2019-10-24 - The Widow Levenson

There was absolutely no way John Marlowe, ever efficient and ever reliable, was going to abide by his aging patron visiting Elm Street, so when he and Alexander Clayton manage to schedule an appointment, they settle for a less-visited venue in Gray Harbor: The Lonely Goose B&B.

The old Victorian home may have several strange tales attached to it, but irony is what it is when the location itself might actually be the only place in the city that is decidedly not haunted. That isn't to say that it isn't an idyllic one, however, with its classic wrap-around porch and its most unique feature - the cathedral tower with its stained glass windows. If nothing else, the look of it attracts out-of-towners during the summer.

There are less patrons around during the Fall, and perhaps this is by design. When Alexander is shown into the communal dining area, there's tea set out, with a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in a three-piece suit, no more than in his early sixties, pouring a cup of Earl Grey in the waiting receptacle standing in front of who is presumably Catherine Levenson, gray-eyed and with her snow-white hair cut in a fashionable bob and dressed in classic Chanel. There is a walking stick leaning close to her chair, though in spite of this visible indication of some manner of infirmity, she sits with a straight-backed and impeccable posture that suggests a lifetime of etiquette lessons and finishing schools.

Her expression is affable enough whenever the investigator joins their table - most of the aloofness comes from John, himself, when he casts a wary eye on Alexander. "I appreciate your willingness to meet with me, Mister Clayton. Word has it that you know this town better than most."

"Have a seat, then, young man. No need to stand in ceremony." Catherine, too, takes a long, good look at the investigator with a furrowed brow and a slight incline of her head. To John , she declares, "The picture you managed to get me wasn't very flattering, John."

John clears his throat. "Forgive me, Missus Levenson. It was all we had available."

"Mmhm." A wave of a gnarled hand.

She waits until Alexander is seated - John remains standing, somewhere to the back and side of her in readiness to obtain what she requires, though he does break from the collective, briefly, to slide the doors leading into the communal dining room shut. Rude, perhaps, to the other patrons but the woman looks rich enough to have had bought out the place to maintain a certain level of privacy. The executive assistant returns dutifully to her side after that. He doesn't pour Alexander his tea, but after decades of service, he knows the woman well enough - she would want to do it herself.

And she does. Ceramic rattles as she uses both hands to tip the dainty teaput into the cup waiting in front of Alexander. "Good, I thought you might," she murmurs. "I'll endeavor to be brief, then, Mister Clayton."

She sets the teapot down with a quiet clack and lifts her gray eyes to meet his own. "My family used to live here," she says, nodding to the lonely highway. "Just up the road and through a forest trail is an old mansion that we kept from almost around the time this town was established. It's still in excellent condition, I take pride in providing a generous upkeep of all the family holdings - not just the ones that belong to my late husband's family, but also mine. I don't recall a time when my family didn't own Blackwood Manor."

Her hand reaches out to pluck her own teacup from its saucer, to take a sip from it. "May I count on your discretion, Mister Clayton?"

He would know it as an empty shell - as far as he knows, nobody lives there, and strangely enough, well below the city's strangeness radar. As far as he knows, there haven't been any strange deaths attached to the place.

Alexander's simple reply seems to satisfy Catherine enough. She sets her teacup down and leans back against her seat. Meeting his eyes directly, she speaks, and somewhat bluntly, "I'm dying, Mister Clayton."

John's shoulders stiffen slightly from where he stands, but the aging woman doesn't seem to notice. "The last few months have been taken up by discreet arrangements as I dot my i's and cross my t's before the inevitable takes me." An absent glance towards the windows leading out into the street. "I've thought long and hard about my life - the mistakes I've made, what I would do differently, if given the chance. There was an incident, back when I was a girl of eighteen summers, in my old family home. I'm not quite certain what exactly I experienced, but I'm hoping someone of your rumored experience would be able to...unpack, as it were, what happened to me so long ago."

Withered fingers reach out to pluck one of the tea sandwiches off the tiered stand situated in perfect equidistance between the two of them. "If you're willing, I'd like for you to spend a night in Blackwood Manor. See if there is anything worth pursuing further." After a moment, she speaks up. "I'm not quite certain whether it was simply a nightmare, or if it was real."

"What I'm hoping for is the story behind it - the truth of it. I don't care what form it takes."

Catherine takes another sip of her tea, before she continues:

"It was at night, the summer of 1947." A very old case, as it were, just two years after the official end of World War II. "I remember a storm battering at my windows when I crawled into bed, but I don't recall hearing it when I woke up inexplicably. It was dark, save for moonlight creeping through my curtains. And then I felt..." She hesitates, fingers lifting to rest on the back of her neck. "Something. Touch me here."

"So I turned on my bed, and there was someone else with me upon it. A girl, young...a child. No more than ten? Thereabouts. And then I suddenly found myself violently thrown back on the covers, with her on top. She tried to...." She furrows her brows. "She tried to reach inside me. I think that's what she tried to do, and she was screaming. All of the furniture was rattling - the windows, the mirrors started to crack. But what I mostly remember is the look on her face. She was furious."

She draws a shuddering breath. "She kept screaming at me, the way children often do in the fit of a tantrum. She shouted at me to 'give it back.'" She stares hard at her cup. "It was harrowing. I couldn't breathe. I remember screaming in turn. I must've woken my father, because he was suddenly there in my room, struggling with my flailing. So you see, I'm not quite certain if it was simply a strange nightmare."

She gestures vaguely to one side. "The furniture was in shambles, so it can't have possibly been just a nightmare. Still, I'm unsure."

"At the time?" Catherine thinks long and hard about it, before she speaks slowly. "I remember receiving plenty of gifts that day, but it was my birthday. I don't recall receiving anything unusual however. Shoes, dresses, jewelry, some books." She seems a little puzzled as to why Alexander is asking her that question, though.

"But recently? No. If anything, I'm the one gradually passing out family heirlooms to everyone else." The last is dry and acerbic.

When asked about the girl, she attempts to quell a shiver. "I'm not going to lie, Mister Clayton. After the incident, I couldn't stomach being in that house. I believed she tried to do me harm. And my father..." Her expression softens visibly in remembrance, the imperious look of her fading a touch when she mentions him. "Bless his soul, he never refused me anything. The incident shook me enough that he uprooted the family from Gray Harbor after that and we settled in California. My safety and peace of mind was his primary concern, he said."

"I see." Catherine's expression is a skeptical one - but doubtless that Alexander is used to it. His surprise, though, earns him a wave of her hand. "I'm from here, I've heard the stories - of strange things, the higher than usual crime rates and deaths. But I didn't think any such thing would happen to me at the time, until it actually occurred. When I told my father, he took it very seriously." Her faded expression casts backwards, a quiet noise escaping her. "He was very concerned, but I suppose it couldn't be helped. I was his only child, and he nearly lost me before to an illness. Even if it had been nothing, my vitality was always important to him." And it's not as if the Blackwoods couldn't afford it.

"But no. No such item had been in my possession. There was the St. Christopher's medallion that my father gifted me after my christening, or so my mother told me, but that one's always been mine."

She pauses to think about his latest litany of questions and answers them clearly, succinctly, albeit slowly, submitting herself to these inquiries no matter how strange and unusual they seem. Whatever skepticism she harbors, John seems to mirror in spades. The executive assistant stands by his patron, his expression carefully schooled - but for a non-Glimmering outsider, that is probably expected.

"Nothing save for some vague...instincts," she murmurs. "Of being watched. I don't recall such things in my early childhood, but the older I became, the more prevalent the feeling got. Sometimes I'd be in the garden, and I would look up to see a distant face watching us from the windows, or that I'm being followed when I wandered in the house by myself. But nothing so severe as that night. Doors would close, sometimes. Windows would pull open, whenever I'm alone. But I always thought it was just..." She sighs. "The signs of age in an old, drafty house. As for the other...psychological issues. I did have nightmares about the incident after I moved, but I was assured by a psychologist that was normal when one has experienced a strange and traumatic incident."

"I was young, Mister Clayton," Catherine replies. "I certainly didn't pay much attention to the medical jargon bandied about, but from what I recall from my mother and father, I was born feeble from the womb. I was constantly sick. A regular fever would take me weeks to recover from. At some point in my early childhood, my father found a pediatric expert in Europe, who treated me for a few months. I returned a much healthier person after that."

That snow-white head bobs in confirmation that the nightmares did fade over time, but certainly not the memories of it. "My aunts and uncles thought I was going mad," she says with a sniff. "Only my father believed me. And I heard nothing from the house staff at the time, though they were very willing to tell me about other ghost stories about Gray Harbor, but whenever I would ask them if they felt anything strange, they would all tell me that it was a perfectly normal house."

His last remarks earn him a startled look. "You want to spend an entire day in the Manor?" There's a long pause, once again visibly quelling a shudder. "Alright, Mister Clayton. You'll have your twenty-four hours. I'll ask the groundskeeper, Mister Humboldt, to let you in. John, do arrange it, and make sure Mister Clayton has everything he requires."

"I look forward to seeing you put your money where your mouth is, as it were, Mister Clayton," Catherine remarks, his smile returned with a faint and polite one of her own. "I understand your reservations and I'm honestly not quite sure what you would find, myself. This happened a long time ago and save for my father and a few older relatives, my psychologist, only John and I know the details. Those who I've spoken to about this as a girl and as a young woman are all deceased. I suppose it's my own fault, for not pursuing it sooner, but I certainly didn't have to want to explain to my husband why I was spending the family fortune on seemingly ridiculous endeavors."

But he's gone now, too, as Alexander knows - died of cancer three years ago.

"As for family documents and records onsite..." There's a pause, brows drawn down. "We've kept our financials but those are confidential and I wouldn't be inclined to show those to anyone unless there are some very good arguments for it, but for journals and the like, I don't know how much you would actually find in the house itself. The Gray Harbor Historical Society wrote me a few years ago asking me whether the family wanted to donate some of that to them and I thought why not? So plenty of the non-essential records about the house and the family would be with them."

The chat about rates has her nodding. "That's not an issue." Of course it's not. "Though if it does get dangerous." And she knows it can, she is from here after all. "You should send us a modified estimate. I like to pay a fair wage, Mister Clayton - as John would know very well."

She bobs her head. "So long as discretion is maintained, you are free to obtain whatever manner of assistance you require and if you need to be reimbursed for any of it, let John know."

"I'm at the end of my life, Mister Clayton," Catherine tells him from around her cup, taking another quiet sip of her tea. "I'm in the process of tying up my loose ends. I suppose..." She hesitates. "If these spectral assertions have any credence in that I owed this young girl something, somehow, I would like to know what it is, before I die."

Gray eyes find his dark ones across the table. "Is there anything else you would like to ask me?" She gestures for John to fetch her checkbook. "And did you prefer check or cash?"

Her purse delivered to her, Catherine withdraws an envelope and runs her thumb through the currency resting within, pulling out the extra bills - she is quick with numbers, able to do mental calculations despite her age; at most ninety, though her steely demeanor doesn't seem to have buckled under the weight of time or her malady. She slides the envelope across the table, the logo of Levenson Wines imprinted at the back, and leaves it on the surface for him to take.

"Half now and the rest for when you're finished assessing the house," she tells him. No more, no less. He has yet to do the work, after all - though any contract requires some manner of consideration for it to be valid, hence the money. "And if I think of anything else, I'll let you know."