chatham were dealing with the death of one or more of their own children,” she says. “However, she didn’t write about her own suspicions, but mostly about her own children, whom she missed terribly. She thought the Fishers were cruel to send her children away.”

  How lamentable is this house’s history.

  “She was the maid who had an affair with Mr. Fisher, wasn’t she?” I ask.

  “Yes, she was 22 when the affair began. She bore three of his children, who were sent away to be cared for by relatives of hers. It would have been unseemly to have the children in the same house as Mrs. Fisher.”

  I feel disgusted. What a bleak story this research assignment was turning out to be.

  “How long after Leslie did the fourth child, Mary, die?”

  “Only three weeks. During that month, five of the town’s children died. All of them were from affluent families. They all died from what appeared to be accidents. No witnesses were ever found, and no one was charged. Mr. Fisher was the only suspect they had. When he was interviewed, there were some inconsistencies in his statement. His whereabouts couldn’t be explained during the death of some of the children.

  “Every child who died also had some connections to the Fishers. Some of the families were friends and some were associates of Mr. Fisher. They were all from the richer families. Though many believed him guilty, no tangible evidence was ever found.”

  I visibly jump when I hear the dragging sound start again.

  “They’re back!” I whisper to Edith.

  This time, I mean to see what is going on. I quietly tiptoe out of the nursery, and into the small hall. At the end of the hall, the same chair is there.

  “Those darn kids!” I mutter.

  Dragging marks are visible leading to the chair. I look for footprints, or a sign that would lead me to the culprits, but see nothing.

  “Let’s leave the chair there, and move on to the main bedroom,” says Edith. “If we don’t play their game, they will get bored and move along.”

  Fine plan! In the lavishly decorated bedroom, I snap dozens of pictures, and secretly wish my bedroom looked like this.

  “Is this where Mr. Fisher committed suicide?” I ask Edith.

  “Yes, from this window over here,” she says, as she leads me to the far wall. “When questioned, Evelyn stated that Mr. Fisher was drinking wine all evening, becoming increasingly loud and destructive, breaking pieces of art and furniture. Three empty wine bottles were found in this room the next morning. He was an odd sort of fellow, some said. Many were convinced Chatham had a serial killer, and that it was Mr. Fisher.”

  An entire family dead within 18 months…. I peer down from the window. His body would have landed in the middle of the driveway, for all to see.

  “Were the authorities sure it was suicide? I mean, he wasn’t pushed?”

  “After the death of the children and his wife, Mr. Fisher retreated into isolation. He spent days in the dark, writing and muttering to himself. He left a letter on his bed before jumping. I have copies if you wish to see them. After his death, no other children died. Many thought that was proof enough of his guilt.”

  The dragging sound is back, but this time we ignore it. It stops close by, probably at the entrance of the short hall to the master bedroom. I snap a few pictures of the window and of the view. It is quiet in the hall.

  “What about Mrs. Fisher? How did she die?”

  “It happened right over there,” she says as she points at the entrance to the nursery. “She hanged herself in the doorway. She jumped off a chair.”

  I feel a warm and tingly feeling throughout my body. I’m about to reply when I hear a sudden bang, as if something fell. We leave the master bedroom, to find the chair lying on its side at the entrance to the short hall.

  “Which chair did Mrs. Fisher use?” I ask.

  Edith stares at the fallen chair, and colour drains from her face. “I… I believe it was that one,” she says, her voice trembling. “The chair… was lying on its side. Evelyn Brylar found her as well. She described it in a letter to her sister. The chair was on the floor, just like it is now.”

  My mind races for a rational explanation.

  “It must be a coincidence,” I assure her. “There are only three other chairs to choose from, after all.”

  I can see Edith is struggling to explain the incident. She clears her throat and regains some of her composure.

  “Would you like to see the outer buildings? There is also the old oak tree at the back of the property.”

  “I think I’ve seen everything I needed, Edith. Thank you for the offer, but my paper will focus mainly on the inside of the mansion,” I say, deliberately ignoring the chair.

  We part ways at the entrance. I glance one last time at the stunning, intriguing mansion, and thank Edith profusely.

  “You’ll find copies of the suicide letters and some news clippings from the time in here,” she states, handing me a thick envelope. “I’m sure they will be of interest to you.”

  Outside, it is raining heavily. I tug my jacket higher to cover my head, and run to my yellow Volkswagen Beetle, clutching my bag stuffed with the documents Edith gave me close, hoping to keep them dry.

  At home, I’m alone in my house, and all is quiet. I settle at my writing desk with a cup of peppermint tea. I sip the warm liquid, as I read the first letter. A lone tear slides down my cheek and lands on the page.

  Mrs. Fisher’s letter speaks of a broken heart and a desire to be with her children. Nothing in this life seemed worth living without her babies. She was prepared to go and hoped that she would be reunited with her four children.

  Mr. Fisher’s letter was different. He too suffered terribly from the death of his children, but what pushed him over the edge was his wife’s suicide. I put the letters down, feeling a sense of dread and fear grow in my belly.

  Sweet innocent voices beckon me to turn my computer on. It’s time, Catherine. It’s time to write.

  I feel the usual tickle of excitement when I start writing, but it is tainted with fear. I open a new document and write The truth of Dawnbrook Mansion as a title. I want to erase the first three words of the title, but my fingers won’t cooperate. I wince in pain as I force my hands to move away from the keyboard.


  Write, Catherine! You need to know what happened! the voices urge.

  I try in vain to take my hands away from the keyboard. Strong, invisible forces keep them firmly in place. I am overcome with emotion and begin to weep.

  Write, Catherine. The voices are more forceful this time.

  “No, please stop. Please,” I say between sobs.

  The voices scream this time. Write! Someone needs to know what happened to us.

  Tears sting my eyes. I keep fighting. I want to stop writing, but can’t. Pain shoots up my fingers and creeps to my wrists. Tears trail down my face.

  “What’s happening?” I cry. “Please stop.”

  You need to write, Catherine. You need to write the truth.

  Sweat beads on my forehead and neck. My fingers fly across the keyboard.

  That’s it, Catherine. The voice has calmed and now encourages me.

  Crying, I continue writing. The words on the page are not mine.

  Stop, Catherine, it says, at last.

  Alarmed, I looked at the words on the screen. I feel a pounding rhythm in my head. I look aghast at the words I wrote, the words I was made to write.

  Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it. Evelyn did it.

  ~~~***~~~

  Avast There! Belay That!

  Maida Follini

  Captain Archie Edwards was a choleric man, a short, but muscular seaman with a red face and a short red beard. Navigating his three-masted schooner along the coast of Nova Scotia to ports in New England or sometimes as far as the Caribbean, he made a good living in the early 1900s, the final days of commercial sail. Enough to build an impressive Captain’s Mansion at Edwards’ Neck, the spit of land north of Shag Harbour, where his childhood had been spent in his parents’ falling-down shack.

  Some want to get away from an impoverished childhood. Arch wanted to conquer it. Starting in his teens as a hand on fishing sloops, he became mate on a coastal trader, and then earned his master’s papers, studying navigation at night. Captaining other owner’s vessels, he finally saved enough to buy a schooner of his own.

  As a coming man, he courted one of Shag Harbour’s belles, Amelia Comstock, daughter of Judge Comstock, and carried her off under the noses of several Halifax-educated lawyers and businessmen. Archie had ambition. He had his mansion built during his and Amelia’s long engagement, and handed her over the threshold on his wedding day.

  At sea, he ran a tight ship, always Master, driving his crew to his own demanding standards. Some say he never slept. At least he made sure his men never slept on their watch. Berating them, harassing them, blistering them with insults when a mistake was made, he had the reputation of a hard man, with a temper, not one to be crossed.

  He was not one to show softness. Amelia and his mascots were the only ones he was close to. He always had a mascot. At first it was an affectionate Jack Russell terrier that traveled on his schooner with him. On land, for many years he had an old Canadian gander, a large grey-backed bird with a honking bill that would follow him down the street. Ludicrous though it was, no one laughed at Captain Archie. After the gander passed away (some said from overeating, as the Captain was generous with his mascots), Archie adopted an orphaned raven, which would perch on his shoulder like an evil genius. It flew around his head while he did the garden chores, and learned to talk in Captain Archie’s hoarse voice. “Avast, there!” “Straighten up!” “Blast your eyes!” “Belay that!”

  As for his wife, he might be heard shouting at everyone else, including his three daughters and young son, but he never raised his voice to Amelia. Formal politeness covered whatever deep emotions—whether love or anger—that lay between them. It is said that when she encountered his first bout of temper not long after they were married, she met it with calm disgust, and went on a very long visit to her father’s home. He never showed his temper towards her again. She was a reserved, some said cold, woman used to leading town society, and not afraid to speak up, even to her father, the judge. She must have let Archie know she could do very well without him, because he had to come supplicating her to return to their house on Edwards’ Neck.

  Something fiery must have held them together. She never separated from him again, and they became parents of three daughters, and finally after a gap of years, they were blessed with a long-awaited son, Archie Edwards, Junior.

  As a boy, Junior Edwards saw his father perhaps two months out of the year, as the Captain was away on voyages lasting three, four, or six months during the peak time of his trading life. Junior was soon nick-named “June”, much to his father’s disgust. He grew into a tall, gangly boy, all legs and arms, with a knack for falling out of trees, getting stung by wasps, and a genius for getting into awkward situations. His mother’s darling, being her only boy, he was molly-coddled while his father was away, and bullied when his father was home. June rarely came up to his father’s demanding expectations.

  Handing a can of paint up to his father, who was painting the house, June managed to tip the paint can all over himself. “Clumsy idiot!” his father shouted, while his mother wrapped him in towels and took him inside for a bath. June couldn’t seem to keep out of trouble. When a baseball went through a neighbour’s window, the other boys managed to slip away through a hedge, and June was caught. On Hallowe’en, when he and his buddies removed a gate from the town hall fence, it was June whom a policeman collared while the other boys crouched out of sight in a ditch.

  June was a cheerful chap, though, trying his best, and in spite of the constant criticism, he admired his father, and wanted to please him. When he was 14, he was thrilled when Captain Archie decided to take him on a three-month trading voyage on the schooner. Two weeks later, June returned on the train from Boston. He had been sea-sick, not just the usual couple of hours, or even a day, but the whole two weeks, alternately hanging over the rail, or bundled into his berth. On arriving back in Shag Harbour, June was not so much cast down as relieved to be in his own comforting home locale.

  While his father was away, June faithfully looked after Captain Archie’s mascot, the black raven that lived in the trees nearby and flew down to the kitchen door each morning for hand-outs. June would still be startled by its voice. “Straighten Up!” the raven would cry, and June’s spine would stiffen as if his father were after him, even though the Captain was away. To June, constant harassment and criticism was normal, and he did not expect anything different.

  As the twenties turned to the thirties, the coastal trade diminished. Captain Arch and Amelia saw their three daughters get married and leave home. The schooner remained tied at the wharf.

  One day Captain Archie dropped down dead on the way home from an evening with his friends at the local saloon. Amelia placed a glowing obituary in the local paper, extolling her husband’s virtues: his faithfulness, industry, and loving kindness. (His old crew members scarcely recognized him from the account.) Two years later, Amelia herself passed away with her usual calm dignity, in her own bed after a brief (undisclosed) illness. She left June, now age 27, to inherit the Edwards Mansion, and his share of funds in the bank.

  June, in spite of his father’s poor opinion of his capabilities, had started a successful business as a handy man, fixer, and doer of odd jobs for the community. His cheerfulness and willingness made him first choice when anyone had a fence to repair, a porch to paint, or a garden to dig.

  That he also had money in the bank was well-known in the communi
ty, and in particular to Miss Darlene Sewall, who, in her early thirties lived with her mother in half a house, and was anxious to improve her situation. From helping her dig her garden, to accepting a cup of tea in her house, the acquaintance progressed to movie dates, and after several months, Darlene was being shown over the Mansion House at Edwards’ Neck. Following the tour, Darlene lounged in a chair at the back porch, admiring the ocean view. She was smiling, and hopefully expecting a proposal of marriage. As a matter of fact, June sensed what was expected of him, and he usually tried to do what was expected. He didn’t actually kneel down, but he was leaning towards Darlene, when a hoarse voice rasped, “Avast there! Straighten Up!” Automatically, June straightened his spine, looking round for his father.

  “Nasty bird! Get away!” cried Darlene, flapping her hand at the raven.

  June laughed. “No, it’s just old Blacky,” he explained. “He wants his hand-out.” Humming a cheerful tune, June went into the kitchen, and came back with assorted dish scrapings. The bread crumbs, apple parings, and bits of bacon and egg left over from breakfast did not add a romantic atmosphere as he laid it out on a newspaper on the porch. The moment was gone.

  That night, June ruminated as he lay in bed, watching through the window as the moon rose. His father, he knew, wouldn’t have approved of Darlene. And he agreed with his father. Darlene had been a little too interested in the spacious house, the furniture, and particularly the silverware from his late mother’s collection. The raven (or his father?) had helped him make a great escape.

  The raven continued receiving hand-outs, sharing them with its mate and family which nested in the nearby spruce tree year after year. June’s habit of helping people led him into a fellowship with an old school classmate, Jerry Neal, who was now a real estate man. Jerry took to coming over in the evening, and passing comments about how the town was growing. Jerry was connected to a man who wished to establish a hotel in Shag Harbour.