As she walked down the street toward the tower, whose illuminated clock face indicated it was after four-thirty, she passed a street-level door squashed between Gilda’s Goodies and Dek Home Designs. The sign on the door leaped out at her:Tremaine & Associates. Benjamin D. Tremaine, CPA.
She glanced through the door’s window as she walked past and saw the flight of stairs that led to what must be his second-floor office space. And then she looked up to see that the lights were on. Being on the sidewalk below, she was too close to the side of the building to see much more than that, but for some reason, it made her smile knowing that Ben had done so well for himself.
The air was crisp and cold, and she could smell the snow that was coming. She might have to crash at Uncle Trib’s instead of driving all the way back to Grand Rapids tonight, if the storm was as bad as the reports suggested. Even as she crossed the small square and strode past the towering pine decorated in silver and gold, large, puffy flakes began to drift down from an iron gray sky.
The tower looked like a lonely gray stub beneath its glowing face, but as Callie drew near, she saw signs that progress had been made. The walkway was shoveled and a wreath had been hung on the door. And when she unlocked the exterior door and stepped inside, she immediately noticed the difference.
The place smelled fresh, and the debris that had been there last week had been swept away.
Progress.
Callie climbed up the steps, feeling better about things already. Maybe whatever weirdness she’d experienced the other day had been swept away, cleaned out, or otherwise banished as well.
The key worked more easily in the lock this time—it had probably been oiled.
When she stepped inside the room, the first thing she noticed was that it was completely empty. The old chairs, table, dusty and broken bottles—and, yes, the mistletoe—were all gone. The floor was clean and she could smell the faint hint of whatever wood polish had been used there and on the mahogany wainscoting around the room.
The portrait of Brenda Tremaine had been replaced on the wall. Callie eyed it a little nervously as she felt around for the light switch that, at her request, had been fixed and should now be working.
She pushed the old-fashioned light switch button and soft yellow light from six century-old sconces filled the room. The floor had the dull sheen of having recently been cleaned, and even the windows sparkled.
All at once she felt more optimistic than she’d been in a while. The wedding itself would take place out on the balcony at midnight, and the guests would be on the ground below, watching as the happy couple exchanged vows just before the clock struck twelve.
The bells would ring and the ball would light up. There would be beautiful photo ops for the glowing couple—she hoped for just a little bit of wafting snow—and then they’d all come inside the small anteroom forhors d’oeuvresand celebration. A string trio would provide suitable background music.
“Well,” Callie said aloud, “I hope you don’t mind your—uh—new digs. So to speak.” For some reason, she didn’t feel weird talking to the portrait of the ill-fated Brenda Tremaine. “Maybe it’ll make you more…”
She didn’t finish the sentence because the air had started to swirl again. The curtains, which had already been replaced from the moth-eaten ones by dark green velvet, were too heavy to buffet in the air, but the fringe on the tie-backs shimmied.
The environment became frigid so quickly she actually gasped, drawing in a knife-sharp cold into her nostrils. Then she huffed out a breath that literally turned into ice crystals the minute the droplets hit the air. Her nose felt as if it would break off if she rubbed it, and though she thrust her hands deep in her pockets and curled them inside their gloves, it felt as though her fingers were submerged in ice water. It was painful to breathe the arctic air.
“Oh, come on…” Callie said, turning in a slow circle as she looked around the room. “No one’s trying to—to disrespect you, Brenda. It’s been nearly a century…couldn’t you just—”
Whoosh!
The gust of wind came from nowhere and began to whip at the hem of her coat with startling violence. Her hat went flying and suddenly the air was filled with dust or dirt or something that obstructed her view so that she was in a tornado of darkness.
“Noooooooo.”
Callie didn’t know where the voice came from, but it filled her ears as if it were being pumped through great speakers all around the room.
“Nooooooo.
“Nooooooo!”
The cry was something not quite human, not quite real, and it filled her, reverberating through her body in a violent shudder.
Callie was paralyzed with shock and terror. She felt wetness on her face and realized she was sobbing as the wind and some tiny hardthingspelted her unforgivingly. She stumbled around, trying to find her way out of the storm, and finally her hand brushed the wall. Using it for stability, she felt her way along, seeking the door, as she was battered and buffeted by Brenda Tremaine’s wrath.
Then from somewhere, she heard bells ringing—a deep tolling that cut through the wild maelstrom around her. And suddenly, the tornado winds ceased and the pelting stopped…and Callie was once again standing in the soft glow of yellow light.
All was quiet and still except for the last toll of bells striking the hour of five.
Shaking, still sobbing a little, Callie dragged a hand across her face to wipe away the tears.
Brenda Tremaine had definitely made her opinion clear.
Now what was Callie going to do?
