The Old Lady in the Field

I remembered the house from my youth. Traveling north on the interstate to visit relatives, I would watch eagerly for it from the backseat of my parents' old station wagon, anticipation growing with each mile closer to Lexington. Was it still there?

It was, to my eyes, a mansion. Large, rambling, with majestic pillars in the front, it sat like a neglected old lady in the field along the highway. Her once white paint was now a dingy, peeling gray, her windows were empty of glass, the doorways of doors, but obviously she was in good structural shape or the weight of the cows lumbering in and out would surely have collapsed the floors inside and the porches outside.

As the years passed our travels north became less and less frequent until they stopped all together and my life continued in other directions, but I never forgot the Old Lady in the Field, as I had come to think of her. Then the day came when I found myself once again traveling north on the interstate, this time on business of my own. As my car approached the area where the house had stood I found myself glancing eagerly from highway to field until, there she was!

The Old Lady still stood, neglected but proud with the rays of the setting sun streaming through her empty windows. For once there were no cows wandering about so the grass and brush were grown up wildly about her. I smiled sadly, thinking it was a crying shame that such a magnificent relic was being allowed to rot like an ancient fallen log.

But then something caught my eye and I abruptly slowed and directed my car to the shoulder to try to have a better look. And there it was, nearly hidden by brush. A realtor's sign hanging haphazardly from a rusted post, proclaiming the property for sale. For a long moment I sat there, my eyes going back and forth from sign to house and back again and soon I found myself quickly adding the name and number of the realty company to my iPhone before once again merging onto the highway and, with a last look at the old house, continuing on my way.

Weeks later I was back, this time with a small army of my friends and two teenage kids, staring with varying expressions of disbelief at the house I had recently purchased almost sight unseen. As one their eyes turned toward me, expressions openly questioning my sanity. No doubt they would be blaming my loss of sanity on menopause, which was still a good 15 years away. I hoped so anyway. There wasn't anything I could do for the house I had loved since childhood from the inside of a padded room.

“Are you out of your mind, Charlotte?” demanded my ex-sister-in-law, Nadine, then repeated, “Really? Are you out of your freakin' mind?”

“Mom, are your crazy?” chimed in my daughter, thirteen-year-old Tabby.

All waited accusingly for my response and I took my time. Now was not the time to argue with their logic but, instead, to showcase my vision.

“I have loved this house since I was a little girl,” I began, and smiled as I looked up at the pillared porch with its birds nests at the top of each column, “She deserves to be renovated and restored, and I believe she has waited for this moment, when I stand here as her owner and savior.”

So much for vision or logic.

“You have gone bonkers!” Pronounced my seventeen-year-old son, Charles., “This place is a dump! Look at all this cow shit, and I'm sure there are snakes everywhere, too!”

“Have you even been inside?” asked Nadine and I had to cringe. Here was where, I was sure, I would lose them.

“Uh, no, but the inspector said that she's structurally sound. No foundation issues, no termite damage to speak of, no...”

I trailed off as Charles turned abruptly back toward his pickup, “Just wait until Dad hears about this!”

“Where are you going? You said you'd help clean up around her with me.”

“I should just get in my truck and drive back to Knoxville,” he replied, continuing to walk until he reached the bed of his truck, “but I did promise. I'm just getting out my chain saw and gloves. Tabby, here, take these.” He stuffed a pair of leather gloves into his back jeans pocket before handing a pair of gardener's gloves to his sister. He then lifted a weed eater from the bed, “Can you carry this?”

“Of course,” was her sarcastic reply, “I'm not a baby, y'know!”

For a long moment I stood there, suddenly frozen with both gratitude and shock. I had bought the Old Lady In the Field and now my children and friends were here to help me return her to her glory. I had the strange feeling that even the house smiled.

It took nearly two weeks to clean up the grounds around the house and make our way inside. We must have carted out three feet of cow manure from the ground floor but the gorgeous, sold oak winding staircase was blissfully free of it, and the upstairs free of debris as well. Beneath the manure and decades of grime we discovered oaken floors badly in need of refinishing. Here and there it was obvious that some boards would need replacing but for the most part, the floor was sound. No one was more amazed than myself!

Each room, from the antiquated kitchen to the last of the five bedrooms, was attacked with a vengeance until, finally, she stood, still a shell but no longer so derelict. What lay before me now was a clean slate, waiting for my vision of her to pass from my imagination into reality. Monday the contractor would arrive to begin making that happen.

“Can we go home now?” Tabby whined for the umpteenth time that day, “I need a bath and I want something to eat that doesn't have bugs landing on it!”

I looked about at their tired, grimy faces and I was filled with love for each of them. They had all sacrificed their time and a piece of their lives to make my dream come true. Even Nadine, ever the priss, had sacrificed some of her acrylic nails to the cause.

“Yes,” I replied before addressing them all, “I am so grateful to each of you for helping me. So grateful, in fact, that I'm going to thank you properly with a barbecue at my place tomorrow evening. I'll have steak with all the fixin's. Okay?”

For a moment there was an ominous silence before tired smiles passed over their faces and they each nodded before turning to leave. With a last look about me I followed, still feeling as if the house was smiling, too.

Six months passed during which I moved my base of operations from Knoxville north. The beauty of being a regional manager for a major women's cosmetics company was that I worked primarily from home with frequent trips to meetings with my sales reps in Knoxville and Lexington. So I settled into my new abode with no little satisfaction and proceeded to make her, at last, my own.

I'm not sure when the noises first started. Muted and soft at first, I dismissed them as the normal creakings and moanings of an old house and smiled indulgently after my first start. But as time went on the sounds grew louder and I couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be an intelligence to them. When the fire in the fireplace suddenly flared violently one night as I sat before it re-reading my favorite book, Gone With the Wind, I was shaken so badly that I immediately fled up the winding staircase and hid behind the curtained canopy of my bed. It was a long time before I succumbed uneasily to sleep. To hell with leaving the fire unattended!

Next came the nightly rearranging of my antique porcelain knick knacks. At first I would discover a single piece out of place and didn't think much of it, or at least tried not to. Once or twice I could write off as absentminded actions on my part, but as the activity continued my uneasiness increased. When I found my “family” of tole painted cows knocked over, I began to dread getting up in them morning.

“It's okay, Charlotte,” I would reassure myself, albeit doubtfully. “It's just the wind from the window. Or a truck on the highway. Or, something...”

Then the dreams began.

Indistinct and ethereal, the Old Lady morphed from beloved house to cackling crone in my subconscious. Despite the fact that I never sensed any real danger from her I was, understandably, disturbed by the increasingly frequent intrusions into my slumber. I couldn't reach the deep, restorative level of sleep before I would hear rasping laughter. The fact that the laughter often sounded more like nagging cough didn't make me feel any better. Neither were welcome inside my head nor did they prepare me for the night The Crone spoke to me for the first time.

“Hello, my dear Constance,” her disembodied voice greeted me, “Welcome home.”

Startled from my uneasy sleep, I reared up in bed and stared frantically, heart pounding, into the gloominess of my moonlit room. There was a faint scent of lavender and roses in the room. I had never experienced the combination before but somehow I recognized it.

“Who's there?” My voice was a strangled whisper as, like the damsel in an old movie, I clutched the blankets to my chin. Of course, the fact that I was nude beneath them was also as much a part of the action as fear.

“Why, your Aunt Rose,” came the response.

With a squeal normally unlikely in a forty-something-years-old woman I threw the bedding over my head and quivered beneath them.

“Come, come, Constance!” the voice chided, “Is that any way to greet your favorite auntie?”

“Who's Constance?” I asked inanely and heard her tsk in response.

“You are, my dear, but I fear you may have forgotten that. It has been a long time. Now stop being a silly Nellie and come out from beneath that blanket.”

When I refused the blankets were suddenly, rudely, ripped from about me and I found myself confronting a grinning old woman in antebellum dress. An old woman I could see through. Who floated three feet off the floor.

“There!” she declared with great satisfaction, “That's much better!”

When I grabbed for the blankets she waved her hand impatiently and I found my nude body totally exposed and the blankets crumpled on the floor half way across the room.

“Oh do behave, Constance. I mean you no harm.”

“Th-then what do you w-w-want?”

“Your help, of course.”

“My what?”

“Your help. I know you're not deaf.” She eyed my shivering body sternly before offering, “If you promise to behave I'll give you back your covers.”

Feeling as if I'd fallen down the rabbit's hole I nodded and with a wave of her hand the blankets settled gently about me.

“Now, I need you to find something for me.”

“Find something?”

A crack of thunder nearly scared the life out of me and I pulled the blankets closer with a very immature squeak.

“I said I know you're not deaf!”

“I-I'm sorry!”

She scowled at me a moment before her benevolent smile returned, softening the aged lines of her face.

“Yes, as I was saying. I need you to find something for me.”

I simply nodded, too afraid to say anything.

“Years ago, your uncle, my dear, darling Thomas, saw fit to give a demented old lady a beautiful bauble, a necklace, and elicited from her a promise never to part with it. Well, I was demented after all and soon lost it. I think. Or maybe I hid it.” She waved her hands impatiently. “Whatever I did with it I was parted with it and now the sot won't let me cross over until I find it. I have until All Hallows to find it.”

“Why then?”

She stared at me with frank patience, “Because, my dear, that is when the veil between the two worlds is at its thinnest. It's when he can return. But he has told me that if I don't find it this time I will never be able to cross over. I have searched and searched but, as you can see, I'm rather limited as to my effectiveness in searching.”

Again I nodded.

“So that is why I need your help. You used to live here. You are living here again. You are the best person to aid me in my search.”

I struggled to make sense of the whole bizarre experience.

“Why do you say I used to live here?”

“Because you did. When you were Constance. You were my niece and my ward. You grew up here and knew every inch of this house. You alone would know where I might have put it.”

I lifted my hands and shook my head disbelievingly, “But I don't believe in reincarnation.”

“You don't believe in ghosts, either.”

She had me there.

“Okay.” I decided to ignore the assault on my sanity and gave in somewhat gracefully. “So where do you propose I begin my search?”

“Where I was kept, of course.”

“Kept? And where was that?”

“The attic.”

I couldn't hide my shock, “Attic? You're kidding, right?”

“No,” she smiled sadly, “Back then we didn't know what else to do with demented people, so we were consigned either to the attic or the basement, or if we were particularly fortunate, to a locked room on the top floor. I was put in the attic.”

“That's terrible!”

“No, not really. Not as far as it goes, anyway.” She turned and began to float toward the closed door, “Come, I will show you.”

“Can I get my robe first?”

“Oh! Oh, of course. Here.” With a wave of her hand my robe landed in my lap and I clamored to slip into it and follow her. Of course she went through the door while I had to take the more prosaic route by opening it.

The attic wasn't a place I had spent much of my time. During the initial cleaning my family and I had sorted through the hodgepodge of junk and artifacts, sorting the items of value from the worthless, then giving it a good cleaning. I had gifted some of the items to those who had helped while other pieces were displayed throughout the house. The rest had been consigned to the county dump.

At the top of the steep stairs leading up from the hallway below, I opened the door and switched on the lights. The workmen had torn up the wood floor, laid down insulation then, at my insistence, replaced the flooring. Now it stood empty and already collecting a new layer of dust while I occasionally mulled over ideas as to what to do with the space.

There was plenty of room to stand and move around, but there were no windows. We had worked by lantern-light to clean then I had contracted with an electrician to wire the attic so I would have light and access to electrical outlets. In the the beginning we had discovered very old, peeling wallpaper in a faded floral pattern. I had imagined how lovely it must once had been even as I had wondered why the attic, of all places, had been papered. Now I knew.

Rose was already there, floating gently as she looked about her with sad eyes.

“I hated it here,” she told me, “Even though at the time I really didn't know anything else, I knew I hated it here. I spent so much time alone, some of it tied to a bedpost so I couldn't throw myself against the walls. It was hell, I tell you.” Her mercurial expression changed to a soft smile, “But Thomas would come almost every day and spend time with me. He was so very patient and looking back now I realize how it pained him to see me that way. I think he gave me the necklace hoping to see someone he recognized return to him even if only briefly.” Her expressive mouth turned down sadly. “But I didn't and he foolishly left the necklace with me. When he returned the next day, it was gone.”

“And you really don't remember what happened to it?”

The sad smile disappeared, replaced with a glower.

“Didn't I already say that?”

I rushed to placate her before she could lift her hand to...whatever...to me.

“Yes, you did. I'm sorry.” I looked about me at the empty space, trying to imagine it as it had been. “The workmen pretty much gutted the place when they were here. I don't know where else to look.”

Rose nodded, “So I couldn't have put it under a board or behind the wallpaper.”

I considered the possibilities for a moment.

“Tell me. What furniture was here?”

“The bed, of course, a wardrobe, a chair, and a commode.”

“Commode?”

Her smile was impish, “Where we put the chamber pot.”

“I thought they were kept under the bed.”

“Not in the finer homes. In ours we had commodes.”

Her air of naughty fun was infectious and I smiled in return, my fear slipping quietly away.

“Right. So if you didn't hide it under the floor or in the wall, perhaps you found a place in the furniture.”

She clapped her hands in delight and her glow became almost blinding, “Of course! I knew you would help me.”

“Not so quick. I need to find out what happened to the furniture. If it was trashed then I'm afraid it may be impossible to locate the necklace.”

“I refuse to believe that,” was her stubborn declaration, “I refuse to believe you came back for any other reason than to help me.”

I had my doubts but I kept them to myself.

“Okay, then, let's see.” I considered what we had found in the attic when we had begun the renovation. “There was a lot of stuff in here when I bought the place. Some beds, some chests, some dressers, a few tables, and lots and lots of just plain junk.”

“Some of them you kept.”

“Yes.” I paused. “Um, what exactly does a commode look like?”

“You don't know?”

“I know what they look like now but I'm pretty sure they're not the same thing.”

“Of course. Well, it's a small chest of sorts, about waist high with a flat surface and a door. Very simple really. Utilitarian.”

I flipped through my memory until I settled on a particular piece found in the darkest part of the attic.

“Was it made of maple? With a design carved into the door?”

“Yes! That was it! Do you still have it?”

“No. I gave it to my ex husband. I thought he deserved something for taking it easy on me during our divorce.”

“So of course you gave him a commode.”

Her eyes twinkled drolly and I couldn't help laughing in response.

“I didn't know what it was!”

We shared a moment of feminine merriment before she asked soberly, “Why did you divorce?”

I shrugged guilitily.

“I'm married to my career, much more so than he is. I'm afraid I didn't give as much thought to our marriage as I should have and, well, he moved on to greener pastures. At the time I was hurt and angry but looking back I see that it was I who was most at fault. To give him credit he did try to make the marriage work but one person can't hold up both sides of a relationship. It finally fell apart from neglect.”

Again, that sad smile on her ghostly face.

“You've learned a valuable lesson. Maybe someday you'll marry again and you'll remember it.”

I only nodded and her mood abruptly changed again.

“So! How do you propose to get the commode back?”

“I'm not sure. If you hid it there where would you have put it? It was empty when we found it.”

“It was a heavy, well designed piece as befitting our station,” she mused, “and our generation was quite fond of hiding valuables in odd places. But usually those places were purposely built for hiding.” She thought a little longer before silently snapping her fingers, “The door! I hid it in the door!”

“The door? How is that possible?”

“It was a facade. The door was actually hollow. That must be where it is!” Her glow practically snapped with excitement. “You must get the necklace!”

I rushed down the stairs, absently praying I wouldn't fall and break my neck, then sprinted to my bedroom. Rose was already there waiting by the bed where the phone sat upon the bedside table. If it was possible for a ghost to hop impatiently from foot to foot she was doing it!

Reaching for the phone I dialed my ex's number. It never registered that it was after midnight.

“Mark? Do you still have the small chest I gave you?” Pause. “You do? Fan-tastic! It's not a chest. It's an antique commode and I need it back!”

By Halloween Mark had delivered the commode to my son who delivered it to me. By now no one was asking questions with regard to my oddities where the house was concerned, for which I was grateful. They would have locked me away had they known I was helping a ghost.

That night, between the incessant rings of the doorbell announcing endless trick or treaters, Rose stood alongside as I knelt and ran my fingers around the door of the commode.

“Are you sure you don't remember how to get into it?” I asked her.

“Yes, for the third time, I don't remember, but it must have been relatively simple to find. After all I was demented at the time.”

I continued to search until it finally dawned on me that there was a single rough spot along the open edge of the door. Curious, I held a flashlight to the wood and realized that the rough spot was actually a raised knot-looking thing.

“I think I found something,” I told her, “See? Right here.”

I felt the cold as she moved closer and I shivered.

“Yes, I see.” She was silent for a moment, obviously searching her memory. “Perhaps you could try pushing it.”

I did so. “Nope. Nothing.”

“Then try sliding it up and down.”

My fingers followed her instructions and suddenly the door seemed to split in half. Amazed, I pulled the two sides apart and there, brilliant in the light, was an ornate diamond and emerald necklace.

“Oh my god!” I breathed and withdrew it carefully from its tomb of over a hundred and fifty years.

“Oh my!” was Rose's response as I held the necklace up to her. Her hands reached out as if to take it but she stopped as if she realized that she wouldn't be able to touch it. “I never realized how beautiful it truly is.” Her voice quivered. “What a sot to spend so much money on a demented old woman.”

“He must have loved you very much.”

“I do.”

The male voice was soft in the room behind me and I turned with a gasp. There, in his own ethereal glow, stood the finest looking man I have ever seen. Dressed in the fashionable style of the Victorian era, he made quite a statement even to my modern senses and I gaped for several moments before turning back to Rose.

Gone was the old woman, the crone as I first described her. In her place, standing straight and proud, was a young woman every bit as lovely as he was handsome.

“Thomas!” she breathed and I realized that I had been forgotten.

“My love,” he responded, ghostly eyes soft, gentle, yet oh so masculine in their appreciation of her. “Come, it's time.”

I watched as she unhesitatingly floated to him and was enfolded in his embrace. My eyes misted and I sniffled loudly but neither of them seemed to hear. Obviously I no longer mattered. Or so I thought.

When they parted I had to smile for Rose's expression was as dreamy as any woman lucky enough to know how much she was cherished. Her eyes, no longer a faded blue now glistened azure from her smooth face.

“Constance, for you will always be Constance to me. The necklace is yours, my gift to you as my niece. Thank you for helping me, for bringing us together again.”

She blew me a kiss and I could only nod, tears streaming down my cheeks as they turned, arm and arm, and disappeared through the wall.

I don't know how long I knelt there before my protesting knees drove me to stand. I stared down at the exquisite necklace in my hand. Practicality spoke, telling me to have it appraised, insured, and locked away in a vault somewhere.

My heart, however, saw it as a symbol of what could be. Perhaps I had learned from my marriage. My career was important to me but what I really wanted was what I had witnessed this Halloween night. Something eternal, that endured because the love was kept alive by the parties involved. Would I find it? Someday?

The doorbell rang again and I hesitated. What to do with the necklace? And with a smile I slipped it around my neck, imagining as I did so a gentle, feminine chuckle where a crone's cackle had once been. But I was careful to hide it once again, this time beneath my very modern turtle neck.