The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(59)

A vigorous scratching began in earnest, causing General Lee to whimper and struggle in my arms. “We can’t leave it in there,” Sophie said.

“We can’t?”

Sophie frowned at me. “No. It could damage the doll. And it would be inhumane,” she added hastily. She was horribly allergic to animal hair and had never been a pet person—which was why my dogs liked to sit on her lap when she visited. “One of us has to open the door and let it out.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re volunteering the one of us who’s had more experience with unexplained things like doors slamming with nobody there.”

Her eyes widened innocently. “You said it, not me.”

I unceremoniously dumped the dog in her arms, then faced the door again. “Is there anything up there?”

She sneezed, and I felt partially gratified. “It’s the little girl’s bedroom, I think—although why one would put a child in a hot attic is beyond me. I don’t think it’s been touched since she died. Well, except for water damage from the leaking roof. Didn’t you show it to Jayne?”

I shook my head. “We assumed it was just the attic with the usual collection of attic junk.”

“Jayne needs to come take a look, decide what to do with it. The girl’s nightgown is still at the foot of the bed.”

I was sure my look of horror matched her own. The sound of vigorous scratching was louder now, but that was not what propelled me forward. I felt the other presence, too, the one I associated with the flash of white that I’d seen several times on my visits to the house, a presence that was light and without malice. I could almost feel gentle hands moving me toward the door. It opened as I neared, revealing a bright ray of sunlight streaming down the stairs from the attic window, illuminating the doll and the cat sitting next to it. The other presence was mercifully gone.

With a loud screech, the cat leaped past me and then down the stairs, General Lee barking his annoyance at being held back.

“Did you get it?” Sophie asked.

I turned to her with the doll in my arms. “Yeah, I have it.”

“No. I meant the cat. Did you find it or did it run back up the stairs?”

“It ran past you—didn’t you see it?”

She shook her head. “I must have been too busy trying to restrain Cujo here when it slipped by. As long as it’s not trapped in the attic.”

“Yeah,” I said. “What a relief.”

She put down the dog and handed me the leash and I happily relinquished the doll. “I have no idea how this got here, but I suggest you plant it in your friend’s office so that he thinks he’s merely going insane instead of giving him proof.”

We walked quietly down the stairs and were surprised to find Rich Kobylt standing in the middle of the foyer, his Clemson hat off as he scratched the back of his head.

“Anything wrong?” I asked, trying to pretend I hadn’t seen one of his workers run from the house like a bat out of hell.

“Can I be honest with you?”

Both Sophie and I nodded.

With a lowered voice, he said, “I don’t want to scare you or nothin’, but I think this house might be haunted.”

We stared back at him with carefully neutral expressions.

“But don’t you worry. I’m a little sensitive to this stuff, and I’ll let you know if I think there’s any danger.” His eyes drifted to the doll and I saw him shudder violently. “Good Lord, what is that?”

“Not to worry—we’re taking it out of the house. One less thing to haunt it.”

“Thanks, Miz Trenholm. Back to those tubs now. I’ll keep you posted.”

As soon as he was outside, a door slammed upstairs just as a whirring and popping began deep inside the doll’s chest, and then subsided. We held our breaths for a long minute, waiting to see if it would speak. With a sigh of relief, Sophie carried it across the foyer and had almost reached the door when the high tinny voice that brought to mind raw fingernails scratching at the inside lid of a coffin screeched out at us. Help. Me.





CHAPTER 17


Isat on one of the gliders in the nursery with Sarah on my lap as I dried her chubby little toes and smelled her sweet fresh-from-the-bath baby scent. I needed to find a way to bottle that so I could whip it out and sniff it to calm me down when I was feeling stressed. Like now. I had yet to grow used to the furniture rearrangement, and now, adding to the chaos, there were upended bins of primary-colored plastic toys that didn’t match the décor at all. The carefully stacked and labeled bins of blocks and educational toys that I’d spent hours creating and organizing were untouched in their spots on the shelves against the walls.

I had to turn my head away from the mismatched outfits Jayne had laid out on the changing tables. It was too much for me. Instead I closed my eyes and inhaled the sweet scent of my baby. Even JJ’s cries of protest about being removed from the bathtub didn’t faze me.

Jayne emerged from the children’s bathroom with JJ swaddled in a baby towel and his head covered by a hood with panda bear ears. It was cute and made of organic and self-sustaining cotton—a gift from Sophie—but it didn’t match the one I’d used for Sarah. I closed my eyes again and took a big sniff of Sarah’s damp, dark hair.