Captive Orbits

By Willa Dawn Cotton

Identical twins Ginny and Noelle Cates are thrilled to be touring the magnificent Mandrake Hall mansion on their visit to Newport, Rhode Island. But when they get locked inside overnight with the ghosts of the past, things are not so thrilling.

Ginny and Noelle awaken to find themselves in a strange new world full of people who believe them to be someone else. Is it a case of mistaken identity or is there something more sinister going on? As the girls struggle to understand what is really happening in the mysterious mansion in which they are trapped with nowhere to run, Ginny and Noelle must confront the inhabitants of this strange new world in their efforts to find their way home, and to learn that sometimes you have to lose yourself in the most unexpected places in order to truly find yourself.

Captive Orbits is a story of loneliness and loss, and the search to find happiness again after tragedy. It explores the bond between sisters and the love that binds family even across time, space, and generations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781449094027

Willa Dawn Cotton

Willa Dawn Cotton was born in Mississippi, did her undergraduate studies in French and her graduate studies in Middle Eastern History. She now lives in the Kingdom of Bahrain with her husband, her two beautiful and talented children, and a black cat named Lestat. She is the author of the historical novel Sirocco and the historical fantasy novel Captive Orbits.

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2010 Willa Dawn Cotton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 6/9/2010

Lines of poetry courtesy of Riyad Y. Hamzah, from his poem Comets in Clinging to a Ray.

ISBN: 978-1-4490-9402-7 (ebk)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-9400-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-9401-0 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010902726

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Acknowledgments

BOOK ONE

THE JOURNEY

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

BOOK TWO

COMING HOME

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

BOOK THREE

ALEX

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Also by Willa Dawn Cotton

The Unicorn Glade

To my husband, who gave me very sage advice when he told me to just sit down and write it.

Acknowledgments

To my sister Melodie Cotton, who took me on my first journey up the Eastern Seaboard, introduced me to the cottages of Newport, and stayed up with me all night in our hotel room as we pondered the possibilities of Wouldn’t it be really cool to write a book about this?

To my daughter Sahar, who read the manuscript and offered invaluable comments for its improvement, and my son Raith, who gave me unwavering and enthusiastic support by letting me read it to him aloud.

Everything journeys toward its final destination,

Captive in its orbit,

And one fact is true…

That life is short.

     Dr. Riyad Y. Hamzah, Comets.

BOOK ONE

THE JOURNEY

ONE

November 26, 1986

There are places throughout the world where the past seems as alive and vibrant as the present; where you expect, if you turn your head quickly enough, you might be able to catch the shortest glimpse of some figure, now long gone, scurrying across the floor and lurking in the shadows just beyond your reach; where the faint sound of distant laughter echoes throughout the halls, first mingling with the tap of your footsteps, then eventually drowning them out; where the joy, as well as the suffering, of long forgotten generations still hangs heavy in the air, enveloping you, until you are no longer sure of what is real and what is merely fantasy.

Mandrake Hall was such a place.

With its massive stone walls and Gothic architecture, it was a remnant of another age, a by-gone era of opulence and excess.

Although there were four floors, its height was diminished by its prodigious width, giving it the appearance of a giant crab which sprawled across the far end of the lawn, its north and south wings jutting slightly forward like massive claws. In the center, the porte cochere protruded like the pinchers of its mouth, ready to devour anything that came within its reach.

Its gargoyles, with faces hideously distorted, stood sentinel on the corners of the parapet like guardians of a medieval churchyard. You might almost expect to hear the other-worldly strains of some ancient Gregorian chant drifting towards you on the winds.

But on that icy November afternoon, it was more like wailing banshees whose screeches could be heard on the winds, warning of impending doom.

It’s not like the postcard, is it? my sister Noelle asked, bringing to mind that image of the house bathed in ethereal summer sunshine, its gardens filled with glorious vines and flowers in every color of the spectrum. Now the lawn was little more than patches of brown stubbles of grass and mud.

I could not suppress a sigh as we continued our trek up the paved expanse of driveway that led to Mandrake Hall. Too often, great anticipation breeds even greater disappointment.

The brightly lit, gilded, and wonderfully ornate interior, however, was a sharp contrast to the gloomy exterior as we entered the Great Hall. To one side, a woman sat behind a podium collecting entrance fees and dispensing tickets. She stared openly at Noelle, inspecting the crop of wavy, shoulder-length chestnut hair, the playful expression in her dark blue eyes, and the large dimples that appeared in her cheeks when she smiled.

Here we go again, I thought. Then I realized the woman hadn’t looked at me at all. Very strange.

I moved forward, glancing around the enormous Great Hall, with its sweeping marble staircase and its arches leading into the north and south wings. I marveled, not for the first time since we had come to Newport, Rhode Island, that there were people who actually lived in this type of splendor.

I turned back and grinned at Noelle, who had just paid for our tickets and was stuffing the change into the pocket of her jeans.

The woman behind the podium continued to stare as Noelle walked back to join me. It was then that she visibly blanched when she looked at me, surprised to see that there were two of us.

I gave her a quick smile, for it happened all the time. For all of our eighteen years, everywhere we had gone, we had elicited the same reaction. We’d grown to accept it as the curse of being identical twins.

We removed our coats, draping them across our arms, and joined a wet and bedraggled-looking group of people just as an elderly woman stepped forward and introduced herself as Mrs. Miller. I had a sudden vision of a record player’s needle moving slowly inward and settling lightly down onto a record as Mrs. Miller’s monotone filled the air with a speech she had obviously repeated a million times before.

I would forever remember Mrs. Miller’s voice, for the next time I heard it, it filled me with unimaginable horror.

***

Newport, at the turn of the twentieth century, was the summer playground of the rich and famous of American society, and the city catered to the summer people. Here, the members of American high society – and the nouveau riche – built summer cottages, which were not cottages at all, but huge, opulently decorative showplaces. Here were the Astors and the Vanderbuilts, the Wetmores and the Whitneys, and the richly imposing architecture of Richard Morris Hunt.

Most of these summer cottages were now run by the Preservation Society of Newport County and maintained as museums, for the taxes upon them had been astronomical and few private owners these days could afford to maintain them.

Newport still catered to the summer people, only now these summer people were middle class tourists who stayed at the Holiday Inn and went on tours to gawk at the splendor of the Golden Age of American history.

People like us.

We were here on our Thanksgiving vacation from college and we’d already toured a number of the other Newport cottages. We’d both read Edith Wharton and loved Grace Kelly in High Society. But we had come to Newport specifically to visit Mandrake Hall, and had saved the best for last.

So we tried to listen respectfully as Mrs. Miller’s monotone informed us that Mandrake Hall had been built by Herbert Winstrom from 1908 to 1911 and was designed by famed architect Richard Morris Hunt, that the massive seventy-five room structure took three years to complete, and that in 1986, it was one of the few cottages built at the turn of the century that was still owned and inhabited by the family who had built it, currently a Mr. Alexander Winstrom, the son of the late Herbert Winstrom.

Like obedient little sheep, we followed as Mrs. Miller continued her running narrative of the history of the house and the Winstrom family while leading us down a maze of rooms and hallways that included a magnificent loggia which faced the sea at the rear of the house.

We bypassed many doors, for only certain rooms were open for public display. In most of the rooms, we were allowed only to stand outside in the hall and look in through the doorways at the rooms roped off with brass posts and red velvet cordons.

I was completely captivated by the atmosphere of the place. Although initially I tried hard to listen to Mrs. Miller’s narrative, it was an impossible task. As I walked, I heard not the steady drone of Mrs. Miller’s voice giving short anecdotes on the history of the family, but instead, I heard only the voices from the past, the high-pitched giggles from the maids’ quarters, the booming voice of the overseer, the slow, languid tones of all the fine young gentlefolk who gathered in the loggia for an afternoon lunch, even the clatter of china and silver on the tables.

Their voices were far more alive to me than Mrs. Miller’s.

Then we came to the room, a bedroom with two of everything. Two identical brass beds with identical lilac comforters. Identical night tables next to each bed with identical silver combs and brushes. The wallpaper was a pale yellow, though it had faded in some places to almost white, and it was covered by a crisscross pattern of tiny lilac flowers.

I stood in the doorway, staring in at the room long after the others had moved on down the hall. Some kind of force seemed to hold me there as an eerie feeling crept over me, sending shivers down my spine, and it felt as though someone, someone inside the room, were watching me.

I stared down the length of the room, searching. Of course, no one was there. But an uneasy feeling of melancholy swept over me, and that creepy feeling of being watched followed me throughout the rest of tour. The air seemed heavier, though it was in no way stifling. It was more as though sorrow seemed to hang in the air.

I was surrounded by unparalleled beauty yet now it all seemed tinged with sadness. In my imagination, I could still see the elegantly dressed ladies sashaying across the rooms, the staid young gentlemen standing rigidly by the windows. Yet there was no laughter, no smiles on the faces. The house seemed, instead, to be a house of tears.

I knew I was being ridiculous. Probably transferring my own sorrow to the house. I was sad and lonely, and I missed my father, who had once been here in this house years before and had given me that beautiful postcard.

My dad, Dr. Mathew Cates, had loved this house. Perhaps I was now simply projecting onto the house my own loneliness and grief over his recent death.

This I told myself as I walked through the halls. This I told myself over and over again. But I couldn’t make myself believe it.

It was the house.

TWO

By the time we returned to the Great Hall, I had had enough visions for the day and was quite ready to quit the house. I was sick of my imagination running wild and working overtime.

As the finale for the tour, Mrs. Miller led us around behind the main staircase to a small alcove underneath the stairs that had been used as a sitting room and had a window looking into the billiards room.

It was there that Noelle and I lingered – for one fateful moment too long – gazing back into the billiards room as the members of the tour began to disperse. As Noelle stared longingly through the window at the lights dangling above the billiard table, wishing she could play a few games in there before we had to leave, I turned and knelt to gently stroke the leaf of a rubber plant, inhaling the fresh smell of wet earth that wafted towards me. As I stood up, I scraped my shoulder on a nail that protruded from the bottom of the staircase.

I tried to ignore the sudden throbbing, but was astonished to see blood begin to leak through the sleeve of my shirt. I looked around for Mrs. Miller, but Noelle and I were now alone. Noelle turned from the window and a look of dismay passed over her face as she noticed the blood.

Come on, she said, taking my uninjured arm without hesitation. I saw a bathroom just down one of these halls during the tour. I’m sure I can find it again.

As Noelle led the way, our father’s face swam before my eyes, warning us as children about the dangers of playing around old boards and rusty nails. I tried to remember when was the last time I’d had a tetanus shot.

Noelle literally towed me down the halls we had toured earlier until we came upon one leading to what had once been the servants’ quarters. Down this hall we found the small bathroom Noelle had noticed earlier. She pushed against the door, and it gave way reluctantly, squeaking loudly in protest on hinges that cried out for maintenance. I followed her in, amazed that she had found her way back here. I certainly would never have been able to.

The bathroom was small, with barely enough space to contain the sink along the opposite wall, the toilet next to the door, and an old-fashioned bear claw bathtub. Along the wall to the right was an ottoman and above it, a small window.

I deposited my coat on the ottoman then walked to the sink, trying to roll up my shirt sleeve to reach the wounded area, and feeling more than a little foolish about this. The sleeve proved too tight to roll up. I finally gave up on fumbling with it and decided I would simply have to take the shirt off.

I just can’t believe I did this, I apologized contritely to an anxious Noelle.

She dropped her coat onto the ottoman and came to help me with the buttons. It’s not your fault. Besides, maybe we can sue. They’ve got zillions!

I pulled my shirt off and splashed water onto the cut. The cold water stung, but I was relieved to see that the cut was not nearly as deep as I had imagined. I guess we wouldn’t be suing for zillions.

Noelle took a length of toilet paper and tried hard to keep it from tearing apart as she wrapped it gently around my arm. As she finished, I reached for my shirt and carefully slid it back over my arms.

The temperature in the bathroom seemed to have dropped a few degrees since we’d first come in and the air felt heavy and sticky. For the first time, I noticed the cold, damp, musty smell, as though the room had been closed up for a long time.

That horrible eerie feeling overcame me once again, making my skin crawl. I turned my head quickly towards the door, feeling again as though someone were there watching me.

But there was only Noelle, still standing by the sink, waiting impatiently.

Would you hurry up? she demanded. I want time to visit the gift shop. We haven’t even gotten any postcards yet.

Alright, I’m coming, I replied, contrite once more. I hurriedly picked up our coats.

Noelle crossed the room to the door and gave it a small tug. To our surprise, it didn’t move. She turned the knob and pulled again, harder this time, but still the door didn’t move.

A rush of goose bumps spread up my back. Noelle shook the knob violently and pulled again, but to no avail.

Is it really stuck? I asked, dropping the coats and my handbag and rushing over to where Noelle had begun rattling the knob and kicking on the door. I moved her aside, grabbed the knob myself, and pulled hard, but the door was stuck fast.

Hello? Is anyone out there? I yelled. I banged on the door, pulled the knob, and cried for help, but the only response we heard was the howling of the wind outside the window. I glanced back at the window covered on the outside by a row of iron bars. Other than that, there was no other means of escape. No air vents. Nothing.

Can we break it down? Noelle asked.

I looked back at the door, but it looked pretty sturdy to me.

Okay, let’s not panic– I began.

Then the lights went out.

The entire house, even the lights outside, went dark, as though a master switch had been pulled, so abruptly that it took us a few moments to realize what had happened, as we were plunged into complete and total darkness.

I screamed as I felt arms tighten around me in the darkness and other screams filled my ears.

In panic, I fought against the arms, struggling violently to free myself from whatever had sprung up in the blackness of the night, my mind filling with grotesque images of rotten, dangling flesh, foul breath, horrible creatures climbing up from the sewers. And I kept screaming, battling wildly against the arms that clutched at me more tightly.

Then I realized it was Noelle. It was only Noelle who clung to me so desperately. And I started to cry.

Tears of relief flooded my face and I wanted to laugh out loud as my sudden hysteria was swept away. The screams had finally subsided. There was nothing to fear in the dark.

Noelle? I whispered, hugging my sister gently.

Yes?

Are you alright?

Yes.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Good, I said. Then let’s try to figure out what to do now.

Yes.

I took Noelle’s hand and began to feel down the side of the door for the knob. I located it and pulled again, but it still wouldn’t move. I reached upward, feeling along the wall beside the door frame until I reached the light switch, flicking it up and down rapidly, but there was no response.

Come on, I said, still clutching Noelle’s hand as I had a million times when we were children. We moved cautiously towards the center of the room.

The facilities of the bathroom slowly took shape as my eyes became adjusted to the dark. Now the toilet swam into focus, now the sink, now the ottoman along the far wall. Noelle made her way across the room and stepped up onto the ottoman, landing on top of our coats and knocking my handbag onto the floor. The contents clattered across the tile floor.

Sorry, Noelle murmured, peering through the window.

I knelt and groped around on the floor, picking out the vague outlines of my handbag and the things that had fallen out. At least the search for my things gave me something to concentrate on as I struggled to remain calm.

By now, the world outside was completely black. The rain lashed savagely at the window and cold air blew in around the cracks.

Noelle shivered from the chill and strained in vain to see anything beyond the glass. I climbed up beside her and we examined the latch on the top. From what little we could see, it looked as though it hadn’t been opened in at least a million years. It was rusted and part of the clasp had broken away, making it virtually impossible to get a good grasp on it.

I can’t see anything, Noelle sighed dejectedly, turning to face me. And I don’t think I can get the window open. What do we do?

I don’t know, I said honestly. There had to be a way out. I just couldn’t see one.

I pushed our coats to the back of the ottoman and sat down. I looked down at my dainty little gold Citizen watch, but in the dark, I couldn’t tell the time.

What time is it? I asked. Noelle wore a brightly-colored waterproof Swatch watch with glow-in-the-dark numbers.

Six thirty, came her reply.

The tour had started at four thirty and had lasted about an hour. That meant that we had been in the bathroom for another hour. During that time, could everyone have gone? Surely not, for someone must have turned off the lights in the house. Unless there was a power shortage.

Noelle suddenly cried out and beckoned me back to the window.

I jumped up onto the ottoman and peered out. Through the rain, I could see the lights of the street lamps that lined the driveway from the house down to the gate and perched, in periodic gaps, along the tops of the walls.

They just came back on, Noelle whispered excitedly.

Suddenly the entire lawn was bathed in light as floodlights were switched on, shining down from somewhere at the top of the house.

Someone must still be here, Noelle surmised.

Let’s break the window and then scream, I suggested. Really loud.

I looked towards the center of the room, eyes darting in every direction as I tried to locate something we could use to break the window. There was nothing.

Noelle drew up her leg and jerked off her mud-splattered Nike.

Move back, she ordered. I jumped down as Noelle reached for her coat and draped it across one forearm, using it as a shield to protect her face against any flying shards. Then she drew the shoe back and, with all her might, smashed it against the glass. But the rubber sole of the shoe merely thudded against the pane with a loud resounding splat.

This is useless, she said, and there’s no way I’m going to use my fist.

Well, at least we know that someone else is here, I said, trying to be optimistic.

I walked back to the door and began banging on it again while Noelle banged on the window, both of us shouting for help.

After what seemed like hours, I moved back to the ottoman and collapsed dejectedly onto the seat in exhaustion, leaning back against the wall. No one can hear us.

Noelle sat down beside me. What do we do now?

By now, my eyes were well-accustomed to the darkness and the faint light streaming in from the tiny window made the room quite visible. I inspected the room in a more rational manner, but once again, there seemed to be no way out.

Why would someone put bars on the windows? asked Noelle, after we’d had been sitting in silence for some time. That could be very dangerous if there was a fire.

At a time like this, don’t give me more things to worry about, I told her, but I thought about it for a moment anyway. I guess they probably did it for protection. I noticed that a lot of the windows in this area have bars.

Noelle snickered, raising her eyebrows suggestively. I think they wanted to make sure the maids weren’t sneaking out at nights for some secret rendezvous.

I laughed softly, and we fell, once more, into silence. What were we going to do, I wondered. What if everyone really had gone, except maybe a housekeeper who seldom came through this part of the house? Our tour had been the last of the season. We could be stuck in here until next spring. We could starve to death.

But that was ridiculous. Someone was bound to see our car in the parking lot and might guess what had happened. Besides, surely someone came around to double check everything before everyone left. But then again, what if they had already come around to check and that’s why we were stuck in there in the first place? Maybe we had been locked in.

No, it couldn’t happen. I was certain someone would come by and let us out. We just had to keep yelling.

I stood abruptly and walked back to the door to begin banging and yelling again. After a few futile minutes, I went back to Noelle.

Who can imagine a worse place to be locked up than in the toilet? I mean, a kitchen I could deal with, but the bathroom? Noelle said, shaking her head in bewilderment.

It’s not as bad as you might think, I said diplomatically. After all, if you really needed a bathroom and couldn’t find one, you’d be in real trouble and you’d kill for one. Plus, we can always stay clean. At least we have a bathtub. We may be poor, starving prisoners, but at least we’ll be clean.

Sure, we have a bathtub, but what are we going to dry ourselves on? More toilet paper? Noelle glanced back at the window. If someone doesn’t come soon, we’ll probably freeze to death before we starve to death.

That was, of course, a very comforting thought.

I looked up at the window, wondering if perhaps I should put my coat over it to keep out the cold air. But then again, I needed my coat to cover up with. And besides, it would also block out what little light we had.

We were not smokers, and we had no lighters or matches. There wasn’t much chance of starting a fire to keep warm using a magnifying glass. No firewood. And no sun. And no magnifying glass.

I brightened suddenly, remembering something that Mrs. Miller had said. The current owner of Mandrake Hall still lived part-time in the north wing. Surely people would be coming and going through here all the time.

But my spirits were dampened just as quickly when I remembered that there were seventy-five rooms in this house. How could we be sure that someone would come down this way?

I examined the room once more. This was ridiculous. For a moment, I wanted to laugh out loud at the absurdity of the entire situation. Noelle must have been thinking along the same lines, for when she caught my eye, I saw a hint of wry amusement there as well. It was just too unbelievable to be really happening.

I leaned wearily back against the cold wall, and thought about our father.

Years ago, our father had toured Mandrake Hall, and had made a very strange remark. He’d said he thought the place was haunted.

Our father was not normally given to such bouts of fancy or whimsy. I had laughed at the time, then he’d laughed, too, but the laughter had not reached his eyes.

Now I understood what he’d been talking about.

There’s something different about this house, I murmured to Noelle. It’s not like the others we toured. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about it. And I don’t mean just its beauty and opulence.

At these words, Noelle laughed, glancing meaningfully at the dingy toilet.

Be serious, I said, indignant at Noelle’s laughter. There’s a strange kind of... I struggled for the word, "aura about it."

Quit saying things like that. You’re giving me the creeps.

Dad said he thought it was haunted, I told her. I think this house does weird things to the imagination.

Dad was just teasing you. I do have to admit though that this is different than the other houses we toured. It just feels...I don’t know...just strange.

I guess that’s what Dad meant. I’m sure he felt it, too. I’m glad it’s not just me.

Probably has the same effect on everyone. I wouldn’t worry.

I nodded slowly and closed my eyes, wrapping my arm around Noelle’s shoulder. It was getting colder.

Then I remembered something suddenly, and wanted to kick myself for not having realized it before. I jumped up and dashed over to the door to flick the light switch once more.

I think we both breathed a sigh of relief when the room was flooded with light. The door was still stuck though.

I returned to the ottoman, and Noelle and I huddled together to stay warm, feeling hopeless and vulnerable as the chill of the night air continued to seep in through the window. We leaned against the wall and rested our heads against each other for comfort. Through my mind ran countless scenarios for escape. Maybe, with the return of the sun...maybe, when it was bright again outside....

Eventually, without even realizing it, we fell into the deep sleep of the emotionally exhausted.

THREE

On both sides, the hedges towered over me perhaps ten feet tall, a solid wall of hedge. They hadn’t been trimmed for a very long time, and branches that must have once been aligned in a neat flat row now jutted ruthlessly out toward me, scraping at my face and arms and tearing at my clothes as I ran.

The sky overhead was black. The cold night air brushed my skin like a phantom peignoir wrapped loosely around my diaphanous nightgown. I looked up briefly to catch a glimpse of a star-spangled sky through the narrow slit between the hedges. Barely visible was a slice of a moon that must be full, for I could clearly see the sides of the hedges as I fled. And a voice came to me from the other side of the hedge.

Ginny, come home.

I stopped abruptly and turned my head toward the sound, trying to stare through the hedge. I knew that voice. A boundless joy swept over me and I started to run again.

Daddy? I screamed. Daddy?

Ginny, come home. Come home, baby.

Daddy?

I was running so fast I had no time to stop as I plunged headlong into the hedge that had suddenly loomed up directly in front of me. The impact was so strong I was thrown backwards onto the ground, coming away with my face and arms cut in a thousand different places.

Momentarily stunned, I lay on my back, feeling the blood rolling down my cheek from a branch that had stabbed my face just below my right eye. I could still see only a narrow patch of sky, like a diamond-studded ribbon lying across the top of the hedges. Then I sat up and looked around me, trying to understand what had happened. And I realized that I was in some sort of maze. A maze made of hedges. And I was like a rat trying to find my way....

My way to where?

I had no idea. Then I heard the voice again.

And I knew where I was going. To him.

Ginny? Ginny?

The voice seemed to come from deep within the maze, and I followed one path after another, turning constantly as each path was blocked by another hedge. And the far away voice continued to beckon, now from the left, now from the right, but always so far away.

Daddy! I called out desperately. I can’t find you. Daddy!

Ginny!

But this time the voice came out strangled, as though all of his breath had gone out with the sound.

Daddy! I screamed in a panic of fear. Daaaaddeeee!

Then I realized he wouldn’t answer. Daddy was dead.

Noooo! I screamed, running through the hedges again. Then my foot hit a root and I was falling, falling.

And my whole body jumped as I was startled awake.

***

Morning brought little comfort as I awoke to find myself still sitting upright on