I've Come for My Girl and Two Other Dark Tales Read online

  Mrs. Killinger said, “It started with her.”

  “Her?” I asked stupidly.

  Mrs. Killinger sat back in the chair, staring into the space ahead of her. She sighed, took a deep breath, and turned to me.

  “I will tell you the real story, because I believe you will not let this go, plus you will not find the truth in the newspaper. In the end, everyone that mattered is dead.”

  I stared at her wide-eyed, wondering what secret she planned to tell me.

  “Her name was Reverend Mother Pauline, and she came to the orphanage straight from Ireland. Sister Benedicta who ran the orphanage since 1948, fell ill and within a week died.”

  She then tapped the face of the nun with her finger, and continued, “That marked the beginning of the end. In a house, once full of laughter and kindness, it became a place of disapproval and sadness. Unwed mothers abandoned many of these children, and this placed a stain on them that Reverend Mother Pauline could not overlook. In her view they were the products of sin.”

  “What happened?” I murmured spellbound by what she said. I suspected this untold story would unlock many secrets.

  In a low, emotion-filled voice she said, “Soon after she took the reins of the orphanage, she got rid of the few nuns that worked with the former Mother Superior. Despite their vows of obedience, they resisted the strict rules and punishments she wanted to inflict on the children. She petitioned the bishop for new nuns, stating that the existing sisters had become too attached to the orphans. She got her way. Each was dispersed to a different assignment far from here. The last one to leave was Sister Regina, who was posted to a leper hospital in the West Indies.”

  “What occurred to Molly?”

  Mrs. K. turned and looked at me for a long time and it shocked me when I saw a slow tear squeeze from the corner of her eye.

  She cleared her throat and pulled out the copies of the earlier articles I had printed. She picked the one where the new sisters stood on the porch of the orphanage and pointed at the nun holding the baby.

  “That is Sister Regina, and the baby is Molly.” I looked at the picture, wondering how Mrs. K knew this information.

  She continued, “Molly came to the orphanage as a newborn a month before Sister Regina arrived. The sister took good care of all the children, but Molly was special to her. A playful, mischievous child, she was a bit slow, but always grinning and up to tricks. The person who meant everything, and I mean everything to her, was Sister Regina. She followed her everywhere, and that little girl flowered under the loving hands of the sisters. The children received good care and considering the circumstances they had been born under, this was a special place for them. Some died young because of congenital illnesses, but in their short lives their needs were met, and they were well loved.”

  Mrs. Killinger paused, and I knew she was reciting from memory not from something someone told her.

  “Life for Molly became very difficult after Sister Regina left, and she didn’t understand the permanence of that absence. She always stood at the window looking for her. If a knock sounded at the door, she came calling her name. I understand they punished her several times for disobeying the sisters, and she ran around the orphanage just calling out for Sister Regina.”

  “Only a few weeks later a telegram arrived, and even behind the closed door of the Reverend Mother’s door she heard the name of the nun mentioned. She burst into the office shouting Sister Regina’s name. The story told is that she slapped the child across the face. That poor girl, terrified by this treatment ran out the front door of the house. It had stayed ajar after the delivery of the telegram. She was only seven years old, and I assure you, she had never endured this cruelty in her life. She ran in front of a car and died instantly.”

  Mrs. Killinger scrolled over to another page, which reported on Molly’s death. From a black-and-white picture, stared a smiling gap-toothed child with little horn-rimmed glasses and her hair in pigtails. Behind the eyeglasses, the twinkle in her eyes was undeniable.

  I stared hard at the photograph, because there was no mistaking this was the child I had seen staring at me through the kitchen window but, there was no mirth on the face of the girl I had glimpsed three days ago.

  Mrs. Killinger mistook my silence for something else. “You’re probably wondering how I know this story. Well, you see Sister Regina was my older sister. She became a postulant when she was only 18 years old. It thrilled us when after so many years of living far away she came to work at the orphanage close to her family. My aunt Libby who cooked for the orphans told me what took place behind its walls. She spent her entire day there. After the death of Sister Benedicta she saw many things that disturbed her, including the day she saw Molly run crying from the office with a palm print across her cheek. She tried to reach her before the girl reached the door but she was too quick.”

  Tears streamed down the librarian’s lined face.

  “My poor sister died, and they laid her to rest in the convent cemetery of the leper colony. I am convinced she died of a broken heart. The church never gave us a straight answer concerning the circumstances of her death. They stated she fell off a wharf where they delivered supplies and drowned. My family refused to believe this since my sister swam like a fish. We had a cottage on a lake and my family spent every summer there. We all learned to swim.”

  “I was only 15 years old when my sister died. I was a surprise child for my parents, born years after my siblings had left home. When my mother took ill several years after Regina’s death she told me something which I’ve never confided to anyone.”

  She gazed at me, and said, “Someone should know the truth and it’s not a coincidence that you found those graves.”

  My hand crept out and covered hers, giving it a comforting squeeze.

  “When my mother was in her last days, she told me everything. You see, Molly was Regina’s daughter. Before they assigned my sister to St. Cera, she lived in a large city far from here. She taught at a school run by the Sisters of Mercy. The same mother superior who accompanied her to the orphanage sent her on an errand to see a sick woman. She went alone, because there was no other sister to accompany her. I don’t think the Mother Superior realized this woman lived in a crime-ridden area. On the way back an unknown man dragged Regina into an alley and raped her which resulted in a pregnancy. The reverend mother found a way for my sister to have the child and then had the baby sent to St. Cera.”

  “Only Regina and Sister Benedicta knew she was not an orphan. Before leaving she visited my mother and related the entire story. She urged our mother to start adoption proceedings, and even though she had a true vocation to serve as a nun, she had decided not to desert Molly. If the adoption was unsuccessful, she knew renouncing her vows would be the only way to reunite with her daughter.”

  “It must have been a very difficult decision for her,” I murmured in sympathy.

  “My mother promised to do what she asked, but she noticed that Reverend Mother Pauline eyed her suspiciously when she mentioned Molly. She believed the nun placed obstacles for the adoption that had just started when my sister died. Days later Molly was killed.”

  Inside of me I debated whether I should tell Mrs. Killinger who I had seen standing at the window.

  “My parents never got over my sister’s death, and only many years later did I understand that my mother mourned not only for her daughter but her grandchild too. I sometimes wonder if my sister despaired because she feared that after working with the lepers she risked infecting Molly if they reunited.”

  “And the other children?” I asked.

  “An inquiry into Molly’s death found it was an accident, and they held no one responsible for the tragedy. However, as the years passed more children died, and it got to where my Aunt Libby just stopped working there because she refused to witness what was happening with those kids. She said Sister Pauline only bought food of the poorest quality and instructed her to serve it sparingly. Other things happened that
my aunt refused to discuss, and she took those secrets to the grave.”

  “Ten years after my sister’s death, one of the visiting doctors asked for the state to intervene, because he found that too many children were dying, most of them newborns. The investigation was low key, because no one wanted to antagonize the church. Then from one day to the next, they transferred the orphans to a state run institution, and the nuns were gone as well.”

  “And the house?” I asked.

  “The church held on to the property for a few years, and it stood empty. Someone tried to start a school in the 1970s, and that didn’t work out. Whatever business started there failed. It got a reputation for being haunted. Most people presume it’s the Jasos because of the family’s history in the town. It’s been empty for over twenty-five years.”

  “What became of Sister Pauline?” I asked. Part of me wondered if she ever accepted responsibility for the deaths of those children.

  “I found out that not long after she left she developed a severe case of early onset dementia. She assaulted her caretakers and controlling her in a regular setting was impossible. She spent the last years of her life medicated in the psychiatric unit of the state hospital.”

  “Were you the one that placed that cross over Molly’s grave?”

  “Yes I did,” she responded, “what purpose would it serve to drag my sister’s name through the mud? So I’ve kept my peace about who that child really is.”

  I murmured, “Thank you for trusting me with this story.”

  “On the contrary, you have lifted a great weight off of me. Times have changed, and I know society would not judge my poor sister for something that was not her fault.”

  She stood up and murmured that she had to return to the front desk. My eyes followed her retreating figure, and I sat for a while mulling over her story. I gathered the copies, stuffed them into my notebook and left.

  Engrossed in thought I arrived at my home without remembering the trip. Once I closed the door to my room behind me tiredness flooded my body. I stripped off my clothes and fell into bed. It was from a deep well of oblivion, that low noises coming from my closet dragged me into wakefulness. I rubbed my sealed eyelids and opened them in slits. I peered around, and there was nothing else besides furniture outlined by ambient light glimmering into the room. Then the soft noise of someone going through things in my closet brought me awake.

  My mind raced around trying to justify what caused those noises. The soft murmur of boxes being opened and the rustling of clothes intruded upon the midnight quiet of my room. My mouth grew dry, and I found it difficult to swallow. It was at this pinnacle of total fear that a cool breeze swept over me, followed by the sweet smell of roses. I looked toward where the draft came from, and out of the dark wedge in the corner a shimmering light formed. What started as a small pearl of light, expanded to the size of a human. Then a semi-transparent figure coalesced into the shape of a nun dressed in a white habit, a color used for those who ministered in the tropics.

  I recognized Sister Regina. She smiled at me, and then she said something which I’m not sure I understood with my ears or in my head, “I’ve come for my girl.”

  She turned towards the closet, and the door inched open. In the glow she emitted I saw Molly sitting cross-legged on the floor. There was no mistaking the pigtails and the horn-rimmed glasses. A look of joy and adoration filled the child’s face, and in a fluid movement she stood up and jumped into her mother’s arms. I saw her grasp Sister Regina tightly around the neck, and her mother held her around the waist, holding her there on her hip bone. The nun turned towards me, and I’m not sure how she relayed this to me, but her message was unmistakable.

  “She followed you home, and as long as something trapped her in that place I had no power to reach her. There was something about you she trusted.”

  “Thank you,” she mouthed to me and then with the little girl in her arms, she walked into my closet and disintegrated, the smell of flowers trailing behind her. My last glimpse of them was Molly smiling at me over her shoulder.

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  Within weeks of my ghostly visit, an investor bought the Jaso Mansion with intentions of razing it and building an upscale apartment building. They planned to convert the woodland behind it into a park for the residents. The Jaso’s graves, after renovation, would remain to invoke unusual ambiance. They moved the orphans’ graves with as little fanfare as possible. Most new stories concerned the trendy residences catering to an upscale, younger crowd slated to open the following year.

  Once the winter snows stopped, they made preparations to demolish the large house. There were several attempts from the local historical society to halt the project. They claimed it was an example of late Chateauesque architecture which deserved preservation, but in the end the developer got his way.

  On a late spring day I lounged in my room. The air conditioner hummed for all it was worth to stave off the early heatwave that drove everyone indoors, or at the very least into the shade. Cross-legged on my bed I worked on my laptop studying for my semester finals. Then a bing of an incoming message rang on my phone.

  It was a message from Mrs. Killinger, “Watch the news.”

  I switched on the local channel. A young, buff reporter wearing a tie and rolled-up sleeves stood in front of the Jaso Mansion; his face was a study in concern. The crumbling fence around the yard had disappeared and an excavator crane stood silent and brooding. There was yellow tape separating the property from the rough sidewalk.

  He described with an intense tone in his voice the events of earlier in the day. A member of the demolition team had died on the front steps of the house. The scene switched to a prior interview with the crane operator who described where he had seen someone moving inside the house. He sent in his co-worker to check the premises before he started to tear the place apart. They feared that teenagers or squatters had crept into the mansion. He said that his friend yelled on the two-way radio, and he ran to the front of the house only to find him slumped on the front entrance stairs. The reporter asked the obvious question; whether they had found anyone. The befuddled man answered with an uncertain no. Then the newscaster pressed him again, and he said the dead man had yelled something about a nun.

  The scene cut back to the reporter standing in the house's shadow. He concluded his piece, stating that the construction personnel had found no one. The cause of death was pending an autopsy, but they suspected he suffered a heart attack.

  Two days later I visited Mrs. Killinger at the library. She glanced at me over her glasses as I walked through the doors. When I approached, she whispered to me, “I’ll be taking my lunch break in ten minutes. Wait for me.”

  I sat outside on a bench shaded by a large oak tree. I remembered the conversation I had with Mrs. K. a week after I had seen the spirits in my room. She listened to me, and when I ended my story, she hugged me and cried a bit. She told me that for the first time she had found peace about the tragedy that had befallen her family. We became fast friends, bound by this secret and the ghostly visitation.

  It broke my reverie when I saw her exit the library and head in my direction. She had confided she planned to retire and move to Florida to live with her sister at the end of the summer. She was still a spry woman despite her age, and with a humph she sat next to me.

  “So what do you think happened?”

  “That something scared that man so badly he had a heart attack.”

  Mrs. Killinger shook her head. “That’s not what killed him.” she stated.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My niece, Rochelle works at the church rectory and she overheard many disturbing reports about the property. The developer had to work with the church for moving the orphan’s graves and an agent for the construction company struck up a friendship with her.”

  I held my breath, wondering if it was Sister Regina haunting the Jaso Mansion. Had peace eluded her even after reuniting with Molly? Sadness tugged at my heart
to believe I had been mistaken.

  She continued, “There’s a phantom that has lurked for months in the shadows of the entire house. And you’re wrong, it’s not my sister. I can tell by the look on your face that’s what you’re thinking.”

  I exhaled in relief, “Good.”

  “It started with the first workers who assessed the interior prior to the demolition. More than one of them reported seeing an old nun glide from one room to the other. One man said that she had snarled at him, and he ran from the house. They described her dressed in a habit from over fifty years ago. They prohibited any mention about their experiences since the developer did not want any of these stories to stigmatize the property.”

  “You said a heart attack didn’t kill the worker.”

  “No, he broke his neck. It was the fall from the steps that did it.”

  I remembered the day I ventured on the property and the swirling murkiness at the top of the stairs. In that moment, I understood the source of what threatened me that day. Then, I chalked it up to a case of nerves and an overactive imagination, but listening now to Mrs. Killinger I knew my intuition had protected me.

  The old woman studied my face.

  “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  “Maybe,” I murmured.

  She continued with her story, “One day the manager from the construction company came into the rectory in a frenzied state. The pastor had stepped out, and while he waited he struck up a conversation with Rochelle. He had seen the figure himself. Rochelle said this was a no-nonsense man, and he was beside himself with what he saw. The office was empty, and she pulled out a file for the orphanage and showed him a picture of Sister Pauline. She said his face paled, and he confirmed he saw her gliding down the main staircase.”