Storymania - Bower House by H E Gurlitt

Bower House
H E Gurlitt

PROLOGUE

Now it is nineteen hundred and fifty six, if you’re used to counting time by a calendar, sixteen years after my untimely demise, I "lived" at Bower House in relative comfort.

I’m fairly sure that I did not return from the beyond by choice, but by some unexplained impulse. My first conscious awareness manifested itself as I found my body, or what supposedly represents an image of me, hovering over my gravesite. So, here I am, and I wonder if I'll ever leave Bower House.

Only gradually had I become aware of the whispering old firs, heard rain splatter on the roof above me, and below me it refreshed the already lush grass. Hesitant and in sad remembrance I’d touched the gravestone of Gilliard, my dear husband, who’d left me so suddenly. And when I next found my little Monique’s grave on that dismal day of rain and thunder, I had an agonizing shiver. That’s when I knew that I could not rest. It was not the first time I cried out in sorrow.

    You may know that my restless and lonely wanderings lasted until nineteen hundred and forty six, when Bower House received its first bustle of activity mortals are apt to make. Those who first occupied my home did not suffer hardships on my account, I can assure you. Most, but not all of their misfortunes, were of their own makings. Only I could see this. My "presence" had been a blessing at times, on other occasions I caused to raise goosebumps on the squeamish folks, also to those who were merely inquisitive. Others were terrified, yet deliciously curious, while some held to their wits and simply enjoyed my antics.

    I fondly remember Robert James Barnetto, the fifteen-year-old boy who had become my greatest admirer. I’d called him BJ when we were unobserved. Even though he and his family lived here less than a year, I had become quite involved in their personal trials and triumphs. I’m glad, too, that BJ kept in touch after he left for college. Can you imagine writing letters to a ghost? Well, he did. Every now and then a postcard or a letter arrived, addressed to: Charlotte Bower, Cherry Street. To this day I receive mail. Of course these new folks hadn’t any notion who Charlotte Bower was, and considered the mail a shallow joke. Often I have to retrieve it from the waste basket, or snatch it as soon as I’d found it on the kitchen table. BJ’s first message had been short. It said that he’d met a girl. His anthropology studies are going well. By the next mail he was married and had a child. They traveled with him around the world on various digs. I think this to be just wonderful. He forgot to mention if his mother, Tori, had finally married the dealer of antiques, Alva VanDam. She’d moved into town with her daughter, Hella. I wish them every happiness. They sure deserved this after all the agonies they had to endure. The kidnapping of Hella had not been the only anxiety; during this time the children's father, Joe, did not survive his drastic operation. Yet, I felt it could have been a blessing in disguise. Joe’s brain tumor worsen progressively and may have influenced his conduct.

    But enough of that past for now. I'm eager to tell you of the new family, since I found them to be the most unbalanced couple I've ever met. Anton Quill had one job and studied for another, fathered a son and one daughter, and married the zaniest wife in this northern hemisphere.

CHAPTER ONE

It was a typical first day of May, delivering a blustering breath of the northwest coastal region, with equal chances for sun and rain. The slamming of a car door brought me from my place in the attic to the first floor in a hurry. Not by ordinary conveyance but by merely wishing myself to be wherever I want to be. Although, there are limits put onto me, as you’ll find later on in my tale.

    Anton Quill came huffing through the front door, lugging in a large box. The solid oak door, having the annoying habit to swing shut on its own, smacked him on the elbow. Anton’s thick bifocals now slanted over his nose, a strand of pomaded gray hair dislodged itself and dangled over one eye. He screwed up his red face, not just from pain, but evidently by exertion. That wooden box must have been heavy enough to tax his endurance. It hung so low in his arms that I feared he may not reach his destination. This thing, whatever it was, had two flat surfaces, an ugly hump one side, and a panel of milky glass on the other. He let all air out from his lungs after he made it all the way to the front room. Breathing heavy then, and massaging his fingers and that bruised elbow. Still being miserable when he looked around, he scoffed at the ancient, yet functional furniture. That hurt me a little.

    He next walked upstairs and measured the master bedroom. Why he felt compelled to wash his hands after that, I don’t know. He swore under his breath at the rust-laden water when it ran red into the basin. "Darn old pipes." He walked along the hall, drying his hands on the seat of his pants. He took a cursory look at the other three bedrooms, avoiding the sewing room and nursery. Neither did he notice my gold-framed painting in the hall, even though I looked down on him with smiling eyes. I had been posing for the French master, Maurice Utrillo at the age of seventeen. He’d captured my image quite nicely. The next time Anton returned to the house he brought his family with him. This day was oppressive and muggy, and as you will hear in a moment, temperaments flew high and mighty during the hoopla of moving in. His first act was to move boxes and equipment into my library to make it his office. Then he hung his "shingle" at the gate to show off his life insurance sales ability. Whatever he did was done slow and deliberate. Almost pedantic, you might say. His moist gray eyes observed the world with sadness. Could this stem from having seen too much misery in his job, or because he’d reached his mid-forties and hadn’t accomplished a lot?

    His wife, Trudy, was one of those forever girlish women, and knew this to be an advantage. Even the velvet skin covering her high cheekbones gave her a young look. If I would not peer too closely at her, the tiny laugh lines would fade away too. Adding the honey-blond curls, which I knew were natural, and you would see a stunning woman at the end of her thirties. These two people must have met in the dark. If not, they were most likely "under the influence", if you know what I mean. Still, they produced two lovely children. The youngest, Jonas, was about to graduate from high school. He backed into the front door the first time I laid eyes on him, carrying two heavy suitcases. Come to think of it, that’s the way I mostly saw him, since he was forever going places.

    Trudy stood in the hall with a notebook and pencil in one hand and a teacup in the other, asking Jonas to bring the luggage to her room.

    "Where’s your room? Don't you mean master bedroom?" He plunked down both suitcases at the bottom of the long stairway, and stretched his spine to its limit. With his hair cut to a flat top, he was ta1ler than his father. He looked down at his mother and shook his head. "I'm not going to kill myself just to get your stuff up those darn stairs. Pa should’ve put in an elevator in this creaky old place."

    "Jon, don't make a scene. I already have a headache. Where is your father?"

    "He put all the stuff that was in the car in the driveway and left for the post office or something. As if that couldn't wait till all this is in the house. Just hope it doesn't rain, 'cause I'm bushed."

    And would you believe it? Not ten minutes later a sudden gust of wind made the windows rattle. It cooled the air, brought a torrent of rain that formed opaque puddles on the gravel drive. Most of the "stuff" was still outside, and from the door we watched the cardboard box of linen wither and collapse. Before Trudy rushed out into the deluge to retrieve her silver flatware case, she demanded that Jonas call Jennifer down to help bring in her father's fishing gear and the decorative baskets.

    "No use. She's taking a bath, Mom," Jonas called back over his shoulder, as he lugged a few of his own boxes up the central stairs. I admired his pleasant, resonant voice, unlike his "Pa," who sounded querulous and womanish.

    Trudy rushed back in, and dumped the box of silverware on the kitchen table. She shivered, snatched a tea towel from an open drawer, and gave her hair a quick rub, then looked where she’d left her teacup. "She could have taken her bath out there. Your father won’t like the looks of this," she lamented, watching some baskets tumble through the air and land in the oleander bush. The rest shriveled into unrecognizable shapes.

    In the momentary lull of activity I allowed myself to visit the living room, (Trudy called it the drawing room, indicative of her English snobbishness,) to look out into the weed and bramble-choked garden. This gross neglect hurt the image of Bower House. Even the new solicitor, who may have met this tenant outside Bower House, must have had little interest in its appearance. I don’t know to whom the rent is paid, and didn’t really care. Uncle Terrence, who once lived in Brazil, may have had a son. Perhaps Terrence Jr., my cousin then, would be heir of Bower House, living somewhere in North America. If there was no heir, who owned this house? To my mind it was and is still mine. In any case, its neglect and lack of human concern bothered me. From previous tenants and their frequent discussions about me, I was aware that people talk about a "haunted house," say that a "witch walks up there," and other such nonsense. Nevertheless, this should not deter them to rehabilitate this place.

    Most surprisingly, even though these folks had been here since early morning, no one made mention of me. Me, their resident ghost and benevolent protector. Perhaps their silence was an indication that they had taken the "ostrich attitude": If I don’t see it, it’s not there. The noises of my new tenant’s kept me alert. Not that I wished to be a disturbing entity, but knowing my never resting curiosity, I might inadvertently do something...