A Shadow of Time

DEDICATION

In memory of Audrey Carroll O’Brien.

The bravest woman I have ever known.

PROLOGUE

1828 A.D.

A corrupted human skull hid the shaman’s face as he danced a circle around the naked patch of disseminated soil. Silver braids flew in and out between dangling patches of human hair painstakingly weaved throughout the skull.

The ancient holy man had lined his face with paint that seeped into the myriad cracks etched into his skin. His eyes glowed with worshipful adoration as the seedpods he carried in his hand crackled and popped with every flip of the wrist. His feet danced to a tune only he could hear, and his mouth opened in a curse as old as the land itself. Jagged yellow teeth glimmered against his moon-shadowed face in the starlight, while long, bone-thin arms shook with passion as he danced his dance with death. Slowly, the land changed beneath him, forming a thick, slimy muck that pulled first at his feet then the rest of his body. The milky maw crept up his skin, and in orgasmic exaltation, he sank into the foul muddied earth. The sacrifice was complete and the land slept.

Present

The history of the house was hidden behind deceptive glances and soft furtive whisperings. The towns-people averted their eyes if they needed to pass and only mentioned Shadow Ley if necessity demanded. Vacant, the house sat on a hill like a brooding leviathan, hiding its face in tendrils of preternatural mist. The staccato beat of rain stung the sides of the mansion, stripping away the last of the paint that once left it gleaming in the golden fall sun. The water-swollen clapboards dropped their nails one by one onto the earth. The ravenous ground greedily lapped them up until they disappeared from view. The boards fell like shedding skin, revealing white lacquered paint in their place. The earth devoured the sodden wood.

What was once old would now be new.

CHAPTER ONE

Shit, Kellyn O’Brien complained as she negotiated another turn. The foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains had more than their share of winding roads. At the five-mile marker, she found the turn off to Reservation Road. A quick left, then a right, brought her to a wrought iron gate that barred her entrance. Shutting off the engine, she glanced back at Scott. Her two year-old son slept with a sippy cup clutched in his hand as if his life depended on it.

Getting out of the car, she approached a gate that stood at least six feet high and was topped with heavy spikes. Grabbing the rigid metal, she gave it a good shake. The lock held while rust-colored needles fell on top of her like rain. She glanced around, unnerved by thick pine trees and underbrush. It looked as if the gate hadn’t been opened in ages. All was dark gray and green, spider webs dancing in spiky boughs.

A razor-sharp wind picked up, blowing her scarf across her face. She whipped it away as she stumbled over a rock. Without notice, her stomach gave way to morning sickness that only occurred in the afternoon, and she retched painfully. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she approached the Prelude where her newly awakened son babbled at an invisible presence in the back seat. Her heart sank as she realized he was up to his tricks with his imaginary friend, Man. She opened the driver’s side door and sat down.

Scott giggled. Man!

Covering her weariness, she glanced back at the empty seat next to him. Man?

Yes. Nice man.

Very nice man.

Kellyn’s hands shook as much from the cold as from exhaustion. Closing the car door, she peered out the window. The solicitors had promised her the gate would be unlocked for her arrival. She sighed. Trouble was something she had come to expect. Life had been challenging, first as an orphan, then as a foster child. She considered herself toughened, relished challenges, and met head-on whatever circumstances came her way. She thought herself emotionally strong, but the death of her husband and the strain of her pregnancy had stretched her resilience almost to the breaking point.

Cain I hep ya? a tobacco-thickened voice asked from outside the car.

Startled, she glanced up, instinctively clutching her purse as she rolled down the window. An elderly man stood before her dressed in filthy corduroy pants with a small, stained, gray T-shirt that read See the Grand Canyon Today! His coat was at least two sizes too large and hung on a skeletal frame. The old man scratched his beard then sucked on his teeth.

You Kellyn? he asked, sticking his head toward the opened car window.

She stared back at large canine-like yellow teeth, chipped and stained. I’m Kellyn O’Brien. Are you Henry?

He nodded and his glasses slipped down his nose. He pushed them up with a gnarled, blue-veined finger. Sorry ’bout keeping ya out here. I was busy up at the house ’en just made it to the gate.

Can you let me in? She wondered at his voice. For a moment, it had sounded odd—bereft of emotion and tinny. She laughed at herself. Fanciful thoughts for a pregnant woman, she mused.

Needles crunching underfoot, the air perfumed with pine, Henry muttered to himself as he fumbled in his pocket. He withdrew a thick iron key and unlocked the gate. It swung outward before coming into contact with a large pinecone.

Widdamaker, Henry said, puffing. Visibly distressed, he pulled the pinecone from between the gate and the dirt. His legs shook with the effort.

What? With her head poked out the window, she shivered in the cold, almost missing his last remark. Thick heavy clouds roiled overhead, threatening rain or snow.

Widdamaker cone, he yelled. His large fingers curled around the heavy seedpod as he walked toward the car. No good for nothing, ’cept to hit ya on the head ’en knock ya out.

Concerned, she clicked the shoulder harness into place and relocked the car door. Scotty opened his pudgy hands as she glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

I see, Mommy?

She shook her head, catching his eye. No, Scott. It’s dirty.

The old man continued, You watch out for these things, missus. They can kill a grown man. Or woman.

She grimaced.

The caretaker smoothed back what remained of his gray hair then spat on the ground. He threw down the pinecone, brushed his hands together, and backed up, allowing her to maneuver the car around hanging boughs then through the open gate. The little car sputtered as she drove down the drive.

In her mind’s eye, the phone rang. She had just finished feeding Scott and the newspaper want-ads were splayed out on the kitchen table, a coffee stain smudging an ad for a caregiver. Hello?

Good day, Mrs. O’Brien. This is Shauna from Liberty, Bell, and Law, Attorneys at Law. I’m calling to inform you that your son has inherited your husband’s family home, located just above Jackson, California.

What home?

Shadow Ley. In the California foothills. The house has been vacant for a little over two years. It was left to your husband who, as an adult, was not required to live on the estate. Now it is to go to your son, though I must say it is not in good repair.

She paused for a moment as Scott tried to wiggle out of his booster seat. Irritated, she said, You must have the wrong person.

No, Mrs. O’Brien, I don’t.

But Michael was adopted.

Adopted? Michael was born at Shadow Ley to Robert and Marion O’Brien. The house has belonged to the O’Brien family for generations.

You’ve got to be kidding. She remembered thinking it couldn’t be true.

No, Mrs. O’Brien, I am not kidding.

Michael, it turned out, had been the perfect liar. Not only had he lived with his birth parents, but his family was seriously wealthy.

Two weeks later, a Mr. Shaw from Liberty, Bell, and Law sent a copy of the O’Brien Family Trust and a contract in the mail. She’d taken both documents to a local lawyer who went through them line by line. Fortunately, the trust paid for the visit.

The papers were explicit in that she occupy Shadow Ley with her son until he reached the age of majority, even if she remarried. After that, she was free to do what she liked, and a part of the trust, a cool one million, would belong to her, tax free. She’d signed the contract with relief, knowing that finally she would have a safe place to raise her son and, soon, the baby that grew within her womb.

While preparing to move, she’d spent countless hours imagining what it would be like to be wealthy. She envisioned shopping at Macy’s, eating at fine restaurants, and buying Scott every toy imaginable.

After discovering Jackson was more than two hours from San Jose, and an hour or more away from a decent mall, the first pangs of leaving surfaced. However, she was determined to make this work. She’d finally ordered the moving van which left about fifty bucks in her pocket—just enough gas money to get her to the foothills.

Mr. Shaw informed her that once she arrived, a debit card and checkbook with a balance of five thousand dollars would be waiting for her. She planned on hitting the bank the day after she arrived at the new house. After that, it was shopping for them both. Scott needed new pants, plus his shoes were getting small. They’d need warmer clothing, too.

The Honda shuddered as it took a deep rut, forcing her to focus. Globs of mistletoe hung from twisted branches scraping the car’s roof. Glancing in the rearview, she watched Scott gazing at her with concern. Another half mile and she began to wonder if there was a house.

She downshifted to climb another hill, and as she crested the top, she gasped then pulled over to the side of the road. On a knoll overlooking the city, pines and oaks surrounded the hillock where Shadow Ley reared its gargantuan head. Sunlight streamed onto white clapboards and a meandering front porch. The only part of the house that wasn’t white was the slate gray roof that seemed to go on forever.

Shocked, she stared at the monstrosity. Where was the Victorian she had envisioned: the turrets, tiles, and warm colored paint? Where were the windows shining in the sun and the overgrown garden she was going to lose herself in? This wasn’t a house. It was a giant deformity! It was huge, off-center, and more work than she’d ever be able to handle.

She cocked her head, examining the architectural behemoth while trying to make sense of the situation. A rabid shadow shimmered around the periphery of the house that made the creation look ugly, unwanted, and somehow, soiled. Were those gargoyles on top of dormer windows?

Her stomach plummeted as she contemplated rambling around the interior, her fear of large spaces overwhelming her. Long and low slung, the porch hugged what looked like a Colonial mansion with a Georgian flair—a miserable gothic mess with an eclectic sense of humor. The boarded-over windows were dark and lifeless, the lawn out front brown and unkempt. Three chimneys sprang from the roof. Two in front, one in the back.

Man, Scotty shouted. Come here.

Turning in her seat, she gazed at her son, perplexed. His imaginary friend was as real to him as she was.

See Man, Mommy? His blue eyes shone with excitement as he tried to get her to see his invisible friend.

As usual, nothing was there. Man was a figment of her son’s imagination, brought on by the death of his father, according to his pediatrician.

Exhausted, she gazed at the littered floor of the automobile. Animal crackers decorated the space in-between the door and the seat. She sighed, a strange longing coming over her. I want to go home, she thought. I just want to go home.

CHAPTER TWO

John Aldrich shrugged into his lab coat then walked out of his office and down the hall. Connie, his receptionist, was just hanging up the phone. Exhausted from another night without sleep, the last thing he wanted to do was see another patient.

She removed her headset and looked up, red hair curling around a slender face. I talked to Aleshanee yesterday. Remember her? Adam introduced you at the Labor Day barbeque.

Aleshanee, a member of the Mi-Wuk tribe who lived near the casino just north of Jackson, was a notorious gossip. He could only imagine what she’d had to say. Grabbing a chart from the desk, he leafed through it.

Connie continued, Shadow Ley will soon be owner occupied.

Surprised, he flipped the mammogram report over and smoothed back his prematurely gray hair. It had a habit of falling into his eyes, and he desperately needed a haircut. By whom?

Michael’s wife.

Are you sure? He glanced down the hallway then reexamined the test results. Is Mrs. Estefan ready?

Almost. I put her in room three. Adam is going ballistic wondering about her.

Who? Mrs. Estefan? While his secretary did keep him entertained, she had a habit of jumping from one subject to the other.

No. Michael’s wife. She lifted an eyebrow and grinned.

He was glad to see the reappearance of Connie’s personality. Generally, she charmed everyone, especially women nine months pregnant who needed help with younger children. Since her miscarriage, the life had seeped out of her. He said, I didn’t know Michael was married.

Neither did I, but you know the house has to go to someone in the family. It’s been vacant a little over two years now, I think. Maybe a little more.

More than likely they gave up searching and sold it.

No. Aleshanee was quite definite about it.

John studied her, observing the dark circles underneath her eyes. They had catching up to do. He’d been on vacation all last week, if one could call a conference in Nevada City time off. How are you feeling?

Eh, sugar crash. I ate a candy bar for breakfast.

You know better than that. You need healthy food after a miscarriage. How are you getting along with Adam?

With a shrug of one shoulder, she said, It’s not him, it’s me. It seems like ever since I lost the baby things haven’t been right. Tears sprang to her eyes and she brushed them away.

It’ll get better, he promised. If not, we’ll try an anti-depressant.

You think? I do cry a lot. She cleared her throat. I don’t want to upset the patients with my emotional liabilities.

Give it another few weeks. In the meantime, stick to vegetables, fruit, and lots of protein. He glanced down the hall as he heard Mrs. Estefan’s purse drop to the floor. You also need rest.

I know, but sleeping is difficult.

How’s your mom?

She’s working at the Food Mart on occasion.

Still no job?

Not yet. She just mans the cash register whenever they call. What about you? How are things with that, oh what’s her name, Cheryl?

Misty green eyes peered at him, eliciting a response whether or not he wanted to give one. She’s just a friend.

Oh.

In any case, it’s none of your business. He thought of Sarah, his wife, dead these last five years. At Connie’s down-turned mouth, he added, Look, it isn’t that I don’t want a girlfriend. I just don’t have the time or the inclination to go looking for one. Cheryl serves her purpose. We go out to dinner, to a movie, and that’s it.

Whatever. Connie turned away, fingers clacking on an ergonomic keyboard.

He grabbed the chart and headed down the hall. When he heard the tap of his secretary’s foot and felt a pull on his coat sleeve, he turned, almost bumping into her. Connie was tiny, coming to just below his shoulder.

Her voice hesitant, she said, I’m sorry for butting in.

He straightened. Forget it. It seems we both have a boatload of sorrow to carry around. I’m sorry if I sounded snarky.

I forget myself sometimes.

Don’t even think about it. When’s Jackie due back? Jackie was his assistant and had taken the morning off.

She’ll be here about two. Connie smiled, patted his shoulder, and sped back to her desk.

In room three, Mrs. Estefan waited. A breast cancer survivor, she was pregnant with her second child. He thought he might induce labor, which would allow a return to her Tamoxifen regimen sooner rather than later.

He pushed open the door, trying to ignore the fear that ignited in his belly. Closed doors frightened him, as what lay on the other side often had little to do with reality.

Bizarre hallucinations from an earlier lifetime had entered his waking life, complete with Mayan jungles and cities. He glanced down the hall at Connie. You ready? You’re all I’ve got until Jackie gets here.

Hoping to find a woman on the other side dressed in blue paper, he said with forced bravado, his voice louder than it needed to be, Let’s see how that baby is doing, Maria.

CHAPTER THREE

The Honda made it to the bottom of the hill before coming to rest in front of the mansion. Kellyn got out of the car as Scott gave out a wail of unhappiness. Head pounding with frustration, she cried, What’s the matter?

No, Scott said then clenched his teeth.

No, what? She fumbled with her purse as she reached into the backseat to get him out of the car.

No, no, no house.

Exasperated, she dropped her purse. A puff of red dirt rose from the ground and drifted into her bag. She reached into the back and unbuckled her son from the car seat. Gathering him into her arms, his body shuddered with fear against her shoulder. Hush now. Everything will be all right.

Lost in cuddling her son, she moved away from the self that stood in front of Shadow Ley and joined the other Kellyn she had left behind in the tiny duplex in San Jose. In that special place, her loving, non-liar of a husband was still alive, and Scott, freshly bathed and smelling of baby lotion, waited for his father’s arrival. She rested a moment in her daydream while the world outside ticked away in relative obscurity.

Finally, the relentless wind crept into her bones, and she opened her eyes. She squinted, wanting so much to return to her daydream. Wispy tendrils of baby fine hair tickled her cheek while Scott breathed rhythmically against her shoulder, his fears calmed. You okay, little man?

He looked up, eyes twinkling, and nodded, giving her a smile that dimpled at the corners.

Her heart melted. Well then. She set him on the ground, grabbed her purse, and gritted her teeth. Let’s go see what Daddy left us.

Determined to build a new life, Kellyn threw back her shoulders, and together they walked up the steps to the porch. Hand-carved railings passed through fragile hands as she helped Scott upstairs. Not a nick or a scratch marred the painted surface, not a chip or a crack stained the stairs.

Scott solemnly sucked his thumb as she rooted through her purse for the keys. Under most circumstances, they would be easy to find, but she had traded in her regular purse for a combo diaper bag that held almost an entire Quickie Mart in its depths. Damn, she said.

Damn it? Scott said loud enough for her to hear.

She grasped the keys. That’s enough.

Stamping her feet to shake off the dust, she fitted in the key marked Shadow Ley. The lock clicked then turned. She grasped Scott’s hand even tighter as she opened the door.

Bright white paint faded into darkness as she peeked into the foyer. Dust bunnies floated, dancing in the air. A frightful gloom penetrated the inside of the house.

Oh, damn, she cried. Not only is it huge, it’s dirty.

Damn dirty, Scott said, nodding his head.

A worn, stained, blue and gold paisley carpet runner lay across mahogany floors. The door caught on ragged, dishwater-gray fringe, and she cringed at the sound of ripping, rotted material. Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now.

She pushed harder. As the rug ripped, the door fully opened. Her fingers felt for a light switch. Thankfully, the power was on. A chandelier tilted in the middle of the foyer, its crystals dispersing little light due to a thick gray crust that covered them. Windows caked with soot blocked the sunlight.

She walked into the foyer but stayed near the door, concerned the chandelier might not be secure. Ahead, a staircase led to the second and possibly third floors. My God. The place is falling apart. The house looks like it’s been vacant forever. How can we stay here?

Holding Scott tight by the hand, she tiptoed across the floor to the stairs, all the while craning her neck, studying the ceiling for cracks. She rested a palm on a dark wooden stair rail and cringed. On top of the dirt, the house stank of old moldy water. She coughed. Well, they did say the house wasn’t ready. Right, Scotty?

He sneezed in reply.

She pointed toward the bottom step. You stay here while I get our bags.

He nodded bravely.

She hurried out the door and down the steps. Grabbing a suitcase plus an overnight bag from the trunk, she was back up the porch and into the house in record time. Her son still sat on the bottom stair, rubbing rosy fists across tired eyes.

Digging through her purse, she grabbed a cookie and gave it to him to munch on while she made a quick tour of the downstairs. The dining room sat to her left, and once again she sneezed as she entered. This does not bode well for allergies, she thought, looking around.

A massive dining set, sitting in the middle of a dusty-rose wallpapered room sported twelve ornately carved chairs hunkered in conference around the table. Thick curtains blocked sunlight from getting through, so she flicked on the overhead lamp.

Suddenly, Scott whimpered then yawned. She hurried to him before she could examine the kitchen. Picking him up, she cuddled him close. I know you’re tired. First, we’ll find a bedroom then have some lunch. After that, it’s a nap for both of us.

Satisfied with her decision, she set him down, grabbed the handle of the suitcase, and tucked the overnight bag under her arm. With her other hand, she helped Scott upstairs, the suitcase bang, banging away on each step. When she reached the top, she glanced at the floorboards. Oh, God, she muttered, wondering if they would ever come clean.

The landing revealed scarred wood planks along with a grimy wainscot corroded with age. A hallway opened in front, backlit by light coming from under several closed doors. She fumbled at the wall trying to locate a light switch. Fingers connecting, a sudden click lighted faux oil lamps that glowed weakly, one each to a door.

Rats, she commented.

Damn rats, Scotty answered.

She had to laugh.

The suitcase and overnight bag grew heavy as she started down the hall. There were four bathrooms, one for guests and three attached to various bedrooms. At last, after trampling through a pasty grit that stuck to the floor like glue, she found the perfect master bedroom.

Though the drapes were dusty, the curtain fabric was strong and only slightly damaged. However, it wasn’t the drapes or the mahogany bed that she adored. It was the nursery tucked behind a pair of slatted wood doors. The enclave maintained privacy, yet allowed close access to her son and eventually to the baby. It was large enough that at some point she could make two rooms out of the one if she wanted to keep them both close. She wondered who used this room. Was it Michael’s mom or dad, or maybe even Michael himself?

Lost in thought, she rambled back into the bedroom, running her hands over an antique dresser, chair and table. Resting against the baseboard was a wire. She traced it to the television, sitting blank-eyed on top of a chest of drawers. The box on top of the TV announced CableVision. The house was wired for cable, and if she wasn’t mistaken, a router and modem nestled on the floor. One phone call and she would be hooked up to the Internet and cable T.V. The sooner the better, she thought. Sister Angelica would want to know how she was doing.

A heavy coverlet lay atop the bed, and she wondered where she’d find sheets. She was nervous the mattress had bedbugs—miserable creatures that could, if allowed, infest every room in the house. She drew back the spread, which was free of dirt, startled to discover the sheets underneath cool, clean, and welcoming. Even the mattress looked new.

Someone changed the sheets, Scotty boy, she said aloud. I wonder if they’ll help me get the house in shape. She glanced at her son and gently poked his nose. We should call the lawyers once we’re settled and thank them.

A sudden snapping of a floorboard caused her adrenalin to spike. Scotty yawned then hiccuped. She laughed, ashamed at her overwrought emotions. It seemed she was always on the verge of a crying jag. The last three months had taxed her.