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“Peter Ward?”
“The artist. That’s Mary’s wild guess. She’s full of theories. Another one is that Hope’s End is haunted. She claims to have seen the ghost of Virginia Hope roaming the second floor.”
The chill I’d felt the first time I was in this hallway returns. Definitely not a draft. It’s too cold, too unnatural. Even though I don’t believe in ghosts, I can understand why Mary thought one haunted Hope’s End.
“Is that why she left?”
“Yes,” Jessie says, her voice going quiet. “I think she was scared. Hope’s End isn’t a normal house. There’s a darkness here. I can feel it. Mary did. And I think she couldn’t take it anymore.”
We head back down the hall, Jessie checking over her shoulder, as if something is lurking just behind us. At the Grand Stairs, I can’t help but take another morbid peek at the bloodstains in the carpet. From there, we move through the other side of the house, stopping at the set of double doors before the hall makes a right toward the kitchen.
“The ballroom,” Jessie says solemnly before pushing open the doors. “Where Virginia Hope died.”
She turns on the lights, which include sconces set between large mirrors on the walls and three chandeliers that droop from the ceiling. They’re enormous, with more than three dozen bulbs each. Half have burned out. Others buzz and flicker, giving the room a jittery feel.
While Jessie roams freely, I remain on the edge of the parquet dance floor, knowing that wherever I step might be the spot where Virginia Hope’s body once lay.
“Don’t worry,” Jessie says. “Virginia died up there.”
She points to the chandelier in the center of the ballroom. It hangslower than the others and at a slight angle, like the weight of Virginia’s body partially tugged it from the ceiling.
“So the rhyme was right about that.”
“Yup,” Jessie says. “Hung her sister with a rope.”
I take a few cautious steps toward the center of the room to get a closer look at the chandelier. While it’s low enough to possibly reach with a rope while standing on a chair, I can’t picture a girl of seventeen doing it and then hoisting her sister high enough to hang her. It seems unlikely, if not impossible.
Then again, none of these murders makes sense, including where they occurred. Three deaths in three different spots throughout the first floor. If it was Winston Hope, did he hang Virginia first, get caught in the act by his wife, and stab her at the Grand Stairs before going to the billiard room to kill himself? Or was he killed first—by Lenora or someone else—and did Evangeline find his body, run to the stairs covered in his blood, and bump into the killer on the landing? Without knowing who died first, it’s impossible to tell. And none of it explains poor Virginia’s fate or the missing knife.
“I wonder why Virginia was hanged when the others were killed with a knife,” I say.
“You and everyone else,” Jessie says. “I guess we could always ask.”
“We could. But Lenora can’t answer. Even when she could, she didn’t say much.”
“I meant Virginia.” Jessie nervously twists one of her bracelets around her wrist. “What if Mary is right and Virginia really is haunting this place? If so, we could contact her spirit and ask what happened.”
“If only we had a Ouija board.”
I mean it as a joke. For one, I don’t think Hope’s End is haunted. Nor do I believe Ouija boards can contact the dead. But as soon as I say it, Jessie’s eyes light up.
“I’ll go get mine,” she says. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Jessie scurries off, leaving me alone in the ballroom, my reflection caught in the many mirrors on the walls. It’s dizzying seeing so manydifferent versions of myself. Everywhere I turn, there I am. It makes me think of Virginia Hope swinging from the chandelier. A horrible way to go. Made worse by the fact that, if her eyes were open, she would have seen a dozen reflections of the life being strangled out of her.
I pray she kept them shut.
Above me, one of the bulbs in the chandelier Virginia hung from buzzes and brightens before going dark with an eerie, electric pop. While I’m certain the cause is ancient wiring and a bulb that likely hasn’t been replaced since 1929, I take it as a sign to leave the ballroom.
But as soon as I’m about to exit, Jessie enters, carrying a battered Ouija board. Atop it sits a wood planchette that slides around the board as Jessie moves, as if it’s being moved by invisible hands.
“Aren’t we a little old for this?” I say.
“Speak for yourself.” Jessie places the Ouija board in the center of the ballroom. “I’m young and stupid. At least, that’s what Mrs. Baker says. Now join me or I’ll tell everyone you’re a scaredy-cat.”
I do, more for Jessie’s benefit than mine. It must be hard being so young yet living and working in this big, old house. I suspect this whole tour was the result of her feeling lonely and wanting to make a new friend. I want that, too. My circle of friends had shrunk to the size of a dot before my mother died. After her funeral, I found myself with none at all.
We place our fingers on the planchette, and Jessie says, “Is there a spirit present?”