Chapter 3 - THE SECRET IN THE GREENHOUSE
Garrett shot to his feet, the chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor.
“Stay here,” he ordered Ellie, though the command was entirely unnecessary.
He burst out of Charlotte’s room into the dim, carpeted hallway. The sconces along the wall flickered once, twice, and then plunged into sudden darkness as the mansion’s backup generator finally gave out under the strain of the ongoing storm. Outside, the wind howled with demonic fury, rattling the tall gothic windows.
“Mrs. Peterson?” Garrett called out, his voice cutting through the shadows.
No answer.
Only the sound of rapid, panicked breathing coming from the direction of the grand staircase at the far end of the wing.
Garrett broke into a run, his footsteps pounding heavily against the runner. As he rounded the corner near the head of the stairs, a flash of lightning split the night sky outside the massive stained-glass window, illuminating the scene in a brilliant, ghost-white strobe.
Mrs. Peterson was pressed flat against the mahogany banister, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes wide with unutterable horror as she stared down into the dark foyer below.
And standing at the foot of the stairs, illuminated by another flash of lightning, was Rebecca.
She wasn't wearing her wool coat anymore. She wore a long white silk nightgown that trailed behind her on the marble floor like a shroud. Her dark hair was wild and tangled around her shoulders, falling across her face in damp strands. In her right hand, she gripped a heavy brass fireplace poker, its tip gleaming with a dull, threatening sheen in the flickering light.
“Rebecca?” Garrett called out, his voice dropping cautiously as he approached the top of the stairs. “What are you doing? Put that down.”
Rebecca didn't move. She stood like a statue at the bottom of the grand staircase, her chest heaving, her eyes fixed not on Garrett, but on the dark hallway behind him—specifically, toward Charlotte’s room.
“She’s not a child, Garrett,” Rebecca whispered. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried up the stairwell with a strange, unnatural resonance that made the hairs on the back of Garrett’s neck stand up. “She’s a lie. A cruel, vicious lie sent to mock us.”
“Rebecca, you’re exhausted. You’re delirious from the flight and the grief,” Garrett said, descending the stairs slowly, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. “Let’s go back to the room. We can talk about this in the morning.”
“Don't you come near me!” Rebecca shrieked, swinging the heavy brass poker in a wide, erratic arc that chipped the polished white banister.
The sheer violence of the motion stopped Garrett in his tracks.
“She shouldn't be here,” Rebecca muttered, her eyes darting frantically toward the dark corners of the foyer. “We buried her. We put her in the ground. We locked the gates. Why won't they stay closed?”
Garrett felt a sudden, sickening drop in his stomach. The words weren't making sense. They were fragmenting, colliding with each other in a way that pointed toward something far darker than mere sleep deprivation or grief-induced hysteria.
“Rebecca,” Garrett said carefully, his voice dropping into a low, therapeutic tone. “Who are you talking about? Who did we bury?”
“Charlotte!” Rebecca screamed, the word tearing from her throat like a physical wound. She dropped the poker with a deafening clang that echoed through the marble hall, falling to her knees in the puddle of rainwater she had left earlier that evening. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with violent, uncontrollable sobs. “We buried our little girl, Garrett! We stood right there! I saw the flowers! I saw the dirt!”
“I know we did,” Garrett whispered, stepping down the last few steps and kneeling beside his wife on the cold stone. He reached out, wrapping his arms around her trembling shoulders, feeling the icy dampness of her nightgown. “I know, Bec. I was right there with you.”
“Then why is she upstairs?” Rebecca sobbed into his chest, her fingers clawing desperately at the fabric of his shirt. “Why is she looking at me with Charlotte’s eyes? Why does she know the things only we knew?”
Garrett held her tight, but his own mind was spinning out of control.
Because Rebecca was right.
How did Ellie know about the glow-in-the-dark stars from Maine? How did she know about the secret latch in the library shelf? How did she know about the green duck boots in the back of the mudroom? And above all... how did she know about the rusted lock on the green gate behind the greenhouse?
A soft sound from the top of the stairs made Garrett look up.
Standing at the edge of the landing, half-shadowed by the dim ambient light filtering through the high windows, was Ellie.
She wasn't wearing her yellow raincoat anymore. She wore a simple white cotton nightdress that looked startlingly similar to the one Charlotte had worn on her seventh birthday. In her small hand, she held the gray stuffed rabbit by one torn ear.
She wasn't looking at Rebecca. She was looking straight at Garrett.
And on her lips was a small, knowing smile.
“Mr. Reynolds,” Ellie’s voice drifted down the stairwell, clear and carrying no trace of fear or exhaustion. “The rain has stopped. The green gate is waiting.”
As if on cue, the heavy roar of the thunder outside abruptly cut out. The wind died down to a gentle whisper, and through the tall gothic windows of the foyer, a single ray of pale moonlight pierced the parting storm clouds, casting a long, silvery path across the marble floor directly toward the front door.
Rebecca stopped crying. She went completely rigid in Garrett’s arms.
Slowly, agonizingly, she raised her head and stared at the silver light cutting through the room.
“No,” Rebecca whispered, her voice a hollow, defeated breath. “No, we can’t go out there.”
Garrett stood up slowly, gently easing his wife back against the base of the banister. He didn't say a word. He didn't look back at Rebecca’s terrified face.
He walked across the foyer, his boots clicking softly on the marble, and reached the heavy oak front door. He slid the massive iron deadbolt—the one he had thrown the night before when the storm had begun.
The bolt retracted with a heavy, metallic thud.
He turned the brass handle and pulled the door open.
The night air rushed in—cool, fresh, smelling intensely of wet earth, crushed pine needles, and blooming jasmine. The storm had passed, leaving the world washed in a spectral, silver glow.
Garrett stepped out onto the porch, his eyes immediately drawn past the circular drive, past the dark expanse of the front lawn, toward the far edge of the property where the skeletal frame of the old Victorian greenhouse loomed against the starlit sky.
May you like
And standing there, right at the edge of the gravel path leading toward the garden, was a small, familiar figure in a white nightdress, looking back over her shoulder with a patient, inviting smile.
“Come on, Mr. Reynolds,” Ellie’s voice called softly through the quiet night. “She’s waiting by the gate.”
