Horror at Hargrove House
I stood in front of the full-length mirror that hung on the back of my closet door and assessed my appearance. A smile came to my lips. False modesty aside, I looked good enough to be on the cover of Modern Bride magazine.
"You look beautiful!" my mother exclaimed, wiping away a tear with a lace trimmed handkerchief.
At first my mother had objected to the wedding. I was only eighteen, she argued, and I ought to experience life before settling down. I was adamant, however. I knew what I wanted: to marry my high school sweetheart, buy a house in the suburbs and raise a family. I had no desire to become a teacher, secretary or even a stewardess, glamorous as that job might be. Once my mother realized the extent of my resolve, she gave me her full support.
When my father, decked out in his tuxedo, walked into the room, it was my turn to cry.
"Paul Newman, eat your heart out!" I teased.
"I can't let your groom get all the attention, can I?" he replied good-naturedly.
"I better get going," my mother announced and kissed me on the cheek, careful not to leave lipstick on my face. "I'll see you two at the church."
No sooner did my mother's car pull away from the house than the florist arrived with the bouquets.
"Everyone ready now?" my maid of honor asked.
I swallowed and clutched my bouquet to keep my hands from trembling.
This is it! I thought.
An hour later on that sunny June afternoon in 1959, I became Mrs. Rory McGraff.
* * *
Four years passed. Again, I stood in front of the full-length mirror, which was still hanging on the back of the closet door, and once again I wore a dress and veil. Only this time I wore the black of mourning rather than bridal white.
My mother walked into the room—once my bedroom, now my parents' guest room—and looked at me through tear-reddened eyes.
"The car's here," she announced.
"Where's Timothy?"
"Downstairs watching television with your father."
"Do you think we should take him with us to the funeral?"
"That's up to you," my mother replied, "but I wouldn't want my son's last memory of his father to be a flag-draped coffin."
"I suppose you're right," I agreed with a sigh and then changed the subject. "I remember one of the last times I stood in front of this mirror, on the day Rory and I got married."
"Don't torture yourself, dear."
"I'm not, Mom. That was one of the happiest days of my life. I'll always cherish that memory. After all, memories are all I have left of Rory now."
"And your child. You mustn't forget him."
"I know. And hopefully by the time he's a young man, this damned war will be over!"
My comments brought on a renewed bout of tears from my mother, and I, the grieving widow, was the one to comfort her.
* * *
Being a single mother in the Sixties proved to be quite a challenge. My parents were always willing to help out, as were Rory's, but I tried my hardest to stand on my own two feet and not lean on others too often. I had a job waitressing at a diner in Copperwell. It didn't pay much, but I was able to afford the rent on a one-bedroom apartment above my cousin's garage.
Three years after Rory was killed in a helicopter crash near Saigon, I decided to pursue a second chance at happiness. I dated four men, none of whom measured up to my late husband. Then a friend introduced me to Baxter Fullerton, a former marine who served two terms in Vietnam and was lucky enough to return home in one piece. Although the quiet, introverted Baxter had little in common with the fun-loving, extroverted Rory, I was attracted to him nonetheless. In retrospect, I think I saw in him a strength and sense of purpose that was lacking in men who had never served in the military.
Another consideration that drew me to Baxter was the old-fashioned idea that a boy ought to have a male parent as well as a female. I looked to the former marine to provide a masculine influence on Timothy, so it was for my son's sake as well as for my own that I accepted Baxter's proposal.
* * *
The Seventies witnessed the walls of my old bedroom change from pale lavender to sage green, and the frilly canopy bed and vanity being replaced by a desk and matching bookshelves. Although the closet was now the repository for winter coats and my mother's faded wedding gown, the mirror was still in place on the back of the door.
How many times have I looked in this mirror? I wondered.
With my mind's eye, I saw a fourteen-year-old girl looking at her taffeta dress before her first school dance, a seventeen-year-old admiring her prom gown and a pregnant woman frowning over her expanding waistline.
There was a knock on the bedroom door and my mother entered. There was more gray in her hair than there had been when I last stood in front of my mirror, and her waist was a little wider, but she was still an attractive woman.
"Everyone's here," she announced. "Whenever you're ready, you can come downstairs."
Since this was my second marriage, I decided upon a simple ceremony in my parents' back yard. Baxter and I would exchange our vows between the two huge lilac bushes that were currently in full bloom. Lawn chairs and folding tables borrowed from friends and neighbors were covered with white crepe paper, and vases of cut lilacs were used as centerpieces.
As I walked through the sliding glass patio doors out to the back yard, my eyes scanned the smiling faces that were staring at me expectantly. It was the three people standing near the minister that tugged at my heartstrings: Baxter, my husband-to-be; my father, who had aged much more than my mother; and my ten-year-old son. It disturbed me that no one, not even Baxter, looked happy.
It was the look on Timothy's face, however, that troubled me most. An entire panoply of emotions played across his young face: anger, jealousy, sadness and, most disturbing, fear. I wanted to take him in my arms and assure him that he was not losing a mother but gaining a father; however, the minister's thinly disguised look of impatience made me pass by my son and take my place next to the groom.
The ceremony was concluded quickly, and the celebration commenced directly afterward. Unlike my first wedding reception, which had been held at the Essex Country Club, my second consisted mainly of home-cooked food kept warm in a collection of crock pots, a variety of salads and my Aunt Martha's baked beans.
After the cake was cut, it was time for Baxter and me to leave on our honeymoon.
"Where are you two headed?" my Uncle Ted asked.
"We're going to Cape May," I answered.
"How nice! New Jersey ought to be warm this time of year," my Aunt Lillian said.
Before getting into Baxter's Chevy Impala, I went into my parents' house to look for Timothy. I found him in the living room, watching cartoons.
"I thought you were gone already," he said moodily.
"Do you honestly think I would leave without saying goodbye to you?"
A shrug of the shoulders was his only response.
"It's not the end of the world," I said, putting my arms around him. "When we get back from Cape May, we're going to move into Baxter's apartment but only until we can find a house. And when we do, you can get a dog and maybe we'll put a swimming pool in the back yard. You just wait and see, Timmy: we'll be a family!"
"Baxter's not my father!"
"I know that. No one will ever replace your father, but he's gone, and we're still here. We have to go on living. He would want that."
"He wouldn't want us to live with Baxter Fullerton!" my son defiantly argued.
"Give him a chance. You don't even know him."
"Neither do you. If you did, you wouldn't marry him!"
"That's a terrible thing to say."
"It's true!" Timothy yelled. "I hate him, and I wish you didn't have to go and marry him."
When I felt a hand on my shoulder, I turned and looked up.
"We'd better get going," Baxter advised. "I'll see you when we get back," he told my son in a flat, emotionless voice.
Had he displayed even a hint of sadness or disappointment at my son's outburst, I would have felt more at ease.
* * *
As Baxter drove toward Beach Street, I looked out the passenger window at the wonderfully maintained Victorian homes that, along with its lighthouse and sandy shoreline, made Cape May a popular tourist destination.
"There are a lot of nice, old houses around here," I observed. "And they're in great shape."
"It takes a lot of work to keep them that way," Baxter said. "Do you know how long it takes to paint all that gingerbread? And because of the proximity to the ocean the houses have to be painted every few years."
I realized then that Baxter's staid manner, the same quality that had attracted me to my new husband, was proving to be a letdown on our honeymoon. Although I felt guilty comparing the two, I couldn't help it. My first husband had been romantic, fun and sometimes downright silly. We had seen the sights in New York—a first-time experience for both of us—and we had enjoyed every minute of it. Now, here I was in romantic Cape May, and all my second husband could think of was the drawbacks of maintaining a Victorian-era house.
"I'm getting hungry," I said, forcing myself not to remember the time Rory and I stood on top of the Empire State Building, making plans for our future.
"There's a place to eat up ahead."
When I got out of the Impala, my eyes were immediately drawn to the building across the street. Although it was not as well-maintained as its neighbors, the three-story Queen Anne with the wraparound porch, tower and third-floor balcony was one of the most beautiful homes I had ever seen.
Baxter was halfway to the restaurant's front door when he noticed I hadn't followed him. I was still standing beside the car, staring at the house.
"I thought you were hungry," he said.
"Isn't it gorgeous!" I exclaimed, at a loss for a more fitting adjective.
"It needs work," he replied in typical Baxter Fullerton fashion.
"That makes it even more endearing. It's like a house in a fairy tale, an enchanted castle placed under a spell by an evil witch, waiting for someone to bring it to life again."
"I hope you don't fill your son's head with that kind of nonsense!"
I closed my eyes to fight back the tears. There was no apology; my husband was too proud to admit he might be wrong.
"The place is for sale," he said, putting his hand on my back in an attempt at affection.
"We could never afford it. Besides, this is a long way from Puritan Falls."
"Who said we have to remain in Massachusetts? I'm my own boss; I can work wherever I choose."
"There's still the question of money."
"This place is definitely a fixer-upper. We might be able to get it at a decent price."
"I don't suppose it would hurt to talk to the realtor," I said, not wanting to get my hopes up.
* * *
Later that afternoon, my husband and I were given a tour of the house, known locally as Hargrove House, by a Cape May real estate agent. I noticed the interior was in much better condition than the exterior.
"I told you. It's that sea air," Baxter declared. "All that salt is tough on the outside of a house."
Not wanting to appear too eager in front of the real estate agent, I held my tongue as we walked from room to room. Despite my apparent indifference, my desire to own the house increased with each threshold I crossed.
"Everything about this place is perfect," I whispered to my husband when the agent went to the kitchen to make a phone call, leaving us alone in the living room. "Don't you agree?"
"I'll reserve my opinion until she tells us the price."
The real estate agent returned and informed us that someone had made an offer on the house. I was sure she saw the disappointment on my face, as much as I tried to hide it.
"Does that mean we can't buy it?" I asked.
"You can put in an offer as well, and then the decision will be up to the owner. He can choose to sell to one of you or he can keep the house on the market until a better offer comes in."
"How much was the other offer?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, but I can tell you the asking price."
It was a very low price for such a huge house, but it was still more than Baxter and I were prepared to spend.
"We'll discuss it and get back to you," my husband told the agent, effectively ending the tour.
The realtor locked the front door of the house, got into her car and drove away.
"I can't believe the owner is willing to let the house go for such a low price," I said. "It's a steal! We ought to put an offer in as soon as possible before the owner sells it to the other couple."
"Hold on! We're talking about a lot of money. Don't forget I'll have to establish a reputation here before I can start bringing in a decent income. We don't want to put ourselves into debt."
"If necessary, I can get a job."
"No wife of mine is going to work. I'm the man; I'll be the breadwinner."
I realize I had crossed a line. By offering to work, I had injured his male ego. In an attempt to keep the relationship on an even keel, I took my husband's arm and suggested we walk on the beach.
* * *
After giving the matter a few hours' thought, Baxter phoned the real estate agent and offered full asking price for Hargrove House. To our delight, the seller immediately accepted our offer. Three months later, after the closing on the property, Baxter, Timothy and I got into the Impala and headed south.
"Won't it be nice to have your own bedroom?" I asked my son when we stopped for a hamburger on the Garden State Parkway.
"No," he replied glumly. "I'd rather go back to Puritan Falls, but you don't care what I want."
"That's no way to talk to your mother, young man," Baxter said sternly.
"It's none of your business."
I saw my husband's right hand tighten into a fist, and I quickly tried to smooth things over.
"Who knows? New Jersey might grow on you. There's a nice back yard you can play in and ...."
"Damn it! Don't baby the boy. That's why he is the way he is. He needs discipline, and if he's to live under my roof, he'd better get it."
"You're not my father," my son defiantly protested.
"That's obvious! If I were, you wouldn't have such a fresh mouth. That's about to change, though. From this point on, when you address me, you'll call me either sir or Mr. Fullerton. Is that clear?"
Timothy looked down at his plate, refusing to answer. Baxter grabbed the boy's arm and squeezed.
"I said, 'Is that clear?'"
"Yes," Timothy answered with a wince of pain.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir."
I wanted to object, to tell Baxter to keep his hands off my son; but I was afraid that if I did, Timothy would never get the discipline he needed. I turned away, not wanting to see the accusation of betrayal in my son's eyes.
By the time the three of us got back into the Impala, I had lost my eagerness to move into Hargrove House. It no longer seemed the enchanted castle I first imagined it, and I was no longer a princess, but an unhappy woman resigned to a loveless marriage to a cold, cruel man.
* * *
The first evening beneath our new roof, Baxter, Tim and I sought our own corners: my husband went to the basement, my son to his bedroom and I to the kitchen. The next day I went to my son's room to try to patch things up.
"Want to go down to the beach?" I asked.
He shook his head and turned away, unwilling to look me in the eye.
I don't know how long he would have remained angry with me, perhaps days or even weeks; but something happened that shook him out of his irritated, self-pitying mood and sent him running into my arms to seek protection.
I had turned around, intent on leaving him to sulk in his room, when suddenly both the bedroom door and window slammed shut.
"What was that?" Timothy asked.
"I don't know."
I reached for the doorknob and then pulled my hand back in pain.
"It's hot!" I cried.
"Look!" my son screamed, pointing to the floor in front of his closet.
A dark puddle formed beneath the door and spread out into the room.
"Is that ...?"
Tim was too frightened to utter the word.
"It looks like blood. There might be an injured animal in the closet."
I gingerly touched the handle of the closet door, afraid of burning my fingers again. This time, the metal was cold. I grabbed the knob, turned and opened the door. Everything inside—clothes, shoes and toys—was covered in a layer of ice.
"What's bleeding?" Timothy asked.
"I don't know," I replied, my breath visible from the subfreezing temperatures.
The bedroom door suddenly burst open, and Baxter stood in the doorway.
"What's going on in here?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. I've never seen anything like ...."
I noticed there was no longer blood on the floor or ice inside the closet. There was no sign that anything out of the ordinary had occurred.
At first Baxter refused to give credence to my wild claims, but when he went downstairs to the kitchen and saw blood coming out of the faucet and the fresh fruit on the kitchen table in an advanced state of decay, he grudgingly believed me.
"We need to call a priest to come and bless this house," I suggested, covering my nose to block out the foul stench in the kitchen.
"You can take care of that," he said. "You're the religious one in this family."
I went to the phone and dialed information. By the time the operator answered, both the sink and the fruit had returned to normal.
* * *
I felt strange telling such an incredible tale to a man I'd never met, but the priest tried to put me at ease.
"You must think I'm insane," I concluded.
"No," the priest admitted. "You see, this isn't the first time I've been asked to bless Hargrove House."
"It isn't?"
"How long have you lived here?" he asked.
"We just moved in yesterday."
"Are you from the area?"
"No, Massachusetts."
"Then you know nothing about the history of this house?"
I shook my head, filled with both curiosity and dread.
"Back in the early Fifties, the Hargrove family lived here: the husband, wife and their five kids. They had moved to Cape May from New York City and were living here for a little over five years when one night the oldest son comes home around two in the morning, gets his father's hunting rifle and then shoots his parents and siblings."
"What happened to him?"
"He was declared criminally insane and sent up north to Greystone, the state mental hospital."
"That's horrible, but what have these killings to do with what's going on in the house now?"
"Two other families have owned this place since the Hargroves. Both of them were from out of state and both moved out when they learned about the murders."
"When I experienced the bizarre occurrences I described, I knew nothing about the house's history."
"I can't explain why you think you saw ...."
"I didn't imagine these things, father; my husband and son saw them, too."
"Calm down, my dear," the priest said soothingly. "I'll bless the house, and then I'm sure everything will be fine."
No sooner did the priest depart, however, than all the kitchen cabinets flew open and their contents spilled out onto the floor.
* * *
"We can't just leave," Baxter argued when I suggested we return to Massachusetts for our own safety. "Every cent I have is tied up in this place. Regardless of the unexplained things that go on here, we have a thirty-year mortgage."
"What are we going to do then?"
"I don't know. Right now I've got to concentrate on getting my business up and running. If you're so worried about what's going on in this house, then you find some way to stop it."
I had foolishly expected a strong arm to lean on when I married Baxter Fullerton, but I was discovering that he was falling far short of my expectations.
At a loss of where to turn, I went to the local library and examined a book on the paranormal. With the help of the librarian, I was able to contact Annette Freehling, a psychic who enthusiastically agreed to pay a visit to Hargrove House.
"I've always wanted to get inside this place," Annette confessed when I invited her in for a cup of coffee, "but neither of the previous owners would allow it."
"Well, I have, so look wherever you want to. I'm anxious to know if my home is being haunted by one or more of the murder victims."
"Let's get started then," the psychic suggested.
We walked through every room of the large house, taking more time in the bedrooms—where the murders had occurred—than anywhere else. Finally, we returned to the living room.
"Most disturbing," Annette muttered.
"What is it?" I asked.
"There's definitely psychic energy here, but it's not from anyone on the other side."
"I don't follow you."
"There are no spirits. It appears what you have here is a poltergeist."
"How can I get rid of it?"
"Most poltergeist manifestations are actually produced by a human in the house who is living under extremely stressful circumstances. Adolescents, girls in particular, have wreaked havoc by releasing repressed psychic energies."
"I don't have a daughter, but I have a son."
"Has he been troubled lately?"
"His father was killed in Vietnam, and I recently remarried," I said guiltily. "Then we brought him here to this house from Massachusetts."
"How does he get along with your new husband?"
"Not very well, I'm afraid. In fact, they had an argument the day we moved into the house."
"And the poltergeist activity began after that argument, am I right?"
"The next day."
Annette nodded her head.
"There's a strong possibility your son is the cause of your problems."
I didn't confide in my husband what the psychic had told me concerning the poltergeist activity. Rather, I told him that I wanted to send Timothy to Massachusetts to stay with my parents until we unraveled the mystery at Hargrove House. Baxter not only agreed with my decision, but he seemed happy to see the boy go.
* * *
Three weeks passed, and there were no further disturbances at Hargrove House. My husband and I lived a somewhat normal life. For the first time since our wedding, Baxter seemed at ease. He'd found work doing a basement remodel and had two other jobs lined up once that one was completed. His ability to put food on the table seemed to have boosted his fragile masculine ego, for he began to talk about what changes he hoped to make to our home.
"I think I'll start with the bathroom," he told me one night over dinner. "I want to replace the old vanity with something larger, preferably one with drawers. That way you'll have a place to put your cosmetics."
"Sounds like a good idea," I agreed as I spooned more spaghetti onto his dinner plate.
"Next Monday is Labor Day," he pointed out, knowing full well I was aware of the upcoming holiday weekend. "I thought I'd take some time off and you and I could drive up to Atlantic City for a few days."
"I'm afraid I can't. Timothy will be coming home. He has to start school here after Labor Day."
"Are you sure that's a good idea? Maybe he ought to go to school in Puritan Falls."
"He's my son. I want him to live here with us, not in Massachusetts."
"It wouldn't be a permanent thing," Baxter argued. "It would only be for a few months until I can get on my feet."
"No," I cried. "I won't hear about my son living with my parents."
"Why not? The kid hates me; you can plainly see that! Why do we have to have him here?"
I was livid with rage. How could my husband even suggest I'd abandon my son?
"You knew I had a child when we began dating."
"Yes, but I didn't realize he'd be so ... so ...."
"So what?"
"Difficult."
"He's a young boy who has been through a lot in his short life. You're the adult. You ought to be a little more understanding. Maybe if you tried to get close to him, to show him some affection, things would change."
"You expect me to love him as if he were my own, don't you?"
"Would that be so hard? He's really a good little boy, if you would only give him a chance."
"He's not my flesh and blood. He's nothing but a constant reminder that I wasn't the first man in your life."
When the bulbs in the chandelier above the dining room table simultaneously exploded, I knew the paranormal disturbances I'd observed in Hargrove House had not been caused by Timothy.
* * *
"There have been instances when an adult was responsible for poltergeist activity," Annette Freehling explained when I contacted her the following day, "but these occurrences are extremely rare and brought about by emotionally charged experiences."
"My husband was a marine who served two terms in Vietnam."
"Ah! In that case, he could very well be the cause. He might be suffering from some form of post-traumatic stress disorder, quite common in those who were in battle."
"So, I could be right?" I asked eagerly. "The problem might be my husband and not my son."
"Yes. In fact, since there was another incident and your son is still in New England, I'd say it was highly probable. Still, we can't completely rule out your son. I'm afraid you might never know which of the two is responsible."
"Why not?"
"Chances are that the emotional turmoil that precipitated the paranormal outburst will eventually die down. When it does, you can get on with your lives."
"You mean once Baxter and Timothy get past this rocky stage in their relationship, things will return to normal?"
"That's the way it usually works. Often, family counseling will accelerate the process."
"I don't think Baxter would agree to see a therapist. Besides, we don't have the money. I'm afraid we bit off more than we could chew, financially, buying this house."
"Well, I'm sure you'll find a way to bring those two together. And remember, if I can be of any help, you have only to call me."
* * *
From the moment Timothy returned to Cape May, there was a palpable sense of uneasiness in the air, like the build-up of ion concentration in the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. I decided the best course of action was to not force the two to become friends; rather, I would let them bond on their own terms without interference from me. How stupid and naive I was to think this would work! With or without my help, Baxter and Timothy would never be anything but enemies.
The first night my son was back under our roof everything was peaceful. My husband and I took him out for hot dogs and ice cream, and then we drove to Wildwood to stroll along the boardwalk since the one in Cape May had been destroyed by a nor'easter in 1962. When Baxter exhibited his pitching skill and won a prize for Timothy, it was the first—and sadly the only—time I felt that we three were a family.
We returned home, and my son, exhausted from the long car trip south, went directly to bed. I slept peacefully that night with not a sound in the house, except the ticking of the hall clock, the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional sound of a car passing in front of the house. It was the proverbial calm before the storm.
I woke early the next morning, Sunday, and hurried down to the kitchen where I prepared banana pancakes, a favorite of both Timothy and Baxter. The scent of the maple syrup and freshly brewed coffee filtered out of the room and up to the second floor. As I was setting the dining room table, my husband came downstairs and took his seat. I immediately put a cup of hot coffee in front of him.
"What time is your son getting up?" he asked, as he poured milk into his coffee. "The lawn has to be mowed."
"You want him to do it?" I asked with surprise.
"Of course. It's important that he has chores. He needs to learn responsibility."
"I'm sure there are easier chores for him to do. He's only ten."
"Stop coddling him. It's not hard to mow a lawn; you just push the mower and then rake up the cut grass afterward."
Fifteen minutes later Timothy still hadn't gotten up.
"More coffee?" I asked.
"How long are you going to let him sleep?" Baxter asked, ignoring my question.
"I'm sure he'll wake up soon. He's probably tired after his long trip yesterday."
"If he's not up in ten minutes, I'm going to go upstairs and wake him myself."
Luckily, my son came downstairs moments later.
"Don't you say good morning?" my husband asked.
"Good morning."
"Hurry up and eat. You've got chores to do."
Timothy ignored his stepfather and spoke only to me.
"Remember you told me that if we ever got our own place, I could get a dog?"
I looked nervously at Baxter.
"There'll be no dog in this house!" he brusquely declared. "They're too much work."
"He'll take care of it, and it will teach him responsibility," I said using my husband's own words to argue my case.
"I said no dog."
"Why not?" Timothy asked.
"How did I tell you to address me?"
"Why not, sir?"
The last word came out as more of a snarl than a word.
"How dare you talk to me so disrespectfully?" Baxter bellowed.
"I'm sure he doesn't mean anything by it," I said, desperately trying to keep the peace.
"The hell he didn't. What that son of yours needs is a good beating!"
"No," I cried, putting myself between them, "please don't hurt him."
"You have no idea how to raise a boy," Baxter shouted and pushed me aside. "It takes a firm hand."
My husband grabbed my son's arm with his left hand and raised his right to strike him.
The anticipated blow never came, however. A gas line that ran beneath the dining room to the kitchen exploded before Baxter's hand came down.
"Quick!" he ordered. "Everybody get outside before the whole house goes up!"
As Timothy and I ran outside onto the lawn, I heard the front door slam shut behind us. We turned and saw Baxter frantically trying to open the glass storm door.
"Don't look," I said, pulling my son into my arms and covering his eyes with my hand.
He was thus spared having to see the agony and horror on his stepfather's face as the flames consumed him.
* * *
While I stood once more in front of the full-length mirror in what had been my childhood bedroom, my son knocked on the door and entered the room.
"I don't look too bad for a middle-aged woman, do I, Tim?" I asked.
"You look great, Mom," he replied, kissing me on the cheek. "But then you always do."
After my parents retired and moved to Florida, Timothy and I used Baxter's insurance money to purchase their house. I raised my son there without the help of a stepfather, and, if I do say so myself, I did a damned good job.
"How are you holding up?" I asked.
"I'm shaking in my boots. Marriage is a big step. I hope I'm not making a mistake."
"Beverly's a wonderful girl. I'm sure she'll make you a good wife."
"But what about you? You'll be all alone in this big house. Are you sure you don't want to come live with us?"
"The last thing two newlyweds need is a mother-in-law living under the same roof. Besides, I'll be fine. I've got a lot of friends, and I'm counting on you and Beverly to give me grandchildren."
"I have no doubt you'll be a wonderful grandmother—just as you were a wonderful mother. Still, I sometimes wish you could meet a man ...."
He stopped speaking when he saw the sadness on my face.
Timothy and I have never spoken of the day Hargrove House burned to the ground or of the man who died in the fire, but I'm sure we both realized what had happened that morning. It was not Baxter suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder that caused the disturbances in the house, nor was it Timothy dealing with the death of his father and my remarriage. When my husband raised his hand to beat my son, every maternal instinct in my soul sought to help my child.
I knew the truth at last. The psychic energy I had unknowingly repressed since the death of my first husband erupted with a force far greater than it had on the previous occasions. In that moment of realization, I made a choice. I would no longer subject my son to Baxter's brutality.
"You go ahead and get ready for your wedding," I said, putting all thoughts of the past out of my mind. "I'll be all right."
"Yeah," Timothy said, hugging me tightly. "I know. You won't have any problem taking care of yourself."
It doesn't take a psychic to know what wreaks havoc at my house!
