Cries from the Past
by Lisa Greer
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 LISA GREER
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
Cries from the Past
Copyright © 2011 LISA GREER
ISBN 978-1-936852-43-7
Cover Art Designed by Elaina Lee
Edited by Stephanie Taylor
To Gracie, who likes ghosts and gothic romance titles, too.
Chapter One
Amity Frost sank down on the sofa. Every joint in her body screamed.
"Gram." The word brought tears to her eyes. She could almost feel the woman's presence there in the white two-story house with its more than a century old floors and walls. With green trim on the windows, it was a house to be envied as a pure and simple farmhouse of yesteryear.
Gram's death had called Amity back to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, the place of her birth years ago but that she hadn't seen but a handful of times since. Her parents had lived in Philadelphia, two professionals who wanted more than a slow existence in a place like this one, forgotten by time, though breathtaking in its way. She had been making her own way to professionalism as an editor for a small book publisher when George had flaked out.
Gram's death came right after George's "I don't love you anymore after two years of dating. Can we be friends?" speech. She had said yes and left.
At twenty-five, Amity inherited an old house in good condition as well as money when Gram died in late May. She hadn't needed much prompting to take a leave of absence from her job. She wanted to get her Gram's affairs in order and get away from her disintegrating personal life. This place held the promise of all of that.
Her grandmother (or Gram, as she had always called her), Mary King, had parted ways with the Amish when she had married John Frost years before. In doing so, she had been shunned, but she and John had made a life together—he as a businessman and she as a homemaker. Amity had often mused that her grandmother's choices hadn't been so non-traditional for an Amish woman. The problem came with her choice of a man outside the community, Amity supposed, though she'd never heard the full story of Gram's choice. Her own father didn't seem to know and wasn't interested. Amity thought her gram had loved her grandpap. Theirs had been a stable relationship of quiet respect and loving gestures until his death ten years previous.
Amity took in her surroundings. Amish furniture rested in every corner. The solid wooden pieces were hard to improve upon, and Gram had obviously loved them if the sheer number meant anything. Amity got up, stretching after a couple long days of cleaning and sorting through Gram's effects. She had taken a big load of clothes to the Goodwill store yesterday, but she still had more to do today.
The sound of a horse and buggy clanking down the drive startled her. It was such a foreign sound to a city girl, but she had heard it a few times since arriving here and remembered it from her childhood and teen visits. That would be the milkman. Amity's heart did a slow turn in her chest. She had seen him on her first day here, and he came twice a week from what Gram's lawyer had told her. It was up to her whether she continued the service. She saw no reason not to, especially not after getting a look at the milkman.
She grinned, pushing the thought aside. The last thing she needed to do was get involved with the Amish. She wasn't exactly a bastion of traditional morals, though she was thinking more lately that maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to get back to some of the ones Gram and others had taught her.
The heat of the day hit her as she opened the screen door. The man walked up to the door, his eyes averted from her face. His height compared with some of the tallest men she had seen, but he wasn't too thin. Strawberry blond curls spilled out from under his hat, and his sharply planed face—just this close to being too thin—reminded her of a movie star that she couldn't place. The straw hat surprised her. She thought all Amish men wore black ones.
"Your milk, miss." His accent was a strange mix of German and English.
"Thank you. May I ask your name since I'm going to be seeing you often? It seems rude not to." She smiled at him and enjoyed the ghost of a smile that passed over his full lips.
Amity took the cool, glass bottle in her hand, noticing that the milkman's eyes were the color of dew-drenched grass.
"David Fisher, miss. Thank you." His horses snorted as he called out to them and turned away.
"I'm Amity, in case you were wondering. Amity Frost." He inclined his head, but didn't turn back to face her.
"Nice to meet you, miss." He walked back to his buggy, and she enjoyed the view of his strong shoulders and gleaming hair.
Amity leaned against the door and sighed. Too bad he's in a group that doesn't use electricity or single women's first names. She giggled and took the milk inside, putting it into the refrigerator.
The day passed in a blur of more sorting through old clothes and other odds and ends. Gram had no lack of stuff. Glass unicorns had been her love, and Amity dusted off the collection, tears pooling in her eyes as late afternoon sun slanted through the living room, spilling onto the hardwood floor until it and the unicorns in their case blazed.
After a quick dinner and a hot bath in the old claw foot tub, Amity was ready for bed. Every muscle in her body ached, but the work had been enjoyable and had kept her mind off of George. His laughter when she told him where she would be spending her summer still echoed in her ears. Why should it bother her? He'd already decided she was a castoff by that point.
Frowning, she climbed the simple staircase to the second floor and the bedroom she had chosen. It wasn't Gram's old room. She couldn't bring herself to use that one. This room was one she had stayed in a few times, with light peach walls and tan carpet. Everything about it was cool and comforting.
She climbed into bed, the quiet night enveloping her. The nights here seemed too still after city life, but so far, she'd slept well each night.
Darkness settled around her, and she drifted into sleep. She woke up sometime later, confused. Crying assaulted her ears, not the cries of an adult, but those of a young child or perhaps even a baby.
What baby? Maybe it's a neighbor's child.
But she knew better. No neighbors lived within a quarter of a mile from this house set off the highway. Besides, there was something about the sound. It made her skin crawl.
The wailing crescendoed and then stilled to a whimper. Shivering in the heat of the night, Amity pulled the comforter over her head and lay still until sleep finally claimed her again.
****
Amity woke up late the next morning, still sore from her exertions of the previous day. She wanted to get out of the house and thought the Amish store up the road might be just the thing. The thought of the wailing she'd heard the night before made her shudder.
What on earth was that?
She got ready, choosing a conservative red cotton dress that hit her at ankle length. She didn't want to scandalize any Amish today. Amity frowned in the vanity mirror, a feature of this room she had always liked with its table and silver gilt brush, comb, and boxes. Freckles sprinkled her nose and cheeks, and her fair skin was flushed pink from so much sun. Short, cropped dark hair stuck out at angles from her head, refusing to do as she willed.
At least it's short. It could be long and stringy.
She put on a coat of red lip gloss and some mascara, giving up on the cause of beautification for the morning.
The sunlight and rustling green of the fields around her wrapped her up in happiness and calm when she stepped out of the house. The crying of the night before seemed all too real. She enjoyed the short drive to the store, passing cars and horse drawn carriages. The pace of life was slower here. It had to be in a place that had buggies on the road.
The cheerful store boasted all kinds of homemade pies, jams, and jellies, as well as furniture for sale and for order. Amity browsed, losing herself in the choices at hand. When she finally collected the goods she wanted, the woman at the counter wearing a white head covering and a plain blue dress smiled with one side of her mouth.
"I guess you're Miss Amity."
"I am." Amity placed her items on the counter, happy to have someone new to talk to. She realized she had been a bit lonely the past few days. An introvert by nature, she still needed human contact on a regular basis in a meaningful way. She wasn't sure talking to the Amish milkman cut it.
"How did you know?" She smiled at the woman, but curiosity rose inside her.
"Everybody knows about the house being for sale." The woman smiled, but there was something behind her eyes that belied that smile.
"I see." Amity cleared her throat, feeling awkward as the woman totaled her purchases with pen and notebook.
An old man with a long white beard wore plain clothes tottered out from a door behind the sales clerk.
"Ah, there you are, miss. I've been hearing a lot about you." He smiled at Amity, and she liked him right away.
"Horace, can you help me with the orders in back?" The woman's voice rang out with a shrill note, and she turned a glare on the man.
"Just a minute, Tabitha." The man frowned at her and continued shuffling toward Amity. He put his hands on the counter, staring at her with unflinching brown eyes.
He must have been handsome in his day.
"It's so good to see you, child. I knew your grandmother."
Chapter Two
The woman pursed her lips and slammed groceries into paper bags.
"You did? How wonderful!" Amity's eyes filled with tears. She wanted so much to talk about her Gram with someone who had known her.
"Yes. It was years ago, though. I haven't seen her in years." His eyes clouded over, and he gripped the counter until his knuckles turned white. Amity figured that would make sense because he was Amish, though it seemed strange that the store was so close by for Gram not to have shopped there on a regular basis.
"Horace, now you need to go to the back. Don't go upsetting yourself." His wife glared at Amity.
"Thanks for telling me." Amity spoke in a soft voice, hoping to soothe his agitation.
"She was a good woman." He looked at her, and the years peeled back from his eyes, making Amity gasp.
She wondered if her grandmother had loved this man, or if he had just been in love with her.
"I know." Tears filled Amity's eyes as the man turned away from her.
"Here's your groceries." The woman pointed at the bags.
Amity struggled with them. Tabitha stood with her arms crossed, clearly enjoying it. Amity made it to the door when it swung open. She almost tripped when David Fisher motioned her through without a word, not looking her straight on.
"David, you got another order in." Tabitha's voice came strident in Amity's ears as she walked out.
"Where's grandfather?" The wind carried David's words, and Amity's knees grew weak.
He's their grandchild?
She hurried to her car, not wanting to look like she was listening. She wanted to know more about Horace and his relationship with her gram. The short drive home flew by in a blur of thoughts. Why had Horace been so keen on talking with her, and why had his wife been so mean about it? Amity smiled. She had always loved a mystery, and this was one. She put away the groceries, musing about what had happened.
After thirty minutes of staring into space on the couch, she laughed and decided to get to work on the rest of Gram's things. Her bedroom rolltop desk still had papers in it, and Amity intended to go through all of them. She walked upstairs with a couple bags in hand for keeping and throwing away documents. Afternoon sun slanted through the filmy ecru curtains in the quaint, welcoming room.
Amity swallowed a lump in her throat, missing her grandmother. She remembered a day in this room when she had been maybe seven, Gram brushing her hair and them admiring their good looks in the mirror. She smiled, a tear escaping her eye.
"Gram, I miss you." She spoke the words aloud and felt comforted, as if somewhere maybe Gram could hear her. Gram's faith had given her hope in a resurrection of the earthly body someday, and Amity found herself hoping Gram had been right.
She sat down in the sturdy wooden chair in front of the matching rolltop desk. A light finish made both pieces of furniture gleam in the sunlight coming through the windows. Amity ran her fingers over the rolls of the desk, admiring them and the craftsmanship. No one made furniture like the Amish.
Amity pushed the rolltop up with a shove to get it unstuck. A stack of papers on the desk made her groan. It turned out, though, that many of them were sale fliers and junk mail. These were in addition to the loads she had already found in the kitchen junk drawers. She groaned, pawing through them.
After sorting the stacks into the throwaway bag, she moved down to the drawers, finding only desk supplies and some old stationery that hadn't been used. Her Gram wrote letters several times a year to Amity, and she wondered if she would find her responses here in the desk somewhere.
She did, a few minutes later in the lowest drawer of the desk. Wiping tears from her eyes, she read through them, laughing at the memories they evoked from Girl Scout camp to her first date. She put them in a pile and placed them back in the desk as her stomach rumbled. She glanced at her watch. It was two o'clock.
Amity stretched, her back aching. She carried the heavy bag full of papers downstairs to the trash and then made a tuna sandwich. A glass of tea revived her, and she felt ready to tackle the rest of the stuff in the desk.
Amity climbed the steps with more bags in hand. She sat down at the desk, realizing she hadn't yet gone through the small drawers in the main part of the desk. Most were only a few inches wide and a couple inches in length.
How intriguing.
Amity grinned, and her heart beat faster. There was probably nothing in the drawers, but just exploring them would be fun. She slid the first few open, finding nothing. In the last few, she found odds and ends—paper clips, thumbtacks, and other stuff—but nothing that excited her. She reached the drawer on the end. When she stuck her fingers in, she realized this one was longer than the others. She hit something with her fingertips, a wad of papers.
She pulled them out with care, her breath coming faster in spite of herself. They looked like stationery at first glance. A red ribbon held the bundle of letters together. Amity put them on top of the desk, sitting back and looking at them. It felt like an invasion of Gram's privacy to go through them.
How silly. If she hadn't wanted you to see them, she would have taken them out and gotten rid of them before her death. The thought didn't fully soothe her conscience, but Amity knew she wanted to read the letters. They're probably just from friends or even from Grandpap. The notion made her smile, and she reached for them with gentle hands, untying the neat, thin red ribbon. The crisp, yellow paper indicated their age. The ribbon slipped off with a whisper, and Amity placed the stack on the desk. She estimated there were probably dozens of letters there. She took a deep breath and reached for the first one, the house seeming quiet around her. Her brow furrowed as she read:
November 1, 1956
Dear Mary,
Amity calculated in her head. Gram was born in February of 1940, so she had been sixteen when someone had written this to her. Restraining herself, Amity read on, wanting to rush through the letter, but savoring it.
I had to write you. I hope you get this letter. I passed it to your little sister, but in the future, I'll leave letters in the oak tree behind your house—you know the one with a big hole in it. That is, if you want letters from me.
Mary, I want to see you—alone I mean. Every time I'm with her and you, I realize it's you I want. I never meant for this to happen.
Please respond if you feel the same way. If not, I won't bother you again.
With hope,
H.
Amity's hands shook as she put the letter down. H. Could H be Horace, David's grandfather? It seemed possible after his actions today when he saw her in the store. Who was 'her'? Tabitha his wife or some long forgotten sweetheart?
A knock sounded on the front door downstairs, making Amity jump five feet. She clutched her chest, put the letters in the desk drawer, and went downstairs.
Chapter Three
A woman she didn't know stood at the door. A flicker of impatience ran through her. She wanted to get back to the stack of letters.
"Yes? Can I help you?" She pasted a smile on her face as she opened the door.
"I'm your neighbor—well, from some distance over." The woman smiled, and Amity felt ashamed of her unkind thoughts.
"Oh, I see. Please come in." She motioned the woman in.
"Betty Wilkes." She put a covered pound cake on the dining room table and stuck out her hand.
"Amity Frost. It's nice to meet you."
The woman settled her bulk on to the couch. "I just wanted to let you know, if there's anything I can do, I'm close by. And I brought you a pound cake. I figured you could use it." She smiled, her blue eyes kind.
"Thank you. I appreciate that." Amity smiled, hoping this would be a short visit but at the same time happy for the company.
"So, will you be staying for a while?" Betty asked.
Amity suppressed a smile. That was the question everyone here wanted to know, she was sure. She thought Betty looked familiar from the short cremation ceremony, but she wasn't positive. "For a couple months maybe. It's a good break away from things for me, and I want to make sure everything here is in order before I head back home." Amity clasped her hands together, fighting the urge to look at her watch.