She took in a sharp breath, held her head high. “I believe it is possible that Gertie did not fall down that well.”
“But, Sara, how do you explain—”
“I believe she may have been murdered.”
Martin dropped his spoon, and it clattered to the floor.
“You cannot be serious,” he said, once he’d regained his composure.
“Quite serious, Martin.”
“And on what basis…”
Sara smiled calmly. “Gertie told me,” she said.
All the air left his chest, and the room suddenly got dim. Sara seemed far away and small. There she was, across the old pine table from him, an untouched bowl of stew before her. The oil lamp flickered at the center of the table; the fire in the old cast-iron cookstove crackled. The window above the kitchen sink was frost-covered, the night outside blacker than black. He couldn’t even see a trace of stars.
Sara’s face, pale as the moon, seemed to get smaller still. He reached out for her, his fingertips brushing the edge of the table.
It was as if he were falling, tumbling, spinning, down, down, all the way to the bottom of the well.
Visitors from the Other Side
The Secret Diary of Sara Harrison Shea
January 26, 1908
This morning, I waited until Martin left the house, then hurried to the closet. I knocked on the door—tap, tap, tap—but there was no answer.
“Gertie?” I called out. “It’s Mama.” Slowly, I turned the knob, which felt cold in my hand. The door creaked open. In the half-light of morning, I saw that she was gone.
I pushed aside my drab dresses, Martin’s shirts, but there was no sign of her. No proof that she had ever been there at all.
The closet looked so empty.
“Gertie?” I cried out again. “Where have you gone?”
I searched the house, the barn, the fields and woods. But my Gertie was always so good at hiding, at fitting herself into such tiny, unlikely places, that she really might be anywhere.
Perhaps she is playing a game, I told myself. Hide-and-seek. I kept turning corners, opening doors, looking under furniture, waiting for her to jump out and surprise me.
Boo.
