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Drawing closer, Donja eyed the antiquated lady with wooden shutters like lashes that framed her windowed eyes and it felt as if she was watching their approach. A second story balcony with a sculptured bannister seemed to welcome them in, yet the hand-crafted gables and eaves had an eerie look. Twin stacks rose over the tiled roof and on the third floor, double doors stood behind a second, tiny balcony from which one could surely view the entire world. For a moment the mansion looked alive, and though it was not possible, Donja thought it breathed.
Speechless, Donja swallowed hard as they drew nearer to a separate triple car garage flanked by boxwood shrubs, hostas and blooming lilacs. Near the bluff she spied a domed gazebo half covered in creeping honeysuckle. She surveyed the lawn which was perfectly manicured with immaculate edging, rolling with a gentle slope toward a darkened forest.
“Isn’t this a little out of our league?” Donja questioned.
Carson laughed.
“Seriously. How can you guys afford this?”
“Luck,” he smiled. “Number one, it’s inconvenient, twenty-five minutes from town, needs a new well and the bluff needs rock fill, else the old gal will eventually fall to her death on the river banks below. The plumbing is ancient, and it needs a new furnace, not to mention electrical work, light fixtures, paint, new wallpaper, a bit of mortar—”
“Carpet in the master bedroom and new kitchen cupboards,” Lisa broke in.
“And that too,” Caron smiled, “although I for one love the antique cupboards, perhaps just a redo and some granite countertops?”
“I could live with that,” Lisa mused, hands clasped beneath her chin.
She glanced at Donja as Carson parked beside the garage. “Isn’t our new home, just beautiful?”
“Donja knitted her brows. “The jury’s still out.”
“Come on now, don’t you think it’s charming?”
“Well, I guess that part of me does, yet there’s something,” she said with an intense look out the window, “something I can’t put my finger on that has me spooked.”
“I’m spooked too,” Frankie chimed in. “It looks haunted.”
Lisa smirked. “Enough of that already, it’s not haunted. Come on, you two. Let me give you the grand tour.”
They walked up a curved, flagstone sidewalk then climbed up stone steps bordered by concrete sculptures of snarling lions. On the rocked landing beneath an ornate stoop, they paused as Lisa found her keys. When they passed through the massive front door which was hand sculptured with a lion’s head brass knocker, Donja understood her mother’s phrase, “a step back in time.” It was a complete passage from modern day to an antiquated past. The foyer which was elongated with a domed ceiling and walnut wainscot, was tiled in cut stone with intricate woodwork. Stepping through twelve-foot, arched doors with walnut pillars, they entered the living room which looked like a movie set with antique furniture, a piano, and a fireplace that encompassed an entire wall. Donja caught the scent of age, dust and soot which still lingered on the cold, half-burned logs, snuggled behind wrought iron fire dogs. She eyed the mantel topped by an oval mirror situated between antique lamps. She cast her eyes to the windows dressed in lace with sculptured cornices. It didn’t seem real, more like a picture or a dream.
“Here’s the dining room,” Lisa mused, “and I love it.”
Donja, jerked from uncanny disquiet, wandered across a thick flowered rug, following the sound of her mother’s voice. She stepped inside the dining room which was long and narrow with more of the walnut wainscot topped by faded, rose wallpaper. She ran her fingers over the glossy walnut table dressed by elegant, high-backed chairs. Twin servers which were intricately carved with lion’s head doors flanked both sides, and a massive chandelier with perhaps fifty burned out candles suspended by a black chain centered the room. Donja walked to the windows and gazed down the side of the bluff to the river below. She turned to her mom. “Does all this outdated furniture come with house?”
“Yes.” Lisa replied.
Donja frowned. “Who lived here?” she asked running a finger down the expanse of a buffet, the smell of age wafting, “and why pray tell, would they move and leave everything behind?”
“The last resident,” Lisa said lighting the oil lamps which adorned the walls, “was a frail old woman who didn’t speak English. According to the attorney, at her death, the estate was to be sold, as is with the proceeds donated for the funding of a halfway house for Chippewa women and children.”
“Was she Chippewa?”
“No, actually she was a French Canadian named Mams Lenieux and the home was not hers, it belonged to a Nara Engadine who was rumored to be a Chippewa ghost.”
“A ghost?” Donja said with wide eyes.
“The attorney said it was widely believed at the time only because Nara, who was an introvert never left this house. Her behavior fueled the rumors and the whole of Sault Ste. Marie, Canadian and American alike, feared her.”
“Mom, that’s crazy. People don’t think such without reason.”
“It was just gossip.”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“Not always.”
Donja rolled her eyes. “Okay, so, what happened to this Nara, and how did this other woman, the French one, come to own this place?”