Chapter 36

^SEPTEMBER 28, 1970^

DOROTHY

The ache of losing Christopher is still raw when I hear a knock at my door. I pull it open.

“Hello, I’m Linda Miles from the ~County Gazette~,” she introduces herself, flashing her ID. “May I speak with you?”

“I’m not really up for answering questions,” I reply.

“I’m not here to question you. I want to share some information about the murders.”

“Murders? What murders?” I ask, confused.

“If you let me in, I can explain everything,” she offers, her hand outstretched, waiting for me to unlatch the screen door.

I study her for a moment, then relent. I open the door and gesture towards the dining room.

“Coffee?” I offer.

“No, thank you. I don’t have much time,” she declines, pulling files from her bag. “I’ve been conducting a private investigation into the murders on this property and at the hospital.”

“Hospital murders?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting up.

“The hospital that was converted into an asylum in the early to mid-1920s.”

“I’m lost. What hospital are you referring to and where?”

“You’re not aware, are you?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“I believe the hospital is located about two hundred yards beyond the tree line in the back,” she says, pointing behind her.

“Okay, I’ll admit, I’m completely lost.”

“Let me simplify it for you. Between 1920 and 1950, fifty-seven people were murdered at that hospital under the management of your great-uncle, Dr. David Headley, and your aunt, Clementine Headley.

“Clementine was charged twice, once alongside your great-uncle and again when she took over the hospital after his death. However, the charges were dropped due to insufficient evidence.

“The peculiar thing about the murders is that they were all blamed on the patients at the hospital. Patients with no history of violent behavior.

“These innocent people were sentenced to death for crimes they didn’t commit.

“Your aunt Clementine had a grudge against the criminally insane. She murdered them, believing she was doing God’s work.” Linda pauses, flipping through another file.

“So, you’re saying my aunt was insane?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” she confirms, not even looking up. “Did you know your former caretaker, Willie Stiles, found your aunt hanging in the attic?

“He told the police the house was haunted because there was no chair or stool beneath her. He was never charged and was cleared of all suspicion.”

I’m speechless, remembering my mother’s stories about this place being haunted. “Is this place haunted?” I ask.

“I can’t confirm that as I haven’t found any evidence to support it,” she replies, pulling out another file. “How did your fiancé die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Willie Stiles held him underwater. I saw it happen.”

“Have you seen the coroner’s report?” she asks.

“No.”

“I have. Firstly, your fiancé did drown. Secondly, both his arms were dislocated from his shoulders,” she says, sliding the report towards me.

I stare at it, unable to comprehend.

“It wasn’t Willie who killed him. He was trying to save him. Something in the water held him down, causing him to drown. Willie is innocent, and he knew this place was haunted.”

“Oh my god,” I gasp, covering my mouth. “He said he was trying to protect me. He’s been protecting me for the past five years. I feel terrible. What about the sketches of me in his cabin?”

“According to him, he was in love with you. He knew you had a boyfriend, and he was okay with it as long as your fiancé protected you too. Drawing was his hobby; it was his passion.”

Linda leaves ten minutes later, taking the files with her.

I sit on the porch swing with my coffee, lost in thought.

Soon, I hear sirens in the distance, a lot of them. I stand up, a gut feeling telling me to investigate.

I get into Chris’s car and drive down the driveway. Reaching the end, I turn right. Police cars and fire trucks surround a large oak tree.

I slow down and see a car on fire, crashed into the tree.

“Oh my god,” I gasp, covering my mouth. Linda’s car is ablaze. I recognize it from when she parked in my driveway.

I turn around and head back home.

Back in my dining room, I notice some papers under a place mat. I lift it and find all the files Linda had shown me earlier.

I quickly stash them between my mattresses.

***

I need to process everything, so I head to the pond and sit at the picnic table.

After a few minutes, I see Clayton emerge from the woods. He sits across from me.

“I’m sorry about Chris,” he says.

“Did you do it?”

He takes a moment before answering. “No.”

“Then who did?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“Who killed Clementine?”

“The people she killed.”

“Okay, then who killed Linda Miles?”

“Clementine,” he replies.

“Why?”

“Because Linda knew too much,” Clayton says.

“Clementine was the one who killed you?” I ask, watching as he nods in confirmation. “God, I’m sorry,” I murmur, reaching out to touch his arm. It’s then that I realize I can actually feel him. “How come I can touch you if you’re dead?”

“I’m not sure. All I know is that I can take on any human form. It’s a skill I’ve developed over the past decade. I could even become your Chris Miller if you wanted?”

“No, please don’t,” I quickly respond, shaking my head. “If you know who killed him, would you tell me?”

“You’ll be the first to know,” he promises.

“Can I ask you something?” I wait for his nod before continuing. “If my aunt was the one who killed you, and she’s dead now, why are you still here? You got your revenge. Shouldn’t your spirit or soul be at peace?”

“Even though Clementine is gone, my spirit remains. I may never find rest or leave this place. I guess you’re stuck with me,” he says, a smile playing on his lips.

***

Sleep eludes me. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts about everything that’s happened here, leaving me restless. Throughout the night, I think I can hear the faint sounds of children moving around in the attic.

Deciding to investigate, I head up to the attic.

I find boxes and old chests covered in dust. To the left are my great-uncle’s belongings. To the right, my aunt’s.

Leaning against a pole is a small, hard suitcase. Inside, I discover an old typewriter. I press the keys, listening to the clanking sound they make against the ribbon. I close the suitcase and place it near the ladder.

I start to sift through the boxes and stumble upon journals from both David and Clementine. I gather everything I find and bring them downstairs along with the typewriter.

Once I’ve finished reading everything, I know I need to do something. People need to know the truth.

Then it hits me; I need to write about it, but in a fictionalized way. Linda was killed because she knew too much.

Now, I know too much.

I might not live to see tomorrow, or I could live to be a hundred. But I’m going to take life one day at a time.